CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“This city is too much for me,” said John O’Shan. “I think I’m too old to be in a city like this any longer. I’m ready to go home.”
“Yes, sir. Some of the men are at the fair. Do you wish to go? Perhaps some enjoyment will cheer you up?” said his guard.
“Nothing will cheer me, Willem.”
“You look tired, sir. I can take you back to our lodgings,” said the devoted man. “Did the healers or doctors give you any hope?”
“None,” he said shaking his head. “They do not know what plagues me other than a disease of the blood. I have no clue what that means. Come. We’ll gather the men from the fair.”
The fair was lively and full of sights and smells that would make a younger man giddy with excitement.
Dancers, barely covered with bells around their waists shimmied in the crowds of people.
Men danced on tall walking sticks, balancing with perfection as they worked their way through the muddy lawns.
On the other side of the road a pen filled with strange, wondrous animals traipsed around. There were elephants and giraffes. Things called zebras, striped black and white animals resembling a donkey.
“Perhaps they’re painted that way,” said his guard.
“I don’t think so,” said O’Shan.
He was tired. Exhausted and he’d done next to nothing today. He used to be the biggest, strongest man on the western side of Ireland. People came to him for advice and counsel and he always gave it.
In spite of is advanced age of fifty-one, he had no wife, no children, siblings. He was born an only child and never found a woman that he could tolerate for longer than an hour. He wanted no bastards running around his keep.
“There are the men,” said his guard. O’Shan looked at the stage, an odd-looking priest performing magical tricks that seemed unholy for a holy man. He scanned the audience and called one woman’s name.
“You madam. You have suffered in your lifetime,” he said. From somewhere in the audience a drunken man yelled out.
“We’ve all suffered you eedjit! This is Ireland for feck’s sake!” The crowd laughed but the man did not divert his eyes from the woman. She wiped tears and nodded.
“You’ve lost your husband, your child.”
She nodded, tears coming heavier now. A few in the audience gasped, reaching to comfort the woman.
He stepped down from the makeshift stage and walked toward her. He reached out a long, boney hand and grasped hers. She seemed to shrink from him, then stood as he pulled her close. O’Shan watched as the priest whispered something in her ear.
She pulled back staring up at the priest and then nodded, making the sign of the cross. Grabbing her burlap sack she walked through the crowd staring at faces until she was face-to-face with the man that had taunted them earlier.
“I’m not ‘yer dead husband, lass. Move on,” he laughed.
But the crowd didn’t laugh with him this time. She lifted her arm and swung down, a blade no one had seen suddenly in her hand. She sliced open his chest and turned to the crowd.
“A life for a life. He killed me husband!”
“Sir, we can go,” said the guard.
“No. Wait,” said O’Shan.
Men ran toward the woman, grabbing her and pulling her away. The crowd turned to stare at the strange priest, his composure sure and calm.
“I will be in my tent should anyone need counsel.” With that, he turned and left the stage.
“Sir?”
“We’re staying one more night,” said O’Shan.
The guard didn’t argue. Instead, he gathered the men and told them to be ready to leave in the morning. O’Shan left him, making his way to the tent of the priest. The lines were long but he waited, patiently, until the last person was gone.
Slowly he stood, weak and exhausted from the day. He opened the flap of the tent, the man’s back to him.
“I’m tired. Come back tomorrow.”
“I cannot,” said O’Shan. “I have plenty of coin for you.”
The priest’s back stiffened and he sat up straighter. He slowly turned on his wooden stool and stared at the man in his tent. He looked him up and down, then at the bag of coin in his hand. O’Shan tossed it to him and took a seat across from him.
Weighing the coin in his hand sent a thrill up the priest’s back. This could be the one he needed.
“You are not well,” he said to O’Shan.
“Anyone can see that,” said the man. “Why am I not well?”
“Have you seen a healer? A doctor?” he asked. O’Shan nodded but said nothing. “They cannot find your ailment. They know not what you have.”
Standing, he grabbed the burning candle and walked around the man. He held the candle close to his face and frowned.
“My skin is an unnatural color.”
“Yes, I can see that. There is a cure. One that very few know about. If you choose this path it will be difficult. It will test you as a man. As a human. It may take years.”
“I may not have years,” said O’Shan.
“Bring five bags just like this tomorrow and I will tell you what to do.”
O’Shan stood and left the tent vowing not to return. Five bags was a ridiculous price for something that might not work. This man was not a doctor. He may not even be a priest.
Seeing his men at their lodgings, nothing more than a camp of wagons and tents, he nodded to his guard and silently retreated to his own tent. But sleep did not come easy for him. Fretfully, he tossed and turned, images of him as a healthy, robust man once more walking his castle grounds.
As the sun was barely peeking over the horizon, he grabbed the five bags of coins and told his guard he would be back soon and to be ready to leave. When he arrived at the priests tent, he was surprised to see him standing at the opening, waiting for him.
“I knew you would return,” he said.
“You are my last hope,” divulged O’Shan. It may have been the nail in his proverbial coffin. “Here is the coin. Five bags.”
The priest took the coins setting them on the table inside his tent.
“Here is what you must do.”
When the instructions were given, when all was done, he stared at the priest in disbelief.
Where was he to find such a person? Ireland had its fair share of light-haired, light-eyed people but silver hair?
Translucent eyes? He’d never in his life seen such a thing.
To top it off, they were to compete in strange contests to prove their strength to endure what was to come.
To prove that they could provide what he needed.
He’d held contests with his men before but never to the death. Yes, they walked away hurt, bleeding, some nearly dying from a battle but he’d never intentionally pit them against one another in a battle that would absolutely kill them.
“Why must I kill them if they do not fit my needs? Why not just let them go?” he asked.
“You would be killed for what you ask them to do. You must not let others know your plan. Keep it between you and me.”
With that, O’Shan was dismissed and before he could even turn around, the priest was gone, tent and all.
He wondered if it were a dream but shook his head as he shuffled along the muddy, half-snow-covered road.
When he reached his men, he nodded as they headed on the long trip back to their own keep.
For three days he said nothing to anyone. He slept in his warm bed by the warm fire and ate the warm meals provided by the cook. On the fourth day, he gave his orders.
“Capture as many wild boars as you can and pen them in. Do not feed them. Do not give them anything. Then bring twenty men and women between the ages of sixteen and sixty. Their hair must be light, nearly white if possible, their eyes light as well.”
“Sir?” asked the guard.
“Do not ask me why. You are to serve me and serve me well. Bring them here within the week. I will know what to do from there.”
It’s odd how a man’s heart can turn from good to rotten in a matter of weeks. The longer he went without the perfect candidate, the more angry and violent he became. The priest had assured him there was one out there for him. It could not be this difficult to find.
In the fourth year, he stared down at the body of the young boy, his nearly white, blonde hair glistening in the sun. His eyes were still wide open, their blue almost an unnatural blue. He’d been drained of his blood, given to O’Shan, but he felt no different. He was still weak.
“He wasn’t the one.”