to the Far Blue Mountains (1976) by Louis - Sackett's 02 L'amour
Book: to the Far Blue Mountains (1976) by Louis - Sackett's 02 L'amour
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Authors: Louis - Sackett's 02 L'amour
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and warm.
I took two pistols under the cloak's edge near me, and my naked blade. Its scabbard lay to one side. I hoped the night would be quiet, but I was not a trusting man, and the hilt of a sword has a good feel.
Oft times a blade across the room beyond the reach of a hand means that death is nearer. I closed my eyes, and heard the rain fall upon the thatch, and against the walls. Drops fell down the chimney and the fire sputtered and spat.
The wind curled around the eaves, moaning with its loneliness, and listening to wind and rain half slept.
Where, O where was Abigail? How far out upon the sea? Did she sleep well this night? Did the ship roll? Was all well aboard?
Outside a stone rattled, and in the darkness my hand tightened upon the sword's hilt.
Chapter 9
We came over the hills to Bangor in the morning, with shadows in the valley and sunlight on the sea. The mist was lifting from the trees, clinging wistfully as if reluctant to leave-like the smoke of ancient Druid fires which once burned in this place.
We came over the hills, and I knew it well from my mother's tales of Taliesin, the great Welsh bard. The village lay upon the hills where once the Druid's upper circle had been, overlooking the Menai Strait that separated Wales from Anglesey, once called Mona, and before that other names as well.
Bangor had been a place of ritual for the Druids, but that was long ago.
Something stirred in me when I saw the view from there. Was it some ancient racial memory? Something buried deep in my flesh and bones?
Lila rode behind me into the village. My eyes were alert for trouble. From here our destination was clear: from the north coast a boat to Ireland; then to lose ourselves in that war-torn island where marched the armies of Lord Mountjoy.
Eyes turned upon us when we dismounted, for we were strangers, and Lila as tall as any man here, and as broad in the shoulders. She looked the Viking woman whose ancestors had once raided these shores, then settled here and across the water as well. They had founded Dublin. What was it the name first meant? Dark Pool, if I recalled correctly.
Recalled? How could I recall? But so I did ... no doubt something heard, something read, something dimly remembered from another time.
Yet I seemed to have passed this way before. Too many strange memories came to me now, too many whose origin I could not recall.
There was a roadside inn where fishermen and sailors stopped, or travelers like ourselves. And we went there now and sat at a table and were brought without asking-fish, bread, and ale.
The people were Welsh. Yet there might be spies among them, although I hoped my pursuers were far from us, seeking in Bristol, Falmouth, or Cornwall.
Traveling with a woman may have helped to fool them, for that they had no reason to suspect-nor that I would go into Wales. Yet I was ever a cautious man.
A distinguished-appearing man sat near us, with a thoughtful but stern face.
That he was a man of the Church was obvious.
"You travel far?"
Smiling, I said, "It is my hope."
"It is not many who come here," he continued. "I come for my health. It is the air of the sea, the smell of the ocean."
"It is a place for poets," I said, "or warriors."
"Are they not often the same?" He looked from Lila to me. "Your accent is strange," he said, "yet your companion, I'd say, is of Anglesey."
"You'd be right," I said. "She lived here once." About myself I said nothing. He was curious, yet I liked the man. He was someone I should have liked to spend a few hours with, talking over the ale, and watching the ships, feeling the wind in my hair.
"I am Edmund Price, of Merionethshire," he said.
"You are a poet," I said, "spoken of in London and Cambridge."
"So far off? I had not realized my poor talents were known."
"The tongue of Wales is music, and you write it well."
"Thank you. That was well said. You are a poet also?"
I shrugged. "I am nothing. A man of the sword, perhaps. A man yet to shape his
I took two pistols under the cloak's edge near me, and my naked blade. Its scabbard lay to one side. I hoped the night would be quiet, but I was not a trusting man, and the hilt of a sword has a good feel.
Oft times a blade across the room beyond the reach of a hand means that death is nearer. I closed my eyes, and heard the rain fall upon the thatch, and against the walls. Drops fell down the chimney and the fire sputtered and spat.
The wind curled around the eaves, moaning with its loneliness, and listening to wind and rain half slept.
Where, O where was Abigail? How far out upon the sea? Did she sleep well this night? Did the ship roll? Was all well aboard?
Outside a stone rattled, and in the darkness my hand tightened upon the sword's hilt.
Chapter 9
We came over the hills to Bangor in the morning, with shadows in the valley and sunlight on the sea. The mist was lifting from the trees, clinging wistfully as if reluctant to leave-like the smoke of ancient Druid fires which once burned in this place.
We came over the hills, and I knew it well from my mother's tales of Taliesin, the great Welsh bard. The village lay upon the hills where once the Druid's upper circle had been, overlooking the Menai Strait that separated Wales from Anglesey, once called Mona, and before that other names as well.
Bangor had been a place of ritual for the Druids, but that was long ago.
Something stirred in me when I saw the view from there. Was it some ancient racial memory? Something buried deep in my flesh and bones?
Lila rode behind me into the village. My eyes were alert for trouble. From here our destination was clear: from the north coast a boat to Ireland; then to lose ourselves in that war-torn island where marched the armies of Lord Mountjoy.
Eyes turned upon us when we dismounted, for we were strangers, and Lila as tall as any man here, and as broad in the shoulders. She looked the Viking woman whose ancestors had once raided these shores, then settled here and across the water as well. They had founded Dublin. What was it the name first meant? Dark Pool, if I recalled correctly.
Recalled? How could I recall? But so I did ... no doubt something heard, something read, something dimly remembered from another time.
Yet I seemed to have passed this way before. Too many strange memories came to me now, too many whose origin I could not recall.
There was a roadside inn where fishermen and sailors stopped, or travelers like ourselves. And we went there now and sat at a table and were brought without asking-fish, bread, and ale.
The people were Welsh. Yet there might be spies among them, although I hoped my pursuers were far from us, seeking in Bristol, Falmouth, or Cornwall.
Traveling with a woman may have helped to fool them, for that they had no reason to suspect-nor that I would go into Wales. Yet I was ever a cautious man.
A distinguished-appearing man sat near us, with a thoughtful but stern face.
That he was a man of the Church was obvious.
"You travel far?"
Smiling, I said, "It is my hope."
"It is not many who come here," he continued. "I come for my health. It is the air of the sea, the smell of the ocean."
"It is a place for poets," I said, "or warriors."
"Are they not often the same?" He looked from Lila to me. "Your accent is strange," he said, "yet your companion, I'd say, is of Anglesey."
"You'd be right," I said. "She lived here once." About myself I said nothing. He was curious, yet I liked the man. He was someone I should have liked to spend a few hours with, talking over the ale, and watching the ships, feeling the wind in my hair.
"I am Edmund Price, of Merionethshire," he said.
"You are a poet," I said, "spoken of in London and Cambridge."
"So far off? I had not realized my poor talents were known."
"The tongue of Wales is music, and you write it well."
"Thank you. That was well said. You are a poet also?"
I shrugged. "I am nothing. A man of the sword, perhaps. A man yet to shape his
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