Rolf 'The Red' MacCanna

By N. Beetham Stark

Rolf is twelve, an Irish boy living in 796 AD. He sees his entire family slaughtered by Vikings and he is captured by them and taken to Norway. The short, stocky Viking chief would have him, a long, lanky youth, as his son-in-law, but Rolf will have none of his fat, giggling daughters. Rolf wants to be a Druid priest, but he has a memory like a sieve and cannot remember the hundreds of tales that a Druid must know by heart. He escapes the Vikings after they settle in England and fails the Druid trials twice. He becomes a homeless hermit and is rescued by a fine Irish lass who is Catholic. Rolf accepts Catholicism, marries, has a family and becomes the local healer. When his wife dies, he wanders off and ends up at a monastery and eventually becomes a monk. He has several encounters with Vikings during his monastery years. Before he dies, he asks to have a Christian-Druid-Viking funeral. The thread of the story carries the truth of history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: N. Beetham Stark
• Release date: May 23, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458190918

N. Beetham Stark

Nellie Beetham Stark was born November 20, 1933, in Norwich, Connecticut to Theodore and Dorothy Pendleton Beetham. She attended the Norwich Free Academy and later Connecticut College in New London, CT before graduating with a MA and a Ph.D. degree in Botany (Ecology) from Duke University.Stark worked for the U.S. Forest Service as a botanist for six years and then joined the Desert Research Institute in Reno, Nevada where she worked on desert and forest ecology and later tropical nutrient cycling. She has consulted in many countries, working for some time in Russia, Australia and South America. She developed the theory that explains why tropical white sand soils cannot grow good food crops and described the decline processes of soils. She has also developed a science of surethology, or survival behavior which describes how humans must adapt to their environments if they hope to survive long term. She has 96 professional publications and has published in four languages.Her life long hobby has been English history, with emphasis on naval history. Her family came originally from Tristan Da Cunha in the South Atlantic in the early 1900’s. Her grandfather was a whale ship captain for a time which spurred her interest in naval history. She also paints pictures of sailing ships which she has used as covers for her historical novels. She has built several scale models of sailing ships and does extensive research on ships and naval history, traveling to England once yearly.Stark was awarded the Connecticut Medal by Connecticut College in 1986 and the Distinguished Native Daughter Award for South Eastern Connecticut in 1985. She was named outstanding Forestry Professor three times by the students of the University of Montana, School of Forestry.Today she writes historical novels, mostly set in England. She has published some 21 novels in the past twenty years, mostly on the internet. She lives on a farm in Oregon and raises hay and cows.Stark's two most popular book series are:Early Irish-English History1. The Twins of Torsh, 44 A.D. to 90 A.D.1. Rolf "The Red" MacCanna, 796-8462. An Irishman's Revenge, 1066-11124. Brothers 4, 1180-12165. Edward's Right Hand, 1272-13076. We Three Kings, 1377-1422The Napoleonic Wars at Sea (Benjamin Rundel)1. Humble Launching - A Story of a Little Boy Growing Up at Sea, 17872. Midshipman Rundel - The Wandering Midshipman, 17953. Mediterranean Madness - The Luckless Leftenant Rundel, 17974. The Adventures of Leftenant Rundel, 1797-17995. Forever Leftenant Rundel, 1800-18036. Captain Rundel I – Trafalgar and Beyond, 1803-18067. Captain Rundel II – Give Me a Fair Wind, 1806-18098. Captain Rundel III – Bend Me a Sail, 1810-18139. Admiral Rundel – 1814-1846

Book preview

Rolf The Red MacCanna

The Forgetful Druid

A Druid-Viking-Christian Tale

An Historical Novel

by N. Beetham Stark

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Discover other titles by N. Beetham Stark at

Smashwords.com or at NBeethamStark.com.

Rolf The Red MacCanna: The Forgetful Druid, A Druid-Viking-Christian Tale

Written by N. Beetham Stark

Copyright 2010 by N. Beetham Stark

Cover art by N. Beetham Stark

Published by Smashwords, Inc.

ISBN 978-1-4581-9091-8

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form

without the written permission of the author or trust agents.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

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Dedication: This book is dedicated to Tintagon, Tarsie and Picatso and our mutual friend, P.P. History seen through the eyes of fictitious characters.

History builds a bridge from our ancient past to the present, one which we dare not burn lest we fall into an abyss of ignorance.

N. Beetham Stark

Acknowledgements

Material used in this book was taken from a number of books on the Celts, Druids and early Christian Church. Most useful were The Ancient Celts by Barry Cunliffe, (1997), The MacMillan Alas of Irish History, Sean Duffy ed. (1997) and The Druids by Peter Beresford Ellis (1995). The author is also indebted to Laurence Taoman for his patience in getting this book into print.

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1 - A Fine Irish Home and Foul Deeds (796 A.D.)

Chapter 2 - A Long Voyage in a Long Ship

Chapter 3 - The Bloody English Coast

Chapter 4 - Big Men in Tiny Boats

Chapter 5 - Up from the Ashes and Back to Sea

Chapter 6 - Hostile Heaven

Chapter 7 - Run, Run

Chapter 8 - To Sea in a Saucer

Chapter 9 - The O’Clery School

Chapter 10 - Lost and Found

Chapter 11- Settled

Chapter 12 - The Seeker

Chapter 13 - Old Friends Drop in for a Visit

Chapter 14 - Someone Put Mic in the Stew

Chapter 15 - Man and Wolf

Chapter 16 - Skellig Mhichil

Chapter 17 - Prior Rolfred

Chapter 18 - Death of a Christian, Druid,Viking!

About the Author

About the Book

Introduction

Rolf is the fictitious story about a boy growing up in Ireland during the end of the time of the Druids and just as Christianity was beginning to take hold. At that same time the Vikings were beginning to feel the pressure of overcrowding in their northland and a few ventured south to explore and plunder the coasts of England and Ireland. The Romans had left England just a few hundred years earlier, but their influence on Ireland and its peoples was still felt mostly through their earlier trade. They had traded with Ireland and taken slaves from her but had little in the way of settlements there.

Rolf was born of a Druid father who was a bard and a Druid mother who was a healer and physician. His uncle was a Druid prophet and Rolf wants desperately to follow in his footsteps. The Druids were an elite caste of people within Celtic society who were venerated for their knowledge, wisdom, honesty and magical powers. Some were superb physicians, some noted bards, some judges, teachers and lawgivers and some acted as intermediaries for the people speaking to the gods for the common labourer. Rolf is torn between wanting to be a bard like his father and aspiring to the position of prophet and diviner like his uncle.

But there was one problem. A Druid, no matter what he became, had to learn the long sagas of the Druid history, mythology, songs, laws and philosophies by heart, without benefit of the written word! And Rolf seemed to have a short attention span and a memory like a sieve. We see him at age 12, daydreaming, not able to focus on the problems at hand until he is captured by Vikings and sent to Norway to live with Ingmar, a Viking chief with 8 ugly daughters. Ingmar makes it known that he has chosen the tall Rolf to be his son-in-law so that his family may enjoy taller stature. Rolf is dumb-struck and frightened. He toughs out his time with Ingmar and his daughters and finally manages to escape with his dog the following year in England. He has many adventures, trying his hand as student under two different Druid teachers, but he longs to return to Ireland. I have tried to follow what little is known of Druid tradition here.

When he is caught cheating on his trials, he runs away swiftly to save his life and nearly drowns in a tiny curragh (coracle) with his dog, ‘Wuff.’ Fate takes him back to Ireland and he is rescued by an old crone who nurses him to health and sends him off to the sacred Hill of Tara to learn to be a true Druid. He ends up at the O’Clery School in Donegal. He knows that he must cheat again in order to pass his trials. But he has fallen deeply in love with the beautiful Druidess, Fidelma, and cannot imagine himself torn from her side. He is in agony as the trials approach. When he begs her to run away with him, she refuses. He exiles himself in the wilderness of Ireland for seven years to avoid the punishment of death for cheating. He is rescued by Brigit, a pretty young widow who is a Christian. She teaches him about Christianity which preaches forgiveness for sin and which has its rites and rituals written down so all men can see them. Rolf now becomes a Christian, but cannot let go of some of his pagan Druid traditions. When one of his former Druid friends murders the local priest, Rolf takes revenge. Rolf cannot completely shake his Druid past and time and again he struggles to forget what he once was and become a good Christian. .

In his later years, Rolf’s wife has died and his children left home. He wanders off into the hills of Ireland, looking for his future. It comes to him in a most unusual way and he finds himself a member of the Monastery at Innisfallen, where he becomes a novice and eventually a brother. He copies Latin texts for a time, but soon his skill as a healer becomes known and he serves as their herbalist and physician. This work brings him in contact with many strange happenings, some murders, disappearing people and other mysteries. He finally dies there and they bury him according to his bizarre request. He would have a Druid-Viking-Christian burial!

The reader should be aware that the blood and gore in Chapter 1 are not put there for sensationalism or dramatic effect. The scenes depicted in Chapter 1 are most likely quite true to the times when the Vikings first came to the Irish shores, about 796 A.D. At first the local people were not aware of the invader’s intent and so, were poorly prepared to withstand Viking attacks. Throughout the story I have woven in bits of the Druid philosophy and mythology as well as their traditions. They did revere the oak and mistletoe and they did sacrifice white bulls to the gods. They worshipped many gods and there were many sacred springs some of which exist even to this day.

The Druids were not priests of a religion as such, but they were a caste within the Celtic peoples who were unusually gifted and intelligent. The Druids served as law givers and judges, advisors, diviners with the ability to see into the future, bards, poets, physicians, astrologers, and they kept oral records of the history and mythology of the Celtic peoples. Their knowledge of medicine was greatly respected during the time of this story and they were unique in that they allowed women to have equal rights with men. Women could own property and some were renowned for leading the men into battle.

It was the prohibition against writing the sagas and poems of the Druids that got Rolf into trouble repeatedly. He simply couldn’t remember so many long verses. But the Celts did have written language, ogham. The common people could read and write, but the Druids were prohibited from writing down their long history, traditions or philosophies. They must memorize whole books of verse and be able to repeat these at will in order to become a Druid. They did have the Book of Rights, the Brehon Laws, which were amazingly fair and effective. If a man injured another, he was responsible for supporting the injured one and his dependents until the injured one recovered. Or if a man stole another’s sheep, the man who had lost his sheep would gather together his family and friends and take the sheep back. The thief became a social outcast. For murder, the sentence was to be cast adrift in a small boat, a curragh, with no food, water or paddle and allowed to drift wherever the ocean currents took him.

Little is known of the Celtic religion because it was an integral part of their everyday life and most of the writings were destroyed by the coming of Christians. The Celts are thought to have as many as 33 gods, both male and female. The souls embodied in the head of the dead were taken to the Otherworld where there is no pain or want and entertained with song and dance eternally, or until such time as their souls were needed back in the real world. Then the souls would return to new bodies and live in Ireland once again.

I have not been able to uncover evidence of major battles between the Christians who were burning the existing books of the Celts and destroying their homes and the Druids who were dedicated to preserving the Druid and Celtic culture. But, knowing the Irish, it is hard to imagine that they simply sat idly by and let their culture be destroyed. There must have been many bloody conflicts, but probably no notable large scale battles between the Christians and Druids. Certainly any people who are forced to change their culture and religion must experience considerable trauma and that is what this story is about. The Christians and the Vikings did fight a number of large battles. Although Christianity did spread rapidly throughout all parts of Ireland, there were many remote places where the Druids held out against the advance of Christianity for hundreds of years.

Indeed, some of the traditions of the Irish people today like the use of mistletoe reflect old Druid customs. So conflict is only reasonable given the nature of the people and the fervour of their beliefs. I have tried to depict the conflict of a man who must convert to Christianity as something that I know was once real. The conflict for women who found that they were no longer equal in rights to men but must accept a patriarchal society must have been most painful.

Through this book, I remind those who are of Irish extraction that their people once were the most noble of Celts and even Druids. Their ancestors may have seen all of this and these pictures that I paint could be more than fictitious ramblings. They could be semi-truths seen dimly through a frosted glass window into the past.

Note: Oats and wheat were often referred to as ‘corn’ by people in the British Isles. Also, the Druids believed that the soul resided in the head and so, revered the heads of their dead ancestors. It would have been natural for Rolf to wish his parents’ souls well in the Otherworld.

I have used literary license in the matter of rabbits in England. It is believed that the furry imps didn’t arrive until the Normans came in 1066. Some say that red hair was introduced to Ireland by the Vikings, but then there were early Celtic heroes with red hair, so one cannot be certain of its origin..

Chapter 1 - A Fine Irish Home and Foul Deeds (796 A.D.)

Rolf sat atop a low green hill, rocking back and forth, humming, his hands clasping his knees. He could hear the clipping of grass behind as his flock of sheep grazed and the rippling of the little rill that ran at one side of the field. His thoughts took him back to that morning when he had sat at his Uncle Fergus’ hearth. Fergus had finished teaching Rolf and his sister, Ina, how to read and write using Ogham, a form of Celtic stick writing. Rolf had enjoyed writing because each letter was named after a tree, A = ailum or elm, B = beithe or birch and C = coll or hazel. He could visualize a word like a stand of trees. But now Fergus was teaching Rolf and Ina the beginning sagas of the Druid peoples. Today he had laid out ten verses which Rolf must memorize and tomorrow there will be another ten and then another ten.... Rolf felt overwhelmed. After only two weeks of memorizing these verses, he was already lost, unable to repeat what he had learned yesterday, let alone two weeks ago. And none could be written down on pain of death.

Rolf hummed a song that he had heard his bard father sing many times. He loved music. He watched the afternoon sun play hues of gold and red across the placid sea. Rolf thought, The Irish Sea is rarely so calm. His gaze drifted off to the horizon. There seems to be a speck out there, he thought. Just a fisherman coming home with his catch. It is late in the day and I should check the sheep.

He arose and went to the rill for a drink. He looked down into the calm pool at the edge of the rill and almost jumped back. A youth of perhaps twelve stared back at him, his flaming red hair blowing in the wind, and his freckled face dirty from long use without benefit of water. Then Rolf smiled and the youth smiled back at him. His mother had told him many times that the reflection in the pool was his own and that no one lived there but the spirits of gods and they were invisible. He took a handful of water and drank. Mother must be right because the boy in the pond is drinking too, he thought. Mother is most wise. I must learn more of her healing secrets. She is famed for miles around for her ability to heal.

But Rolf realized that he was daydreaming again. He arose and took up his oaken staff. He felt some pride in being allowed to carry a staff to guard the sheep. His father had said, Now you are nearing manhood and must take up a staff and help provide for the family. You are to use the staff to drive away any wolves that threaten our flock, as he demonstrated, baring his teeth, making a loud growling sound and swishing the staff violently in the air. Remember, some of those sheep belong to other members of the clan. I am giving you a most noble trust, son. Rolf was proud to be important and had helped with the corn (wheat and barley) harvest for the first time. He had learned how to flail the stalks to knock off the grains and how to use the wind to winnow away the chaff.

He walked around the flock, but they seemed more uneasy than usual. Some would take a bite here and then run over there for another. That’s not like them, he thought. But he returned to his spot on the hill side and fell into another daydream. He imagined himself as arch Druid, wearing a gold torc and a gown of white with golden thread woven into it. I will sit in honour on Tara Hill someday and be the chief Druid to our king! As such, I can tell the king what to do, Uncle Fergus told me so. But I wish not to have to shave my head from the forehead to the ears. It will be most cold in winter.

Suddenly Rolf looked up and saw that what he had imagined was a fishing curragh was really a huge long ship, like none other that he had ever seen. It had about thirty men seated on benches with oars. They were just taking in the oars as he spotted them and he saw the red and tan stripped sail furled. The hull was sleek with the planks overlapped. Men dressed in mostly furs stood up and dropped a heavy rock on a rope into the water. Rolf imagined that they had come to trade with the Mac Canna clan. There were six cottages along the shore stretching south from Donaghadee, all home to the tribe of Mac Canna. They had occasionally sold corn or oats to passing farmers who had suffered loss of their crops. His family was known as good farmers.

Rolf watched from behind a rock as the men rose from their oars, relieved themselves and then grabbing short swords or war axes they began to jump into the shallow water. They were scantily clad for early October. Most wore a tunic of coarse cloth, tied at the waist by leather belts, their breasts covered with metal plates or chain mail. Their boots were of leather and coarse. Most wore helmets which came to a point with fur and sometimes chain over the ears. But his attention was drawn from their bearded faces and their dress by their fierce war cries that rent the air like their sharp swords. Rolf slunk back, dropping into a depression where he could see but not be seen. Their wild shrieks echoed from the bench where his cottage sat and rolled up the hill to where Rolf lay on his stomach, turning his blood to ice!

The sheep seemed to sense danger and ran off to the far fields, making very little noise for sheep. Rolf watched fascinated by the drama that was playing out below him. He saw his mother, Tira, come out of the cottage, alarmed by all the noise. She carried a cabbage in her hands as if to offer it to one of the men. One of the evil men raised his sword and split the cabbage in two and then, before she could move, he severed her head at the neck with one fierce blow of his war axe! Her lifeless body fell to the ground. Rolf let out a little whimper but realized that it might be best if these men didn’t see or hear him. Tears began to stream from his eyes and he was shaking with fear and disbelief. His body felt cold and clammy as if he too were dead. By now his father had returned from milking their two cows. He carried a leather bucket of fresh milk. One of the men grabbed the bucket in one hand, took a long swig and then swung his war axe so fiercely that his father’s head was severed and rolled lifelessly on the ground. The big man let out a raucous laugh and went on his way. They were in the cottage now, looking for treasure and making a good bit of noise. Rolf saw his sister, Ina, run screaming from the cottage, her red locks streaming behind her. One savage grabbed her by the hair and slit her open with his sword. She joined the others on the ground, now a bloody mire.

She’s just a child! thought Rolf. This can’t be happening. It can’t! All I have in this world lies there dead! These must be the terrible Vikings from the North that Uncle Fergus spoke of weeks ago. I listened but poorly to his words then. Would that I had listened more carefully!

Rolf stayed back out of sight. He could not help his family and he sought to stay alive. He saw men coming from their granary with their hairy arms loaded with skins of oats and barley. Some had found the family store of honey mead and were beginning to drink deeply. A short fellow had found his mother’s prized silver goblet, a heritage from her ancestors.That fellow seemed to be the leader. He beckoned the men forward towards the next cottage. As they passed, they slaughtered the cows, pigs and chickens. Some of the men in the rear quickly skinned and gutted the animals and slung them on their backs to haul back to the ship. Rolf noticed for the first time that the long ship had a carving of a dragon at its bow. The carving looked sinister and glared at Rolf in the waning sunlight with a gleaming bright red eye. He would remember that fierce visaged creature for years to come. It came to symbolize all that Rolf thought of as evil.

Then, at a strange call, all of the men returned to the long ship and sat at their oars. Men shoved the ship backwards and then climbed aboard. They didn’t raise the sail, but the man at the tiller took the ship south. They must not be going far. I wonder if they will go to the other Mac Canna lands? I must try to warn them, but how? They will be there before I can get to the cottage!

Rolf sat back, his eyes red, his cheeks tear-stained. He wiped his face with his grimy hand. Why did they do this to us? Why my mother and father? We have done nothing wrong? Surely the great King, Ui N’eill, will hear of this and avenge our dead. The fierce Cunwaith of whom Fergus has spoken so roundly will hear of our plight and bring warriors to fight them off. But Rolf knew that he was dreaming a child’s dream, not the thoughts of a man of action. Tara is a hundred miles away and it will take weeks for word to travel and even longer for men to arm and return. By that time the Vikings will have sailed off to some other land. But I could go to Tara and tell the king that Ireland is being invaded. My father would be proud of me for that!

The ship was now but a speck upon the Irish sea, and the red orb of the sun had just sunk below the horizon. Rolf was afraid that some of those fierce men had remained behind. He feared to go to the cottage in darkness, he feared more than anything not to see his beloved mother there holding her apron and wiping her hands, smiling at him as she had always done. He feared not to hear his father’s gentle words, Why do you not tend the sheep, son?

Rolf sat and thought a long time. He decided to sleep with the sheep that night. He had slept many a night curled up against old Ethnel, his favourite sheep. She was too old to have lambs any more, but she welcomed his company and her fleece was deep and clean. I’ll have no supper this night, but no matter. I must leave this place. All the food is gone, my parents dead, even my little sister. There is nothing for me to do but to travel to Tara and find the king. I will go to the cottage on the morrow. The sheep will be fine alone. They can wander from here to all of Ireland and there is plenty of feed and water for them. I shall miss them, he said to himself whimsically. He sat for hours, watched the moon come up, and pondered how long it would be until it was time to climb the mighty oaks and cut the mistletoe. But the horror of that afternoon wouldn’t let him rest. If he closed his eyes, all he could see was that evil carved dragon head, the red eye glaring at him. He imagined that the beast turned his head, snarled and spit fire at him. And he was cold. He lay next to Ethnel and listened to her old heart beat. Her heart beats, and yet my mother’s and father’s lie silent. But I must be contented. Fergus would tell me that they are blessed, released from worldly cares and would soon be taken to the Otherworld. There they will suffer no wants, will feel no rain or cold. There is only happiness after death.

It was a long night. Towards morning it began to drizzle. Rolf arose cold and stiff.

Thank you dear Ethnel for the night’s shelter, he said to the old sheep as if she were a person. He went to the rill and drank. There was no smiling youth to look back at him then. He imagined that the Vikings had taken away his soul too, but that he just didn’t know it yet. His face was drawn from lack of sleep and worry.

But as he started down the slope, his usual boyish exuberance returned. That of yesterday was all just a bad dream, a nightmare while I snoozed by the flock. I will surely walk into the cottage and see mother bent over the fire ring, a steaming dish of porridge with honey by my place at table and my father fresh in from milking the cows. Surely yesterday was just a product of my ever active imagination!

But as Rolf approached the low white cottage of stone, he could see pools of coagulated blood, spatters now black on the white wattle walls and the skins and carcasses of dead animals. It was only first light, but he could see his mother lying four feet from her head. A ways beyond lay his father in similar condition. Rolf had never seen such carnage before, such needless brutality. He stood as if in a daze, waiting for some mysterious fog to raise and reveal that all was as it should be, but there was no fog that morning, just the dull sunlight revealing the bitter truth.

Rolf stood for a long time, nervous, watchful, but trying to decide what to do next. Finally, he pulled the three bodies near the stone wall and began to pile stones upon them reverently. This will keep the wolves away, he thought. Then he picked up his mother’s head. I hold your soul in my hands dear mother. Your kind hands will never heal again, not in this world. Let the god Bile’ take you swiftly to the Otherworld, or perhaps the sun god, Mug Ruith (Mow-rih), the all powerful will call for you and take you to the world where there is no pain, no want, only dancing and music. Fergus says that I am to rejoice when someone dies, but I find it very hard, dear mother, to think so. At least you need never worry again about the oat cakes burning or the milk going sour. He set her head reverently on the wall and turned to his father’s head.

Dear father, your lips will never sing such wonderful songs to me again, but like our mother, you will soon be transported to the Otherworld where you may sing sweetly forever. I know not why I have been spared, but I would go with you both if I could. You will never again need to worry about the rains ruining the harvest or the wolves eating the sheep. You toils are over and much too soon. But promise me, when your soul returns to this world, if I be still alive, you will make yourself known to me in your new body so that I may do you proper honour.

Rolf set his father’s head beside that of his mother. There is a burial ceremony which Fergus taught me and I saw it once when my grandfather died, but I cannot remember a single word of it! Cursed memory! I must be contented with having buried their bodies and prayed over their souls.

Rolf went into the cottage and was appalled at the destruction that the north men had wrought in so short a time. The grain bins and pantry were empty and all of their silver was gone. There was no food anywhere. Then Rolf remembered that his mother had a special hiding place where she put sweet cakes. His birthday was soon and she well may have hidden some there so he wouldn’t find them and eat them all at once. He went to the side of the fire pit and removed the rock. Yes! There were a good handful of honey cakes there and two loaves of dark bread. Rolf grabbed the sack that his mother had made for him for carrying firewood. He emptied it and put in the food and then he rolled up the two sheep skins on which he had slept all of his life. He reached for the flint and steel. Then he noticed that there had been a chunk of meat on the spit, but someone had knocked it off. It lay in the ashes, now cold, but cooked. He wiped the meat on his tunic and set it in the bag. He put the remainder in the sack and headed out to the southwest. As he left, he stopped to look back on what had been only a day before a most happy Druid home. He had held back the tears until now, but his eyes began to float in a sea of childish tears, tears that came from far within him and that told of a grief that he had never even imagined could be endured by any human being. Rolf walked slowly, looking back frequently. His soulful wales echoed across the hills and he didn’t care who heard them. Nothing matters now. All is lost!

Presently Rolf recovered his composure and set out for his uncle’s cottage over a mile away. He had hopes that Uncle Fergus had escaped the Vikings because his home was farther from the sea. Perhaps he will take me in and give me shelter, thought Rolf. He approached the little cottage which was nestled behind some birch trees, but he soon realized that Fergus was gone too. His body lay in the pasture, his staff still in his hand where he had tried to fight off the invading Vikings. His wife lay nearby. She was always very kind to me, thought Rolf. There was no sign of their son.

Rolf explored the inside of the cottage, but there was nothing there except a small pot and a few handfuls of oats. He took both, saying, The dead have no need of these, and I do. In the garden he found a few carrots and a cabbage. He wondered how he would eat when these few morsels were gone.

But I must head for Tara to sound the alarm as quickly as I can, he thought. And I am not truly certain where Tara lies! I was daydreaming when Fergus told of the Great Hill and of the Ui’N’eill king to the far north.

There were four more cottages of the Mac Canna clan, all within a few miles although at that time, no one owned the land. In those days, no one owned anything, but one lived where he liked the land and cared for it tenderly. Several of the cots lay on stilts in a small lake, a cranaugh and a fine protection from intruders. Rolf headed out for his people hoping that someone would be able to give him shelter. He could not accept the fact that he might already be orphaned and alone in the world. He had to know about his family.

But the first two cottages were empty, his kinsmen lying in the dirt and their own blood. As he left the second cottage, that of Dicen Mac Canna, he spotted something in the bushes. He reached for it and picked up a mighty war axe, all bloodied. Rolf examined the tool curiously. I may use this to cut firewood for my evening fire, he said to himself. He carefully wiped the blade in the grass and saw that it was marvelously sharp. He set the axe on his shoulder and began walking