[COMPLETED] The Vixen and The Thief

Chapter 22

One more patch of mire and they reached more solid ground surrounding an enormous boulder.   Conn stopped and turned, Beibhinn coming up beside him.

For a moment they stood gasping, watching the slow movement of An Beitheach's men across the bog.

"No hope?" gasped Beibhinn,

Conn didn't want to reply. He wanted to offer her hope, some frail scrap even, but there was no point. Even if he lied, Beibhinn knew the bleakness of their position. 

He nodded, "None."

The mire patch would slow the pursuers, unless they went to either side, sweeping around behind to surround and trap them. Conn backed against the boulder, drawing out his dagger. The corner of his eye saw Beibhinn stoop to pick up a  branch of bog oak, then toss it aside - too light for her purpose. She disappeared behind the boulder.

He could  recognise the approaching faces now, they were so near. His former companions.

A band of afternoon sun lit the distant hills, sweeping across the land as a swathe of gold, touching forest and farmland. He did not want to leave this world. The reality hit him suddenly , painfully, as it had that battleday years ago. But this time, Conn's grip tightened on the dagger, there could be no running away.

 If only Beibhinn could have escaped, he thought, for her peril was greater than his.  But even if he could not save her, he could at least kill An Beitheach. Conn's face settled into grim determination.

"Conn! Quick! Look!" Beibhinn's voice cried urgently from behind.

Nothing loath to disappearing from sight, Conn ducked around  the great stone. "What?"

Beibhinn was pointing at the ground a few paces away. A line of browned, half rotten planks lay over the surface of the bog, in places sunken deep into the black peat.

An ancient road.

"Hurry!" ordered Beibhinn, moving as though to walk on the dubious planks.

"What good is it?" snapped Conn, "Even if we do not drown, his men will still catch us."

"Look, a hAmadán," Beibhinn screwed up her eyes, pointing. 

In the near distance rose the little green island of An Gobán Saor, its monastery buildings faint grey smudges. Conn heard a shout behind them. He glanced down at his hands - one short dagger and a branch of bogwood against six men...

"Right." he said, and took a running jump at the roadway.

****

They took off along the ancient path, the planks sinking and swayingbeneath their feet, somtimes disappearing into the brackish water. They leapt the sunken sections, splashing dark liquid peat over their clothes.

Afternoon sun stretched across the country, lighting the timbers pale brown as they stretched on. On...to An Gobán Saor...sanctuary...

Conn's chest burned, his legs stumbling, the cast of mud on his feet weighed him down. Slower, slower the path moved past..he pushed himself on, taking great leaping bounds, the smell of decay rising from earth so long undisturbed.

No good. The land conspired against him, refusing to move, dragging them back..back to - them,

"...Tap..igh.." gasped Beibhinn behind.

"..Cad -"  he had no breath to reply.

On. Run. Force his legs to move. The green island rose above them now, each stone clear in the evening sun. So close that the monks voices could be faintly heard, chanting vespers.

And the path looped away. Turning back into the bog, as though having changed heart. The last space before the island given over to boghole - a span of dark, green-slimed water of unfathomable depth. 

Conn was not stopping, not now. He made a last dash, leaping for a clump of rushes. It sank beneath his weight, he sprang on. A rock. Another clump. He fell splashing into the freezing filth, floundering wildly, taking in mouthfuls of slime.

Rushes rising, footholds, handholds. He flailed, scrambling, blinded by mud, choking on mud - he caught the bank of the island and hauled himself up.

Up onto the warm green grass, coughing and spitting; trying to scrub the dirt from his eyes and only blinding himself further.

Between peat-caked lashes he saw a figure struggling in the more below him.

Conn cursed. Beibhinn.

She had sunk almost to her waist, dragged by the weight of her skirt, and though she splashed and kicked, the bog held her fast, dragging her deeper into the black pool with every movement.

Coughing still, Conn slid down the bank, sinking a foot cautiously in the mud at its base, and  held out a hand.

"Beir - greim," he spluttered

Beibhinn fell forwards, reaching out. 

Missed. Sinking deeper.

 Too far still.

Conn set his teeth, grit crunching between them. He caught hold of a rock in the bank and leaned out further. The ground gave under his weight, sputtering bubbles. He reached out to the length of his arms, willing the bank to hold up..

Beibhinn's hand, slippery with ooze, caught his. Conn pulled back, dragging his own feet from their deepening holes. The rock in the bank held.

With a sucking noise the bog reliquished its quarry and they stumbled up onto the island.

There is no earthly way An Beitheach can get through that, Conn thought as he scrubbed peat muck out of his ears with a tuft of grass.

Beibhinn scrambled to her feet gasping. She looked like some form of hag. Half her face black with muck, her clothes soaked and formless.

"G'raibh maith agat," she said.

"No bother," said Conn. It had been bother. And that bother was what warmed his triumph to gold. But there was no need to let that on. He snorted suddenly, "You look -" he snorted again, choking as he laughed.

"You have small reason to be proud of your own appearance," said Beibhinn with a smile, and pulled bog-cress from his hair.

**** 

With reeling steps they ran up the steep banked island, between the garden plots of the monks, making for the grey stone chapel from which came the sounds of prayer.  Their haste took them barging therough the wooden doors, running up the aisle, trailing black slime across the paving. Beibhinn flung herself down on her knees before the tabernacle, burying her face in her arms, heedless of the  brown robed monks who watched them now in silence.

Conn turned to face them, his voice coming out strange - high, and frantic.

"An Beitheach!" he cried, waving to the door, "An Beitheach pursues us."