The Head of Bealach Nam Bo

                                               The Head of Bealach Nam Bo

                                                                         BY

                                                                 Roger L. James

The rugged mountains were pelted with rain, mixed with sleet. Strong winds whipped through the gnarled pines, and sagebrush as two people dragged a heavily laden donkey. A woman tugged at the heavy cloak and pulled over the hood to cover her face. The countryside around her, rocked by thunder, as lightning erupted. Briefly lighting the rain drenched night as bright as day.

The man with her tried to steady them against the frost-smitten wind and rain. Their feet trudged in thick slurry of mud. Behind them their donkey burdened with musical instruments and belongings complained bitterly. Its loud braying failed to drown out the roll of thunder overhead.

“I thought you said, once we are in the valleys it would be warmer!” Azalais’ teeth chattered as she spoke.

“This storm seems intent on following us, all they way to the sea.” He chuckled, and said. “Don’t all great stories start with a dark and stormy night?”

“Very funny!” She stopped as they crested a rise, “I see a light!” Azalais pointed at a small wayside wooden tavern on the outskirts, next to a village signpost.

Calum did what he could to drag their donkey named Muc, in order to keep up with her. She stopped and waited for him to catch up. The rain pelted her and the wind seeped between folds of her woolen cloak. Without a word, she took the largest oiled canvas bag off the donkey and slung it over her shoulder.

He yelled over the thunder and crack of lightning, “I’ll put Muc in the barn! You go on in!” Calum saw her shoulders slump with exhaustion, she turned and entered without a word more.

He shivered against the cold, as overhead a crack of lighting illuminated the sign, which stretched over the road. The sign read: Bealach nam Bo’. Calum sighed and saw the signboard for the tavern rock back and forth with a squeak. On it showed two kegs of ale, split by an axe.

The small wooden tavern was hot and damp, with a musty odor of mold, sweat and ale. In the midst of the stone-floored hall roared a fire, which chewed on several stout logs. The tavern keeper stood behind a long wooden bar that had been notched with blades, stained by blood and ale. The tavern keeper was a large, heavyset man, grizzled black beard and long hair. A robust man, who looks like he is use to busting heads of rowdy ones.

“Leave your cloak by the door!” The tavern keeper barked.

Azalais with nimble fingers unhooked the clasp about her cloak and pocketed it into a pouch on a thick leather belt. The heavy cloak smelled of soggy sheep, mixed with odors of the tavern’s meat and onions. Her empty stomach churned at the scent of food. She hung her cloak next to others hanging on copper pegs, which protruded from the wall. A mirror hung next to the pegs, she gazed at her own face staring back. Azalais wiped mud off her high cheekbones, green colored eyes peered back at her from a face many considered beautiful. Her skin tanned by the burning sun of the Southern deserts. She turned and brushed out her mane of raven colored hair and studied the beady eyes that peered from bearded faces of five villagers.

A tall and lanky wizened man stood and grinned as he studied her, his voice grated like sand on brick beneath booted feet. “We have a noble woman amongst us!”

She reached down and pulled six inches of steel from its scabbard. “I may have a noble’s epee, but I have a peasant’s empty stomach and purse. I am no noble, just a traveling minstrel.”