Spirits of Blue Mountain

A winter frost had settled on the ground in the Blue Mountain Forest. There were no leaves crunching underfoot. No foxes dug their holes through that dark unyielding dirt. It was solid, unforgiving. It was a wonder that the trees could grow there at all; but nature has its ways. The evergreens grew tall and fat, and so close together that it was impossible to see more than ten feet in any direction. It is easy to lose one’s way in a forest like that.

Curran ran through the Blue Mountain Forest as hard as he could. He ducked and weaved and strained forward as best he could in that dense darkness. Even in the day, the sun’s light could barely be seen through those thick trees; in the night it was nearly pitch. Branches reached out and scraped his arms and his thin legs. Fallen trees broke his stride and forced him down to the ground. And with every fall, Curran sprang up with a new gash on his forehead or a scrape on his palms. Blood trickled down his legs from open wounds on his knees.

Still, Curran pushed forward. It wasn’t a choice he made to keep going. There were no choices. His fear and his instinct to live propelled him on with a force greater than anything he had ever felt in his life.

Behind him, ever present and always getting nearer, he could hear the barking of the dogs. The yelling of their masters. There was no hiding from these hounds. They had his scent and they would not relent. That was why no one would steal from the Lord Darius. Not even Curran would be so stupid. But someone had been. Someone took something from the palace and it was Curran’s tunic the guards found just outside the palace walls. It was the warmest place to sleep on a cold night and he had left the tunic laying there when he got up to relieve himself around the corner. A simple mistake. But there was no time to explain. And who would listen?

Who. Curran heard the word floating softly on the air like a thought. Who. It pierced through the wind over the sound of the hounds. Yes, who? He thought. Who has stolen from the Lord Darius. Who has risked their life? Who has sealed my fate and for what? Some gold? What could be bought that they couldn’t have stolen from market instead? He tried to push the thought from his mind. It was no use to him now. Still, the word persisted, Who.

By the sound of their barking and the footsteps closing in, Curran could tell that the search party was gaining on him. If they could have seen through the trees, they would release their hounds and the sharp white teeth would be on him in seconds. But they couldn’t hear his running or his panting over all that noise, and they wouldn’t let go the leashes until they were sure they were close. The leader of the Lord’s guard was a cautious man and he wouldn’t allow the confusion that would follow if the hounds got out of sight from their masters.

Standing between two thick trees, Curran stopped running. He could hear his blood pumping in his ear and felt his heart pounding hard in his chest. For half an hour, he had run as straight as he could as he went around tree after tree. The sound of dogs was still at his back, and getting closer. But, now, as he stood still and calmed his breath, he realized that the sound of those trained hounds was also to his left, and in front of him. He was nearly surrounded and there was no way to tell what direction he was facing this deep in the woods.

Again, he heard the sound; and, for the first time, he was sure that it wasn’t coming from his own head. ‘Who’ it said, ‘who’. It was no secret that ancient spirits lived on the Blue Mountain, no doubt they patrolled these woods. But how could he know their intentions? Were they here to help him, or play games with his life?

In a moment, it wouldn’t matter. The hounds would be on him; and he would be dead. There was only one direction left for him to run, towards the sound.

As he began to run again, the beating of Curran’s heart became louder and the pressure in his chest was greater than ever. The sound of the hounds barking and the men yelling behind him was muffled and distant. He ran with everything, the branches still scraping against his shoulders and the stumps of trees still threatening to pull him down; but when he stumbled he did not fall. He couldn’t. There was no time now. They were too close and all he could do was keep moving or die. The only sound that came through was the gentle sound of the spirit guiding him. ‘Who’ it said, ‘who’.

‘Curran’ he whispered in response. ‘My name is Curran, and I will not die tonight.’

He ran forward, shifting right and left to avoid the trees; but never turning from his path. The sound guided him further, getting louder and louder as he ran. ‘Who’ it beckoned, and Curran responded, louder than before ‘My name is Curran. Son of Lord Piaras.’ He hadn’t said that name since his father’s death. Tears streamed down his cheeks and stung the bleeding cuts across his face.

‘Who’ the voice said again.

Curran gave up on being silent. The men behind him wouldn’t hear him over the barking of the hounds, and there was nothing left to do but to answer the spirit, ‘I am Curran.’ he yelled out, ‘Champion of my people.’ He had known that his mother had named him before she had died giving birth. It wasn’t until Darius’ army had stood at the gates of their palace that Piaras took Curran into his study and told him what the name meant. He was meant to be a champion. Not a fighter by choice, but a savior when all choice had been taken from him. He could never give up on his people. That was the last thing his father had said before pushing him into a hidden tunnel and locking the entrance.

‘Never give up.’ Curran repeated to himself again and again, ‘Never give up.’

Breaking through the darkness, Curran saw what would either be his salvation or his damnation. The moonlight shone between trees and, as he got nearer, he could see the white light reflected off the field of grass that led to a farm on the edge of the forest. There was nothing to do but continue running; but if he couldn’t find shelter before the men behind him came out of the woods, they would release the dogs to run him down.

‘Who’ he heard the sound more clearly now, and he could see the one structure that it could be coming from. A small barn sat between him and the farmhouse at the far end of the property. It was too far; but there was nowhere else.

‘Who.’

‘I am Curran,’ he said, ‘and I will not give up.’

Curran pushed with everything he had left. He could no longer feel the strain of his muscles or the pain in his feet. He ignored the blood dripping into his eyes from the deep cuts on his forehead.

There was no looking back, no way to tell how far he had run; and the barn didn’t look like it was getting any closer. The ground was softer here than it had been in the forest; and his feet sank into the mud with every step, making it harder to run.

‘There!’ someone shouted from behind him. They had made it to the edge of the woods and the dogs would all be released within seconds. It was still too far.

‘Who.’ the sound echoed in his ears and filled him with purpose.

‘I am Curran, champion of my people’ he yelled out as he pushed himself even harder, past his limits.

With the hounds close at his heels, Curran finally reached the small barn, slamming the door shut behind him. The angry dogs scratched frantically at the door as he latched it and took a few steps back, trying to regain his breath.

‘Who.’ he heard from somewhere up above him. ‘Who.’

Curran took a few more steps into the center of the barn and looked up at the window that looked out over the field. The moonlight was shining through and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The shape of an owl sat perched on the sill of the window, turning its head back and forth.

‘Who?’ it said again. Somehow, seeing that it was an owl that had led him out of the forest to this barn made Curran more sure than ever that it was a spirit. The word was so clear, there was no mistaking that he was being asked a question.

‘My name is Curran, son of Lord Piaras, champion of my people.’ he said with feigned confidence.

The owl stretched out its wings, far wider than the window that it sat in, and pushed off the sill into the barn. It drifted down on the moonlight like a ship on the sea and its silver feathers shone like diamonds. It wasn’t until the owl stood in front of him that Curran realized how enormous the creature was. It stood as tall as his waist and each of its silver wings stretched out longer than Curran’s full arm span.

In his awe, it took a moment for Curran to notice the chain that hung from the owl’s mouth. At the end of the chain was a pure white fang the length of Curran’s hand set in a silver fitting.

‘Did you take this from Lord Darius?’ Curran asked.

The owl bowed its great head low, raising it back slowly and looking directly at Curran with its big, wild eyes.

Curran took the fang into the palm of his hand to look more closely, and the owl released the chain. With another bow, the owl spread its wings and in an instant it had leapt off the ground and was perched back on the sill of the window high above. Curran marveled at how small and simple the owl looked in that high window, its great wings tucked in tight to its body.

Before he had put the chain around his neck, Curran could feel his strength growing. His breath was no longer labored as it had been when he arrived at the barn. His legs and arms, which had gone numb from exhaustion, felt powerful and where they had been cut by branches and scraped across the hard ground the bleeding was already stopping. He raised the chain and looked at it shining in the light of the moon. His eyes, strained a moment earlier, could see everything around him in vivid color as if it were daylight.

The men outside had reached the door of the barn and were yelling threats. Curran could smell the subtle odor of torches being lit. A woman was crying and a man’s voice pleading to the others to not burn down his barn. They must have come out from the farmhouse when they heard the barking. But the sounds of the dogs, the scraping and barking and sniffing at the door, had all stopped.

‘Who.’ the owl said. ‘Who.’

‘My name is Curran.’ he said softly, ‘Champion of my people.’

Curran put the chain around his neck and everything around him seemed to get smaller. The roof above him got closer, the walls shrank, the voices outside became softer. He could hear every insult, every breath; but it was as if spoken by a field mouse. Curran’s shoulders grew heavy until he couldn’t hold them upright any longer, and he fell forward. His mouth grew out and at that moment, seeing his nose turn black at the end of a long, gray muzzle; he realized what he was turning into.

Walking steadily towards the front of the barn on all fours, Curran used his shoulder to push on the door. The latch popped off easily and the door swung open. The dogs that had been waiting silently since his meeting with the owl slunked back with their heads low to the ground and their eyes averted. They recognized by his scent that he was their alpha.

‘The spirits of the mountain.’ one of the men holding a torch muttered to himself, ‘they protect the boy.’ Others standing around him capped their torches and laid them, extinguished, on the ground as they kneeled down and lowered their heads.

A soldier stood among the other guards, looking around in disbelief at what was happening. ‘What are you doing?’ he whispered ‘Get your swords out, for christ’s sake. Kill the beast.’ No one moved.

In a low growl, Curran spoke, ‘You are a guard of Darius.’ he said matter of factly. ‘You invaded our palace. You helped your master to disturb our sacred ground. Still, I give you this one opportunity to repent. Lay down on the ground and swear loyalty to the house of Piaras.’

‘I will not follow you devil worshippers.’ the man’s voice was shaking. ‘Whatever trick this is, I stand with Lord Darius.’

‘If you will not swear loyalty to my father’s house,’ Curran considered for a moment, ‘then run away from here. Run and never look back. Or you will die.’ He bared his teeth and let out a growl from deep in his chest. The dogs all lifted their heads and turned to face the soldier.

‘I cannot.’ the man said. He reached slowly around to grab the hilt of his sword.

Curran sat back and relaxed his jaw. This wasn’t his battle to fight. He would draw blood tonight; but not this man’s blood. He nodded to the hounds at his side and in an instant they were on the soldier, ripping at his chest and pulling his limbs. His death came quickly, and then they were done.

After a moment in cold silence; Curran walked closer to the men who had their heads pressed against the ground. Not one had looked up for fear of the spirits.

‘Rise up. You have made the right choice, and you will all be spared.’ he said.

‘But, great wolf,’ the man who had recognized him as a mountain spirit shook so violently that he could hardly speak. ‘Darius still holds the palace. We will not be safe. Our families.’

‘Leave that to me.’ Curran said. ‘Go home to your wives and your children. Tell them that the spirits of Blue Mountain are back. And when you wake in the morning, Darius will be nothing more than a vague memory of a bad dream.’

One by one, the men got up and led their dogs towards the road that ran around the forest at the far end of the farmland. When they had all gone, Curran walked back into the woods, slowly at first, then gaining speed until he was running. From the road, the men could hear the sound of a barn owl hooting and, as if in response, the howl of the wolf.