Discovery
The world creaked alarmingly as it shook and heaved. Pitch black night flashed blinding white. Ropes chafed, screams drowned out by Poseidon’s wrath. Water splashed, cutting off air, chilling to the bone, then retreating.
Maewyn awoke in a cold sweat, wrestling his tangled blanket for the use of his limbs. The cold light of the full moon bathed his flock. He counted by reflex and recited a silent prayer of thanks when all were accounted for. Milchu was not overly cruel, but losing sheep would definitely incur a punishment.
A glint of reflected moonlight caught his eye, as if water was flowing down the hillside. A shape moved in the darkness, halting and slow, moving away from his flock. It swayed from side to side as it moved, stumbled, righted itself, then finally fell and lay still.
Maewyn cast his gaze about, holding his breath, listening to the darkness. Moon shadows deep enough to hide a dozen raiders or a whole pack of wolves stayed still and quiet. The sheep slumbered in the balmy summer night, the occasional rustle and deep breath speaking of peace and contentment.
Gingerly, he made his way over to the prone shape, stepping around resting cattle. His soft, leather shoes made barely any noise on the healthy summer grass. The shape slowly resolved in the moonlight as Maewyn got closer. A head of long hair, arms outstretched in a failed attempt to catch their fall, a bare torso with a tattered scarf wrapped around its midsection.
His breath caught and he made the sign of the cross. Instead of legs, at least two paces of sinuous, scaled hide stretched below the waist, its color washed away in the flood of moon light, but the scales shiny and lustrous.
He’d heard legends from soldiers that had been stationed at the eastern end of the Roman empire. Fanciful tales they’d heard from travelers in taverns, about creatures half-snake, half-human. Creatures of unbelievable power and fighting strength. Fierce warriors that did not know the Lord, and fought with supernatural tenacity and endurance.
This one seemed like they were at Death’s door. Their skin was crisscrossed with scars, but old and new, still angry red and barely healed. Maewyn’s first instinct was to run, to rouse the flock and march back to the safety of the farm as fast as he could drive them. But then he remembered the teachings of his Lord and Savior, to always be kind and help those in need. Milchu might help them as well, but he was just as likely to gather a mob and hunt them down as a monster.
He knelt in the grass next to the figure, putting his crook off to the side, placing a hand on their shoulder. The skin was feverishly hot, slick with sweat despite the relative cool of the middle of the night. The pungent smell of the sweat of exhaustion filled his nose, and for a moment the heat and acrid odor made him fear the Devil’s hand in this.
“Friend, are you alive?”
The creature just groaned and tried to roll on their back, only managing with Maewyn’s help. He ran to get his blanket, propping them up on the rolled up fabric and helping them drink from his water skin. The first gulp went down the wrong pipe, and they coughed weakly, but drank greedily after that. As they drank, Maewyn studied their form more. An angular face with large eyes, framed by straight, dark hair down past the shoulders. Small, exposed breasts corrected his original assumption she was male, though any further proof was hidden behind her wrappings.
“Thank you,” the creature managed to say after a few minutes.
“You speak Latin?”
“Enough for some things.”
Their pronunciation was a bit off, rounder in places and sharper in others, and she spoke slowly, as if picking the words carefully, but she was perfectly understandable.
“My name is Maewyn.”
“Sanghamitra.” The name rolled and trilled and hissed in ways Maewyn wasn’t sure he could reproduce. “Do you have food? I have not had food for days.”
“I have some cheese and bread, and some of the ewes will need milking in the morning.”
After checking on the sheep and returning with the food, Maewyn sat in silence with the stranger. She ate methodically, tearing little bits of bread and cheese off before popping them in her mouth and swallowing. He thought back on his first meal after being taken by the pirates and sold to Milchu, how he’d wolfed it down and then puked it back up minutes later. Milchu had beaten him for wasting a meal and denied him more food for a full day. Did she have experience with hunger? There had been lean times back in Britannia, but his family had been well off and he hadn’t known hunger until he was taken.
After she’d eaten, Maewyn helped her up and back towards the flock. She was heavy, and had to lean on him to move, but seemed a little stronger at least. The sheep stirred when a new, unknown being was among them, but settled back down when they noticed Maewyn there. He offered her the blanket, which she took gratefully before curling up on the ground, her tail coiled next to her, blanket covering her torso.
The leaves crunched loudly under his booted feet as Maewyn made his way into the thicket Sanghamitra called home. It was further away from the farm than he liked, but then her fire would be noticed if she stayed any closer. His breath fogged in the late winter cold.
Sneaking out of the compound was a risk, the countryside wasn’t particularly safe here on the west coast of Hibernia, and Milchu would assume he was running away if he was caught. Still, the thought of seeing Sanghamitra again was too enticing. That first week out with the flock after he had rescued her from starvation, they had talked for long hours as she regained some of her strength. His provisions had run out fast, but he’d managed to string a few rabbits and fetch some fowl with his sling. Between those, ewe’s milk, and some fish Sanghamitra had caught in the river, she had regained her strength quickly.
By the light of the waning moon, they lay awake long nights, talking about their lives. She was older than he, though would not say how much. Her journey to these isles was harrowing, and at times fanciful. When she told him she’d been to the Holy land, seen where the Lord had walked in the flesh, he burned with envy so strong he had to confess to Ciaran. After swearing him to secrecy of course, and still staying as vague as he could without making the confession worthless.
She had been captured much like him, and treated as a beast for the entertainment of whoever could pay. When she had finally refuse to perform, she had been beaten viciously until finally she’d managed to fight off her guards and escape. One of her former captors had shot at her, his arrow finding her side. Traveling injured for weeks, not daring to stop too long to recover, and only traveling under the cover of night, she had collapsed exhausted not far from Maewyn’s flock. He believed her when she said she hadn’t even been aware of him or the sheep at that point.
That tale had finally settled Maewyn’s last worry that she was a creature of the Devil. The Lord had delivered her to him, to safeguard her life, and to keep him strong in his captivity. She was still recovering, the wound he’d first seen barely healed in her side when he found her, plagued her still at times. For a while, weeks after they had found the thicket on the way back to the farm, he thought he would lose her. Her fever ran high, and he’d had to risk stealing some of Milchu’s herbs to help nurse her back to health. He prayed by her side whenever he could, asking the Lord to watch over her when he could not.
As always, she stood at the entrance of the cave she’d claimed as her own, silhouetted by the warm, flickering light of the fire.
“Sanghamitra!” Maewyn waved his basket at her. “I brought eggs.”
“Maewyn, I was beginning to worry you had forgotten about me.” She held out her hand, palm down.
“Forgotten? Never.” He took her hand in both of his, squeezing warmly. “Milchu almost caught me coming back last time, and he has been watching me like a hawk.”
“You should not risk yourself for me.”
“It’s no risk tonight, he is drunk and so is the rest of his family.”
“Is that how you pilfered his eggs? What will your Lord say of you stealing from your master?”
“My Lord preaches that we should help those less fortunate, and has provided for us in this case by having the hens lay more than usual. He won’t miss these.”
Sanghamitra put one arm around his shoulder and pulled him in tight. “Be sure to thank your Lord for me, Maewyn.”
“I can show you how?”
“I have my own, and they know my gratitude.”
There could’ve been coldness in the exchange, but there was none. Maewyn was used to living around people of different faiths, and while he would not hide who he was or stop gently trying to persuade them to convert, he knew all too well that true belief did not come from force or threats or anger. Sanghamitra had shared her tales of gods and demigods, as Ciaran and all the others he’d talked to had. With Sanghamitra’s stories, there were occasionally surprising parallels with Jesus’s life. So now they just ribbed each other, a friendly though not entirely non-serious attempt at gentle conversion.
The cave was surprisingly well appointed. Sanghamitra had gathered reeds and willow boughs to weave into baskets and various other things around her little shelter, and the various wildlife she’d managed to catch to sustain herself had given her plenty of hides and bone to work with. Maewyn had managed to sneak some discarded supplies that still had some use in them from the farm too, including some forgotten wool from last spring’s sheering that she was slowly spinning into yarn with deft fingers.
As she set about preparing some of the eggs by setting them near the fire, the rest stored away in an ornate woven basket, Sanghamitra asked, “So, what tales of your Lord did you bring me today?”
“No religious tales today, I wanted to tell you an old myth I learned from Ciaran.” He settled onto one of the larger rocks that functioned as a stool.
“Giving up on trying to convert me then, my little priest?” Sanghamitra cupped the side of his face with a slender-fingered hand, smiling down at him.
He smiled up at her, the touch familiar. “Never. I just thought you might enjoy a story of this land instead. I can tell you about Noah or Job or Methuselah, or one of the gospel stories if you prefer.”
“Ciaran’s myth will do just fine.” Her fingers trailed along the edge of his jaw, making him keenly aware he should’ve shaved today.
Maewyn did his best to recount Ciaran’s tale. It spoke of the old gods of this land, many of whom were tripartite guardians of a small area. He enjoyed these stories, and acknowledged their parallels with his own tripartite religion of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
Sanghamitra puttered around her little shelter as he spoke, roasting some tubers and leafy greens she must have foraged, and cooking a couple of thick slabs of venison on one of the rocks she pulled from the fire. The meat was fragrant, and made Maewyn’s mouth water as it sizzled away. He’d eaten at the farm, but he could always make room for Sanghamitra’s cooking. She managed to turn foraged and hunted ingredients into a feast fit for a king with nothing but a campfire and wishes.
As the late evening turned into night, Sanghamitra took over, telling him a story she had heard as a girl from a traveler from even further east than her own homeland. It was one of many tales of the monkey king and his mischievous adventures, tricking gods and humans alike and always escaping with his hide intact.
The night’s chill set in, and they curled up together next to the fire, Maewyn leaning back against Sanghamitra’s coiled tail. The scales were soft, and she’d stoked the fire up high. She idly stroked his hair as he told her about his day at the farm. He drifted at the comfortable edge of sleep, the fire warming him as much as Sanghamitra’s gentle touch.
“It’s not time to sleep yet, puppet.” Sanghamitra’s voice was soft, silky smooth sliding over his consciousness. “You still haven’t told me if the lamb made it.”
“Mm-hmm,” Maewyn hummed. The comfort he felt curled up with Sanghamitra was truly unparalleled. He felt utterly safe, the worries of the morning, and the return to his forced work, miles away. His sleep was normally plagued by dark dreams, of being taken from his home, of the harrowing sea crossing, the utter humiliation of being sold as cattle, but when he was with Sanghamitra, those dreams were held at bay.
He longed to just stay here, to never return to the farm and Milchu’s beatings and the sheep, to just live his life in the wilds with Sanghamitra. But then they’d hunt for him and if they found Sanghamitra here, they would kill her and probably him for running away. He could risk his own life, but never hers. The slight melancholy faded though, and swiftly he was asleep.
The soft rolling hills of his home stretched out before him, a gentle summer breeze making the otherwise unbearable heat pleasant. He wasn’t alone. A strong, capable presence was with him, keeping him safe. He strolled idly, enjoying the day, lounging under a tree, going for a swim in the river, catching some fish for dinner.
Her gentle fingers stroking his hair brought him back awake. The fire had died down, and the entrance of the cave still dark.
“Sweeting, it’s late, you should return before your absence is noticed.” Sanghamitra hovered over him, stroking the back of her fingers along his cheek.
“I slept that long? You should’ve woken me earlier. I wasted all our time together.”
Her smile was warm and genuine. “You slept peacefully, did you not? From what you’ve told me, you usually wake from nightmares.”
“Mm-hmm. I feel safe with you in ways I don’t have words for.”
“Then our time wasn’t wasted.”
For a second, Maewyn thought she was going to kiss him. The moment passed when she tucked his hair behind his ear and grinned at him.
“You’re turning into one of your sheep, my little priest. Your hair is so long.”
Maewyn blushed. He wanted to look good for her, though he didn’t quite understand why. Changing the subject, he said, “Milchu’s likely to send me out with them in a few weeks.”
“Ah, and you think I’ll come with you, keep you safe from the wolves,” Sanghamitra teased.
“And the loneliness. Are you recovered enough to come camping?”
“I believe I am.” She touched her side where an arrow had pierced straight through, weeks before he’d met her. The formerly angry red scar had calmed, just showing puckered flesh. “This still bothers me when it rains. Or if it’s going to rain. Or when it’s just rained. So pretty much all the time in this light forsaken land. But I think it’s as good as it’s going to get, I’ll have to learn to live with it.”
“It’s a miracle you survived,” Maewyn said, subconsciously reaching out with his hand to touch the skin. She let him, and he felt the natural heat of her body but no longer the intense heat of infection.
“Mmm, I’m made of sturdier stuff than you might think, Sweeting.”
Again, she caressed his cheek with gentle fingers. With his hand on her abdomen, just above the wrapping she still wore as her only garment despite the cold temperature, the touch felt extra intimate. Not a friend or even a mother offering comfort, but a lover seeking connection. Maewyn felt his body respond, blood rushing to different places and away from his brain.
He leaned into her caress, closing his eyes as he slid his hand off her scar and to her side, resting just above the hip. He felt her lean in, parted his lips for the inevitable kiss. He could feel her breath on his face, warm and comforting like her touch. He waited for her to lean in closer, to feel her lips on his finally. Wait, finally? Where had that come from?
“Sweeting, you should go. You cannot sleep here, we will both be caught. Go, be safe, be careful.”
The little whimper he couldn’t hold back made him blush furiously. Surely he should have more control over himself? As she pushed him out of the cave and he started back towards the farm, he idly wondered if Ciaran was up for some mutual relief.
