1、Prologue: A Hunter's Day ...
-
These are outsiders, always. These stars-
these iron inklings of an Irish January,
whose light happened
thousands of years before
our pain did; they are, they have always been
outside history.
They keep their distance. Under them remains
a place where you found
you were human, and
a landscape in which you know you are mortal.
And a time to choose between them.
I have chosen:
Out of myth in history I move to be
part of that ordeal
who darkness is
only now reaching me from those fields,
those rivers, those roads clotted as
firmaments with the dead.
How slowly they die
as we kneel beside them, whisper in their ear.
And we are too late. We are always too late.
- Outside History by Eavan Boland(1944～2020)
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Autumn, 1798, in the Wicklow Mountains of Ireland.
Though the morning had arrived, the dawn was nowhere to be seen. A grayish-white mist wrapped around the waist of the sprawling hills. From a distance, the rows of slender trees appeared like an army standing amidst the smoke of battle. The sun, just beginning its ascent, cast a faint golden glow that dispersed mysteriously within the mist, arousing suspicions that this dense fog originated not from moisture, but from an enraged mountain fire, poised to sweep across the entire realm from its lofty summit.
Yet for those standing amidst the fog, the world appeared utterly different: the contours of trees dissolved into ethereal wisps, leaving only dim, blurry shadows that floated before the eyes like spectres. The bewildering sight made steps hesitate, and time and space lost their significance within this dead silence, as if everything were steeped and melded within the enigmatic mist.
Even though it was only September, the morning air retained its chill. Only a hunter would venture out at such an early hour.
As Lucas Garvan pushed open the door of the cabin, he wrapped his cloak tightly around his body, suppressing a shiver that coursed through him. Not far from his dwelling, the hunter's eyes were captivated by a fiery red hue amidst the whiteness of the fog.
Approaching closer, he recognised that it was a young lad dressed in the red uniform of the British army, lying on the roadside amidst the wild grass, seemingly bereft of consciousness.
Lucas had seen British soldiers before. Just this summer, a group of British stormed into his house, searching for rebels hiding within. They found nothing in his home, but caught two guerrilla boys in a neighboring house, and, along with the homeowner, shot them on the spot. Before departing, they ripped up the belly of the young girl of that family with their bayonets.
However, this small young man before his eyes made it difficult for Lucas to associate him with those British soldiers. His features were comely, but his cheeks were sunken and sallow, and his uniform hung loosely on his frame, clearly indicating prolonged hunger. It was not hard to surmise that before fainting, he had attempted to make his way to the cottage seeking help, only to succumb just within reach. Strangely, there was no trace of anguish or despair on his face; one could even say a hint of pride still lingered in his expression.
Lucas hesitated only for a moment before lifting the young man into his arms, turning back towards his home.
He placed the soldier in a chair and brought forth a bowl of warm milk, pouring oats into it and offering it to the person's lips. The youth quickly regained consciousness, lifting his head to cast a glance at Lucas. No words were spoken as he took the bowl from Lucas' hands and devoured its contents ravenously. Lucas stood silently to the side, watching as the bowl gradually emptied, before offering the soldier a piece of bread to eat.
On the way back carrying this soldier, Lucas had already discerned that beneath this military attire was a woman. Her red hair, moistened by the foggy dew, clung damply to her forehead, now allowing him a clearer view.
After finishing her meal, she remained watchful, her gaze fixed upon the hunter, reluctant to speak easily.
"You're Irish, aren't you?" Lucas spoke first, without waiting for the woman's response, continuing, "There are bloodstains on your outerwear, yet you bear no wounds."
"Fear not, I'm neither a rebel nor a loyalist. I am but an ordinary hunter," he added.
The woman remained silent, but Lucas could perceive that her wariness had diminished somewhat.
"You just stay hidden away at home?" she abruptly asked. Her voice was rough and husky, bearing little distinction from that of a man, perhaps owing to a habitual imitation.
Lucas arched an eyebrow, casting her a questioning gaze.
"You are a coward," she disdainfully uttered.
Lucas had once hunted bears single-handedly; only a few years ago, on the other side of the Channel, he had also witnessed battlefields drenched in rivers of blood. Perhaps it was just because of this that he showed no slightest sulk at the accusations of the person before him whom he had just rescued.
He didn't argue back, but pondered for a moment before saying, "Must I die for the Goddess Sovereignty in your poetry to be considered a brave man? I have a wife, I have a daughter, I have a family. My wife would smile at me, waiting for me to bring back deer for them to eat. My child is but this high, with blonde hair, tugging at my trousers, asking me to tell her stories. I love them. As for that Ireland you depict, the poor old woman who lost her land, the disloyal wife who threw herself into the arms of the British, the bad mother who abandoned her own children, I don't know them, they are far from me. I just want to live, to well protect my wife, my daughter. What is wrong with that?"
"Do they need your protection?" The woman seemed to be infuriated. Suddenly, she stood up from the table and walked towards Lucas, who was leaning against the cupboard. Her square jaw tightened firmly. "Irish women are not widows living in disgrace, not docile maidens waiting to be rescued by you from the arms of the British. An Irish woman is me. An Irish woman stands before you. These are her hands, hands that have wielded sickles, wielded axes, fired guns. With these hands, she has held you. With these hands, she has killed."
Lucas looked down at her outstretched hands and asked, "You're not talking about killing on the battlefield, are you?"
"No," she replied expressionlessly. "The person I killed was my own son. He had just been born a few days ago. I used this hand to cover his tiny mouth, and soon, he stopped crying."
Lucas silently gazed into her eyes, indicating for her to continue.
"My husband fought at Vinegar Hill. When Father Murphy was captured in Tullow, my husband was with him. Among those heads impaled on the spikes at the courthouse, there was my husband's head. They hanged him first and then beheaded him, just like Father Murphy. The day I found out was the day my son was born. There was no father present when I had him baptised. When I heard that the French had landed at Killala, I cut off my hair and joined them, heading west to fight against the British. As for my son, I would rather have him die in freedom than live under enslavement."
Lucas took a long pause before speaking, "Do you truly believe that you can succeed? Can we really attain liberty?"
"Of course not." She sneered, "I set out knowing full well that I was bound to die. The British have tens of thousands of cavalry, their sabers shining bright. We have scarce gunpowder, many of us wear clothes meant for toiling in the fields, armed with nothing but spears. Laughable? Each one of us came to die. After the battle at Longford, the sunken roads were piled high with mountains of corpses, blood forming rivers below. Most of the dead were Irish. The French are honourable prisoners of war, to be kept for exchange with British captives across the channel. I stripped the clothes off a dead British soldier and put them on, walking for seven or eight days to reach this place. In a matter of days, I too shall lie in a ditch, my skull crushed by the hooves of horses, my body devoured by wild dogs. But what does it matter?"
"Where are you heading next?" Lucas asked.
"Further northwest. There are still people fighting there. It's said that another French reinforcements will arrive soon."
Lucas went back inside and returned with a small bag of corn, offering it to her. "Take these with you."
"No need." The red-haired woman shook her head firmly. "I doubt I'll have the chance to eat another meal."
As she walked out the door without looking back, her hair still not completely dry.
The hunter stood at the doorstep, gazing as that figure vanished into the thick mist, his heart still tinged with a sense of unreality.
"Papa!" a child's voice, as clear and dulcet as a dewdrop, interrupted his reverie.
"Leni!" Lucas turned around, and in that instant when he opened his arms towards the little one, the solemn expression on his face transformed into an infinitely tender smile, evoking the image of the mist sometimes dispersing around the solitary lighthouse at Wicklow Head, revealing an alpenglow where childish strokes of baby pinks, sky blues, and golden hues blended together. It was a magic that only a father could possess.
"I just saw the fairies!" the little girl exclaimed, leaping into the hunter's embrace, her arms wrapped around his neck, her voice filled with pride.
"Oh? You saw the fairies? What do they look like?" Lucas gazed at his daughter with a seriousness that couldn't possibly be feigned.
"They are tall, wearing green robes, and everyone has fiery red hair. They walk in a line through the fog. Above their heads, there is a beam of light, so bright, so bright, reaching all the way up to the heavens."
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第1章 Prologue: A Hunter's Day
