4020 words

The Massacre of the August Moon.

By Norman Oliver.

Sianedd was sitting with her back resting against a large rock. Her day's work was coming to an end as she enjoyed the August sunshine. Today she considered herself lucky. It had been an easy day for her. She had been sent to guard the flock of sheep from a wolf which had been seen roaming the mountains. Her father was afraid that the lambs were still small enough to be taken by even a small wolf. So Sianedd, as the youngest female worker in the village must watch the sheep during the day, then after nightfall, her father or one of her brothers would come to look after them throughout the night.

From her vantage point on the highest part of the ridge she was able to survey the scene for miles in all directions. The sun was almost setting over the Irish Sea in front of her. In the east, the moon had just risen, and was clearly visible in the cloudless sky. She noted it was a full moon, which meant she could expect a high tide. She glanced down at the river below and noted the incoming tide was already near the high water mark, perhaps another hour or so before the tide turns, she told herself.

The monastery of St. Caredig on the slopes of the valley to her right was still bathed in the glow of light from the late afternoon sun. Even though the fields below the monastery, were already in shadow, she could still clearly see the workers. She searched each group of men to see if she could pick out her father and older brothers, but in the gathering shadows, it was not possible. If it were not for the reported sightings of the wolf, she would be at home helping her mother to prepare the evening meal in time for the men to return from their hard days work in the fields.

For most of the day, in addition to watching the sheep, it had been her duty to pick a large basket full of blackberries. When that was finished, she scoured the mountain side for the white flowers of the groundnuts which she dug out with a small sharpened stick. She had almost filled the second basket with the groundnuts, which tomorrow she would grind into a butter to spread on the bread. Since her collecting had been finished, she had been resting against the rock, watching a small hawk gliding and occasionally hovering as it searched for it's prey, along the ridge of the small peninsula where the flock was grazing. Several times she had watched it dive, but so far without success. The lambs were not at risk from the hawk, it was much too small to attack even the youngest lamb.

She realized the hawk must be getting hungry, and also realized how hungry she felt. She wished the sun would soon set, so that her father would finish his work in the fields and send one of her brothers to take over the duties of guarding the flock for the night. Then she could leave to go home for her meal. The hawk was going to remain hungry tonight unless it found something soon.

Then; as she watched the bird, once again, its fluttering wings stopped. For a few seconds it seemed to hang motionless in the air with its wings held wide open. Suddenly, it brought its wings tightly to its side, and tilting its head forward commenced its dive. Faster and faster it fell, straight as an arrow, until just before hitting the ground, its wings opened to make a low sweeping curve. Then as the hawk started its upwards curve into the air, she could see that a small field mouse was gripped firmly in its talons.

The mouse who normally came out to feed after dark, had also been hungry, but foolishly, had forsaken its instinctive practice of searching for food only at night. It had not been able to wait one more hour until it had the protection of darkness. As the hawk came out of the curving dive, Sianedd could see the vigorously wriggling body of the mouse as it vainly tried to free itself from the strong grip of the talons. As the hawk with it's prey passed directly over her head, almost within reach, she saw that the mouse stopped wriggling. It went limp, and it's head fell to one side. The terror of being taken had been too much for the tiny heart of the mouse. Mercifully, the cruel heart of Mother nature had turned kind. The mouse had been released from its horrible fate. It was already dead.

As Sianedd watched the bird rise, between her and the sea, her eye was taken by a flash of colour out at sea, the colour was almost invisible against the brightness of the setting sun. She realized that for some time she had not looked towards the sea, her attention had been paid to the men working the fields in the valley below, and more recently she had been absorbed by the actions of the hawk.

A ship had come over the horizon without her noticing, and was about to enter the small bay on the Western side of Isle of Brynteg. The island was a little to the north of her ridge and less than half a mile off the coast. She decided that it must be heading for the island to anchor for the night, although, she was a little puzzled that a ship should anchor in a bay on the island instead of the wide mouth of the Brynteg river below her. The mouth of the river contained several inlets which formed natural harbours, each protected from heavy weather, by the high land on each side of the river. It was often used by passing ships to shelter from storms. Perhaps, she reasoned, these sailors were not familiar with this part of the coast.

As the ship moved toward the shore, it moved slightly away from the glare of the sun giving her a clearer view. She noticed that the shape of the ship seemed very different from the small trading ships which normally passed along the coast. The unusual outline further puzzled her.

Then, as the ship entered the bay, it made a slow curve to face south and she could see the men preparing to lower the sail, the square sail became clearly visible as it swung round and turned to face the sun. For a brief moment, she stopped breathing, her blood chilled as she held her breath and felt a dry choking in her throat. Although the crew had lowered part of the sail, she could clearly see that it was painted vivid red and blue stripes. This explained the unfamiliar shape of the ship. It had a very high pointed bow with a huge figurehead and also a very high pointed stern.

There could be no doubt about it;

THIS WAS A VIKING RAIDING SHIP!

As she watched; the crew completed lowering the big sail, and she could see the sun glinting on the horned helmetted heads. The men started pushing oars out through holes cut in the gunwales, they were grouped close together making it impossible to count them. She counted the oars as they came out, six, seven, eight, on one side. That means sixteen men at least, then she realized she could count the brightly coloured shields lined along the sides of the vessel. This was worse, there were ten on the side that she could see, but also on this side she could clearly see the helmsman standing on a raised platform, as this was the side which contained the steering board, the large oar which hung over the right hand side which was used to steer the craft. This meant there would probably be twenty warriors on board, maybe more.

At first, she couldn't believe her eyes. Was she seeing this or only imagining? For many years she had been told of the Vikings who had earned a terrible reputation for plundering defenceless small farming and fishing villages. But all this had happened in the countries far to the north. It had all happened so far away that this part of the country had always been considered safe from attack. It had been thought that they had no reason to come this far south.

She instinctively wanted to rush to tell her father, but at first was afraid to leave the sheep unguarded. She decided she must wait until her brother came to her after nightfall. But, she thought, by then, it would be too dark for her father to see the vessel, he would be sure that the girl had been mistaken and would pay no attention to her.

Gradually, it became clear why the vessel was anchoring in the bay on the Western side of Brynteg island. The vessel would have been difficult to see as she came over the horizon in the glare of the setting sun. Since she was already hidden by the island, it was now impossible to see her from the mainland. In fact, the only place where she could be seen was from Sianedd's vantage point. The high ridge ran out into the sea at least a mile further than any point up or down the coast.

As soon as she realized that the Vikings were hiding, their plan became clear to her. They would remain hidden behind the island until darkness fell, then they would row across the narrow channel and up the river while they still had the advantage of the swiftly flowing incoming tide.

The full moon would help them to make their way up the unfamiliar path through the woods to the monastery and the village.

After they attacked, they would have the advantage of the outgoing tide to make good their escape.

She had heard often enough of the terrible atrocities committed by the Vikings. They had plundered and robbed monasteries and small towns and taken anything of value. They had killed the older men and women and taken the younger ones away to be sold as slaves.

Obviously, the Viking's target was the monastery of St Caredig, for its valuables, and the small village of Brynteg for slaves. The monastery as well as the village was undefended. It was well known that the monastery contained many treasures. Priceless jewelry which had been bestowed by early kings. Precious gold and jewelled chalices, and ceremonial swords and other artifacts, etc.

As she thought again of all the details of the possible plan, it became all too clear. She knew she was right in thinking that they were going to attack. She MUST be right. Every detail seemed to fit in. Everything was in the Vikings favour to attack according to the plan she had just thought of.

She knew she must run as fast as she could to warn the villagers so that they could run away into the woods. Sianedd left her precious baskets of berries and groundnuts and ran as fast as she could down the steep mountain side to the fields where the men were still working.

She was almost out of breath when finally she saw her father and blurted out, "Father! Father! - The Vikings are coming: The Vikings are coming."

Some of the older men grinned, the girl must have been sleeping up on the top of the hill, instead of guarding the sheep.

Her father could see that the girl was disturbed, so he was not so incredulous.

"What do you think you have you seen, girl?" he asked.
"Vikings don't come this far south, there's nothing here for them."

Sianedd, still gasping for her breath, insisted.
"I saw them father, I saw them, they are here, a Viking ship, already anchored behind Brynteg island, come quickly so that you can see for yourself"

Then Sianedd quickly explained to her father what she thought the plan of attack must be. At first there was much scoffing at the wild nonsense from the girl, but gradually, her earnestness began to win acceptance from some of the men.

As they discussed her story among themselves, they began to agree that if Sianedd had actually seen what she said she had seen, then her suggestion of their probable plan was correct. They really were about to be attacked. It was almost dark already, the tide would be full within the hour.

Furthermore, they would not have time to go to the village and gather their families to run into the woods to hide. If the plan that Sianedd had outlined was indeed correct, then they had no alternative but to fight to protect their families.

"But we have no weapons, we are farmers." said one of the older men expressing a fear that was in the hearts of most of the men, "And it is well known they are well armed, they have swords; if they attack us we have no hope to beat them, we have only farm tools. we MUST run NOW, while we have the chance."

Then another said, "No, we have no time to run and hide, we must stay and fight, if we attack them we may beat them. There are two of our men for each one of them. We can attack them by surprise. Two men with clubs can overpower one man with a sword."

Such a plan was at first unthinkable, as the Vikings had never been beaten, even by trained soldiers, much less farmers. But soon the men realized that there was no alternative. They must fight, and it would be a fight to the finish. They lost no time in devising a plan to ambush the attackers.

The path to the monastery from the beach was quite wide and smooth when it first left the beach and entered the woods. It was wide enough for several men to walk together, but after about fifty yards or so, the terrain changed. The track narrowed to only the width of one man and rose steeply as it climbed over rough stony ground, then after another fifty yards of climbing through the heavily wooded area, the trees cleared and the ground levelled off again for the gentle climb up to the monastery.

That was it: The only place where an ambush would have any chance of success. The Vikings would be walking in single file. The narrow pathway was covered by overhanging trees, so, even though the full moon would be shining, the men would be looking down to the path to make sure of their footing.

The farmers planned to take up positions in pairs, one on each side of the path. They would be hidden about two paces apart along the length of the track. The man on the right would attack the head and arms, while the man on the left would swing at the legs.

They agreed that the attack would not start until the last of the Vikings had started the climb up the steep path. The pair of farmers who were to attack the last man in the column would call out the signal to attack. If their scheme went as planned, each Viking would then be attacked from behind by two club wielding farmers.

As darkness fell, the men hurried down through the woods towards the beach, stopping only long enough to cut branches from the trees to make a club for each man. Soon every man was armed and hiding in the bushes.

They did not have long to wait. No sooner had the last pair concealed themselves than footsteps and muffled voices could be heard as the Vikings entered the path into the woods.

As the men came closer, the once silent woods was filled with their sounds as they made no attempt to conceal their approach, they laughed and joked, no doubt anticipating a quick and easy victory over the monks.

Then suddenly! as the last man entered the trap, the rear guard pair of farmers shouted the attack signal and sprang at their unsuspecting victim from behind. The remaining farmers as one man, their courage overcoming their pent up fear and screaming blood curdling battle cries, leapt from the bushes and with clubs wildly flailing the air, mercilessly again and again smashed their clubs into their enemy.

Within minutes, it was all over.

The farmers slowly lowered their clubs, as the echoes of the last screams of the victims and their victors died away.

For a few moments, the woods were deathly silent again as the farmers surveyed their slaughter. The lifeless bodies of the once-fierce Vikings were laying twisted and broken all along the path. Swords were still in their scabbards, shields had been unused. Every last man had been killed before he could even raise a hand to defend himself, much less use his weapons against the farmers. Soon, the silence of the woods was again shattered as the farmers excitedly shouted and cheered themselves and their victory.

The next day, the villagers chained a team of plough horses to the Viking ship which had carried it's last cargo of plundered riches. They pulled her high up the beach and mounted her on high ground at the base of the path to the woods. With the bows pointing out to sea, they buried the mangled remains of the Vikings along each side of their vessel.

The news of the massacre quickly spread to every country which had been subjected to attack by the Vikings. It started the decline of the Viking reign of terror, as communities which had previously lived permanently in fear of the attackers, were encouraged by the action of the farmers.

They organised small armies to defend villages. Watch-towers were built and lookouts were posted to watch for the marauders from the sea.

No further attacks by Vikings were ever recorded in that region.

*******************************************************

Earlier this year, I toured the Atlantic coast of Wales. I left the main coast road and turned west towards the sea. Soon I crossed the river Brynteg just before coming to the small market town named Brynteg Mawr. I drove a few miles further west, until the narrow road ended at a small beach at the mouth of the river.

The ruined hulk of a vessel was clearly visible a few hundred yards along the beach.

I left the car and walked along the beach towards the remains of the once proud vessel.

I was approaching the vessel from the stern and as I came closer I could see that almost all of the clinkered planks had now withered away.

The keel is still there, which, together with the massive weather beaten timbers which curve out and upwards from the keel, resembled the breast bone and ribs of some prehistoric monster. I continued walking along the length of the once sturdy skeleton until I came to the front of the vessel.

The high bow with it's life-size figurehead has been cruelly resculpted by the wind blown sands and the salt sprays of centuries. What would originally have been a carving of a voluptuous young maiden with long golden tresses, has been transformed into an ugly grotesque wraith of her former beauty.

The rich vibrant colours of her clothes; her skin, eyes and hair have been faded by so many years of sun and storm. From head to toe, she is now a drab sea-bleached grey. Gone are the sensuous curves of her youth; replaced by a haggard, wizened frame, which bears no resemblance to the original voluptuous feminine form.

But it was the re-sculpted face which had the greatest impact on me. The face which would have faithfully depicted her classic high cheekbone Nordic feminine beauty, in the bloom of womanhood, has now degenerated to that of a gaunt, emaciated, pathetic old woman. Her cheeks are now sunken. The facial expression which would have been sensual, smiling; is now one of bitter sadness, as her sightless eyes silently stare out to sea, as though one day, she still hopes to see again her home port.

A plaque set amongst the headstones of twenty graves bears written witness to the bloody story of the Massacre of the August Moon.

When I stood on the beach, I could see to the west, not far off the coast, the Isle of Brynteg standing sentinel at the mouth of the river. To the east, there is a signpost which points to the path from the beach to the monastery of St Caredig

I walked along the path and came to the steep uneven stony section. I had to look down to make sure of my footing here. As I climbed this part of the path, even though, it is now more than a thousand years after the event, I began to experience an eerie chill. My senses were whispering to me, 'Beware! This is a dangerous place,' I experienced a brief violent uncontrollable shivering, which stopped almost as soon as it started. There was something different in this part of the woods, although I couldn't explain what it was. Suddenly , I realized that the bird song had ceased. The canopy of the tall trees which grew thick overhead in this part of the woods was shutting out the sunlight. There was an unnatural silence and it must have been the subconscious acknowledgment of this silence which was unnerving me.

I realized, that I; just like those marauders of centuries ago, was a stranger. I too came uninvited, from a land far away over the seas. Inexplicably, I could feel my flesh starting to creep and the hair on the nape of my neck suddenly stiffened. I sensed; but could not hear, a movement in the bushes alongside me. I turned quickly to investigate, then, just as quickly realized that I was mistaken. I decided my mind was playing tricks on me. Or was it?. Try as hard as I could, I was unable to convince myself that there was no one concealed in the bushes.

I suddenly felt very cold, and started shivering uncontrollably. I was unable to resist glancing over my shoulder, first on one side, and then, in case I missed seeing something, quickly jerking my head around to look over the other shoulder. I could feel my chest becoming restricted. Without understanding why, I was holding my breath, straining to hear something. I gulped a few breaths quickly to recover. With a rush of adrenaline, I could feel my heart starting to beat faster. I quickened my pace into a brisk walk. Within a few yards I had accelerated into a trot which almost immediately became a fast run. There was no turning back now, although the path was steeper here and it seemed a long way ahead of me before the pathway opened out into a sunlit clearing, I flew up that pathway, running for my life. Eventually, with my heart pounding as if it were about to burst, I safely reached the clearing and the bright sunlight. I had passed through the area where the dreadful massacre had taken place. With an incredible sense of relief, I was well into the welcoming, warm, sunlit clearing before I could stop running and soon I had slowed again to a walk. In the silence of these beautiful woods, I can testify that an abnormal presence prevails to this day. I certainly knew fear.

I continued along the path, and found the monastery of St Caredig and the small village now named Great Sianedd. They changed the name of the village to honour their famous daughter who, by anticipating every detail of the planned attack had displayed alertness and perception far beyond her tender years. Her actions, precipitated a small victory over an oppressing nation and brought about the end of the tyranny of the Vikings.

http://geocities.datacellar.net/Heartland/Estates/9291
e-mail me greatnorm@yahoo.com
Copyright Ó Norman Oliver 1998

Updated September 5th 1998