Where shall I begin? With the myth or the reality? A little of both, I suppose.
I am Leesha Ní Lorcan, daughter of Lorcan of Kilcashel. My father is a kinsman of Brian Mac Kennedy, the powerful King of Munster, and so, I received a respectable education intended to mold me into a lady. I learned to write with the quill of a swan, grasped the basics of Latin and Greek, and mastered the telling of time by the sun, the moon, and the stars. My studies included reading, poetry, and the history of Ireland, passed down to us through ancient legends and tales.
Our gifted bards and shanachies delight us by reciting these legends and tales at festive clan gatherings. Yet certain stories frustrate me, especially when I spy on my father and Dunlan Mac Felan as they mold beardless boys into warriors.
The old tales tell us that women trained warriors too. The mighty Cúchulainn learned fearsome fighting skills from a woman known as Scáthach, and a woman called Liath helped Finn Mac Cool become a formidable warrior who went on to lead Ireland’s heroic Fianna.
Each time my mother calls me into our hut to help her and her women sew and spin and knit, I wonder if a woman could teach the ways of a warrior to my father’s young trainees. When the women’s incessant exchange of gossip and news grows intolerable, I withdraw into my own private world and indulge in a myth of my own:
I am Leesha Ní Lorcan, Trainer of Warriors.
I was born in this hut sixteen summers ago, in the Year of Our Lord 969. My forebears lived in the Limerick area, south of the River Shannon, until the foreign Northmen intensified their savage attacks on Ireland’s shores. Although we Dalcassians are primarily farmers and herders, every man knows how to fight, and fight those brave men did, protecting their families and serving our king.
Yet the Northmen’s raids continued. Lorcan, our king at the time and the man for whom my father was named, led the clan north to Killaloe, a settlement on the southwest bank of Lough Derg. To better protect them, King Lorcan built Kincora, a fortress atop a hill high enough to let his guards keep watch for miles. To this day, no foe can take it by surprise.
But Kincora soon grew crowded. When the raids subsided and Munster became a safer place, my grandfather, King Lorcan’s younger brother, moved his branch of the family here, a short distance northwest of Killaloe. He discovered the ruins of an archaic stone fort deep in the woods and called his new home Kilcashel, “the castle in the woods.”
My father was born here, as were my older brother Marcan and I. Marcan is a skilled warrior who helped with the boys’ training until he went away. I miss him. We’ve always been able to talk about things. Every night I pray he’ll soon conclude his studies with the monks and come home, though I fear he wants to remain with them.
The full of the moon has arrived. For the last two weeks, we’ve quartered eight boys in our hospitality huts. They’ve finished their spring training drills and will leave us this morning. Young as they are, their families need their help with chores. We expect them to return once more before harvest time.
From the doorway of my family’s hut, I watch my father and Dunlan bid the boys and their parents goodbye. As he often does once the carts and wagons are out of sight, my father ascends a nearby incline and surveys the domain in his capable trust: the various huts, the nearby pond, and the fields and forests beyond them.
I prefer to survey Dunlan. A quiet lad the same age as my brother, he sets out for the warriors’ hut with a spring in his step and his black-brown hair adrift in the breeze. On such a warm day, he wears no cloak, and his muscular arms and shoulders stretch the top of his white linen tunic.
He enters the hut and leaves the door open. I smile. My plan is in place.
Dunlan once fought in several of King Brian’s campaigns, as did my father. While they were away, the Northmen invaded Limerick and slaughtered many Dalcassians, including Dunlan’s parents and siblings. My parents invited the grieving young man to live with us at Kilcashel. He’s been here since, and he’s worked hard to show his gratitude.
Finished inspecting the landscape, my weary father approaches the doorway in which I stand. His thick, red beard and mustache frame his contented smile. When he pats my cheek, I smile back at him and step aside. He passes me and joins my mother, who sits near the firepit winding threads of wool on her spindle. They discuss the crops, the livestock, and the upcoming gathering at Kincora, where the clan will celebrate the summer solstice. Our gatherings are happy times. Everyone enjoys reuniting with friends and relatives, and we all love to hear the bards and shanachies recite the old tales and poems.
I remain at the entrance, enjoying the sunshine and Kilcashel’s music: the breeze rustling the thatch on the roof, the bleating and lowing of sheep and cows, and the birdsong trilling through the air.
More than once, my attention returns to the warriors’ hut.
I enter our hut and approach my parents. “’Tis a lovely day. I wish to go walking.”
They pivot toward me. As always, my father’s long hair, the same copper color as mine, provides a striking contrast to the ebony locks tumbling down my mother’s back.
She sets her spindle in her lap. “Where will ye walk?”
“Through the woods, and mayhap to the stream. I won’t be long.”
Furrows appear on my father’s forehead. “Are ye going alone?”
“Yes, Father. The birds are singing. As ye’ve taught me, there’s no danger when they sing. Even so, I’ll wear my dagger at my waist.”
The furrows deepen to a frown. “And even so, ye’ll not go alone. Dunlan will go with ye. He’s in the warriors’ hut, repairing the straw men the boys destroyed. Tell him I said he’s to serve again as your guard.”
I jut my chin in defiance. “I don’t need Dunlan!”
“Why not?” Murder flares in those russet eyes. “Has he bothered ye on your previous walks? If he has, I’ll—”
“Of course not! Dunlan is always proper and gallant.”
“I thank God to hear it, girl. So why would ye refuse his company today?”
“He deserves a rest, now that the boys are gone.”
“As ye say, ye won’t be long, though short or long, dangerous animals live in the woods. Wolves and boars, and even foxes that might have a mind to eat ye for their supper.”
“But the birds are singing!”
“Leesha Ní Lorcan, ye’ll not disobey your father! Ye’ll do as he says, or ye’ll spend the afternoon helping me spin wool.”
“Yes, Mother. Sorry, Father. I’ll go to Dunlan at once.”
My mother takes up her spindle again. “Bring your goatskin cloak in case it rains, and wear your leather walking shoes.”
“Yes, Mother.” Striving to appear contrite, I take my cloak from its peg and snatch my shoes from the row of footwear near the door. As I escape the hut, I suppress the joyful shriek that would have betrayed my deception.
