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Of Eoghan and Rúadhan; two boys who leave their home to make amends for causing trouble. They find themselves getting into more serious bother than they are accustomed.

Bíonn cead cainte ag fear caillte na himeartha - The man who has lost the match has permission to talk

   The front door crashed open. Braying and troublesome, a group of boys sauntered in.  

   Those gathered in the darkened drinking house cast darker glances in the direction of the noise. The young woman scéalaí, standing by the ancient warming hearth was lost in her telling of the deeds of Filí, Rúadh, and Aire, the three legs upon which the cauldron of the world stood.

   The boys were indifferent to the fact that they were obviously interrupting a story. They were either drunk or bad minded.

   Many of the audience bristled at such improper conduct under the roof of their host yet none would ever quarrel or cause bother in the home of another. The boys continued the behaviour so that even the glowing young lady cut short her story, indignant and upset.  

   Both Eoghan and Rúadhan recognised the newcomers. It was a group of the boys they had played against in the hurling match the day Eoghan’s Da died. Eoghan sat and stared at them in the darkness. Rúadhan’s quick eyes scanned the drinking house for a quick way out of what was some potentially serious trouble in the very near future.

     The game of hurling that day had been a particularly bloody encounter. Rúadhan had been outstanding on the field, as always, but for once Eoghan had managed to win it for the Clochbeag túath team in the final moments of the match - in somewhat questionable circumstances as it happened. A roar from the crowd had lifted his heart, just as a punch from the partially recovered defender nearly lifted his head off his shoulders.  

   Eoghan wasn’t fully aware of what took place next. Later, he was told of how he had received a number of further blows to his head; of Murt, Rúadhan’s brother, joining the fray at a full gallop, and launching himself, knees first, at the raging defender; of Rúadhan knocking one player unconscious with a hooking punch; and so it went on. In years to come, most would remember the fight at the end of the match, more than any detail from the game itself.

   Every player on the pitch became embroiled. Teeth were knocked out. Hands were broken knocking out the teeth. Noses were broken, by broken hands with teeth sticking out of them. It was quite the battle after a match. Now, some of the veterans from that field of battle were standing in front of Eoghan and Rúadhan causing commotion.

   The hearth keeper had no choice but to interject. Though he was a fine lump of a man with a stern eye and a serious brow, his movements upon approaching the young men told a story of unhappiness.

   ‘Accept my pardon my lads, but you are disrupting the entertainment and disturbing my guests this evening. If you wish to settle here, you are as welcome as spring after winter, but you cannot stay and continue behaving as you are.’

   The boys stopped what they were doing and their eyes landed on the man in unison. The tension was becoming thick. One of the brightly garbed youngsters peeled away from the group and slowly moved towards the hearth keeper; squaring up so that their faces were close.

   Eoghan counted seven boys, but two of them were dressed noticeably unlike their peers. They wore clothes boasting many bright colours, suggesting wealth and status. They also wore the unmistakeable sneer of entitlement, suggesting they were spoilt, smug and probably insufferable. What was more worrisome again was that a number of the boys bore signs of the melee that had taken place at the hurling match, suggesting Eoghan and Rúadhan were in the wrong place at the wrong time this very evening.

   ‘I think you’ll find it is you who is disturbing us, Olfhainn,’ growled the boy. ‘And I want you to get us something to drink to make up for it.’ One of his friends now cast a challenging gaze across the room at the onlookers, daring anyone to get involved.

   Rúadhan kept his head down as if suddenly feeling a terrible urge to smell his own navel. It was unlikely they could get out now without drawing the attention of the boys upon them. Eoghan, however, felt no such urge. He was still sour about having the Chieftain sending Rúadhan and him to make their apology to the neighbouring village’s elders over the fight. He was still angry at the sympathetic looks that people had been giving him at the wake. The arrival - and subsequent atrocious behaviour - of this crowd was almost too much to take. He met the boy’s gaze with a defiant look of his own.    

   The boy’s mouth dropped open as recognition jarred him. He looked to his friends in apparent indecision, until he finally moved to pat the chief troublemaker on the shoulder. ‘Darragh ...’ he whispered urgently.

   Darragh’s eyes were locked to Olfhainn’s in a silent battle of wills. Custom and tradition aside, both obviously knew each other; and for a reason not apparent, Olfhainn was not immediately clipping Darragh’s ear as the onlookers would have expected. Eoghan surmised Darragh must be the son of a rich local. Perhaps with men in his employ. A Chieftain’s son would never act in such a brash manner; it could ultimately lead to his father losing his position by the will of his túath. Sons of rich locals would not have to answer to the people in the same way.

   Darragh’s shoulder being tapped seemed to infuriate him beyond measurement. He rounded on his companion. ‘What?’ he barked.

   His companion just pointed. Rúadhan glanced up as if sensing the boys all looking in their direction. They were. He started muttering under his breath. Eoghan thought he heard something about testicles and a pestle and mortar. Olfhainn was forgotten as the boys surrounded their new prey.

   ‘Well by the luck of Mac Áodh, look who came to visit. Two of the warrior hurlers of Clochbeag. But only two. What brings ye to these parts, warrior hurlers of Clochbeag? To conquer the men of Ros Cam and carry our women off with ye?’ The drunken slur of the boy’s talk was more noticeable now. ‘They won the match don’t ye all know? But only through being cheating whoresons.’

   ‘Darragh. I’ll not have you causing trouble like this and I don’t give a white owl’s hoot who your father is,’ growled Olfhainn.

   This time Darragh would not be distracted. He pointed a finger at Olfhainn without averting his eyes from Eoghan and Rúadhan. Buoyed by a sudden sense of impending action, two of the local boys intercepted Olfhainn and restrained him. Other guests were leaving now. Things were getting out of hand.

   ‘No bother from here Olfhainn,’ chimed Rúadhan, with a voice that belied his rising fear. ‘Here boys, you can finish our drink and no harm caused. Now Eoghan it’s time for us to go and…’

   ‘Shut your face, you lanky son of an old bitch.’

   The room went silent as everyone took a moment to re-evaluate their position. Those not directly involved soon disappeared.

   Olfhainn spoke, but his voice was hard now. ‘My lad, if you raise a hand to one of those boys by my hearth, I will kill you stone dead, and let your father walk backways to the Underland.’

   Olfhainn could not see it from where he stood, but Eoghan could not miss the spasm of apoplectic rage that flashed across Darragh’s face.

   ‘Drag them outside,’ said Darragh, and he turned to face Olfhainn once again. They exchanged fuming, growled words as the six Ros Cam boys dragged Eoghan and Rúadhan outside. Neither did much to resist. Eoghan was extremely conscious not to raise a fist while under the roof of the hearth keeper. Rúadhan would know this well enough too. How these Ros Cam boys didn’t was strange, indeed.

   They were summarily dragged into the open square of huts and houses at the edge of the settlement of Ros Cam. They were surrounded, preventing them from an easy escape. Darragh emerged, red-faced and vengeful. Surveying the situation seemed to spur his already-inflated sense of power.  

   Eoghan and Rúadhan stood centre-circle. Eoghan was aware that they were in for a thrashing right enough. Darragh’s growing smirk worried him about this pig of a boy, and the levels to which he might be willing to take his grievance. Darragh slowed and completed the circle, basking in his new role as chief tormentor. His sneer was made more ominous by the lengthening shadows of an aging day. The few passers-by moved quickly away, heads down, displaying a subjugation to which they were clearly accustomed.

   ‘Ye made a great job taking us by surprise at the match,’ said Darragh rubbing a swollen jaw as if to illustrate his point.

   All in all, Eoghan felt more than a little uneasy by the events that were unfolding. A growing sense of unfairness crept over him. Eoghan - as he did sometimes - could not help but make it worse. Indeed, at the time, it seemed like the right thing to do.

   ‘You yapping little bitch,’ he said as calmly as he could manage despite his temper rising. A number of the participants in the standoff stiffened. ‘You spoiled, frightened fool. Without this titsucking rabble around you I would make you cry. Bawl and weep and snivel like the child that you are.’

   Rúadhan smiled a polite, deflecting smile as if the boys might not have heard Eoghan’s grumping. His eyebrows were hitched as if he was thinking quickly.

   ‘Right,’ he said. ‘So …’

   ‘SILENCE,’ roared Darragh.    

   With little chance of things improving, Eoghan threw his head back and laughed bitterly.  

   ‘We came all this way to apologise for giving ye’re skins a tanning after we won the hurling match. And now you’re pissy? When ye ran off home to your mothers’ legs you weren’t roaring at anyone. I hardly heard any of ye speak as it so happens.’

   ‘Look,’ said Rúadhan quickly, as if Eoghan hadn’t spoken. His hands were raised to reveal open palms.

   ‘Things have gone sour, there’s no doubt. We’ve been sent by our own elders to apologise for the match and what happened after. It wasn’t your first match and it wasn’t your first bit of a row either. This is not the right way lads. We were going to go to see the Chieftain after a quick drink.

   ‘We’ll leave now and stay in the Sparehouse tonight with whatever travellers are passing. We can fix things with the Chieftain in the morning. Or even, let’s go to your chieftain now altogether. You can join us and we’ll set this straight,’ continued Rúadhan, ‘and I’m sure you’re aware of Eoghan’s recent loss …’

   One of the rival lads who sported two blackened eyes from the event could bear no more of the effrontery. He marched towards Rúadhan with his fist raised. Eoghan cut his progress short with a vicious punch. The boy was unconscious before he started his fall to the ground.

   ‘So. That’s probably not going to settle things,’ said Rúadhan to himself with a nervous laugh. Eoghan scanned the faces of the circle around him to identify any empathetic souls. There were none.

  The Ros Cam boys stood in shock as they looked from their fallen comrade to Rúadhan, to Eoghan, and back to the lump on the ground. Then things got unpleasant.