Dawn in the Foggy Dew

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.