Darerca

CHAPTER 9

Palcurnius, the father of Patrick, couldn't believe it, but the familiar gait of the lad striding towards him across the fields was unmistakable and brought a cry of joy from his throat. He dropped his pitchfork, and ran to the lad. Reaching him he wrapped his arms around him in a bearhug. "We thought you were dead, Patrick?"
Paddy felt tears in his eyes. He hadn't seen his father in six long years. "Not dead," he said. "Captured by Irish pirates and sold as a slave."
Palcurnius released him and said: "Let's have a good look at you." His grey eyes measured the young man before him, noting the brawny shoulders, the gangly look, and noting too the differences his enforced captivity had wrung in him. "Irish heathens," he muttered. "Savages!"
Palcurnius, a deacon by profession when he wasn't working in the fields thought of the story often told by Potitus, his own father and a priest, of the prodigal son who had returned to his father. Though the circumstances were different, this was what this felt like. He grinned hugely.
Like the bible story, he would throw a huge feast for his son.
Darerca and Conchessa would be over the moon. Darerca was Paddy's sister, and Conchessa his mother. They came running as soon as they saw him, showering him with hugs and kisses, their faces beaming with delight.
"We thought you were dead, Patrick," Darerca said.
"Very much alive," Paddy replied, grinning. "Can't get rid of me that easy."
Darerca laughed. "So, you've been in Ireland all this time?" she added. "You must tell me all about it...I'm going there shortly."
"Why's that?"
"Your sister is getting married Patrick," Palcurnius explained.
"She fell in love with an Irishman," Conchessa explained.
Paddy smiled. "I'm happy for you sis...when do we meet him?"
"He'll be here later," she said. "Let's go back to the house. We have so much to talk about."

*

The man was astride a giant white horse.
Somehow Paddy knew who he was - Victoricus. He looked like an ancient warrior, a gleaming spear in one hand. His face had a bright countenance, almost radiant. His voice boomed when he spoke.
"You be...Patrick?"
Paddy nodded, dumbstruck.
"I bring greetings from the Irish. The ancient ones sing your praises. The new generation cries out for you. Accept this scroll."
"What is it?" Patrick cries out, distraught.
Victoricus smiled. "Your commission."
Without further ado, he reined his horse around. "Slan...Padraig." He didn't wait to see if Paddy read the scroll. He vanished back into the mist from whence he came.

.

The wedding.
It was a bit like the feast that had been thrown for him on his first night back in England. At this point in time Patrick had met his sister's choice and heartily approved.
Neighbours and other guests brought over food and drink and Palcurnius appointed himself the deacon for this particular service. Everyone was dressed in their finest. Most folk wore a leine, a knee length tunic made of linen, worn with belts, and with skirts on women. Clothing was also made with wool cloth and animal hides. Many also wore cloaks.

The vision.
Victoricus.