The Seventh Trumpet

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Tóla paused on the threshold of his farmhouse, looked towards the black mounds of the eastern hills, standing out sharply against the white bar of light that heralded dawn, and breathed in deeply before exhaling in a satisfied fashion. It was an action that had become a regular ritual each morning over many decades. He stood for a moment, gazing at the sky and estimating what sort of day it might bring before turning his attention to the dark, undulating land that spread southward before him. The light of the new day was spreading rapidly towards the thrust of rock which dominated the southern skyline just a few kilometres away. The grey-white buildings of The Rock of Cashel, which constituted the capital of the rulers of Muman, were already sparkling in the dawn light.

Tóla took a step forward and stretched languidly. He was a thickset and muscular man; a man whose very frame seemed to proclaim that he was a son of the soil; a man used to working the land and caring for the livestock. The rising sun glinted on his blue-black hair, enhancing his tanned skin and pale eyes. His features had been coarsened and aged by his outdoor life, but they were neither ugly nor unkindly. He stood like a man content with his life and all he surveyed.

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