It was the time of the sacrifice of the bull and the subsequent seeing of Cathbad.  Nobody knew what the chief druid would see, what he would divine from the liver, and from reading the entrails of the sacrifice.  Ever since Cathbad had risen to the chief druid this sacrifice had always been a great show.  People crowded around, hoping to hear a good word, fearing to hear bad.

Concubar found it all a bit too theatrical for his taste.  The process could have been finished in a quarter of the time and all the show could be put aside in favor of the point of the thing, the oracle.  In the main, the visions were not for the rabble, the visions involved the king, his men, and his leadership of the Tuath.  As such, though he found Cathbad’s show an annoyance, there was no denying the power of the chief druid’s auguries.

Concubar sat with Fergus and a few captains of his Red Branch warriors.  They were comfortable enough, but this kind of thing was not for men of action like them, it was the purview of magicians.  As such they sat, feeling like men awaiting the judgement of the Brehon.

Fergus huffed, “by the Dagda above, why can’t they get to the point?”  There was mumbled agreement and Concubar felt the same without being able to express it.  Still it felt good to know that his fellows felt like he did.

It was his bull that was going to get the knife, it always was, and standing there among all the druids it looked as befuddled as Concubar felt, poor fellow.  Cathbad thrust the long thin knife into the air and there was a hush that fell over the crowd.  Quick as lightning Cathbad reached under the young bulls neck and with a quick slice slit it ear to ear.  All the druids hemmed it in and before it truly knew its end it collapsed to its knees and moments later was dead.

Blood was carried away, and Cathbad and his druids fell too with knife and skill.  Cathbad, red to the elbow in sacrificial blood, dominated the center of the maelstrom of druidic activity.  His concentration was absolute, focused on what remained of the animal as his assistants took away parts with practiced efficiency.  “Good water, good crops, good birthings, good wine, all this I see.  Good increase, good trading, good. . .”  Cathbad frowned and bent lower over the entrails, “. . . I see gold, good mining.”

The massed people gasped, the word gold spread to every mouth, whispered  throughout the crowd.  

“Wait!” shouted Cathbad, “Good wheat, good cattle, good oats, but tragedy and woe . . .” Cathbad cut into the liver and examined it avidly, ”Good mining, good milling, good calving, good fishing, but there is trouble.  There is war, there is loss, there is death.”

Concubar sat forward.  This was a telling that he must address, “Tell on druid, what is our path?”  Cathbad turned toward the king, his eyes were dead, vacant as they were when he was thus entranced, dark portals to a wider, darker, world.  “Speak, what should we do?”

“There is no ban, no geasa, no sacrifice that can forestall this.”

“War and doom and no way to avoid it?” Concubar frowned, concentrating, “Who is this augury for?  War certainly, but from where, and who might die?”

“Will.  There is no might in this augury,”

Concubar laughed, “Will die!  But don’t we warriors all hope for this?  Is this woe to a druid, but glory in battle for a man?  Why all the hand wringing Cathbad?  Who dies?  Tell me that so that he can put his affairs in order and make certain there is a bard near to remember his glory.”

Concubar’s statement was reinforced by the men around him, but Cathbad sneered, “Oh yes, a good rousing song is better than you deserve.  Do you think you are the only ones who suffer in war?”

“Tell us then, who suffers loss, who will die?”

Cathbad frowned and looked down at what remained of the sacrifice, “The signs are not clear.”  Cathbad looked puzzled, “Kingly, but not you oh king. A battler, a warrior, a youth. . .”

“This is meaningless”

Cathbad stared hard at the ground, but then shook his head violently, “I can not see.  Maybe if I do the consumption vision.  I can not say for sure.”  Cathbad’s assistants looked appalled.

“Advise me chief druid,” said Concubar, “If this is truly important then choose.  If not. . .”

“I will seek the consumption vision.”  A forceful nod from Cathbad sent his assistant druids scattering.

A seanachie in brightly colored robes held a crowd of revelers in thrall, “Emain Macha is our home and the seat of our power,” chanted the seanachie motioning to the hill fort above the festival grounds, “Long ago and far away she walked among men and indeed was married to a thoughtless one,” women among the listening crowd nodded their understanding. 

The crowd calmed and the storyteller continued, “Foolishly, the king of that older Ulster, forced Macha to run a race against his finest horse, for the boast of her husband, she ran.  For her pride she won, for her pain, with child was she, she cursed that king and his men, and for the foolishness of a husband Macha, torn within, bereft of child, pale white and drained of blood, she died . . .”

It was the yearly funeral games of Macha, and a feis, and a fair were ever a part of it.  The law was read out, the genealogy of the king was recited, there were stories told by the bards, dancing, tasty treats, good cheer.

CuRuada would not be waylaid, there were things to buy of wonderful craftsmanship and art.  For this reason CuRuada had come to the fair.  He sought something that would please Emer.

Earlier CuRuada had won praise for his battle feats.  He had won the spear caste outright with no rival.  Perhaps  most gratifying for himself, he had lead the boys troop to the victory in hurling.  Though the boys troop won almost every year, there had been cheers on every side for his amazing skill. 

From all this glory had come a few purses, money, and there had been no question in CuRuada’s mind what he would do with his winnings.  Somewhere among the glittering trifles and baubles was a gift worthy of the woman he loved.

But he despaired, he had been looking diligently for more than an hour and though there were many many beautiful things nothing he saw was a fit gift for Emer. 

So it was that Cu stopped his searching and watched a smith at his work.  This fellow was different than others, he was short and squat and his hair and beard were black like many a Lokian of the mountains, but what set him apart for CuRuada was his exceptional skill.  And there, as the fellow fit the pieces of an ornate brooch together from several seeming unassociated parts, CuRuada saw through the magic of it and he gasped. 

At once the smith looked at him with piercing blue eyes a knowing smile on his face, “So young sir, what have you seen?”  The voice seemed absurdly deep from a fellow so short, so small.

“I perceive that your work is fine . . .”

“None finer, but what did you SEE,” The smith’s eyes bore into CuRuada’s.

“I saw,” CuRuada struggled to put words to what he had just seen, “That what looks like magic, how the parts fit together as one, is craft.” The dark man nodded but wanted more. Cu continued, “You use no rivet or clasp because each part is rivet and clasp that holds one to another not by magic, but by your craft.”

“Even so,” said the short smith, turning away and rubbing at the assembled brooch.  Without looking up the smith said, “I recognize my work on you.  That brooch you wear I made for King Concubar.

Cu nodded, “Even so, it was given to my mother by the king and by my mother to me.”  The boy saw that the smith looked at him again and would have had more from him, but he could think of nothing else to say.

The smith pondered a moment, shrugged, and casually tossed the beautiful piece on his work bench, “So you’ve come to spy out my secrets, is that it, boy?”  His words were challenging, but there was a twinkle in the man’s eye and CuRuada warmed to him.

“Not so, I’m no smith, it is for a gift that I’ve come seeking.  You have the best of the best,” At this the boy sighed, “and yet I’ve found nothing yet fit for Emer.” 

The little smith tugged at his beard, “No, it is true, you are no smith, but what you are is difficult to say as well.” Again CuRuada began to feel uncomfortable under the smith’s intense gaze. The dark man spoke as if his words were a magic incantation, “I saw you at hurley and the fine work you did with the spear.  No smith surely, but no common warrior either are you.  You wear a broch made for a king, a prince you must be.  Or a god.”  Cu blushed, the dark man smiled.

He turned away and ducked down beneath his work bench, “And a fine judge of craftsmanship too . . .” The little man brought out an ornately carved wooden box and with a flourish drew open the cover.

Within was a brooch of surpassing beauty, a true masterwork of the Lokian’s craft.  Golden jewel studded and enameled it was, but so much more. For the second time CuRuada gasped, the beautiful spiralings and clever twinings drew the eye deeper and deeper into details smaller and finer.

“You might not be a smith, but you know,”  The dark man drew out the brooch and showed Cu the elegant eating knife with a hilt that matched the brooch without being a copy, in fact, as the smith drew them together CuRuada could see that the one was nothing like the other and yet it was its perfect mate, like a duet in jewels, and for the third time the boy gasped.

“beautiful . . .” he breathed reverently.

“Will the gift outshine the gifted?” The Lokian smith asked.

CuRuada blinked stupidly, stunned until he realized that the smith was speaking of Emer.   He thought of her and imagined the brooch glittering at her long white throat and how it would look against her hair and the poniard in her elegant hand.  “No sir,” said Cu with conviction, “She is the only one who could complete them.”

Nodding, the smith handed the little box to him with a mysterious smile, “And so they shall.”

Thoroughly disgusted with Cathbad, Concubar could not bear to sit on his throne and think.  He did not wish to wait for Cathbad and the Brehon to return and berate him anew, so he rose from his throne and walked out to the hurley pitch to have another look at the Little Fellow, Son.

He saw Fergus standing above the pitch and chuckling to himself.  “What is so amusing Fergus?  Please tell me, I could do with some good humor after that horrible wizard Cathbad.” said the king.

“Well,” said Fergus, “Having beaten the boys and sending them away with their tails between their legs, the Little Fellow is playing with the hounds.  They’re not much for the rules, but they are very entertaining.”

“Playing the hounds?  I thought I told you to make sure the boy came to no harm?”  Concubar looked down on the field and saw nothing but a mass of writhing dog flesh in a scrum in the middle of the pitch, “Are you mad?  I don’t even see him in all that.  Have they eaten him?”

“No, the lad is too good with that cam.  Add to that the dogs seem to love him.”

“Are you sure?  I don’t even see him.”

“See there?  He’s the red haired hound in the middle.”

“Cu Ruada you say?” The king tugged his whiskers in thought, “Now that’s a fine name for the boy.”

“CuRuada?” Fergus nodded, “aye, I think it would serve.”

“The lad is good with the cam.  Let’s see what he can do with the sword.  Take him to the field and see how he is with shield and spear and . . .  Well, you know the training of the boys.  I think you may need to train him to be careful of his mates, so at first would you see to him alone Fergus?  I don’t need a lot of angry Red Branch Warriors bellowing about Cu Ruada’s  mistreatment of their sons and too we must consider Fand and Muirthemne.  The boy must come to no harm.”

“Well, if they’d complain about that, they should know they were better served to take a switch to any boy who would complain about being bested by that little hound.”

All the same, you see to the boy.  Let me know what you learn of CuRuada’s skill.

Concubar sat brooding on his throne with Cathbad hovering close, ”The Little Fellow is my son as strange as that might seem.  Perhaps time is not the same in Muirthemne, perhaps Fand is no human woman, though she seemed to have all the parts and no extras. . .”

“Is that what concerns you Concubar?” hissed Cathbad, “Really?  Her parts?  Do you realize your situation?  Now you have a son, but no wife.  This, this is a catastrophe!”

“Don’t you think that he’ll do well enough in the boy’s troop?” Asked Concubar.  “He seems a canny enough lad,” Concubar beamed proudly.

“Do you know nothing of the law then, oh king?” Cathbad fumed, “You have no wife, no marriage contract, and yet you have a son?  Tell me, what proof have you that this son of yours was not the product of rape?  Hmmm?  Have you thought about what he can demand of you?  What his portion shall be?

“Come now, you don’t think the Little Fellow is such a schemer, do you?”

“It is not the boy, it is the mother, the fairy woman, this Fand.  Who knows, what do you know about Muirthemne?  What will he ask for dishonoring his daughter?  What will you give for it?”

Concubar growled, “Do you think me a raper?  Look, she offered.  If this Muirthemne says otherwise it is he that lies.  Say, if he is a king then all the better.  It was a union of equals.  Look, you know me, it was freely offered and freely taken.”

Cathbad sighed, “It is not what he says or she says or you say or most particularly what actually was or was not in fact.  It matters not.  What matters is this Son, it is that he is.  What will he cost you? 

“He is just a boy. . .”

Have you thought what it will cost us?  You have no idea nor can you, and we your people all stand in the balance.  It is not wise to meddle with fairy folk. . .”

“Don’t I know it!  Why do you insist on beating me about the head with it Cathbad?  I know it!” 

“You should not have. . .”

“Get out!  I don’t need to know what I should not have done.  Now I need to know what’s to be done.  Find the brehon and figure it out.  Do your job and figure out what’s to be done now.”

“As you say. . .”

“Now get out!”

Cathbad bowed and scurried for the door.

“Don’t come back without the wisdom you say I lack Cathbad, and not one more word about Fand to me.”

The king, Concubar, strode into the coolness of his great hall followed by his champion, his druid, and a small boy who’s finger bore a ring that made his claim to be his son.  Concubar made directly for his throne, but paused as he approached, “So you say that you will give your name to the king and no other, is that it boy?”

“That is so, it is a geas upon me,” The boy stated flatly.

“Well then, lucky for you the king is here.  Come sit and let’s all hear what such a marvelous little fellow like yourself might be named.” Thus saying he motioned for his champion to sit upon the high seat, it took some waving and nudging and in the end a firm tug on Fergus’s leine, but at last the Champion, stronger than he was nimble of mind, realized the ploy and sat down on the high seat, looking a bit uncomfortable, “See?  Here is the king, so let us hear your name then boy.”

“I am to give my name to the king alone, so said my mother to me, it was she that put on me the geas.  I might give my name to the king and no other.”  said the boy firmly.

“But the king is here,” prompted Concubar.  Then he prodded Fergus.

Fergus blinked stupidly a time or two before offering, “Yes, let’s have it lad, what is your name?”

“To the king alone may I give it.”

“But these are my trusted advisers, surely it is not so great a secret that it must not be heard by my confidants at the same time I hear it,” said Fergus, getting the idea of the ruse but spoiling it a bit by looking over at Concubar who rolled his eyes after giving the Champion an encouraging nod.

“To the king alone.”

Fergus glanced up at his king who’s slight nod set him in motion, “Leave us then, I will hear the boy alone.”

At that, Concubar and Cathbad began to withdraw until they saw that the boy followed them.  “What is this?  Aren’t you going to say your name?” asked Concubar.

“To the king I will,” said the boy seriously.

Concubar stared hard at the small boy.  He was well formed, thin but not overly so, there were bruises from the boys troop fight but there was no fear in the boy at all.  Looking on him Concubar recognised him, surely this boy was like he had been.  The king laughed, “Good and good, well then I guess I’ll hear it.  Fergus, Cathbad, leave us.”

The two men left and the king returned to his throne followed by his small visitor.  “So, your mother put on you this geas that you must give your name only to the king, here I am then.  Lets have it boy.  And while you have my attention, perhaps you should tell me your mother’s name as well, who put this geas on you?”

“My mother, the lady Fand, put on me the geas as she gave me the name.”

“Fand you say?”

“Yes sir, Fand, whose father is Muirthemne.”

“So boy, give me the name you must only speak to a king.”

“It is not to any king I am bound to speak it, but only to you.”

“Only me?” Concubar felt flushed, angry or guilty or afraid, “Let’s have it then,” he whispered.

“My mother called me Son.  It is the only name I ever had.  Son is my name.”

Concubar nodded, the boy showed no sign of glee at his discomfort or fear.  Concubar looked into the boy’s eyes and saw only innocence and truth in eyes of his son, “It is good that you told me, Son.”

The boy nodded solemnly and asked, “May I go play with the other boys now?”

“Are you still geas bound?” asked the king.

The boy frowned, concerned, “Yes, I must only speak that name to you.  Can you make them let me play without telling them my name, I must not say it?”

“Your mother was wise in this.  Tell, if they ask, that you gave your name to the king and that I said you could play,” the boy’s face lit with happiness and he would have run off without leave, but he turned back when Concubar called him, “Son! A moment.  Did your mother, Fand, say aught else.  Did she give you a message?”

“No sir.  She named me, placed on me the geas, and told me where I might find the king I must tell my name.  Can I go play now?” the boy said impatiently.

“He has no idea,” thought Concubar and said, “Yes, go play.”

As the boy left the druid and champion returned.  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” said Cathbad, “What kind of mischief is the boy at?”

“Easy to tell, that little fellow’s name is Son.  Just that, no more, no less.  And his mother is Fand.”

“What!  The wife of Mannanan Mac Lyr?  That’s ridiculous.  He is playing a game on us all.”

“I don’t think the boy is.  I don’t think he even knows what his name means.  And the mother may be married to Gol Mac Morna for all I know.  The boy claims the Fand that is his mother is the daughter of a man named Muirthemne.

“Stranger and stranger.”

“As you say.  This is a puzzle.  I don’t know what this Fand intends, but until we do, we need to watch the boy and make sure he comes to no harm.”

“What if the boys attack him again?” asked Fergus.

“See that they don’t, quickly.  I sent him out to play at hurling,” said Concubar.

“I’ll see to it.” said Fergus as he strode to the doorway.

“Fergus! One more thing, introduce the little fellow as something other than Son.  Keep that name to yourself.”

“Aye, but what?”

Cathbad stroked his beard, “Sometimes the simplest is the best.  Why not call him “Little Fellow.”  He’s smaller by a head than any of the boy’s troop.”

“Little Fellow then.”  Concubar smiled, “though it might not fit for long.  The lad is not nine days old unless I missed my count.”

“You were foolish to involve yourself with the fairy folk.”

Concubar frowned at Cathbad as he said, “Hurry Fergus, make sure that Little Fellow doesn’t come to harm.  We don’t know what price Fand or this father, Muirthemne will ask from us if he is hurt or worse.”

Fergus nodded and left, leaving only Cathbad with the king, “This is a mess,” said Cathbad.  “It is never a good thing to mix with the Fae folk.”

“Too late by half Cathbad, that Little Fellow is my son.  I’m sure of it.”