WHERE DO I FIND THE REST OF THIS STORY?

I’ve noticed that little stories I intend to wrap up in a post or two often blow up into epics that never seem to end.  This is a character flaw, I know, and it is one that I don’t know how to begin to remedy. 

For now I think I’m going to have to accept my propensity to elaboration in the present and try to offer remediation, or organization outside of my normal tendency.

To that end, I offer these links to guide you through my most current efforts.

Child of Moss began with a character, Lugh of the long journeys (imagined  as a recurring character in many novels) sitting on a hill beneath a tree.  Now many posts later I’ve added characters and ideas so that it is clear that some organization is desperately needed:

1. Why did Lugh need to go North?  The first pre-post
2. Von’s gift helps get Lugh under that tree.  The second pre-post
3. Lugh under the tree.  The original first post of Child of Moss
4. Introducing Oatey Moss.  Introducing Oatey Moss
5. Who is Lugh and what Oatey does.  Lugh Follows Oatey
6. Lugh, Oatey, and a dead goat.  The old 4th post
7. Oatey Moss, giant fighter.  Oatey kills a giant
8. The celebration after the fight.  Lugh in the corner 
9. Lugh meets the man.  Another character crops up
10. Martel Jones of the Norfolk.  The brewhaha continues
11. Lugh lost in the sidhe.  A little more about miss Moss
12. Thinking about Oatey.  Child of Moss (old part 10) part 12
13. Breakfast in bed. More character development
14. Through the Sidhe.  Child of Moss part 12 (14)
15. Oatey’s pain.  What Lugh sees on Oatey’s face.

There is more Child of Moss to come.  I’ve plotted at least two more giant hunts and a visit to a truly ancient place that is the closest thing Oatey has to a real home.

The Deer Riders

The Deer Riders was the first of my stories to really go off the rails.  I had an idea about a people group on Tir na Nua, people I called the Norfolk or Bramblewood Elves, but my point of view character ended up stealing the show.  Okay, confession, I don’t even know what his name is.

1. Why do I need to start a story by introducing four characters who really have nothing to do with the actual Deer Riders? Concerning the Deer Riders
2. Dream-Walker and how he found a way past the brambles. Deer Riders Continued
3. Dream-Walker in the sidhe.  Deer Riders Conclusion (when I began the post I thought it might be. Boy, was I wrong.)
4. How Dream-Walker’s gift and a Deer Rider shows a way out.  Deer Riders Ending part 1
5. And he can travel through time.  Deer Riders Ending part 2
6. Dream-walker learns that there are worse things than being stuck in the sidhe.  Deer Riders Ending part 3
7. As this little stories ending lurches on into the absurd, I, LSO, end it. Deer Riders Ending part 4

Having created an interesting character, the Dream-Walker (I still don’t have a name for him yet) I made another little story that started to get out of control again so I cut it off.  I may follow some of the rabbit trails I imagined at a later date.

1. Dream-Walker takes his youngest grand-son fishing and a story breaks out. Dream-Walker and the Giant
2. The conversation turns to Giants. Dream-Walker Tells Bres The Story of the Dagda

1. The Red Son of Concubar 
2. the Coming of CuRuada the Red Son of Concubar
3. The Red Son of Concubar Meets His Father
4. Cathbad discusses the Red Son of Concubar
5. The Naming of the Red Son of Concubar
6. Fergus and Concubar Discuss the King’s Red Son
7. Cathbad’s Caution
8. CuRuada meets Emer (oops, I forgot they hadn’t met before)
9. The Games of Macha
10. Cathbad’s Oracle at the Games of Macha (this introduces the practice and sets up the Consumption Vision Quest).

The two sat upon the top of the hill beneath a great spreading oak and looked out across the plain.  The boy and his grandfather shared a bit of flat bread, a bit of cheese and some water from a water skin.  There were birds on the wing, water fowl, a hawk, song birds as well.  The old man enjoyed the quiet for a few moments, but his grandson could not let the moment last.

“Grandfather, what is the Dagda?” Bres asked.

“Not what, but who,” began Dream-Walker, “the Dagda was a giant who lived among the Deer-Riders.  Long ago, before the Gobli ravaged the plain, before we all took to horse, and even before the Deer-Riders rode their herd deer. 

“In fact it was not so much after the first men came down and scattered the grass on the plain and the trees on the hills, planted all that we eat and all that we hunt, this was long and long ago, when Danu’s children moved from the Palace of Glass to Sliebe na Gael down South.  It was the Deer-Rider’s ancestors who were charged with making the world green and it was those same folk who fought the ice wall that threatened to destroy us all.

“Now at this time the goddess Danu made every woman who had borne her first child take a child of Danu’s making.  This was the womb duty and some were good people who just needed to be born, but there were some that were changelings, and some were just evil so that the saying was, “trust a first, a third and a fourth, but never trust a second born nor a seventh.”  That was the womb duty, and that was what they were like, and then some were giants.”

“How could a woman give birth to a giant?”

“Ah, well that shows what you know, a giant isn’t born so.  How big were you when you were born? Not so very, but you ate and you grew.  Isn’t that so?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well that’s how it is with giants too.  They eat and they grow, they eat and they grow, and they eat and eat and eat and they grow grow grow.  A giant is always hungry and if you feed him he grows and he never stops growing until he stops eating.  That’s how it was with a fellow named Eochaid.

“Now this Eochaid was the second child of a man named Calvert Moss and his wife named Mandy.  That is he was a womb duty child, but they treated him as one of their own, and loved him like the rest of their children.  But Eochaid was the hungriest of all their children.  He was always hungry and his loving parents fed him and he grew and grew until he was much taller than an ordinary man even before he was twelve years old.  What made it worse was that none of the other Mosses, not even Calvert or Mandy, was tall.  In fact they were very short.

“The more the Mosses’ fed young Eochaid, the more he grew.  That was clear.  But there were other things that were odd.  Mandy’s eyes and hair were brown, Calvert’s hair was black, and his eyes were green, and so too, all the other Moss children were a mix of one or the other, but not Eochaid.  His hair was firey red, like copper.  His eyes were blue, like ice.  He was tall for his age, but he was born with teeth in his mouth, which went hard on poor Mandy, and too, He had six fingers on each hand and six toes on each foot.  SO, how do you know a giant when he is young?”

Bres pondered, “His fingers and his feet, his hair, and his height?”

“All good clues.  And this too, in his mouth you may see that he has two sets of teeth where you or I have only one.  That you may see when he is young, but you will know him as he is driven by his appetite to eat, and when allowed his way, he will not cease to grow.”

“You say you will know him, grandfather, are there no girl giants then?”

Dream-Walker smiled at his grand-son, ”Well that you have asked, for there are no giant females.  These creatures are the Nephilim reborn and they take there wives from among normal men, if you imagine that a woman who would be the wife of a giant is in any way normal.”

“And Eochaid was one of them?  Giants I mean, not giant wives.”

“He was that, but he was the first of them and he was more influenced by his family who loved him than by others.  The giants grew wicked.  Their hunger made them selfish and a bit mad, I think.  Eochaid grew and grew.  He had six fingers on each hand and six toes to a foot, he had copper hair and cold eyes, but Eochaid had a remarkable father and mother and loving brothers and sisters and that made all the difference.

“So, though he grew to be twice the size of a man, and more, he used his great strength and size to help the people who loved him and who he loved.  I’ve told you about the great underground raths of the Deer-Riders.  When the Norfolk fought to save the plains and stood against the advancing ice it was the raths that Eochaid built that made it possible, that kept them safe, that kept them warm.

The Gaels had a legend of a man who used his strength to benefit his people and this “good god” or “the Dagda” had a great appetite and used his strength to make great ring forts.  They called him the Dagda but the legend says that he was first called Eochaid.  Strange to think them both named the same, but the new Eochaid came to be called after the old, a rath builder, enormously strong, good, they called him the Dagda.”

Bres eyed his grandfather skeptically, “Really Grandfather, do you think that story is true?”

Dream-Walker carefully got to his feet, “I do, I believe that and more.  But right now I believe that we have a fish to catch.”

“The Bass of Knowledge?”

“The same.”  And hand in hand they walked down to the pond.

Welcome to another tale of the Dream-Walker.  These stories grew out of an idea for a people who live to the north of the Gaellic Plain of Tir na Nua called Deer Riders, the Norfolk, or by some Bramblewood Elves.  The Dream-Walker is a wild seer, not a shaman or a holy man of any sort, but a man who can slip his body and walk time and space, see things nobody else could see, and return to his time and his own place on the those Gaellic Plains among the Scythians.  He has kept his journeys secret for most of his life, but now he is elderly and he shares his stories with his grandsons.  You can read the first story (which got totally out of hand) it begins with Concerning the Deer Riders.

Dream-Walker and the Giant

“Is this really the best way to catch a fish?” Asked the young plains rider, skeptically.

“Well, if you’re old like me young fellow, this is not only the best way, it’s the only way to catch a fish.”  The man chuckled.

“Catching a fish is boring, if you ask me.” said the boy.

“As I remember, you asked me, Bres,” said the old man. ”Catching a fish isn’t boring, its waiting to catch a fish that wears on a body.  You’ll see, when you catch one yourself.”

The man tipped his head back, sun warming his bald head, and let himself slip out of his shell, just a bit.  They called him Dream-walker, at least the Norfolk had, but he didn’t need to dream to do it.  Any moment of quiet contemplation could serve.  His dream self slipped into the pond and with eyes sharper than human and much sharper than his withered human shell, he looked for a fish worth the name and a memory for his grandson.

With a gasp and a snort he came back to himself.  The boy eyed him accusingly.  “See?  Boring Grandfather, you went to sleep.  Tell me that isn’t boring,” said the boy, but returned to contemplating the spot where his line disappeared into the still water of the pond.

“Well Bres, my boy, the secret to finding a fish is thinking like a fish.”

“How do I do that?” said the boy, exasperated but interested.

“Well, if you were a fish, what would you want?”

The boy pondered that awhile, his plump cheeks puffed out and his eyes squinting, “I guess I’d want food.”

Bres was the youngest and always the hungriest of his grandsons so the old man was ready for his answer, “Sure you’re right, a fish wants food, but for a big fish, for a fish that lives past being a fry, such a fish wants protection first.  There is always a heron or an eagle looking for a meal too.  The fish wants to eat, but if he has lived long enough to be worthy of catching he has always wanted NOT to be eaten still more.

“I never thought of that,” said Bres.

“And you’ve caught no fish,” said the old man.

The boy looked over at his grandfather and his smile turned sly,”but grandfather, you haven’t caught a fish either.”

“Oh ho,” laughed the man, and he reached over to tickle the boy, “do you think I don’t know where the fish are?  I’ve caught more fish than you’ve eaten. I just didn’t want to make you feel bad.”

The plump little boy squealed with delight, “oh grandfather.”

“Let me help you boy.  Why I know where the Bass of Knowledge lies right over there in the pond.”

“The Bass of Knowledge?” Bres asked skeptically.

“Why it’s the biggest meanest fish anywhere around here.  It has lived for a hundred years at least and all that time it has listened to the whispering of the wind and the murmur of the land and it has rested in this pond near the Dagda, so it has heard all his dreams too.”

“The Dagda?  What is the Dagda?” asked Bres, fishing and the Bass of Knowledge forgotten for the moment. 

Bres was the man’s favorite grandson, though he knew he shouldn’t have favorites, and the man was no doubt Bres’ favorite grandfather too.  The man always took pride in how he had a nose for a story.

“Bres my boy, let’s give the Bass of Knowledge a little more time to listen to the wind and to the land and to the giant’s dreams. Let’s you and I have a walk and a stretch and I’ll tell you about the Dagda.”  They pulled in their lines and set them aside, then hand in hand they walked up the hill that held the little pond in its embrace.

These fragments of the lore of Tir na Nua are presented raw, first draft, and unedited. I apologize for their original condition. However, my first priority is to capture sketches, so to speak, of the people and places of Tir na Nua. I have promised Free Celtic Fiction and before I can shape these sketches into more polished works I need to write these drafts. I share them, as they are, while I try to find the time to improve them. — LSO

 Read the beginning of this story: the Red Son of Concubar

the Coming of CuRuada the Red Son of Concubar

Nine days after Concubar’s tryst with the deer woman of the wood, the king was feasting in his great hall with his Red Branch warriors.  They would not leave off asking him about the woman and what was said between them.  Some of his men felt that it was good fortune and some were worried it was ill, but Concubar wished only that he could find the woman again.  How can I, Concubar thought, when I don’t even know her name?

Cathbad the, chief druid of Ulster, came into the hall in distress, “My lord Concubar, there is trouble on the hurley pitch.  The boys troop has cornered another boy and are beating him to death.”

Concubar sighed, “Boys will be boys, must I truly drag them from their prey?  What is this other boy to me?  Perhaps the troop has good cause.  Did you think of that Cathbad?”

“As to who the boy is, I can not say, but his cloak marks him as a prince and the broach upon it says he is the son of a king,”  said Cathbad, “And if you would know who he might be to you you’d best stop them soon or there will be no finding it out until the king, who is his father comes looking for his son.  I doubt he will be pleased.”

So the king rose from his couch and went to the hurley pitch with haste, all his warriors with him.  Now a king among the Gael must rule by right of a choosing.  He must be strong in body, perfect, and strong in voice so that his commands will be heard and obeyed. 

Concubar was without peer and his commands were always followed, so powerful was his voice.  So Concubar shouted with his commanding voice, “See here, stop beating that boy,”  said Concubar.

Even his command would not stop the boys.  So shocking was this that Concubar said not another word, but began to pull the boys off one at a time and throw them to his warriors, who’s sons they were.  When Concubar reached the bottom of the scrum he found Donall, the son of the champion, Cormac, and a little fellow with hair like flame of fire.

“Leave off you two! What is the meaning of this?”  shouted Concubar, and finally the boys stopped their struggles.  “What mischief are you all up to Donall?”

Donal answered, “This little fellow came and said that he wanted to play at hurley with us.  Nobody can play with the boy’s troop unless he be worthy, so we asked his name, but this little fellow would not say it, he claimed he was bound by his gesa not to give his name except to the king.”

Another boy piped up, “He wouldn’t say, so we told him he couldn’t play.  Then he stole our sliotar and carried it off to the goal.”

“Liar, I stole nothing, I only wanted to play.” said the little fellow.

“. . . so when he put the sliotar in the goal we confronted him.  Without permission and giving his name he should not play at hurley with the boys troop.” said Donall

“I have as much right as anyone here.” shouted the little fellow.

All the boys started to yell at that and curse him. “After that he attacked us.” said Donall

“Another lie! You pushed me down first.” howled the little red-haired boy.

“This one little boy attacked you?  All of you?” Asked the king.

“He is a demon or worse! He broke Felmid’s arm and who knows what else?” said Donall.

“This little fellow?” asked Concubar again, and the boys troop was shamed to silence.

Concubar set the two boys down.  He looked around at the boys, many of which had woundings and some who sat on the ground nursing broken bones, and the king wondered, who could this child be?

Concubar turned to the little fellow. “So boy, what is your name?”  he asked not unkindly.  He looked sternly in the boys face, but he found no fear there at all.

“I told them and I’ll tell you or anyone else, I can tell my name to none but the king, it is a gesa on me.”  Then it was that Concubar saw that the cloak he wore was outsized for one so small for it was a man’s cloak, a king’s cloak, indeed Concubar saw that it was his cloak pinned with his broach and on the childs hand was his ring.

A Story that Grows in the Telling

Everything that happens, if it involves more than one person, will have two or more opinions about what actually happened.  The truth, if there is such a thing, will be somewhere among the opinions.  I think a legend at its base is a story that grows in the telling, resonating more and more with the audience, while it grows less and less true to its origin. 

A legend, to a storyteller, is too good to pass up.  In fact it is opportunity after opportunity to tell it plain, but instead, the bard, or skald, or elder decides to tell it so they see eyes grow wide, eyes that are rivetted on the storyteller. 

Fables provide lessons (and often talking animals), Myths explain gods and their interactions with people, Epics follow a series of critical events.  Epic Fable?  Mythological Epic?  Lore applies to the collected stories of a people, perhaps it is their stories that make them a people.  All these names for stories are words to describe stories of different flavors, but all of them, in someway, provide cultural cohesion.  Don’t you think?

J. R. R. Tolkien set out to provide what he felt his people lacked, a mythos for the British people.  It was Epic, it was Mythical, it spoke to me and continues to, as a reader, I hated to see it end.  Really, I hated the end, it seemed to me that Grey Havens was one of the sadest personal tragedies that I’ve endured.  Fine for Frodo and Bilbo, I’m sure Merry and Pippin and of course Sam all got on fine, but for me that world just ended.  There is a hole.

The nearest thing to the feeling of exploration and discovery that I got with LOTR is the discovery of Irish Mythology.  It is not in a neat package like LOTR.  It doesn’t have just one imaginer.  But it is an exciting and involving subject.  The hole is partly filled.

But I want more.  Sometimes you have to supply your own needs, like almost all the time you do so, I am in the process of writing several novels, but on the way to that I offer these thoughts, insights, resources, and diversions of interest to me and, I hope, to you.  Here I hope to gather legends and lore, notes on antiquity, and present day reality.

For now, welcome and please tell me what you like or you don’t.  I value your insights; I value your eyes, riveted, grown wide.

A Story Told (and told and told)

I’m a man with a story.  Even my name, O’Neill, has tales attached to it (like this one of the Hand Gules that is prominent in our heraldry,) but don’t we all?  I love old tales, tales of heroes, tales of real people in strange times and strange people in real times.  I have wanted to write such tales and, prodded by my friend, Jeffery, I have. 

I’ve just completed the first draft of a short story.  In the end Concerning The Deer Riders wandered a bit farther than I had anticipated.  Legendary wanderings?  You can read Concerning the Deer Riders yourself and see what you think.

I’ve begun a novel.  I am offering my unedited first draft as I write it.  When Jeffery first convinced me to try this format I realized that the first job was to get some content up and quick.  As such, my first use has been something of an artist’s sketchbook, an author’s notepad.  I do believe there is value in this.  Eventually it may be of use to other struggling writers to see the story of my struggle and see process as positive or negative example or even to provide encouragement by comparison.

Dear reader, I am a new novelist and at present I believe that my best chance of developing is getting something out there.  If you disagree please tell me, perhaps I will progress on several tracks. putting out raw very rough drafts and going back through past stories to sharpen and polish them.  Here is the novel beginnings: Intro to and  Beginning of The Abbot and the Djinn. Follow my progress HERE.

Of late I feel that I’ve put quite a bit of ore on these pages.  It is probably time to refine, to polish, to hammer some of these tales into something better than they were.  So now, we begin the  “. . . and told and told and told” part of the writers craft.  Find my polished stones here.

Tir na Nua

I have imagined a world apart.  A land out of time.  Now, on Earth, there is little doubt about some things which have happened, have passed into history.  These things are written.  Before and between the stone of what is written are legends of things not written, but perhaps true none-the-less. 

Tir na Nua is neither and both.  Have you wished that there was a land where the Celtic world did not fall beneath the Roman?  Have you wondered what that world might have been?  Such things have happened in the new land and we have word of it, remembered by bards, lineage by rote, History in mind and on their lips.  I bring these stories.

At one time folk we identify now as Celtic dominated much of Europe. Except for ruins, and votive offerings, and the words of enemies, and a very few scratchings on stones we have nothing left of these people.  To imagine a Celtic world like insular Ireland one must imagine the real, because there is little enough to instruct us as to what that real, Earthly world was like.  Enter the legend maker, the storyteller, the bard. 

I have had an interest in the real Celts, Gauls, Britons, Welsh, all the diverse tribes of a people who shared a way of life and an asthetic sense and language if not blood.  I want to gather material, post what I find, and get your reactions to topics of Antiquity, Celts in general, Insular Ireland, and of course my stories.

Sometimes I wish I dwelled in Tir na Nua, but instead I live in a much less misty, more pedestrian, and I would say, far less noble world.  Some things that come to my attention must not pass without comment.  I will comment on current events. (sorry if this is a buzz kill, please feel free to ignore all political rants of the author and return to escapist literature.) 

Content

I am working to put some of my scratchings, secreted away in numerous notebooks, into a form more conducive to your perusal and consumption.  These first draft stories and bits of back story are available at blog topics.

Here is a bit of that ever expanding effort? work? uh, drekk? Hopefully fascinating fiction.

I have in mind to collect many things here, but I want to produce for you stories of places outside of your experience (or anyones) and yet true and recognizable. You are welcome to browse as it accretes (I think this may be another Steveism. I should really look for it in some authoritative Dictionary.*) I will update metatags and such to reflect the sites altered state. It will never be done…

I pray I have not taxed your resources too much. Enjoy! Comment! Dispute! Encourage! Correct! Guide! Request!

Welcome to this,

LSO

PS. * ac·crete (-krt)

2. To grow or increase gradually, as by addition.

source