The rider’s horse was fine and his posture was ramrod straight.  As he approached, Iamerge recognized Rhaury Ui Birlinn.  He looked as if he’d had plenty of sleep and eaten well too, but perhaps that was Iamerge’s bitterness whispering in his ear. 

“Where are your brothers?” called down Rhaury from on high. 

Iamerge felt the urge to cut the man down to size, but he restrained himself.  Here is the man that may give me my money, best not offend him no matter my mood or his unintended provocation.  Instead of a sharp word, Iamerge smiled, “All of them are at their prayers, so I and Conal are left to see to the men.  I’m sure Gospels and the rest will be available directly.”

Rhaury looked puzzled, “You are not a member of their order?  I guess I assumed since you dress like them and were with Gospels that you were of their brotherhood.  I hope I didn’t give offense.”

“None taken.  Indeed Gospels rescued me from the sea out on the Skellig or I’d not be standing here today, clothed or no.  I was bound for Bellton, but was wrecked in a storm.”

“Truly?  Well that was good fortune.  These Monks, odd though they may seem to me, are a marvelous resource.  I do believe that it was good fortune for my men that Gospels and you came out to assist us.  More would have died, no doubt.”  Rhaury seemed to ponder where to go with the conversation from there while climbing down from his horse, “I came to see the men anyhow.  Perhaps I don’t need to speak to Gospels to see to them.”

“No, not at all, I’m sure that the men would be happy for a visit.”  Iamerge glanced at the bandages before adding, ”Those that would notice your coming anyhow.”  Rhaury looked pensive so Iamerge added, “We’re all in here, come say hello.”

Iamerge pushed the door open and went in ahead of Rhaury.  ”Welcome to our abode, the only one with a door,” quipped Iamerge.

Rhaury ducked as he entered, eyes flicking right and left to take in the interior. “That at least might need to change,”  He said half to himself as he walked into the room, ”Ah, I see Conal at least is well.”

The man beamed at Rhaury from where he lay, propped on his one elbow, “Hello there sir.  Aye, I’m well enough thanks to the brothers. . .” Conal glanced over at Iamerge before adding, “. . . and Iamerge of course.”

“It is good to see you in such good spirits,” said Rhaury.  “I’ve spoken to Niam, told her of your situation. . .”

Iamerge watched as Conal’s face fell, there was worry where Iamerge always found cheer.  Conal looked anywhere but at Rhaury or Iamerge, “I can’t see how I can be anything to her.” 

Rhaury walked over to the man’s bed and sat in thought for a moment, “It is a puzzle, but Niam might have a say in this, don’t you think?”

Iamerge didn’t want to feel like he was being imposed on, but he did.  Six times a day, interminably it felt sometimes, all the monks of the community were at prayer.  Only five men remained in the guesthouse-turned-hospital, but for all those hours of chanted obeisance to their god it was left to Iamerge to tend to the needs of that hand full of men.

And what needs.  Iamerge had never felt particularly paternal.  Of the children born to his wives it seemed likely that none were of his blood.  Perhaps that was not an excuse for his indifference to them, but it might well be a reason.  These men, in need of every sort of help, were not even known to him before a few days ago, and with the exception of Conal, he had no interest in continuing the association.

Conal, for his part, did what he could from his pallet.  The good-hearted, one-limbed, man supplied a needed interface between Iamerge and the others.  Iamerge had no sense of their need, nor desire to meet them, so as a team they managed, the cripple and malcontent.  Still the best that Conal could do was identify more tasks for Iamerge to do and the only reward was a little less moaning and complaining.

Iamerge sighed, dealing with foul smelling dressings on the fellow who Iamerge felt certain would die next seemed more than he could bear.  He stifled the wish that “whimpers in the night” (Iamerge’s name for the poor man) would succumb sooner rather than later. 

Despite the best efforts of the monks, Gospels in particular, three of the eight severely wounded that had crowded the guesthouse had died soon after the long trudge from the disaster.  Two of the fellows who had seemed fine and gone on to town, had grown worse and not died before Ui Birlinn could bring them out to Gospels.  Only one man, first admitted to the makeshift hospital, had rallied and asked to go home instead of staying with the monks.  Iamerge had some suspicion that at least one of men he was forced to tend was malingering, though this fellow, ”whimpers in the night,” at least, was not one of them.  And of course there was Conal, who was greviously wounded, but somehow didn’t seem like an inmate, but rather one of the monks now, just waiting to assume his duties.

Iamerge sighed again, the man whimpered, jabbering away in some strange dialect that Iamerge didn’t recognise at all.  It made the man even less appealing, an alien. 

“Steady there Jonesie,” said Conal, “You’re do’n fine.  Iamerge’s fix’n you up good and noth’n to worry about now.  You’re in the LORD’s house.”

The wounded man was delirious, Conal could talk himself blue and that wouldn’t do a thing for these infected wounds.  So Jonesie was the man’s name then, not whimpers at all.  Well, Jonesie, good luck to you, Lord’s house or no.  Iamerge let out yet another self pitying sigh. 

Conal mistook self-pity for concern, “Is it bad Iamerge?” 

“Is it as bad as it smells, do you mean?”  Iamerge barked and immediately repented of his harsh words, “It is bad enough to kill him if he doesn’t want to live, maybe even if he does.”

Conal considered the words, but found nothing further to say.  Iamerge finished with the bandages and took the mess with him toward the door and fresh air outside.  Leaving “whimpers in the night,” Jonesie rather, Iamerge reminded himself, as he walked by Conal who smiled at him encouragingly. 

It was too much.  Too much doing for men he didn’t care for.  Too much laying awake while they moaned in the night.  Iamerge looked out from the guesthouse down the hill and saw a rider coming toward the monastery.

When Rhaury Ui Birlinn arrived with fresh horses and men Gospels had already whipped the brothers, the wounded, and Ui Birlinn’s guard into an organized column ready to make their way home.  It was much easier for Iamerge to turn off his mind and simply do as he was told. 

None of the work was particularly strenuous, just lifting and carrying and moving this cart behind that.  There were the wounded to load.  Some of that was difficult, not for the work, but because so many of the men were sorely wounded, afraid, and in pain.

With ruthless efficiency and tender care, the monks prepared their charges and then stepped out on their way home.  The brother’s chanted songs of praise seeming to be alter them into a work song that gave tired muscles strength in their need.  Iamerge felt it himself but saw even more the effect on Conal.

Conal was one casualty who bore the pain and indignity with indomitable spirit and good cheer.  Iamerge naturally gravitated to the man so that when the column pulled out of the camp it was Conal’s cart that Iamerge walked with, helping to push the ungainly thing up out of the valley.  Once that difficult stretch was passed Iamerge could walk beside the cart and listen to the man chat about life and a future in the midst of a situation that Iamerge could never imagine having hope.

“. . . In the LORD I take refuge. How then can you say to me: “Flee like a bird to your mountain. For look, the wicked bend their bows; they set their arrows against the strings to shoot from the shadows at the upright in heart. . . “ the brothers sang.

Iamerge shook himself.  Not for the first time he realized that his defenses had gotten sloppy.  Walking along with the brothers he had forgotten completely about the threat that caused these men their injury in the first place.  Yet he’d walked along not even aware to the degree that he followed the psalm singing of the monks much less look to the flanks for possible snipers bent on murder.  glancing around and cursing his laxity he noted that Ui Birilinn’s men were cautious even if he was not.  There were outriders he could see moving swiftly up and down the column as well as a few men in among the wounded as well.

“What is it Iamerge?” ask his charge.

Iamerge glanced over and saw that Conal looked distressed himself.  He was flushed and obviously uncomfortable, “I could ask you the same.”  Iamerge shook himself. ”I’ve no complaints.  My feet are a bit sore. . .” Iamerge realized his stupidity too late.  He looked over at Conal and would have apologized profusely, but Conal only laughed.

“I only wish I didn’t have the same problem.  I know they’re gone, but they hurt all the same.”  Conal cleared his throat, “Fact is, I’d really like some of that birch tea.”

“I’ll see if I can get you some,” said Iamerge.

“I’d thank you for it Iamerge,” said Conal, laying back on his pallet.

“I’ll get you some.” said Iamerge as he left to find what he could along the column.

Tir na Nua means the new land.  That is appropriate, as I work out both detail and the craft of writing here on these pages.  New can mean rough and unrefined, but it can also mean fresh.  I hope, more than the former, that my take on Celtic myth and legend and in particular Irish lore, is a fresh take on a fascinating people and time.  The why and how of what I’m doing on these pages are on my Author’s page: HERE

I have in mind several novels, but I had made little progress putting them on paper in a traditional manner.  A friend encouraged me to write a blog and I decided to do it when I realized that I could write fiction in a blog format instead of engaging in the usual navel gazing that populates my conception of what a blog is (in particular one that I might write.)

SO, to begin writing, I have taken breaks and lunches at my current J.O.B. to fictionalize.  I think of these stories as my writer’s note-book, writing exercises, process, and I confess that they are rough because they are not well thought out AND because it has been a pretty long time since I’ve done much more than think about writing.

Anyway, here is a page that gives access to some of these Stories.

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Free CELTIC Fiction

My hope is to create fiction that speaks to the Celtic Heart.  I have enjoyed the journey of discovery that I’ve taken starting with the name of an ancient Irish King, Niall Noigillach. 

I’m a little nervous that my current skill does not do it justice, nervous to present what I have done so far.  I found myself writing about Eskimos and Ismaelites and the Elven instead of what I really intend to present.  Well, that should not be.  Warts and all here is a new story that I rip from Celtic legend and set in my new world, Tir na Nua, the Red Son of Concubar.

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   Rough Draft Fiction Free Online

After all, 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.

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My Polished Stones

Since this is my process, a good deal of it is rough here as I begin.  My hope is to get better and better at writing Celtic Fiction so that reading it free will become a bargain and not a chore.  I plan to work on a few of my stories to make works of fiction closer to my potential.  That is, I plan to polish them by rewriting them for your reading pleasure and in particular the reading pleasure of those who might come across this sight and have little patience for my early fumblings unfiltered from my imagination?

Recently I’ve realized that I should not.  My first goal was to get something, anything here, secondly I NEEDED to write because it had been a long time since I had.  I have courted your opinion to no effect, but then why should I expect it?  Do I read other’s work and offer up my opinion, my help?  Not recently and can I help? 

So, I intend to polish up a few of the stories that have accumulated.  The raw novelization of the Abbott and the Djinn will continue, undoubtedly I’ll put up more unfiltered imaginings like the Deer Riders and Child of Moss.  Then, in a section before those unpolished stones, I will begin to offer some that have had my attention and effort so that you can judge me or at least have a better chance of being reliably entertained.  Some may read on to the raw.  HERE is the page that will list the more polished work. (it is currently empty <sigh>)

I hope this explains some of the why of me.  For now, welcome, and please tell me what you like or you don’t.  I value your insights.

LSO

Iamerge found his way back to the warmth of the fire and the attentions of the monks.  Hebrews saw him first and quickly saw to his cut.  Iamerge was relieved there were no questions, but Hebrews’ curious glances built a need in him to confess.

When he could stand it no more he blurted out, “I couldn’t bear to see Conal die right there beside me, I don’t know why.  I ran off and got tangled in the brush.”  The heat on his neck wasn’t from the fire.

Hebrews’ brow furrowed in thought, “Is that the fellow who had his legs crushed by the ox cart?  I think he is well as can be expected.”

“Surely not, he was all blood and bandages and slipping off to sleep, I thought forever.”

“Not so.  God is good.  He slept for a bit, but he woke as we sang office and I brought him some strong birch tea.”

Perhaps a god who would let a man so mauled live was not so kind as all that, Iamerge thought to himself but said, “That is good news.”

“Perhaps you can see him, if you like.  He asked after you.” Hebrews’ smile was guileless and without reproach, but Iamerge wondered if he in fact intended to heap coals of guilt on his head for abandoning the man.  Whether he meant it or not the effect was the same, Iamerge was guilty.

“I will,” Iamerge allowed.  He began to rise and Hebrews was standing beside to help him up.  “Thanks.” Iamerge turned away as he spoke so he wouldn’t have to see Hebrews or be seen by the man.  His face was hot with embarrassment.

Fortunately, the blue light of Spark hid the color on his face.  Gospels caught him to hand him two bowls of gruel and asked after the bandage on his head.  He had to admit to his cowardice again.  Gospels seemed unfazed and directed him to take the other bowl to Conal as if the monk hadn’t heard him say that he’d run off into the night to avoid the man.

The blue light made Conal look ghastly.  His eyes closed, Iamerge couldn’t believe that the mangled man wasn’t dead, but after a pause to stare, Iamerge saw that Conal’s chest was rising and falling with quick shallow breath.

“Is that breakfast I smell?” said Conal in a weak voice.

Iamerge was pretty certain he jumped, but Conal’s eyes were closed and he rallied well enough, “Yes, I think Gospels made it for us both with his own hands.”

“Truly?” murmured Conal, blood shot eyes opening and a smile spreading across his haggard face, “Did Gospels really do that?  That’s nice.  Thanks for bring’n it Iamerge.”

Iamerge wasn’t sure what to do.  He had never been a nurturer, not naturally.  He sat down awkwardly near enough to feed the other man, he assumed he would have to and fretted about how one should do so.  Before he could set his own bowl aside and take up the spoon, Conal reached for the nearest bowl and balanced it on his chest with practiced ease.

Conal winked, “I lost my other arm years ago.  I’ve got pretty good with the one.” With not another word the one armed man began to eat eagerly.