Oatie was moving quickly up the hill.  The exuberance of youth.  No respect for elders, thought Lugh.  He was about to ask her what the rush was when she stopped, looking out from where she stood.  Lugh saw that it was the top of the ridge and he saw that she was gazing out over the landscape below.

“I love this view,” Oatie said.

It was beautiful, the land laid out in green and blue, a patchwork of wilderness.  Perhaps more to a Norfolk like Oatie who might think, there’s where I planted those trees, hey look there is my field of wildflowers.  “I see what you mean.  You can see for miles up here.”

She looked at him and smiled, “Know what you don’t see?”

He scanned the land laid out before him.  It was beautiful, there were lakes, hills crowned with trees, swaths of color, but it was a puzzle to him what she meant.  He looked back the way they came, searching for some idea.  Strangely, but not really, the Norfolk intended, but still, it was surprising that the world seemed as empty behind them as before, “I can’t even see the sidhe from here.”

She laughed again, “That’s it!” Without another word Oatie Moss began to march down the path, whistling as she went.

Lugh paused to look around a bit more and to ponder.  He hadn’t pegged Oatie as being anti-social.  Perhaps she had her reasons.  Lugh, for his part, was accustomed to solitary periods.  Fleeing for one’s life makes it preferable, but Lugh thought he mostly liked to be around people.  Whatever, his current company had improved.  He thought, It seems that Oatie might not actually hate me at all, but rather she might have suffered the oppression of the thick human soup that was life in the sidhe. 

Lugh started after Oatie.  Not for the first time, he wondered why he found her so intriguing.  Then she turned and smiled at him and there was no more reason to think.

Scota and Teutates fought side by side.  Wave after wave of Lyr’s raiders broke against their shields and were thrown back by spear and sword.  There were always more who came, pounding relentlessly like the sea.

“Too many,” panted Teutates, “They are like the endless coils of a snake.”

“We can beat him,” Scota cried, “Shut up and just keep fighting.”

“No, this is Lyr’s doing, but we could kill all his armies and not stop him.” Tuetates caught a heavy blow with his shield and casually stabbed the frenzied axeman in the unprotected thigh. The man howled in pain and rage, rearing back for another savage blow.  Teutates ducked past the man and drove his short sword through the man’s back and into his heart, his return stroke hamstrung another warrior.

Moira dispatched the stumbling cripple with a quick thrust through the man’s throat, “So we run?” The bitter contempt in Scota’s voice made Teutates shiver.”

“Not that,” Teutates pulled a spear from a corpse and hurled it through a skinny raider with a ridiculous horned helmet and a sword, “We waste our strength on Lyr’s coils,” Teutates pointed his bloody sword toward the cluster of sheilds and spears on a small rise around the standard of their brother, Lyr, the lord Balor to his raiders, “There is the head!”

“Cut it off and the serpent dies.  The bloody head is the thing,” Scota gathered like a storm cloud.

She was beautiful in her rage, but all Teutates said was, “I love you Ota,” his words were lost in the battle noise.  Louder he commanded, “Organize our guard into the kind of spear-point that can reach that standard, I’ll get with our commanders to thin our way.”  He did not look to see if she would do her part, he knew her.

The forces opposing Balor were hard pressed, but a line was formed and a broad push launched at Balor’s spear bristled hill.  A thin line of reserves was withheld and Teutates and Scota, with their guard, prepared to exploit their enemies lack of discipline from a tight packed wedge formed up behind the screen.  The push seemed to threaten to reach even to Lyr himself before it was thrown back.  With a nod from Teutates the recall was sounded and the assault seem to dissolve in disarray.

Teutates watched as the rabble around Balor’s command began to pursue what seemed to be their opponents fleeing after one last attempt.  Satisfied that all was well he ordered the charge and the war horns sounded the charge.

Beside him Scota screamed, “Crush the Head!” and as one they drove toward their brother Lyr’s battle standard, the bloody flag of Balor of the Fomor, with black murder in their hearts.

Their hand picked warriors surged after.  It was a hero’s charge, enemies fell to the left and right.  Their narrow wedge thrust into the confused Fomor ranks, bringing destruction.  Teutates’ powerful sword arm wrought death on the right while Scota’s brilliant sword work killed foes to the left, hundreds fell.  Nothing survived between them and Lyr’s shield wall, nor did it stand before the two gods of the Gael, but their guard was slaughtered behind them.

It only took a moment to see they’re success was a trap.  Swords pressed them on all sides.  They fought on, grimly taking wound after wound until Teutates fell unconscious and Scota’s sword slipped from her bloody hand.  She collapsed to the ground next to her husband and expected quick death.

It did not come for her.  “Good,” Boomed a commanding voice, “I wanted to have a word with you sister.”  Scota looked up to see a hulking shape that seemed to squat on a sort of mobile dais.  With a wave from lord Balor, who was her brother Lyr, the press of soldiery stepped back, “You’re looking lovely Scota.”

“I’ve looked better,” murmured Scota, “But you, Lyr, look like a hideous bloated toad.”  There were gasps all around.  Scota wiped the sweat from her face, replacing it with a smear of blood from her arm.

Lyr chuckled, unconcerned, “You see?  This is how we gods converse, one big happy family.”

Scota laughed without humor but made no more comment.

“I always admired you Scota. . .”

This she couldn’t let pass, “I’d rather die than let you touch me.”

“I do what I like,” said Balor without heat.

“Not to me . . .”

Balor shrugged his thick shoulders and chided, “I think you know better than that.  I can do to you whatever I wish.  Question is, do you want to live sweet sister?”

“I told you, I would rather die than sleep with you Lyr.”

Lyr laughed derisively, “You flatter yourself, it’s not your (body) I want.  I like your violence.”  Lyr rose and stepped off his dais.  He was very nearly seven feet tall, thickly muscled and massive.  Only a bloated paunch hanging at his waist spoiled the martial effect.  He hefted a huge double bitted battle-axe one handed, and with ease.  “Choose Scota, life or death, it’s up to you, sister.”  Lyr was a far larger man than Scota remembered, he’d not stopped growing in his over 200 years. “Killing you both just leaves me with two less headaches.” Lyr stepped closer, menacing, swinging his great axe.

Scota glanced around her feet, desperate to find her sword.  She looked up to see Lyr smirking, obviously reading her, but not caring.  Their eyes locked, but Lyr’s smirk didn’t change.  What was she missing? Did he want to kill her himself?

Lyr’s eyes flicked away and he nodded. A soldier with a spear, standing out from the general press, raised his spear and drove it into Teutates’ chest.  It must have killed him instantly because even the man twisting and wrenching the spear free of her husband’s body didn’t illicit any response from Teutates.

“No!” Scota heard herself scream.  Lyr’s laughter lent everything a nightmarish quality.  Scota threw herself across Teutates body.  His eyes were staring sightless and his jaw was slack.  Scota’s hand closed around the hilt of a sword.  As quick as thought and before the spear-man could bring his bloody spear to bear Scota shoved the sword into the man’s guts.  She leaned against the man, taking pleasure in watching the light go out of his eyes, before shoving his corpse back and off her sword.

Lyr seemed to find this extra measure of death even funnier.

Scota turned on Lyr, but made no move.  Balor, god of the Fomor, stood casually with his axe resting on his shoulder, “I never liked him,” said Lyr.

For a moment, Scota thought he meant the spear-man she had just killed, but Balor was looking at Teutates body, “Why did you kill him?”

“Because I do what I like,” Lyr stared at her a moment, during her perhaps, “It seems to me you’ve chosen life, wise.” Lyr nodded to the other body on the ground, “The man you just killed was the captain of one of my elite battalions.”

“Do you expect . . .”

“Shut-up Scota, I am the lord Balor and not even a goddess may interrupt.” Lyr shouted her down.  Lyr spoke loud enough for all to hear. “There is a price for raising your hand against a god, even if your are obeying the orders of another.  In this case death.”  Then to Scota, “You killed my captain, so I’m making you captain, his battalion is yours.”  Without another word Balor turned and walked to his dais.

“You’re mad!” Scota shouted, baffled.

Balor sat his seat and with a wave he was raised onto the shoulders of his bearers. “Use them wisely, sweet sister.”  The heavy platform turned slowly away so Balor had plenty of time to call back over his shoulder to where Scota stood stunned. “Your second is one of my sons.  I got him on some whore.  What was your mother’s name boy?”

“The lady Angelata Morel my lord.” called a handsome young man.

“Meet your second, Andalyr.  Andy, my sister Scota goddess of the Gael,” Balor chuckled to himself, amused by his wit or simply mad, “He’s half a god himself, so don’t kill him.  He’ll be of use to you.”

With blaring trumpets and shouted orders, Balor left the field.  Scota was left on the little hill with two dead bodies, and her five hundred.

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?”

The giant cauldron hung above a fire that had settled back to a sullen red glow.  Cathbad sat staring into the embers, deep in thought or devoid of it, while his druid assistants tended the cauldron, chanted, or fidgeted nervously.  Few enough of the small-folk remained, but when word of war had filtered out with those that had left, the men who would fight it began to gather to hear the words of the chief druid.

CuRuada had been seeking Emer at the fair, but he could not find her.  Indeed, Emer and her father had left for the ford of the Red where they lived.  CuRuada’s fellows brought him the exciting word of war predicted by the druid, Cathbad.  With them, Cu gathered near the chanting druids and the blackened cauldron with the other warriors, though the boys of the troop hung together.

CuRuada saw his destiny plain.  He must take up arms today.  As in other things he must excel to claim his bride.  CuRuada knew that the ceremony where young men took up their arms was normally held after the yearly sacrifice and druid divination.  Waiting was torment.  His friends in the boys troop were eager to be men, but Cu needed to be one.  Emer was reason enough and more.

CuRuada opened the carved box and stared at the broach and the knife.  When I take up arms there is no one who can keep me from you Emer.

Murmurs among the assembled men brought CuRuada out of his reverie.  Druids were bringing boiled meat out of the cauldron with meat hooks.  Some of it had already been spread out to cool and Cathbad was methodically eating what was placed before him.  This then was the beginning of the Consumption Vision.  Cathbad would eat all the bullock and after that there would be a vision of great power.

But a man eating can hold attention only so long, for the boys troop less than most.  Their whispered conversation was frowned on by the warriors around about them for awhile, but soon enough the process of Cathbad eating the bull could not hold even grizzled old warriors attention and they joined the boys in murmured conversation.

“I shall take up arms today, if the druid will ever finish his meal,” boasted Conor, a boy of the troop.

“Best think twice Conor, this of war is no business for mere boys,” said Conall, the champion’s son.

“I suppose a shan’t be able to with my arm as it is,” pouted Felmid.

“HAH!” scoffed Conor, “I’d not worry about my arm if I were you.  Better that you grow a couple more years before you think of it, Felmid.”

Felmid shouldered Conor with his good arm, “What do you know, you’re only three months older.”

“Hush now, have you no respect?” said Conall, “Think twice before you take up arms.  There are two ends to a spear.  Make sure you can stay on the right end of it.”

“I will take up arms today,” stated CuRuada flatly.  The druid was still eating, but CuRuada had no more stomach for this show, “Come get me when it is time to take up my arms.”  Without another word he walked off toward where people were gathering their things to depart.  CuRuada went first to where the Lokian smith had been and finding his booth gone went looking for him among the carts and wains of the people leaving the fair grounds.

“That is an odd fellow,” Remarked Conor.

“. . . Said the boy with more freckles than face,” Felmid laughed, but yowled when Conor thumped him on his broken arm.

“Hush you,” whispered Conall, and the boys all fell silent, “Have you no respect?”  Conall pointed to the diaz where Cathbad was finishing his meal.

Cathbad took from an assistant a huge bowl of broth mingled with blood and slowly began to drink.  His helpers hovered near as the great druid finished the last of the bull.  Cathbad dropped the bowl and held his arms out.

There was sudden noise of chanting and drumming the cauldron was drawn off the fire and fragrant incense was cast on the coals.  Others of the druids waved censers about spreading still more fragrant smoke.  In the midst of it all Cathbad sat with his arms held out. 

Then an elder druid came toward Cathbad struggling under the weight of the bullocks hide he bore, eight others carried a platform of sorts with handles where the druids held it up.  The elder shook out the bloody hide and with the help of some of the younger assistants wrapped Cathbad, already red with the blood of the sacrifice, in the bloody skin of the sacrifice.

The eight druids with the elder lifted Cathbad onto the platform which the they then lifted onto their shoulders with Cathbad, entranced, upon it.  The general noise died to silence as the elder druid took up a censer and began to chant.  He led the bearers down off the dais and all the druidry who had been helping with the vision quest fell in behind in a sort of procession.  Everyone else stood or sat around the empty dais as the procession moved off, Cathbad above all on the shoulders of the bearers.  The thin voice of the elder druid was joined by the assembly as they slowly walked away.

“What now?” asked Felmid.

Conall and several older warriors around stared at him disapprovingly.  Conor whispered, unabashed, “Cathbad sleeps off his big meal, has his vision, and then we all hear.”

Felmid considered this for a moment before commenting, “Why in the world did we stand here waiting?”

Conor shrugged, Conall frowned, and an elder warrior not far off shushed louder than Felmid’s comment.  Conall muttered under his breath, “have you no respect?”

Meanwhile CuRuada searched for the smith.  He strode along the long line of carts and wagons looking for the short dark Lokian.  When he would have almost stopped he saw the man with his wagon and team.  On seeing him Cu couldn’t imagine what he would say.  The man made up his mind for him when he looked back, and seeing the young warrior, motioned him forward.

When CuRuada walked up beside the wagon the little man called down, “Don’t tell me that you’ve come looking for another gift for yet another lady friend.”  CuRuada’s look of horror made the black-haired metal-worker laugh.  “No?  Well that’s good to hear.  How did your friend like the gift?”

“I don’t know, I couldn’t find her.  Likely left with the rest; left like you.”

“Likely so. . .” said the smith. “So why come see me?”

CuRuada shrugged, “I couldn’t stand waiting for the chief druid’s vision quest.  It’s a hard thing to watch a man eat and eat.  Afterward is the ceremony where boys take up their arms and become men.  I need to take up arms today.”

“The only good reason to wait that I can see is so you don’t miss something you have to have.”

“That is good advice.  Now I owe you twice over, how shall I repay you?”

The dark Lokian laughed, ”There’s no need.”  He thought for a moment and then leaned out of his wagon looking Cu directly in the eyes, “But some day you and your friend could come see me.  I’d like to see that brooch completed.” His blue eyes danced with mischief before he added, ”My name be Goffanon the smith.  Beyond the Red Branch and up in the hills the folk know my name and the paths to my forge.  Seek me when you would find me.”

CuRuada waved, “I will come Goffanon, so says CuRuada.”

With that he rein whipped his team to better speed to close up the gap between his wagon and the next in line.  He shouted back at Cu, “Don’t forget to bring that girl of yours too.”

CuRuada turned to walk back along the cart track.  Far back along the way he saw Conor and Felmid walking toward him.  At that he remembered the smith’s advice and began to run toward his fellow boys troop members.

“Hey there Cu!” shouted Conor, “If you plan to take up arms today you best come at once.  Cathbad has eaten and his vision can’t be far off.”

“How long did we stand around while he ate?” asked Felmid, “I’m sure it can’t come as soon as we would want.”  Felmid fiddled with his splinted arm, “Not that I’ll be taking up arms.”

“I must,” stated CuRuada flatly striding toward the diaz where he had watched the druid’s divination sacrifice.

Conor and Felmid were hard pressed to keep up with him. “Hey now, hair on fire,” Conor jibbed, Felmid laughed at that encouraging him, ”What’s all the hurry for?  Cathbad has predicted war and death, of course the king isn’t too worried about that.  Kings don’t do the dying.”

Felmid broke into a jog that had him clutching his splinted arm in one way and another until he found a comfortable way to hold it.  “Yeah, at least hear what Cathbad’s Consumption Vision has to say. . .”

“It matters not.  I will take up my arms today.”

Conor and Felmid shrugged at each other and fell in behind CuRuada as he strode toward the crowd of men awaiting the Chief Druid’s vision.  As the three of them approached, there was a flurry of activity and the elder druid walked up the stairs and onto the dais followed by an entourage of younger druids.

This fellow was not so theatrical, for as soon as his following entourage took up their places around him he began to read from a wand scratched with runes.  “This is the vision of Cathbad, hear and know the future if you can understand it.” The old man’s voice boomed out over the audience, “Indeed there will be war.  This will waste the good foaling and the fine fishing and what should be blessed will be bitter.  Many will die both in fighting and for greed and for cursing that comes of war.”  The druid spoke derisively, looking down his nose at the king, “All this but reinforces what Cathbad saw from the liver and the entrails.” 

“It was the chief druid’s choice, get on with it.” said Concubar.

The old turned his eyes to where the young men gathered, “Only this word remains, this for the young, this warning before war.  The first to take up arms today will gain fame at the cost of his life, will be showered with glory, remembered forever for his deeds.  Wait you!  Know that glorious is his life, but short.  This Cathbad saw, great his deeds but so soon his death.  This was Cathbad’s seeing and we know that it is true.

Good to have a famous name, but to die young was a bitter thing.  The older of the boys troop hesitated.  Even Conall considered. 

Single-minded, CuRuada pushed through his fellows, “I will take up my arms today.  Better to be remembered than to die in a bed.”  Hearing this Concubar was proud because CuRuada was his son though he did not make it generally known.

The elder druid turned away and to his fellows he said, “This too was Cathbad’s seeing and we see it is true.”

I am forced by the format of this Blog to name the post as I begin writing.  Often it does not go as I anticipate and I want to end a post before the story really warrants it, or the story turns and the title does not reflect well the content.  In this case there are a number of things happening that occur before or during Cathbad’s vision (which we don’t actually see) and so this title seems a bit forced as does the ending and the vision.  This last for reason of wanting to wrap up a post while still offering the information promised in the title.  Hopefully I can improve the uneveness if/when I rewrite this tale.

LSO

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.