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.

Lugh sat comfortably beneath the spreading oak.  He’d found the perfect spot, between two roots and the moss, soft, but not at all wet.  His oak sat a little rise that overlooked a lovely meadow.  There were wildflowers in profusion, butterflies, and swallows were busy swooping over the tangle.

This was a fine place he had to admit, and he congratulated himself for not believing what he had heard about the North.  “Oh, its all snow and ice, you don’t want to go there. No, no, its full of Giants and pixies with poison darts, you’d be mad to go there, all you will find is dry grass and the herd deer that eat it, both of them brown.”

There had been a time when that was so.  Lugh had seen the great ice wall, he’d known the Norfolk, lived with them when it wasn’t safe for him in the South.  As to giants, it seemed to him that they were fanciful.  No, the plains were beautiful in the Long Summer, and he was happy to be here enjoying it.

A family of herd deer walked into sight.  There was a breeze in his face so Lugh guessed that they wouldn’t catch his scent, he sat quietly in the deep shadow of the tree so he knew they’d not be spooked by the sight of him either.  All the deer, but the young ones had antlers, but the obvious king of the family was a big buck with an amazing spread of a rack that looked about to tip him.  For a moment Lugh thought about trying to take the big animal, but he was far too comfortable and didn’t want to spoil the day with a lot of work.

Suddenly the king put his nose in the air and his ears back.  He bellowed a challenge or a warning and his harem gathered, their noses snuffling for the same scent.  The does and the calves all jogged in Lugh’s direction, but the buck bellowed again and stood stiff legged facing away from Lugh and toward whatever had given him alarm.  The king pawed the earth, tearing up large divots before snorting his displeasure and jogging away after his herd.

Well, if the king was worried, perhaps Lugh ought to be too.  He took the precaution of stringing his bow and loosening the arrows in his quiver.  He stood and tossed his pack up into the lower branches of the tree and planned a good route of climb if that should become necessary.  Precautions taken, Lugh waited to see what might come that had so unsettled the herd deer.

He had to laugh when a small girl with a goat wandered out of the young saplings at the edge of the clearing and strolled nonchalantly into the meadow.  She had bright blond hair and lovely summer browned skin. 

Much like the Deer Riders, the thought that I might do a little vignette has burgeoned into a whole story in my mind.  I thought to do it all in one post, but that isn’t going to happen at all.  Again, this involves the deer riders, the Norfolk, as I’ve named them, but I also introduce another of the long lived humans, this one of the true original “Children of Dana” intended by Dana to be the gods of Tir na Nua.  Oatey Moss, the little Norfolk woman (she looks young for her age) is involved with giants and so there are three major revelations about Tir na Nua in this one story.

LSO