With the day fast dying and a down hill trail, Lugh focused on keeping up.  There were plenty of sites to see, little ponds, forests, flower filled meadows, all bathed in sunset richness of color, and of course, Oatie.

Oatie would spring off the trail whenever she saw firewood.  Lugh’s burden grew as he struggled to keep up with her and balance the load while she kept adding dry stick after stick.  It wasn’t too long and she stopped by a little meandering stream.  The place was the remains of a silted in pool caused by an avalanche long ago.  The grass was lush and the ground, soft and forgiving.  Lugh lay his firewood next to where Oatie had dropped her’s.  She was already returning with some rocks and a few more trips had a hearth of stones laid with a fire merrily burning and the stars shining above them.

Oatie seemed accustomed to making camp and Lugh had no objection to letting her do the lion’s share.  Soon there was something cooking in both their pots.  Lugh lay on the thick grass and wondered if he could remain awake long enough for dinner.  The smell was enticing, but the deepening night, and the long day’s hike was a powerful sedative.  Lugh found himself dosing as Oatie tended the camp.

Oatie stirring up the fire and pulling the pots from the coals woke Lugh from his light slumber, “Hey there sleepy-head.  You need to eat.  We have another long walk tomorrow.” 

Lugh groaned and rolled onto his belly.  Oatie was fussing with the fire on the other side of the pit.  The light made her skin look golden and her hair glowed like fire itself.  Lugh shook off his torpor, “Hey, if there’s food to eat, I’ll eat it.”

“Well, come and get it.  The least you can do is come this far since I made it,” Oatie chided, but smiled as he approached, “I guess you aren’t used to hiking that hard.”

“I guess not.”  I do my share of walking, especially of late.  Truth is, I had to leave some fine horses when I came North. . .” Lugh realized he didn’t really want to broach the subject of his expulsion from his previous accommodations.  He was surprised by his embarrassment, he flushed hot, but the heat of the dancing flames served to cover his blush.  “What have you made?  It smells wonderful, better than anything I make on the road.”

Oatie beamed at his compliment, conveniently diverted from the sore subject of his infidelities.  “Taste and see,” she said, holding out a spoonful for him to sample.”

“That’s amazing.  What is it?  It’s delicious, how did you learn to cook so well?”

She was proud, but a little sad too as she explained, “When my mother died it was just me and Father.  My father was a hopeless cook, so I learned for survival reasons.  Do you really like it?”

Lugh nodded emphatically and reached for the pot. She playfully slapped his hands away.  “There’s enough for both of us.  Just wait a moment.”

Oatie hot handed a round loaf of fresh bread out of one of the pots and broke it in half.  One half of the loaf went on each pot lid. 

Lugh gasped, “Fresh bread? From a camp pot? How did you. . .”

Oatie playfully stuffed a small chunk of sweet warm bread in his mouth and Lugh was busy savoring it for a moment. “You don’t have anything else to work with and you learn, I guess.  Truth is I don’t usually bother, but I felt like showing off a little.”  Oatie laddled out hot stew into the bread bowls and there was quiet around the fire as they enjoyed the warm food.

At the fore were Ui Birlinn and his men.  They looked weary, and their horses looked worse.  Ui Birlinn pulled his horse out of line as he drew near Iamerge and Gospels, but he motioned the rest of the column on without him.

Rhaury Ui Birlinn smiled and nodded, “I’d not thought to see you again Gospels, but I am glad that there is some good that’s come of the day.”

“Some good and some bad.” said Gospels, “What did you find?”

Rhaury winced and looked down into the valley where the devastated caravan lay, “As to that, death, and some ruin.” He looked back at the two, “and yon caravan beset.”

“You saw who did this?”

“Yes, when I gave chase.  Gospels, you have never seen a more brutal lot.  Our caravan coming up behind these poor folk drove the monsters off, and when I came with the relief we pursued.  I think they are not used to being chased.  We caught them at camp farther down the valley.  I’d heard the reports of the guards who fought them, but I couldn’t imagine, can’t tell you.  These were not men, not in any sense that we know them, they were more like beasts.”

“So you think they were not of the family of man?  Did they bear some sigil, some banner?”

“Not that, they were a war band because they went armed.  Savage, fanged, long armed brutes, they were powerfully built, more than even the doughtiest warrior you’ve known.” Rhaury shook his head, “Nothing in my experience compares.  The largest might have been the height of a man if he stood straight, but they crouched, came at us with their weapons.  Most of them were much shorter than a man, but then they all may have weighed more, even the smallest.”  Rhaury eyes glazed as he remembered, “It was strange.  There were some that were short, as if they were of a size, by comparison, of a child, but they were all as murderous as the largest.  I think our horses were all that saved us.  A man and a horse over matched what they would otherwise tear to pieces.”

Gospels shuddered, “Do you think they are well gone then?”

“Who can say?  I have wounded that can ride and I’m taking them and my caravan to Beallton.  I’m sorry that I forgot to give the brothers word.  What errand brought you and your brother this far?  I advise you show proper caution, this all started last night.”

“We have more brothers coming  . . .”

“Gospels, I do not mean to say that I’ve abandoned those I’m leaving.  We need new horses and then we will return.  It is wretched what has happened to the other caravan.  There are a few survivors, we were coming to get your assistance for them . . .”

“No worries, I think that Hebrews should be here soon with carts and stretchers . . .”

“I fear there will not be need for very many,” said Rhaury

A few things, my readers: 

First, though it comes late, I think this bit about how Lugh came to be beneath that tree comes before.  I feel that you need to know a bit more about Lugh as he is your point of view and this story reveals the child of Moss, Oatey. 

Second, I plan to make this, of Lugh and Oatey, my first polished stone, a story that I’ve at least tried to revise and so hope to have made better than THIS first rough draft.  I began it imagining Lugh on his hill and all that followed surprised me.  Now I’m thinking in terms of the story as a whole, I had a good middle of the beginning, I’ve imagined what I think is a pretty good end, so with the expansions and many discoveries already I give you this first of two (I hope) that came before the first moments there on the little hill.  So I beg your pardon, now HERE, begins

Child of Moss

Lugh of the Long Journeys trudged through the swirling cloud of midges and flies that found the swamp comfortable.   Lugh far Reacher, Lugh woman despoiler, Lugh who runs away, He thought, Lugh of the slough.  He laughed, “That’s who I am,” Lugh said and immediately regretted it.  Now there were wee flies in his mouth to add to his misery.  Did he really deserve this exile?  How was this betrayal of Findabair and Gormflaith unlike so many others?  Worse or better?

Lugh mulled his sad fall from their graces.  It was the story of his life, it was his nature, it was the rutted path he could never seem to leave.  When Findabair had learned of Gormflaith and in turn Gormflaith had learned of Findabair he had been forced from his cozy arrangement. 

Maybe no worse or no better but Lugh was haunted, Findabair’s face, white as snow at all times, was a mask that hid the great pain she felt when learning of his infidelity.  The disappointment of the innocent.  That gentle soul would not take revenge for the shambles he had made of her honor.  Not so her brothers.  They pursued him, ejecting him as surely as the hurt in Findabair’s eyes, and more so.  They would not let him live if they caught him.  And Lugh, for his part, would not be caught.

He should have known the jig was up and fled where he would or where his bones might lead, instead he’d fled to another lover.  He chuckled ruefully, Gormflaith had been another matter.  She was not one for holding her pain behind her eyes, nor one to leave revenge to another.  Lugh ached, but not from loss, Gormflaith had taken what revenge she could, at the moment of knowledge, with a foot to the offending member.

“Ah me, the girl has fire,” He said to himself, “Red was her mane, flame her desire, Hot was her rage, now my self is on fire.” Not really flame anymore, now more like the ache that he imagined Findabair felt in her heart, now for him, between his thighs.

So he fled, but at a walk and in disguise.  Findabair’s Maines were looking for a dashing rogue who’d stolen their fair sister’s heart, her innocence, and her honor.  They would not find such, for Lugh was a man of many talents, I am a poet, I am a sacrificer, I am a brehon. Judge me.He strode (at what speed he could make considering Gormflaith’s revenge) along the way in the robe of a druid, head deep in his cowl, and person safe against violence by taboo.  It had been a long long time since he’d been to the North.  It was as likely a time as any to return to the land of the Norfolk, to the land of Von.

Aah pretty Von.  It may be that she is the only lover I left who still wished me well at my going,  thought Lugh, Since that time I fled Llyr to save my life, my goings most often involved a father, a brother, or a husband.  Ah but I remember my Von of the wavy brown hair and the sun brown skin.

Llyr had not yet gotten over Lugh’s elopement with Brigid.  Von had not known that he found himself in the North because of what he’d done with Brigid in the South.  Mayhaps she would have wished him dead then instead of well, but she hadn’t known and so Lugh could cling to one woman’s love.  One woman who may have learned of his true nature, his roguishness, and hated him for it for all he knew, one woman who was dead now for 300 years and more. 

Oh maybe she hated him one day but still, that night she had come to him, with tears in her brown eyes, to warn him of his brother’s men, she’d given him warning, some food, and these bones around his neck.Lugh clutched the divination bones he wore on a thong around his neck for all these many days, so many years of days, he knew them by feel. 

It was vexing.  Druidry was a bit tame for him.  Truth to tell, he’d wished he could stay the rogue.  It was his core.  The Maines denighed him his fine horses and his hidden things and Gormflaith had denied him a place of safety for his offense.  Lugh smiled, Well, she’d cast him out for the offense she knew. Why must ill news travel so fast, faster than feet and faster than fine horses?

Why must these sad endings drive me out just when things are going so well?“Ah, my fine fine horses.”  Lugh sighed, “enjoy those lovely mares I brought you, Chara Dubh.  Consider yourself free, free to make a herd of such beauties.”  Perhaps that little hidden valley would hold a great herd of horse when he returned to find Findabair a memory and all the Maines long dead.  Then his loss would be an investment.  Best to think positively.

So the man went North and farther North from his lovers, Lugh of the long journeys, whistling and wondering what adventure would find him next.  He was a brehon until he could buy a lyre, a bard until he could find no Gael to listen to his songs, and a hunter when that was the only way to fill his belly. 

When he no longer feared the Maines, he began to think more of his future, what should he do next and where?  Fleeing North, it occured to the him, I should go to the Norfolk and see what has come of them these hundreds of years.  I do doubt anyone would remember Lugh who left sweet Von in a hurry, that time with his brother Llyr in pursuit.  “Yet I should take no chance, I’ll name myself for my light hair, and call myself Fionn.”

And so he did.  When he passed through a border town and looked to buy provisions for a journey still further North, he was Fionn to the old woman who sold dried fish and jerked buffalo.  He bought a fine bow from the Umircen bowyer and to that man he was Fionn.  From a tanner’s wife he bought a fine skin bag, some water skins, and a good pair of boots and a wool lined leather cloak, to her he was Fionn and Sweet and Love.  Ah the tanner’s wife, he didn’t really remember her, and too, it had been dark, but stolen fruit was sweet, he thought.

So it was that Fionn must needs go North or West or East but not South as he marched into the trackless wastes in search of the Bramblewood Elven, the Norfolk, and he went as quick as he could go, lest the tanner come on him.  And he suffered, suffered his memories, suffered from the heat of the Summer, but most of all he suffered from the clouds of insects that whirled around him in a hungry cloud.

Lugh splashed through a creek like so many others on the marshy plain.  He trudged through the tepid water and into the brush on the other side, miserable, he thought as he waved his hands before his face in hopes of frightening away the midges that kept him grieving his condition, but saying nothing for fear that the flying pests that haloed his head would invade his mouth at their first opportunity.

Hot, miserable, sweaty, miserable, besieged by vile insects, miserable.  “Aaah!” Lugh howled in pain and slapped at the black fly that had found his neck exposed. Midges invaded as he feared they would and he sputtered and spit to be free of them, miserable, he thought.

Oh sweet Von of the Norfolk, where have your people gone?  He thought.  He was in a stand of close spaced little trees that provided some shade, so Lugh took off his pack and his hide strung bones, he pulled out a skin tarp and hid beneath it with his divination bones between his palms and let his mind grow calm.  “Sweet Von of the Norfolk, where have your people gone?  Where can I find your folk in this my time of need?  Shall I turn to the left or the right?”  Lugh cast the bones.  He felt for them.  “Two and three and one.  The bones are ambivalent.” 

Lugh scooped up the bones and whispered to them “Tell me true, my beauties, tell me.  Shall I go to the right? ” He cast and felt for the marks again.  One mark, and one mark, and three.  “So, not to the right.”

Lugh rubbed the bones between his palms, “Shall I go left then?  Shall I turn away to the left?  The bones came to rest on the skin bag.  “Three marks, and three, and again three!” So definitely not to the left either.

Forward then?  Shall I go straight as I am to find those elves of the brambles, those folk of the north, the people of Von, YeVon Mendez, who cared for me? “Shall I continue on as I was then?” Lugh cast the bones and felt for his answer.  One mark there is, and three on the other, and TWO. Yes then it seems.  “Tell me true bones, shall I find the folk of Von ahead, neither turning to the left nor the right?”  Lugh cast and counted.  Two and Two and Two, no stronger augre could there be, straight ahead for sure.

Being, for a short while, free of the bugs had quite renewed his spirits, that or using the gift of divination bones that Von had given him or both.  Lugh had quite forgotten how fun was this little game of chance.  Having restrung them, repacked his things, shouldered the load, and alas, recollected his cloud of midges Lugh trudged on. 

The man found his path leave the soggy marsh and enter an older section of forest.  The trees were magnificent, stately and shady.  The insects would not relent, but they were tolerable in the shade of the trees.  Everywhere beneath the mighty trees were ferns and moss.  Even the light seemed green in it.  Then, like a vision, the old trees fell away and a sapphire jewel was revealed, a lake of deep water, cooler even than the shady old forest.

Laughing, Lugh threw off his clothing and his fine boots and packed all but what was too long to fit, his bow and a sword, into the skin bag with a strong puff of air as well.  Thus protected he took to the water, after kissing the bones, “Neither left nor right and see you’ve brought me to this lovely lake.  I can only go through and bless you for it.”  He ran naked through the rushes and into the lake.  Soon he was swimming upon his side, towing his bag of possessions behind.

I was back in the dark hole of the sidhe.  It was cool, but in the pit of my stomach there was colder ice.  I was afraid for my people and afraid for myself.  If they were truly gone I, who was familiar with being alone from time to time, was not just alone I was lost.

I scrambled to my feet.  There was light from the hole I had collapsed in the false roof of the sidhe.  I don’t know why I’d been so stupid.  There was dry wood aplenty in the wreckage.  I had steel and flint, I had my tinderbox.  It was the work of a few moments and I had a fire started.  I reserved a manageable branch for a torch.  Moments later I could again clearly see the inside of the sidhe.  There were still metal items that had caught the light, tarnish dulled, they had suffered from inattention.

With torch in hand I walked to the entrance of the tunnel that Jella called the souterrain.  I found the loose otter stone and its cache of lamp and oil.  My first instinct was to go as quickly as possible to find my people. 

On a moments reflection I remembered my seeing.  My visions were true.  My visions of Jella, the lamp and oil, this pendant with flint and steel that I held was proof enough.  I had seen our camp overrun, I couldn’t go there.  It was too late to warn, my duty and my hope was to find.  So I put the lamp in my pack, and I put the pendant around my neck.  I walked back into the great hall of the sidhe to see if there was something, anything, that would help us. . .”

“Did you find your people Grand-father?”  asked the youngest.

The elder boys elbowed the youngest. “He’s here isn’t he?”

“I did find our people.  Most of them.  Some of the other lads who had gone out before didn’t come back, but warning arrived before I knew of the danger.  We had to run and sneak and we didn’t have deer or horses to ride either.  We got food from the secret place which supplied us for our flight south, but our warring with the evil hordes cost us plenty.”

There was a yawn, and another.  “Well, that’s pretty much what I know about the deer-riders.  Maybe you three aught to go find your beds.”

The boys looked at each other and didn’t move as fast as they usually did he thought.  “Of course you can help yourself to what’s left of dinner.  Can’t have good bread go to waste.”

The boys dug in and murmured thanks as they parcelled out the last of supper.  Mouths still full, the boys exited the tent.  They were mounted in a flash, almost before the old man could make it out of his tent.

The eldest turned back before he and the others rode off, “Thank you Grand-father.” His fellows mumbled their thanks around their last mouthfuls.

“Off with you then my lads.  You’re likely to scare the Deer Riders off if you’re around making noise and chewing so loudly.”

“Right, scare off the deer-riders, “Laughing, they waved and pelted off toward the main camp leaving the old man alone with his thoughts. 

He closed his eyes.  Perhaps from long practice or because he was older now and the veil between life and death was thinner for him now, but he could see so much easier now.  As forgetful as he was becoming he could imagine walking away from his body and just never coming back.  Perhaps that was what dying was.  The man felt sure he would know someday soon.

But tonight he flew above the world.  He saw from above the herd deer’s approach.  He saw the stream of tawny bodies and clattering horn.  They were coming.  The moon was often his guide, somethings do not change.  Now he felt the rush of the herd through his feet.  His old horse nickered.  He breathed deep. Was that the deer he smelled?

He walked briskly to the spot he had chosen.  On a little knoll above his camp there was a tree with roots sunk into the rocky hill top.  He had almost left himself short.  He turned just in time to see the first of the herd deer burst over the nearby rise.  His hand found purchase on the tree for stability and comfort.  He could hear the coming of the deer now as well as feel it. 

The herd cleared the rise before him on a broad front and it split to pass his place by the tree.  The beasts were running blind for the most part now.  But the tree was a big enough obstruction. 

He had old eyes in an old body, but eyes aren’t the only way to see, he knew.  And so he saw.  On the back of a deer, a bit larger than most, was a person he knew. He smiled, it was good to see old friends, a bit sad to remember others. “Heyaah!  Oren,” He yelled.

“Heyaah Dream-Walker,”  The deer-rider called and waved as he thundered past among the tawny deer.

Intro:

It is madness I say, madness, but I’m going to try writing a small story as a post. I feel like this might not be the best format for it, but it is getting me to put something in electronic format that is only written in pencil in a composition book. Since I have the power to edit these posts I am going to exercise that power when I have a title for this little story.

The Deer Riders

The three boys came screaming across the plain, bare back on horses nearly as wild as they. The old man stood watching their antics, shaking his head. As one they turned toward where he stood before his lonely tent isolated on a little rise. They galloped toward him jostling and shoving each other yelling as they came, “Grandfather!”

“OH HO!” He called to them as they halled up before his camp site and piled off their mounts as if spilled from a cup, but never stumbling or falling, “and what demon is at your heels my lads?”

The tallest boy snorted derisively, “Grandfather,” he began in patronizing tone,”we bring you food for your supper. There’s no demon…” The boy shrugged a large bag off his shoulder and over his head and shoved it toward the old man.

He caught the bag by the strap, “No demon?”  The elder rummaged in the bag and came out with an apple.

“No Grandfather” they laughed.

The old man whistled and around the tent plodded a gaunt old mare. “Here then m’lady, a sweet for the sweet.” He patted the mare and she nuzzled him. He dug a hand back into the bag and came out with another treat. “That’s enough, go on.” The horse turned and wandered off. “So lads, where’s the rest?”

The boys glanced at each other, unsure, but the oldest boy was left to answer, “The rest of what Grandfather?”

“Well Gollen, I’ve one sack from you. Surely it doesn’t take three of you to bring one sack? Where are my other sacks? Did you eat my dinner, sack and all Bres?” The old man tickled the smallest, who though short was surely the roundest. He was rewarded with a squeal of delight. “And you too Markoos. nothing for me? I’ll have to get it out of your belly too.”

The other boy shrieked as his Grandfathers fingers tormented him and he had to fling himself on the ground to escape the tickling. “Stop it.”

“No?” the boys grinning shook their heads, “Just the one bag then?” They nodded in unison. The old man tugged at his beard pondering, “What good are three boys then? What could you possibly want?”

Gollen spoke up, “We thought you might tell us…”

“…About the deer riders,” the younger boys supplied.

“Well, I guess I could tell you what little I know. Bres, here lad, give your old Grandfather a hand.” He handed the bag to the shortest boy and held back the flap for his grandsons as they jostled and shoved to be first through the doorway. “Say, that bag seems heavy enough for four dinners. Might you boys want a bite to eat?” The old man grinned at murmured affirmations. Lately he remembered his youth better than the day before and he remembered being hungry most of it.

They were settled around a little fire, bowls full of stew and thick crusted bread. They were well into their food before they noticed that their grandfather wasn’t eating. Markoos spoke up, “Aren’t you going to eat Grandfather.”

“No no, you go ahead, I already had a bit from my pot.” besides, anymore I need my meat well stewed or I can’t chew it. Say, Gollen, be a good lad and hand me that water skin.” He smiled at the boys quick crisp movements, ah to be young, “Thank you.”

He poured a bit of water in the pot, then taking out his knife cut up bits of what was in the bag and added it, stirring the whole of it, before returning to his seat with a flaming taper. He lighted his pipe and puffed on it contemplatively. “Let’s see. What do I know about the Deer Riders?”

The boys nodded, all eyes on their grandfather. “Well, I’ve seen a lot in my day. When I was born there were the Gael who ruled, and then there was us. But in those days we weren’t the folk of Scythia. We mostly walked instead of riding horse…” The boys all gasped, incredulous. “… but then that was way before we ever met and fought the uglies, before all the Gaels but the horse folk were driven back to the great mountain and we alone lived on the plain, and it was before we ever saw a bramble elf.

“A bramble elf?” all three looked puzzled, but it was Bres who had asked, “what’s that?”

“The wee folk, you know, the deer riders. They live in their faery rings mostly, but it is the same folk that ride the deer too.” The man puffed his pipe and the boys quieted. “We weren’t as brave then, not really. It took facing the foul folk and chasing them off the plains to really be brave, but we were braver than most I’d say. The world was young and we saw something new most every week.”

The Gaelic masters, for so they thought of themselves, kept demanding more and more of the other folks near them. We pitied the Browns and the Blacks, the Yellows and the red skinned folk, but our white skin allowed us freedom and we seized on it to live on the fringe. The Gaels that lived near us were decent enough folks who didn’t act on their prejudices, especially when they were poorly defined without a marked difference on the face of it. Still, back then it was always there.

Now we’re all Scythians, we protect the children of Epona, and we are all equal, but it wasn’t always so, and it wasn’t so when I was your age. The folk at the fringe depended on each other, like we do, that was a big leveler. But  soon enough, when life grew less marginal, when you could count on more than yourself and your neighbor, you began to see that they thought they were better, that their lives and their rights were a bit more important than yours.

It is an ugly feeling to be seen as lesser. My folk always fled from it, moving out into the wilds until the civilization of the Gaels that we left behind caught us. Then we’d move off again.

So you see, it seemed that we were brave, but we wouldn’t stand up to the power of the Gael, the Celts, we ran away. Many of the border Celts who drove us ever outward choose to follow us because they despised the rot at the center of their empire and admired our industry, self sufficiency, our bravery. They followed because they didn’t like what so many of their kind had become, but still they had confidence that if a white-trash wildling could make a living on the fringe then by Cernunnos a Celt could too and do better…” The boys looked confused and a bit restless. The old man took a few puffs on his pipe.

“…but you wanted to know about the deer riders.” The man puffed and watched the boys lean back into the fire light, eyes bright. “I mentioned we used to walk instead of ride, and I also told you that my folk were in the habit of running away from the folk that came behind us. Well it was in my fifteenth year that that the running had to end for us. The far north was a hard place to scratch out a living. But it was in this place that we came upon folk who had done so for generations, the deer riders, the bramble elves, the wee folk.”

Our camp was along a wide river. there had been an amazing run of silvery fish. We had feasted on their meat and even taken the roe from the hens. We had dried the flesh, and we would have meat for a very long time. But the key to our lives was never to rest. The men of the village had banded together to hunt the bear who had gathered for the finned feast, and our women were busy curing the hides and smoking that meat too. Never waste an opportunity was our credo.

So it was that I walked northward. I had smoked bear meat and dried fish in my pack. I had a bow and many arrows. The too, I had a mission, to seek out our next opportunity.

The high places always called to me. Many others followed trails and water courses as they are the places that yield most life giving opportunities. I used these common ways too, of course, but the mountain tops afforded perspectives and allowed a foresight that one never gets in the valleys. So it was that I saw the Faery circles before I ever saw one of the little people.

I had been laboring toward just such a high place as my day was drawing to a close. Along an otherwise uniform ridgeline stood a rounded knob of bare stone. It was easy to mark when the sun was low, it fairly glowed, and so I toiled toward it up the ridge.

Pretty soon I knew that the ridge was far from regular. There were copses of short dense trees in rocky valleys, and brambles everywhere. The brambles did not fail to push me off my approach, time and again, until I actually lost sight of the rocky knob.

A coney darted out from my path, too quick for me to do aught but ready my hunting stick in case I got another shot. As the sun sank I got a couple of them and my mood improved as I roasted fresh meat over a roaring bramble and scrub wood fire.

In the morning my concern returned. My camp site was fairly clear, but all around the brush confined my vision if not my way. I considered turning back, but resolved to toil a little more up hill in the hope I might site my goal or failing that get a good look at which way I might return.

It was not far to a crest and as I topped it I was relieved to see the rocky knot, now much closer, but well off to my left. the unforgiving flora, the brambles, had driven me well off my course.

I turned to see the way I had come, and in truth my nemesis, the brambles. They were not hard to see against the trees. Oddly, it seemed the trees were not very deep, but rose again in the distance. There was nothing to be gained staring back, so I decided to continue on to the knob.

My way steepened and became precarious. the sun slipped below the crest and the wind came up, chilling the sweat of the climb on my skin. I stumbled into a small stream bed. Falling to my knees, my hand fell into wet. A short stumbling, toe subbing climb brount me out onto the top of the knob.

The stars were out in profusion, a glittery riot in the sky. I lay down, happy to be on the hard rock of the knob. I watched the traveller rise quickly and then the Mother brightened the night. I thought about the bramble walled forest below and would have risen to see it in her light, but the day had taken its toll and I found myself asleep.

It is odd to say it. I was asleep and somehow I rolled inside myself  and rose, though my body lay there. I saw me asleep upon the stone. The flesh of me more tired than the spirit who would look. There was a moon lit gem in a ring of dark wood. I saw a mound near it. It was then in fear I realized I was not upon the knoll, but instead I hung below the moon and could not even see now where my body lay. I had a panicked thought that I had died, was the Mother taking me? I looked up at her shiny face and breathed again.

This is the end of the first installment of The Deer Riders.

The Deer Riders continued