Oh how lovely to once again feel the rush of the wind against my face.  There are the night sounds too, of course, but this of the rising air is intoxicating to me.  I had forgotten how much I loved to fly.

But I know that I do not fly, I but stand at the edge and hear and feel, though not with my true self.  This self I have chosen sighs of its own accord it almost seems.

I open my eyes in the Captain’s quarters.  I am only standing on his balcony hung on the side of the tallest tower of the capital city, not flying at all. I have hid myself in that damned cave too long.

A smile twists my lips as I turn and walk inside.  I confess, I’ve left the captain’s quarters a mess.  The dead whore in his bed will be particularly difficult for Allston Soulaucy to explain.  But it is all arranged. The madam will remember that the Captain of the City guard gazed at her with favor and that his man, me of course, paid the blood price for her.  Even in the capital city of the most righteous of kings the most disgusting perversions can be had for the right price.

There is a knock at the door.  “My Lord?  Do you have need of me?” calls a voice, quavering slightly.  I think the captain is not so kind to subordinates as he might be.  One wonders if they will miss him at all.  Likely they will easily believe the worst of a man they despised already.

“I don’t need you,” I croak, “Go away.” I catch my reflection in one of the captain’s many mirrors.  I am covered in the whore’s blood, literally from head to foot.  What if the man suspects?  What if he comes in?  I tense to deal with him like I did the woman, but relax as I hear retreating footfalls.

I must do something about all this blood.  There is a basin and water.  I wipe the gore from my body, the worst of it, I take more care with my face and hands.  I will need to presentable when I leave with the marvelous suit of armor I found treasured in an armoire.  Fit for the commander of the king’s personal guard unless I miss my guess.

Paladin are strange folk.  It may well be that it would please the captain to know that he will never face the disgrace of the allegations.  He will answer no more questions ever again.

More likely he would be tormented that he will never clear his name, not from where he lies in the belly of the wurm at the heart of Ashimura, not where his bright armor will lie in my horde when his flesh and bone have nourished me and only his armor is left intact to be eliminated.

I close my eyes to remember the delicious surprise.  “Enough of your games, Giard.  I will speak to the Wurm at the Heart of Ashimura myself.” He had said and when I begged him for patience he had run me through.  The cold steel of his sword had caused me such delicious agony.  His boot had shoved this poor shell into the soup of my resting place making the transition of my consciousness simultaneous.

I’m sure he thought he’d killed weak Giard.  Oh the delicious irony.  I saw the fear before I slipped beneath the water.  These poor eyes witnessed his shock and horror as the massive bulk of my true body rose from the depths and I beheld him through two sets of eyes, one above and one below, when a blast of fire from my maw crisped him to tasty deliciousness.

I don’t know where the idea that dragons enjoy virgins ever got started, I’ve always preferred my prey with more meat and wrapped in shiny metal.  Oh I had my fill when I ate two whole armies (Not really, I had my choice of the shiniest bits and left the rest to the crows,) but I imagine that’s how the legend went until this new king, calling himself the dragon, built his citadel upon the great volcanic rock that I crawled beneath to digest my meal.

I look at the whore, torn and bloody, on the bed.  A sad thing really, she looks more lovely dead than alive.  There is some recovery of innocence in death, I think.  When I choked the life out of her she did not fight as hard as her young body should have.  There was a sad resignation that made the killing so much less enjoyable than the arrogant captain.  Ah well, she is mere window dressing.

None will mourn you Allston Soulaucy, and when they hunt for you, they will not find you.

It was dark in the scrub tree grove that slowed Iamerge’s headlong plunge.  This, this of death is not for me.  I’ve died a dozen times and never felt the bite.

There was a breeze that ruffled the woody firs, Iamerge turned and looked.  The Wanderer, tumbling as it went, fled away like he had.  The darkness all around him felt oppressive despite the moon wind.  He stopped to look up at a sky full of stars.  Why should I flee what may never touch me?

In the night the chanting of the monks came to him out of darkness, “. . .God, who searches minds and hearts, bring to an end the violence of the wicked and make the righteous secure. My shield is God Most High, who saves the upright in heart. God is a righteous judge, a God who expresses his wrath every day.  .  .”

Was this destruction and death the expression of an angry God?  And where?  Where, out in all that dark, is a god.  I see a little light, glittering points of beauty, but where is God?

” . . . He who is pregnant with evil and conceives trouble gives birth to disillusionment.  He who digs a hole and scoops it out falls into the pit he has made.^”   Iamerge chuckled to himself.  He sat among the needles and litter.  I wonder if a pit might not be preferable to death, a safe place.  I should dig a hidee-hole. 

The chanting rose, recapturing Iamerge’s notice, “I will give thanks to the LORD because of his righteousness and will sing praise to the name of the LORD Most High.”

Iamerge sat breathlessly.  The silence made him fidget and he would have rose and walked back to the fire if he’d been sure of the way. 

Then low and slow the monks began again, building quickly, “O LORD, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth! You have set your glory above the heavens.” Iamerge turned to the sound.  He could see nothing of the firelight.  He clambered to his feet, feeling as he began to walk to the sound.  “From the lips of children and infants you have ordained praise because of your enemies, to silence the foe and the avenger. . .”

He shuffled forward, waving his hands before him in the blackness.  A root seemed to grab his foot and he pitched headlong into a low bushy tree.  He stumbled and tried to catch himself, but tangled in the branches he went down hard.  Iamerge struck his head and saw stars of a sort.  He rolled over, stunned, and saw above him the stars of the sky.

*  *  *

Conal lay in pain. His legs ached from well below where he knew they now ended, from phantom feet all the way into his belly.  He wept, but not for the pain, he wept for joy at the sound of the monks chanting their prayers to the LORD. 

He gazed at the beauty of the heavens through the blur of his tears.  The brothers began again, “O LORD, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth!”  My lord too, now.  

“You have set your glory above the heavens.” Above even those stars? I wish I could sing like the brothers. “From the lips of children and infants you have ordained praise because of your enemies, to silence the foe and the avenger.”

I’m ready to die, I could go now and happily.  What use could I be, that the LORD wants me? ”When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, the son of man that you care for him?” 

In the dimness of the firelight, Conal seemed to hear a still small voice, or he simply knew in his soul, “You will live and you will serve me well.  I have loved you, Conal, from everlasting.”

The brothers sang, “You made him a little lower than the heavenly beings and crowned him with glory and honor.  You made him ruler over the works of your hands; you put everything under his feet:  all flocks and herds, and the beasts of the field, the birds of the air, and the fish of the sea, all that swim the paths of the seas.”

Then I will serve you all my days.  Conal’s spirit sang with his brothers, “O LORD, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth!

*  *  *

Iamerge’s mind whirled in chaos and fear, It was stupid to run out into the night.  What was I thinking?  Weren’t their corpses he’d seen, men who had fallen to those beasts?  Why did he fear to see that man die with him sitting helpless beside?  What was so hard about that?

Iamerge looked up and saw a shadow blocking the stars.  He cringed, fearing the beast-men.  The Stranger only, He thought, around its rim was the dim light of the three stars of Tir na Nua, but the Stranger kept most of that light sending only a little back out to be seen.

Iamerge got to his feet with care now.  His senses were alive.  Realistically, it was unlikely that those things would return.  Then too, he was not far from the men.  Conal’s death had un-nerved him and then stumbling in the dark had brought panic.  He was fine and would be fine. Soon enough he would see his way clear. 

Iamerge felt something on his forehead, he made to brush it away and his fingers came away wet.  He was bleeding.  “There now, I’ll not escape this foolishness without embarrassment,”  He said in the night.

In the dimness he felt something at his feet.  He reached down and his probing fingers found a long branch, like a staff.  He grasped it and used it to return to standing.  Iamerge’s head ached abominably, but the rough wood in his hands was a comfort.  He felt less vulnerable.  Now nothing left but to find my way back.  then I’ll add myself to the wounded souls around the fire, he thought.

Again he heard the monks chanting, “I will praise you, O LORD, with all my heart; I will tell of all your wonders.”  It was a matter of minutes fumbling in the dark and he saw the glow of the fire before him and the blue light of Spark lightening the horizon,

“I will be glad and rejoice in you; I will sing praise to your name, O Most High. . .” the brothers sang as Bright, the blue star, rose.

The goat was dead, but Oatey dragged it along after her.  Lugh nearly laughed at the comic look of the small woman straining to pull the dead weight of it along.  Nearly, but then he remembered how she had caused the wound that caused its death, how quickly and how offhandedly.

She turned, sweat and dust stained, to look at Lugh, “Here, make yourself useful.” she said and tossed him the rope.  Lugh made an awkward grab for the line but missed it.  He noticed her brief contemptuous smirk as he picked it up off the dirt, but also how the sweat glistened on her body.

Perhaps Oatey noticed his regard as well because she turned and separated her doe skin shift from the bundle she carried.  Items attached to her loincloth were tossed on the remains of the bundle and she quickly shrugged her way into the dress.  She bent again, catching up a belt, and anchoring all at her waist.  She quickly turned to what remained of her bundle and wrapped it together with a thong that let her throw it over her head to rest across her shoulder.  She turned back, hands on hips and the same amused curl of her lips, “Its a rope Lugh.  Pull it.”  Her eyes laughed at him.

“Its not my rope.” Lugh began.  But for reasons he couldn’t pin down he threw it over his shoulder and  walked  toward her.  She turned and began to stroll along a trail that he’d been finding the blood that led him to her. 

“I bled the goat too quick,”  Oatey sighed, as if it was a mark on her professional pride.  She let him draw even with her and then glanced over at him to say, “That or I picked the wrong goat.  I would have had a real hard time of it without your help.  Thanks.” 

Lugh was almost as surprised by her expression of thanks as he was by her casual bleeding of the goat in the first place.  He dragged the goat, mulling that revelation before asking, “Oatey, why are we dragging the goat?”

“We. . .” Oatey chuckled, “. . . are dragging the goat to the next goat unless you don’t have the strength.”

Lugh trudged along, dragging the dead goat behind, and mulling her answer.  She had ignored his question and stabbed his pride to make him continue to do something that made no sense.  Now he was sweating as much as she had been and climbing a little rise was making him breath hard.  “So Oatey,” he puffed, “How far to the next goat?” 

Oatey ignored his question, “Are you ready for a run?” She stood at the top of the rise and gazed back the way they had come.

“A run, what?” but as Lugh turned to look back the way she was looking his question died on his lips.  A huge figure, roughly man shaped, stood above the little trees that had surrounded the meadow where he’d been sitting.  The thing was walking slowly, but following the path they had marked in blood.  Even at a distance Lugh could see that he pushed aside the trees as if they were tall grass.

“When a giant wakes he’s hungry, real hungry.  There’s no room for anything but feeding.  No thought but the smell of blood and of woman.  He thinks I’m a giant wife, if he thinks at all.  Mostly he just wants the goat.”  She turned and pointed down the other side of the rise,  “And then he’ll want that next goat.  Here’s good for that one.”

Lugh dropped the rope and looked again at the giant.  “Its nearly twenty feet tall.”

“I don’t think over fourteen.”  corrected Oatey

“Fine, more than twice the height of a man.” Lugh blanched. “What are you doing with it.”

“Me?” Oatey laughed. “What happen to WE, Lugh of the Long Reach, god of the Gael.  I think you better stick with me now.  That giant is going to have the scent of you soon enough.  More than a goat, more than even a giant wife, that thing wants man-flesh and you look like a tasty bit to me.” Oatey grinned wickedly, and then started off down the slope toward her next goat victim.

“Fine, what are WE going to do with it?  Lugh called after her, looking back at the looming giant’s slow progress along their path.

“WE are going to kill it.” Oatey called over her shoulder.

She was asleep on the ground.  Around her were arrayed bags and travois, bales of hide and smaller lumps, like a play fort you might make.  At first it seemed she slept there alone.  I only had eyes for my friend.  I knew her face, but there was something quite different about it, longer and with sharper angles.  “Jella?”

She gasped and sat up, “Dream-walker?”  A couple of the lumps around her stirred and one sat up.  Oddly, this one looked almost as much like the Jella I remembered as did the one I had first identified as my friend.  Eerily this younger Jella pointed at me and laughed.  The little one spoke her strange tongue and was answered by my friend and yet not my friend. 

Jella threw back her covering of sleeping skins and rose.  I was not so young that I couldn’t tell that this was now not the girl I had first seen, but a woman.  She quickly covered the shift she slept in with buckskin and colorful woolens.

She looked me in the eye, and a smile twitched the corner of her mouth. Her generous lips did not move more than that, but I heard in my head, “You haven’t changed in all these years, I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.”

I’m fairly certain I frowned, because I saw one reflected on her smooth adult face, “Ah, are you still in the sidhe?  But I left you the lamp and the flint. . .” I suspect my frown turned to a blush, because her smile returned and she said, “did you forget?”  She tsked, and I was uncomfortably reminded of my own mother, ” It should be right there at the beginning of the souterrain.”

“The tunnel thing?  I forgot that too.” I felt heat on my face and neck and was sure now that if I wasn’t blushing before I was now.  “It is so dark.”

“Well, the sun should be rising.  It may not light your way much, but it should help you find the center.  At mid-day the light should point you toward the souterrain as it is due north.”

I mumbled thanks.  She smiled.  Her hair was much longer than before.  It was braided in thick ropes with bits of bright bead and bright cloth or leather, I wasn’t sure.  I thought her very lovely.

“Dream-walker, meet my children.”  She reached over and roused the lump on the other side from the little Jella who stared at me with big blue eyes.  A tossle-haired boy sat up.  “My children, Oren and Joy.”

“How is it that you have lived your life and I am still in this hole?” I thought to her.

“I can’t say,” She looked puzzled, “Perhaps you can walk through time as well as through. . .” She shrugged.  “. . .You would know better than I.  Mostly I see the dead, you were the first living spirit I ever saw.  And until now the last as well.”

“You see the spirits of the dead?” I asked her as if I had not just heard her say so.  I blushed again.

She nodded, but otherwise took no notice of the question, “If you were outside of your time when first we met I wonder what time you are in now?  We have not lived in a sidhe in a six-year and more.  I think that one has been sealed for eleven years since I saw you that night.  There may have been another clan that took refuge, but we have avoided the old secret places, riding with the deer, to keep them safe and ourselves free.”

“To keep yourself free?  What threatens you?”

Her face was pale from sleep, but she paled still more, “Could you possibly have not met the foul ones, the devourers?” Jella frowned not in anger but with concern.  “Why are you alone in the sidhe, why haven’t your people come for you Dream-Walker?”

“I’m a scout, a searcher, I seek out new places for my people.  We have been at a great river to the south.”

“Are you saying that your people are not in the secret place?  They are still at the River?  In the open?”

“My people always live in the open. . .”

“No no, they must not.  The hordes of foul ones will kill and feed.  You should not have come into the north.  It has not been safe since before the giants came, and they are the worst of all.

“I can see you live on the land.  Why can you do it but my folk can not?”

“You do not know.  We track them, we watch.  We herd the deer away to the far north.  Dream-Walker, your folk must be warned.  There is a great gathering of the foul ones.  They are on the march.  It is all we can do to keep the herds from them, to stay alive and free from them.  If they find you they will gather and kill you all.  They are made to destroy man, we are food to them.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“We have gone into the far north.  That as much as any reason is why we left the sidhe that sheltered us during the long winters.  This new plague of monsters and giants is worse than that of ice.  You must warn your people, Dream-walker, you must warn everyone that the dark hordes will come and they must flee or die.” Jella’s face hardened, “Go to your people Dream-Walker.  It may be too late already. . .”

And as if her words had the power I was snatched away.  My friend and her family shrunk to a tan blotch among the smaller blotches of the herd and then they were gone. As I rose I saw the great whiteness of the frozen wastes beyond.  I flew across mountains, watching the white, ice-locked peaks dwindle.  I saw below me the stony knob and the hidden place in the bramble wood with its sidhe where I guessed I lay, but I did not stop nor slow though I drew near the ground. 

Along the river I saw a man.  He strode along the banks and suddenly I saw that he was immense.  He dwarfed the trees.  The giant man had hair of red and he looked at me as if he saw me.  I rushed along the river, there were creatures among the trees.  I saw an army of them, armored, and armed for battle. 

Then I was in our camp.  The creatures, foul ones Jella had called them, were all throughout it.  The morning sun cast evil glints off their cruel looking weapons dazzling my eyes.  My people were gone.  I looked to the sun.

Free CELTIC Fiction

My hope is to create fiction that speaks to the Celtic Heart.  So, 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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Here is the novel beginnings: Intro to and Beginning of The Abbot and the Djinn.  Follow my progress HERE.

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Using a sort of “just start writing and see where it goes” technique I’ve 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.

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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>)

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Other Stuff

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.  Have a look HERE

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

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LSO

PS. HERE are some authors I have read and admire by way of giving you hints about where I’m aiming