It was at the end of his Twentieth Form.  Buuluchk had a bit of small change left after his Paladin training.  It was not much, but it came to his mind that he might be entitled to some sort of gift, a present to himself.

The Auction House held nothing of real benefit for the pittance he had, so he wandered out toward the gates of the city of Ironforge with his few coppers in hand.  The coins jingled pleasingly, perhaps they are better in my hand than gone for all and good, thought Buuluchk.  Call it a down payment on my future, the wee bit I’ll need for some future purchase.  But Buuluchk did not put them away as he walked out the massive gateway and into the icy air.

“Hey there, paladin.  Might I have a word with you?”

The dirty ragbag was a dwarf, perhaps, but he smelled more like a murlock than a man to Buuluchk.  “Is it a bit of drink you’re needing?  You’d do better to work than beg,” began Buuluchk condescendingly. The dirty man reddened, building toward rage at the slander.

“That was unkind and untrue, I’m a stonemason, and I work hard every day.  Likely harder than the likes of you, an adventurer who knows nothing of what normal men do.” The man turned away and walked on toward the gates.

Buuluchk instantly regretted his harsh words, “See here sir, I’ve wronged you, no doubt.  I apologize.  You must admit you look the part of a beggar, but I had no right to condescend.  I’ve had great good fortune.”  The coins rang in his hand and now he knew what to do with them, “See here, I’m off to make more, I’m well acquainted with work.  I dig metal from the earth and take the pelts of the beasts that fall to me.  Still, I think you can use this far better than me.”  And with that Buuluchk pressed the coins into the mans hand, “There is an inn just inside the gate where you can get a beer and a bath and likely your clothes clean in the bargain.  Go with the gods, friend.”

The man stared down at the coins, but as Buuluchk began to turn, feeling good about the kindness he’d shown, he saw that the man was growing more angry, not less.  “Oh I see, you’ll make me the beggar you’ve accused me of being.”

Buuluchk blinked non-plused as he turned back, “See you friend, I mean you only good.”  One hand went out, opened in friendship, but Buuluchk’s other hand felt for his axe.

The man dug inside his filthy garment and brought out a wrapped package, “You keep calling me friend, but you’d make me a beggar.  Well, be a friend, and for your slander I put a geas on you, that you be a friend to me, to Garglan the Stonemason, and when you learn this thing’s provenance and it’s purpose, you bring word to me, for I work every day and have no time for adventures.  This thing I found at my work preparing a foundation for the bridge I am making.  My curiosity has been on me, I look at it in my tent, I look at it each time I stop my labors, I puzzle, and wonder ’til it drives me half mad.  Be it on you now, slanderous pompous paladin. You figure it out and when you do, if you do, you will tell me.  Garglan, son of  Harglan, the Stone Mason.” and then with a sneer, “friend.”

With no more word than that Garglan, son of  Harglan, the Stone Mason marched off down the hill from the gates of Ironforge.

With nothing to say nor anyone to say it to, and now with a mystery in hand, Buuluchk unwrapped the package to see what fate had delivered him.  Fate and Garglan, son of  Harglan, the Stone Mason, Buuluchk thought.

It was heavy and hard, metal for sure, but worked in a way that made it look organic, as if it had grown into the broken form he now held.  It was not whole, of that Buuluchk was certain, though little else. 

Two figures seemed swathed in the organic network of metal, both bodies without heads.  They seemed of the same stuff as the viney coverings, and yet, looking at it, one could easily judge them separate from parts that were clothing, and parts that were something other, and then the parts that seemed to be the flesh of two tall beings.  It was missing much of what looked to be a background that seemed to almost be a language of some kind.  The clothing seemed missing, especially around the heads and shoulders which were largely missing.

All was hinted at and yet baldly obvious when taken as a whole, but as Buuluchk looked closer he was startled to note that it all seemed one in texture and color and material.

“Hey dolt, get out of the gate. Will you stand there all day, you dunderhead.  You’re holding up progress!” shouted a dwarf driving a cart.  Buuluchk had no idea how long he’d stood in the gate, but as soon as he had stepped out of the way of the carter he went back to examining the artifact.  What a curiously marvelous thing, he thought.  What have you brought me Garglan, son of  Harglan.

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.

These fragments of the lore of Tir na Nua are presented raw, first draft, and unedited.  I apologize for their original condition.  However, my first priority is to capture sketches, so to speak, of the people and places of Tir na Nua.  I have promised Free Celtic Fiction and before I can shape these sketches into more polished works I need to write these drafts.  I share them, as they are, while I try to find the time to improve them. –  LSO

The great mountain became the center of the Gaellic world on Tir na Nua.  Around Sliebe na Gael, close on the slopes of that mountain, on the rocky hills were the Connachta on the South and West to the sea, Mumah folk to the East along the coast, the Laigin North and East to the river and that land was fair, and North and West were the Uliad.  That is, these were the divisions when Dana and Lyr and his shieldmen took Sliebe na Gael, when they were driven from the plain by ice, when Wyland delved out the secret forbidden ways, when Bridgit and Lugh eloped and brought on the Rage of Lyr.   The folk were in these four divisions, the Four fourths of the Tuatha de Dana.

The folk of the Uliad prospered and divided into many clans who dispersed to the north until there came to be a land named by her people, Ulster, and a king of that Tuath named Concubar.  This was the time before the Gobli swept the plain with fire and the people were driven back into the Four Fourths.  Concubar was a great king, a proud warrior, and a hunter of great renown.

One day he was hunting with his friends, the warriors of the Red Branch in the new forests that covered the plain.  All the trees in that place were of one height being planted in one season by the Fae Gardeners, the Norfolk, scattered by their life giving forest spheres.

For this reason, in imitation, the Red Branch warriors made brain balls, weapons made from the vanquished.  Many lives were taken by those balls of brain and bone dust and lime, so the Red Branch warriors became known for there making and the feat of their use in battle.

Concubar was swifter than the red stag he stalked, much faster than his warriors.  The blood of his prey was in his nostrils and he left his brothers behind.  He followed the stag into a valley where the trees grew tall, ancient, moss hung, and magical.

A beautiful woman stepped out of this magical forest.  Her skin was pale as a swan, her lips as red as blood, and her hair like burnished copper, was red as well.  Concubar imagined she must be of the Sidhe, he would have left her there, for it is rarely wise for men to mix in the matters of gods, but desiring him she put aside her mantle and Concubar loved her.

Concubar took from his shoulders his cloak to make a bower for them.  In all the time they lay together she spoke no word, nor did the man until she rose and made to go, “Who are you, my lady?” Concubar asked the fairy woman.

“I am the mother of your son, my lord,” said the woman, “I am the daughter of the over King of the Northmost land, I am the watcher who has loved you.”

“Have I known you before my lady?  How can that be?  For surely I would remember you.”

“Never before tonight have I known you, but I have watched you and I know that I love you.  I will send your son to you, my lord.”  And the woman stepped away toward the deep woods.”

“Wait!  How will I know him?” Asked the man.

The woman had no answer, but Concubar could see this worried her and she stopped.  So Concubar took up his cloak and going to the woman he lay it across her shoulders, “By this my people will know him to be a prince,” said the king, “And by this all will know that his father is a king,” he said, pinning on her his broach, “And by this I will know he is my son,” said Concubar and he took his own ring from his finger and gave it into the woman’s hand.

At this the woman smiled and she kissed Concubar and said, “And for this I knew, watching you, that I loved you.”  There arose about her a mist.

“But what is your name?” the King asked her.

“Our son will tell you,” She said.  A mist of fog hid her from Concubar’s sight, and he knew she was gone.

A cool breeze took away the fog and there, not far away, was a red deer doe.  He heard the calls of his warriors and the doe bounded away with the mist.  At this the king went to them.