“What’s that?” asked Oatey.

“Nothing. . .” Lugh lied, “a gift that I’ve kept and I’m not sure why.”  Because it is my lodestone, my guiding star and I’d not know what to do if I didn’t have them.  Lugh restrung and resettled them around his neck where they rode over his heart.  “Well, what’s for breakfast?”

“Porridge, ’tis my custom.” She explained, smiled shyly, “But I have fruit too, and this scramble of eggs and herbs and meat.  Probably that’s more to your liking . . .”

“Don’t be too sure.” said Lugh, but in the end he did eat most of the eggs and only a little of the porridge.  They talked lightly of nothing at all, teasing about her room, she telling him that he had a guestroom not far, fruits favored and not, but they both fell silent when family came up.

When the silence grew painful he broke it, “This was a wonderful breakfast, thank you Oatey.” He smiled at her and she blushed prettily.

Oatey fidgeted, Lugh thought she had something she wanted to say so he hesitated.  She looked up, but finding his eyes on her she immediately looked down and then away.  “It isn’t our custom for a man and woman to be alone without . . .”

“Breakfast? Egg scramble? let me guess, books?”

Oatey blushed, “. . . I mean unattended, without chaperon . . .”

“Oh, well I can’t imagine that does anything good for your folk having children . . .”

That made her laugh, “No, I mean unmarried men and women of course.” The bed they shared last night was their table to eat breakfast and it told him about her seriousness that she slipped off and walked toward the door. ”It is thought dishonorable.”

“Ah, is it?” Lugh grabbed a piece of fruit he didn’t want and took a bite, “mmmm, well which of us is dishonored and which dishonorable?”

“I don’t care what they think,” Oatey said defiantely, she looked him in the eye, “They care nothing for me anyhow.  I only mention it so that you know what they may say of you, what they already think of me.”

Lugh couldn’t suppress the laugh that burst out, but he hurried to apologize when he saw Oatey look so hurt, “No no no, It isn’t you sweet.  It is just that my reputation is far worse than yours could possibly be, and I’ve earned mine.”

He thought she might disolve into tears, but when she looked up she surprised him again with her fierceness, “You don’t know what they think of me.  Some think that I might even be the giant wife I pretend to be to lure the giants to be killed.  All think me strange, and I am.  I would never want to be like them.”

Lugh wasn’t sure what to say, “I don’t think you’re a giant wife . . .”

Oatey laughed humorlessly, “. . . But you think me strange.” She turned away from his gaze, “It’s alright, I am strange, that and more.”

The two sat upon the top of the hill beneath a great spreading oak and looked out across the plain.  The boy and his grandfather shared a bit of flat bread, a bit of cheese and some water from a water skin.  There were birds on the wing, water fowl, a hawk, song birds as well.  The old man enjoyed the quiet for a few moments, but his grandson could not let the moment last.

“Grandfather, what is the Dagda?” Bres asked.

“Not what, but who,” began Dream-Walker, “the Dagda was a giant who lived among the Deer-Riders.  Long ago, before the Gobli ravaged the plain, before we all took to horse, and even before the Deer-Riders rode their herd deer. 

“In fact it was not so much after the first men came down and scattered the grass on the plain and the trees on the hills, planted all that we eat and all that we hunt, this was long and long ago, when Danu’s children moved from the Palace of Glass to Sliebe na Gael down South.  It was the Deer-Rider’s ancestors who were charged with making the world green and it was those same folk who fought the ice wall that threatened to destroy us all.

“Now at this time the goddess Danu made every woman who had borne her first child take a child of Danu’s making.  This was the womb duty and some were good people who just needed to be born, but there were some that were changelings, and some were just evil so that the saying was, “trust a first, a third and a fourth, but never trust a second born nor a seventh.”  That was the womb duty, and that was what they were like, and then some were giants.”

“How could a woman give birth to a giant?”

“Ah, well that shows what you know, a giant isn’t born so.  How big were you when you were born? Not so very, but you ate and you grew.  Isn’t that so?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well that’s how it is with giants too.  They eat and they grow, they eat and they grow, and they eat and eat and eat and they grow grow grow.  A giant is always hungry and if you feed him he grows and he never stops growing until he stops eating.  That’s how it was with a fellow named Eochaid.

“Now this Eochaid was the second child of a man named Calvert Moss and his wife named Mandy.  That is he was a womb duty child, but they treated him as one of their own, and loved him like the rest of their children.  But Eochaid was the hungriest of all their children.  He was always hungry and his loving parents fed him and he grew and grew until he was much taller than an ordinary man even before he was twelve years old.  What made it worse was that none of the other Mosses, not even Calvert or Mandy, was tall.  In fact they were very short.

“The more the Mosses’ fed young Eochaid, the more he grew.  That was clear.  But there were other things that were odd.  Mandy’s eyes and hair were brown, Calvert’s hair was black, and his eyes were green, and so too, all the other Moss children were a mix of one or the other, but not Eochaid.  His hair was firey red, like copper.  His eyes were blue, like ice.  He was tall for his age, but he was born with teeth in his mouth, which went hard on poor Mandy, and too, He had six fingers on each hand and six toes on each foot.  SO, how do you know a giant when he is young?”

Bres pondered, “His fingers and his feet, his hair, and his height?”

“All good clues.  And this too, in his mouth you may see that he has two sets of teeth where you or I have only one.  That you may see when he is young, but you will know him as he is driven by his appetite to eat, and when allowed his way, he will not cease to grow.”

“You say you will know him, grandfather, are there no girl giants then?”

Dream-Walker smiled at his grand-son, ”Well that you have asked, for there are no giant females.  These creatures are the Nephilim reborn and they take there wives from among normal men, if you imagine that a woman who would be the wife of a giant is in any way normal.”

“And Eochaid was one of them?  Giants I mean, not giant wives.”

“He was that, but he was the first of them and he was more influenced by his family who loved him than by others.  The giants grew wicked.  Their hunger made them selfish and a bit mad, I think.  Eochaid grew and grew.  He had six fingers on each hand and six toes to a foot, he had copper hair and cold eyes, but Eochaid had a remarkable father and mother and loving brothers and sisters and that made all the difference.

“So, though he grew to be twice the size of a man, and more, he used his great strength and size to help the people who loved him and who he loved.  I’ve told you about the great underground raths of the Deer-Riders.  When the Norfolk fought to save the plains and stood against the advancing ice it was the raths that Eochaid built that made it possible, that kept them safe, that kept them warm.

The Gaels had a legend of a man who used his strength to benefit his people and this “good god” or “the Dagda” had a great appetite and used his strength to make great ring forts.  They called him the Dagda but the legend says that he was first called Eochaid.  Strange to think them both named the same, but the new Eochaid came to be called after the old, a rath builder, enormously strong, good, they called him the Dagda.”

Bres eyed his grandfather skeptically, “Really Grandfather, do you think that story is true?”

Dream-Walker carefully got to his feet, “I do, I believe that and more.  But right now I believe that we have a fish to catch.”

“The Bass of Knowledge?”

“The same.”  And hand in hand they walked down to the pond.

This is most of a draft of the first chapter of my Niall Nine Hostages novel.  Notably it is a hurling match and it is for the hurling and not because there will be more of this novel offered that I present it.

Niall, eldest son of the Ard Ri, hurtled toward the goal with the sliotar balance on the end of his hurley.  Half the boys shouted with exhilaration; half howled their distress as they struggled to mount a defense in front of the H-frame goal.  A knot of boys formed up, waving their hurleys menacingly, ready to block the intruder’s drive.  Behind Niall, a howling mob closed in.  At the last moment, Niall spun away from the center of the field, still balancing the ball on his stick.  Niall grinned over his shoulder and his pursuers knew that they had been tricked.

Niall, skidding to a stop, shook his red hair out of his eyes and laughed.  He hurled the sliotar just over the outstretched hurleys of his opponents.  “Fynn!” he shouted over the cries of consternation from the defense, “Take it!”

A lanky boy with a worried look ran toward the bouncing pass with a determined set to his jaw.  Fynn Vyrrn saw nothing but the ball.  He was so determined that he did not see the larger boy, named Cenid, preparing to take him out instead of competing for the ball. Niall saw the danger, but too late, and yelled a useless warning, “Fynn!”

Fynn never saw Cenid coming as his eyes followed the path of his shot, nor did the shouted warning have an effect.  Cenid caught the running hurler about chest high and drove Fynn into the ground with his hurley.  Fynn dropped like a stone, the impact slamming his head and shoulders to the turf with a thud that brought gasps from other players.  Fynn came to rest in a crumpled ball.

A wicked grin split Cenid’s face, but he leered not at Fynn but at his older brother, Niall.  The thick-waisted lad, the second son of the Ard Ri, the high king, was easily the tallest of all the hurlers.  Satisfied that Niall had seen his intent, Canid turned his attentions back to the ball, but it was too late, already other offensive players had reached the sliotar.

A small brown-haired boy scooped up the ball with his hurley, catching it in his left hand.

“Seamus!” cried the older boys, waving their sticks in supplication.

Seamus, the quick-tongued youngest son of the king, scowled and pointedly ignored their calls for him to pass.  Three quick steps toward the goal and he slapped the ball in the air.  With all his strength the small boy swung two handed at the ball driving it at the goal with a loud crack.

A defense-man took the shot hard off his chest.  As brave as the boy was to face the first shot, he was not near brave enough nor fast enough to stop the avalanche of players all pounding after the ball.  The defender fell under the onrushing players and came up bloodied.  With a loud shout the sliotar skidded through the goal posts.

“Three!”  They called and “Seven!”

The hapless defense-man hurried after the ball, wiping the blood from his nose onto the bratt which was wrapped around his waist and pinned at one shoulder.  the scorers jogged back toward the center of the field cheering and squabbling about who had actually scored the goal.

The bloodied boy tossed the ball in the air, watching it with a practiced eye.  With a grunt he sent it soaring past the middle of the field.  The game resumed in earnest.  Nobody but Niall seemed to notice Fynn beginning to stir on the ground.  Niall made note of the movement and tuned back to the game.  The ball was surrounded on all sides by a press of boys and never traveled far before striking a leg or hurley.

The smaller lads hovered around the central melee of chopping an cursing boys.  When the sliotar came loose the nearest boy batted it toward his goal.  Every boy knew that if he hesitated he would be quickly mauled by the other players.  If he was quick, he might try to pass the ball with practiced swings or kicks. When given a moment to attempt it, a boy might try to scoop the ridged ball onto his hurley and carry it there or even flip it into a hand for more control.

Few of the younger boys tried this tactic. Everyone seemed to swing at the sliotar with their sticks whether it rested on the ground, flew through the air, or was being held in an unfortunate hand.  So eager were the boys that it did not seem materially important whether or not the lad holding the ball was on their team or not.

A few of the boys were older and a lot more accomplished than their mates.  Two stood out far above he rest, one for his size and brutality and the other for his speed and skill.  Where Cenid went, he pushed the smaller boys away with shoves, kicks, and even an occasional reckless strike with his hurley.  Stifled tears followed close behind Cenid, the Ard Ri’s second oldest son.

Niall, the elder by less than a year and shorter by nearly a foot, made up for his stature with his wits, his skill, and his ferocity.  No collisions impeded his rapid dashes unless a shoulder sent an opponent stumbling unbalanced but unhurt.

Niall moved like the wind.  Slicing in, Niall tapped the sliotar free from the knot of boys with a well aimed poke from his hurley.  Laughing with glee he easily scooped up the ball with his carved ash stick, his ears full of the cursing and the consternation of his fellows.  Niall snatched the ball from the air and took two quick steps away from the other combatants.  He looked for a teammate down the field in scoring position, but all his team seemed tangled in the cluster of struggling hurlers behind him.

Decision brought instant action, Niall lifted the hurley to his shoulder as he took another step and slapped the ball into the air with an open palm.  The sliotar hovered in the air a moment and then began to fall to the green, but Niall, his hurley gripped tightly in both hands now, was well prepared for his shot.

A moan went up from the boys who were unfortunate enough to be on the other team.  Though smaller than most of the other boys Niall was powerful and above all intense.  With practiced efficiency he drove the ball over the goal in a high arching shot that brought a sigh of admiration from his team-mates.

“Hah!” crowed Seamus.  The scrappy brown-haired boy nudging the large, now red faced, Cenid, “Niall is going to beat you again.”

“Shut up Seamus!” Cenid placed his hand over the smaller boy’s face and shoved him back onto the pitch as he strode through the press of players toward Niall, “You carried that ball and threw it.  I saw it!”  Cenid’s eyes narrowed and he stabbed his hurley at Niall’s chest.  “You always cheat.  How else could someone so small and puny beat me?”

Seamus had dusted himself off and followed, the mischief that danced behind his eyes would not let him resist the urge to take another poke at his older brother, “Perhaps if you had something other than moss in your head you’d be smarter than the sliotar, Cenid…”

Cenid rounded on the smaller boy, charging with his heavy ash hurley raised and a murderous gleam in his eyes. Seamus cowered, seeing the glint and fearing a beating.  Other boys seemed to melt away from Seamus, where he stood.  The hurley fell toward Seamus in a blur too quick, the youngest prince couldn’t even cover his head with his arms.  Inches short of the small boy’s head, another hurley shot out to catch Cenid’s and knock it aside.  The ferocious impact shattered the hurley that Niall held and sent Cenid stumbling past Seamus.  Seamus scrambled behind his protector.

“You owe me a hurley Cenid,” quipped Niall as he examined the broken stick before casually tossing it away, “and you almost owed me a new brother. You would have killed him if you’d hit him.”

“Mind your own affairs Niall or I swear I’ll give you worse than I’d ever give Seamus,” growled Cenid.

Niall frowned and strode closer to the taller Cenid, “I thought I explained my interest in this, not that I need an one to keep you from killing someone on a whim,” Said Niall.

“He had it coming brother, and I’m sick of your interfering too.” Cenid crouched with his hurley held like a weapon before him, “What makes you think you can command me?  And what makes you think you can stop me?”

Niall chuckled humorlessly and stepped even closer to Cenid, ready to fight, but bare handed, “Age, experience, intelligence, and the fact that I just did it.”

Cenid roared and lifted the hurley for a killing stroke.  Long before he could strike, Niall seized the haft of the hurley and pulled it down and away from Cenid as he whirled inside the arch with an elbow raised.  Pulled off balance Cenid could do nothing to avoid the elbow that sent him sprawling without his hurley.

Seamus snickered, but a look from Niall silenced him. “Hurling is over for today, off with you all.” Niall shouted loudly enough for all the players to hear him, but to his smaller brother he spoke softly aside, “That goes double for you Seamus.” Niall turned back to Cenid where he crouched on the ground, red faced.

“I’ll make you pay Niall,” Cenid hissed.

Niall ignored his threat. “Cenid, you owe me a hurley,” He said examining the finely carved and decorated hurley that he had taken from Cenid, “this used one will do.  Keep your wits about you and learn from your mistakes Cenid.  I’m not your worst enemy.  You should know I’m no enemy at all. Your worst enemy is yourself.”