The king, Concubar, strode into the coolness of his great hall followed by his champion, his druid, and a small boy who’s finger bore a ring that made his claim to be his son.  Concubar made directly for his throne, but paused as he approached, “So you say that you will give your name to the king and no other, is that it boy?”

“That is so, it is a geas upon me,” The boy stated flatly.

“Well then, lucky for you the king is here.  Come sit and let’s all hear what such a marvelous little fellow like yourself might be named.” Thus saying he motioned for his champion to sit upon the high seat, it took some waving and nudging and in the end a firm tug on Fergus’s leine, but at last the Champion, stronger than he was nimble of mind, realized the ploy and sat down on the high seat, looking a bit uncomfortable, “See?  Here is the king, so let us hear your name then boy.”

“I am to give my name to the king alone, so said my mother to me, it was she that put on me the geas.  I might give my name to the king and no other.”  said the boy firmly.

“But the king is here,” prompted Concubar.  Then he prodded Fergus.

Fergus blinked stupidly a time or two before offering, “Yes, let’s have it lad, what is your name?”

“To the king alone may I give it.”

“But these are my trusted advisers, surely it is not so great a secret that it must not be heard by my confidants at the same time I hear it,” said Fergus, getting the idea of the ruse but spoiling it a bit by looking over at Concubar who rolled his eyes after giving the Champion an encouraging nod.

“To the king alone.”

Fergus glanced up at his king who’s slight nod set him in motion, “Leave us then, I will hear the boy alone.”

At that, Concubar and Cathbad began to withdraw until they saw that the boy followed them.  “What is this?  Aren’t you going to say your name?” asked Concubar.

“To the king I will,” said the boy seriously.

Concubar stared hard at the small boy.  He was well formed, thin but not overly so, there were bruises from the boys troop fight but there was no fear in the boy at all.  Looking on him Concubar recognised him, surely this boy was like he had been.  The king laughed, “Good and good, well then I guess I’ll hear it.  Fergus, Cathbad, leave us.”

The two men left and the king returned to his throne followed by his small visitor.  “So, your mother put on you this geas that you must give your name only to the king, here I am then.  Lets have it boy.  And while you have my attention, perhaps you should tell me your mother’s name as well, who put this geas on you?”

“My mother, the lady Fand, put on me the geas as she gave me the name.”

“Fand you say?”

“Yes sir, Fand, whose father is Muirthemne.”

“So boy, give me the name you must only speak to a king.”

“It is not to any king I am bound to speak it, but only to you.”

“Only me?” Concubar felt flushed, angry or guilty or afraid, “Let’s have it then,” he whispered.

“My mother called me Son.  It is the only name I ever had.  Son is my name.”

Concubar nodded, the boy showed no sign of glee at his discomfort or fear.  Concubar looked into the boy’s eyes and saw only innocence and truth in eyes of his son, “It is good that you told me, Son.”

The boy nodded solemnly and asked, “May I go play with the other boys now?”

“Are you still geas bound?” asked the king.

The boy frowned, concerned, “Yes, I must only speak that name to you.  Can you make them let me play without telling them my name, I must not say it?”

“Your mother was wise in this.  Tell, if they ask, that you gave your name to the king and that I said you could play,” the boy’s face lit with happiness and he would have run off without leave, but he turned back when Concubar called him, “Son! A moment.  Did your mother, Fand, say aught else.  Did she give you a message?”

“No sir.  She named me, placed on me the geas, and told me where I might find the king I must tell my name.  Can I go play now?” the boy said impatiently.

“He has no idea,” thought Concubar and said, “Yes, go play.”

As the boy left the druid and champion returned.  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” said Cathbad, “What kind of mischief is the boy at?”

“Easy to tell, that little fellow’s name is Son.  Just that, no more, no less.  And his mother is Fand.”

“What!  The wife of Mannanan Mac Lyr?  That’s ridiculous.  He is playing a game on us all.”

“I don’t think the boy is.  I don’t think he even knows what his name means.  And the mother may be married to Gol Mac Morna for all I know.  The boy claims the Fand that is his mother is the daughter of a man named Muirthemne.

“Stranger and stranger.”

“As you say.  This is a puzzle.  I don’t know what this Fand intends, but until we do, we need to watch the boy and make sure he comes to no harm.”

“What if the boys attack him again?” asked Fergus.

“See that they don’t, quickly.  I sent him out to play at hurling,” said Concubar.

“I’ll see to it.” said Fergus as he strode to the doorway.

“Fergus! One more thing, introduce the little fellow as something other than Son.  Keep that name to yourself.”

“Aye, but what?”

Cathbad stroked his beard, “Sometimes the simplest is the best.  Why not call him “Little Fellow.”  He’s smaller by a head than any of the boy’s troop.”

“Little Fellow then.”  Concubar smiled, “though it might not fit for long.  The lad is not nine days old unless I missed my count.”

“You were foolish to involve yourself with the fairy folk.”

Concubar frowned at Cathbad as he said, “Hurry Fergus, make sure that Little Fellow doesn’t come to harm.  We don’t know what price Fand or this father, Muirthemne will ask from us if he is hurt or worse.”

Fergus nodded and left, leaving only Cathbad with the king, “This is a mess,” said Cathbad.  “It is never a good thing to mix with the Fae folk.”

“Too late by half Cathbad, that Little Fellow is my son.  I’m sure of it.”

When Anuniaq was only just become a man and had not yet taken a wife from among his people, his mother, Nauja said to his father, Chulyin, “Why will my son not take a wife?  Husband, speak to Anuniaq, else our family will end with him and we will have no daughter-in-law to care for us in our old age.”

“Fine, fine, I will speak to the boy,” said Chulyin and he went out to his son so he would not have to hear Nauja’s complaints against the boy.

Far out on the sea, Anuniaq was trying out his fine new tanned hide sail on his kayak.  Chulyin looked at the low gloomy sky and left his son to his foolishness and went to sit by his friend Oogrooq’s fire.”  I will talk to the boy when he returns,” He thought.

The fire was fragrant and the talk was good, so Chulyin sat long with his friend Oogrooq discussing this and that.  The crackling fire and their laughter drowned out the beginnings of rain on the sides of Oogrooq’s tent.  It was a gust of wind that reminded Chulyin of his mission.  “I beg your pardon Oogrooq, I was to talk to my son about a wife. . .”

Oogroo, knowing both Chulyin and Nauja, commented, “Are you sure you are the one to advise him, Chulyin?”

“Probably not,” said Chulyin as he climbed to his feet, “But how could I tell Nauja that?”

“Mmmm,” said Oogrooq.

When Chulyin staggered out of Oogrooq’s tent, the wind was howling and driving the rain into his face.  He turned his back to the gale and looked out to sea.  Annuniaq’s kayak was nowhere to be found.  Chulyin looked up and down the slippery pebble beach.  There was no sign of the boy.  “Anuniaq!” he shouted.  The storm grew worse until he could only return to his tent and collapse by the fire.

           *  *  *

Anuniaq did not realize his danger until a great gust of wind nearly tore his sail from his grasp.  Only then did he look toward where the shore had been and see nothing but sheets of driving rain.  “Uh oh, here comes a storm.” he thought.

Anuniaq was very proud of his sail, the great drum that catches the wind, that he had fashioned.  So before he tried to paddle home he took the time to carefully collapse and tie down his sail.  Then, taking up his paddle, Anuniaq pulled hard into the wind and rain where he thought his village would be.

Soon the sea was a frothy confused range of colliding mountains tossing him about like a seal float.  Up he rose on the crest of a storm torn wave only to fall into the trough between white capped breakers trying to bury him in the deep.  The hope of home faded to be replaced by a terrorized fight to survive the ravening sea.

At some point, imminent danger became so incessant that thought was buried in instinct.  Anuniaq reacted to each new threat and without thought survived it.  Pain had no more meaning to him than did the past he could not then remember or a future he could not imagine.  And then when instinct told him his life was not threatened, he collapsed across his paddle and slept.

When he woke, stiff and cold, his kayak rocked upon an undulating sea beneath a gray sky.  The water was smooth, but rose and fell, and every new glass mountain peak showed nothing, but a world of other such mountains off to the gray horizon, unbroken and lonely.

There was a dim gloaming lightening the overcast, so with only a very general idea of direction Anuniaq began to paddle northward where he hoped to find land.  It was torturous at first, but as time passed his body warmed and with that his spirits rose.  As dim glowing light only just lightened the the overcast to his left Anuniaq continued to use the waves to surf him forward.

Anuniaq prepared for another night on the sea.  With his sail and provisions from his kayak he prepared shelter and a meager meal.  He hoped the morning would reveal land.  By now he was worried that the storm had driven him farther than he could have imagined, but worry pushed him no nearer to home and weariness made his kayak and the rocking of the waves a good enough bed.

A strong breeze ruffling his tented sail woke him.  The world was still gray, but the morning sun seemed brighter and the wind made him hope that he might sail more than paddle and so rest while he travelled more than his weary body would allow on its own.

So it was that Anuniaq nearly forgot his plight while he danced between wind and wave.  It was nearing mid-day with holes burned through the overcast that Anuniaq saw a dark blue serration along the horizon when he rose upon a swell.  The breeze bore him toward land he had never seen.

His people lived on the ice and, in summer, gravel beaches, sometimes there would be a low cinder cone peak above the shingle, but this land was stony peaks rising from the sea.  “This must be the iron mountains of the Rus of which the whale-talkers sang,” He thought.

There was a darkening threat, fearsome looking clouds to the West so Anuniaq feared another storm.  What approached on the wind he knew he could not bear again, so he rode the wind and the waves toward a new land.  Anuniaq began to realize that he may have traded one danger for another, but his fate was settled and he must go onward.

*  *  *

Chulyin sat by Oogrooq’s fire and thought more than he talked.  It seemed that Anuniaq was gone.  As a father he felt sad for the loss, but as a husband of a quarrelsome wife he felt a much worse.  Nauja had not taken the loss of her son, her only means of procuring a daughter-in-law, at all well.  It was Chulyin’s fault, of that she was sure, Nauja missed no opportunity to remind him, so he hid here with his friend.

Chulyin sighed loud enough to stop Oogrooq in the midst of a tale, meant to cheer him up.  Oogrooq commented, “I would not be surprised to find out that Anuniaq is fine, somewhere.  A very resourceful boy that son of yours.”

“I think so too.  I should be mourning him, but I don’t feel that he is dead, just gone and I miss him.  It was nice when there was someone else for Nauja to talk to.”

“Be careful what you wish for, eh Chulyin?  Every boy in the village was in love with your Nauja once.”

“Yes, and it was my good fortune to win her,”  Chulyin sighed, “I’m a lucky man.”

Oogrooq pondered awhile and then spoke, “Cheer up my friend, you don’t really need a son, you need a daughter.”

“Oh aye, but Nauja is not going to give me one of those, more like she’ll give me a knot on the head or poison.  Besides, she is passed the years of life giving.  Besides, we tried, but Anuniaq was very hard on her.”

“Look on the bright side, Winter is coming, someone always dies.  Maybe you can take in an orphan to care for you when you are old.”

Chulyin grinned, “You know, I’m sure you are right.  Someone is bound to die and leave a nice girl child for Nauja.  All I have to do is survive the Summer.”

“Perhaps we are not too old to go whaling?”

“Maybe.  More like we are not too old to go camping and watch the young men do the whaling.  Let’s get everything ready and I’ll tell Nauja when we are ready to shove off,” said Chulyin.

The men started their preparations in silence, but after a time Oogrooq spoke up, “You know Chulyin, I was one of the boys who loved Nauja. . .”

“I know my friend.  Once every boy in the village wanted Nauja.”

“It was no jest when I said that we had little comfort here.  There is a shift like this that I wear by your head, and too, your clothes, such as they are after the sea, are drying though not yet dry.”

“Perhaps I’ll get around to the kitchen and sit by the fire.”

White Hands frowned, “This may be difficult for you, there is no kitchen, nor fire.  Rest here.  I will bring the treasure for you to see.”  White Hands bussled out the door.

Smoke gathered himself, the room was chilly and damp.  He slipped on the rough fabric of the garment, covering his head with the hood.  He draped an animal skin around his shoulders and began to feel warm again.  No fire, truely this place seemed the poorest he had ever seen.  Even in the city streets amongst the filth there was material, at least fuel for a fire, something, here there was only stone and wind and wet.

True to his word White Hands returned.  He bore a skin wrapped package and atop it a candle.  He produced a tinderbox and with a little effort made a flame and lit the candle.  “We value words you know.” White Hands spoke as he unwrapped the package, “And so for us this written word is of utmost value.  But that isn’t why this place is so austere.  We seek places like this,  places of contemplation amid privation.  Places where one can hear a still small voice.  I don’t imagine that you understand, but this place has been used by my brethren because of its difficulty not inspite of it.  We seek to remove all distraction so that we may focus on God alone, and His Christ.”

“It would seem that the harshness would distract. . .”

Okay I’ve lost my way in this.  I’ll have to get back to this later.