Welcome to another tale of the Dream-Walker.  These stories grew out of an idea for a people who live to the north of the Gaellic Plain of Tir na Nua called Deer Riders, the Norfolk, or by some Bramblewood Elves.  The Dream-Walker is a wild seer, not a shaman or a holy man of any sort, but a man who can slip his body and walk time and space, see things nobody else could see, and return to his time and his own place on the those Gaellic Plains among the Scythians.  He has kept his journeys secret for most of his life, but now he is elderly and he shares his stories with his grandsons.  You can read the first story (which got totally out of hand) it begins with Concerning the Deer Riders.

Dream-Walker and the Giant

“Is this really the best way to catch a fish?” Asked the young plains rider, skeptically.

“Well, if you’re old like me young fellow, this is not only the best way, it’s the only way to catch a fish.”  The man chuckled.

“Catching a fish is boring, if you ask me.” said the boy.

“As I remember, you asked me, Bres,” said the old man. ”Catching a fish isn’t boring, its waiting to catch a fish that wears on a body.  You’ll see, when you catch one yourself.”

The man tipped his head back, sun warming his bald head, and let himself slip out of his shell, just a bit.  They called him Dream-walker, at least the Norfolk had, but he didn’t need to dream to do it.  Any moment of quiet contemplation could serve.  His dream self slipped into the pond and with eyes sharper than human and much sharper than his withered human shell, he looked for a fish worth the name and a memory for his grandson.

With a gasp and a snort he came back to himself.  The boy eyed him accusingly.  “See?  Boring Grandfather, you went to sleep.  Tell me that isn’t boring,” said the boy, but returned to contemplating the spot where his line disappeared into the still water of the pond.

“Well Bres, my boy, the secret to finding a fish is thinking like a fish.”

“How do I do that?” said the boy, exasperated but interested.

“Well, if you were a fish, what would you want?”

The boy pondered that awhile, his plump cheeks puffed out and his eyes squinting, “I guess I’d want food.”

Bres was the youngest and always the hungriest of his grandsons so the old man was ready for his answer, “Sure you’re right, a fish wants food, but for a big fish, for a fish that lives past being a fry, such a fish wants protection first.  There is always a heron or an eagle looking for a meal too.  The fish wants to eat, but if he has lived long enough to be worthy of catching he has always wanted NOT to be eaten still more.

“I never thought of that,” said Bres.

“And you’ve caught no fish,” said the old man.

The boy looked over at his grandfather and his smile turned sly,”but grandfather, you haven’t caught a fish either.”

“Oh ho,” laughed the man, and he reached over to tickle the boy, “do you think I don’t know where the fish are?  I’ve caught more fish than you’ve eaten. I just didn’t want to make you feel bad.”

The plump little boy squealed with delight, “oh grandfather.”

“Let me help you boy.  Why I know where the Bass of Knowledge lies right over there in the pond.”

“The Bass of Knowledge?” Bres asked skeptically.

“Why it’s the biggest meanest fish anywhere around here.  It has lived for a hundred years at least and all that time it has listened to the whispering of the wind and the murmur of the land and it has rested in this pond near the Dagda, so it has heard all his dreams too.”

“The Dagda?  What is the Dagda?” asked Bres, fishing and the Bass of Knowledge forgotten for the moment. 

Bres was the man’s favorite grandson, though he knew he shouldn’t have favorites, and the man was no doubt Bres’ favorite grandfather too.  The man always took pride in how he had a nose for a story.

“Bres my boy, let’s give the Bass of Knowledge a little more time to listen to the wind and to the land and to the giant’s dreams. Let’s you and I have a walk and a stretch and I’ll tell you about the Dagda.”  They pulled in their lines and set them aside, then hand in hand they walked up the hill that held the little pond in its embrace.

“It is not my custom to let it be known who I might be,” said Lugh, “or who I might not be.  You seem quite certain of yourself.  Let’s assume you are correct and, assuming it, go forward quietly.”

“So you admit. . .”

“If asked, I am Finn, as you can see.  But I will not have it said that Oatey is a liar.  She is guiltless.”

“She is NOT guiltless, nor is she guiless.” Huffed the Norfolk, “What that girl is, beyond doubt, is trouble.”

Lugh laughed at that, and then laughed the louder when the man turned purple with pent anger, “Indeed, it’s good to know that on at least that we agree.”

The man glanced around conspiratorially, “So you see our dilemma.  There is no doubting her power, or her popularity among the young and, might I add, the foolish.  This can only lead to trouble.  Trouble bigger than one fourteen foot giant I should think as well.”

“Are you the girl’s father?” asked Lugh.

“NO!” barked the man, then quieter, “No, her parents are gone, both of them.”

“. . . and you want me to steer the girl.  Away from giants?  Away from here?”

The man seemed to ooze slime as he smiled at Lugh, “You and I are men of the world, Finn, if you like.  Surely one so experienced can guide her away from these troubling matters and leave our folk in peace.”

“What of these giants?  Isn’t this a service she supplies?  I can only imagine what a creature like that monster would have done if she had not lured it to its death.  She claims that these giants can be shrewd, that they have allies.”

“Aye, that she pretends to be one of these Giant wives to lure them, she says.  You know a woman is the wife to one man, but what if this giant was not her mate?  Fine, she lures him to his death.  What if she is the wife of a far worse giant?  Maybe she has roused him already and uses us to kill off his rivals.  What if she betrays us?  The giants sleep until she rouses them.  Let them sleep I say.  Let them sleep and we will all live a more peaceful life.

“I see, I will think on this, but how much I will not say.  Can I take seriously this, whispered in my ear by a man I’ve never before met, nor even know his name?”

“As you say, Finn.” said the Norfolk, ”Then I will tell you, my name is Martel Jones, Chief of the Oakwood Sidhe, and First Speaker of the Conclave of Elders.”

*   *   *

Hunter Wilde huddled by his fire in the drafty hovel he shared with the meat he’d brought down.  The lord of Winterhold, Murchadh, had enjoyed his singing and playing, been amused by his stories, but in the end he was a most practical man.  More than mirth he needed meat. So instead of a warm place by the communal fire he got a cold bed alone in the wood.

At least he’d not starve. He had been a fair hunter finding meat on the way as he travelled, but he was better than fair at it now that he put his mind to it.  Witness the carcasses hanging about, leaving little enough room for him.

Like as not the sleigh would be out in a day or thrice.  But he’d be off.  Hunter had learned by now that at first you think you’d be happy for any human contact, but the same old small talk and news about folk you don’t know makes one feel all the lonelier.  He’d let them take his work back to the warm fires and leave him the things they always did.  Best sleep for the long walk on the morrow. . .

. . . The days were much longer, but Winter showed no sign of flagging.  He travelled game trails in the thick wood, a world he was learning well.  He was the alpha hunter and now he stalked a huge sow.  What he would do if he cornered her he had not thought.  Perhaps he was over confident or perhaps a bit mad.  He had ranged ever wider to find game so that his hovel saw him less than once in four days and as often not at all in ten.  Wandering in pursuit of game he only had himself and his thoughts which did carry him away at times.

The brush exploded ahead.  He fumbled with his weapons dropping unstrung bow and spear.  Hunter glanced up in terror at a huge bristle boar, tiny eyes fixed on her tormentor.  He gathered himself as she charged.  He flung himself out of her way and tumbled into the scrub beside the trail.

The sow crashed on, preferring escape to violence.  Not so wise the man.  Hunter gathered his things taking time to string his bow.  Then, heedless of anything but the pursuit, he sprinted after her.

Her passage was obvious, she tore through the undergrowth heedless of path or briar patch.  Hunter followed as fast as he could and much faster than he should.  Then, when he might have turned back, he came out into a stream and again he saw her scrabbling up into the verdant fern and bough of the opposite bank.

Only then did it strike him as strange that he had pursued the sow into Spring.  The stream was not ice rimed.  There was neither snow nor frost on the green slope to the North.  The great pig thrashed off to the East.

Hunter splashed across the rivulet and charged after the sow.  The man followed into a tightening gorge by sound as a mist bespoke the falls he heard as well as the pig.  Then he saw her at bay, head low, staring at him as he approached.  She pawed the gravel, he drew, expecting her charge, but she turned in a spray of brook water and rock and pounded up into the green.  Hunter Wilde followed.

“Hunter!” beautiful and strong, he heard a woman’s voice, “leave off!”

Hunter stopped, looking after the boar.  Then among the fern and the mist, from behind a birch tree, stepped a lady more lovely than legend.  Her golden hair fell to her waist, her raiment was soft doe skin embroidered with gold and silver and emerald.  There was a golden torc around her long creamy white throat.  Her eyes were smoldering amber hued.

“Why do you pursue the mother of generations?”

He stood dumb, gazing at her, wondering how to speak to such a creature, wondering how she knew his name.

“Go back Hunter, this is not your place, you have strayed into the lands of the Ui Uilsen of the Elves.”

“You know my name?”

Her laughter was music.  Her smile was radiance.  “I think this mother of generations is not to be meat for you. . .    . . . Hunter.  Go!”

He turned to obey without thought so commanding was her presence, but following the moment of compulsion, Hunter succumbed to curiosity.  He turned back, “My name, you know it, but I do not know yours.”

“It is not I who came unbidden, nor do you have need of my name.  You must go from here!”  The woman’s anger was clear to see.  In her long fingered hand she held up a bronze dart of lethal aspect.  “Flee Hunter, South into Winter from whence you came.”

He stumbled back, feet slipping in wet rock so that he fell to one knee.  He looked up fearing the dart would take him or perhaps to see her, but she was gone.

Hunter did as he was told, though he did not run much after he left the stream.  When snow began to fall again he slowed to a walk.

He had time to think as he walked back to his hovel.  As he went, he hunted.  He brought down a beautiful stag and he thought, “I really am a fine hunter,” and suddenly he knew that the beautiful woman had not truly known his name, only his vocation.

He pursued a doe into a bush and, as he approached, three wood hens exploded from the branches, flapping and squawking and he thought “The sow ran past the woman, but the sow was not the woman.”

Still, when by happenstance the sleigh and Hunter were both at the hunter’s cabin, the men could tell him that he was relieved to come back to the warm halls.  Hunter the singer, Hunter the poet, Hunter the bard had a tale to tell.  In it the shape-shifting fairy woman knew his name. . .

*   *   *

Smoke sat and thought about what he would do with this new life.  He wanted to at least say goodbye to Gospels before he left and perhaps he could impose for another night, with directions and a nights sleep.  Another sigh escaped, he did not relish sleeping again on a stone bench, but at least it would keep the dew off of him.

So engrossed was he with his plans that he didn’t hear the end of the monks chanting nor did he notice as Gospels approached. 

“I’m sorry my friend, I abandoned you.”

Smoke must have jumped, Gospels approached more slowly not wanting to cause alarm. ”No no, as soon as I heard the Psalms I knew what had happened.  Before the Golden One set I saw the town.

“At least now I can offer you a bit more hospitality,” said Gospels. 

“Will we share a stone bench or will I have one all to myself?” quipped Smoke.

Gospels laughed, “No, I shall have my old stone bench and you will have a bed, the best we have, though that isn’t saying much.  There is a guest house.  Hospitality is important to this order.  Though there is no evening meal for the brothers, you and I are being offered a repast, you as our guest and I get to share it for company and on account of my fast.”

“Thank you Gospels, I accept.  Will there be bird egg and moss gruel? I have to confess a growing fondness for it.”

“Perhaps if you must, that can be arranged tomorrow.  Tonight I think we will dine on more common fare.  I hope you will like it.”

“Common to you or to me, Gospels?”

“Come and see.  I don’t think you saw our hospitality at its best on the Skellig.  The larder was a bit bare.  All we had was not very much I’ll grant you.” Gospels turned and walked down toward the buildings. “I’ll show you the guest house.  I think there may be water for washing along with the dinner.”

Smoke followed, “I’m sorry I teased Gospels, I’m pleased to be free of that isle.  I pity those poor monks who took our place.”

“Just ahead here. See? There is light from the doorway.”