With the day fast dying and a down hill trail, Lugh focused on keeping up.  There were plenty of sites to see, little ponds, forests, flower filled meadows, all bathed in sunset richness of color, and of course, Oatie.

Oatie would spring off the trail whenever she saw firewood.  Lugh’s burden grew as he struggled to keep up with her and balance the load while she kept adding dry stick after stick.  It wasn’t too long and she stopped by a little meandering stream.  The place was the remains of a silted in pool caused by an avalanche long ago.  The grass was lush and the ground, soft and forgiving.  Lugh lay his firewood next to where Oatie had dropped her’s.  She was already returning with some rocks and a few more trips had a hearth of stones laid with a fire merrily burning and the stars shining above them.

Oatie seemed accustomed to making camp and Lugh had no objection to letting her do the lion’s share.  Soon there was something cooking in both their pots.  Lugh lay on the thick grass and wondered if he could remain awake long enough for dinner.  The smell was enticing, but the deepening night, and the long day’s hike was a powerful sedative.  Lugh found himself dosing as Oatie tended the camp.

Oatie stirring up the fire and pulling the pots from the coals woke Lugh from his light slumber, “Hey there sleepy-head.  You need to eat.  We have another long walk tomorrow.” 

Lugh groaned and rolled onto his belly.  Oatie was fussing with the fire on the other side of the pit.  The light made her skin look golden and her hair glowed like fire itself.  Lugh shook off his torpor, “Hey, if there’s food to eat, I’ll eat it.”

“Well, come and get it.  The least you can do is come this far since I made it,” Oatie chided, but smiled as he approached, “I guess you aren’t used to hiking that hard.”

“I guess not.”  I do my share of walking, especially of late.  Truth is, I had to leave some fine horses when I came North. . .” Lugh realized he didn’t really want to broach the subject of his expulsion from his previous accommodations.  He was surprised by his embarrassment, he flushed hot, but the heat of the dancing flames served to cover his blush.  “What have you made?  It smells wonderful, better than anything I make on the road.”

Oatie beamed at his compliment, conveniently diverted from the sore subject of his infidelities.  “Taste and see,” she said, holding out a spoonful for him to sample.”

“That’s amazing.  What is it?  It’s delicious, how did you learn to cook so well?”

She was proud, but a little sad too as she explained, “When my mother died it was just me and Father.  My father was a hopeless cook, so I learned for survival reasons.  Do you really like it?”

Lugh nodded emphatically and reached for the pot. She playfully slapped his hands away.  “There’s enough for both of us.  Just wait a moment.”

Oatie hot handed a round loaf of fresh bread out of one of the pots and broke it in half.  One half of the loaf went on each pot lid. 

Lugh gasped, “Fresh bread? From a camp pot? How did you. . .”

Oatie playfully stuffed a small chunk of sweet warm bread in his mouth and Lugh was busy savoring it for a moment. “You don’t have anything else to work with and you learn, I guess.  Truth is I don’t usually bother, but I felt like showing off a little.”  Oatie laddled out hot stew into the bread bowls and there was quiet around the fire as they enjoyed the warm food.

The giant cauldron hung above a fire that had settled back to a sullen red glow.  Cathbad sat staring into the embers, deep in thought or devoid of it, while his druid assistants tended the cauldron, chanted, or fidgeted nervously.  Few enough of the small-folk remained, but when word of war had filtered out with those that had left, the men who would fight it began to gather to hear the words of the chief druid.

CuRuada had been seeking Emer at the fair, but he could not find her.  Indeed, Emer and her father had left for the ford of the Red where they lived.  CuRuada’s fellows brought him the exciting word of war predicted by the druid, Cathbad.  With them, Cu gathered near the chanting druids and the blackened cauldron with the other warriors, though the boys of the troop hung together.

CuRuada saw his destiny plain.  He must take up arms today.  As in other things he must excel to claim his bride.  CuRuada knew that the ceremony where young men took up their arms was normally held after the yearly sacrifice and druid divination.  Waiting was torment.  His friends in the boys troop were eager to be men, but Cu needed to be one.  Emer was reason enough and more.

CuRuada opened the carved box and stared at the broach and the knife.  When I take up arms there is no one who can keep me from you Emer.

Murmurs among the assembled men brought CuRuada out of his reverie.  Druids were bringing boiled meat out of the cauldron with meat hooks.  Some of it had already been spread out to cool and Cathbad was methodically eating what was placed before him.  This then was the beginning of the Consumption Vision.  Cathbad would eat all the bullock and after that there would be a vision of great power.

But a man eating can hold attention only so long, for the boys troop less than most.  Their whispered conversation was frowned on by the warriors around about them for awhile, but soon enough the process of Cathbad eating the bull could not hold even grizzled old warriors attention and they joined the boys in murmured conversation.

“I shall take up arms today, if the druid will ever finish his meal,” boasted Conor, a boy of the troop.

“Best think twice Conor, this of war is no business for mere boys,” said Conall, the champion’s son.

“I suppose a shan’t be able to with my arm as it is,” pouted Felmid.

“HAH!” scoffed Conor, “I’d not worry about my arm if I were you.  Better that you grow a couple more years before you think of it, Felmid.”

Felmid shouldered Conor with his good arm, “What do you know, you’re only three months older.”

“Hush now, have you no respect?” said Conall, “Think twice before you take up arms.  There are two ends to a spear.  Make sure you can stay on the right end of it.”

“I will take up arms today,” stated CuRuada flatly.  The druid was still eating, but CuRuada had no more stomach for this show, “Come get me when it is time to take up my arms.”  Without another word he walked off toward where people were gathering their things to depart.  CuRuada went first to where the Lokian smith had been and finding his booth gone went looking for him among the carts and wains of the people leaving the fair grounds.

“That is an odd fellow,” Remarked Conor.

“. . . Said the boy with more freckles than face,” Felmid laughed, but yowled when Conor thumped him on his broken arm.

“Hush you,” whispered Conall, and the boys all fell silent, “Have you no respect?”  Conall pointed to the diaz where Cathbad was finishing his meal.

Cathbad took from an assistant a huge bowl of broth mingled with blood and slowly began to drink.  His helpers hovered near as the great druid finished the last of the bull.  Cathbad dropped the bowl and held his arms out.

There was sudden noise of chanting and drumming the cauldron was drawn off the fire and fragrant incense was cast on the coals.  Others of the druids waved censers about spreading still more fragrant smoke.  In the midst of it all Cathbad sat with his arms held out. 

Then an elder druid came toward Cathbad struggling under the weight of the bullocks hide he bore, eight others carried a platform of sorts with handles where the druids held it up.  The elder shook out the bloody hide and with the help of some of the younger assistants wrapped Cathbad, already red with the blood of the sacrifice, in the bloody skin of the sacrifice.

The eight druids with the elder lifted Cathbad onto the platform which the they then lifted onto their shoulders with Cathbad, entranced, upon it.  The general noise died to silence as the elder druid took up a censer and began to chant.  He led the bearers down off the dais and all the druidry who had been helping with the vision quest fell in behind in a sort of procession.  Everyone else stood or sat around the empty dais as the procession moved off, Cathbad above all on the shoulders of the bearers.  The thin voice of the elder druid was joined by the assembly as they slowly walked away.

“What now?” asked Felmid.

Conall and several older warriors around stared at him disapprovingly.  Conor whispered, unabashed, “Cathbad sleeps off his big meal, has his vision, and then we all hear.”

Felmid considered this for a moment before commenting, “Why in the world did we stand here waiting?”

Conor shrugged, Conall frowned, and an elder warrior not far off shushed louder than Felmid’s comment.  Conall muttered under his breath, “have you no respect?”

Meanwhile CuRuada searched for the smith.  He strode along the long line of carts and wagons looking for the short dark Lokian.  When he would have almost stopped he saw the man with his wagon and team.  On seeing him Cu couldn’t imagine what he would say.  The man made up his mind for him when he looked back, and seeing the young warrior, motioned him forward.

When CuRuada walked up beside the wagon the little man called down, “Don’t tell me that you’ve come looking for another gift for yet another lady friend.”  CuRuada’s look of horror made the black-haired metal-worker laugh.  “No?  Well that’s good to hear.  How did your friend like the gift?”

“I don’t know, I couldn’t find her.  Likely left with the rest; left like you.”

“Likely so. . .” said the smith. “So why come see me?”

CuRuada shrugged, “I couldn’t stand waiting for the chief druid’s vision quest.  It’s a hard thing to watch a man eat and eat.  Afterward is the ceremony where boys take up their arms and become men.  I need to take up arms today.”

“The only good reason to wait that I can see is so you don’t miss something you have to have.”

“That is good advice.  Now I owe you twice over, how shall I repay you?”

The dark Lokian laughed, ”There’s no need.”  He thought for a moment and then leaned out of his wagon looking Cu directly in the eyes, “But some day you and your friend could come see me.  I’d like to see that brooch completed.” His blue eyes danced with mischief before he added, ”My name be Goffanon the smith.  Beyond the Red Branch and up in the hills the folk know my name and the paths to my forge.  Seek me when you would find me.”

CuRuada waved, “I will come Goffanon, so says CuRuada.”

With that he rein whipped his team to better speed to close up the gap between his wagon and the next in line.  He shouted back at Cu, “Don’t forget to bring that girl of yours too.”

CuRuada turned to walk back along the cart track.  Far back along the way he saw Conor and Felmid walking toward him.  At that he remembered the smith’s advice and began to run toward his fellow boys troop members.

“Hey there Cu!” shouted Conor, “If you plan to take up arms today you best come at once.  Cathbad has eaten and his vision can’t be far off.”

“How long did we stand around while he ate?” asked Felmid, “I’m sure it can’t come as soon as we would want.”  Felmid fiddled with his splinted arm, “Not that I’ll be taking up arms.”

“I must,” stated CuRuada flatly striding toward the diaz where he had watched the druid’s divination sacrifice.

Conor and Felmid were hard pressed to keep up with him. “Hey now, hair on fire,” Conor jibbed, Felmid laughed at that encouraging him, ”What’s all the hurry for?  Cathbad has predicted war and death, of course the king isn’t too worried about that.  Kings don’t do the dying.”

Felmid broke into a jog that had him clutching his splinted arm in one way and another until he found a comfortable way to hold it.  “Yeah, at least hear what Cathbad’s Consumption Vision has to say. . .”

“It matters not.  I will take up my arms today.”

Conor and Felmid shrugged at each other and fell in behind CuRuada as he strode toward the crowd of men awaiting the Chief Druid’s vision.  As the three of them approached, there was a flurry of activity and the elder druid walked up the stairs and onto the dais followed by an entourage of younger druids.

This fellow was not so theatrical, for as soon as his following entourage took up their places around him he began to read from a wand scratched with runes.  “This is the vision of Cathbad, hear and know the future if you can understand it.” The old man’s voice boomed out over the audience, “Indeed there will be war.  This will waste the good foaling and the fine fishing and what should be blessed will be bitter.  Many will die both in fighting and for greed and for cursing that comes of war.”  The druid spoke derisively, looking down his nose at the king, “All this but reinforces what Cathbad saw from the liver and the entrails.” 

“It was the chief druid’s choice, get on with it.” said Concubar.

The old turned his eyes to where the young men gathered, “Only this word remains, this for the young, this warning before war.  The first to take up arms today will gain fame at the cost of his life, will be showered with glory, remembered forever for his deeds.  Wait you!  Know that glorious is his life, but short.  This Cathbad saw, great his deeds but so soon his death.  This was Cathbad’s seeing and we know that it is true.

Good to have a famous name, but to die young was a bitter thing.  The older of the boys troop hesitated.  Even Conall considered. 

Single-minded, CuRuada pushed through his fellows, “I will take up my arms today.  Better to be remembered than to die in a bed.”  Hearing this Concubar was proud because CuRuada was his son though he did not make it generally known.

The elder druid turned away and to his fellows he said, “This too was Cathbad’s seeing and we see it is true.”

I am forced by the format of this Blog to name the post as I begin writing.  Often it does not go as I anticipate and I want to end a post before the story really warrants it, or the story turns and the title does not reflect well the content.  In this case there are a number of things happening that occur before or during Cathbad’s vision (which we don’t actually see) and so this title seems a bit forced as does the ending and the vision.  This last for reason of wanting to wrap up a post while still offering the information promised in the title.  Hopefully I can improve the uneveness if/when I rewrite this tale.

LSO

“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 town was coming alive.  Iamerge thrilled to it.  There was the pulse of commerce here, a beat that Iamerge had learned to hear so well that he made himself rich by it over and over.  The carters and the merchants were setting up in the square if they hadn’t been selling since dawn.  Iamerge wandered, noting what was selling, and what was left.

When he got his money from Ua Birlinn he would need to make some purchases.  A set of knives at least, perhaps a sword too, if he could find something not too cumbersome.  He would need clothes, not too ostentatious, but of a quality to give the right impression, of solidity and stature, without revealing superciliousness or foolish pride.

There were many fine garments in the used items he was shuffling through.  He glanced around the offerings he saw. The weapons caught his eye and he scanned them.  He reached for an iron blade with a ebon handle and what looked to be a good balance. 

“What would a man of the Christian God need with such a knife?  That blade is not for cutting potatoes or buttering bread, its for cutting men.”  The woman who spoke chuckled derisively before adding, “Or maybe its true what they say, that all you brothers are gelded.  Still, if that is the case, there are better blades than that one for such purposes.  Has your gelding blade gone dull monk?”

“You do not like the brothers, I hear it, I am sorry to trouble you.”  Iamerge cursed himself for failing to be observant yet again.  He wasn’t even sure where the voice was from.  It had been far too long since he needed to live by his wits.  He turned away from the weapons on the table and almost ran into the woman who had taunted him.

She was beautiful, despite her age, and despite the venomous look on her face.  “You dress like one of those bell ringing eunuchs, but you aren’t one, are you?” She said, “What an odd thing, to gaze on these pretty things, but dress like one of those foolish scribblers.  Who are you trying to fool?”

“I beg your pardon, I do not wish to give offense,” Iamerge tried to retreat, but the woman, tall and graceful, countered his attempts to disengage without making a scene of it.  “I am not of the brotherhood, though I have been staying with them. . .”  The woman countered each move he tried to win free.

Finally, the woman seized his habit and pulled the cowl off his head. ”Well, if you are one of them or just among them it matters naught, what is your business here?”

“Please, I just wished to see the town. . .”

“You are a spy?”

“No no, not at all,” He stammered, then before he could stop himself from saying it he blurted, “I do have a small matter of business in town, but the man isn’t here. I thought I’d see what wares were for sale is all.  I, I, I am sorry. . .”

“Well if that is all, why be sorry? This is a place where people buy and sell, generally people with coin or something to trade. I see no coin purse. . .”

“. . . Perhaps tomorrow, if I conclude my business.”

The woman looked at him oddly, “Well, when you have coin you aught not waste it on these cast offs and seconds.  You will find far better there.”  The woman pointed toward a shop front. “Ua Birlinn has this and better and all of it for less than this robber.  Isn’t that so Jered?”

In his fixation on the things for sale he had not even seen the red faced owner of the little booth, Iamerge cursed his inattention again. The man fumed but only mumbled, “What ever you say, Mongfind.”  Iamerge turned to look at the man and took the opportunity to step back from the table.  The man was angry, but would say nothing more, though hatred burned behind his eyes.

“You see? Even the proveyor of Jered’s Junk is forced to acknowledge it.  So, when you have the coin, come see me.  I’ll make you a better deal than this felon or my name isn’t Mongfind Ua Birlinn.  Isn’t that so Jered?” 

Iamerge stepped back again, but his eyes met the woman’s and she held his gaze until Jered mumbled a sullen, “Whatever you say.”

The woman held Iamerge’s gaze a moment more before turning  her contempt on the merchant and making him look away.  She turned her back, dismissing them both with a shrug, but not another word and sauntered away toward Ua Birlinn’s.

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.