Lugh jogged a little to catch up to Oatey and stalked along now as annoyed as she seemed to be angry.  “So what did I do?” He began, “I’m used to being treated as a pariah, but at least I usually know my offense.  Commonly it is the same one. . .”

“I don’t want to talk . . .” said Oatey but Lugh cut her off.

“Well, I DO want to talk.  I always want to talk.  If you want to spend time with me in the future you will have to become accustomed to my talk, because that’s what I do, I talk.”  Lugh took a step or two more before adding, “and though I don’t mind carrying a conversation I do like to hear the occasional word. . .”

“I’ve nothing to say.”

“As if that makes any difference,” Lugh mumbled to himself before trying again, “First, perhaps you can tell me what I did.”

“Nothing at all.  I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Nothing AND I don’t want to talk about it.”  Lugh countered, “So there IS something.”

Oatey stopped dead and Lugh stopped a bit beyond her, turning back as she said quietly, “Why are you following me Lugh?”

Her pain was palpable, overwhelming, and it shocked Lugh into silence.  She stared hopelessly into his eyes a moment, but a couple of Norfolk walked up to them in the corridor, and in making way Oatey pushed past him.  She continued on up the corridor without his answer.  Lugh followed silently.

“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.”

Iamerge followed Gospels along the shoulder of the roadway as Ui Birlinn’s column slowly passed.  As tired as Rhaury and his men were in front, clearly the men in the rear were more so.  These were likely the men who had come upon the monsters who were ravaging the other caravan and had driven them off.  Most bore worse than the haggard look of exhaustion, many wore bandages and other signs of wounding.

When the column was passed Iamerge caught up to Gospels and began to walk beside him.  Gospels was whispering to himself, he seemed unaware of Iamerge or at least preoccupied in his own thoughts.  With the column passed Iamerge began to look to their safety.  The slope was steep and there wasn’t much undergrowth to hide attackers.  Iamerge could see the ruins of the unfortunate caravan a little farther ahead.  He breathed a sigh of relief, It looks like we will be among friendlies long before any enemy could come on us, he thought.

“Do you know much of healing Iamerge?” Gospels surprised him, so used had he become to Gospels murmurings as they walked.

“I know a bit, enough to bind my own wounds and a broken bone now and then,” Iamerge glanced over at Gospels, “Do you think we will need the little skill I have?”

“That and God’s help will avail us much,” said Gospels. “I fear that there will be much need of both.”

“Ask your God for strength, I do believe you are right,” as they approached the wreckage they were hailed by Ui Birlinn’s men who had been left as guards and to see, as well as they could, to the wounded that yet lived.  Before they reached them, they saw many who were beyond help.  The men were badly torn and wretchedly laid out in their death throes.

“Be sure I have been.” said Gospels.

As night fell, Gospels had the guardsmen build up a large bon fire.  Others were detailed to move the wounded into the light and warmth of it.  Gospels sent men to forage for cloth to be used as bandages and anything else that might be of use. 

Iamerge employed his medical knowledge, meager as it was, at Gospel’s direction.  The monk seemed to have a good idea of who might be saved and who, among the wounded, were more in need of comfort, this Gospels gave unstinting.  They battled in this way as the Wanderer rushed across the sky and set at the head of the valley, but it had not returned when Hebrews and ten more brothers came into the camp bringing all things needful and many helping hands more adept at the healing arts than were Iamerge’s.

When Iamerge would have withdrawn, exhausted, Gospels called him again.  “Iamerge, Conal needs an ear, and company.  Will you sit with him?”

“Surely Gospels,” said Iamerge and found himself sitting with a body with no legs and many bandages.

“Thanks brother,” said what was left of the man, “that Gospels, he told me about his Lord, and about. . .” the man was weeping and as Iamerge knelt, coming near, a hand came from the mass of bandages and clung to him, “. . . he told me about forgiveness in his Jesus.  Can it be true?”

Iamerge gaped, fumbling for what he might say to comfort the man, “I’ve never heard Gospels tell anything but the truth.”

“That’s what I thought,” said the better part of a man. Iamerge patted the mans hand and sat silently.  The man sobbed, “I’ve made a mess of things, I prayed with him, that Gospels, but he can’t know what I done– so I was just askin’.”

“If Gospels said it, you can be sure. . .”

“All the wrong I done’s paid for, forgiven because of this Jesus . . . ” The man wept and Iamerge sat silently beside, “. . . that I’ll see him when I die.”

The man relaxed and let out a sigh. Iamerge thought he’d passed and began to draw away his hand.  “Thanks brother,” the man said weakly, “I’m okay, ain’t that somethin’?”

“I just thought you’d fallen asleep. . .” Iamerge said, embarassed.

“Nah, soon. What was yer name, friend?”

“Iamerge”

“That’s right! Gospels called you that.  Thanks Iamerge.  I’m Conal.” The man pulled his hand back against his body, “Go ‘head, there’s others that can use you.”

Conal closed his eyes.  Iamerge rose and fled into the night.

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.