It was the time of the sacrifice of the bull and the subsequent seeing of Cathbad.  Nobody knew what the chief druid would see, what he would divine from the liver, and from reading the entrails of the sacrifice.  Ever since Cathbad had risen to the chief druid this sacrifice had always been a great show.  People crowded around, hoping to hear a good word, fearing to hear bad.

Concubar found it all a bit too theatrical for his taste.  The process could have been finished in a quarter of the time and all the show could be put aside in favor of the point of the thing, the oracle.  In the main, the visions were not for the rabble, the visions involved the king, his men, and his leadership of the Tuath.  As such, though he found Cathbad’s show an annoyance, there was no denying the power of the chief druid’s auguries.

Concubar sat with Fergus and a few captains of his Red Branch warriors.  They were comfortable enough, but this kind of thing was not for men of action like them, it was the purview of magicians.  As such they sat, feeling like men awaiting the judgement of the Brehon.

Fergus huffed, “by the Dagda above, why can’t they get to the point?”  There was mumbled agreement and Concubar felt the same without being able to express it.  Still it felt good to know that his fellows felt like he did.

It was his bull that was going to get the knife, it always was, and standing there among all the druids it looked as befuddled as Concubar felt, poor fellow.  Cathbad thrust the long thin knife into the air and there was a hush that fell over the crowd.  Quick as lightning Cathbad reached under the young bulls neck and with a quick slice slit it ear to ear.  All the druids hemmed it in and before it truly knew its end it collapsed to its knees and moments later was dead.

Blood was carried away, and Cathbad and his druids fell too with knife and skill.  Cathbad, red to the elbow in sacrificial blood, dominated the center of the maelstrom of druidic activity.  His concentration was absolute, focused on what remained of the animal as his assistants took away parts with practiced efficiency.  “Good water, good crops, good birthings, good wine, all this I see.  Good increase, good trading, good. . .”  Cathbad frowned and bent lower over the entrails, “. . . I see gold, good mining.”

The massed people gasped, the word gold spread to every mouth, whispered  throughout the crowd.  

“Wait!” shouted Cathbad, “Good wheat, good cattle, good oats, but tragedy and woe . . .” Cathbad cut into the liver and examined it avidly, ”Good mining, good milling, good calving, good fishing, but there is trouble.  There is war, there is loss, there is death.”

Concubar sat forward.  This was a telling that he must address, “Tell on druid, what is our path?”  Cathbad turned toward the king, his eyes were dead, vacant as they were when he was thus entranced, dark portals to a wider, darker, world.  “Speak, what should we do?”

“There is no ban, no geasa, no sacrifice that can forestall this.”

“War and doom and no way to avoid it?” Concubar frowned, concentrating, “Who is this augury for?  War certainly, but from where, and who might die?”

“Will.  There is no might in this augury,”

Concubar laughed, “Will die!  But don’t we warriors all hope for this?  Is this woe to a druid, but glory in battle for a man?  Why all the hand wringing Cathbad?  Who dies?  Tell me that so that he can put his affairs in order and make certain there is a bard near to remember his glory.”

Concubar’s statement was reinforced by the men around him, but Cathbad sneered, “Oh yes, a good rousing song is better than you deserve.  Do you think you are the only ones who suffer in war?”

“Tell us then, who suffers loss, who will die?”

Cathbad frowned and looked down at what remained of the sacrifice, “The signs are not clear.”  Cathbad looked puzzled, “Kingly, but not you oh king. A battler, a warrior, a youth. . .”

“This is meaningless”

Cathbad stared hard at the ground, but then shook his head violently, “I can not see.  Maybe if I do the consumption vision.  I can not say for sure.”  Cathbad’s assistants looked appalled.

“Advise me chief druid,” said Concubar, “If this is truly important then choose.  If not. . .”

“I will seek the consumption vision.”  A forceful nod from Cathbad sent his assistant druids scattering.

I was back in the dark hole of the sidhe.  It was cool, but in the pit of my stomach there was colder ice.  I was afraid for my people and afraid for myself.  If they were truly gone I, who was familiar with being alone from time to time, was not just alone I was lost.

I scrambled to my feet.  There was light from the hole I had collapsed in the false roof of the sidhe.  I don’t know why I’d been so stupid.  There was dry wood aplenty in the wreckage.  I had steel and flint, I had my tinderbox.  It was the work of a few moments and I had a fire started.  I reserved a manageable branch for a torch.  Moments later I could again clearly see the inside of the sidhe.  There were still metal items that had caught the light, tarnish dulled, they had suffered from inattention.

With torch in hand I walked to the entrance of the tunnel that Jella called the souterrain.  I found the loose otter stone and its cache of lamp and oil.  My first instinct was to go as quickly as possible to find my people. 

On a moments reflection I remembered my seeing.  My visions were true.  My visions of Jella, the lamp and oil, this pendant with flint and steel that I held was proof enough.  I had seen our camp overrun, I couldn’t go there.  It was too late to warn, my duty and my hope was to find.  So I put the lamp in my pack, and I put the pendant around my neck.  I walked back into the great hall of the sidhe to see if there was something, anything, that would help us. . .”

“Did you find your people Grand-father?”  asked the youngest.

The elder boys elbowed the youngest. “He’s here isn’t he?”

“I did find our people.  Most of them.  Some of the other lads who had gone out before didn’t come back, but warning arrived before I knew of the danger.  We had to run and sneak and we didn’t have deer or horses to ride either.  We got food from the secret place which supplied us for our flight south, but our warring with the evil hordes cost us plenty.”

There was a yawn, and another.  “Well, that’s pretty much what I know about the deer-riders.  Maybe you three aught to go find your beds.”

The boys looked at each other and didn’t move as fast as they usually did he thought.  “Of course you can help yourself to what’s left of dinner.  Can’t have good bread go to waste.”

The boys dug in and murmured thanks as they parcelled out the last of supper.  Mouths still full, the boys exited the tent.  They were mounted in a flash, almost before the old man could make it out of his tent.

The eldest turned back before he and the others rode off, “Thank you Grand-father.” His fellows mumbled their thanks around their last mouthfuls.

“Off with you then my lads.  You’re likely to scare the Deer Riders off if you’re around making noise and chewing so loudly.”

“Right, scare off the deer-riders, “Laughing, they waved and pelted off toward the main camp leaving the old man alone with his thoughts. 

He closed his eyes.  Perhaps from long practice or because he was older now and the veil between life and death was thinner for him now, but he could see so much easier now.  As forgetful as he was becoming he could imagine walking away from his body and just never coming back.  Perhaps that was what dying was.  The man felt sure he would know someday soon.

But tonight he flew above the world.  He saw from above the herd deer’s approach.  He saw the stream of tawny bodies and clattering horn.  They were coming.  The moon was often his guide, somethings do not change.  Now he felt the rush of the herd through his feet.  His old horse nickered.  He breathed deep. Was that the deer he smelled?

He walked briskly to the spot he had chosen.  On a little knoll above his camp there was a tree with roots sunk into the rocky hill top.  He had almost left himself short.  He turned just in time to see the first of the herd deer burst over the nearby rise.  His hand found purchase on the tree for stability and comfort.  He could hear the coming of the deer now as well as feel it. 

The herd cleared the rise before him on a broad front and it split to pass his place by the tree.  The beasts were running blind for the most part now.  But the tree was a big enough obstruction. 

He had old eyes in an old body, but eyes aren’t the only way to see, he knew.  And so he saw.  On the back of a deer, a bit larger than most, was a person he knew. He smiled, it was good to see old friends, a bit sad to remember others. “Heyaah!  Oren,” He yelled.

“Heyaah Dream-Walker,”  The deer-rider called and waved as he thundered past among the tawny deer.