Awakening the Gods

by Kristin Gleeson

  “I leave you here,” said Morrigan.

  “You’re not going to wait until I summon the boat?”

  She shook her head. “It’s best if you do it alone. It will be sure to come, then. Sure to take you to the right place.”

  I gave her a puzzled look, but who was I to doubt her? She turned and retraced her steps and I watched her retreat. She didn’t look back, she’d made no parting comment. No words of encouragement. I wasn’t certain if that was a good or bad thing. I suppressed my momentary feeling of abandonment and turned back to the river. I had been prepared to do this without any help, so I shouldn’t mind her need to leave.

  I looked at the river, flowing calmly and slowly at this point of the summer. So innocent and sweet. I took a deep breath and spoke the words in an even voice, hoping that would be sufficient. I’d barely heard Goibhniu when he’d spoken back at the Lee, I rationalised. I waited, not sure what to expect or when. Or from which direction. Would it suddenly appear, or come drifting down from upriver? I closed my eyes and then opened them. Nothing. A moment later though, the boat was there. The same one. I blinked, surprised, though I’d been expecting it. I got in, lay down and stared up at the sky, hoping it would take me to the right place. Not the little fairy mound, or the big fairy mound, but the medium sized one.

  Part III

  Sí Bheag Sí Mhor

  28

  Smithy

  He could feel them. They weren’t far behind, he guessed. Even if he kept up his gruelling pace he knew they’d catch up to him within the next quarter of an hour. They were on horseback. Fomorians. He knew it was them. He could hear it in the hoofbeats. The anger, the determination. The need to kill him. There were a few Tuatha de Danann with them as well. Of that much he was sure, if only by way of managing to get the Fomorians here now. He wasn’t certain who and how many, but certainly more than one. But he wouldn’t know, because he didn’t plan on being captured. He needed to leave this track, though.

  He would have to take to the forest, something he’d been reluctant to do, because he knew of the hidden dangers there. He weighed those dangers against his imminent capture and headed towards the trees. If he kept to the edge, just far enough in that the riders wouldn’t see him, he would probably escape them.

  The dark canopy of trees closed in on him sooner than he expected. He felt the small pocket knife in his pocket, his only defence against whatever might decide to throw themselves against him. Laughable, really, since it had no ounce of magic to it. He would have to rely on his wits for the most part.

  He slowed to a jog and allowed his breathing to calm. Despite the danger, he felt alive, filled with purpose. His body hummed and he knew the tune. It was their tune. His and Bríd’s and all the love they’d felt oh so long ago. It was awake, alive and coursing through him now, wrapping him in its own kind of protection and love. He would do this for her, no matter the outcome, but the power of their tune would help him to keep her safe.

  A slow smile spread over him, his mouth just a hint of what was going on inside his whole body. His breath was even and steady. Through the forest, and back onto the track. In a little while that would wind him slowly to Daghda’s place. A day or so and he should be there. Daghda would need to know where things stood.

  He kept on, the slow jog becoming a regular rhythm, his body remembering how to be fighting fit. He’d kept up his sword practice but not as often as a warrior would, and his regular jogs around the back roads weren’t quite the same as the training he’d undergone in times past, but he wasn’t bad, he conceded. A light rustling made him tune into the forest more intensely. Whispering began and grew louder. He glanced over his shoulder, but could see nothing.

  He turned around and a small man stepped in front of him, dark eyes filled with menace, a long spear held in his hand. A moment later five other men of the same size, same black hair and eyes joined him, all armed with the same type of sharp spear. Smith stopped, nearly tripping over his feet to avoid running into them. The Hunters. They were offshoots from the Fir Bolg, gone to ground in the forest during the wars after the majority of them had fled to the islands. They avoided the Tuatha de Danann as a matter of course but they took offence at anyone who invaded their territory. They’d taken on a legendary quality under the guise of The Wild Hunt, but he’d only known them as The Hunters. Whatever name they had, they were dangerous and they rarely discriminated in who or what they hunted in their forest, taking great pleasure in the kill at the hunt’s end. An end that was never doubted or contradicted.

  He bowed low, hoping a measure of respect might give him some leeway with them.

  “My lords of the hunt,” he said. “I beg your leave.”

  They narrowed their eyes, almost in unison. “Who are you and why do you beg our leave?” said the first man who’d appeared.

  “I must ask your pardon for that,” he said. “Goibhniu is my name, and I meant no offence. I intend to leave the forest in a short time. As soon as my pursuers have passed.”

  “Goibhniu?” said the first man. “The smith.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Smithy.

  “Who are your pursuers?”

  Smithy thought quickly and made a decision. “The Fomorians and some traitorous Tuatha de Danann.”

  “It doesn’t surprise us that some of your people are traitorous,” said the first man, as Smithy now thought of him.

  Smithy shrugged. “It’s the way of things.”

  “And why are the Fomorians pursuing you?”

  Smithy took a deep breath, weighing up how much to reveal. He sighed. “Balor. He wants me dead, because another war is brewing and he knows I have great power in swordcraft.

  “Yes, we’ve heard that. And with other weapons as well.” The last statement was made in a thoughtful tone.

  Smithy nodded. “I forge many things in metal.”

  “And they have power, these things you forge?”

  “At times. In certain circumstances.”

  Smith felt a growing unease, knowing where this was heading, but it might be his only choice to avoid death or something darker. The history between the Fir Bolg and the Tuatha de Danann was not amicable. Though distantly related by merit of their shared descendancy from Nemed, the Fir Bolg had arrived in this land now called Ireland before the Tuatha De Danann, and had only been forced to leave after they were defeated in battle and their king dead. The Fir Bolg had little reason to like his people, and by extension, him. His only hope lay in the fact that that his people had not pursued the Fir Bolg, but had let them leave and remain in peace on the islands and in the forest. The Fomorians, on the other hand, hadn’t been so kind in their years of rule, oppressing both his people and the Fir Bolg.

  “And you ask our leave to travel in our forest so that you may avoid capture?”

  “If you please, my lord.” He knew he’d lathered on the courtesies heavier than lard, but it was all he had in his arsenal.

  The first man turned to the others and they exchanged words in low tones. Smithy studied their expressions, hoping to discover their plans and feelings about his intrusion. The first man pursed his mouth and nodded and faced Smithy once again. He crossed his arms against his chest. Smithy’s heart sank. Whatever the verdict, he was certain not to like it.

  “We have decided we will grant you leave to travel in our forest for a short time. On one condition.”

  “What is the condition?” He steeled himself for the answer. Waiting for the axe to fall in a more metaphorical sense than what he’d expected when he first entered the forest.

  “That you make us a magic spear,” said the first man. There was whispering behind him. He frowned and sighed, nodding. “Six magic spears.”

  The groan was in him and it wound around inside him, squirming to get out. Jaysus feck. He’d expected maybe a knife, but spears? Six of them, even. He had barely managed a blade back with Bríd. It had felt good, though, and only the beginning of what they could do. That thought rose up, but he
still couldn’t be certain it was true, nor could he be certain of the future. Still, he must strike a bargain. And a hard one at that.

  “One spear. And a guarantee that you will join us against the Fomorians.”

  The first man’s face darkened. Behind him, the whispering started up again. He turned to them and the whispers became heated. Finally the first man turned back and stared at him, clearly unhappy.

  “We will join your people against the Fomorians, but only if you give us four spears.”

  Smithy crossed his arms, forcing a neutral expression on his face in order to hide his dismay. He grabbed on to that tune, their tune. Tried to anchor himself to it, look for that pledge, that hope he knew it could promise.

  “Three spears,” he said, and hoped that he’d heard the tune right.

  The first man thought a moment and then nodded. “Done.”

  “Done.” The bargain was struck. No person would dare break a bargain made in this manner. And he knew he was bound to it. But facing its implications would have to wait until later.

  Despite having secured permission to travel the forest, Smithy still felt unease. He knew they still watched him, in ways that only they could do, with the trees communicating his presence through root and branch. At least that’s what he’d been told, and now he had little reason to doubt it. They weren’t termed “The Wild Hunt” for a mere whim. Though a bargain had been struck, they were a canny bunch and just as the so-called “little people” were renowned for finding ways around any bargain that kept to the letter of it, it was The Hunters who were the real cunning ones.

  He knew he would find his side of the bargain uncomfortable at best, but more than likely dangerous. He also knew that if anyone, such as Anu or Daghda, found out, their anger would be uncontainable. He didn’t need to be told that if he made those spears, he could very well find them used against him and his people—and who knows where else or on what else they would find to put them to use. Spears, his spears, in their hands was unthinkable. He knew all that. And he knew that he must find a way to employ their own methods to approaching a bargain and work around it.

  He found himself emerging from the forest. The track he’d been following which he thought paralleled the road at a safe distance seemed to curve outward now. Gradual enough that he hadn’t realised it. He looked around, puzzled why it had. There seemed no reason for it. He stood there a moment, on the forest’s edge and tried to read his unease. He looked at the trees, soughing lightly, but there was no breeze. He looked down at the track which had ended so suddenly. The trees rustled and shifted. Conversing. He had no doubt about it. They were conversing. And he also had no doubt that he was the main topic of that conversation.

  He turned to plunge back into the forest, but the track that had led him to this point held roots that tripped him up and he found himself sprawling on the ground, hitting it hard. He remained still, the wind knocked out of him, and tried to think.

  Hooves thundered in the distance. Smithy tried to scramble to his feet, but the roots just tangled him more. Half on his knees, he twisted to look to the road, though he really didn’t need to do that to know exactly who was thundering towards him.

  The horses drew to a halt. A few men dismounted and headed towards him, grabbed his arms and hauled him up. The roots released him, suddenly retreating back to their origins. Smithy cursed The Hunters and their love of tricks and twists. Didn’t they realise that their actions harmed their chances of securing their spears?

  He shook his head against their behaviour, against the traps and trouble that ensnared anyone who came to the Otherworld unprepared, lacking knowledge and vigilance, canniness and all the other qualities necessary to survive here. And he was the biggest fool, because he’d known all that was required and had still made basic mistakes.

  All these thoughts flagellated him as the men dragged him back to the mounted men. He looked up and scanned their faces. Balor hadn’t deigned to come across, but then again, he hadn’t expected him to. Smithy only hoped that he was so taken up in his concerns back in Cork and elsewhere that he wouldn’t think to search the city and the county. That there would be enough time for Bríd to go to Anu and her protection before these men informed Balor that Bríd wasn’t with him.

  One of the men bound his hands and ankles before dumping him unceremoniously across a horse. The move nearly knocked the breath out of him once again and he coughed. Someone swatted his head hard with the hilt of a sword. The blow rang in his ears and he cursed.

  “Just be glad it wasn’t one of your magic swords,” said one of the men. “Keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told.”

  A few moments later the horse moved forward, slowly gathering into a canter. It was all Smithy could do to remain on the horse and keep himself from hurling the contents of his stomach. They continued on and Smithy increasingly felt like he was being beaten from the inside out. He considered his options and on impulse, he followed one that at the time seemed attractive. With the last of his strength he reared up and threw himself off the horse and onto the track.

  He hit the ground with a brutal thud. The horses ground to a halt, but not before one of them managed to stomp on his left arm. Pain roared up and blinded him, so that any thought of quickly untying his ankles became impossible.

  Someone kicked him, hard in his side. He groaned. Another kick, a little further down. Pain filled his thoughts, roared its sound and was all he saw.

  29

  Saoirse

  I climbed out of the boat and scrambled up the bank. No grace involved, only anxiety laced with a hefty dose of fear. I tried to hum one of my tunes, a jaunty one called Lucy Farr and laughed. “Saoirse Far”, more like. Saoirse very, very far. I looked down at myself, at the almost unfamiliar shape that I seemed to have. Tall, yes. But definitely different. Less clumsy. Even as I’d scrambled up the banks and now, as I stood here wondering where to go next, my gait, my carriage felt different. It wasn’t just the leather jacket that stretched across my shoulders and chest in a manner that was bracing and yet showed curves I never knew I had, it was the different sense of being that I felt.

  “Bríd Far” echoed in my head. I sighed. “Saoirse/Bríd Far”. I was still Saoirse in my thoughts, my music, my memories, no matter what my body said.

  With that settled, I looked around again, searching for some indication of the best direction. Behind me, I heard a whisper. I turned and saw that the boat was gone. Had the whisper been a warning, or a goodbye? Whatever it was, there was no turning back. No return to the other bank and a different world. Not just yet, anyway.

  I headed inland, skirting the forest that loomed thick and heavy to my right and the path that led into it. I had no inclination to enter. Besides the fact that it was dark and I wouldn’t have a very good sense of where I was heading, it made me uneasy. Nothing good came from a forest in any fairy tales I knew.

  There was no real path or track along the grass, though it had been well trodden, and that gave me some hope. Up ahead, I saw a gradual rise in the land which was comprised mainly of open grassland with some shrubs. In the distance were some sheep as well, and I took comfort from that normal, familiar sight. The sun shone warm in an azure sky above me, something that seemed so displaced from Ireland. Another world, there was no doubt, I thought wryly.

  I broke into a trot, feeling the urgency of the open land and no sign of any human. Were they humans, I mused. Was I human? That thought made me uncomfortable. Best not to question these things. Not at present. I felt less than magical and more than a little vulnerable, even with two daggers in my belt and a shield strapped to my back. I had no plan, just an urgency and deep-seated feeling that I had to find Smithy…Goibhniu…soon. That I still didn’t know what to call him seemed part of my lack of plan. But I knew how I felt.

  I kept trotting along, trying to steady my breath and keep my pace even. I was amazed at my fitness, my ability to keep up the pace I’d set. I was no marathon runner, no fitness fanatic who s
pent hours in the gym. Walking was my gym, I’d been too awkward for anything else. But now, it was as though I’d spent years training.

  The trot followed a rhythm that reminded me of tunes I didn’t know I had. Not a jig, slip jig, reel, or polka. Especially not a waltz. Not even a slide, but maybe something in between them all. The in between step kept going, in this in between moment, interlude, and I could only hope for a destination that was more than in between.

  I reached a small rise and began the descent when I noticed a small farm tucked away at the side. I brightened at the thought of a farm, which seemed a safer, less threatening prospect than, say, an encampment of soldiers. Or a castle filled with them. Still, it would pay to be cautious.

  I slowed my trot and headed toward the farm. I could see some cows in the yard and what might be pigs as well. The whole farm looked to be in good repair and that reassured me too. I drew up in front of it, allowing a hopefulness to rise inside me. A man was in the yard standing by one of the cows. I put my hand up in what I hoped was a friendly manner and waved.

  “Hello,” I said in my best “just paying a call” manner. “How are you?”

  The man looked up, his face puzzled and wary. He was tall and wiry and wore a knit cap, a stained brown leather jacket, dark wool trousers and leather boots. His hair was fair and hung scraggly from his cap and his eyes, lined from hours of squinting, were light in colour.

  There was no wave returned. He spoke, but the words were in a different language. The language I’d memorised for the boat summons, but still had no meaning attached. Feckingfeckingfeckit. It never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be able to communicate with anyone over here.

  I gave a weak smile and assumed the friendliest body language I could manage. Arms akimbo, loose limbed, loopy smile, seemed to be the one that found me.