* * *
The black mare came to a halt about ten rods from Fortress Tulach, just inside a tree line that ran alongside a small rivulet. Once Pádraig had dismounted, the horse backed up into the brook until her hind hooves were in the water up to the fetlocks. There, with a wriggle, Siobhán shape-shifted back into her dark-maiden form.
“Can you make it from here to the cathair under your own power?” she asked.
“Yes. There’s no need to reveal yourself. Thank you. You were right. It would have taken me all afternoon to get here.”
As he took what he thought to be a last admiring toe-to-head look at the phooka, then turned toward the fortress, Siobhán said, “Remember, Paddy, I said I would show my gratitude fivefold.” When Pádraig turned back to her, she continued. “First, I explained to you why you were so unsteady and how you could recharge your essence. Then I brought you home.”
Stepping out of the water and beckoning to him, the dark maiden approached him as he advanced toward her. When they were a foot apart, she put her hands on his temples and said, “Close your eyes. And try to remember something about your dam.”
“What?” Pádraig replied, backing up slightly and breaking contact with her.
Moving closer to him, Siobhán once more placed her hands on his temples. “Just do it, Paddy. Close your eyes and think back.”
This time he did as he was bidden, conjuring up a memory from when he was four-years old—the very last time he had seen his mother. It was nighttime, and she was tucking him into bed and explaining that she had to go out that night. Pádraig could barely make out his mother’s features. It was as if he were viewing the scene through a heavy mist.
“Concentrate,” the dark maiden instructed him. “Concentrate on her face.”
He did so, and gradually, the scene in his mind began to clear—so much so that it was as if he were right there in the wagon with the two of them, his mother and his much younger self.
“But why do you have to go?” he heard his younger self whine.
“I have to meet with someone,” she told him. “I won’t be away long. By the time you wake up in the morning, I’ll have returned. Then, we’ll go down to the harbor and watch the ships come in. Would you like that, Paddy?”
Little Pádraig nodded as he reached out and held the stone from his mother’s necklace in his hand. It bore a crude carving of a double-headed war-hammer and an open hand in the center of a tríbhís. “Do you really have to go?” he asked again.
“Yes, little one. I really do. Now go to sleep.”
From outside the wagon, Pádraig heard his father’s voice. “Aislin? It’s time.”
The woman kissed her son on the forehead, pried his little fingers from the rune stone, then rose from the side of his bed. “Sweet dreams,” she told him. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
But she hadn’t seen him the following morning. She never returned from her meeting. Murdered by highwaymen, so Pádraig had been told when he was older.
Siobhán removed her hands from the boy’s head and the image faded. But somehow, Pádraig knew it would be just as clear the next time he coaxed it from his memory.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“My gift to you, Paddy, Siobhán responded, “As is this.” Still standing close to him, she put one hand behind the boy’s neck and the other on the small of his back, pulled him tightly against her and kissed him full on the lips.
Pádraig felt weaker than he had when he had expended his essence breaking her spell, but this time drained in a pleasing manner. As if enchanted, he involuntarily placed his hands on her waist, closed his eyes, immersed himself in the aroma of fresh water-grass, and returned the kiss. When Siobhán finally released him and took a half-step back, Pádraig staggered and almost fell over; but the phooka reached out and took both his upper arms in her hands to steady him, giving him a throaty laugh as she did so.
“Are you sure you can make it to the gate?” she asked, playfully.
Although blushing unreservedly, Pádraig pulled himself together and replied, “Of course. It’s not the first time I’ve been kissed, you know.”
Siobhán gave him a quick, but tender, peck on the lips and replied, “But you must remember this one always, my young farrier.”
“And why is that?” he asked, well knowing that, in fact, he would never be able to forget it even if he tried.
“Because my fifth expression of gratitude, is this, Paddy.” The smile vanished from her face and she grew very serious. “I sense not only a great power in you, but a great purpose as well. Though I know not what it is, I also sense that it is just. So, if, at any time, you need my assistance for any reason whatsoever, submerse yourself in whatever loch, pond, stream, or body of fresh water you’re near. Clear your mind completely of everything except our kiss. I will hear you and I will come to you.”
The puzzlement showed on Pádraig’s countenance. “B…but how? I don’t understand.”
Smiling once again, the dark maiden said, “Like the roads and paths throughout Cruachan, all the waterways are interconnected. And the elemental forces in the water will alert me to your call. Whether near or far, my young farrier, be assured that I will come to you.”
With that, the phooka wriggled once more and shaped-shifted back into the black mare. But instead of leaving at once, she nuzzled the pocket of Pádraig’s breeches, locking her yellowish-brown eyes on his deep-blue ones.
Pádraig couldn’t help but laugh as he withdrew a lump of sugar from the pocket, gave it to the mare, then tousled her ears as she chomped it.
Once she had swallowed, Siobhán backed away from him, reared up on her hind legs, pawing the air and whinnying as she did so. As if shot from a master archer’s bow, she galloped off in the direction of her phooka-pool.
Standing there for a few seconds until the horse was out of sight, the aroma of water-grass faded and Pádraig realized that he still smelled like horse.
I sure wish I had remembered to stand under that waterfall at Siobhán’s pool, he thought. I definitely have to get cleaned up before meeting Meig.
Oakday - Falcon 64th
Tulach Shire
In the center of Tulach Shire, an elderly man, bent with age, sat on a boulder, one of eight in a circle, skewering a second salmon onto a wooden spit to go along with its twin. A cane fishing pole sat nearby, as well as a woven wicker basket in which he had brought home his catch. One small fish remained in the basket.
A fire lapped up in the center of a smaller ring of stones within the circle of boulders. Two forked wooden supports stood across the fire-pit from each other, ready to receive the skewer with the fish.
The pointed hood of the man’s black cloak had been brushed back off his head, revealing a full shock of unkempt pure white hair to go along with his foot-long beard of the same color. The black mantle of his cloak marked him as a master wizard.
With a shriek to announce its arrival, a fish hawk spread its wings and softly landed on another boulder, two over from where the wizard sat. Folding up its huge wings, it cocked its head, looking intently at the salmon.
“I suppose you think you’ve earned some of this, don’t you, my feathered friend?” the old man asked with a laugh, peeling off a generous piece of the fish he was working with and holding it out to the bird. “A small payment for allowing me to see through your eyes.”
The hawk hopped over onto the boulder next to the wizard, quickly snatched the fragment from him, then hopped back over to its own rock and greedily consumed the piece of fish.
“Spying is hungry work, isn’t it?” the elderly man said.
Reaching down into the basket, he took the remaining salmon and set it on the stone between himself and the hawk. “Here. For services rendered. Although I know you prefer one fresh from the stream, I’ve yet to see you turn down one from someone else’s labor. Besides, it’s been out of the water for no more than a half hour.”
The bird again hopped from its boulde
r to the one with the fish, and proceeded to devour the payment.
Placing the spit onto the supports, the old man continued his one-way conversation with the bird.
“This one could be the one, don’t you think? To break the spell of a phooka without the benefit of any formal training? Impressive, indeed. I sincerely hope he is the one, although convincing his father to allow him to attend the Academy may prove to be an insurmountable task.”
The old man reached over and rotated the spit, exposing the other side of the fish to the fire. “When you’re through with your meal and have rested for a bit, I need you for another errand this day.”
The hawk stopped ripping his salmon apart for a moment and glanced over at him.
The old wizard resumed his request. “I need you to locate Lairgnen for me. I believe he’s somewhere east of us, near the Boundary Road. Let him know that there is some urgency to—”
Stopping, he quickly looked at the stone bridge over Salmon River that formed the only entrance to and egress from his island home. He stood and grabbed a staff which had been stuck in the ground next to his boulder. The top of the enormous cypress-wood pole, that he now held at arm’s length in front of him, had been carved to resemble the face of an old man. It could very well have been a self-portrait of the elderly wizard himself.
Within minutes, a rider, dressed in the dark-blue uniform of the Cruachanian Defense Forces reached the bridge, hesitated for only a moment, then galloped across.
“Master Taliesin!” he called out as he reined in his steed and quickly dismounted. “I have a most urgent message from Field Marshal Gearóid.”
The old wizard relaxed, restuck the bottom of his staff in the ground, and beckoned the soldier over to him. “I would think any message from the field marshal to be urgent,” he said with a chuckle. “At least in his mind, at any rate.” Gesturing to the two salmon on the spit, he continued. “Come rest yourself. Have a bite to eat while you deliver this most urgent message.”
The soldier started toward Taliesin, then stopped as he spotted the fish hawk. “Perhaps, Venerable Sir, I should just—” he cautiously began.
“He won’t hurt you as long as you don’t try to take any of his meal,” the wizard said, waving the man closer. Removing the two fish from the spit and placing one on a flat rock for the messenger and the other on a second rock for himself, he went on. “Come. Sit. And tell me what it is that Gearóid thinks is so very important that it couldn’t wait until tonight.”
“The field marshal has already left the cathair, Master Taliesin,” the soldier said, giving the hawk a wide berth and circling around to the stone on the other side of the old man.
“Left? Whatever for?”
Both men sat. As the soldier pulled out a dagger and proceeded to cut his fish, he told the old wizard about the Northman assassin who had washed up on the beach below the cliffs of Fortress Tulach, and about the High King and Prince Liam returning to the Citadel of Cruachan.
* * *
With the meal ended and the messenger on his way back to the fortress, the fish hawk took flight toward Báinigh Shire, the shire east of Tulach Shire. From there it would fly farther to the east, searching for Lairgnen somewhere along the Boundary Road that separated the Kingdom of the Western Shires from the Kingdom of the Eastern Shires.
Taliesin entered his round tower and, with great difficulty, grasping his staff in one hand, slowly climbed the ladders to the fifth floor, all the while thinking, I pray that young Pádraig is the one. My time in this mortal world is fleeting.
The small, sparsely furnished, room at the top of the round tower contained only a seldom-used bed, a desk, and two stools placed across the desk from each other. Four windows, precisely at the four primary compass points, looked out over the forest.
Although glancing wearily and yearningly at the bed, the old wizard resisted the temptation, since the message from the field marshal had been, indeed, of great importance. Instead, he lowered himself onto one of the stools and paused for a moment, head bowed and both hands on the desktop, before opening an ancient wooden box that sat there. Knowing not only what he must do, but the consequences to his health of so doing, Taliesin, Guardian of the Black Stone, lifted the lid of the box, removed a round, polished, black orb, about a hand in diameter, closed the lid, and set the sphere in a small indentation on top of the box.
He then emptied his mind of all concerns and distractions and gazed directly into the orb, concentrating his thoughts solely on one of his fellow four members of the Sodality of Master Wizards—the Most Venerable Faolan, the Arch-Wizard himself.
It took almost ten minutes; but finally, an apparition of the Arch-Wizard manifested itself in the stool across the desk from Taliesin.
Not quite as aged as the Court Wizard of the Kingdom of the Western Shires, Faolan, nonetheless, was advanced in years. Although his hair, beard, and mustache matched the pure-white color of his brother wizard, he wore the hair at shoulder length, and kept his beard trimmed to about three inches in length.
The concern he had for Taliesin showed on his face, as he greeted the summoner in the language of the ancients.
“Seirbhís a Tír, my brother.”
“Agus Rí, Faolan,” Taliesin answered, tiredly.
The ritual exchange of ‘Service to Country and King’ completed, the Arch-Wizard said, “Your essence is weak, my brother. I am barely able to maintain the scry. Are you ill?”
Taliesin managed a chuckle. “I am old, my brother. And after climbing up five flights of ladders, my bones feel every single one of those years.”
From the top floor of a similar round tower located within the Citadel of Cruachan in the Central Federal Region, Faolan, Guardian of the Green Stone, sat at a round table with a polished, green sphere in front of him and the manifestation of Taliesin on a stool opposite.
“Then let us be brief with our conversation this time,” he said. “What is it that concerns you?”
Taliesin relayed the information regarding the Northman assassin to the Arch-Wizard and let him know that the High King and his son had left Fortress Tulach, would overnight at Fort Orrery, and arrive back home in two days.
Faolan asked, “Any sight of the assassin’s boat or any other Northmen on the beaches or out on the Sea of the Evening?”
“The boat, yes. A færing. Smashed on the rocks near Cathair Tulach. Other Northmen, not as of yet. Field Marshal Gearóid has sent horsemen north and south to alert the other ráths, who will in turn send riders to notify those north and south of them, and so on. I was charged with contacting the members of the Sodality. You are my first scry.”
“Then let me get in touch with the other members for you, old friend. Rest and recoup your strength.”
“Thank you, my brother, but allow me to speak with Coinneach at the Academy. I have another matter of some importance that I need to discuss with him.”
“Regarding a potential selectee?” Faolan asked.
“Possibly, yes.”
“Then rest up first, old friend. I will contact Coinneach about the Northman. I’ll let him know to expect your scry at a later time, after your essence has had an opportunity to recharge somewhat.”
“Thank you, Brother Faolan. With the waves and tides being what they are during this alignment of the two full moons, the Northman, or Northmen, did not come all this way in a færing. Ask Coinneach to keep watch from his tower on Blessed Island for a skeið that most probably towed the færing behind it; although, my guess is, that after dropping off the assassin and his comrades, the warship quickly headed back out into open waters.”
With that, Faolan, Guardian of the Green Stone, broke the psychic connection.
Taliesin slumped on his stool, sat there for a few moments to summon up whatever reserve energy he had, then returned his seeing-stone to its box. From the stool, with the aid of his staff, the old wizard had everything he could do to make it to edge of the bed.
An Fearglas willing, let the young fa
rrier be the one, he thought. After bowing his head, he performed the ritual act of submission.
No sooner had the old wizard’s head hit the pillow, then he drifted off into a sound slumber.
* * *
Some hours later, Taliesin opened his eyes, not so much finished with sleep, but somehow compelled to awake. Night had fallen; however, the tower room had not been plunged into total darkness. The illumination from the double full moons shown in through the windows and a glow emanated from the box on the desk.
Although not completely refreshed, the old wizard had regained some of his strength—enough of it, anyway—to make his way from bed to desk without the aid of his staff.
Sitting, he opened the box and removed the black orb, now glimmering eerily, and set it in the indentation on the box’s lid.
Clearing his mind, he gazed into the depths of the sphere. Within seconds, another master wizard manifested himself on the stool across the table from him. This wizard also showed the accumulation of years on his countenance.
“Cosaint, Coinneach,” Taliesin said in the language of the ancients, smiling at the old man across from him.
From a tower in the Academy for the Spiritually Gifted on Blessed Island, just off the west coast in the Sea of the Evening, Coinneach, Guardian of the Purple Stone, sat at a table with a round, polished, purple orb in front of him. On a stool opposite sat a manifestation of Taliesin.
“Agus Seirbhís, Taliesin,” the other wizard answered.
Instead of beginning their conversation by reciting the first tenet of wizardry—‘Service to Country and King’—these two wizards had begun with a slightly different ritual greeting—‘Protection and Service.’
With a grin, Coinneach continued, “I hope I didn’t cut your nap too short, old man. I’m sure you were resting up for the festivities tonight; but I waited as long as my curiosity would allow.”
“Humph! ‘Old man,’ indeed. I must be talking with someone who has no access to a glass so as to see his own reflection.”
A Spark is Struck in Cruachan (The Chronicles of Pádraig Book 1) Page 4
