by Tom Deitz
Ailill’s nostrils narrowed haughtily. “Were you indeed as well studied in the ways of men as you claim, Ard Rhi, you would know that mortal men have more ways of looking at illness now than when we were mighty in the land. Had I left a stock they might have grasped the heart of our deception, and that would have made trouble for us far beyond what this boy would cause. I had to use a child of our own people.”
Lugh drew himself up to his full height. His fingers grasped his jeweled reins so tightly that they snapped, sending a rain of sapphires and topazes glittering to the ground. “Is it this you are telling me, Ailill?” he thundered: “that you deemed a child of the Sidhe to be of less import than a child of mortal men? I know the last number of the people I rule, do not forget that. Did you truly think that I would overlook the theft of a true-born son of Faerie? No, Dark One, you have been too much in your own counsel, for though you took the child, and the mother not willing, you failed to inquire closely enough as to who that woman might be—and in that you erred most grievously.”
“A woman is a woman,” flared Ailill. “A child is a child.”
“A woman may also be a daughter of a king,” said Lugh, quietly. “Not all of my house choose to remain at court.”
Ailill’s face went white beneath his ruby circlet.
Lugh smiled. “You had best not give an heir to the King of the Sidhe as a changeling without the king’s consent. I have my own plans for his fosterage.”
There was a sound of laughter among the assembled company, then, and Ailill’s face flushed red.
“Yes, Ailill, your true nature comes forth at last. I do not know what we will do with you, but we will see whether we can lessen the harm you have already done. I do not see the human child anywhere.”
Oblivious to the pain it cost, Lugh jerked the ash spear from Nuada’s hand and leveled its still-glowing tip at Ailill’s heart as two guards grabbed the dark Faery on either side. “Now, where is the boy?”
Ailill glared at him and muttered something in a low voice. It was a spell, David knew instinctively, and probably a very Powerful one, for it hushed the crowd, and the air itself seemed at once to thicken and go flat, as if Ailill’s words had a material existence and were too heavy for the air alone to contain.
The white horse that Ailill had ridden so proudly only a short while before stamped its feet as if disturbed by the presence of so much Power. It danced sideways, nervously, its eyes rolling in fright and its tongue lolling from its mouth. All at once it snorted and reared up, fell heavily to earth, and reared again—and remained standing on its hind legs as it suddenly became a naked five-year-old boy with blond hair and blue eyes. Confused recognition broke forth on that small face, as Little Billy stood there staring wide-eyed, not quite believing he had won free from the horse-shape that had enwrapped him.
David could contain himself no longer. He ran forward, knelt before his brother and gathered him into his arms. “Little Billy, it’s me, Davy!”
“Davy! Davy!” cried Little Billy in turn as tears wet both their faces.
Lugh also smiled as he saw the blue-clad woman kneel and embrace her own child, whose eyes, too, blazed with new life—and they were his own green eyes now, shining joyfully in his own face.
David hugged his brother tightly. Somebody handed him a cloak, and he threw it around his brother’s shoulders. Alec surreptitiously returned David’s clothes, and while the attention of the crowd seemed diverted, David began slipping them on under his tabard.
“We still have things to consider,” continued Lugh, “including whether or not banishment is sufficient punishment for our rebellious friend here. He has slain his son, a grievous thing, but I wonder whether that is now enough?”
The blue-clad woman stepped forward then, resting a hand on the pommel of Lugh’s saddle. “Lugh, my father,” she said, “may I offer my counsel in this?”
“I am always glad to hear your advice, daughter,” said Lugh.
“Well, then, since Ailill is so fond of shape-shifting, let me take him into my care, and lay on him the shape of a black horse, and make of him a mount for my son to ride until he be of an age to bear weapons.” She smiled triumphantly at Ailill, but there was warning in her smile as well.
“There is great justice in this,” said Lugh. “So shall it be.”
The woman’s eyes caught David’s then, and lingered there a moment before flickering over Alec and Liz and Little Billy. She smiled cryptically. “I think perhaps these fine folk will be dealing with the Sidhe again.”
“I hope not,” sighed Lugh, “but I fear you are correct. We have seldom met with mortals so lively in these last centuries. Now,” the High King continued, “are there any other boons to be craved, while I seem to be holding court?” His gaze rested on David.
David opened his mouth. “I . . .”
“I crave a boon, Ard Rhi,” Ailill interrupted.
Lugh raised an eyebrow. “You?”
“I would ask one thing, and as it has a bearing on the death of my son, it is a thing I have a right to know.”
“And what is that?”
“Never in five hundred years have I missed a blow, not with sword nor spear nor lance. How is it, then, since the ring of Oisin lies lost and useless in the Lands of Men, that my blow nevertheless missed?”
“Perhaps it was your choice of mounts,” said Lugh. “Or perhaps you are simply not as skilled as once you were.”
“Or perhaps it is because the ring is not lost and useless,” came the voice of Nuada. The silver-armed Faery reached into the breast of his tunic and drew out something round that glittered in the morning sun of Tir-Nan-Og. “I too have more shapes than one, Ailill, but the shape of a white trout may sometimes be more useful than that of a soaring black eagle when we travel the Lands of Men.”
Nuada turned toward Lugh. “Long have I been watching Ailill, seeking to learn exactly how serious a threat he posed to our relations with men. And so I watched David, too. Thus I became a trout in the stream into which David fell when the ring’s Power broke him free of the Straight Track. The chain parted in that fall and the ring rolled into the water where I was. It was then a simple thing for me to swallow while the boy lay unknowing. The ring is not a thing entirely of our understanding, Lugh, for we did not make it. I feared my feasting might cost me, but it did not, for I bore David no ill will, and I did not actually claim the ring for my own. Until this Riding I have kept it in an iron box, which this silver arm allows me to touch.”
Nuada stepped forward and returned the silver band to David. “I am sorry, David Sullivan, for much ill has befallen you because of this ring. And in truth I thought for a time to return it to you. But until you actually give it to another of your own volition, it is yours, regardless of who holds it. And until that time, you, at least, are under its protection.”
“But why didn’t you give it back?” cried David. “You put me through bloody hell for no good reason!”
“So I did,” replied Nuada. “For I see a time not far off—much closer in fact, than I had even guessed—when we will need someone to serve our cause among mortals—not as a traitor, I would not ask that, but as an ambassador. You, David Sullivan, I thought might be that person. I sensed Power alive in you from our first meeting, which I thought strange, since Power normally slumbers in your kind unless awakened by some outside agency. My curiosity was aroused, then. And when I learned you had somehow acquired the Sight as well—”
“I thought that was because I looked between my legs at a funeral procession,” David interrupted.
Nuada smiled faintly and shook his head. “What would we do without Reverend Kirk? But no, that is doubtful. It may have been the spark, for the Laws of Power are capricious, but I think something else was at work there—though I still have not been able to set a name to it.”
“I can set a name to it,” a female voice cried harshly. “For that name is mine.”
“Morrigu?” Nuada stared incredulously at the red-c
lad Mistress of Battles.
“And why not? I, too, see war a-making between Faerie and the Lands of Men, and I do not like the odds. I, too, think an advocate among humans might be useful to ward off such a conflict. Indeed, I have often been in that World of late seeking such a one—even more frequently than you, Airgetlam, though my preferred shape is that of crow. And on one of those occasions I happened to see a burial in progress, and our young friend here regarding those proceedings from between his legs. The foolishness of his position called to my mind the foolish phrases the Scotsman had set down in that book of his, and I could not help but be curious. And when I saw the boy’s face, and knew who he was—the twice-great-grandson of a mortal man with whom I once had lain—I knew that I had found my goal. There was Power in him already, for it is the heritage of his house. It was thus a simple thing for me to call it forth again. And I added the Sight for good measure—as a further testing, if the truth be known, to see of what metal the boy was made.”
“And which metal was it?” asked Lugh.
“I have not decided,” Morrigu replied. “Iron, perhaps, for the fires of the world’s first making certainly flame in him. Or maybe gold, for the glory of learning which never fades from him. Or possibly silver for the power a ring of that metal once had over him.”
“Or maybe mercury for the way he slipped through Ailill’s fingers,” suggested Lugh. “Or lead like a fisherman’s sinker for the network of plots that seem to be tangled about him.”
“Perhaps,” said the Mistress of Battles. “Or perhaps he is not the one we need at all.”
David found himself blushing in spite of himself, but then he realized he had forgotten something: the most important thing, the reason he had come here!
“Milord Ard Rhi? I . . . I mean Your . . . Majesty?”
“Speak, mortal boy.”
“I . . . well . . . this is all very interesting, but you do recall why I went through all this in the first place: so that I could crave a boon of you?”
Lugh raised an eyebrow. “That is the way I recollect it.”
David squared his shoulders. “I have a boon, then . . . I mean, I crave a boon.”
Lugh’s eyes twinkled above the sweeps of his mustache. “Ask, and if it be within my Power to grant, I will.”
“I ask that you—or someone skilled in Faery magic—please heal my Uncle Dale. He was wounded by a . . .”
“By a Faery arrow,” finished the High King. “This I know. But you yourself have already helped cure your uncle. For one of the Laws of Power states that if a man be wounded by a thing of Power forged in a World not his own—unless he die from that wound—it has power over him only so long as he whose Power is in that weapon lives.”
David looked confused.
Nuada came to his aid then, and pointed to the white-draped body of Fionchadd. “With the death of the slayer, the spell itself dies. The death of Ailill’s son, who was the instrument of your uncle’s wound, has broken the Power of the arrow within him. The old man sleeps the sweet sleep of mortals. When he wakes tomorrow, he will be healed.”
Lugh regarded David. “I would speak to you now, mortal lad. And I think I would like to speak to you again in a few years’ time, when you have gained more wisdom. For I think I begin to see something of what Nuada saw in you: more a helper than a foe, and truly something of a hero as well. But the time for that is not yet. Until then, you do pose a problem. It is customary to blind those who look upon the Sidhe unbidden, and I could do that now . . .” He raised his hand, then hesitated. “But I have always thought that rather—shall we say—shortsighted, so I will simply lay a ban on all of you that you may speak of nothing you have seen or heard today to any dweller of your world save yourselves.”
Lugh surveyed the host one final time and grasped the ragged ends of the broken reins in one closed fist. A nod of his head, a narrowing of his eyes, and the break was mended. He shook the leather strips experimentally, setting the bells upon them to jingling. “Well, unless someone else has a boon they want to crave, let us now proceed,” he cried. “It seems we no longer have need to ride to the Eastern Sea, for Ailill will not be leaving after all. But there is still time to make that journey today, if we depart at once. If anyone objects to such an outing, let his voice be heard.” He fixed Ailill with a burning stare. “I believe my daughter and I will lead the procession a while, in the absence of my honor guard,” he said, and added almost as an afterthought, “Nuada, since you are so fond of mortals, you may escort our guests back to their home.”
Nuada nodded and remounted. From somewhere three white horses appeared, saddled and bridled with red leather. Nuada motioned David and his friends to mount, which they did with ease by virtue of the Power of that place. “These horses never tire, never lose their way, and never throw a rider,” Nuada said, “not even if that rider has never sat a horse before.”
Nuada shook his reins, the bells chiming softly as the smaller procession formed. Somewhere the harp music began again; somewhere was the dull buzz of warpipes coming up to cry, and a tentative run on a chanter.
David had held his peace as long as he could. He urged his horse close beside that of the High King. “Can I come back next year and watch, at least?” he blurted out.
The Ard Rhi raised an eyebrow. “With your lips bound, who can worry about your eyes? If you are at the right place and time mayhap you will see us.”
Lugh turned once more to face the milling host. “Now let us ride, Lords and Ladies of the Tuatha de Danaan and the Sidhe!”
Nuada’s small company watched as the greater host passed down the Straight Track which had been David’s road to Faerie. David looked down at the head of his brother who sat in the saddle before him—now wearing a yellow tunic belted at his waist. He ruffled his brother’s hair. “I wonder how we’ll explain your wardrobe,” he teased. Then he added, “How’ve you been, kid?”
“Sleepy,” said Little Billy. “Real sleepy.” He paused. “And I’ve got to get Pa’s ax.”
“You can get it in the morning,” said David.
Alec whistled. “That was something else!”
“That’s an understatement,” nodded Liz.
“Three are mightier than one,” David grinned.
“But one is mightiest of the three,” cried Alec and Liz in unison.
David scratched his finger where the ring once again was set, and watched the Sidhe ride away, a line of glittering lights against the edge of the forest. It was twilight again. And he saw a smaller party ride closer by, entering the woods that marked the shorter route to Tir-Nan-Og. Amid that company rode Ailill, under heavy guard.
The Dark One said nothing as he passed, but his eyes betrayed his thoughts, and Nuada sighed before he set his horse onto the Straight Track. Ailill would take some watching.
Epilogue: In The Lands Of Men
(Monday, August 17)
David stood staring at Uncle Dale’s wound. Little remained of it now, only a tiny white circle which was rapidly darkening to the color of his flesh. The old man’s face was relaxed, his breathing peaceful.
Quietly David turned and reached for the doorknob.
Someone coughed in the room. “Thank you, boy,” rasped a wonderfully familiar voice.
David whirled around and dashed quickly to the bedside. The old man’s words were thick, but clear; he raised his arm—his right arm—high enough to pat David on the hand. His grip was weak but firm, and there was warmth in the hand. “You’d better not tell yore folks ’bout me,” Uncle Dale said. “You don’t know nothin’ ’bout this, but I’ll be better in the mornin’.”
“Whatever you say,” David smiled. “Whatever you say—and thanks for holding out.”
“I knew you could do it, boy. I never doubted.”
A moment later he was snoring.
David smiled again and quietly stole from the room. A glance in his own room across the hall showed Little Billy also asleep. The little boy would remember nothing of his ti
me in Faerie, Nuada had told him. That and the journey home would seem like a dream. His last clear memory would be of lightning.
He glanced at the clock on the wall as he rejoined his friends in the kitchen. It was a little after one. Time had passed, but not enough. How much time had they spent in Faerie? he wondered. Days and days it had seemed, and yet no time at all. He found himself looking at the ring. The circle of Time that encloses all things: another thing Nuada had told him.
Car doors slammed in the yard. Laughter floated clearly in from outside. David and Alec and Liz exchanged knowing looks—and began a mad scramble back to the table.
“Let’s see, you had landed on Boardwalk again, hadn’t you David?” Liz said as they returned to their places.
“Oh no! Not that old ploy,” David replied. “Why look, Liz, your hotels are all over the floor, and I bet you don’t remember where they were, do you?”
“Want to bet, David Sullivan?”
“Why, Liz, you know I’m not a gambling man,” David said—and rolled the dice.
Historical Note
As is probably evident to the reader, Windmaster’s Bane owes a considerable debt to the folklore and mythology of Ireland and Scotland. What is perhaps less obvious is the debt the novel owes to the folklore of an entirely different culture: the Cherokee Indians of the southeastern United States. It was Cherokee folklore that provided the collaborative evidence which solidified the notion that one could, indeed, write a Celtic fantasy set in the Appalachian Mountains.
There is the matter of the piled stone fortifications on Fort Mountain, for instance. These structures are usually attributed to Prince Madoc of Wales, who supposedly founded a colony in Mobile, Alabama in the year of 1170, and later worked his way inland. The Cherokees, however, attribute them to the “moon-eyed people.” It was my efforts to learn more about these mysterious folk that first led me to James Mooney’s Myths of the Cherokee. Alas, Mooney’s book provided little illumination on the matter of the “moon-eyed people,” but it had something better: the Nunnehi.
