by M. D. Massey
Hemi nudged him with an elbow playfully. “Whassa matter, Jack—don’t care for dragons? Or you afraid he’ll fancy you for a tasty treat?”
Jack merely scowled, until Sabine chimed in. “Jack’s dislike for serpents is well-founded. Isn’t it, Jack?”
The wisp cleared his throat noisily and spat to the side of the trail. “Tricksters, every last one of them. And heartlessly cruel at that. Can’t be trusted, can’t be tamed.”
Sabine smiled as she kept her eyes on the ground. “Jack’s immortality is the result of a brush with the oldest serpent of all. But I’m fairly certain Ollie is harmless and completely disinterested in eating Jack-o’-the-Lantern.”
I knew exactly what she was referring to, because the myth was famous as folk tales went. According to legend, Jack had tricked the Devil twice and was cursed because of it. After he died, he tried to enter heaven, but was denied for his wickedness. Since he’d forced the Devil to promise never to harvest his soul, he was stuck between heaven and hell for all eternity.
Jack harrumphed. “Can’t trust them, and that’s a fact. And that’s all I’m sayin’ on the matter!”
“And the pot calls the kettle soot-stained and treacherous to boot,” I whispered.
“I heard that!” Jack crowed, causing Hemi to laugh loudly.
At that moment, Guts came running around a bend in the trail ahead, still hauling around that huge slab of dried meat. I noted that it was fully one-third smaller now, and wondered what we were going to do when he finished it. I figured maybe he could eat one of Ollie’s kills, if Ollie would let him.
“Guts, what’s up?” I asked.
“Ahead forest thins out, no enemies about. Big farm over hill, with a giant at the till.”
Hemi scratched his head. “He’s got a store set up? Cashier seems a strange occupation, for a giant.”
Jack side-eyed the big man with contempt. “He means that he’s cultivating the land, ya big dope. Tell me, troll, did the giant carry a great big stick with him?” Guts nodded, and Jack turned to me. “That’d have to be the Dagda, for no one else quite fits that description in these parts. I suggest that you take the lead on this one—never can tell how these deities will react to being disturbed in their demesnes.”
“Roger that.” I turned to the party. “You guys hang back, and I’ll go see whether or not the former leader of the Tuatha de Danann is in a pissy mood.”
With a bit of grumbling from Hemi and Guts, I was able to convince them to allow me to approach the Dagda alone. To say I was nervous was an understatement, considering that he was considered the greatest of the Tuatha, and formerly their chieftain.
Legend had it that he was the wisest and most fair of all the Tuatha deities, although I doubted that he considered himself a god. The Celtic pantheon never seemed to be much interested in being worshipped; they were too busy fighting and getting laid.
As I rounded the bend in the trail, the giant mushrooms began to thin out. Soon I was climbing a rocky path up a hillock blanketed in huge wildflower blossoms of all types and colors. The most enormous bees I’d ever seen—each one easily the size of my head—buzzed to and fro, collecting nectar and doing their part to pollinate the flowers. I stopped for a moment to admire the scenery, but that odd, sickly-sweet smell ruined it for me, so I continued on my way.
Once I crested the hill, the scene Guts had described was laid out before me. A vast orchard of every kind of fruit tree dominated the land below to my left. At the edges of the orchard were huge apiary stands, which explained where the bees were coming from. A freshly-tilled field at the orchard’s end stretched off into the horizon beyond.
On the other side of the field and orchard stood a humble cottage, one of suitably grand proportions for a giant. It was framed of timbers that must’ve been three times as tall as me, and just as big around. The front door was a good twelve feet tall, and an equally ginormous pig rooted in the dirt inside the fenced front yard.
At the center of this scene was a giant of a man, perhaps nine or ten feet in height, with arms like saplings and legs like tree trunks. He wore a coarse burlap tunic that came to his knees, and nothing else. In one hand, he held a huge war club that was easily the size of a mature oak tree, the tip of which dragged in the dirt behind him. His other arm rested on the handle of large plow, which was hitched to a massive gray plow horse the size of a bull elephant.
I stood there dumbfounded, marveling at and overwhelmed by it all.
The giant called up to me, and his voice carried clearly despite the distance between us. “Come now, druid. There’s no need to be shy. After all, I am the founder of your order, and you’re bound to me as I am to you. No harm shall come to you on my lands. Rest, and let us discuss the matters at hand.”
Sensing that I was in no immediate danger, I headed down the hill to greet the Dagda.
As I approached, the Dagda unhitched the plow horse so it could graze and visit a nearby trough. The animal was so large that the ground trembled slightly at its every step, and it left deep hoofprints in the dirt behind it. I gaped openly at it.
“Damned fine animal, that. Beat Abarta in a game of fidchell, and won it fair and square. Hasn’t spoken to me since. Come.”
He gestured for me to follow him, and we strolled to a circle of rough-hewn benches in front of his home. He sat on one, propping that massive club against the bench with a thud. I boosted myself atop another bench across from his, doing my best to look comfortable and failing miserably. I sat there with my legs dangling off the damned thing like a child at Sunday supper, wondering how I should begin.
I took a moment to get a good look at him. His face was ruddy, but kind, with deep-set brown eyes and a long, hawk-like nose. The beard he wore was shaggy but clean, and he looked like someone who spent a great deal of time outdoors—yet his skin wasn’t as creased or weather-worn as I might’ve expected. His hands were gnarled, calloused, and strong, and his arms and legs were sinewed and thick.
He had long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail with a leather thong, and wore no adornment or jewelry of any kind save that single, practical concession. In his bare feet and tunic, he might have been mistaken for a poor country serf, tending the fields for the master of the land. If not for his size, that was, and the fierce, intelligent gaze that shone from those deep-set green eyes of his.
I was a bit intimidated by his presence, to say the least.
Thankfully, the Dagda saved me from having to start the conversation. “I’d offer you a drink and some food, but I know you wouldn’t take it.”
“Your hospitality is welcomed just the same, Dagda.”
He grinned. “So, Finnegas was your teacher, eh? It shows. You have his ways about you, though I expect you’d deny that to your last breath. He’s a tricky bastard, that one, if well-intentioned. Still, place good intentions in one hand and shit in the other, and what are you left with? A handful of shit.”
“Finnegas is… trying at times. But I do owe him a great deal.”
“Do you, now?” The Dagda leaned forward, placing a hand on his knee and resting his elbow on the other. “I’d say in more ways than one, yes? He miscalculated, and it cost you dearly. That I can see easily enough. And for that reason, you failed to complete your training. A damned shame.”
I tried to remain as blank-faced as possible. I was awed by the fact that I was conversing with perhaps the greatest of the children of Danu, and had to remind myself that this was a negotiation. It wouldn’t do to get starstruck and screw things up—else I’d end up fighting the Dagda for the Cauldron.
I had little faith in my chances, should that come to pass.
“I learned enough. It got me this far, at least.”
He waved my answer away with one of those tremendously strong hands. “Your talent has been wasted. Finnegas held back, because he feared you would surpass him. He had a student who did so, once—outsmarted him in every way. You know of whom I speak.”
“Fionn MacCumhaill.
”
“The same. Stuck in the Seer’s craw that the kid took to druidry so easily. Sadly, he was a bit like you—more eager to feel the sword’s bite than the land’s blessing.” He sat back, crossing his arms as he regarded me. “But you could surpass him… surpass them both.”
“I lack a teacher,” I stated simply.
“You lack direction, not teachers. Of those, you have several… if only you’d ask politely and apply yourself. Revenge has driven you from sorrow to action, but it will only take you so far. What you need is a purpose.”
“Are you offering to provide me with one?” I didn’t know why I’d asked that question. Maybe it was because of what Maeve had once said to me, that I didn’t ask the right questions.
The Dagda frowned. “I can’t give you that, any more than Finnegas could.” He pointed a gnarled finger at my chest. “That, young man, can only come from you. And if you’re asking if I’ll teach you druidry, you’re out of luck. You can’t stay here, because this place is dying. When it goes, I go with it. So, the answer’s no to that question as well.”
That threw me for a loop. “You mean you’re not trying to get back to earth?”
“Pfah! I’m old, boy. Old and tired. Immortality isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Certainly, some of the younger of us are planning and scheming their return. ‘Let us rule as gods once more,’ they say. I laugh at them.
“They think your people will worship them, welcome them with open arms. This, in an age when men ride chariots across the sky and speak at great distances with electric words and sounds. Fools, every last one of them. My former lover, The Morrigan, plans to do battle with them as we speak. She, like Nia... er, Maeve, still has a soft spot for the Sons of Milesius.”
“That’s why no one was guarding the gateway when we arrived. Your people are at war.”
He lifted a hand, and it wavered back and forth. “The gate wasn’t left entirely unguarded. Fuamnach and the Fear Doirich needed to make a good show of it, eh? Thus, the pack of hounds that tracked you near to my lands. I take it most of your party survived?”
“All of us, actually. A bit of deus ex machina saved us, by way of a wyvern. You wouldn’t have had anything to do with that, would you?”
“Far be it from me to send the wind to whisper in a wyvern’s ear, blowing him the scent of his former master.” He winked at me, and smiled. “Now, let’s discuss the matter of loaning you my Cauldron…”
“I know you need the Cauldron and the other Treasures in order to get back through the gateway to earth. And I know what Maeve intends to do with them, once she has her hands on them.”
I rubbed my chin as I considered the implications. “She indicated that she intends to block the pathways between Underhill and earth.”
He laughed. “Oh, more than that, lad. Her plan is to steal all the magic back from Underhill, and dole it out to the fae who remain in your world. Of course, if her plan works, she’ll also retain complete control of the collective magic of our people.”
“Damn, I had no idea. She’d be unstoppable, wouldn’t she?” The Dagda nodded. I couldn’t help but think that Maeve’s plans for that power were morally questionable, at best. “What would happen to all the fae here in Underhill if that occurred?”
He frowned. “We’d be well and truly buggered, every last one of us. The magic is what keeps The Void and its entropy at bay. But, as you’ve probably noticed, it’s become a losing battle—mostly because of the pull the earthside fae have on the magic. What they use weakens Underhill, and if it’s not stopped…”
“Underhill will die completely.”
He nodded and pointed at me. “Got it in one. Underhill was never meant to be a permanent solution anyway, only a temporary place of retreat. We intended to wait it out here while you humans killed each other off, a few centuries at most.”
“But instead…”
“Instead, you bred like rabbits and took over the island. Not to mention, you gained more than a wee bit of magical power for yourselves along the way. I was chastised by several of my kind for sharing druidry with you, but as I told them, our time had passed. Damned if I was going to let my knowledge die out with us.”
I stared at the ground for a moment, processing what he’d shared with me. “I don’t get it. Why tell me all of this?”
“I already told you, but you didn’t listen. I don’t want my legacy to die with me.” He hopped off the bench, springing to his feet as he scooped up his club. “But, enough with that—too fecking depressing by far. If you’re going to have my Cauldron from me, you’ll have to earn it. Now, pull out that little toothpick you call a war club, change out of your pretty boy pants, and let’s dance.”
“You want me to fight you?”
He snarled his response. “I didn’t stutter, did I, boy? You want my Cauldron, you have to fight me for it. Them’s the rules!”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Alright, already. Sheesh. Give me a minute to get out of these clothes—I’m on my last pair of boots.”
He stepped back and leaned on his club. “That’s the spirit, lad. Take your time… but not too long, mind you. I still have a few hundred acres to till.”
Minutes later, I’d shifted and stood across a dirt clearing from the Dagda. I’d changed into the closest version of my Hyde-side I could get to the real deal, but he still had a good eighteen inches in height on me. He slapped his club in his hand a few times as he looked me up and down.
“Oh, that’s the thing I wanted to fight, for sure. Not quite as ugly as old Balor himself, but damned close. Ah, this brings me back. But no using that Eye, now, or I’ll consider it cheating and you’ll be forfeit.” He pointed the business end of his club at me. “You ready, boy?”
I sighed. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Without warning, he launched himself across the clearing at me with a speed reminiscent of an ancient vampire I’d once fought. His club was a blur as he swung it at my head. I ducked and countered with a blow to his knee, but he danced out of range long before I could connect.
We clashed again and again, sometimes with me stopping his blows, while other times I dodged them. I quickly learned to avoid blocking his strikes, because the resulting shock threatened to numb my hands useless after the first few blows. And despite the fact that his club was so much bigger than my own, he wielded it like a willow switch, swinging it this way and that with staccato strikes that frequently changed angle and direction.
Gradually, the speed and frequency of his attacks increased, and I was no longer able to evade them, much less provide a counterattack. Soon, I was forced to block him, blow for blow. My hands grew numb and slick with sweat. He chased me around the clearing that way, wearing me down in an almost methodical fashion.
Finally, he knocked my war club from my unresponsive hands, then spun his club and swept my legs from under me. I landed hard on my back, with the tip of his club in my face.
“Best two out of three?” I asked.
He laughed, and extended a hand to help me up. “No, one round is plenty. I’ll be feeling this tomorrow morn.”
After he’d gotten me back on my feet, he looked me over once and nodded with a grunt of satisfaction.
“You’ll do. Now, fetch me that stick of yours, would you?”
I did as he asked, handing it to him handle-first as he sat down heavily on a nearby stump. “So, I guess this means I don’t get the Cauldron? I did lose, after all.”
He arched an eyebrow as he examined my war club. “Just like the day she was crafted. Damn, but Lugh did fine work.” I watched as he scratched a rune in the butt end of the club with his thumbnail, as cleanly as if he’d used a chisel. “For good luck,” he quipped as he handed it back to me.
“You said ‘did fine work.’ Is Lugh not around anymore?”
His expression saddened, and his eyes became misty. “Oh, he’s still around. But not the same, sadly. Of all of us, he fell in love with Underhill the most—because it was his idea
to begin with. But I bet the sight of you will perk him right up. Probably remind him of Cú Chulainn, you will.
“Ah, but listen to me carry on, like the old man that I am.” He pointed the butt end of his club at me. “You came here for a reason, and fought me without hesitation. So, I’ll consider my Cauldron to be on permanent loan to you from here on out.”
He sat staring at me with a twinkle in his eye and a slight grin on his face. Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer. “Um… can I have it, please?”
He slapped his hands on his knees and guffawed. “Hah! I slipped it into your Craneskin Bag while you were getting undressed. Damned thing’s not doing any good sitting around.” He swept an arm around him. “What the hell do I need with a bottomless cauldron of broth, anyway? It’s not like I’m lacking for food, that’s for sure.”
He whispered to me behind his hand, while pointing a thumb at the humongous hog that was still rooting in the dirt nearby.
“Besides, the pig’s brother keeps me in ham and bacon.” The hog turned to him and snorted, before dropping a huge shit where it stood. “And that one provides fertilizer for the fields,” he exclaimed with a chuckle. “Now then, you’d best be off. The cursed wisp’ll take you to see old Lugh—keep an eye on that one, mind you.”
“Lugh, you mean?”
He waved my question away with a frown. “Naw, the wisp. A right bastard, he is—slick as snot on a snail. But bound to his queen, so he’ll not betray you… for now.” He reached into a pocket in his tunic that hadn’t been there a moment before, and tossed something to me. “Here, take this.”
I caught it and opened my hands. It was a huge acorn, shiny and brown. It looked old, like it had been polished to a high sheen from years of being handled.
“What’s it for?”
“You’ll know it when you need it. All that metal you hide behind will only serve you for so long. Eventually, you’ll need someplace to recharge and regroup, someplace safer than a metal enclave.” He lifted a hand from his knee as if dismissing a stray thought. “Ah, but I’ve said too much.”
