The Lost Celt

by Conran, A. E. ;

  ©2016 Gosling Press, an imprint of Goosebottom Books LLC

  All rights reserved

  Editor Shirin Yim Bridges

  Copy editor Jennifer Fry

  Typeset in Adobe Caslon Pro and Goblin

  Manufactured in Malaysia

  Library of Congress PCN: 2015942875

  ISBN: 978-1-937463-55-7

  First Edition 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  GOSLING PRESS

  An imprint of Goosebottom Books LLC

  543 Trinidad Lane, Foster City, CA 94404

  www.goslingpress.com

  Dedicated to the memory of Tuesday Night Writer, Jon Wells, the Peace Corps candidate who was drafted into the Marines.

  We miss you, Jon.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  About the Author

  Author’s Notes

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER ONE

  My Celts cluster together in the early morning mist. They lift their shields and flex their sword arms. Some of the men joke, but they’re tense, I can tell. So am I.

  On my right flank, Iceni cavalrymen jostle to be first in the charge. Behind us, at my command, a great horde of plaid-cloaked Brigantes spearmen stride into position.

  When our battle horns finally blast their challenge, I pump my fist. Yes! My spies were right. Marcus Julius’s Seventh Legion marches into the clearing from a misty dip in the forest floor. They appear, as if by magic, just where I was told they would attack. The rising sun is in our eyes and the element of surprise should be theirs, but we’re waiting for them. We clash our sword hilts on our shields and hurl battle cries as if they were rocks. The amassed tribes of Celtic Britain are ready to rip the Romans apart!

  “Surprise, Kyler!” I say, glancing up at his face in the corner of my screen.

  “Oh man, no!” Kyler groans, trying to keep his voice down so his dad doesn’t hear. He taps furiously at his keyboard, but it’s too late. I unleash five units of swordsmen from the Trinovantes and Silures tribes. They charge in a blur of noise and fury.

  Kyler leans forward, shaking his fist as he hisses into the screen, “I don’t believe it. How did you get all those guys together, Mikey? How did you know about my attack?”

  “Spies and gold, Kyler my friend. Pure and simple!”

  His formation stays tight as my men launch themselves at the wall of red Roman shields—his legionnaires rank really highly on discipline—but then I order my spearmen to let loose, and it’s a bloodbath. Kyler’s Romans crumple under the rain of javelins, fighting to keep their lines as they advance over their own dead.

  “Take that, Kyler!” I yell. Kyler’s screwing up his eyes because he hates surprises, and I’m nearly jumping off my chair with excitement because he doesn’t know the half of it yet.

  I’ve just bought two whole units of Avernii. That’s a tribe of Gauls, Celts from France; seriously scary guys with awesome longswords and, at ten solidi a unit, seriously expensive! And that’s not even the best part. I’ve got a whole unit of Celtic berserkers, with a druid! They’re my secret weapon. Anyone who plays Romanii: Northern Borders knows that the berserkers are awesome in battle, but totally unpredictable unless you have a druid. Then they’ll obey your every command and become invincible.

  According to my military history book, “berserker” is a Viking word for guys who worked themselves up into a frenzy for battle. But the Celts did it too, just ask Julius Caesar. Tall, pale-skinned, and trained for warfare since childhood, the Celts were fearsome. They spiked up their hair with lime, covered their bodies in dyes or tattoos, ripped off their clothes in battle, and fought totally butt-naked, so mad on war and glory that no one could stop them. The Romans were terrified of the Celts and their crazy berserker fighting, but they admired them too. Too bad Roman discipline won out in the end. But not tonight!

  Three months I’ve been saving up enough solidi to buy all the units for this battle. Three months Kyler’s Romans have been kicking my butt, but tonight is going to be massive—awesome beyond awesomeness—and my Celts are going to win!

  Kyler leans back in his chair. “OK Mikey, you asked for it!” He orders two units of Sarmatian cavalry to come storming down the valley to support his legionnaires.

  “I’m not sweating, Kyler,” I sing as I let my own cavalry fly. “I love poker night!”

  Even Kyler has to laugh. Once a month Grandpa hosts poker night at our house. It’s always on a night that Mom works the late shift at the old people’s home. All Grandpa’s veteran buddies come over to drink, play cards, and tell war stories. They get so into it, Grandpa forgets to count my screen hours. It’s the best night of the month.

  My trumpets blare again. Kyler sends in two entire legions of auxiliaries, so I order my first band of Avernii up the valley, attacking his auxiliaries from the rear. Kyler screams in surprise, “What the…? Oh crud, Mikey. Where did they come from?” They’re hacking his guys to pieces, and I’m laughing at Kyler’s face on the screen when I hear Grandpa yelling my name from somewhere outside. It sounds bad. Real bad.

  It’s half past midnight, and Grandpa and I are still waiting to see a doctor. We sit in the emergency room of the hospital run by the Veterans’ Administration, or “Vee-Ay” as Grandpa calls it, in a little cubicle the nurse made by pulling curtains around us. Grandpa’s on a bed with his stick next to him. His pants have ridden up, showing a few inches of his metal prosthetic leg. On his other shin there’s a gash and some dried blood. I’m on a grey chair with Dad’s tablet on my knee. In the confusion after Grandpa’s fall, I left my headphones at home, but at least Kyler and I put the game on pause. Now we’ve restarted, I’m still winning, and Kyler’s still cursing me from his corner of the screen because this battle really isn’t going according to plan—well, at least not to his.

  “You sure you’re OK, Grandpa?” I ask, looking up as the slimy plastic curtains billow apart. This happens every time the staff run by, which is a lot, by the way. It’s busy at the VA.

  “Should’ve picked a quieter night to fall down the steps,” Grandpa says with a wink. “But, I’m fine. Those triage nurses did a great job, Mikey. You keep playing.” He cradles his hurt wrist in an ice pack like it’s a baby, but he doesn’t seem too unhappy about it.

  My second band of Avernii attack the remains of Kyler’s cavalry, and it’s a blood fest. Even men on horses are no match for my guys. Kyler cries out and then covers his mouth. His dad still thinks he’s asleep.

  Grandpa chuckles as Kyler groans from the screen. “Sounds like you gotta use your reserves, Kyler!” he calls. “Mikey’s got you cornered.”

  “Don’t give him any ideas,” I say.

  Grandpa laughs, and his whole face crinkles up like a wrung out dishcloth. “Heh, heh, heh.”

 
; Kyler takes Grandpa’s advice and sends in all the legions he’s been holding back at the edge of the forest. Wow! There are way more than I thought. Blocks of red shields march through his shattered troops. And that’s when Kyler says, “Hey, Mikey, wouldn’t you do anything to travel back in time so you could see this stuff for real?”

  It’s classic “Kyler Distraction Technique Number Five”: hit me at my weakest point. “Not listening, Kyler,” I say as his men flood into the center of the field.

  “Like that guy we saw online who said the government’s known about time travel for years. The one who said he went back to the Battle of Bull Run—”

  “Still not listening.”

  “Through that electric tunnel invented by Tesla, and then he got stuck in the future for like two years, and all those physicists were saying it could really happen—famous guys not crackpots—”

  “Not working, la, la, la,” I sing as my spearmen hurl their javelins at Kyler’s forces again. But the thought of being stuck in the past, or the future, really gets to me. What would that be like? Did that guy really travel to Bull Run?

  When I glance back at the screen, I find my men in full retreat. This is so “Celtic armies.” They can be winning one moment and totally routed the next.

  “Hold the line, guys,” I yell, but they’ve already scattered. Kyler’s legions re-form and charge. I only have one chance. “This is the end, Kyler, my man. Say your prayers!”

  I let loose my druid and unit of berserkers. They’re all in amazing two-wheeled British chariots that can ride over any ground. Each one is driven by a charioteer. His job is to drive the berserker straight into the thick of the battle and then collect him again when needed.

  “I don’t believe it,” Kyler gasps, clutching his head in his hands. “How did you buy them? You couldn’t have saved enough…” His voice trails off in shock as the chariots zig-zag to block my fleeing troops. The druid waves an oak branch: it’s a druid thing. The berserkers howl challenges and swing the heads of fallen Romans on lengths of rope: it’s a Celt thing. Then the charioteers storm directly at Kyler’s advancing Romans. The berserkers run along the chariot shafts while the horses are still galloping. They are totally naked. Their red hair is spiked up in all directions. They have large red mustaches, tattoos all over their bodies, and torcs—great twisted ropes of pure gold—around their necks and arms. They are magnificent.

  They leap off their chariots, flying over the heads of the leading Romans, straight into the middle of the formation. No one can stop them. They’re roaring and ripping the Romans apart, cutting great swathes through the legions, screaming war cries…when there’s a whole lot more shouting, and it takes me a second to realize it’s not coming from my screen.

  I look up. Down the hallway, furniture—or something—is crashing to the floor. People are running from all over the place. Someone’s screaming for medicine, and a woman is shouting for help.

  “We can’t get near him,” she cries.

  Two VA police officers sprint past the cubicle, shoes squeaking on the floor. They’re running so fast the curtains billow right open and I see their uniforms.

  Then, over the top of the noise, a man yells one word as loud as any battle cry. “Cuckooland!”

  At least that’s what it sounds like from where I’m sitting. He holds on to the last bit for a really long time, his voice deep and growly like a lion’s. “Cuckoolaaaaand!”

  Everything falls silent for a moment. Kyler asks, “Wow, what’s up, Mikey?”

  Then everyone’s yelling again, and the guy keeps shouting, “Cuckooland!”

  “Cuckooland?” Grandpa asks. “It sure is ‘round here.”

  “What’s that, Grandpa?”

  Grandpa shakes his head and laughs. “Heh, heh, heh,” he goes. “Gotta love the VA, Mikey. Gotta love it.” It’s the same laugh he always has on poker night when he’s drunk a few beers. “Still, I should’ve just left the poop ‘til morning, Mikey Boy. I knew it, but I just couldn’t.”

  “Cuckoolaaand!” the man yells again, and I can’t help it. I’ve got to see what’s going on.

  “I’m gonna go pee, Grandpa,” I say.

  “Sure, Mikey. Be quick, and don’t talk to anyone. Knew I shoulda left it ‘til morning.”

  Kyler yells for me to come back as I run through the curtains straight into his mom, Dr. Mariko Curtis. She works nights at the ER, just like my mom does at the old people’s home.

  “Whoa,” she goes. “Is that you, Mikey?” She stumbles back and, for a second, she looks just like Black Orchid, the scariest lady ninja in Samurai Sunset. That’s the Japanese version of Romanii: Northern Borders. Kyler’s desperate to get it for his birthday, but his mom says one war game is enough. She’s not falling for the “it’s my heritage” argument.

  Another doctor runs past. “I’ve got it, Mariko,” he says, glancing between us as he hurries by.

  “OK, I’ll be right there.” She looks a bit worried but still manages to smile as she says, “Dave texted that he’d brought you two in. I’ve been trying to get to you. Is your mom working tonight?”

  “Yeah, and Dad’s still in Nigeria—”

  “Yes, I know—”

  “And Grandpa fell down the steps outside our house.”

  “Aha,” Mariko says. She glances down the hallway. Everything has gone quiet again. I really want to see who was making all the noise, but I should stay with Grandpa. So, as Mariko pushes through the curtains, I follow her in.

  “Hey, Marty, how’re you doing?” she asks. “I’m just checking in quickly.” She gives Grandpa a good look and then nods at me. I guess she’s telling me that he can wait a little longer and still be OK. “Did you hit your head when you fell?”

  “No.” Grandpa holds up his arm. “Saved myself with my wrist and cut my leg. Probably shouldn’t be bothering you, but the boy wanted to come and I never argue with a redhead.”

  Grandpa loves my red hair and freckles. Mom says they came out of nowhere. Grandpa says they came out of England, and that’s what you get for marrying a Brit. “And thank your Dave for driving us. The boy insisted we call Dave.”

  “He was right,” Mariko says, because Mom would be furious if I walked Grandpa up to the emergency room at night, even if it is just up the street. It’s our secret agreement. Mom always says, “If there’s something wrong with Grandpa, call Mariko and Dave. If it’s really serious, call the ambulance right away.”

  There’s another crash down the hallway. I speak quickly. “Someone threw a plastic bag full of dog poop into our front yard. Grandpa saw it after he’d waved off his buddies.”

  “Dog owners,” Grandpa grumbles. “Why can’t they just take it home, like they’re supposed to?”

  “He went to get it, lost his balance, and fell down the front steps.”

  “Just the last step,” Grandpa says.

  “Poker night?” Mariko asks.

  “Always lose my balance on poker night,” Grandpa says. “Heh, heh, heh.”

  Mariko raises her eyebrows at me. “And where were you, Mikey?”

  I hesitate, and maybe I glance at the tablet because Mariko suddenly leans over the chair, refreshes the screen, and says, “Kyler Curtis. Into bed. Now! It’s past midnight on a school night, for goodness’ sake.”

  She’s shaking her head because she knows exactly what Mom thinks about war games, and Kyler is squeaking some lame apology, and Grandpa is saying, “The boys were just keeping me company, heh, heh, heh,” when there’s a whole lot more shouting.

  “You can’t do that, sir.”

  “Get down!”

  “Don’t pull those out!”

  Mariko straightens up. “Sorry, Marty, I’ll be right back.” She runs off.

  I shouldn’t leave Grandpa, but the man yells again and I say, “I’ll be right back, too.”

  I chase Mariko past the reception desk, down a hallway to a room on the left, and…whoa! How cool is this?

  There’s a guy, a really hu
ge guy, in loose plaid pants and a hospital gown. He’s on one of those big metal beds on wheels, squatting like a sumo wrestler. He shakes his fists in the air and flexes his biceps. He’s got fierce, icy-blue eyes and wild ginger hair that sticks out in frizzy clumps. His lip is hidden by a prickly red mustache, and his chin is covered with red stubble. His eyebrows are thick and bushy, and he knits them together while he shouts. I can see the inside of his mouth, and it’s a blood red “O.” He stinks too; a cross between the laundry when Mom forgets to empty the machine and Grandpa’s empty beer bottles.

  I stick my head through the door to watch. No one pays any attention to me. The two VA police officers, the doctor, and two nurses are standing around the bed like a bunch of outfielders.

  “Come on.”

  “You gotta calm down.”

  “Just get off the bed, now.”

  “We have to get him down,” Mariko whispers to the others.

  The police officers make a grab for the guy’s arms, but he kicks out at them. One gets a boot in the side of his head. “Ooof,” he groans as he falls to his knees.

  “Cuckoolaaaand!” the man yells and rips at the tape on his arms.

  The doctor’s saying, “Not the IV! Not the IV!” But the man roars, and the IV line is out.

  A machine starts beeping. Then he rips off the gown. And I don’t mean taking his arms out of the sleeves one at a time. No way. I mean he just rips the front off with his bare hands and throws it across the room. A male nurse gets hit in the face. The man’s arm swings back and hits the IV stand. The whole thing crashes to the floor, knocking over a jug of water on the bedside table. Water sprays all over the walls. An alarm goes off. The man shouts “Cuckoolaaaand” again.

  This is the most exciting thing I’ve ever seen!

  Now that he’s pulled off the gown, I can see this guy is in really good shape. His chest is solid with muscles, and his skin is covered in tattoos. Thick bands of blue ink circle each of his forearms and—wow!—his chest is one big swirl of lines: long, thin animals turn in and out of themselves like knots. He’s a walking graffiti wall and, here’s the most amazing thing, around his neck he wears a twisted metal torc.