The Lost Celt

by Conran, A. E. ;

  “Maeve’s champion conceded the fight,” he says, “and staggered back to camp. The army of the queen quailed to see that the great warrior wasn’t even tired.” We run on, two blocks, three blocks. The VA twinkles behind us, still like a rocket on a launch pad.

  “Wait!” I half croak, half shout, “What about the VA? Does this have anything to do with the VA?”

  The Celt just waves his arm as if swatting the whole building away. “This is Maeve, we’re talking about. She’ll destroy the whole of Ulster!”

  “The Hole of Ulster?” I wheeze. The portal to the Otherworld must be the Hole of Ulster, and it’s under threat. His only chance to get back to his own time is going to be destroyed by this Maeve, whoever she is. He’s fighting to get back to his own time, right now, even if I can’t see it. “But who is she? Why does she want to destroy it?” I’m panting in my effort to keep up. The Celt is like Kyler, so fit he could probably run for miles and never lose his breath.

  “Maeve’s the Queen of Connacht.”

  “Why does the queen want to destroy the Hole of Ulster?” I ask.

  “Because she wants the bull, of course.”

  “A bull?”

  “Not just any bull. It’s the Brown Bull of Cooley she’s after.”

  A bull doesn’t sound like a great reason to destroy a portal to the Otherworld, but before I can ask any more, the Celt runs across the road into Ardee Park. He sprints past the monkey bars and across to the farthest end of the park, where he comes to a stop and leans against the big boulder facing the road. “Are you trembling, Maeve?” he cries. “Are you afraid? Send in your champions. I’m here to defend the ford. I can fight two a day. I can fight three. I can fight them all to defend Ulster.”

  I throw my arms against the boulder for support and lean my forehead against the cool rock face. I don’t see a ford. I don’t see any champions. I don’t see Maeve. I don’t see a portal. I don’t see any of it.

  Finally, when I sense him watching me, I look up. He grins and I realize that, despite all the dirt on his face, the tangles in his red hair, and the burnt leathery look of his skin, he isn’t that old. Nowhere near as ancient as I thought.

  When I first saw him at the VA, I thought he was near Grandpa’s age, like Grandpa’s poker buddies. But those old guys are so wrinkly they look like iguanas. My warrior doesn’t look as bad as that. Now that I really study him, I figure he must be the same age as Mom, or even younger. He only looks old because he’s been left outside too long.

  “Sit here, Laeg, and watch for the next champion. He’ll be here soon. I should go to the camp to sleep.” He waves toward the bushes on the bank that I searched this afternoon. “But I’ll stay here and wait. Maeve will not let me rest for long, and there will be even more soon, a whole host,” he says, settling himself down against the rock.

  I kneel down next to him, screwing up my face in an effort to think. What I’d do for a granola bar or a bag of chips right now. I need to get my brain firing. He’s talking about fighting champions, just like the Celts in my military history book fought duels, one on one, until the dispute was resolved. But I don’t know what the dispute is. Is this queen trying to stop him from traveling through the Hole of Ulster? Or is the Hole of Ulster somewhere here, in this park? Is the Celt protecting it? Maybe he’s not a traveler after all, but the guardian of the portal.

  “But what—” I stop myself. He’s already asleep. Grandpa told me once that soldiers can sleep anywhere, anytime. They have to. I guess Celtic warriors are the same. The Celt’s head nods down onto his chest. He looks like a toy when its batteries have run out.

  I straighten my back and keep watch. On the opposite side of the road, houses are set back behind small front yards. One has a rickety fence and light shines through the slats of wood like a barcode. A plastic bag skitters across the street in a gust of wind.

  The moon is shining now, through a thin haze of mist. In its shimmery blue glow I imagine one of Maeve’s champions walking up the road. I imagine the moon glinting off the boss of his shield, which is surrounded by paintings of twisting dragons, their gleaming white teeth bared to bite into the legs of the animal in front. The moonlight will make the gold decoration at the end of his belt glow, and his sword will send rays of light searing through the darkness. He could be here, right now, in this parallel dimension I can’t see.

  But it isn’t a Celt that comes along the quiet road. It’s two cars, and, in the time it takes for the first to swoosh by, my Celt’s up on his feet.

  “The next champion in his chariot,” he roars, and faster than my brain can even understand, he runs right into the road and hurls himself toward the second vehicle driving up the street.

  “No!” I leap up, but I’m too late. The car swerves and one of its front wheels scrapes against the curb. The driver slams his hand down on the horn as his car jerks to a stop. He rolls down the window and yells, “What are you? Drunk? You could’ve killed us for God’s sake!”

  The Celt lifts his hand above his head and charges. “Cuckooland!”

  The driver doesn’t wait. He spins his wheels and accelerates up the road at what seems to be a hundred miles an hour. The Celt stands in the middle of the pavement. He thrusts his arm above his head as if he’s puncturing the stars with his sword. “Cuckooland,” he shouts again.

  I can’t believe what I just saw. He’s always been afraid of cars before. He could’ve been killed.

  And then my phone rings. Not now! I can’t believe Mom’s decided to call now. It rings and rings with a stupid submarine-diving tone that I suddenly hate. It takes me three attempts to pull it out of my pocket. The warrior turns and trains his invisible spear on me.

  “Go, or you’ll get hurt,” he says.

  “But I can help.”

  “Not this time,” he shouts, just like he did in the hospital. And the way he crinkles up his eyes makes me run right past him, down the road, with my cell phone still ringing in my hand.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The next morning, Miss O’Brien hands out the Veterans Day worksheet. “I hope you’ve all been thinking about your projects. By now you should know your interviewee’s name, the branch of the Armed Services they were, or are, in, the questions you want to ask them, and how you’re going to interview them. I’ll give you half an hour to fill in this sheet with the information.”

  I must give Kyler a panicked look, because he leans over and whispers, “It’s OK. I wrote it all down when I called your Grandpa last night. Didn’t you ask him, too?” He must think I’m really dumb. “You can copy off me if you want.” Kyler angles his worksheet across the table so that I can see it. “Oh and the guns: bookshelf, hollowed-out book, War and Peace.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble, “but I’ve got it covered.” I push the worksheet back. I wonder if Kyler sees me blush, because my neck feels like it’s burning. I’m still two million percent sure I want to interview the Celt, even though I can’t even begin to fill out this worksheet. I’m just going to have to make it up. I curl my arm around my paper, so Kyler can’t see what I write.

  Miss O’Brien walks around the room checking our work. “Remember, I handed you a list of suggested questions on Friday, but you can ask your own questions, if you prefer.”

  That’s good, because my Celt sucks at answering questions. I don’t think he’ll do too well with, “Which branch of the Armed Services did you serve in?” I have a feeling that “the Berserkers,” won’t cut it as an answer with Miss O’Brien.

  Last night he said he was on a mission. It was his job to fight that queen and all her champions. I wish I understood what it meant. I can’t think of anything to write, so I’m drawing twisting animal knots just like the Celt’s tattoos when I realize Miss O’Brien is leaning over me. “Mikey? Are you with us this morning?”

  “Just thinking, Miss O’Brien,” I say.

  She looks into my face and says, “Thinking’s always good. That’s why you’re here. Now class, I’m going to gi
ve you fifteen more minutes to finish writing up stage one of your project. If anyone wants to come and talk over their ideas, now would be a good time.” Miss O’Brien gives me a special look, as if her invitation was just for me, but Casey leaps up like she’s been sitting on a trampoline the whole time and hurries to Miss O’Brien’s desk first.

  Kyler’s still writing like a madman. His tongue sticks out of the side of his mouth. I stare miserably at question one: What is your interviewee’s name?

  I still don’t even know what the Celt’s called. All I know is that he’s a Celt, uses words like “Cuckooland” every ten seconds, and talks about fighting champions at fords, stealing brown bulls, and fighting a seriously scary queen called “Mayve” or “Maive.” I quickly looked up the name this morning on a baby name site, but it just said it was an Irish name meaning “intoxicating woman.” The Irish part is good because there were Celts in Ireland, but I had to stop because I was running late for school.

  I draw more swirls on a blank piece of paper and stare around the room. It’s only then I notice Ryan falling asleep at the table next to ours, his chin propped up in his hand. Every few seconds he flops forward, his eyelids flicker, they open halfway, and then his head jerks back again. Just like Grandpa watching a movie. I bet it was him outside my house last night. Looks like he stayed out all night. I hope he never found the Celt. I hope only I did.

  Quinn, sitting across from me, closes his eyes and rocks backward and forward imitating Ryan. Casey giggles. Miss O’Brien walks over to see what’s going on. “Ryan O’Driscoll, are you falling asleep?” she asks. Ryan jolts completely upright at the sound of Miss O’Brien’s voice. A yogurt container slips out of his pocket and bursts open all over the floor.

  “Strawberry, if I’m not mistaken,” Kyler says in a fake English accent that he’s perfected by listening to my dad. The class laughs out loud. Miss O’Brien isn’t too happy and neither is Ryan. As he cleans up the goop with a paper towel, he glares at me, which is totally unfair. I didn’t say anything. It was Kyler causing trouble, not me.

  I get back to work. Because I can’t fill in the questions, I write what I do know in one tiny messed up paragraph. The minute Casey leaves the teacher’s desk, I stick my hand up and ask Miss O’Brien if I can speak to her.

  “So, Mikey?” she says as I pull up a chair. “How can I help you?”

  I make sure my back is to the room. I don’t want Kyler and Ryan to overhear.

  “You’re planning to interview your grandfather, right?” she asks.

  “Well, yes, but there’s another veteran I’m interested in, too, if Kyler wants to interview Grandpa,” I say.

  “That’s nice of you.” Miss O’Brien smiles. I shift in my seat because I’m not being nice at all. “Whom else are you thinking of?”

  “He’s a guy I met at the VA. I saw him when I was with Grandpa.” I lean forward and whisper, “He’s just amazing. He has big muscles and tattoos, and he knows all about battles and fighting.” Miss O’Brien raises her eyebrows. I decide not to say the word “Celt” just yet. She doesn’t look ready for it. “He tells stories all the time, and he has his very own battle cry.”

  “Battle cry?” Miss O’Brien tilts her head slightly and narrows her eyes.

  “Yes. He yells the word ‘Cuckooland’ all the time, and he talks about a queen called ‘Mayve’ or something.”

  “Maeve?” She looks surprised.

  I nod. “And a brown bull.”

  Miss O’Brien puts her fingers up to her mouth. “Hmm.” She leans back in her chair and rubs her finger along her bottom lip. “This sounds very interesting, Mikey, but do you, or your Grandfather, know who this man is, or did you just see him one time?”

  It’s a direct question and I hesitate. “Just the one time,” I say. “I mean, I’ve only seen him one time at the hospital. When Grandpa had to go to the ER.”

  “So you have no connection with this man. He’s not a family friend, or someone you can meet again through the VA?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  Miss O’Brien raises her hand. “I know this might be disappointing, Mikey, but this person sounds very confused. You have to be safe, and your parents should be with you to supervise your interview. You can’t approach just anyone.”

  I feel my cheeks flush. “He’s not—”

  “Ryan O’Driscoll, get back to your work,” Miss O’Brien interrupts, looking over my shoulder.

  I twist around. Ryan buries his head in his worksheet. Was he listening?

  “Mikey,” Miss O’Brien continues, “if you don’t know this man, you won’t be able to interview him anyway.”

  “I will,” I say, a bit too quickly.

  “I don’t think so. The doctors and nurses at the hospital aren’t allowed to give you his name. So there’s no way you can find him again. I’m very impressed that you’re so interested in our veterans, but I’d really prefer that you interview your grandfather. It’s much easier to arrange and safer, too. I don’t mind that you and Kyler share him, if that’s what’s worrying you. In fact, I think you’ll have more fun, don’t you, if you work with Kyler? I’d really like you to enjoy this report, Mikey.”

  “Oh,” I say, “OK,” but my stomach sinks as if I’ve swallowed a basketball.

  When I get up from my chair, Miss O’Brien touches my hand. “Just a quick thought, but do you think the man is saying ‘Cuchulain,’ not ‘Cuckooland’?” It sounds like “Coo-hul-lan,” when she says it.

  I shrug. “Yeah, maybe. What’s that?”

  “Who,” she says. “Not what. Cuchulain was a famous warrior in Ireland. He fought against the forces of a queen called Maeve. No one knows whether he was a real man or not, but everyone knows the stories of Cuchulain of Ulster. That’s the county in Northern Ireland that he came from two thousand years ago, or maybe even more.”

  “Ulster’s a real place, a county?”

  “It’s a real place in Ireland. Cuchulain was named for a giant dog that he killed with his bare hands, when he was only a boy in Ulster.”

  I can hardly take it in. The Hole of Ulster! Maybe the portal links us directly to Ireland through the Otherworld and that’s why my warrior keeps traveling here. I must be looking off into space or something because Miss O’Brien touches my forearm, to get my attention, leans forward and says, “The dog was owned by a man named Cullen, and it was the size of a pony, fast as a wolfhound, with giant teeth and huge slobbering jaws. It was the fiercest guard dog in Ulster.” Miss O’Brien must see my eyes widening, because she says, “I’ll tell you what, I’ll stop there. Why don’t you have a look in the library and find out what happened. There’s an old book by Rosemary Sutcliff. Don’t be put off by the cover. She was a great writer. Check it out.”

  I hesitate. “Was he a Celt?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says. “The greatest Irish Celtic warrior and champion ever.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Grandpa’s waiting by the lunch tables at pick-up time, talking with the moms about the class Halloween party, which is only two days away. Grandpa likes to come meet me on the days when Kyler goes to Tae Kwon Do right after school.

  “I’ll bring the biggest, most disgusting Halloween cupcakes I can find,” he jokes. “With piles of frosting. You ladies’ll hate me, but the kids’ll love it. Heh, heh.”

  The moms think he’s joking, and they tell him what an amazing grandpa he is. Only I know he’s not joking at all. Class 4B is going to be sick from frosting if Grandpa has anything to do with it!

  Grandpa says, “It’s good to get involved. I couldn’t do any of this when my daughter was a kid. Men didn’t in those days, and, anyway, I was in Vietnam.” He points to his leg. The moms tut and shake their heads. They all say he’s great, and Grandpa chuckles again, “Heh, heh, heh.”

  He’s having such a good time I ask, “Hey Grandpa, can I get a book from the library, like, right now?”

  “Sure thing, Mikey Boy. Meet me here in ten.” The afterno
on sun peeks for a moment through the clouds, and Grandpa leans back to soak up the rays as he carries on planning the party with the moms.

  It only takes a few minutes to find the book. It’s called The Hound of Ulster. Miss O’Brien is right, I’d never look at it normally because the cover’s just plain green, but it does have a pencil drawing of a warrior on the front. When you take a good look, you can see he’s carrying a mean-looking sword, and he has heavy wrist guards on his arms. Actually, he looks pretty cool. There are pictures inside, too, in black and white. I decide to give it a try.

  Miss Halpern, the librarian, says, “Great choice, Mikey. If you like this one let me know, and I’ll put you on to some others.”

  As I step outside, a drop of rain patters onto my coat. Better hurry back to Grandpa, or he’ll be complaining about getting wet on the way home. He says he slept out in the rain enough times during the Vietnam War to put him off taking showers for life. He claims he’s the smelliest man in California. I know it’s not true, but as I pass the boys’ bathroom the thought makes me laugh anyway.

  I lean down for a quick drink at the water fountain when a hand grabs my coat and yanks me backward through the door of the boys’ bathroom. I flail around trying to grab the doorposts, but I slip on the wet tiles. My attacker spins me around. The library book flies out of my hand and slaps against a cubicle door. I lose my balance, throw my arms out to stop my fall, and land on my wrist. I cry out and roll onto my side, holding my wrist against my body. “What the…?” Ryan O’Driscoll is standing over me. He sits on my chest. I crunch up my knees to stop him hitting my belly, but the way he drops down on my ribs still hurts like crazy. “Umphhh,” I groan.

  Two apples roll out of Ryan’s pockets and disappear under the stall door like they’re running away. I twist and thrash, but my wrist hurts and Ryan’s a dead weight on top of me. He leans over, grabbing my coat by the collar and pulling my face up next to his. For a moment, I think he’s going to slam my head back onto the floor, like they do in movies, and it’ll hurt like anything. I wince, waiting for the thud and the pain, but then I see Ryan’s not just angry, he’s crying. His eyes are red, and his nose is snotty right down to his lip.