A Spark is Struck in Cruachan

by Bill Stackhouse

  “We?” Finbar asked.

  The elf turned and called out to the rear of the booth. “Cadwgawn! Come up here, if you would, please?”

  Another elf came through the flap that separated the sales area from the personal space. To Pádraig’s eyes, he was a dead ringer for Brynmor.

  “This is my son, Cadwgawn,” Brynmor told them, placing his hand on the younger elf’s shoulder. “Cadwgawn, this is Finbar and his son, Pádraig.”

  “It is an honor to make your acquaintance,” Cadwgawn said, exchanging arm-clasps with them both. To Finbar he added, “My da has spoken of you often, you and the other Wat—”

  Pádraig detected a squeeze of Cadwgawn’s shoulder muscle from Brynmor, and the younger elf quickly amended his statement to, “you and the other men he fought with.”

  “That was a lot of years ago,” Finbar replied. To Brynmor, he said, “How long are you going to be here? We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

  “Sales have been brisk, especially since news of the Northman being washed up at Cathair Tulach began to circulate. I can barely keep bows and arrows in stock. I’ll need to return home and get busy with another lot by week’s end. If I had known that it would have spurred sales like this, I would have started the rumor myself years ago.” A bare trace of a smile appeared on Brynmor’s lips, the closest Pádraig had seen an elf come to laughter.

  “You’ve got time to catch up, now, Da,” Pádraig said. “I’m going to head over to the harbor and have a look around before dark.”

  “Go, lad, I’ll see you for supper,” his father told him. To Brynmor and Cadwgawn he said, “I’d invite you two to come along, but I know how adverse elves are to taverns and drunken men.”

  A grunt from Brynmor was as much emotion as Finbar’s statement could elicit.

  “It was nice meeting both of you,” Pádraig said, giving a small wave to the elves as he turned and made his way toward the marketplace’s exit.

  As Pádraig left, Brynmor said to Cadwgawn, “Watch the shop for a while, I will be a half hour or so.” He turned to Finbar. “There is a place down the way that serves the most delicious root-tea. Come. Let us have some while we talk.”

  * * *

  Brynmor had been correct in his assessment of the tea, and Finbar was hard-pressed to tell what types of roots the swarthy old man from across the Sea of the Dawn had used. Although the proprietor didn’t speak their language, his daughter did, and she tried to describe the tree from which the roots had come, but to no avail. In the end, Finbar had to admit that it didn’t make all that much difference. The tea was delicious. That’s all that counted.

  “So. An accident at the forge?” Brynmor asked, gesturing to the scar on the inside of Finbar’s right forearm. “Getting a little careless in your old age?”

  Finbar stopped, mid-sip as he remembered the words of Lairgnen the troubadour from a few weeks prior.

  “An accident at the forge, I presume? I would think a blacksmith with your experience would be more careful.”

  He set his cup back down on the table, sighed, and shook his head. “When did you see him?” he asked, tiredly.

  “Him, who?” the elf replied.

  “You know exactly. That big donkey who rides a mule.”

  “On the Boundary Road as we were coming up here.”

  Finbar turned, looking for the proprietor’s daughter to settle their tab. However, after their conversation about the tea, she had retreated into the personal space at the rear of the booth.

  “Yes, Lairgnen did tell me of your son’s gift,” Brynmor said, “and of his and Master Taliesin’s hope that you would allow the boy to attend the Academy for the Spiritually Gifted. But you also know that I do not do their bidding. It has been eleven years since Aislin’s death. You have been up and down the Boundary Road how many times since then, and yet you have deliberately avoided entering the Coedwig Dryslyd to see some of your old friends.”

  “I’m no longer a Watchman!” Finbar spat out, emphatically.

  “But you will always be a friend to the elves. And a special friend to me, Finn. We do not, as a rule, get involved in the affairs of men, so I will not advise you for or against allowing your son to attend the Academy. But I will counsel you to step away and evaluate whatever decision you make without any bitterness, remorse, or casting of blame.”

  The elf reached across the table and put his pale-white hand on Finbar’s scar. “And although you know how loath I would be to ever wear a dwarf symbol, tattoo or no tattoo, Lairgnen is correct about one thing. A Watchman is forever. Cosaint agus Seirbhís, old friend.”

  * * *

  As the sun started to dip into the Sea of the Evening, Pádraig pulled his cloak tighter around him as he sat atop one of his favorite places—the interior cliffs in the Central Federal Region looking out over Saltwater Bay, Cruachan’s natural harbor.

  The wind had picked up, and the gulls teetered back and forth as they soared over the water looking for their supper. Aromas and odors alike were carried on that wind up to where the boy sat. The aromas he savored; the odors he tolerated, remembering how his mother used to bring him to this very point when he was young and identify for him the various types of traders’ vessels that had come from the East, across the Sea of the Dawn.

  Way in the distance, at the seaward end of the harbor, Pádraig could barely make out a ship that was in the process of heading out to sea, guided through the narrow channel opening, he knew, by one of the harbormaster’s pilots. Other ships, he presumed, were anchored offshore, waited to be piloted in. With darkness fast approaching, the young blacksmith figured that those crews would have to wait until the next morning.

  From up there on the cliff, just below the Citadel of Cruachan, Pádraig watched as stevedores loaded and unloaded ships at docks almost directly below him. All three kingdoms, plus the Central Federal Region, came together at that point on the island, all bordering on Saltwater Bay. Although the actual activities for the entire harbor were administered by the federal authorities, each of the three kingdoms also had their own set of docks and exercised control over material coming in and going out of their respective kingdoms.

  It had been over two weeks, now, since the boy had overheard his father’s conversation with the elderly troubadour, Lairgnen, that night at Fort Ceatharlach. And in those two weeks, an eternity to Pádraig, Finbar had not said one word to him regarding his encounter with Siobhán, the phooka, nor about him using his gift to help Máiréad light the bone-fire at the New Year’s Eve festivities. Undecided as to whether or not to bring up the subjects himself, he decided once again not to, lest his father would know that he had been eavesdropping.

  “Don’t jump! Don’t jump!” a boy’s voice called out from behind Pádraig.

  It was quickly followed by the shout of a girl. “Please don’t jump, Paddy!”

  He turned around to see Liam and Máiréad, running hand-in-hand toward him, laughing. Both, dressed in their finery, looked as though they had just come from a royal ball. Máiréad carried a small basket in her right hand.

  Pádraig stood and smiled. He had hoped he’d see his two friends in the Central Federal Region, just not together hand-in-hand.

  “You know I’d never go without saying, ‘Good-bye,’” he told them. “So,”—he saluted—“good-bye!” He then turned and faked leaping over the cliff.

  Liam grabbed him by the right arm and Máiréad by the left. And all three stood there laughing.

  “I feel like a beggar between the two of you,” Pádraig said. “What’s the occasion? Mid-Winter’s still more than three weeks away.”

  “A reception dinner for King Cabhan of the Northern Shires,” Máiréad answered.

  “He doesn’t get down here from Cathair Béarra that often,” Liam added, “and when he does, the High King likes to make a big deal out of it for him.” With a wink and in a whisper, he continued. “Cabhan has what my da calls ‘territory envy’—you know, only five shires to the eight in the East
ern Shires and nine in the Western Shires. So Da makes it a point to stroke him so that he feels important.”

  “Politics,” Pádraig grumbled, shaking his head.

  “It’s what holds the Confederation together, Paddy. Sometimes you do things you don’t necessarily want to do for the sake of the greater good.”

  “And the greater good, in this case,” Máiréad said, “is that we got to attend a wonderful dinner.”

  Pádraig opened his cloak and checked his tunic and breeches pockets. “I must have misplaced my invitation. Oh, no, that’s right. I didn’t get one. I’m only a mere peasant.”

  “Paddy!” Máiréad scolded. “Don’t talk like that. You know that Liam and I don’t think of you that way. You’re a craftsman. And a very fine one, at that.”

  Liam punched him in the shoulder. “Actually we do think of you that way. We just hide our true feelings from you.” He snickered at his own joke.

  “Here,” Máiréad said, handing Pádraig the basket that she had brought with her. “Since we knew that you’d probably lose your invitation, we brought this for you.” She giggled as he peeked under the cloth that covered the basket and saw helpings of the various foods that were served to the King of the Northern Shires.

  “Wow!” he said, looking at all the delicacies. “That was really great of you. In return, you each get one free hoof-check for your horses.…Wait, I already do that for free. How about one free mending job for any broken ironwork?…Wait, I already do that for free, too. Okay, how about this—my undying and everlasting friendship.”

  “I thought we already had that,” Liam said. “You mean your friendship can be bought?”

  “For this kind of food? You bet.”

  All three teenagers laughed again as they headed back toward the citadel.

  “The other reason we hunted you up,” Máiréad said, “is because Liam has some fantastic news we wanted to share with you.”

  The young prince beamed with delight. “At the Mid-Winter Roghnú? In addition to Master Taliesin sponsoring Meig to the Academy for the Spiritually Gifted, my da is going to name me deputy king and his second-in-command.”

  Máiréad threw her arms around Pádraig. “Isn’t that wonderful, Paddy? Will you be there to see us? Please say you will?”

  “I’ll have to check with my da about our schedule; but, if there’s any way I can be, I’ll be there.”

  “Great, Paddy,” Liam said. “We’ve got to get going, now. There’s a royal ball tonight in King Cabhan’s honor.” He rolled his eyes. “Some honor. The Northern Shires were the first conquered by the Northmen and the last liberated. If it hadn’t been for the other two kingdoms, the King of the Northern Shires would still be a vassal to the Northmen. Do you know what this is?” He stood there with his arms raised high in the air. When Pádraig shook his head, Liam continued. “A member of the Security Forces of the Northern Shires.” So amused was he at his own joke, he almost fell down in hysterics.

  “For someone supposedly so astute at politics, you’d better watch yourself,” Máiréad cautioned, smacking him on the shoulder with her hand. “One of these days you’re going to say that in front of the wrong people.” Giving Pádraig a peck on the cheek along with a surreptitious wink, she said, “I’ll be here all week, Paddy.”

  As his friends hurried off, Pádraig followed at his own pace toward the gatehouse, past the hillock with the citadel’s cromlech and its three-megalith partial-circle where the mid-season celebrations were held.

  * * *

  After sharing the contents of Máiréad’s basket with his father, the two of them headed over to The Rope and Anchor, one of the taverns, for a little camaraderie and gossip. They received plenty of both. There at a table for four sat Tadhg and Cearul, blacksmiths and farriers from the Northern Shires and Eastern Shires, respectively.

  “Did someone call an extemporaneous meeting of the Blacksmiths’ Guild?” Cearul asked, standing and grasping forearms with father and son, in turn.

  “And if so,” Tadhg added, standing and greeting them as well, “do we have to pay dues if we let them sit here?”

  “Let’s not call it a meeting, then,” Finbar said, taking a seat, gesturing Pádraig onto the stool next to him, and signaling with four fingers to the alewife. “The guild already takes too much for its cut as it is.”

  Tadhg sniggered, then said, “But it keeps the prices up, hey, lads?”

  The alewife brought tankards of ale for Finbar and Pádraig and fresh ones for the other two blacksmiths.

  After a simultaneous toast of “Sláinte!” Cearul asked, “So, what’s the news from the west, Finn. Overrun with Northmen are you?”

  “If you consider ‘overrun’ to be one dead one,” Finbar replied. “Unless you’ve heard about more?”

  “Rumors abound,” Tadhg said. “Before you know it, people’ll start seeing Northmen under their beds and catapulting every merchant vessel that plies these waters.” He looked over at Pádraig. “You’re growing like a weed, Paddy. Pretty soon you’ll be giving your ol’ da, here, the what-for, heh?”

  “Maybe someday, but not anytime soon,” Pádraig said. “You should have seen how he dispatched two armed highwaymen a few weeks ago with just his quarterstaff.”

  “Whereabouts?” Cearul asked.

  “Down on the Boundary Road between Ceatharlach Shire in the west and Muraisc Shire in the east,” Finbar told him. “Turned them over to the shire reeve at Ráth Ceatharlach. Take a look next time you see a work party on the Boundary Road. They’ll be a part of it.”

  “They’re lucky to be a part of it,” Cearul said. “That’s right near the Tangled Woods in Muraisc Shire. If the elves had caught them, there’d be a party of a different kind.” He let his tongue loll from the side of his mouth as he pantomimed pulling a rope up from his neck.

  Everyone had a good laugh, then Tadhg head-gestured toward the front door and said, “Uh-oh, here comes trouble, lads.”

  “Colm?” Finbar asked.

  “Yep. And it looks like he’s already got a snoot full,” Cearul added.

  “Who’s Colm?” Pádraig whispered to his father, as the man made his way toward them.

  Finbar whispered back. “Another blacksmith and farrier from the Northern Shires. One of Tadhg’s competitors.”

  “So!” Colm said, rocking unsteadily on his feet as he stood there looking down at the foursome. “Celebrating undercutting my bid on this year’s farrier’s contract, are we, Tadhg? Feeling good about taking the food off my table, hmm?”

  Tadhg ran his finger around the rim of his tankard, not looking up at the other man. “You know that price had nothing to do with it, Colm. The guild sets the prices. Bids are awarded based on production and quality.”

  “I’m not as good a farrier as you? Is that what you’re saying? I’m slow? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “He’s not saying anything of the kind, Colm,” Cearul spoke up. “He didn’t award the contract to himself. Like the rest of us, we simply submit our names to the powers that be in each kingdom and the kings’ chancellors make the selections.”

  “King Cabhan is here, now, at Dúnfort Cruachan, along with his retinue,” Pádraig said, trying to be helpful, “including, most likely, his chancellor. If you really want to know why you were passed over, why don’t you go ask the chancellor?”

  “And why don’t you mind your own business, lad,” Colm replied, bitterly, raising his left hand to strike the boy.

  But before he could deliver the blow, Tadhg quickly stood, grabbed Colm’s arm, twisted it behind the other man’s back, and hustled him toward the door. “Go sober up, you fool,” Tadhg told him. “And thank your lucky stars that it’s me who stopped you instead of the lad’s da.” He lowered his voice. “And, although I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of the others, you have no one but yourself to blame for not getting that contract, what with horseshoes flying off within two weeks after you’ve set them, and taking forever to finish a job. Now go!”
With that, he pushed Colm out into the night.

  “You haven’t heard the last from me, Tadhg,” Colm shouted back at him, loudly enough that all the tavern’s patrons heard him.

  Crossing back to the table and retaking his stool, Tadhg said to Finbar, “I envy you, Finn, having Paddy. If Colm weren’t such a liability, I’d have put him on as a helper. I don’t know what King Cabhan’s doing up there, but I’m taking care of half again as many horses as I did last year.”

  “Both security and defense forces?” Finbar asked.

  “Just the kingdom’s own security forces. And most of them way up north. The number of mounts for the Cruachanian Defense Forces is pretty much the same.”

  “Aw, poor fellow,” Cearul said with mock sadness in his voice. “We feel so sorry for you.” He cuffed his fellow-blacksmith on the back of the head. “Finn and I should be so put upon. Quit whining. You’re being paid by the head. And now that we know that, you’re picking up the tab tonight.” He drained his tankard and signaled for another round.

  Birchday - Wolf 34th

  Central Federal Region

  Dúnfort Cruachan

  “Hang in there, fella. It won’t be long, now,” Pádraig told the bay stallion, as he used a rasp to dress the hoof he had just trimmed. “Couple of more strokes then you can rest for a few minutes while I get the shoe-blanks.”

  When he had finished, the young farrier ran his hand around the rim of the hoof, then, setting the animal’s right forefoot back on the ground, said, “There. I’ll be back soon.”

  As he turned from the horse, which had been tied to an iron ring set in the outside forge wall, two men approached on horseback—one in the uniform of the Cruachanian Defense Forces riding a piebald gelding; the other, a civilian on a flaxen chestnut stallion with a blond mane and tail.

  “Are you Finbar?” the soldier asked, dismounting and looking somewhat perplexed, having expected to find someone older. He had the insignia of a captain on his shoulder.