A Spark is Struck in Cruachan

by Bill Stackhouse

  It came out, “To Déaglá, rule aw Cruach!”

  The silence quickly turned to grumbling, then the grumbling to anger. And as five large fellows rose from their stools and approached the twosome, Pádraig started to laugh. Standing, he took Liam by the shoulders and sat him back down on his stool. The young farrier made another small motion with the fingers of his right hand, and the prince found himself not only stuck to the seat of the stool, but struck dumb, as well.

  Pádraig, still laughing, raised a hand to the oncoming men, saying, “I can’t apologize enough for my apprentice, lads. I know he’s dimwitted, but, unfortunately, I’m forced to put up with him. He’s the son of my ma’s sister.” Shrugging his shoulders, he continued. “Family, what can you do, hey? Of course we can’t drink a toast to the High King. Everyone knows that. We don’t have any vinegar.”

  Liam struggled to rise and say something, but all he could manage were grunts.

  The five men started snickering, and soon the entire assembly joined in with laughter.

  At the first indication of trouble, Parnell had left his seat and now stood behind the men who had approached Liam. Down at his side, out of view, he held a brown leather sap, filled with lead.

  Signaling to the alewife, Pádraig called out, “Drinks for everyone! On me! And a toast to all the good people of the Northern Shires. Sláinte!” When the cheers had subsided, the young farrier beckoned to the five men and the shire reeve. “Come! Please join us. And, Reeve, even though I’ve tried my best to explain the situation to my halfwit cousin, here, perhaps I could impose upon you to enlighten him as to why the good people of the Northern Shires have no love for the High King.”

  The six men pulled four more stools over to the table, sat, and once the alewife had delivered eight more tankards, Parnell, tentatively and uncomfortably, his beady eyes shifting continuously, began to explain to Liam how the people of the Northern Shires felt.

  Part of the reeve’s narrative was familiar to Pádraig, having heard it from his father. But there was another side to the story that he hadn’t heard before.

  “The invasion of Ulf and his Northmen began up at North Head in Béarra Shire,” Parnell said. “Our forces fought bravely, but we were unable to stem their advance. Our king at the time, Conlaoch, sent emissaries to both Seamus, King of the Western Shires, and Hugh, King of the Eastern Shires, imploring them to send troops to help us repel the invasion. They both refused, saying that their first duties were the protection of their own kingdoms. It wasn’t until the Northmen were firmly entrenched here in the Northern Shires and in control of the harbor, having constructed Dúnfort Cruachan, that the other two kingdoms became concerned. Of course, by then it was too late. First the Kingdom of the Eastern Shires, then the Kingdom of the Western Shires fell, and the entire island was conquered.”

  Liam reached for his tankard, raised it to his lips, took one sip, then, with a small under-the-table hand-gesture from Pádraig to reinforce the dimwitted-cousin story, spilled a good bit of the ale down the front of his tunic. Everyone laughed at him, and some of the men gave him a good-natured clap on the shoulder. After all, how could they remain angry at the farrier’s halfwit cousin.

  “When did Seamus finally get the other kings to agree to the Confederation?” Pádraig asked.

  “When his own back was up against the wall, or should I say, the sea,” Parnell responded. “The Northmen, already in control of the Northern and Eastern Shires pushed Seamus and what was left of his army down to the fens of Cairbre and Dealbhna Shires. Because of the large number of wetlands in the Western Shires, Ulf’s forces had only a tenuous foothold there. By then Seamus’ troops had developed a hit-and-run strategy, taking out a patrol here and there, then retreating to the marshes, swamps, and bogs to plan their next attack. It was only at that late date that Seamus decided that a Confederation of the Three Kingdoms was a good idea.”

  Pádraig said, “But better late than never.”

  “True, Paddy,” Parnell agreed, reluctantly. “However, this Confederation fought two years to first liberate the Western Shires, then another three to free the Eastern Shires from Ulf’s rule. Only then did our fellow countrymen from the south turn their eyes and armies northward. It took a half year to drive the Northmen out of Dúnfort Cruachan, then two more years to push them up to the final battle at North Head. And with every league that the enemy was repelled, they burned the farms and villages along the way—Northern Shires’ farms and villages. Oh, yes, we were grateful that we were finally rid of the occupiers, but we paid a much higher price than anyone else. And after finally regaining our independence, no one begrudged Seamus the title of High King, nor his son Diarmuid who fought with him and succeeded him as King of the Western Shires.”

  The little stoat-faced man’s beady eyes stopped moving and grew narrow, and he set his jaw firmly before continuing. “But Diarmuid not selecting Eógan from the Northern Shires as deputy king and giving the title to Déaglán of the Eastern Shires, instead? It was a slap in the face of every citizen in this kingdom. Eógan was the elder of Diarmuid’s two nephews. By tradition, he should have been chosen deputy king.”

  “Yeah!” and “Without a doubt!” and “For sure!” were voiced by the other men at the table.

  “Had Eógan become King of the Western Shires upon Diarmuid’s death, our own Cabhan, King of the Northern Shires, would now be sitting upon the throne in Dúnfort Cruachan as High King.”

  More choruses of “Yeah!” rang out.

  Tentatively and dispassionately, Pádraig asked, “I followed you all the way up until that last point, Reeve. But how would Eógan being King of the Western Shires, result in Cabhan, King of the Northern Shires, being elected High King?”

  “The vote in the Dáil, Paddy. The vote in the Dáil.…As it was, Cabhan received the votes of all five chieftains from the Northern Shires. Déaglán received the combined seventeen votes of the Western and Eastern Shires. With Eógan as King of the Western Shires, he would have brought along the votes of all nine Western Shires’ chieftains. Cabhan would have been elected High King by a fourteen-to-eight-vote margin.…We suffered the most and for the longest under the occupation, Paddy. And the majority of us here in the North feel that we were robbed of our due.”

  * * *

  On the way back to the forge, with Pádraig’s spell broken, Liam, still angry, said, “Why, Paddy?! Why!?”

  The young farrier put his hand on his friend’s shoulder and replied, “How would I ever explain to your da how you got your royal butt kicked in a bar fight?”

  Liam shook off the hand. “We could have taken them. Between you and me and your gift, we could have wiped up the floor with all five of them.”

  “And the five that came after them? And the five more that would follow?”

  “You could have…could have zapped them or something. I know you could have.”

  Pádraig’s voice became very quiet. “Yes, I could have, Your Highness. But I wouldn’t have.”

  The prince looked at him incredulously. “You wouldn’t have? You’d use your gift to help a dumb animal like Phelim, but you wouldn’t use it to help me, your friend and your prince?”

  “Yes, I used my gift on Phelim. Because he didn’t make himself ill. He’s not responsible for the predicament he’s in, Liam.”

  Oakday - Wolf 40th

  Callainn Shire

  “I sincerely hope, Your Highness, that I wasn’t too hard on you last night,” Parnell, Reeve of Callainn Shire, said to Liam, as the prince harnessed Stumbles and Clover to the farrier’s wagon.

  “No, you said what needed to be said and what I needed to hear, and I appreciate your frankness,” the prince responded, even though the reeve’s remarks did, indeed, still gnaw at him.

  “I know it was touch and go there for a few moments; but, I dare say, your dimwitted-cousin impersonation was a brilliant move that diffused the tense situation. And Paddy played his part extremely well, too.”

  “Yeah. In
deed he did,” Liam replied, flatly, still considerably upset with his friend.

  As Pádraig joined the twosome, the burly, little man continued. “I suppose the two of you are going to take your routine up to Ráth Árainn with you?”

  “Too far north for the time allotted to us,” the young farrier answered. “We’re going to head directly northeast across Callainn Shire and Cairbrigh Shire to Ráth Cairbrigh. Should be there sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Well, keep as far south of the mountains as you can and you should avoid the bulk of the snow, although you may see some as you get closer to Northeast Head, especially if you get a wind coming at you off the Sea of the Dawn. Have a safe trip; and, again, Your Highness, I apologize if I offended you in any way last night.”

  “No apologies necessary, Reeve,” Pádraig said. “Your candor was much needed and greatly appreciated.”

  * * *

  The boys had been gone from Fort Callainn for a little over a half hour. Liam had sat there sulking the entire time, not talking to Pádraig, but simply answering any of his questions with as few words as possible.

  Pádraig finally reined in the horses and brought the wagon to a halt, saying, “Since you refuse to talk to me, then you might as well drive while I get in a little practice.”

  Liam’s curiosity got the better of him, and he was forced to ask the question, “Practice at what?”

  Climbing into the back of the wagon, Pádraig rooted around for a minute or so, then came back out with a set of elbow pipes. Jumping down off the wagon, he stuck the bellows beneath his right elbow and filled the bag with air. The pipes let out a terrible screech that made the horses’ ears stick straight up.

  “What is that?!” Liam shouted, cringing at the sound and covering his ears.

  “Elbow pipes,” Pádraig replied. “I got them in trade from a troubadour I met. For shoeing his mule. And a couple of lessons, too.” He squeezed out a few additional notes, mixed with more screeches.

  Clover shook his head, and Stumbles stomped his feet.

  “I know what they are,” the prince said. “What I meant was, what are they doing in this wagon?”

  “I’m going to practice while we ride.”

  “No. No! No!” Liam told him, shaking his head and waving his hand. “Absolutely not! As your prince, I forbid you to play that contraption.”

  “On this trip, you’re not my prince, you’re my apprentice, so it’s me who does the forbidding as well as the allowing. However, you’re in luck. My da says I can’t practice from up here. That my playing riles the horses.” He crossed to the rear of the wagon, let down the tailgate, hopped up onto it, and tucked the bellows under his right elbow. “How long I practice depends on how long you’re going to pout and refuse to talk to me.”

  As more notes and squeals came from the bagpipes, Liam flicked the reins, and the horses started right up, perhaps hoping that they could outpace the noise.

  * * *

  After another half hour or so, the prince had had about as much pipe clamor as he could take. Reining the horses to a stop, he shouted, “Okay! Enough! I give up!”

  “You’ll talk to me?” Pádraig asked.

  “Yeah, I’ll talk to you,” Liam grumbled. “Just put those pipes away. Far away.”

  After securing the tailgate and stowing the bagpipes, the young farrier sat down on the wagon seat next to his friend. “I know you’re angry,” he said, “but do you know what you’re really angry at?”

  “Yeah! The guy who stuck my buttocks to a stool and—”

  “Don’t be so quick with your answer, Liam. Think about it. Sure, you’re angry with me. But are you also angry with Parnell for saying what he did? Or are you angry at the people of the Northern Shires for feeling as they do? Or…are you angry because some of what the reeve said, had some”—he raised a hand to stifle an objection—“had some logic and merit to it?”

  After about twenty seconds of silence, Liam replied, softly, “A bit of each, I suppose.”

  “Good,” Pádraig told him. “Then the evening wasn’t a total waste of time. You learned something.”

  “How do we know that Parnell was telling the truth?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “What do you mean, ‘It doesn’t matter’?”

  “Your objective in coming with me on this trip, aside from having a bit of an adventure, was to find out how the folks in the Northern Shires feel about the nobility. Now you know how they feel in Callainn Shire.”

  “But my da is not a usurper, Paddy!”

  “No, I’m sure he isn’t. But don’t you see? It doesn’t matter. People’s feelings are based on their perceptions.”

  “Then their perceptions are dead wrong.”

  “Liam, if the people of the Northern Shires perceive the High King to be a usurper; if they perceive that the other two kingdoms sacrificed them to the Northmen; if they perceive that the other two kingdoms have no respect for them and slighted them, then truth doesn’t enter into their thinking. It’s all about perception.”

  “If truth doesn’t matter,” Liam asked, “then what am I supposed to do?”

  “Change people’s perceptions. I think that what the High King did last week was a good example of that. Even though he doesn’t care that much for King Cabhan, your da showed him great respect by hosting him and his family at Dúnfort Cruachan and having a ball and a dinner in his honor. Maybe more of that sort of thing can be done on the shire-level.”

  “The High King is not going to ride from shire to shire hosting parties for every chieftain. That’s just not going to happen, Paddy. For the other kings, it’s one thing, but not for chieftains.”

  Pádraig thought about it for a few moments, then said, “Perhaps after you’re named as deputy king at the Mid-Winter Roghnú, you could arrange to visit some of the shires. And not just the Northern Shires, but selected shires in all three kingdoms to show that you’re not playing favorites.”

  “Hmm,” the prince said.

  “Yeah. Hmm. And as long as you’re in a reflective mood,” Pádraig told him, “there’s also something else that you need to give some serious consideration to.”

  “Oh? And what’s that, Master?”

  “On numerous occasions you’ve expressed an expectation of becoming High King someday.” The young farrier stopped and waited for some kind of acknowledgement.

  Finally Liam raised his palms, impatiently, and said, “Okay?”

  “Right now, all three kings—your da, Cabhan of the Northern Shires, and Glendon of the Eastern Shires—are all veterans of the War for Independence.” Again Pádraig waited.

  “So?”

  “While I wish your da a long and prosperous life, Liam, if—and I say ‘if’—he should pass over to An Saol Eile before either of the other two kings, then you, as King of the Western Shires would be the only king not to have fought in that war.” Once more Pádraig waited.

  “What’s your point, Paddy? So what?”

  Pádraig sighed, then continued. “Being from the house of Seamus carried a lot of weight when Diarmuid and then your da, both veterans of the War for Independence, were elected High King by the Dáil. But how much weight will your heritage carry not having fought for Cruachan if you’re up against two war veterans who did? Hmm?”

  This time Pádraig could see that the idea had never occurred to his friend, so he continued without waiting for a response. “You can’t get there through birthright alone, Liam. You need to have the love and respect of the people on your side. My guess is that, aside from Field Marshal Gearóid and some of the senior officers in the Cruachanian Defense Forces, you don’t even know the names of most of the soldiers who serve you, much less the names of the chieftains and local officials. You have to go out and about and talk to people. See how they live. Get to know them. Find out their concerns.”

  Suddenly it was as if a rooster had crowed, waking Liam up from a slumber. “Yeah. Talk to them. Find out their concerns. Ask them about
how they see solutions to those concerns.…That’s…that’s a great idea, Paddy. I’ll do it. I will! And it’s a shame that you won’t put yourself up for selection to the Academy for the Spiritually Gifted. You’d make a splendid court wizard.”

  Although Pádraig laughed off the suggestion, he couldn’t help but think back to the conversation he had overheard between his da and Lairgnen as he spied on them that night out by the well-head at Fort Ceatharlach:

  “Paddy’s power is raw now, Finn. For the lad’s own good, he needs to learn how to control it. To properly direct it.”

  Glaring at the old man, Finbar said, “The answer was ‘no’ a few minutes ago. It’s still ‘no’ now. And it will be ‘no’ forever. Am I clear on this?”

  Rising, Lairgnen put a hand on Finbar’s shoulder while he tapped the pipe on the sole of his boot to knock out the smoke-weed. “We all want what’s best for him, Finn. Please believe me when I say this. But I’ll respect your wishes and relay your message to the Venerable Taliesin.”

  Oakday - Wolf 40th

  Cairbrigh Shire

  Darkness was beginning to set in as Pádraig and Liam reached the Central Road where the four corners of Callainn, Árainn, Cairbrigh, and Gabhrán Shires intersected.

  “Before it gets totally dark,” Pádraig said, “we need to find a spot to spend the night.”

  “Hopefully, somewhere near water,” Liam replied.

  “And with grass for the horses.”

  Both boys strained their eyes as they continued northeasterly on into Cairbrigh Shire, looking for a suitable location.

  After about a quarter of an hour, Liam pointed toward the woods on his side of the wagon. “There, Paddy. Over there. What’s that?”

  Pádraig brought the wagon to a stop and stared off between the alders and silver birches where the prince directed him.

  “It looks like a campfire. Let’s see if whoever it is wouldn’t mind some company.”