The Celtic Mirror

by Louis Phillippi

  The rush of tropic air past his face was like the caress of a warm hand. It soothed his thoughts and partially dried his ruined clothing. When the five-minute ride was at an end, Connach shut the boiler down, jumped to the ground, and called to Morgan. He eased himself to the track bed and followed Connach through a narrow fringe of jungle growth to a precipitous drop. The ocean below showed Morgan a familiar face, one that he had missed. It rolled from a gently curving horizon to break on Reged’s shores, but the harbor was an altogether different matter. The level had dropped dramatically. The sea had already begun to reveal her secrets to the creatures of the world of air. Rock walls glistened wetly with red and green algaes. Normally submerged cables drooped across the harbor, trailing fronds of seaweed like the meaningless flags that once hung above used-car lots. Then, rising from the water like the limbs of long-dead trees, the spars and rigging of Reged’s vanished navy grew into a tangled forest of twisted, encrusted wood and metal. Morgan counted at least thirty mangled ships, littering the draining sea floor. Much of the wreckage was strewn over large areas, untouched by currents, evidence of powerful internal explosions.

  “The Nomas.” Connach pointed to one of a pair of vessels that lay locked together. One, a ship from Reged, its decking ripped away like the lid of an oyster can, lay welded for eternity with the Mercian boat she had consigned to hell in her last seconds of life. The low freeboard, broad-beamed enemy craft—a Viking ship in steel plate—was nearly undamaged. There was only a cruel cut below the waterline and the growth of sea life on her hull and decks that marked her as lost to her makers.

  “It is to this spot that the Druids bring school children whenever the wave warning can be sounded far enough in advance.” Connach’s words were bitten, acrid, as if they tasted bad. His mouth was twisted like the hull of the Nomas. “At times like this, our children can be graphically reminded of their fathers’ sins. The lessons took root in Brigid. They only made me hate the Viks a little more each time I was dragged to this bluff by those white crows.” He then pointed, not at the twisted hulks, but at the sea, itself.

  “Ah, Brother. Here comes the messenger who will make a believer of you, yet.”

  The alteration of the sea’s swell pattern was immediately apparent to Morgan. An undulation, not significantly larger than the others, rushed toward the forbidding coastline on a collision course, intersecting the rolling ground swells at a forty-five degree angle. While he watched, Connach’s messenger rose as it encountered the steeply pitched sea floor near the island and burgeoned into a thirty-meter tall monster. An awesome roar broke from the giant as it fed upon the debris it had sucked from the fjord.

  Then it impacted with the harbor’s natural breakwater.

  The ground beneath Morgan’s feet shook for the second time that day, and filthy spray erupted high above his position. Then, like a sign that the wave meant no harm to the men, who watched, a brilliant double rainbow hung like a vision in the mist that drifted out to sea.

  Below, its strength only partially broken by the headland, the surge yet retained the devastating power of an atomic device. As its unleashed megatons entered the narrowing walls, the super tide rampaged toward the helpless city at a speed that exceeded one hundred fifty kilometers an hour, tearing vegetation from high on the channel slopes and tumbling house-sized boulders in its wake—boiling, destructive, mindless. It rushed upon the first of the steel doors as if guided by a malevolent intellect, intent upon tossing the contemptible manmade thing aside like a cardboard box. The fjord walls amplified the sound of that collision, a wave of B-2-Bs unloading high explosives into an empty jungle.

  Before the roar had appreciably abated, Morgan knew that the gate had withstood; the juggernaut, its power defied at last by a barrier fashioned by puny, hairless bipeds was transformed into a saline mist for the second time which gently rained on the men who had witnessed its failure.

  Awestruck, Morgan looked with salt-stung eyes at Connach. “I think I’ll give a little more credence to your blarney from now on. Occasionally, you even tell the truth.”

  “It would do you good to believe me. You don’t think that was all the tsunami had to offer, do you? These things come in threes most of the time. And that third one is usually the biggest.”

  What followed was, by far, the most impressive display of raw power that Morgan had ever witnessed. The second surge was in every respect like the first. Its force was thwarted by the fjord gates, which atomized its energy into a fine spray that dampened the countryside before disappearing altogether. The third titan was larger by half, and its superiority was evident as soon as it struck the headland, making the bluff tremble like gelatin. Again Morgan and Connach endured the drenching, which, that time, was no mere mist. Sputtering and gasping for breath, Morgan watched the monster savage the fjord, its strength undiminished, as it gouged tons of rock from the walls and hurtled itself against the impudent gate that barred the way to the city and the soft creatures that dwelt there.

  Whoom! The salvo was larger and seemed closer. The volcanic thrust of water heavenward was greater, the fog heavier. Before the burning rain reached him, Morgan could see that the first gate had been breached—one door was entirely torn away, the other was twisted like foil.

  “Brigid!” He yelled involuntarily before the next deafening crash and skyward rush of waters. The second gate! Then the mist cooled his skin and set his eyes on fire.

  When he could open them again he looked toward Verulamium with fear knotting his gut, but the city stood—safe. Already a gentle, freshwater rain was falling, erasing saline evidence from stones and foliage.

  Humbled by the spectacle, Morgan followed Connach back to the city on foot. Somehow, neither man wanted an effortless trip back. Morgan remained perplexed by the contradictory nature of his adopted people. They were willing to employ heroic methods to fight against onslaughts of the sea, but most lacked the spirit to defend their land against a human and more terrible tide.

  Thank God Brigid is safe from the sea. It’ll be up to me to keep her safe from the other, Connach be damned!

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Swing, you sissy! Put some muscle into it! You’re not playin’ with those pretty toys of yours. It takes a man to fight with the sword, now.”

  Morgan took clumsy cut at his hundredth man-high sheaf of straw, missed, and staggered. Placing the point of the heavy broadsword in the ground, he leaned insolently on the hilt, dragging air into his lungs. Chulainn grinned at him, derisively.

  “Too hard for ye, lad?” The giant, who had decapitated three times as many “enemy soldiers” was breathing normally and was totally dry.

  “The last Shadow World toy I used could be handled by a librarian, and it could kill a hell of a lot more men than this chunk of iron ever will.” Around him, the California volunteers and Connach’s recruits hacked at straw targets under the unkind tutelage of the Ax-Wielder’s veterans. Morgan had been privileged. The Lothian chief had decided upon private lessons for the former Ranger officer. Morgan looked upon the training with the heavy Celtic weapons as worthless and as an extension of his punishment for daring to make love to Brigid.

  “Why, in the name of all your gods, do we have to drill with this set of butcher’s tools? What’s wrong with the weapons Ian smuggled across?”

  Chulainn never moved or changed expression, but the long scar on his face turned pale.

  “Butcher’s tools? What have ye shown us that could not go by the same name? Ye’ve shown us how to piss on sharp sticks and bury them in the ground. Ye’ve shown us how to kill a man we cannot even properly see. How to turn many men into shredded meat without danger to oursel’.” His neck corded with the outrage he had concealed for too long. “What are ye calling ‘butcher’s tools,’ eh?”

  “They do everything you’ve said, Coel. That’s why we want you to train with them. Damn it, man, we’re going to be so badly outnumbered that we need the weapons from my world just to even the odds.”

&
nbsp; Then Chulainn smiled, and Morgan relaxed, slightly.

  “Are my men not proficient with your M-16, your rocket launcher and all your other killing toys?”

  “Sure. They’re good, as a matter of fact.”

  “Then let me train the force in the use of our traditional weapons. For when your loud little devices have evened the odds, every Celt will want to feel less of a coward and more of a man by spillin’ Mercian blood with a blade, and by being close enough to spit in an enemy’s face.”

  Morgan was defeated. He resolved never again to disparage the edged weapon in Chulainn’s hearing. The only thing the lecture had gained him was his breath. He groaned quietly when he saw that the Lothian was not yet done with him.

  “Ye claim to be an experienced combat warrior, Morgan. Have ye seen what happens to men who are trained well to do their jobs and are prevented from using their skills against a real enemy?”

  “They lose the edge. They get careless and lazy.”

  “Unless our esteemed leader sends us to Caerwent soon, that will happen to these fine and dedicated warriors in our charge. By Lug, I would give anything to carry the tartan back to the mainland and stuff it down Thorkell’s throat, but Ian says it is not yet time. To keep the edge sharp and prevent boredom I have brought out the cutlery set, as I have heard our friend, Greenfeld, call the broadsword. A new skill to master. Competition to keep things interesting. Enough said. Pick up thy weapon and attack thy enemy.”

  Morgan looked appealingly at Chulainn. The giant grinned at his reluctant pupil and pointed at the “enemy”.

  Morgan groaned and gripped the sword. “All right, damnit.” He summoned his reserves. “Just tell Dorothy and the Tin Man that it wasn’t my idea.” When he saw Chulainn’s puzzled face, he charged, yelling like a recruit at bayonet practice. “Aaaaaaaaaaaa!”

  He decapitated straw soldiers, spilled straw blood. If there had been straw widows and orphans about, he would have dispatched them with equal enthusiasm—as long as Chulainn watched. He charged two long rows, playing Grim Reaper until he reached the end. He turned to see the Lothian nodding his approval.

  “Can I quit now?” he pleaded.

  “There is thy enemy.” Chulainn indicated another row being repaired by Lothian warriors.

  “Christ, Coel. Wasn’t that good enough?” Desperation laced his words.

  “That was good, Morgan, but it was not enough. Death to those Mercian pigs!”

  “Coel!”

  “Kill them!”

  “Aaaaaaaaaaaa!”

  Bone-weary and unbelievably stiff from the punishing sword drill, Morgan stumbled home where “Malo” awaited him with unguents and a needed rubdown. Until then, Morgan had fallen into a deep and insensible sleep during the massaging, but despite Chulainn’s pushing, or because of it, he knew that he would not fall asleep so readily that night.

  He was right.

  Feeling surprisingly fresh after a night lost in sweet lovemaking, Morgan ran into Greenfeld who looked even more refreshed than he was. Morgan knew Greenfeld was also not blessed with Coel Chulainn as a sword master.

  “There’s a game again tonight, Kerry, if you’d like to make it.”

  “Sorry, David,” Morgan answered, slyly. “Malo again this evening after training.”

  “Damn it, Morgan,” Greenfeld grumbled after Morgan’s sixth straight refusal to lose any money to the inveterate gamblers who gathered nightly at Greenfeld’s quarters. “What in God’s name do you and that Malo do every night?” Then his eyebrows floated upward and a particular look owned his face. “It’s not that I personally care, you understand. I mean, they can fight just as well as straight people. The ancient Greeks and Turks proved that.” His normally ruddy face flushed a brighter shade of red. “Are you and Malo...?” He waggled the splayed fingers of his outstretched right hand, completing his unfinished question.

  Morgan laughed not offended, relieved that Brigid was not part of Greenfeld’s suspicions. “No, David. Nothing like that. Since our beloved host has decided that the Lady Brigid would fare better without my company, Malo has taken over my education. He’s not as interesting as the Maiden Fair, but he’s informative.” He was getting good at dissembling but was not proud of it.

  “Look, Kerry. Poker’s getting to become a drag with the same old boys every night. We could use some new blood. Tell Lieutenant Malo that he’s invited. Why don’t both of you join the game tonight?”

  “Thanks, but not tonight.” Not any night if I can help it. Morgan was saved from further fabrication when Connach began the daily briefing of troop leaders. It was Kirkpatrick who broke the usual, boring pattern.

  “Say, Commodore,” the Texan drawled, using the English equivalent of Connach’s newly acquired title. “Jes’ what d’you figure to do with that Vik blimp you got hidden away?”

  “Right now, it’s being studied by the Council to see what can be learned from it.” Connach leaned against the map glass.

  “I know that my job is about finished here, Kirkpatrick continued. “I mean, my part in the preparations for the raid an’ all.”

  Kirkpatrick had not been assigned to any of the initial commando teams. His job as a former Geodesic Survey Team member had been to accurately chart the waters and coastlines of Reged and of the adjacent mainland. That had been done, Morgan found out from Greenfeld, nearly at the cost of his life when an orca patrol had caught the converted fishing vessel—one of the handful that remained afloat—off the Caerwent coast.

  His survival story matched Morgan’s in horror and eventual outcome, but Kirkpatrick’s boat had not survived. She had been abandoned only thirty meters from a Reged landfall and had sunk without a trace. Only Kirkpatrick and his carefully recorded notes had made it to shore. The six crewmembers had not been so lucky, having died, screaming for help that the unarmed and exhausted Kirkpatrick could not give. Reged’s war had then become a personal matter for the boy from Brownsville. The loss of his companions showed in his eyes and in the way his fingers clutched at his tunic.

  His voice was steady enough, though. “What if the goddamned Mercians clobber us from the air again? Sure, the flak guns’ll knock some of ‘em outta action, but some’ll get back home and figger out a way t’ neutralize our ground fire. Then what?”

  Connach did not reply right away. Instead, he waited. Kirkpatrick appeared agitated, unsure of himself. That had always been Connach’s method of retaining control, Morgan remembered, during production meetings at PacSail. Kirkpatrick struggled to bridge the Connach conversation gap; a feat not often accomplished by rebellious department heads.

  “What. . . what I mean, sir, is . . . what if we could eliminate their airbase at the start? That’d set ‘em back. . . wouldn’t it?”

  “What would you suggest?” Connach asked, interested, Morgan could tell from the imperceptible tensing of the man’s jaw muscles.

  “Well,” the Survey man said, gaining confidence, “if I had my say, I’d patch up the holes in the bag and fix the gondola so’d everything worked right.” Score one for Kirkpatrick! “Then, when the next raid hit. . . I’d float out with the surviving Viks and follow ‘em to their base. . . then blast the shit out of it. . . sir.”

  Connach’s lips curved up in an involuntary smile. He bought it, Morgan knew without a doubt. The son-of-a-bitch did it! Action at last! He was not prepared, however, for the follow-up to Kirkpatrick’s small victory.

  “You, Kirkpatrick?” Connach’s eyebrows arched.

  “Yessir. Back home I held a pilot’s license. I mean, sir, it wasn’t for no motorless blimp, sir. But at least I could be part of the action. Except for my ‘trip’ to Verulamium, my life has been pretty dull after I left the Army to join the National Geodetic folks.” His teeth gleamed whitely in his mahogany face.

  Morgan looked quickly at his companions. Kirkpatrick’s look was duplicated on each face. After combat, each of their lives had become dull, as dull as the memories of blood and dismemberment had become.

/>   “I understand that you are an adept, Kirkpatrick?” Connach asked in a low voice.

  “I’ve been studying under the filid, Tall Bear, sir. He says that I have a natural talent.”

  Under pressure, Kirkpatrick mostly abandoned the comfortable accents of his youth and spoke in the flattened English of his UCLA matriculation. The radical shift in the black Texan’s speech pattern reminded Morgan of the German-born student he had roomed with who had learned his English in Alabama. With Dieter, excitement had rendered his speech unintelligible; excitement improved Kirkpatrick’s.

  Connach looked at the young officer, and then before Morgan or any other man in the room could react, he drew his dagger and threw it at Kirkpatrick’s chest with a deadly accuracy.

  The speeding blade never reached the Texan, but instead hit the wall directly behind him with a musical thunk, and stuck there, vibrating.

  Morgan and the others jumped to their feet in an involuntary reaction to Connach’s apparent assassination attempt. The only unmoved men in the chamber were Kirkpatrick and Connach, who still faced one another with enigmatic smiles playing at the corners of their mouths. As soon as the stunned commandos registered that Kirkpatrick was still standing, the noises of outrage and surprise slowly diminished into awed silence.

  “Sit, gentlemen,” Connach commanded. Then to the Texan he said, “You can obviously avert a danger to your person. Can you direct an action?”

  Kirkpatrick said nothing in reply but faced the imbedded dagger instead and furrowed his brow in concentration. Morgan felt an unheard vibration deep inside his skull as the triangular blade pulled smoothly from the wall and moved as if on invisible wires to Connach’s unprotected chest, hovered there for a brief moment and then slid solidly into the sheath that hung on the tall Celt’s cinglium. Connach’s smile registered triumph.

  “How would you get back if you were forced down over the mainland?” Connach shot at the black adept.