“An mbeidh tú féin agus an banríon teacht taobh istigh le do thoil?” she asked. “Beidh mo sheirbhísigh a réiteach na capaill.”
“What did she say?” Destry whispered to him.
He handed over the reins to one of the poorly dressed midgets and went over to Destry, reaching up to help her off the horse. “She asked you and me to go inside,” he replied. “Her little friends will tend the horses.”
Destry slid into his arms and he lowered her to the ground. Padraigan was already up ahead, heading towards the sorry–looking hut, and Conor took Destry’s hand in his big palm and began to follow. Destry rather liked the feel of his big, warm hand around hers and didn’t pull away. She went right along with it as they made their way across the heavy, wet grass towards the structure almost hidden within a cluster of trees.
Conor looked around the compound with interest; there was a ragged–looking barn for the horses flanked by a giant pile of dried grass. Next to that was a pile of wood and behind that he could see a crudely fashioned corral of sorts that contained two sheep, a goat and a shaggy cow. Everything was run down, cluttered, and crude. As they drew closer to the hut, he could see that it was entirely of sod, built in between two trees that protected it from the elements and also provided a great deal of camouflage. It was primitive and small, and when Padraigan opened the door, he had to fold himself over in order to enter.
Once inside, it smelled of earth and dampness. It was three rooms wide; a main room in the middle flanked by two smaller rooms, all uneven and asymmetrical. The floor was dirt and pitted with small divots. A badly made table sat in the center of the room along with four stools. Padraigan indicated the stools.
“Sit,” she invited. “I will start a fire.”
Conor still had hold of Destry’s hand as he bent over and pulled out a stool for her. She grinned at him as she took it and he pulled out the stool next to her, picking it up to look at it with a critical eye.
“This thing will never hold me,” he growled.
Destry grinned, shaking her head. “How much to you weigh?”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “A lot.”
She giggled. “You can’t be more than three hundred pounds.”
He made a face at her and set the stool down. “About twenty stone, so don’t be so smug.”
“Convert that into pounds for your American friend.”
“About two hundred and seventy pounds.”
He was carefully lowering himself onto the stool as she watched. “Well,” she sighed. “If it breaks, at least you don’t have far to fall to the floor.”
“Very funny.”
He sat and the stool held, at least for the moment. He was seated right up against Destry, his left thigh and arm against her. She was looking at the stool, grinning up at him when she abruptly noticed the blood on his arm. His jacket was torn and she began to peel it back to get a better look.
“What happened here?” she wanted to know, peeling back the material and noting the big gash on his left forearm. “Ouch. How did you get that?”
He looked down at it. “When those naked guys attacked us,” he replied. “One of them had a knife.”
She clucked regretfully as she took a closer look. “That may need stitches, Conor. We should get you to an emergency room.”
“I’ll get it looked at when we get you looked at. How are you feeling?
“Better,” she said. “But my head is killing me. I wouldn’t be surprised if I have a mild concussion.”
“Then we need to get out of here.”
She couldn’t disagree with him, looking around the dark, crude hut, her gaze falling on the small woman lighting the fire in the tiny hearth. She leaned in to Conor, whispering, as her eyes remained on Padraigan.
“I don’t see a phone here,” she muttered. “What do we do?”
He wiped at his goatee in a thoughtful, if not nervous, gesture. His eyes were on Padraigan, too.
“I’m not sure we can do anything right now,” he leaned over, his lips on her ear. “Just sit tight and we’ll figure it out.”
There wasn’t much more they could do. Sitting silently, Destry felt Conor’s arm go around her waist, his hand coming to rest gently on the curve of her torso. Just like the hand–holding a few moments earlier, she didn’t try to pull away. He was trying to be casual about it, but there was nothing casual about the man’s touch. It was like fire. She let go of her resistance and allowed herself to enjoy it. Feeling his enormous body next to her, warm and protective, brought her tremendous comfort.
When Padraigan finally stood up from the hearth, she turned to the pair with a gentle smile on her face. Behind her, the hearth was sparking and the door opened, emitting one of the little people with wood in his arms. As he fussed with the growing fire, Padraigan went into one of the small adjoining rooms and banged about. Conor and Destry looked at each other, curiously, before the woman emerged with three wooden cups and a pitcher made from some kind of clay.
It was very primitive and Conor’s scientist brain kicked in again, visually examining it. Padraigan set the cups down and poured a dark liquid into each of the cups, putting full vessels in front of Destry and Conor. Then she sat on one of the stools and faced them.
“I realize this is all very strange to you,” she said, mostly to Conor. “But you must know the truth.”
Conor relayed the words to Destry before replying. “What truth?” he asked.
Padraigan lifted her cup, encouraging Destry and Conor to do the same. Conor picked his up immediately but Destry was more hesitant. When he took a big gulp of the liquid, she took a timid sip and nearly choked; it was some kind of very strong alcohol and she sputtered as she set the cup down, wiping the burning liquid from her lips. Conor looked at her and grinned.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She had her hands around her throat as if she was choking. “Fine,” she rasped.
He laughed softly, the hand on her waist moving to pat her on the back gently as she sputtered. He was about to say something more to her when Padraigan interrupted.
“Although you do not remember now, in time, it will come to you,” she said to Conor. Then her gaze traveled back and forth between the Conor and Destry, seeing two people she had known very well, once. She knew this day would come; it was crucial for her to make them understand what had happened or all would be lost. “Your name is Conor mac Aonghusa, oidhre chun an throne ard. You are a great king, my lord, Conor ard rí Ciannachta, so great that your legacy is already established and you are much admired and much feared throughout Ireland. The woman at your side is Etain, your queen, and the two of you have three sons together; Mattock, Devlin and Slane.”
Conor stared at the woman, hearing her words but beyond that, he wasn’t comprehending much. He was still fixated on the first sentence of her story.
“‘Conor, son of Aengus, heir to the high throne’?” he repeated, almost in disgust. “Where did you get that? What in the hell is that?”
Padraigan remained calm. “Please, my lord, hear me,” she begged. “Your legacy as a ruler and warrior is so great that your brother, a vain and jealous man, began to want for the throne himself. He made a few attempts on your life but you were too clever for him. You evaded him at every turn and eventually, you banished him from your kingdom. But your brother dabbles in the dark arts, my lord; he lured you to a conference under the guise of peace and commanded his sorcerer, Olc of the Eye, to exile you into the dark mists of the nether regions. As soon as we realized this had happened, your wife sent your children into safe hiding with me. Then she took your army and went to your brother to demand your safe return, but your brother tricked her into a private meeting and his sorcerer exiled her as well. You were both sent through the doras ama, to the same nether region. But your brother, fearful that you would someday return to kill him, cast a curse upon you; you and you wife would have no memory of each other and no memory of the life you shared. You would wander in the n
ether region forever, ignorant of who you really were and of your mighty kingdom.”
Conor gaped at the woman as if she had lost her mind. After several moments of staring, he wiped at his goatee again in an inherently nervous gesture, and simply shook his head.
“That’s madness,” he hissed. “You’re mad.”
Padraigan shook her head. “Nay, my lord, on either account,” she said softly. “I knew what Olc had done to you; he had sent you and your wife through the doras ama at a time where the day and night are of the same. At the moment where day turns into night, the door opens to the nether regions and for a brief moment, we may see both worlds through the swirling mists. I traveled to the sacred mound when I knew this time was approaching, many times since Olc banished you both, and was able to see your wife at my most recent visit. I spoke to her, hoping she would return, and she did. She heard me and she returned. Fanacht, morrigan, gnáthlá agus oiche og ceanna; tar ar cúl do sinne.”
As Conor sat, dumbfounded and apprehensive, Destry finally spoke up. She put her hand on his enormous thigh to get his attention. “There’s that phrase again,” she squeezed his leg until he looked at her. She looked rather frightened. “That’s the woman who spoke to me from the tunnels, isn’t it?”
He stared at her, hardly believing what he was hearing. But as he gazed into her bright blue eyes, studying her, Padraigan’s bizarre story suddenly started making some sense. He remembered the first time he had seen Destry; he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He said once that an angel had walked into his midst and that’s exactly what it had felt like. Her lure to him had almost been magnetic, it had been so strong. Even as he gazed at her now, it was the most natural of things being with her, as if they were meant to be together in every way. He couldn’t explain it better than that.
Conor exhaled heavily, rubbing at his forehead as his brain tried to process what he was being told. At some point, Destry was going to want to know what Padraigan was telling him. He didn’t want to answer her now because he didn’t have any answers himself. His gaze moved back to the tiny, wispy woman.
“Those mounds are burial chambers from long ago,” he told her. “They’re not doorways to the nether region.”
Padraigan lifted an eyebrow. “They were not built by men,” she said. “They were built by gods. When the sun is just so, the doorway opens. It opened today when you and your queen stepped through. I called to you and you came.”
Destry squeezed his thigh again but he put a big hand over hers, stilling it. He wanted to make sure he was absolutely clear on things before he started translating because, quite honestly, he was rather overwhelmed by it all. It was crazy, interesting and oddly believable all at the same time. He looked at Padraigan with a mixture of suspicion, disbelief and fear.
“None of that makes any sense,” he told her. “Destry is not my wife. I only just met her. And we have lives; I remember where I was born and I know my parents. How do you explain that?”
Padraigan lifted her slender shoulders. “Rebirth.”
His brow furrowed. “Rebirth? What does that mean?”
“It means that your transition into the nether region saw you reborn,” she murmured. “You returned as an infant and grew into the man you are today. That is why you only remember your life in the nether region. But you are still our king; you are still Conor ard rí Ciannachta, and we need you here.”
He just stared at her, hard. “Conor, High King of Ciannachta,” he translated softly. He had to admit, he liked the ring of it. But that didn’t dispel the fact that it was nonsense; his logical mind just couldn’t give in, not yet. “I’m not a high king. I’m not anything. You must have me mixed up with someone else.”
She smiled faintly. “May I ask a question, my lord?”
“Go ahead.”
“How do you explain your appearance outside of the doras ama? You said yourself that nothing looks as you remember it. Would the nether region change so much in the blink of an eye that you would not recognize it?”
He sat back, regarding her, trying to come up with an answer that would satisfy them both, mostly because he was feeling a great deal of horror in the realization that any answer he could come up with lent credence to her story. But something in his brain, some small and tucked away place, was telling him that what the woman said just might be true. It was more a feeling than anything else and he was resistant to it. But that resistance was fading.
“It’s a great story, I’ll give you that,” he put up a hand as if to block her out. “And I appreciate your hospitality. But Destry and I need to get to a hospital. If you don’t have a phone we can use, do you have any neighbors with phones?”
Padraigan’s gaze was steady. “If I can prove to you that what I say is true, will you believe?”
He lifted his eyebrows and scratched at his head, showing signs of restlessness and exasperation. “Sure,” he said. “Go ahead. Do your worst.”
Padraigan stood up and disappeared into the small room where she had retrieved the cups and pitcher. When she vanished from view, Destry turned to Conor and squeezed his big thigh again.
“Now will you tell me what she said?” she hissed.
He nodded his head, putting his arm around her shoulders to calm her down. “I think she’s nuts.”
“Really? Why?”
He sighed and looked her in the eye, trying to summarize what he was told and not flip her out in the process. “Well,” he scratched at his goatee. “She says that Dowth is apparently not so much a Neolithic burial chamber as it is some kind of time–travel device. She says that I am really some kind of high king and you are really my wife. Evidently I have a jealous brother who had his wicked sorcerer banish us into whatever doorway opens up in Dowth, sending us into the nether region with no memory of our former life or of each other. She further says that she called to you and that you heeded her call. That was the voice you heard calling to you in your dreams.”
Destry stared at him as he finished his tale. He could see the thought processes in her expression; interest to incredulity to disbelief. By the time he was finished, however, her cheeks were growing pink and he could see tears in her eyes.
“I did hear her voice,” she hissed, leaping up from the stool. “I told you I heard her voice. But she must have been lying in wait for me somehow, hiding in those old tunnels.”
“What about the dreams?”
She looked increasingly upset. “She must have freaked me out so bad with her whispers in the tunnel that I just dreamed of them,” she insisted. “Maybe she hypnotized me; I just don’t know. How else can you explain something like that?”
“You heard two complete phrases.”
“Whose side are you on?”
He could see how upset she was becoming and he grasped her hands to keep her from panicking. “Your side,” he insisted softly. “I’m always on your side.”
“Let’s get out of here before something awful happens.”
He nodded patiently. “We’ll leave,” he assured her. “But I need you to calm down, sweetheart. There’s no reason to get so upset.”
“So upset?” she repeated, her voice rising in pitch. “That woman is telling you crazy stories and you just sit here calmly listening to them.”
“You’re the one that said we needed to come with her.”
She shook her head so hard that her long hair flopped in her eyes. “I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “We need to leave before she murders us. She’s set us up somehow. I want to go back to the hotel now.”
He put up a hand to soothe her before she went wild. “We’ll go,” he murmured, trying to steer her back onto her stool. “Just calm down. Please.”
She opened her mouth to argue with him when Padraigan entered the room again, followed by her three little helpers. Her gaze moved between Destry, standing up and looking at her with some fear, and Conor as he held on to Destry’s hands. Padraigan could guess what had happen by the skittish look on Destry’s face. When
she spoke, it was mostly directed at Destry.
“My great and noble queen,” she said softy. “Do you not recognize my face? You and I were as sisters, once.”
Conor looked up to Destry and quietly relayed the question. Destry shook her head fearfully in response and Padraigan continued.
“Your love for your husband was great,” she told the story with a delicate lilt. “So strong it was that it could move mountains. You and the king loved each other from times of old, from times before this, passing through the centuries in different forms but with the same strong love for one another. Somehow, you always found each other no matter what. And it is your love for your husband, and for your family, that gives you your strength. It binds you, protects you and guides you. It is that love that has guided you here today.”
Conor whispered Padraigan’s words to Destry verbatim. Confused, frightened, Destry didn’t have any reply other than to burst into quiet tears. Conor gently pulled her down onto his lap, wrapping his enormous arms around her and hugging her. He didn’t know what else to do. Padraigan took a few timid steps towards the couple, her tender focus on Destry.
“When Olc of the Eye exiled your husband through the doras ama, you came to me with one request,” she whispered. “You wanted me to protect your sons, three fine, strong lads in the image of their father. Of course I agreed and it is since that time that I have lived out here in the wilds, concealing the lads from those who would harm them. Today I will give them back to you and then you will understand the truth of my words.”
Conor’s gaze lingered on Padraigan a moment before he reluctantly relayed the statement to Destry. Her weeping grew stronger and she wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face against his shoulder. It was as if she was trying to hide. He held her tightly, his gaze riveted to Padraigan, wondering with some trepidation what she was going to do next.
The wispy woman met Conor’s gaze strongly before turning to the hearth. There was a clutter of containers and other miscellaneous vials near one corner of the hearth, lined up against the stone of the wall, and she began rummaging about in the clutter. Pulling forth a wooden vessel, she blew the dust out of it and began to pour various ingredients into it.
Warriors Of Legend Page 8
