Lost Lore: A Fantasy Anthology

by Ben Galley

  For three days and nights the people of Cessair rested, ate, healed, rested and ate some more, the habilis tending to their every need. The Druids and Myrddin spent much of that time treating the wounded, especially Ladra. His injuries were too grievous, however, and he never regained consciousness. By the dawning of the fourth day, his life had passed.

  At the death of Ladra, Cessair spread the word that it was time to return to the beach, bury the remains of the dead that had been left behind, get their mourning out of the way, and begin their new life. Her people were not the idle kind. They agreed without hesitation. Even those still on the mend were ready to set to work.

  There was no discussion between Myrddin and Fintán as to what should be done about The Leviathan, if it was still in the vicinity, mostly because there was nothing that could be done. There was some concern, however, over the fate of Noah, should he attempt to reach these isles as he’d said he would. Myrddin sent pigeons and doves with messages of warning. He had little faith they’d survive the storms, so he dispatched ravens as well. It was decided, however, should The Leviathan be seen again, Fintán himself would make the journey.

  Their fears proved unfounded. Other than a sighting of The Beast of the Sea in the South Pacific a week later, off Rakahanga in what is today called the Cook Islands (where Cetus was referred to only as “the one who sleeps at the bottom of the sea”), and another a day later at Raiatea, one of the Leeward Islands in French Polynesia (where he was called Ruahatu), Cetus, The Leviathan, has never been seen or heard from again.

  Cessair and her folk made their way down the mountain and lay Ladra and the rotting dead to rest with ceremony according to their custom, then scouted an idyllic glen not far from the bay and began to build. They salvaged everything they could from the ship, all the rope, sailcloth, oil and supplies. Every scrap of wood was put to use. Still they felled trees to shape beams and lumber. The Druids did not protest as long as they used only what they needed, took young trees (which in those days meant under a century old), and offered words of gratitude to each tree before and after it was cut.

  Stone was quarried from nearby cliffs with the help of the habilis. Fintán joined in as well, and he could do the work of twenty. In small groups they all took turns fishing and preparing food for the rest.

  Soon they’d completed a hall for shelter, their first priority, then foundations and frames for modest homes. The habilis had found their goats and sheep unharmed, and made fences and sheds. They also built coops to house a gift of chickens, brought to the island by them from one of their many journeys with Myrddin Wyllt.

  Each day they kept watch for the great ships of Noah. On the thirteenth day, they thought they spotted them on the horizon, but with his preternatural sight Fintán saw it was a fishing vessel, a single small ship of Iberian design. He deemed the strangers to not be a threat, so they lit a signal fire to guide them safely into the bay.

  Three couples and their children, seventeen people in all, rowed dinghies to shore. They had sun-darkened olive skin, jet black hair and broad smiles. They dropped to their knees on shore, kissed the ground, then hugged the knees of Cessair and her cousin Banba, the first to greet them. To Fintán they bowed, recognizing him from descriptions and stories passed to them by their great-grandparents.

  The men were cousins, Laigne, Capa and Luasad. They explained that a year ago they’d been fishing but were lost at sea in a storm, and had come within sight of this island, beautiful, green, secluded. They made a tremendous haul in the abundant waters, then, guided by the stars, made their way back to their village on the western side of the Iberian Peninsula. The fish were becoming more scarce in the sea off the coast of their homeland over the passing months, and mysterious warnings of a pending disaster were spreading through the land. They thought this place might be safe, and knew the fishing was good, so they decided to leave the home of their forefathers and start a new life here. Storms had been fierce, but in a period of relative calm they’d packed their boat and departed. After over a month at sea, they’d finally arrived.

  The Iberian families were welcomed into Cessair’s community. The women smothered the children with affection, remembering their own. They’d brought no children on this journey, having sent them into the care of Noah and his much larger ships. Noah had agreed to this—that much he would do for Bith’s people—but mostly he did it for Fintán, and secretly, Cessair. Though he could not publicly acknowledge her, he loved and respected his granddaughter. Noah’s vessels would be safer for the children and he had much more room. His ships were of the same design as Cessair’s, but twice the size and made of dense resilient gopher wood. And there was not just one ark. There were twelve.

  The Iberians proved to be hard workers, and eager. They didn’t share a common language with Cessair’s folk, but Fintán and Myrddin translated for them. By the thirty-eighth day after Cessair’s ship had landed, the village was nearly complete. They’d even begun to till the land and plant seeds they’d brought with them.

  After over a month of constant labor, Cessair called for a day to rest and celebrate. They feasted on roasted fish caught by the Iberians, served with succulent vegetables and mushrooms gathered by the Druids. In the evening they danced and sung until they could dance and sing no more. Afterward, the habilis who’d been staying with them packed their belongings, Myrddin bid his adieu, and they returned to their home in the mountain.

  Then, on the following day, the fortieth following Cessair’s arrival on Fiodh-Inis, came the Flood.

  Morning bled crimson on the horizon. There was no breath of wind, the sea dead calm. The Druids, who seemed never to sleep, woke Cessair with ominous tones, then disappeared into the forest. Fintán eyed the sky and sniffed the air. A mighty storm was brewing.

  The Iberians had left their boat anchored offshore and wished to bring it to land for safety. Fintán could have pulled it out on his own, but the folk were in good spirits from the previous day’s celebration and wanted to make it a community affair. They joked and laughed as they tugged on ropes, so much so it took longer than it should have to clear the vessel of the water.

  When it was finally accomplished and they’d collapsed in jolly heaps, a high loud whistle, almost a screech, came to their ears. They’d never heard that sound before, and it chilled their bones.

  It was Fintán, who stood knee-deep in the sea, peering over the bay at a horizon turned purple and black, tinged with yellow and green like an infected bruise. There was no mistaking it. This was not a storm, it was a hurricane, the likes of which even Fintán had never seen.

  It had formed incredibly fast. Meteorologists call them “bombs.” But this was bigger than any in modern history, and approaching faster as well.

  The wind hit hard, waves chopped, and ice-cold rain came in drops as big as plums.

  And then the earth shook.

  The people shrieked and clung together, but the quaking diminished, then ceased. Fintán stood fast, amazed at these unexpected events. He’d seen red skies in morning before, but they’d never led to something like this.

  He felt it on his legs first, the sea level dropping, draining, water racing out of the bay as if attempting to escape some land-born terror. He turned. Cessair’s sober eyes met his. This was it. What they’d prepared for, what they’d feared, for over a year. They had not escaped it, after all.

  Fintán’s first inclination was, once again, to save Cessair. This time he at least tried. In one bound he landed before her, but she placed her hand firmly over his heart and shook her head. The answer was clear.

  Fintán’s mind raced as he considered their options. His eyes scanned the path leading from the beach to the village. They should have built on higher ground. But in his heart, he knew that only high in the mountains would they be safe, if even there. They must get to Myrddin’s Weal.

  Fintán could travel there swiftly but the people could not, and he
could never carry more than half a dozen in one trip. By the time he took one group and came back, it could be too late. And he knew Cessair would insist on being the last. The path they’d followed around the foot of the mountain and through the forest that first night was the safest way and the easiest, but it was far too long. They had to take a more direct route.

  Fintán shouted for everyone to follow him without delay. They ran from the beach, not bothering to gather food or water. Fintán crested a rise and pointed in the direction they were to go, straight to the rising stone of the mountainside. There was a path there, they knew, shown to them by the habilis. Jack-knifing, treacherous, which had to be climbed more than hiked. As he ushered the last of them over the rise they heard another sound, beneath the wind and rain and retreating sea. A low roar. The hurricane was nearly upon them already, a howling wall of night. He snatched up two of the younger Iberian children and, in his loudest voice, urged them all to run for their lives.

  Cessair, Bith, Banba and the Iberian men helped the slowest in turn as they climbed. As, of course, did Fintán. The wind grew stronger and the rain assailed them like hard-flung stones. They slipped and slid as they scrabbled higher. Stones tumbled from beneath their feet, threatening to injure or dislodge those below. By the time they reached a thousand feet above the sea, the storm was so fierce they had to cling to the rocks just to keep from being blown away—and the path ahead had crumbled, leaving naught but a sheer cliff face. There was nowhere left to go.

  Then they heard a cry from above.

  “Hail! This way!”

  It was Myrddin Wyllt, and with him a dozen hearty habilis and several Druids, crouched atop an overhang above. As soon as Myrddin had become aware of the deadly seriousness of the approaching storm, he’d guessed Fintán would lead Cessair’s people this way, and headed down with these volunteers to help in any way they could.

  Fintán scrambled to get everyone against the cliff, twenty feet below Myrddin’s ledge, which was high as they could go. Banba, helping Cessair with the children, caught her leg in a crevice and tripped. The bone snapped above the ankle. Cessair beckoned Fintán. He arrived and Bith lifted Banba to him. Cessair told Fintán to carry Banba to Myrddin immediately. The tone of her voice left no room for debate.

  Fintán took Banba, straight up the face of the cliff, past some of Cessair’s people who were already being hauled upward on knotted ropes. The sound of the storm was reaching deafening proportions when Fintán delivered Banba into the arms of the Druids. He turned to peer back down the cliff and saw Cessair at the back of the group with a child in her arms. Her eyes creased in an expression of loving gratitude. Then the wave hit and she was gone.

  There’d been no surge, no rising water. No one had time to shout in alarm. No warning at all. One moment the first to be hauled up were at the edge, Myrddin reaching for them, the next a black mountain of seawater, the top of it even with the ledge, had smacked them to oblivion, washing them into nothingness.

  Fintán caught Myrddin as he fell back in horror. The faithful habilis tried to hang on to the rope. Six of them still clung to it as they were yanked into the raging abyss.

  Nearly as quickly as it had come, the crest of the wave passed and the water level began to fall. The path below was bare. Fintán screamed, a high-pitched whistle-screech to stop the heart. He uttered in desperation, “Cessair!” and leapt.

  By the time Myrddin could cry out his name, Fintán had plummeted into the flood, hitting with a high-flung plume. By bizarre coincidence, a school of salmon burst from the surface in fright, one of them big as a man. Three times it cleared the water, its entire body wagging high into the air.

  By the time that story had been told a thousand times, more than a few facts had been altered, added or omitted. To this day, many old tales of Éire insist that Fintán mac Bóchra could turn himself into a fish.

  A Great Flood. Possibly the most common legend in all the world. Poeticized, spoken, sung, exhorted in scripture. There are flood stories from nearly every culture on every continent. Some are cautionary fables conveyed to the young, preached to the devout, proselytized to heathens. Others are simply narratives of survival. There are many different notions as to what caused the Deluge, and why. Most claim it was not a natural disaster but sent by a wrathful God, or gods, and in some cases a magical person or being. That humankind was punished, the earth cleansed because they’d become wicked, or in retribution for some terrible personal wrong, or simply an unkindness. Some are more outrageous and imaginative than others.

  Nearly all the tales claim that people were warned of the pending disaster, and these warnings come from a variety of sources. Some say a god or gods informed their favorites. Others that God himself spoke, or sent a winged archangel. In some stories it was simply seen in the stars. A surprising number, however, say people were alerted by talking animals. In a tale from south Asia it was a gigantic fish. For one South American culture it was a sheep, another a llama. In west Africa a talking goat warned a young girl—and after the Flood, that same goat instructed her to have sex with her brother in order to repopulate the earth, though he knew very well there were other survivors nearby. He also wanted to watch. Those youths did not know The Goat’s Truename. It was Baphomet.

  As many claims as there are that folks were approached by speaking animals before the Flood, there are more that tell of people being saved by them during and after. And it is worth noting that by far the most Flood stories of animal messengers and saviors say it was a large bird, an eagle, a falcon, or a god who took that form.

  The rain fell harder and winds cut deeper, but Myrddin Wyllt kept vigil from the cliff, desperate for a glimpse of Fintán, and, hoping against hope, Cessair and the fallen habilis as well. He’d sent the Druids back to the Weal with Banba, but the surviving habilis refused to leave him.

  They were forced to retreat higher up the mountain as more waves came, mightier than the first, and earthquakes too. After each retreat, Myrddin waited, peering into the fuming waters below. He watched until long after dark, using a beam of light from his gambanteinn to pierce the torrent and swell.

  But of Fintán mac Bóchra, or any of the others, there was no sign. Finally, he whispered an ancient prayer to the moon and stars and returned to the Weal.

  Days passed and Myrddin fretted while the tempest raged and the earth rattled and jerked in fits. Then came the eye of the typhoon and a calm morning. The tsunamis had also ceased, at least for the time being. Knowing full well the probable futility of the endeavor, Myrddin set out in search of Fintán mac Bóchra.

  He bid the habilis and Druids to scour the land, then made haste to the nearest bluff on the coast where he stripped off his robe and woolen cap. Wearing only a woven belt, biting down on his gambanteinn, he dove, skinny and bare, into the furious froth below.

  Myrddin combed the depths for days, every inch of this bay and the next, then back again. He found broken and bloated bodies of Cessair’s people and a few of his brave hapless habilis, but no sign of the living. In that time the eye of the storm passed, and the onslaught of the cyclone resumed.

  On the fifth day he was diving deep when, by sheer luck, or the compassionate guidance of mother Earth, the beam of his gambanteinn caught the flicker of glittering sticklebacks at the base of a tumble of rocks loosed from the cliffs by the quakes. The fishes seemed to beckon him, and Myrddin knew better than to ignore a beckoning fish. He swam closer and saw something jutting from beneath a boulder. Fintán mac Bóchra’s leg.

  The stone that trapped Fintán was bigger than a house, but it took only a few minutes wielding wand and word to break him free. To Myrddin’s relief, Fintán was still alive. But barely.

  By that time the tsunamis had returned to pound the land into further submission, making the task of moving Fintán to the Weal impossible. But Myrddin knew of someplace closer where they’d be shielded from storm and surf.

 
Swimming backwards, well below the seething surface, he dragged his friend along the rocky coastline until he found the opening of an underwater cave deep beneath a high cliff. The gambanteinn clutched in his teeth lit their way through a winding tunnel, and up above the waterline. He used his belt to tether Fintán’s wrists over one shoulder, then climbed, up and up the vertical shaft deep inside the mountain.

  The sounds of cyclone and ocean could not be heard, only Myrddin’s wheezing breath and the scrabbling of his fingers and toes on slick stone. At one point Fintán spasmed and gagged, clearing water from his lungs. Myrddin almost fell, but Fintán remained unconscious and became still once more. Then, finally, they were over a ledge to a dry cave, and Myrddin Wyllt collapsed. There he lay, clutching Fintán in his trembling arms, and wept, and fell fast asleep.

  Though Fintán mac Bóchra did not die, and no one has ever known where that cave is save for he and Myrddin Wyllt, it has been referred to in fables forever after as Fintán’s Grave.

  Fintán woke after a week but lay in despair with only the strength to weep for his lost love, Cessair. Myrddin came and went, brought food, reported on the weather, and offered what comfort he could, though it was not well taken. For forty days and forty nights the rain came down, fueled by cyclone after cyclone of unprecedented fury.

  Fintán and Myrddin didn’t know the extent to which the whole of the earth was being ravaged. In some places, rain fell at the rate of a foot an hour for weeks. Monsoons stalked inland plains, exhaling winds that reached two hundred miles per hour—and stayed that way for days on end. Rivers became lakes, lakes joined oceans, deserts drowned.

  Not all of nature’s wrath was discharged in the form of flood. Blizzards buried the far north and south. In other areas icy fists of hail piled twenty feet deep. Tornados tore across lands where they’d never been seen before, and haven’t been since. Barrages of lightning came like airstrikes.