by Dyrk Ashton
The Leviathan fell short of the ship but slammed into the sea like a toppling mountain. The impact sent a tsunami-like surge barreling toward them. The ship was lifted, higher and higher, until it plummeted, surfing sideways on its rounded hull at the face of the wave, straight for an island cliff that guarded the narrow entrance of the bay.
The rudder, unmanned but miraculously still in one piece, performed its designed task. The ship swung to face the shore, though the rocks grazed the starboard side, tearing a ragged hole in the planking. Still the wave carried them to land, where the ship beached violently, ground to a halt, and tipped against jagged boulders that further gored the hull.
Once the ship settled, Fintán peered back toward the bay from where he clung to the bulwark and Cessair at the canted bow. The surge receded, but he remained wary. The Leviathan could walk on land if it so desired. But each time its abysmal cry came it was from further out to sea, and then it was silent.
Even so, Fintán advised Cessair they should get the survivors off the ship and onto higher ground quickly as possible. He snatched her up, leaping, his cape flapping in the lashing wind, and landed lightly. Her people were already escaping through gaping holes in the ship, into the driving rain, shooing out the surviving livestock. Fintán set Cessair’s feet gently on the stony shore and she ran to their aid.
And that is how Cessair, descendant of the Line of Kings, granddaughter of Noah, came to Fiodh-Inis, the “Wooded Isle,” on the fifth day of the moon, forty days before the Flood.
In the ages that have passed since, Fiodh-Inis, that magical land at the edge of the world, has been called by many names. Today it is known to its inhabitants as Éire, and to much of the rest of the world, Ireland.
* * *
Including Fintán and Cessair, only fifty-three souls survived the attack of The Leviathan and the violent landing on Fiodh-Inis. Fifty were women, among them Cessair’s second cousin, Banba. Only two were men: Ladra, and Cessair’s father, old Bith, illegitimate son of Noah. Fintán mac Bóchra could hardly be counted as a man.
Once the people were gathered and accounted for, Fintán’s first order of business was to get them somewhere safe, away from the sea, out of the rain and wind.
They gathered little in the way of supplies. The livestock was driven into the forest in hopes they would survive to be fetched another day. Those who could lent shoulder and arm to the injured. They lashed together a sledge from hammocks, oars and sailcloth salvaged from the ship, then hurried from the stony shore and into the woods.
Fintán lead the way, pulling the sledge, which was loaded with the most severely wounded, a half-dozen in all, including Ladra. Bith kept close to Ladra’s side, fully aware of his debt to the man. If Ladra hadn’t ordered him to stay below, he too would have been lost.
Fintán soon found the path he sought. Dense trees provided some protection from the wind, but the chilling rain continued to harry them. As cold and tired as the people were, they made good progress, winding their way through the forest and up into the mountains. Cessair worked up and down the line of travelers, offering water, care and encouragement to all. She had to be utterly fatigued, but she didn’t let it show in the slightest.
The forest thickened and night fell. They lit lamps, but their light seemed pressed back by the darkness itself. The people felt as if they were being watched. Strange sounds, rustlings, and animal calls came from the undergrowth, but they saw neither beast nor fowl. Occasionally, out of the corner of their eyes, they glimpsed ghostly figures flitting between the trees, but when they looked there was nothing. Fintán paid no heed. The people huddled close, uttered not a word, and kept on their way.
Eventually the path opened into a peculiar glade encircled by stones, tall, silent and imposing. Cessair eyed them warily and the people were trepidatious. Fintán continued toward the center where there stood a great pillar of glistening granite inscribed with mysterious runes.
The pillar began to glow. Fintán halted and set down the poles of the sledge as the light spread, radiating along lines of rock set in the ground, like spokes on a wheel, to the ring of outer stones. As soon as all the stones were lit with the same eerie luminescence, the wind stopped. The rain ceased entirely. Silence. The people crowded close, confused and afraid.
Near the central pillar, there was a sudden flash of light, accompanied by a loud pop and puff of smoke, and a small figure in a hooded gray robe appeared.
The people cried out and clung to one another. Cessair clasped her chest but stood her ground. The robed figure trilled with laughter and threw back his hood to reveal a grinning old man with a long stringy beard and tangled white hair beneath a tight woolen cap.
Cessair shook her head. “Myrddin Wyllt.”
Myrddin hopped from one foot to the other in delight. “You made it. You’ve arrived!”
Cessair met him and they shared a fond embrace. She kissed him on both cheeks, “You old devil,” then lightly on the lips.
He stepped back, beaming, then leapt to take Fintán’s long hand in both of his. “Fintán mac Bóchra. I knew you would come.”
“Lailoken,” Fintán responded with a nod.
Myrddin surveyed the group behind Fintán and Cessair, counting swiftly to himself. His countenance fell. “Where are the rest?”
Fintán’s voice was grim. “Cetus prowls your shores.”
Myrddin’s shock was severe. “The Leviathan? Say it isn’t so!”
“Our ship alone survived,” said Cessair, “and only these of the passengers.”
Myrddin considered this news with great sadness, and squeezed her hand in sympathy. “Then we must secure them warm and dry.”
He clapped his hands and called out in a Proto-Celtic tongue. Murky shadows shuddered in the forest outside the stones, detaching from the trees. Twisted shrubberies straightened. Tall figures, cloaked and hooded in green robes, carrying walking sticks they called shillelaghs, stepped into the glade.
These were an ancient race of secretive silent mystics who had long inhabited these isles. Their ancestors had come on makeshift rafts during the Second Holocaust. It was here they’d hidden, and survived. Today, they would be called Druids.
Myrddin issued a low whistle. Tiny but sturdily-built women and men, the tallest just over four feet in height, stepped from their hiding places behind hedges, trunks and stones, and entered the glade. Both women and men wore what looked like sacks woven from grass, with holes for arms and neck.
They approached Cessair’s people without a word, gently taking packs, shouldering their burdens, lifting the limping and wounded with long strong arms, in spite of their diminutive size. A few offered to help Fintán with the sledge, looking up at him with soft, gentle eyes. He couldn’t help but smile, but respectfully declined.
These were a troupe of Myrddin’s kinfolk, countless generations descended from what are today called Homo habilis. This band had been on these islands since long before the Druids, and though they kept the general build and heavy brows of their race, they looked much more like human beings than their ancestors had. Their body hair had thinned, becoming reddish in color, their skin was lighter, and their eyes blue and clear as a summer sky.
“Follow me!” Myrddin cried, whipping around and striding along one of several paths that lead from the circle. Then he stopped. “Wait. No. Follow me this way!” He turned and bound up a different path. Cessair shook her head and grinned but urged her people forward. Fintán retrieved his sledge and they followed Myrddin into the wood.
The same type of upright stones that surrounded the glade stood regularly along either side of the winding path, all glowing, lighting their way. Here also there was no wind or rain, though they could see the branches whipping and wet above, and beyond the path on either side.
Eventually they followed the curve of a rushing stream and came to a dead end at a high cliff with a waterfall. Myrddin shoved two fingers in his mouth and whistled. They heard the sliding of stone above and the waterfall
split down the middle, opening like a curtain.
From a fold in his robe Myrddin drew his famed gambanteinn, no more than five inches long, tapered and stout, made of pitted dark metal, with a silver cap at its base. He raised the wand, pointed it as if preparing to conduct an orchestra, then spoke archaic words and the crystal at its tip glowed. A portion of the cliff blazed in the shape of an arch. Myrddin altered his speech and the rough stone inside the arch de-materialized from the center out, creating an entrance to an enormous cave. Cessair’s people stared in wonder.
Inside, a hundred little habilis could be seen busying themselves with cooking and crafts. Some were of the lighter-skinned, reddish-haired, blue-eyed variety, while others had darker complexions, thick brown hair and deep brown eyes. There were roaring fire pits and hearths, tables and chairs made of knotted branches, whole deer and boar roasting, and stirred cauldrons of soup. The smell of cooked vegetables and savory meat reached the people of Cessair, and they realized just how hungry they were.
Myrddin led the way into the cave, which was so large the back of it couldn’t be seen, the ceiling obscured by smoke and mist like a cover of cloud far above. All along the walls on either side, rooms were carved in the rock, four and five high, with lashed wooden ladders between them and torches for light. Colorful weavings of reed hung on the walls for decoration and lay on the floor as mats. Young habilis frolicked naked on plush animal skins.
Some of the habilis relieved the people of the remainder of their burdens, which they stowed in quarters where they would stay. Others brought blankets and dry clothing, held mats around the travelers for privacy while they changed, and ushered them to the fires for warmth.
The Druids conveyed the injured from Fintán’s sledge to cots and attended their hurts. Bith carried Ladra, who became the focus of the elder Druids. They threw back their hoods to reveal heads of unruly hair that could only be described as orange, squinted eyes as green as a flowerless meadow in springtime, scratched long square chins in consternation. From the looks on their fair freckled faces, the prognosis was not good.
Myrddin presented Fintán, Cessair and her father with golden goblets of steaming sweet wine. “We’ve been preparing for the coming of Cessair, and Bith, son of Noah,” he said, raising his own cup. “Welcome! Welcome all!” He gestured wide with both arms. “Welcome to Myrddin’s Weal!” And with that, he chugged his wine, giggled at his own grandiose magnanimity, and skipped away.
* * *
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 proved 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. They agreed without hesitation. Her people were not the idle kind. 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 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 previous they’d been fishing but were lost at sea in a storm, and had come within sight of this island, beautiful, green, and secluded. They’d 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 nearly 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 arriv
al 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.
