Awakening the Gods

by Kristin Gleeson

  “You wouldn’t speak English, by any chance, would you?”

  The man shook his head. A shake that meant he had no idea what I’d said. “Gaeilge?” he said.

  Feckingfeckingfeckit. It was my own fault for not really applying herself to my Irish. If I had, now it would have been useful. But who’d have thought? Would you even feckin’ believe it? The best I could manage would be to sing him a song. Somehow, I didn’t think the words of An Binsin Luachra could accurately convey my questions and needs. A maid out looking for rushes meeting a young lad hardly contained anything useful.

  I shook my head sadly. “Nil.”

  He nodded and his expression eased somewhat, which seemed a positive. He looked behind him, towards the house and called out a name. It sounded a bit like Finn, but I couldn’t be sure. A moment later a young lad burst out of the house and approached the man. They exchanged a few words and then the young lad went haring off up the road. The man turned to me and gestured towards the house, then beckoned me towards him. He went to the door, turned around and beckoned me again.

  I made the decision before I even thought about it. What choice had I? Stumble around for a while longer, looking for someone else who didn’t speak English? Maybe some clever gestures and drawing would get me somewhere, and it seemed a possibility that I might be able to do that in the house, with this man.

  Inside, the house opened up into a large kitchen with a sizeable working hearth, deal table and benches. Shelves against one wall were lined with sacks, earthen pots and dishware. Bright light filtered in from the window at the back. A woman sat at the table, a white kerchief covering her head, dressed in a wool gown of dark green underneath a wrapped sleeveless apron of white cloth. She gave the man, presumably her husband, a quizzical look and then turned her gaze to me. Her expression was cool, considered. She spoke to the man, her words sharp. He answered her and shrugged. She sighed and rose, gesturing me to take a seat on the bench.

  I moved, still in my loopy goofy version of friendly, and sat on the bench. I began to nod, why, I didn’t know, I seemed not to be in control. This was no “in between” rhythm and anything approaching my “whynot” or “whynotnow” mode that was so easy and part of me. This feeling, this rhythm in my body was the experimental mode that only some godawful modernist would understand or appreciate and I certainly wasn’t one of them.

  So I sat, my face arranged in a most ridiculous expression, a shield strapped to my back for all the world to see, including this farmer and presumed wife, and two concealed daggers at my waist. My hair was still tucked in my jacket, though my chest I hoped indicated I was definitely not a man. Such a threat as I might pose was surely defused by my womanly curves and absurd demeanour.

  It seemed that it had, because she eventually placed a cup of something warm in front of me, along with a plate filled with what appeared to be slices of meat and some bread on it. I nodded my thanks and placed my hands together in Namaste pose, knowing as I did so how I was adding another silly to the already bursting tally of silliness I’d offered these people.

  The food looked really appealing and I heard my stomach grumble in agreement. I hesitated, wondering if I should eat it, as all the tales of visits to fairyland shouted warnings. They all seemed to agree on the perils of eating in the Otherworld. Bound there forever, or was it return a thousand years later? I didn’t know. But did I really count as human travelling to Fairyland with a large capital? This was the Otherworld, the Sí medium-sized rather than little or big. This wasn’t Tam Lin or even the Tir na N’Og story.

  My stomach made the decision for me and I picked up a fork, noticing for the first time that it was a proper fork, made with some kind of metal. And the plate was earthenware, the type found in any kind of rural idyll dabbler’s kitchen. I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but apparently not this. It somehow gave me an encouragingly more positive outlook and I began to eat.

  The food was plain, but no less tasty for it. I reached for my cup and was pleasantly surprised to find a kind of warm mead. It was lovely and it was all I could do not to make a pig of myself, downing the cup in a matter of moments. I left it half full and returned to my food. The mead made me pleasantly relaxed very quickly and I looked up at my hosts and smiled.

  “Very good,” I said, pointing to the food. “It’s grand. Thank you very much. Go raibh mile maith agat, I added in Irish. I could at least manage “thanks a million”. “Tá se an-mhaith,” I said feeling braver and pleased that “very good” in Irish had suddenly come to mind. I wasn’t so pathetic that those phrases from school hadn’t stuck in my mind.

  The couple beamed at my words and I beamed under their pleasure, feeling I’d made some progress in allaying their unease and caution.

  The door opened and the lad came tearing in, words tumbling out of his mouth. The farmer nodded and frowned. He glanced at me, said a few words to his wife and left, closing the door firmly behind him. She gave me a nervous glance before busying herself around the kitchen, taking down plates and cups and putting together another plate of food. Her son looked at me and then his mother quizzically, before finding a place at the table facing the door and watching it expectantly.

  I wasn’t allowed much time to speculate on his expectant look, the wife’s actions, or the farmer’s exit. A few moments later the door opened and a man came bursting through. He was tall and broad, with a dark hair and beard and appeared to be in his mid-thirties. A scar ran across his brow which was pulled down into a frown. He came to stand in front of me by the table in an imposing manner.

  All of this would have sent me from unease to alarm on its own, but when coupled with the padded and studded leather jacket and heavy boots that seemed straight out of some medieval battle re-enactment, as well as the dagger at one side and the sword at the other, it was all too much. I sat there, eyes wide, stunned. Any soft and fluffy connotations about fairyland were off the cards. They had definitely marched out of the room and left me there, stupidly ignorant and clueless.

  “Dhia’s Mhuire dhuit?” I said the common greeting impulsively and then cursed inwardly at saying something so stupid as “God and Mary be with you.” What was wrong with me, for feck’s sake? It appeared all my sense had deserted me.

  “Ah….” I searched the Irish for excuse me, but came up blank. “Conas a tá tú?” It was all I could manage, all my memory could dredge up, asking how he was. Feeble, feeble, feeble.

  He narrowed his eyes and then fired off some rapid Irish at me. I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. His face darkened again. He jerked on the shield strung across my back. Spoke again, this time both in Irish and the other language. I shook my head and tried to look apologetic. He dragged me to my feet, pulled me away from the table, knocking over the bench I’d been sitting on. He stared down in my face, anger clear in his eyes. He spoke, slowly, loudly, still gripping my arm vice-like.

  “I don’t know, I don’t know,” I said, knowing my fear was evident.

  He gripped my other arm, shook me hard and spoke again. I looked at him, willing myself to understand, an exercise that only caused more deficits in my mind. My gaze drifted down from his face and a little kernel of my self-defence class came back to me. Do I aim for the groin, bring my knee up to him with a hard thud? I gauged the distance and the possibility of its success. But he must have read my intentions on my face because suddenly he had me turned around, my arms gripped behind me and my legs spread apart. In the quickness of his movement he caught the edge of one of my daggers and it went flying to the floor.

  He shouted at me, the pitch of his voice making my head ring. He uttered a few words to the farmer, who moved to the dagger and picked it up. He placed it on the table and began to pat down my legs and then unzipped my jacket. The other dagger, the hiltless one, rested in my belt clearly for all to see. Behind me, the man snarled, snatched it out of my belt and threw it on the table.

  He barked some words to the farmer and after a moment’s hesitation left
the room and came back with some rope that he handed to the man, who used it to tie my hands behind my back, after which he dragged me out of the house and over to a stone shed. He opened the door and tossed me inside, shutting it securely behind him. I heard a latch slide into place. I couldn’t see a latch on this side, or any other way to open the door, but then again, I couldn’t see much, because there were no windows and it was pitch black. I could, however, smell quite a lot and most especially the heavy, heavy stench of pig shit. And I could hear rustling, soft at first, and then a bit more insistent. I tried to assure myself that rustling sounds were better than snorting, better than snuffling. Rustling could mean mice. Mice I could handle. Rats, not so much. But they seemed more mouse-like, surely. Just a few mice to wait out until someone saw sense and released me.

  30

  Smithy

  Smithy groaned when he tried to sit up. His side was bruised and he wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t some internal damage. Broken ribs at the very least. His arm throbbed, too, no doubt broken where the horse had stomped on it. The pain came in waves, though they had eased somewhat now, compared to when he’d first been thrown in this cell.

  He opened his eyes again and looked around in the dim light to apprise himself of the cell from his vantage point. Though he was on his back for the most part, he could still feel the straw underneath him, scratching the bare skin of his palm. Above him was a wooden ceiling and around him stone walls. There was a small window high up on the wall opposite the door. Too small to warrant bars. At a guess, he’d say he was in a tower keep. One of those built to defend all comers, back in the time when the Tuatha de Danann were uncertain about their safety in their new lands, where any minute a Gael, Fir Bolg or Fomorian would see fit to attack. Things were more peaceful now, but these towers were still inhabited, though usually made much more comfortable in the living quarters. Except apparently, in this tower.

  Smithy blinked, trying to gauge the time of day through the window. It seemed to be sometime in the afternoon, judging by the light pouring in and if he’d correctly guessed the window’s direction. But he could be wrong about that and he had no idea what afternoon it was. The afternoon of his capture or later? Judging by the state of his stomach and his throat, it might be the next day or the day after that.

  He tried once again to ease himself upright to a sitting position. The pain seared through him, but this time he managed it, supporting his injured side with his right hand. He paused and tried to catch his breath. He gathered his energy again and this time aimed to stand. He staggered with the effort, nearly falling to the stone floor, but finally found his balance and stayed unmoving while the pain in his side and the sudden roaring agony in his arm eased.

  Once he’d recovered, he slowly moved to the door, feet dragging along the straw. When he reached the door he raised his right hand into a fist and pounded on it.

  “Guard!” he shouted.

  He pounded again, the effort sending more waves of pain through his side. He could feel the sweat gathering at his brow. His breath came in pants. He leaned against the door, waiting for the pain to subside, waiting for a guard. He closed his eyes.

  He didn’t know how long it was, but eventually he heard the sound of someone outside the door and a lock turning. He backed away from the door, catching his breath at the sudden jab of pain at his side from the movement.

  The door opened and a large beefy man with a grizzled beard and braided hair frowned at him. Another, slighter man with fair hair and a ruined face stood behind him.

  “What’s all the shouting about?” said the large man.

  A Fomorian. Smithy just knew. It was evident by the flattened nose, but also the biker jacket with the big fat F stitched on the left side. One of Balor’s tough lads. Probably from America, where he posed it up in some sort of biker gang. Smithy refrained from rolling his eyes. Anu had said Balor travelled with a coterie of security men of every ilk, ready for every kind of situation. So that was who he’d sent here to get him. But why were they holding him? Why not kill him outright? Smithy’s unease grew. Did Balor think he could convince him to work for him? To create magic swords, or whatever he had in mind? Smithy frowned.

  “Don’t you frown at me, boy,” said the Fomorian.

  Oh for feck’s sake, thought Smithy. Did he think he was in some backwoods town in the American south? Or some TV show?

  The Fomorian shoved him and Smithy groaned with pain. “I said, what’s all the shouting about?”

  “Water,” Smithy said with a gasp. “Could I have some water? And a bit of food.” He tried to keep his voice pleasant.

  The Fomorian grunted and swung the door shut. Smithy stared at the closed door and listened as the steps retreated. He sagged against the door and sighed. He glanced around the cell and noticed there was a pot in the corner, presumably to relieve himself. In another darker corner was a small cot. That surprised him. But then again, the possibility of Balor wanting him for something rose up once more.

  He hobbled over to the cot and eased himself down on it, wincing. He needed to find a way to bind his chest and to create a sling. There were no sheets on the cot, but he wouldn’t have expected that. And he knew he would never be able to create anything out of his T-shirt. Not for a while anyway. He reached inside his jacket with his right hand and felt his left arm, carefully. No bone protruding, which was good. There was definite swelling, though, and he could only imagine what it looked like. Hopefully a clean break. He prodded lightly and gasped. Closer investigation would have to wait.

  Footsteps sounded outside the cell and the lock turned once again. The door swung open and the man with the ruined face stepped in. He wore the cloth tunic, leather trews and boots of the Otherworld and his greasy fair hair was tied back. A Tuatha de Danann traitor? Smithy wasn’t certain, but he bore all the marks and guilt of it. He approached Smithy, his head down, a scowl on his face, bearing a tray with a platter, jug and cup on it.

  The Fomorian appeared at the door, his arms crossed along his chest, a menacing look on his face. Smithy turned his attention back to the man with the ruined face and nodded to him.

  “Thanks,” said Smithy.

  The man scowled harder and put the tray on the floor. He reached inside his tunic and pulled out a lump of cloth and tossed it on the cot. “Bandages. For your arm. And your side.”

  Smithy nodded and gave him a quizzical look. “A bit of mercy from a traitor?” he said softly.

  The man’s face darkened. “Watch it, or I’ll stick Dog on you.”

  Smithy’s glance flicked to the Fomorian. “Dog?”

  The man scowled again and shrugged.

  Smithy shook his head and looked once again at the Fomorian named “Dog”, and barked. He couldn’t help it. Sure, it was too much for anyone, and he was probably punchy from lack of food and the shock of recent events.

  Dog strode forward and hit him across the cheek. Smithy shook his head with the force of the blow and tasted blood.

  “Any more of that and I’ll take that food and you won’t get no more,” said Dog.

  He looked at Dog, his expression now neutral. Dog grunted and, with a last dark look, went to the door, the man with the ruined face close behind. A moment later the door clanged shut and the lock was turned.

  Smithy sighed, rubbing his jaw. He knew he’d been stupid to bark even before the sound had left his mouth, but somehow it had just tumbled out. But in the end, it had been worth it, if only for the pure craic of it all and the day that was in it.

  Smithy opened his eyes. The light from the window told him it was early morning and the day was fine. At least for now. He could hear birdsong in the distance and the sound of cows. Milking time?

  He’d noted these various details in the past few days since Dog and his minion had come to his cell. Now the minion brought him food at regular intervals, with Dog standing guard at the door. No words were exchanged beyond a grunt or two, but Smithy could sense the waiting and watching from
Dog. A sense of expectation.

  But today was different. He didn’t need to have the presence of the two henchmen to know that the expectation had heightened and there was something imminent about it. Today, he thought. Balor would arrive today. He wasn’t certain how he knew this, but there was no doubt.

  Smithy rose from the cot, his arm still feeling the effort and his ribs aching too. He put his hand to his arm. It felt hot to the touch. He frowned and, with effort, slid the makeshift sling from around his neck and attempted to remove his jacket. He panted with the exertion and beads of sweat formed at his brow. He tried to keep his concern at bay and steeled himself to make the effort once again. This time he succeeded, but it left him nearly exhausted. He paused a moment to catch his breath, then lifted his T-shirt to reveal his abdomen and chest, a substantial bandage wrapped around it.

  He tugged at the bandage’s end where he’d securely tucked it. It came away and he began to unwind it with awkward motions, using his good hand. When it was finally removed he examined it carefully. Livid bruises of violent blue, red and a hint of green were stamped on his left side, where they’d kicked him. The bruises looked worse than before, but that was to be expected. He pressed at them tenderly with the fingers of his right hand and hissed at the pain. A bit improved, though, on the searing sharp pain that had assailed him when he’d first sustained the injury.

  He reapplied the binding, an even more awkward undertaking that took him several tries before it remained in place, all the while conscious of the throbbing in his arm. When he finished, he closed his eyes to gather strength and prepare himself for the next examination. A few moments later he lifted the sleeve of his left arm and looked. It was as he’d feared. The arm was still red and swollen and it had taken on a very angry look. He walked over to the window and peered at it closer. A small, faint red streak traced its way from the swelling. Shit. He knew it was serious. In fact he’d suspected that it was developing into a very bad infection and now it was spreading. He shoved away the further implications of blood poisoning and the dire results of that if it was left untreated. Smithy took a deep breath. He couldn’t put it off any longer. He had to do something. The state of his arm and Balor’s imminent arrival were red flag warnings that couldn’t be ignored.