by James Comins
Chapter Nineteen
The Story of the Coming of Bres
or, A Swift Kick in the Shins
They walked along the smooth, damp floor of the cave in a long line. Sometimes the yawning space was a ballroom hung with wet stalactites. Other times it was a rumpled alley too narrow to pass without turning sideways. The floor was full of deep, round puddles connected together by narrow water bridges, smooth and mathematical. Plinking plinked constantly in the walls. The further in they went, the further from daylight they were, and the more trapped Lenna felt. Andy, however, was being brave again. He darted ahead of Kaldi and Talvi with his harp crooked above an elbow. Itching with worry, Lenna went to walk beside him.
On and on and on and darker and narrow and plink on her nose and on and on. The bug shone at the front between Mo Bagohn’s finger and thumb. They were far inside the stone of Ireland now. Still there was nothing.
“Here,” said Brugda, turning. Mo Bagohn brought the light back to the side of a cavern chamber. The two old women examined the brown mottled wall where Brugda’s lead-me-along pebble bounced sideways. “Need a way through the stone,” Brugda said.
“I’ve a way,” said Emily, stepping forward. She hefted the sledgehammer with the gold brick on the end, motioned everyone back, faced the wall, drew the sledgehammer over her head with her one hand and swung it against the smooth stone. With a frooon of whistling air, the hammer’s haft fell through the wall as if it were nothing. Emily flew forward with it, landing halfway through the stone. The mallet hit the ground, thwaaaang. Only her legs were visible, as if the wall had landed on her. Pol helped her up.
“An illusion, was it?” she said, dazed.
“Woll, it’s surely a way t’rough the stone, mum,” Pol said, kissing her on the brow. She smiled and winced.
“A problem-solver, me oul wan,” Andy told Lenna. She smiled and nodded at him.
Kaldi and Talvi went in first. They walked through the illusionary wall, pulling a puff of clammy air through the cavern behind them, leaving no trace in sight or sound. Andy swapped his harp to his other hand and Lenna took the free hand. Together they lifted their fingertips to the blue-lit brown surface. It was cold like Brugda’s magic circle, and Lenna could feel the ancient magic that made the illusion. She could taste it, really. It was old and gooey and crusted and lacking flavor, like a chocolate chip cookie that had been left out for too long. They stepped through. The imaginary stone felt empty around her, bitter and damp-scented and chilly, like passing by a drafty door in an old house. Solid stone engulfed her like mist, giving way to light. Bright light. Golden metallic light. Brighter-than-sunlight light.
Somehow, the darkness of lies that shrouded Lenna’s eyes vanished for just a moment, and the golden light blinded her. Then the sunglasses-darkness returned, and she could see.
She had emerged into an arch-ceilinged cathedral of pure gold. From every wall and chandelier and display case and golden pedestal shone the glint of finely wrought steel weapons clad in gold and silver hilts and studded with precious stones.
Binnan Darnan wasn’t there. The Fomor weren’t there.
Instead, there was a throne. Above the throne, bowed over it, white and terrible and spreading and spidered through with gold thread, was an arch.
It was white as bone, the arch. It was a scraggly, spined and gruesome thing, reaching out in all directions from above the low chair. The spines were polished white wood, stripped of bark. Gold thread had been threaded into every space of the arch, a messy gnarl of yellow strands like a tipped-over sewing basket. The great arch itself was built of huge limbs of driftwood. Wired to the limbs were branches and roots in a deathly tangle, the weathered wood pitted and separating from age, forming the termite-holes that the gold wire was woven into. The height of the arch was staggering and menacing, reaching far above them, an arch of triumph. The driftwood plank of the seat was studded with gems, the colors shocking against the blanched wood.
Flanking the throne on either side were the robed forms of Ljos and Indaell.
On the throne, majestic, was a man with flowing golden hair and eyes like the morning sky.
Brugda clutched her heart. Lenna’s eyes swung from her to Mo Bagohn, whose accusing finger shook silently at the man; to Kaldi and Talvi, whose mouths were gaping; to Pol, who seemed unimpressed.
The beautiful man on the driftwood throne stood. He let an azure cape trimmed with white fur slide off his back and drip to the floor. “The Dagda.” The man’s voice was gentle, the wings of doves. “Long have I desired a son of Lir to visit my throne room. Welcome.”
“Stuff it down yar pants, Bres. Long’s it been since you had me throw me favorite spear into the sea. I’d rather have me spear back than a welcome, ye greedy lout.”
“Why not both?” said Bres. Indaell followed his gesture to a gold cabinet and withdrew a narrow, rusted iron spear with a green tourmaline spike at the end. The bad angel presented the spear to Pol, sneering.
“A gift to the storyteller,” said Bres. “Would you tell us a story in exchange?”
Pol took the spear with a look of avarice. For a moment, he ran his thumb along the sharpened green needle. Without shifting his gaze, he said, “Aye, I’ll tell you a tale.
“There was a hero once,” Pol began, crossing his heavy arms, “a man greater than all the others. His name was Bran, or Brand, or Brendan. A sailor he was, with a curragh fit for twenty-six men and a voyage to lands beyond the sea. He and twenty-five of his kin set sail from their home in Connacht and flew out upon the wind for places that no Irishman had set eyes upon afore.
“There was the Island of Dead Kings saw Brendan. He sent five men ashore, as was the custom. The five men were caught by the spirits and were bound to serve the High Kings of Old.
“There was the Island of the Sidhe, kept forever summer by the magic of the Fair Folk. Them five as went ashore would not leave for the wonder of it.
“Then Brendan found Iceland. He sent five strong men ashore to fight the Vikings who had stolen children from Ulster. But the Vikings were too many, and those five were slaughtered.
“South of there, Brendan found the Island of Women. It’s said that five families of great-great-a thousand times-great-grandchildren live there still.
“So six there were came down to Uist, but that island is cursed, and a gale washed all but Brendan himself overboard. The rest that sailed past the bonny island are sitting forever beneath the sea, as the sad song goes.
“So it was Brendan was sailing alone when he found the Ice Palace of the Fomor. At the tallest tower lived a princess. What her name was, no man may say. Her father Balor was king of the Fomor. He had one eye, an eye so terrible that the eyelid could only be lifted with a ring of silver, and if he looked upon you with it, you would die.
“He’d been warned by a seer druid that if he ever got a grandson, the child would mean the death of him. He was so angered at the prophecy that he lifted his eyelid with a ring of silver, and the seer druid died under his terrible gaze. But he believed the truth of the prophecy. He was so afraid of the future that he locked his only daughter at the top of the tallest tower.
“When Brendan arrived at the ice palace, blind Balor welcomed him as a guest. They ate and drank. Brendan stayed for the night, then another night. The third night, the spirit of the dead seer druid led Brendan to the nameless girl’s tower, for this was the Otherworld, where spirits dwell. So it was that the seer druid fulfilled his own prophecy. The daughter of Balor had a son by Brendan, and that boy was named Bres.
“When the boy was grown, he left that place and was named king of Ireland. He ruled for a time, angered the people, and was dethroned. It was Bres called upon his grandfather Balor for an army to reclaim the throne of Ireland. His grandfather brought an army of Fomor spirits from the Otherworld to Ireland in order to win back the kingship over the boy’s subjects who had cast him out. The spirit army of Balor faced the druid army of the Old Ones. They fought the great
est battle ever fought, save for the last battle against Finn MacCool. But Bres ran the army astray and lost the battle. The druids bound the Fomor up with spells, then faced the terrible blind Balor, who stood alone. In the end, it was Manannan killed Balor with a druid rod, but as Balor lay dying, his eye opened and Manannan fell.”
“Yes,” said Bres. He knelt, picked up his robe and wrapped himself up in it, shivering, as if the room had grown cold. But it was warm.
Annie nodded. “That’s how it was,” she said quietly.
The Dagda went on: “At the end, young Bres was there at his grandfather’s side. Balor knew it was the prophecy come upon him. He was angered at the weakness of his grandson. He was angered that his people, the Fomor, had been trapped by druid magic. He was angered that his great army had lost the battle for Ireland. He laid blame on Bres for being a poor king.”
“Yes,” Bres said again. His eyelids flickered and he bowed his head. Golden hair draped him, hiding his face.
“So he cursed Bres with his dying breath, the curse of Balor. He said that Bres would leave from Connacht on a curragh, as his father Brendan had done. And if ever Bres saw the green fields of Ireland again, he would turn to ash and blow away upon the wind,” Pol finished.
“Yes.” There was pain in Bres’ voice.
“This story I name the Story of the Coming of Bres, and a true story it is. Now. Whar’s the lass?”
Bres breathed like a dying man for a long moment, then lifted his head. “You’ve told me a tale, and the spear is yours. But there is much to talk about. Brigid.” Bres stepped forward down the steps of his gilded throne and spread his arms. Brugda rushed to him, and Bres’ great blue robe enfolded her. “My darling Brigid.”
The old woman bent her wrinkled face up to look at him. Red hair covered her forehead, and tears filled her eyes. Her lip trembled.
“I’m old. Beautiful Bres, I’m old.” A hand reached up to brush a lock of golden hair from his broad forehead. “There are no words left. Oh my sweet Bres.”
She sank into his arms. Mo Bagohn turned away and closed her eyes. Kaldi put a hand around his mother’s shoulder.
It was Ljos who broke the silence. Motionless, he spoke from beneath the vile arch of the throne, an ageless man in a gray robe.
“Time advances, Master,” Ljos said.
“Master?” said Lenna, puzzled.
“That voice,” gasped Mo Bagohn. “You’re the ones.”
Ljos raised a heavy hand. “This is not--”
“Don’t you interrupt me, you murdering, you filthy murdering thing. By the red of my heart, I’ll tear you apart. Both of you!” spat Mo Bagohn.
Bres spun to face the angel Ljos with his cloaked arm around Brugda.
“Murdering, Lés?”
“It was witch’s magic, sire, and a machine only,” said Ljos. “We did as you commanded.”
“We’ll speak later, Lés.”
“We’ll speak now,” shouted Mo Bagohn. “What are these, these angels doing in your roost? You vicious creatures. You took my Wicklow from me.”
Bres spun to face the other angel. “How, Intlás?”
Indaell took a step, took a step, grinning at the fury in the red bright shawls. “She wanted a battle, my master. She didn’t have a battle. So we gave her one.”
Mo Bagohn quivered.
“I didn’t ask why, Intlás. I asked how.” Bres snapped a finger, and Indaell screamed in pain.
“By falling off the cliff, sire,” the bad angel whimpered.
“Ah,” said Bres. “And Wicklow is a machine, mo beagán?”
“Yes,” said Mo Bagohn carefully.
“The sea is fathoms deep, mo beagán. Who could journey there but the Fomor?”
Mo Bagohn’s face clenched to a tight angry ball. Her white hair was a frizzy line between her crocheted red shawls and the ruddy crush of her face. She spat on the floor.
“You’ve done all this, you lying man. I can see it all over your face. You kidnapped the servant girl and left clues for your sons to find. You had your own servants put a curse on this Cardiff wren when she was too angry to know better. She followed Annie, and Annie followed me, and I followed you straight to your front door where you took everything from me. You take everything from everyone. And at last you offer it back at your own price. You hurt people until they tell you what you want to hear.” Mo Bagohn wrapped her shawls tighter around her. “I want my Wicklow back. Name your price.”
Brugda trembled at Bres’ side. “No, my Bres. I won’t have that be true. Tell me. Tell me it isn’t true.”
Bres surveyed the wide room and everyone in it. Standing on the steps of his vast throne, he looked down at the little red-headed woman at his chest, then out at his audience. He began to speak: “I have given you your spear for your story, Dagda. What will you give me for mine?”
“A swift kick in the shins,” muttered Pol O’Donnell. “Ye might as well have stolen me spear, and I gave ye my tale far free.”
“What will you give me?” repeated Bres.
“Name your price, and never speak again,” Mo Bagohn snapped.
“Give me the silver harp of Manannan, and I will give you my story.”
Andy pressed his lips together and clutched the harp. “This was a gift,” he said. “Manannan wouldn’t want me to give it up for a story.”
“Woll, not for a crummy story, anyways,” said Pol.
“Then this audience is ended. Lés. Intlás. Escort them out.”
“Wait,” said Emily. She looked sadly at the great heavy hammer she gripped with her one hand.
“Em, it isn’t--don’t just--”
“I give you the golden hammer of the Dagda. It has the power to turn stone to clay with the first strike, and clay to dust with the second. I give it as a gift. Would you answer all our questions, and will you tell us your story as well?”
Bres bowed magnanimously. “I will.”
“Ochone, Em,” whispered Pol sadly.
Indaell lifted a gold platter and brought it forward. Emily kissed the block of gold, then lay it on the platter and watched as it was set on a tall narrow pedestal.
“The story fairst,” said Pol.