by Ben Galley
The passengers, rowers and crew alike, they all felt it, and in spite of the storm and their weariness, their spirits lifted. All three ships had made it. After seven months at sea, they were finally arriving at their new home.
The ship aimed back toward land. The efforts of the rowers had done the trick. Fintán nodded to Cessair, who almost smiled. He was much older than she, and far more experienced in all things having to do with navigating land, air, and sea, but Cessair was, without question, the leader of this expedition. Fintán respected her deeply and trusted her completely. So did her crews. Even her father, old Bith, who was below, gladly acceded to her authority. She was smart, fair and kind, firm, yet forgiving. The entire voyage they’d obeyed her commands without hesitation, reacting to her directives like extensions of her own body.
Fintán held her close as another wave swept the bow. She shook the brine from her hair and face. He knew she could do this. And she knew he knew, and for that she loved him even more.
It didn’t matter that he wasn’t human.
Fintán looked out over the turbulent sea. Only five hundred yards to go. Still too deep in these waters, but a bit closer and they could drop anchor, then perhaps risk taking the ships’ boats to shore. When the time came, he’d leave that decision to Cessair.
Then a sound came to them. It began as a rumbling in the deep, then boomed so forcefully even Fintán was amazed. The sound continued, unbroken, growing in intensity. Quivering ripples appeared in the waves, droplets leapt on the surface, water beaded and danced on deck. The ship vibrated so harshly people fell, teeth rattling, vision blurred. Planks loosed at the seams. On the orlop deck and in the hold, crocks of water and wine shattered and livestock bleated in terror.
A primal fear gripped the people on those ships. The Beast of the Sea was well known by their forefathers, and though it had not been seen nor heard from in many generations, they suspected. Fintán knew. Cetus had awakened.
Fintán’s first thought was to snatch up Cessair and carry her away right then, but he knew he didn’t dare. She’d never forgive him. She wouldn’t abandon her people. Not even to escape The Leviathan.
The ship was jarred from beneath, rose as if on a swell. A harsh scraping sound from the hull ran through the vessel. Fintán crouched against the bulwark, dragging Cessair with him. He threw his cape over her and clung fast. The ship lurched and fell. Water poured over the side as it tipped. The ship righted itself, but lurched and tipped again as Cetus continued to pass below.
On the row deck, the rowers cleaved to oars, benches and beams. Ladra yelled into the horn, seeking orders from above, but his only answer was a cold splash from the tube. The ship bucked again, and Ladra made a decision. He ordered the men to catch up their pikes and harpoons and make haste to the top deck, and the women to seal the rowlocks, secure the oars, and themselves. The men struggled against the rocking of the ship, but gathered their helmets and weapons and made their way up the ladders.
Ladra waited beneath the ladder closest to stern, strapping on his bronze helmet. Cessair’s father, old Bith, stood in line with the men, also armored and armed. He was far older than the others, but more than willing to fight. Ladra commanded him to stay below and help secure the rowing deck. Bith swallowed his pride, and complied.
Ladra placed a scarred and calloused hand on Bith’s shoulder, nodded grimly, handed up his pike and climbed the ladder.
When Ladra pulled himself up into the long cabin hall on the top deck, the men were already in groups, stem to stern, port and starboard, at the half-dozen outer doors.
In spite of the harsh pounding of waves, Cessair pleaded through coughing fits to reach the horn and communicate with her crew. Fintán refused, clinging to her and the bulwark.
A cry of battle came as Ladra and his men burst open the cabin doors and rushed out onto the deck. Cessair screamed at them to retreat back below, but her voice couldn’t be heard over their shouts and the roar of sea and gale.
Fintán was about to reprimand them himself, but the deafening bellow of The Leviathan came again, drowning all other sound.
The sea bulged between their ship and the one to port. A humped form broke the surface. Twice the width of their ship, plated in overlapping scales that looked like rough stone, barnacled and slimed with algae. The men hung on to anything they could, porthole, rigging, and rope, as the ship canted and slid sideways in the creature’s wake.
The monster submerged and the men held their breath. Fintán rose with Cessair, shouting, catching the attention of Ladra, but there came a terrible crunch from the ship to port.
A claw, like that of a scorpion but of incredible size, gripped the port vessel amidships. Lightning burst and the claw snapped shut, crushing the ship in two.
The screams on the wind didn’t last. Multiple bony arachnid limbs emerged from the depths, some with pincers, others crusty clawed hands. They clutched the wreckage, every piece, and tugged it beneath the waves. Where a moment before there’d been a ship with a hundred souls, now there was nothing but restless sea.
The lead ship was jarred as the creature passed below once more, going the opposite direction, and sounds of splintering wood came from starboard.
The second ship was being skewered from below by jagged spines that rose higher than its masts ever had. Again came screams of helpless crew and passengers. A gust sprayed water into the faces of Fintán and Cessair. When it cleared, the second ship was gone.
The scraping on their ship’s hull returned. Fintán roared to the men on deck, “Below! Get below!” All heard him, but it was too late.
The ship rose as if on a wave a hundred feet high. But not a wave. The back of The Beast itself. The monster bucked and the ship fell, bow downward, raced down, down, then plunged into the sea, bobbed, and capsized.
Fintán held Cessair tight between him and the bulwark. A testament to the fine design of the ship, it rolled and righted itself. Cessair gasped, sucking in air, safe in Fintán’s arms. But the men were gone. The lamp on the cabin roof was smashed, shredded rope whipping in the wind. They’d all been washed away. All but one.
Ladra, clutching a cabin door for support, was knocked into the hall and pitched head first down the hatch. He’d crashed into the edge of the hatch opening on the berth deck, then tumbled through to the row deck below. There he’d landed, gored by both halves of his broken pike.
Cries rose from the sea. Cessair implored Fintán to rescue as many as he could. He refused. Again he thought of taking her away, but he still could not do it, not against her will. But he wouldn’t leave her, either, even for a moment. If it came to it, he’d follow her into the mouth of The Leviathan itself, though it would surely mean his own death.
Several hundred yards behind the ship, a monstrous form emerged from the depths, bellowing as it came. Five hundred feet The Leviathan rose, less than half its full length. Heat lightning lit the sky above it, ghastly yellow and green. Eyes bulged red, lit by hatred and wrath, from sockets in what vaguely resembled a human skull, dark and moldy, with vicious mandible pincers for a mouth. It spread its spines and hundreds of legs, roared anew, then lunged.
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 all the way to land, where the ship beached violently, ground to a halt, and tipped against jagged boulders that that further gored the hull.
Once the ship settled, Fintán peered back toward the bay from where he clung to the bulwar
k 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 then, 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 crash-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 on the beach, Fintán’s first order of business was to get them someplace 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 hard-blown, 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 became thicker 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 by unseen eyes. Strange sounds, rustlings, 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 and smiled. “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 a fork in the path, past the central pillar of stone. 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 all 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 was diverted, split down the middle 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 opening to an enormous cave. Cessair’s people stared in wonder.
Inside the cave, a hundred or more little habilis could be seen busying themselves wi
th 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 nude on plush animal skins.
Some of the habilis relieved the people of their burdens, which they stowed in quarters where they would stay. Others brought blankets and dry clothing, ushered the travelers to the fires for warmth, held mats around them for privacy while they changed.
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.