To walk the Mountain Tops

The mountain air was cold as it passed my lips, sending it searing chill deep into my lungs. 

I exhale faster than my natural rhythm just to get the air out of me before the cold can catch to my lungs and freeze me.

The views around the area are grand and sweeping, all rolling glacially crafted curves covered in years of rich brown soil upon which the green of the island’s grass is grown.

My eyes do not see them as they fall to the hard frozen ground in front of me. My heavy feet move forward one step at a time as I watch for the next rock or dip upon which I might stumble.

So it was that the upright stone crept up and surprised me. It’s looming rock form manifesting out of the ground in front of me, splitting the trail I had been following with its erect solidity. It’s grey sloped sides carved flat so it’s squared form rose to the height of me. The markings scored on its corners took my attention and not for the first time regret arose for not knowing the ways of ogham.

With my journey stopped by this odd pillar I finally looked up from my feet at the land all about me. Cold and cloud heavy for the season of it, there was still great beauty in the roll of the mountains, the green brown patchwork of fields and the gorse.

Again it was the unexpected that drew my attention. The broad figure labouring two fields away, digging and hauling, arms bare in just a loose t-shirt despite the December chill upon the heights.

Turning my back to the pillar stone I made my way across the fields, navigating the walls, hedges and watchful gazes of sheep.

The closer I got the more sure I became about the identity of the labourer until I stood just behind and to the right of Him. Close enough to see the breath clouding the air about and smell the sweat adorning him.

I waited. It’s never good to sneak up on someone like him despite his playful friendly demeanour, then again I’m not sure sneaking up on hims is really possible. A thought which seemed to be answered almost as soon as it occurred.

“Pass me that rock there will you?”

The thick fingered hand was dirt covered when it gestures out to the rock in question. Knowing him as I do and my own nature, there was only correct action.

Do the work.

My fingers were cold to the point of near numbness but the scrape of the rocks craggy surface and the weight of its bulk as I stood to raise it, was still enough to draw a growl of effort from me.

A few steps over and I was placing the stone amongst some others in a pit he had dug in the field.

So it was that I spent the next time, shifting soil and hefting rocks until the cold was banished from me, the sweat slick upon me and my arms too, bared in but a t-shirt upon a December mountain top.

When he stepped back I stood to see what it was our labour had produced. A circular stone ringed fire pit set next to a long stone lined trough, surrounded by the banked up earth from the pit.

He passed me a bottle of water and I sipped of it slowly, rehydrating my body as the sweat steam rose from my shoulders.

“Light a fire whilst I fetch the waters.”

I stride about the edges and hedges of the field gathering what fuels I could and returned to set them in the fire pit and begin the work of calling fire. Setting the kindling and tinder then applying spark and breath to feed its growth.

All the time my companion trudged across the field to the spring and back hauling water and splashing it into the trough.

The blaze was crackling merrily heating the area around us, protected from the wind by the banked earth, by the time the trough was full and my companion finally stopped to sit with me at the hearth.

Fulacht fiadh.

I had remembered ancient stories about these sites dotted around the island. It seemed that they were for boiling meat in a trough of water heated by rocks from a fire.

It seemed like a lot of effort to go through for just a spot to cook, especially if the peoples were so nomadic at the time.

It shouldn’t really surprise me when he answers my thoughts, but it still does and I wonder what gives me away every time.

“It is a lot of effort to build the likes of this, but not so much when you consider that it’s more than just a cook pot. How did you find your way here?”

“I was trudging across the mountains when I came to that pillar stone across the way. From there I saw yourself at work down here. What’s with the pillar and the markings on it? Why is it there?”

“It’s there to do exactly as it did, point those walking the hills to this place. Quite cold up here isn’t it? That is when you don’t have the labours warmth upon you.”

The mention of the cold brought the chill thoughts back and despite the warmth of the fire in front of me I couldn’t suppress a shiver. I glanced up to see his gaze turned out beyond the fires light. Taking in the land and as the clouds began to darken towards night.

“There were a lot of the peoples up in these hills back then. Peoples moving around above the dark wet swamps of glacier melt in the lowlands, but beneath the cold open peaks where a body could still freeze in the nights chill.”

His voice was almost as distant as his eyes as he looked into a time long before today.

“Fulacht fiadh was more than just a cooking spot, more than just a temporary campsite. It was the beginnings of community. It was a place to which any could come, everyone was welcome, food prepared and the care of those struck by the cold could be cured.”

His eyes came back to mine as we gazed across the fire.

“Do you know you can die from hypothermia? Do you know that unless you can raise the person's body temperature enough they may go mad, strip off their clothes and then have their heart stop?”

I knew some things from my days in the scouts but never that it could go that far. His eyes told me truth as ever, and the sadness there told me that those eyes had seen it first hand.

“Sitting by a fire will do some good but it takes a long time for the heat to reach one's heart. Placed in a trough where fire burnt rocks heat the water a person can soon be warmed through.”

His eyes fell to the fire where it danced and crackled its usual hearth song and I saw a sad smile creep on to his face. I kept to my silence and left him to his for a time as the fire danced between us.

"The people need those of us who can to do the works so that lives may not be lost to circumstance."

As ever there is more to any one thing than the histories can tell us and what knowledge is lost when the labours cease and the conversations quiet?

Eventually the Dagda’s head came up and his smile broadened and his big hand came to rest on my shoulder whilst I had kept to my silence and just smiled at him.

“Thanks for helping me do the work.”

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House Guest and the tales Hands Tell

"Show me your hands lad."

Perplexed  I did as requested and held my hands up. I had come out of the house to  meet him at his arrival and as ever his ways are often a mystery to me,  that is until he explains them. 

"Now turn them over, palms up."

His eyes gave the smile a mischief twist I was well familiar with these days. 

"What's the story today Big D? Some magic trick?"

That smile is his broadened a slight bit. 

"I have told you already lad, what is magic if not a skill you just don't understand."

My smile answered and I gave a resigned shake of my head.
"Go on then."

Opening his big paw like hands he cupped both of my hands one in each and stared intently at my palms.

"So  what do you know of the art of palmistry? No no don't answer, I think I  can see it here. Yes skepticism but with a curiosity yes."

He  began to inspect my hands, tracing the lines of my palms and taking  hold of my fingers at various times all the while, hmming  and hawing to  himself. 

"So, what do you see old man?"
Curiosity finally getting the better of me. 

His eyes remained fixed to my skin.
"I  see, I see, strength and yet fragility. I see purpose and yet pain. I  see affection and endurance. I see hands of a music maker, hands of  builder, hands of hospitality."

He stepped back and gazed at me with those deep eyes of his as a knowing smile crept its way into his face.
I gazed at my hands and wondered, recalling all I know of palmistry from the sources I had encountered.

"All that?"
My moment of contemplation was shattered to hear his guffaw of laughter followed by a deep rumbling chuckle.

"What? What's funny?"
His chuckle passed and with a deep breath he looked to me.

"You are, the look on your face."
My frown came down heavy and annoyed.

"Alright then, what's the trick?"
His eyes sparkled and his voice took on that tone of the knowledgeable teacher.

"As with any magic trick, the key is in the misdirection. What do you know of palmistry?"
As I began to marshal my thoughts to prepare an answer he interrupted and carried.

"It doesn't matter. That's the misdirection!"

"But how did you know the things you did then? I haven't touched that saxophone in years!"

"Alright lad, here is the key to the true skill of it."
As  usual, he paused, big smile on his broad features, allowing his  audience to await the big reveal like the very best of show men.

"I observed."

"You what? You're telling my you just looked and my hands?"
"No. Looking is just a passive state of awareness. What I did was observation or detailed active awareness.

Let's break it down shall we? 

Strength  and fragility was first. Feeling your hands and fingers showed me the  strength there, but observing your nails, bitten not clipped told me  you're nervous and biting them, so a certain about of anxiousness or  fragility in a sense. 

Purpose and yet pain. Well look at your hands and the slices healing on your skin.
You  have been working at some maintenance job or other. The multiple  directions of the cuts and locations around your index finger and thumb  showed that it was twisting for turning something, loosening a valve or a  bolt, one with sharp edges. The depth of them and the colour of the  healing skin shows that you bled but the repeated cross cuts showed that  you didn't stop and carried on. Purpose despite the pain.

Affection  and endurance is easy. The cats are quite playful and you enjoy their  company, but they do bite and scrape a lot and you seem to endure the  marks to your skin for the sake of the affection given with it."

"Ok  I get it. So it's paying attention to the details, but that's still  doesn't explain the rest. How can anything you would see tell you about  music? That saxophone hasn't been out of its case in years."

His  eyes took on a gleam of the mentor finding the gap in their pupils  thought process and savouring the moment prior to revelation. 

"You're forgetting that observation is not solely a function of the eye.
You're  hands smell very faintly of oil used to lubricate the functions on musical  instruments."

I looked at him in blank amazement at his explanation. 

"The nose knows" said Dagda as he tapped the side of his nostril with a large callused finger, and gave a conspiratorial wink. 

"Hold on....you missed one. What about hospitality?"

His smile broadened again to show teeth this time and I knew at that moment I had fallen into his trap.

"Well you're going to invite me in to your new home and make me a sandwich aren't you?"

His renewed guffaw followed me as I muttered my way into the kitchen to look after my guest

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Westward Wings

 Blue.

Part of my brain knows it's caused by the diffusion of light entering our atmosphere. The molecules which make up our planet's air slightly inhibit the passage of one particular wave length of light as it moves through.
This slows it enough so the human eye can register the wavelength as a distinct input known as colour and defined as blue.

That part is useful for the knowing of things, but it can't measure, quantify or completely express the beauty of the sky's azure mantle as I gaze up at it.

Eire is known for its greenery, the emerald isle and such. What they don't tell you is that all that green is well watered by the regular rolling presence of cloud and rain. Thing is, no plant can grow without light.

At times the clouds are peeled back and reveal the open expanse of the heavens in all their blue swathed glory, the bright sun streams down upon the land and every time I'm compelled to stop, and take a moment to appreciate the sky.

I shared this quiet moment with one other, away from the city and its bustle, its people moving to and fro, eyes set on the destination and missing the beauty of the scenery on the journey.

"I will be up there again soon."

It was the first words spoken in this meeting. I had arrived with a request to his Rath and found him atop the mound stretched out on the green grass, arms folded up and behind, with big hands cradling his head. I had watched the rise and fall of his broad chest, slow and steady, his eyes open and gazing without focus at the sky.

I did what anyone should, I joined him for a while.

Simple relaxed unfocused, breathing slowly and deeply. Synchronized breath, sharing the space and not needing to fill it with anything more than the ever present beauty which surrounded us.

I can't say how long we lay on the green grass, beneath the blue sky, warmed by the yellow sun, but I had purpose here and so came the words.

"I don't think I'm built for the sky. Too much of the heavy footed land stomping to me."

I had no need to shift my gaze, I knew I had his attention, though he gave no outward indication. Trust me, when Dagda's attention is upon you, you Will Know.

"America. near enough the other side of the world. My Love is going to do the work there and I'm her roadie, tech support, and coffin full of dirt."

The basso rumbling chuckle was the first noise he had made, knowing the joke for what it was.

How does one connect to your land when far from home after all. No Bram Stoker in this one, no tale of vampire, more a need to be buried in your own land, feel its touch beneath hand or foot, even if you could never make it back. Such is the prized possession of Land to the Irish heart. Such as I am, I'm humbled to be so for Her.

A few more slow breaths to settle the moment, blue of the sky above me, warmth of the sun upon my face, cool of the grass beneath my form, the scent of green life filling my nose.

"Will you come with me?"

There it was. The Ask.

His big chest rose and fell, steady and paced, relaxed yet somehow still powerfully implacable.

"I have been to this place before and its full of amazing, passionate people. They gather around this time of year to share knowledge, stories, food and drink. There is hospitality in abundance and community in all its range of colour and flavour."

The moment stretched out, and I found myself counting the breaths.

"I'm pretty sure you will like it there. There are some folk you would definitely get on very well with."

 The vast expanse of the blue sky filled my vision, my mind slipping into it, beginning to lose itself in its wide open emptiness. The knowing part of the brain started to volunteer more interesting yet irrelevant factoids, stuff about sub zero temperatures, explosive decompression, terminal velocity. I lost my focus and the synchronicity of the moment went with it.

"Ease yourself lad."

The words were but a soft whisper, but the willl behind that rumble stilled my mind.

"I have been asked to invite you. Not just for me but for them. They know you and call to you. Now I have been asked to help in their space and call you and frankly I'm perplexed as much as I'm honored. I don't know what to say or if you would even hear me over there."

The anxiety in my voice was grating to my own ears, yet it brought a compassionate chuckle from my companion. His words rolled out softly, chiding me gently for my apprehension.

"Do you think I haven't been there before?  Do you think I have not heard my name called in all the years they have honoured it? Do you think I wouldn't respond where honest community gathers and hospitality offered?"

Slow and steady breath lead to another rumbled chuckle from his broad chest.

"I have always been where I am invited to be, and grateful I am to each of them who hold a place open for me."

"What do I say when they ask me to invite you in to the space they keep for you? How do I give honour to them who ask this of me and respect to you for the asking?"

His sigh was one of a patient teacher, taking a moment to explain what should already have been obvious.

"Answer me this, how comfortable was it to sit in the space they set aside for me last year? How did you know the drumming of the cauldron? How did you know the words to ease the lost who did visit? How did you have an answer for John when he asked of you the ways of a Dagda devotional?"

My memories of these activities arose and I was warmed by the fondness of them.

"You were there already anyway."

The realization came like weight dropping from my shoulders. I recalled again each moment and looked for that which had been there but I had overlooked. The voice that had spoken but had, at that time, been unheard. The big broad hand that had rested casually upon my shoulder.

Tears started to roll from my eyes and I did not wipe them away. I let them fall down my face and water the earth beneath me. The words didn't matter. What words could? The intent of one's heart was more significant than the noises used to shape it.

I understood, yet still a small part of me held its anxiousness.

"What if I'm just crazy and this is all in my head? Who am I to speak of or for deity?"

His words came and I could hear the broad smile of them without looking over. I knew the shape and lines of his face, the curl of his hair and beard, the creased curves around his deep compassionate eyes.

"If your crazy drives you to be a better person, more caring and compassionate, more giving of hospitality and support for community, more intent on bringing smiles and joy where you can, then I say more people should be as crazy as you."

The blue sky was scored by the trail of a plane as it slid its way westward, metal wings causing condensation clouds to stream out in its wake.

"Oh, and make sure your passport is still in date."

His chuckle followed me as I leapt up cursing myself and rushed off down the hill.

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Patience of a Patron

It was overcast and heavy outside. The wind huffed its way through the trees, setting their leaves all a fluster. 

Somewhere a dog was barking. Shouting his scorn in words falling upon deaf ears. 

People moved too and fro on their journeys, passing one another with hurried defensive strides. 

He spent many days at this window. Warm within his comfortable home, running his gaze back and forth as the world bustled on by. 

The world had gone and gotten itself in an awful hurry.

The broad features were rich with care worn lines and as usual a slight frown drew his heavy eyebrows slightly closer together.

It hadn't been too long since the last visit from the little story teller, but still he felt the creep of that loneliness return. For so long he had existed without companionship and had, so he believed, been quite content. 

Now he wasn't so sure.

There had always been change, for to change is to grow, but now the change was building and he felt the shifting energies as if it were an ache in his very bones. She was at work, He was sure of that.

There were Big tales to be told. There was work to be done and change to occur, but even the little storyteller's life was full of its own bustle. 

Shaking his head to clear the clouds within he turned from the window and roamed his gaze about the room. The table stood with papers strewn across its surface.

Moving over he glanced down at the words scrawled in print. Here a sheet describing a battle against a worthy rival. 

He smiled to recall that great day and reaching his big hand up to his arm, stroked the scar there under his loose shirt with a callused thumb. 

 It was a good fight that, he thought as he returned the paper to the pile.

His eyes roamed across the sheets and scrawls, the sketches and the drawings, coming to rest on another pile as yet unfinished. 

The smile became a smirk as he recalled the storytellers blush.

No prude them-self, they still turned quite red as he began describing the encounter at the ford. This work will be completed like the others, the story teller just needed time away from that particularly heated topic. 

Stepping past the table he moved towards his chair, passing the wall where he fondly kept all the postcards he received from those all around the world who took time to remember him. There were not many, but he cherished each and every one, and always enjoyed a happy smile when another one arrived. 

Settling into his wide comfy arm chair, he glanced at the phone. It had been a long time since it rang and once again there were no messages. 

Blowing out a hefty sigh, the Dagda picked up his book and turned back to his place to read. 

The Scéalaí Beag would be back soon. Who knows, maybe there would be a call for help with some work or other once the stories get around. 

He smiled at the memory of the big busy days, then got back into his book.

He was nothing if not patient.


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A Grey Day

The rain fell in sheets as was its manner in the green isle.

 

The heavy clouds pressing themselves close to the land, speeding the waters' fall to the earth with their nearness. 

The storm had rolled in during the night and commenced its deluge.

It was a day for big coats, warm hats or hoods, and a sturdy umbrella.

He enjoyed the rain.

As he donned his heavy long coat and turned the collar up around his thick neck he smiled ,remembering a line from a movie.  The character's mother had told her that “god was in the rain”.

This idea always tickled him, because on one level the mother was correct in that some people view the elements as a source of worship, but the smile always got that little bit wider when he stepped outside and felt the first drops hit his face.

Opening the broad golf umbrella, he set off down the road in his usual rolling gait, his trim frame leaning slightly forward into the rain. He’d had no need for big work of late, so a big appetite and big shape was not required.

The smile slipped to a thoughtful frown as he passed the election posters. Politicians. The elected leaders set to govern in the interests of the people. 

That same movie provided a new line from his memory, one which he could not help but feel saddened by : "People should not fear their government, governments should fear their people."

These elected officials seem most concerned with their status and personal benefits, with their back talk and 'policy' discussion. 

Where was the leadership?  Where the sacrifice to do what was best for the people?

The People, so caring and understanding and welcoming as a nation, but are they too understanding? Where is the anger and fight?

He has seen a lot of change in his time upon this island, and looked forward to a lot more.

It was needed.

His eyes moved back to the water falling abundantly from the sky. Water, given freely by the process of the world’s cycles. 

They expected the people to pay for that which falls freely from the sky? Sure, there are processes that are important to manage disease and health to make it consumable for people these days.

All of that science must have worked, as humans these days lived a lot longer, or should he say, their life extended a lot longer than some he could recall. 

The sadness began to settle upon him; so many gone who never had as many years as people these days. So many, who sang and fought ,who loved and lost. 

So many whose greatness echoed even onto this very day.

They may have had shorter lives back then, but they definitely lived them to the full. 

In an effort to wash away the sadness, he stopped in the street, and moving the umbrella aside he tilted his head back and set his face to the rain’s fall. 

The water was cold as it splashed on his skin. In seconds the rain had soaked his broad features and was running in little rivulets through the care worn lines of his forehead, and those around his eyes.

If there had been tears shed then they would fall with the rest of the water to wet the earth. 

Heaving a sigh he shook himself, and caused a cascade of water to shift off of him and hammer into the ground.

Looking down he saw the waters flow to the side of the concrete pathway and into the drains and away. 

Flowing, always flowing.

His face softened and a small smile returned as the umbrella once again covered him from the falling water. 

 

There will always be change, it cannot be stopped.

Like the waters which flow it will always find a way. There will be those that try fighting it but eventually they will be worn down or worked around. 

Change is a power that all people possess. From the small to the large, the change starts with each person, and it starts with a choice.

He recalled the news of communities coming together. Neighbour standing with neighbour in peaceful opposition to the government forcing its agenda against the will of the people.

His smile became that bit bigger as he considered the wider world impact his little island had when its people raised their voice and collectively declared that the union of two people, one to the other, should not be restricted based on their gender. 

Change, a power every person possesses, and it starts with a choice. 

 Putting one foot in front of the other, he moved on through the grey wet gloom until he reached his destination.

The pub was warm and dry, a fire crackled merrily over in the hearth. A few patrons sat about the space chatting and enjoying companionship.

Tapping off his umbrella he placed in the stand. Shirking off his big coat he hung it by the door and strolled up to his stool at the bar. 

Shaking out his paper he let his mind drift as his eyes moved, waiting for the barman to finish serving the woman down the way.

“What’ll it be Big D?”

“Pint of the usual, please Derek. Got any tips on the horses today?”

“No way D. I lost more than enough on that last run yesterday. I wouldn’t want to give you my bad luck.”

As the barman moved away to pull the pint, the woman he had just served slipped in to the seat beside him.

“Warmaiden in the fourth might suit. I hear she is feisty and likes to bite, but they say she is one amazing ride, if you like to gamble.” 

His eyes left the paper and roamed up her small frame to a face of fine sharp features and smiling pink lips.

It was always her eyes though. Every time, they seemed to stop his heart and steal his breath. Those eyes roamed about his shape in return, from his broad shoulders to his slim waist.

“If it’s not too improper to ask, I’m curious, why did he call you 'Big' D?”

The Dagda’s eyes took on a mischievous twinkle as his dimples came out to match his broad smile.

“Well….”


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The Magic of the Third String

 The gathering was a small intimate affair with no more than 10 guests mixing and chatting as they moved about the warm dry interior of the Rath.

The Dagda was tired of the big days and the big shows.

Sometimes the best thing a soul can do is choose the small things and enjoy them for their simplicity. 

The atmosphere was relaxed, a few bottles of mead had been opened for the sipping and a small selection of cold meats, fresh bread, and cheese was laid out on the table. 

The Dagda's chair was large and low. A comfortable sprawl of a thing, stuffed with goose down and covered with sheep skin, the wool kept clean and soft with regular replacement from his flocks .

It commanded a fine view of the space without dominating the area as a point of attention. 

Literally, speaking it was the best seat in the house. 

Hunkered down upon the earth, the Dagda's smile was broad and layered with many joys when he gazed upon it from across the room.  

To see her scuffy feet curled about each other at the fine ankle, legs folded beneath her up on the chairs cushioned base.
Her back arched as she lent side ways, over her crossed arms, supporting her light weight on the chair's limb.
Her fine shoulders leading to a slim neck and on up to that face. He knew every curve, edge and angle of her face, even turned aside as she was, intent on her conversation. 

The sight gave him quite the stir as he drank in her sharp beauty.
His match, his equal, his savior and destroyer.

His Mate. 

His intent must have resonated too ardently as her eyes flickered to connect with his for but a moment, her smile widening a fraction before she returned to her talk with Brigit. The two had settled in early upon arrival and been deep in chat ever since.

A moment or two later the pair of them lit the room with a peal of laughter, not the first of the evening, and he much doubted it would be the last.

It always did his heart good to see his daughter at her ease, with her cares set aside for a time and her warm affection comforting and close. 

Ha! You have lost my Chieftain. There is no victory for you here.

The Dagda's eyes returned to the ground in front of him where the bone pieces sat as they had been cast. 

Lines darkened by ink slashed each carved bone. Some with small lines sprouting from a main line, some bisecting it. 

Absent mindedly rubbing his scarred ear, the Dagda's eyes took in all the bones position and lines, and could see he had indeed lost this round.

With a good natured chuckle he collected the bones in his big hands. 

 I must say Ogma, all these lines are quite complex. Are you sure you have explained all the variations to me? 

What needs explaining brother? The central line sets the length and shape of the word and the sprouts and bisects its letters. 

He cast the bones for his last throw, knowing full well his brothers 'game' had been invented for the purpose of the Dagda loosing some of his flock. 

With a smile he saw that indeed he had lost but he would not begrudge Ogma his victory.

Another round? I will stake my new sheep against some of your cattle? 

The Dagda laughed heartily and held up his hands. 

A good chieftain knows when to call his battle over. 
Why not try your hand against the skillful one and see how you fair. 

Following the direction of the nod and with the light of mischief in his eyes Ogma crossed the space to educate Lugh on the rules of the game. 

He'll not have as easy a time of it with quick fingers over there. 

The voice was deep and gravelly, the throat that created it having been scarred by smoke and fire.

Aye Goibhniú, you're not wrong there. I have no doubt Lugh will have the léine off him, unless Ogma can keep his head sharp and eyes open. 

Tis a nice gathering you have here. Still wish you could have let me being the feast. I have such treats as to leave an ache for the taste of them. 

The Dagda smiled to recall the feasts of  Goibhniú and the many days of aching taste and sensation. 

Thank you but no. These revels are for quieter folk. 

I'm really glad you could make it. Can you abide a while longer my friend? How fair the forge fires? Will they not dwindle without you're care?

The fires will hold awhile yet as they are well feasted upon my wood store. 
Besides, your companionship I could take or leave but your fresh bread should never be missed. 

With a salute of his mead cup the smith moved over to the table, tore a large chunk from a fresh loaf and, slathering it in butter, began to tear into it heartily. 

The Dagda sat a moment with a content smile on his face. 

Eyes drifting closed for he allowed all the sounds of his home wash over him. 

This was a simple joy. Good food and good company. The best of things to heal a heart. 

Opening his eyes, he reached up to take down his harp. 

With a fond caress of its wooden sound-box and intricate frame, he moved his thick fingers to the strings. 

In no more than a touch they were all a hum with a soft sound set to dance about the space. 

Light tones, split and merged in intricate harmony as the Dagda closed his eyes again and allowed the music into his heart. 

His fingers danced and strummed as the tune flowed down deeper into him. Touching his joy it seemed to sparkle in that space behind his eyes. The melody swirling and twirling a mesmerizing sensation of elation within him. 

Deeper and deeper the music flowed, and his fingers allowed the emotions out. 

The song changed. 

Subtly at first, but then markedly so. The notes became longer, the tempo slower, the longer strings giving a more somber bend to the tune. 

The music reached the vault where in the Dagda carries the woes of the world. 

The pain of the peoples for their loss of loved ones.

The impotent frustration at the injustices committed upon them by those who should be their neighbor.

The grief gathered upon the collective shoulders of all who have known violence and abuse. 

An old warriors sufferance receiving the scorn of the young.

The traveler from afar distrusted due to their difference.

The disregard and dismissal of a talent just because of the sex of the one possessing it.

The tune spun about these woes and shed them, up and out through those thick fingers, freeing them in the vibration of string and the resonance of a wooden box. 

The Dagda sat, eyes closed and breathing slowly, packing away the vault once more. Settling his mind as the the untouched strings began to settle. 

The last to cease its song was the third, and the Dagda open his eyes. 

A fine pair of boots stood on the ground in front of him. 

You move us all with that harp. Its range to bring joy and to bring sadness astound me every time. Truly its imbued with the Dagda's magic, and a powerful magic that is.

Looking up the Dagda met eyes of the Ildánách. Fine of form and fair of face he stood in his finery with eyes turned to red for the weeping and cheeks wet with his tears.

Heaving a hefty sigh the Dagda glanced down at the harp. 

Magic? 

As he raised his eyes, once more they were alight with his usual sly mischief. 

I guess that's what anyone would call a skill they had yet to comprehend. 

The look of shock was stuck to Lugh's face as the Morrigan's amused snort changed the tears of one and all to laughter.

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A Game of Turns

The space was warm and comfortable, it's earthy scents surrounding her as she readied the game pieces. 

The darkness of her home was alleviated by a large warm fire crackling joyfully on the hearth and candles circuiting the main chamber. 

Company was coming. 

As the last piece was placed on the board she took a moment to admire her work. 

Tiles of blackthorn interspersed with oak blackened from the bog set a checkered pattern across its surface, sanded smooth by her hand.  

The chess pieces were carved in matching woods and stood sentinel ready for the challenge to come. 

Staring at the pieces she plotted and forged her strategies. Tactical positioning and preplanned manoeuvres. Her hand fondly stroked the queen piece, some would say the most versatile and powerful of  the game. This had pleased her greatly when first she encountered this game.  

She did not miss the heavy tread of her opponents arrival. He often lumbered about making great show of stomping slowly along, but all of this was to her just that, a show. She of all knew how silent and subtle he could be should be wish it. 

Stepping into the room, he gave her a broad grin to which she replied with a raised eyebrow. Doffing his coat he hung it upon the rack and produced from its deep pockets a bottle of wine. 

Fetching two goblets he poured them both a measure, which she accepted with a slight nod. The wine was deep red with a heady full flavour. Her favourite. Holding the goblet up she inhaled its scent, savouring the moment, then allowed its liquid to caress her lips. 

She looked up to see him admiring her work with an impressed appraisal. His thick fingers stroking each in turn from queen down to pawn. 

He was set to play the blackthorn and so awaited her opening move. 

The game began as she sent forth her pawns in sacrifice for position on the field. Her knights, moved about in sweeping manoeuvres, reaped a tally among the pawns of her opponent and he moved slowly in defence. Bishops plied their angles deep into the opposite side of the field as her queen made her presence felt in every section of the field from attack to defence. 

The game wore on with pieces falling to her planned strategies, a victory seemed assured time and again, yet always seemed to fall short of killing his King as he managed to build a defence from what appeared to be a formless mass of pieces but a moment before. 

Her frustration grew to be so blocked but she would not be stayed. With an aggressive twist to her strategies she pushed further into his lines, taking more territory from him yet aware that this caused her to sacrifice more pieces. 

All the while he remained resolute, pulling stoic defence time and again whilst being whittled down in number but tightening his holding each turn. 

With a short pause of consideration he picked up his last pawn, loan survivor of the earlier massacre in centre play and placed him forward, taking her piece and claiming a new advantage. With a sigh he sat back to sip again from his goblet. 

Her eyes narrowed and looked from him to the board and back. The outcome was clear. 

Every move she could make would bring ruin to not only his forces but also to hers. In one simple move he had cornered her play and she finally saw that this had been his strategy from the start. 

With a cold frustration she raised her hand to make her move when the room was filled with a Crack!

The table toppled to its side and the pieces spilled across the floor, the moment forever lost for that game.

The table leg had snapped. Broken through from old age wear and tear. 

The Dagda moved about the floor carefully collecting the chess pieces, ensuring no harm had befallen them and that they were safely returned to the Morrigan. 

I'm sorry love. 

That old table I made for you seems to have let us down at last. 

How about we call that one a draw eh? 

His grin was broad and his eyes sparkled with mischief. 

She couldn't be sure the table had simply just ceased to function correctly or if it was assisted towards its demise. 

With a smirk on her face she closed the box on her pieces.

Pour me another measure of that wine ya big oaf. 

And the Dagda was more than happy to comply.

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Gardens of Silence

The throaty rumble of the engine came to a stop as the hearse rolled slowly to its position.

Silence returned to the garden, disturbed only by the wind in the few trees and the soft shuffle step of the mourners. 

The box was slowly taken from the vehicle, heavy with a saddening emptiness, born aloft by the kin of the deceased within.

The procession moved off behind the symbol of their sacrificed saviour, lead by a Godsman reciting   words of their ritual of internment. 

Passing the oak tree, no eyes acknowledged the two figures standing beneath its boughs.

One tall and fair, with bright beautiful features and fine raiment of an age not fitting the time.

The other, shorter but a half again as broad of shoulder than the first, hunkered down in a squat with wide back resting again the tree, a dirty léine covering his muscled form. 

Why for do you come to these gardens time and again? 

Lugh's voice had a musical lilt that almost hid the scorn.

They don't even know your name anymore, let alone say it out loud. 

At least a few tales of me remain and many are the skills that bear a calling back to me. 

The other figure did not move or turn at Lugh's comment.

His eyes fixed on the mourners as the last of them, a small boy, shuffled past. The boy seemed lost in thought, adrift in the ritual of the old.

The Godsman finished the words of ritual and sealed the ceremony with fire and water.

The box was lowered down, passing into the earth to renew the soil and return the clay to the land that had sustained it in life. 

The mourners began to drift away as the silence of the garden reasserted itself. 

With a grunt the broad figure rose and with a rap of his knuckles on the oak, opened the door. 

As they passed through the Dagda looked back one last time at the small figure by the fresh turned earth. 

Just because they do not believe in me, does not mean I should give up my belief in them. 

As the door closed the boy at last began to relax.

The strangely dressed men had worried him, though like many things of this sort he couldn't tell the adults. 

At least the dirty one had looked friendly. 

I wonder what his name is, thought the boy, as he said a farewell to his grandad.


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