Fantasy

R6 Festuscato: 8 Branwen’s Cove, part 1 of 3

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The port at Branwen’s Cove seemed a bustling Welsh port in the northwest corner of the Welsh coast, at least as far as any port could bustle between visits by Irish pirates and Pictish and Saxon raiders. Captain Breok’s ship sailed in on the morning tide and his passengers were set to have a day ashore while he dropped off the sheep and picked up a load of stone for the fort and city wall building at Caerdyf.  While Mirowen, Mousden and Bran walked toward the town, the Priests said they wanted to visit the only church.  It had been attached to a monastery where a dozen monks of an unapproved order scratched out a living on a nearby hillside, growing stubborn grain and raising horses. Festuscato and Dibs opted for the nearest pub and they all agreed to meet there after their errands.  They were still on the dock laughing when the Saxons came out of the town and three Saxon warships came around the bend in the cove.

“Captain Breok.  Treeve.”  Everyone shouted, but the crew had already abandoned ship and headed for them as their only safe bet.  Festuscato, Bran and Dibs drew their swords, and Mirowen pulled out her bow to take the point.  Mousden screamed a lot and hid himself between the Gaius and Seamus.  With the crew following, they ran into the dozen Saxons sent to take and guard the docks for the oncoming ships.

The fight became brutal.  Seven Saxons went down, and three crew members.  Dibs took a cut in his hand, though not a bad one and he called it a stupid mistake; but the other three Saxons ran back into the town, which had started to burn.

“This way.”  A man in a plain brown robe looked around the corner, even as Captain Breok looked back.  The Saxon warships would be at the dock in a minute.  They really had no choice.  “Fathers. This way.”  The man pleaded, and they followed him down into a gully along the back side of some houses.  They were headed toward the monastery.  Many of the townspeople were just ahead of them, and the Saxons came a step behind.

Festuscato pulled out his bow as the crew ran past. Mirowen joined him, and they shot and mostly wounded some fifteen Saxons that came three or four at a time.  By the time they turned, the people were at the monastery, behind a four-foot stone wall, dragging whatever they could find to reinforce the barricade and fill the gap at the entrance.  Festuscato traded places with Gerraint, since he remembered the gift of elf speed, and Gerraint and Mirowen both ran at top speed, right over the barricade and into the courtyard.  Festuscato came right back, but he felt the exhilaration of that speed, and his adrenaline pumped wildly.

“Lord Agitus,” Gaius called.  “Send the wounded in to the common room with the women and children.”

Festuscato waved and jumped up on the nearest wagon. “Listen up.  Everybody pay attention.  Listen.”  Dibs, Bran and Treeve shouted the same, and the crowd quieted for a moment.  “Men grab whatever weapon you can and get to the wall.  Children and women inside with the wounded, unless you women know how to shoot a bow or want to fight beside your men.  Get to the wall and look mean.”  He jumped down and added for Dibs and Bran, “The only way to keep the Saxons out is to make it look too costly to attack.”  He added one more shout.  “Seamus, put down that book and help.”  He walked the wall where the men and some women stood on buckets, barrels, and behind upside-down wagons or whatever they could find to put their face above the wall. One of the monks came out with two dozen bows and dozens of arrows.

“A hobby,” the monk said.  “I make these because even we have to hunt now and then.”

Quiet followed, for several hours, while the people watched their homes burn, their town turn to ashes, and Captain Breok lamented the loss of his ship.  Festuscato sent Colan and Mousden to the roof to keep an eye on the enemy while he looked around.  Bran and two young monks, Cedrych and Madog secured the back door and set a watch to be sure the Saxons did not try to sneak around the monastery building to come at them from the rear.  Seamus, two older monks and several women also went out back to check the barn, the stables, and inventory their food supplies in case they were stuck for a while. Dibs and Treeve, the nearest Festuscato had to officers, organized the men and women on the wall and made sure the bows got into the right hands, and the rest had weapons of one sort or another.

“It is about all we can do for now until we see what the Saxons have in mind,” Festuscato told Gareth, the Abbot.  He claimed to be the third Abbot since Saint Dylan founded the monastery by the sea some eighty years earlier.

“We hold the saint’s bones and relics in the church,” Gareth explained.  “It is said when fishermen from the village are long at sea, the women come here to ask the saint to send them home, and he sends them home safe.”

Festuscato nodded and stepped into the church where Mirowen caught up.  “Lord,” she said.  “I have the young people, and by that, I mean those under thirteen, pledged to defend the mothers and babies and those too old to fight, though there are not many who admit they are too old.  Gaius has the wounded to tend.  One man and one woman are in danger, but most have minor cuts, and one has a broken arm.”

“I should let Greta look at the arm,” Festuscato said.

“Yes, Lord.  Gaius says he will be needed to hear confessions.”

“We rarely have a true Priest among us,” Gareth admitted.  “We are such a poor and small community.”

“You have no riches.  You only have rocks,” Festuscato agreed.  “Which is why I want to see what might bring the Saxons here. At the risk of sounding like a late medieval cliché, I need to look at your altar.”

“It is true,” Gareth said.  “The only thing we have in abundance is stone in our fields. It does not help us grow our grain.”

The cross on the altar was wood, but inlaid with gold, silver and several precious stones.  The chalice appeared pure silver, and the candlesticks, pure gold.  “The candlesticks,” Festuscato said while he grabbed the cross and chalice.  Mirowen took the candlesticks.

“Wait.  What are you doing?” Gareth did not protest so much as he simply did not understand. “These are holy.  They belong to the church.  They are not to be taken.” Gareth got in their way.  “Where do you think you are going?”

Festuscato paused.  “Abbot.  What do you think God cares more about, the lives of all those innocent men, women and children, or this gold and silver?  Trinkets can be remade.  You think about that.”  He brushed passed the Abbot and Mirowen stayed with him.

R6 Festuscato: 7 Travelers, part 3 of 3

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“Attend,” Danna said, clapped her hands, and all three wraiths appeared before her and promptly fell to their knees, even if they continued to float about a foot off the ground.  They had knees at least.  It was the feet beneath the nightgown-like dresses they wore that were invisible or non-existent.  Danna tapped her foot and put her hands to her hips.  “You have names?”  And she knew their names.  Morgan had the dark hair, Mabon was the blond and Moira had flaming red hair.  “Change of venue,” Danna decided.

Mirowen came running out the front door, saw what was happening and said, “Lady,” and stood quiet.

Danna waved her hand and all five women appeared on Captain Breok’s ship.  “I have made it so the Captain and his crew cannot see or hear you or in any way be harmed or frightened by you.  I have done the same for Mousden since Mirowen does not need the screams in the night, and come to think of it, I have done the same for the dock-master and any workmen or locals who have occasion to be aboard ship before we leave.  The tie between you and the Travelers is now severed.  You are henceforth tied to the ship until I give you leave.”

“Goddess, we will starve.”

“You will not starve, but you will not feed for a time.”  Danna changed back to Festuscato and he continued speaking.  “Mirowen and I will be the only ones you can communicate with, and you can only do that if it is polite and not threatening.  Break the rule, and I will cut you off from everyone, and it will be like you don’t exist, and you will starve, so be polite until I give you leave.”

Festuscato took Mirowen’s hand and walked her across the plank to the dock while the wraiths wailed their lament and followed up to an invisible barrier where they could not leave the ship.  “Thanks a lot.”  Mirowen inched closer to her Lord.  “I’ll have nightmares for years even after you let them go.”

They ran into Captain Breok on the dock, and he asked a friendly enough question.  “Why are you two still awake?  We are leaving before dawn.”

“I was just thinking I should sleep well, now,” Festuscato grinned at Mirowen.

“Okay. I’ll give you that one,” Mirowen admitted.

“Then again, maybe Fianna is awake and wondering where I went, in which case I might not sleep at all.”

“Lord.”  Mirowen slapped his shoulder, softly.  “I will not give you that one.”

###

“So tell me,” Captain Breok said, over a late supper. The time, just after nine, when the moon started to rise.  “All day I have watched you speaking to the air and I have not seen who you are talking to. But I believe you have been talking to someone, perhaps invisible.  I offer three reasons for my belief and please tell me where I am mistaken. First, anyone else and I would say they had lost their mind, but you?  Second, I saw the lady speaking to the air more than once as well.  Third, I saw when you laid your hand on young Mousden’s head, and from the way he screamed and flew up to the masthead, I would say he certainly saw something.  So, tell me I am wrong.”

“I saw,” Dibs said.  “But I pretended I did not see so they left me alone.”

“I saw nothing,” Gaius said, and Bran and Seamus agreed, but Seamus added a note.

“I felt something frightening, something evil and uncanny all day, but I saw nothing so I said nothing.”

Everyone paused and waited for Festuscato to speak. “What you did not see,” he said. “Was for your own protection, for you and your crew.  Mousden has been likewise protected, and only caught a glimpse because the women claimed they were starving, and pixie fright was a treat.  In the case of these Christian men, there is a natural disconnect. Their faith can be turned like a weapon, so the women hide from them so the men must make a special effort to see. They have made no effort because until now they had no idea there was something to see.  Interesting that you made those observations since they were not out much during the day.  They have made a place for themselves down in the hold and mostly rest in the shadows during daylight.  They say the sun makes them look too wan and pale and hard to see.  The moon, they say, makes them glow.  I wouldn’t know about such things.  Mirowen?”

“Don’t ask me.  I haven’t glowed in years.”

“No.  Not true. You glow even now.”  They all protested, but Mirowen yawned,

“Raising boys is a dirty business,” she said.

“Not surprising your invisible visitors are women,” Gaius said, softly.

Mirowen yawned again.  “I am so tired.  The sea does that, but I probably won’t sleep a wink tonight.”

“Me neither,” Festuscato admitted, and they were still up at sunrise with Dibs and Gaius talking about old times when Colan and Mousden both shouted down.

“Sail ho!”  It appeared a ship they were all familiar with, and Festuscato groaned, while Mirowen clicked her tongue.

“What will it take to teach this guy.”

“Captain Keravear and his Pictish lads,” Captain Breok named the ship.  “Treeve. Get that sail down and get the men lined up.  Now, I want to hear please spare us and bless you good Captain nice and loud this time, and with feeling.  Last time I felt like you were getting a bit lax.”

“Captain, wait a minute,” Festuscato interrupted everyone as Bran and Seamus came up alongside him to get a good look over the railing.  “I have three women here begging to be let loose.  Ladies.”  Festuscato turned to speak to what the rest imagined as empty air, but he spoke sharply and wagged his finger.  “I want you to turn them away from this ship and head north, back to their home port, but you have to do it carefully.  Don’t scare them to death or drive them insane, and don’t scare them so badly they abandon ship.  If they abandon ship, you will be stuck floating around on an aimless, empty ship forever, or until you sink and drown in the sea.  So be careful.  Let them take you to their port.  Then I recommend you move inland with the Scotts over the years.  One day, they will build great stone forts and castles in the highlands, especially around the lochs.  You are welcome to haunt those places, and if you get to Loch Ness, say hi to Stubby for me, okay?”  The invisible women seemed to respond, because after a moment, Festuscato added, “Go on, then.  Shoo. Scat.” and he, Mirowen, and Dibs watched something head toward the oncoming ship.

“I liked the blond,” Dibs said.

“The redhead,” Festuscato countered.

“You have a thing for red hair,” Mirowen pointed out the obvious.

It did not take long for the ship to turn around and head north.  Mirowen smiled like she had been set free.  To Mousden’s question she said, “You don’t want to know.”

“To Wales?” Captain Breok asked.

“To Wales.”  Festuscato confirmed.

“I want to thank you for shielding our eyes and ears, and I don’t want to know, either,” Treeve, the mate said.

“Yes.  thanks,” the Captain said, and added to Treeve, “Go get Gerens.”

“All in a day’s work,” Festuscato said, and he went back to looking out over the endless waves of the Irish sea.

************************

MONDAY

Festuscato takes his crew back to Wales, but finds the Saxons there doing what Saxons do.  See you Monday for R6 Festuscato: 8 Branwen’s Cove.  Until then, Happy Reading

*

R6 Festuscato: 7 Travelers, part 2 of 3

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Festuscato got up in the night, carefully and quietly so he did not wake Fianna.  He heard moans coming from the other rooms in MacNeill’s house, but one good scream woke him. He felt fairly sure the scream came from MacNeill’s mother’s room, and it sounded very different from the moans and screams Fianna let out.  Festuscato fought the urge to go back to bed.

Once in the hall, he caught an odor of lavender and pomegranate.  He knew that meant something, but he could not think of what it was, so he asked Greta. Since she did not trust Festuscato’s nose and because scents did not travel well in time between one lifetime and another, Greta had to come and smell it out for herself.  “Definitely lavender and pomegranate.  Smells like too much bad, old lady perfume.”  Greta felt something that Festuscato did not, but she did not see anything, even when she looked in on MacNeill’s mother so Gerraint volunteered.  He said he had been filled with so many gifts from the little ones, something ought to apply. They were gifts he tried not to take advantage of in his own lifetime, but he figured in Festuscato’s time he might help out.

The first thing Gerraint did was take a big whiff of air.  He was not sniffing the lavender and pomegranate, but with his dwarf enhanced sense, he could sniff out an intruder half a mile away in the underground labyrinth of a dwarf mine.  He sensed three presences, one of which definitely seemed to be in MacNeill’s mother’s room. He looked again, but saw nothing, so he tried his goblin enhanced sight where he could see in the dark like an ordinary person could see in daylight.  He closed his eyes for a second to bring up the gift, and when he opened them, he screamed.  The face, inches from his own, looked like a rotting corpse, a grinning skull with the lips peeled away, a maggot infested horror.  Gerraint immediately called on another gift, the elf ability to run like the wind.

Gerraint raced out of the manor house in the blink of an eye, but there he turned and ran up the side of the house toward the roof. Near the top, he had to let his gift for fairy flight take over.  Most people don’t know that fairies can fly, even when they are in their big form and without wings, but they can’t fly fast or far, and it is very draining.  In this case, Gerraint landed on the edge of the roof where he could crouch down beside a chimney and watch the door and the clapboard windows on the first and second floors.

Gerraint thought about what he saw and what it might be. There were too many options.  It would probably not be not a fever spirit because no one was sick, and not likely an incubus or nightmare spirit or bogyman because he felt no pressure to try to get inside of his head.  Besides, he got the impression that the rotting corpse head looked female so it would not be a bogyman.  It did not seem to be a succubus or banshee, thank God, because it made no move to sink its claws into him and suck out his life force.  It might be a phantom or ghost or specter, but they all tended to be tied to a location.  He supposed one might have gotten attached to a Traveler wagon, but then they would be haunting the Travelers.  They were not so smart.  This clearly went out from the Traveler camp to attack the locals.  That said two things.  First, it was intelligent enough to not attack its ride, its means of escape. Second, it said that if discovered, it risked being driven off or maybe killed, which meant it was vulnerable.

Gerraint paused when he heard voices.  Gaius, Seamus and Bran were coming back from town.  MacNeill walked with them, asking questions about the faith, while they dropped him at his door before they walked to the barracks where they had beds. At the same time, he saw the three wraiths float out the front door, looking for him.  He had seen them, or one of them, and that posed a threat to them. Gerraint watched as the wraiths gave the priests and Bran a wide berth.  The Priests were committed believers, and Bran seemed worse in a way. He was a Puritan a thousand years before such things existed.  Gerraint watched one wraith reach for MacNeill, a man who still had serious doubts and questions. but the other two pulled her back.  And Gerraint stood.

“Faith,” he said to himself.  “The kind that engenders courage can suck the life out of the wraiths.  A dangerous thing to count on in a pinch.  Meanwhile,” Gerraint shrieked when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“What are you doing up here?”  Mousden got in his face.

Gerraint held his heart and took a breath before he responded.  He wanted to ask what Mousden was doing, but he took a turn in Festuscato’s lifetime, so his words reflected that.  “Loose brick,” he lied.  He laid his hand on the chimney and watched Mousden look close to try and find which one.

They both stopped when they heard the low moan. They turned and saw the wraiths had floated up to face them.  Mousden flew off screaming, and one of the wraiths followed, though at her speed she would never catch him.  Gerraint leapt off the roof and used his own fairy flight to land safely on the ground.

“Ladies of the night,” he called.  The two that followed him to the ground paused.  “You feast on fear and screams in the night, but faith and courage drain you.  That is why you do not take on full substance, so people will always wonder what they heard and saw, or if they actually saw anything at all, or if it was something like a nightmare.  You hitched a ride with the Travelers and have haunted village after village.  I would bet the Travelers have had to move on from place to place sooner than they wished as they got blamed for the terrors in the night.”

“You understand things,” the wraith with the dark hair said.

“But I sense no great faith in you,” the blond spoke.

“You probably don’t sense much of anything about me. I am hidden in the ancient days. But believe me, the faith is there, and deeper than you know,” Gerraint said, and thought that he could hardly do his job of watching over history if he did not have faith that all things could work together for good no matter how much he messed up.

“The pixie scream tasted good, but it does not fill,” The dark one said, and she started back toward the house, the blond following.  Gerraint knew this haunting could not go on.  It was not fair to the Tinkers or to the people in the villages where the Travelers went.  This was not anything that would remotely threaten history.  This was not ultimately a danger to anyone, because as far as he could tell, these were the kind of wraiths that had no interest in scaring people to death or driving them insane since they would lose their meal ticket.  This seemed the kind of wraith a lord might keep around his fort if he wanted to scare off intruders without actually damaging them; but then again, the wraith would ultimately not discriminate between friend and foe.

Gerraint stopped thinking when he heard another scream from inside the house.  Though history stayed safe, and these lesser spirits posed no real threat to his little ones, despite Mousden’s reaction, and they were not alien threats like the Wolv or whole armies of Saxons, Scots or Danes, or he should say Scops or Dames. Even so, Danna thought she might do something.  After all, she seemed to be spending a lot of time in Festuscato’s day, what with Rhiannon and all.  Gerraint agreed and stepped aside so Danna could step into the Irish world.

R6 Festuscato: 7 Travelers, part 1 of 3

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Cathar, chief of the Tinkers, seemed a good man though Mirowen called him a breed, and did not trust him.  Festuscato could almost smell the blood of the little ones flowing in these predominately human travelers.  He suspected they could swear to something and mean it with their whole hearts, and completely change their minds fifteen minutes later.  They had a true gypsy smell about them, and their wagons, animals and lifestyle all reinforced that impression.

The Tinkers worked in tin and copper, sometimes leather, and their women wove flax and wool and created patterns with dyes that were works of art.  Mostly, they made themselves available for labor.  They went where the work was, and hearing about a town beset by Saxon raiders seemed an invitation to work.  The men presented themselves first thing in the morning, did an honest day’s work, took their pay at sundown and with a small salute, went back to their wagons and their own separate world.  They were a pleasant enough people, but they kept to themselves.  Sometimes, they told jokes in their own twisted, Gaelic tongue that no one could understand, and they laughed; but the locals could not help the feeling that they were the ones being laughed at.

“They do good work,” MacNeill admitted.  “But you have to watch them.  You dare not trust them.  They have a strange view about property.  They mostly trade for things they want.  They are hard horse traders, but sometimes they just take the things they say they need and they don’t understand why that is wrong. Little things mostly, but annoying.  You have to watch them.”

“And they never settle down?” Festuscato wondered.

“They might stay for a couple of months in one place and a couple of years in another, but eventually they move on to other pastures and annoy some other Lord.  They do good work, though, if you can keep them busy.”

“But where did they come from?”

“Well,” MacNeill had to think a minute.  “Some say they followed the Irish when the people first came up and conquered the land.  That was ages ago.  Others say they once had fine homes in a prosperous, magical land, and they were a peaceful people, but their neighbors were greedy and eventually drove them out and took the land, and after that they vowed to never again settle down so they would never again be driven out; though some say they lost their way, so they travel still looking for that prosperous, magical land that was their home. Then some say they are the remains of the people that lived on this land before the Irish came and defeated them in battle, and they travel and await the day when the Irish all kill each other off and they can take back their homes.  Who can say what the truth is.”  MacNeill shrugged and Festuscato stood.

“All the same,” he said.  “Something does not smell right.  I don’t sense danger, but my curiosity is up.  I think I want a talk with Cathar.  Excuse me.”

MacNeill shrugged again and gave his advice. “Hold on to your purse.”

Cathar came out from the wagons to meet Festuscato on neutral ground.  “Lord.” Cathar put his hands up in a clear sign that he was cutting Festuscato off from the community.

“Come over here,” Festuscato suggested.  He took the man to a place beneath the fort wall where the makeshift battering ram used by the Saxons lay abandoned and untouched. “Sit,” he said, and the two men sat.

“I do not understand,” Cathar started right up. “But you make my people uncomfortable. The women all want to be with you in the worst way, and the men all want to fight you for the women, but they are afraid to touch you.  I feel it myself, but I do not understand it.”

“I understand it,” Festuscato admitted. “But that is not what concerns me. It is something else, something you are carrying in your baggage.”  Festuscato paused to consider his words.  “Have you traveled all of your life?”

Cathar nodded.  “And my father, and his father before him.  My family has traveled for as many generations as there is memory.”

“And you have no desire to settle down.” Festuscato made it a statement, but Cathar took it as a question.

“There are many deep reasons for that, and I dare not start or I would feel compelled to tell you all of them, and that is strange and impossible because such things are not for outsiders.  Let me just say men kill and die for land.  We have no land.  We have nothing anyone wants.”

“Hush,” Festuscato let the man keep his secrets. “You have to tread lightly to not get caught up in the foolishness of men.  And you should always trade for what you need, never just take it, but otherwise you understand it is property, not just land that men fight over.  But you know that.  No, there is something else I am sensing.  What is it?”

Cathar looked back at his camp and shook his head. “We have nothing in the camp that is special.  Some tools, cooking pots and utensils, our plates and cups are plain wood.  I have no idea what you are sensing.”

“Do you stay long when you camp?” Festuscato asked, not sure what to ask.

“We have, in the past.  But these last couple of years we have moved again and again. It seems we barely get settled and we are told to leave.  People claim we bring them bad luck and ill will.  Some even complain we give them nightmares.  I know it is simple prejudice.  The Irish are not trusting of strangers, but it seems to me these last couple of years have been especially bad.

Festuscato looked down as the man talked and then said something that surprised Cathar.  “Nice shoes.  Where did you get them?”

“Eh?”  My grandfather made them for me.”  Cathar blurted it out before he could stop his tongue.

Festuscato nodded and called the name that came into his head.  “McKraken.” Thirty little men appeared out of thin air, and Festuscato had to wave his hand.  “Only the grandfather,” and as twenty-nine one-foot tall men disappeared, he added, “Same name must be an Irish thing.”  Then he said to the little man, “Stay.  Talk with us.  I have some questions.”

The man stood a foot tall, only a bit taller than normal fairy size, but he had no wings.  He had red hair, wore fairy weave like a gnome might wear that blended like camouflage into the grasses, and wore fine looking shoes over feet that were frankly too big for his body.  Festuscato said nothing about it because leprechauns were so easily offended, and he knew big feet was typical.

“How many questions,” McKraken asked with a squint of his eyes.  “Grandtoot.” He acknowledged his grandson after a fashion.  Cathar kept his mouth closed, but stared all the more intensely at Festuscato.

“No limits.  No tricks,” Festuscato said.  “I want to know what this troop of Travelers is dragging with it.”

“Don’t know,” McKraken said honesty enough, as he glanced at the Traveler’s camp.  “We visit sometimes.”

Festuscato shook his head.  “You haven’t visited your grandson in twenty years, so that isn’t it.”

“Well, they went away when the dragons came, and my feet can only walk so far, you know.”

“Grandfather?”  Cather started putting things together, like he had forgotten his own roots.

“Grandboop,” McKraken said, to acknowledge the man again.

“So, what should I do since you know mingling with humans is forbidden?” Festuscato asked.

“Wish us well?  Grant us a long, happy and prosperous life?”

“I was thinking MacNeill needs a new pair of boots.”

McKraken paused and rubbed his chin.  “Something there might be worked out.”

“No deals.  You just do it.  Call it penance, and measure his foot so you get the size right.  He needs good, comfortable, sturdy, long-lasting footwear, and no tricks.  Now, go and visit with your family and bless them.  Go on.”

Cathar stood and as they walked, he looked down. “Grandfather?”

“Grandshoot,” McKraken called Cathar.

Festuscato rubbed his own chin.  He got nowhere by asking.  They did not seem to know anything.  He would just have to wait and see.

R6 Festuscato: 6 The Witch of Balmoor, part 3 of 3

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Patrick started down the rough path, which became a bit of a climb to reach the floor of the hollow.  Bran and Greta followed him, and Giolla came and pushed up to stay near the priest.  Lord Flahartagh followed reluctantly, and Fionn came last and looked like a man who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Come, come,” the old woman cackled.  “I have been expecting you, but tell me, druid, how did things turn?”

“You failed, old woman.  The priest lives, and I should take my money back.”

“Curious,” the old woman cackled.  “They were the most poisonous serpents in the world. But who can control serpents?”

“Patrick can,” Giolla shouted.  “He cast your serpents into the sea where they all drowned.”

“You paid her to attack the priest?”  Lord Flahartagh caught up with what was going on and he hit his druid and knocked him down.  “You know what happened last time,” he roared.

“What happened?” Greta asked.  She wanted the conversation to continue while she thought of what to do.  She felt sure any direct movement toward the hole in the world would be stopped by the witch.

Lord Flahartagh explained.  “My father’s grandfather got cheated by the MacNeills and the King of Leinster when the King ruled in favor of the MacNeills and they took possession of the whole of the fens.  He came to the witch and she called up the dragons who terrorized our lands as readily as they terrorized MacNeill and Leinster.”

“Who can control a dragon?” the witch asked in a gleeful voice.

“Festuscato can,” Bran said, and Greta looked up at the man.

“Hey, I healed the dragon.  Oh, okay.”  Greta threw up her hands and went away so Festuscato could fill his own boots.  The witch looked startled, and the Irish yelled again, though not as loud as the last time.  Festuscato returned in his white tunic with the dragon on the front, and sent the cloak of Athena away.  “Good to be back,” he said, and winked at Patrick, while he walked around as if seeing things for the first time, and in truth positioned himself to take a stab at the branches as soon as the opportunity arose.

“You are the dragon,” the witch said, and with the sound of respect in her voice.  “I have heard of you.”  Clearly, hearing and understanding what she heard were two different things.  No human witch, no matter how powerful, could probe the depths of the Kairos.

“So, what’s cooking?” Festuscato asked and leaned over as if to get a look.

“The soup of life in the cauldron of life.”

“That is never the cauldron of life,” Festuscato objected.  “Dagda’s Cauldron was big enough for a man to stand inside it.  Cauldron of life?”  Festuscato scoffed.

“Patrick’s words are the words of eternal life,” Giolla spoke up.

“Jesus is the giver of life,” Patrick said, and the witch screamed and covered her ears.  That told Festuscato that the witch was not just a sorceress, she was demon possessed, a complication, and no doubt the source of her knowledge.

“I control life here,” the witch insisted and she lifted her spoon to mumble incoherently and wave her hand above the bubbles.  Spiders began to crawl over the edge of the cauldron and several bats flew up into the sky, to dive bomb the people.

“Mousden!”  Festuscato called, and since Mirowen presently held the boy’s hand, she came with him.

Mousden took one look at the witch, reverted to his pixie form, screamed and raced to hide behind Patrick’s robes.

“Mousden, come here,” Mirowen scolded and Mousden looked up and took a breath long enough to mouth another word.

“Lunch.”  The bats flew for their lives.  The spiders were not so lucky.

By the time the witch closed her mouth at the unexpected turn of events, Festuscato had Wyrd out of his sheath.  One swipe of that sword, and the old branches got cut off. He punched the remains of the branches, hurt his hand, and the wood popped out the other side of the hole, somewhere on the other earth.  The hole itself snapped shut with an audible SNAP.

The witch screamed.  Mousden screamed again on principle.  Festuscato more accurately shouted his words.  “Get out of the hollow!”  He grabbed Patrick’s robe as Mirowen scooped up Mousden, and they began to climb.  Bran went right there with them, but the others were a bit behind.  When the witch collapsed, she began to decay rapidly. She had to be over ninety.  Maybe she was over a hundred-years-old.  Maybe she was already dead and just being propped up by the demons that inhabited her.  They would never know.  As they reached the ground level above, the walls all around the hollow gave way and the hollow filled rapidly with water.  They watched while in the end it became a pond in the wilderness, and when it overflowed in one spot, it became a little stream.

“There is some water worth avoiding,” Lord Flahartagh said.

“No,” Festuscato shook his head.  “What do you think, Springs?”

A little head popped up from the stream and spoke. Flahartagh got startled, but he did not yell this time.  “Lots of muck in the water from that blasted soup the witch was cooking.  Come back this time next year and we will get things nice and cleaned up for you.  That old witch kept us out for a long time, but I knew she could not keep us out forever.”

“Thank you, Springs,” Festuscato said.  “Good to see you.”

“My pleasure.”  Springs saluted, and broke apart into the water from whence he came.

“I see you have lots of friends,” Lord Flahartagh said, and Festuscato nodded.

“Like my housekeeper Mirowen, and her ward, Mousden.” Mousden went back to walking, looking again like a nine-year-old, and it would have been easy to forget his pixie appearance or blame it on the witch casting illusions, but Mousden chose that moment to let out a big belch, and Mirowen scolded him.  “He ate too much,” Festuscato suggested.  Lord Flahartagh’s eyes got big for a second before he began to laugh.

Patrick and Fionn the Druid kept up a lively debate all the way back to the road.  To be sure, Fionn did not want to crowd his lord and remind him he went to the witch in the first place.  No one really listened to the debate, unless Bran listened, but it did seem to the casual observers that Fionn kept losing.

By the time they reached the road, Fionn started reaching for arguments that were no more than thinly disguised insults, like a man who lost the debate, and knew it, but was damned if he would admit it. He started insulting Patrick when they reached the road and Patrick had enough.

“No one is forcing you to listen to the good news, but as young Giolla plainly told you, what I am bringing is the word of life.” Patrick slammed the butt of his shepherd’s crook on the ground for emphasis.  Unfortunately, the ground seemed extra soft on the side of the road and the staff sank into the muck.  A second later, Patrick had to let go as the staff got hot.  They all watched as the staff sprouted leaves, and they watched the roots grow.

“Dern,” Festuscato said.  “I liked that staff.”

Fionn got scared when they went to see the witch. He got frightened out of his mind when he saw the pixie, and then the water sprite, but he could pretend they did not exist.  This became too much.  The fear covered Fionn’s face and he yelled the last weapon in his arsenal.

“I will call upon the gods and tell them to strike you down.”

“I don’t think that will work,” Festuscato said. “The gods don’t appreciate being told what to do.”  He stepped aside and traded places through time with Danna.  She called sweetly, “Rhiannon.”

Rhiannon did not have to come, but she came because it is polite when Mother calls.  “What is it this time?”

“This druid wants you to strike down Patrick.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t.  He is such a nice man.”

“That’s what I thought.  I told him the gods did not like being told what to do.”

“Oh, don’t I know it.  Mannanon can be as stubborn as the sea.”

“He can’t help it.”

“Oh, I almost forgot.  Clugh ate a whole goat and slept for almost twenty-four hours.”

“He is growing up.  You did cook the goat.”

“Of course, He made the cutest little whine when I tried to give it to him raw, so I cooked it for him and he squealed.  He was so happy.”

“So, you’re not mad at me for giving you the dragon?”

“Oh, how could I ever be mad at you, Mother.” Rhiannon stepped up and kissed Danna on the cheek, waved to everyone and vanished.  Danna turned to the Druid who stared, mouth wide open.  She stuck her finger in his face.

“Listen to Patrick.  He is telling you the truth.  In the words of my good friend Yul Brenner, his god is God.  Now close your mouth, and if you are good, and I said if, mind you, you just might find something special in your stocking … no, wait … Frosty the Snowman.  Anyway.” Danna hugged Patrick, and then she gave him three pieces of gold and some advice.

“The women, especially rich women will give you gifts.  Remember in this culture, they will be insulted if you don’t accept them.  But on the other hand, men will accuse you of accepting gifts from women.  You will have to do your best to turn those gifts to the church to answer your critics, and otherwise, go with God.  Use the gold to buy a new shepherd’s crook.  It suits you.”  Danna stepped back.  “The old way has gone.”

“The new way has come,” Patrick said, and Danna vanished, and she took Bran, Mirowen and Mousden with her.

They appeared on the road just beyond MacNeill’s fort, and Danna changed back to Festuscato.  He let his armor and weapons go away in favor of his comfortable clothes, and he spoke.  “I believe I have tempted history here far enough.”

“So, explain how the shepherd’s crook sprouted and grew,” Bran wondered.

“Maybe if he had some natural magic in him,” Mirowen started, but Festuscato interrupted.

“Can’t be natural.  The source of the magic got cut off when the hole closed between this earth and the other earth.”

“But then, how?”  Now Mirowen was curious.

“Some mysteries are best left alone.  It is time that we go,” Festuscato said, but he paused when he saw a half-dozen wagons beside the fort where they blocked the view of the town and dock.  Festuscato made sure Mirowen had her glamour on and Mousden stayed in his big size. “I smell visitors, and something else.”

“Yourself,” Mirowen suggested.  “You need a bath.”

************************

MONDAY

R6 Festuscato: 7 Travelers: The tinkers bring spooks with them.  Don’t miss it.

*

R6 Festuscato: 6 The Witch of Balmoor, part 2 of 3

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Dibs laughed and took Gaius by the robe to pull him back up the hill.  Patrick looked at the hillside and asked a question.

“How can you be following the snakes when there are no snakes?”

“I’m following the trail, I’ll admit, backwards.” She looked once around and started to walk.  Bran and Patrick followed, and Patrick praised his shepherd’s crook more than once as he pushed through the underbrush.  “I am from two hundred years before Christ, if you must know,” the Princess talked.  “I got blasted by Artemis, goddess of the hunt herself.  Festuscato, quite by accident, got a small spark, really a reflection of the spark given to his reflection, Diana.  Diana of Rome got sparked by Diana, the goddess, but I got blasted with the full enchilada.  The Storyteller says I could track Jesus over the top of the water, er, sorry Bishop. I can rope and ride, and I’m pretty good with a bow and arrow.”

The Princess stopped and called for the cloak of Athena, black side turned out.  She reached into the pocket and pulled out her bow and quiver of arrows.  The bow came pre-strung, and she placed an arrow on the string and started walking again.  “Let’s see what I can take on the fly,” she said.  Bran looked around, having some idea of what she might be talking about. Patrick took it wrong.

“You are a huntress?”

The Princess made no response, but turned on the third step and shot her arrow into some nearby trees.  They heard a squeal and a shout as the Princess ran toward the sound.  Bran pulled his sword and followed, and Patrick did his best to keep up in his robe. A young man, about fifteen or sixteen had his cloak and shirt sleeve above the shoulder pinned to a tree.  He looked ready to disrobe and run off, but paused on sight of the Princess.  She could do that to young men.

The Princess shifted her bow to her left hand and reached for Defender, the long knife she carried across the small of her back. “You have a name?” she asked.

“Don’t hurt him,” Patrick blurted out.

“Giolla,” the boy said, and he closed his eyes and prepared himself to be stabbed, but with a wink at Patrick, the Princess used defender to dig out her arrow.

“Sorry about the clothes, but I don’t appreciate being spied on.  Who paid you to spy on us anyway?”

“Lord Flahartagh.  He said to watch the road in case any of those Christian men decided to go traveling.”

“Why?” Bran asked the operative question, but Patrick interrupted.

“What is wrong with Christian men?”

“Lord Flahartagh says he likes things the way they are.  He says Fionn, his druid spouts more foolishness in a day than a man should have to hear.  He says I should tell him right away when someone comes.”

“We will all tell him, together.”  the Princess put her knife away and Bran sheathed his sword. Patrick stepped up to the young man and Giolla surprised him.

“I know you.  You’re Patrick.  I went to MacNeill’s barn and took my mother, more than once.  She says she wants to hear more about your Christ.”

“And it will be my pleasure to tell her,” Patrick said. He slipped his arm around the boy and they followed the Princess who stepped through some bushes and up on to a crude, two-rut wagon road.

“Aha!  The road to MacNeill’s fort.  I thought we might run into it, given our direction.”  She paused and looked down at the tracks, took a few steps and made a pronouncement.  “The snakes slithered down the road.  I feel we are getting close.  Isn’t this exciting?”  Bran shrugged and Patrick stayed busy talking to the boy.

“It is the word of life,” he said.  “And not only for this world, but when our labor here is done we have the promise of life eternal.”  Giolla did not understand, so Bran explained.

“He means you get to live forever, and in a better world.”

They walked the road for an hour, and stopped when the Princess saw the place where the snake first came up to the road. “There,” she said, and pointed out across the clover filled moor they had seen from the hilltop.  “Rest for a minute before we trudge back across the wilderness.”

Patrick nodded.  He was the elder.  Giolla could have run off at any time, but he sat by the man, eager to hear more.  He stood again when he heard what the Princess heard when she said to rest.  There were horses on the road, not pulling a cart, but ridden.  Four men rode up to them as the Princess shouted.

“A voice of one calling in the wilderness. Prepare the way of the Lord, make straight his paths.”

“Matthew,” Patrick said.

“The Baptist,” Bran suggested.

The Princes shook her head.  “Isaiah.  I was born two hundred years before Christ, remember?”

The men on horseback said nothing as they stared at the people on foot.  Two horsemen kept to the rear while two pushed out front.  One appeared a big man of about thirty-five or forty years.  He had red hair, but a beard that looked golden, and it gave an odd, miss-matched look to his face, especially when he scowled. The man beside him seemed younger, maybe thirty, but his beard looked long, dark and dirty, like he never trimmed it and never washed it.  Giolla stood uncomfortably with the others before he felt obliged to step up and speak.

“Lord Flahertagh, this is the Christian man, Patrick. We were just coming to see you.” The big man frowned before he got down. The one with the dirty beard looked surprised.  The Princess and Bran noticed the look on that bearded face and the Princess made a wild guess.

“And you must be Fionn, the local druid.”  The Princess stepped up and read on the man’s face that she guessed correctly.  She stuck out her hand.  “I am Princess Cassandra, Lord of the Athol and Princess of all Greece.  I am Greek, on holiday from all those responsibilities of ruling and making all those decisions.”  She grabbed the older man’s hand and shook it.  “And you are Lord Flahartagh.  It is wonderful to meet you.”  She clearly channeled Festuscato.

“Princess,” the big man mouthed the word, and he managed to crack a small smile to look at her.  “You have a strange enough accent.”

The Princess took her hand back and looked at the others.  “I do not have an accent.”

Patrick and Bran spoke together.  “Yes, you do,” and Bran almost smiled.

Giolla pushed forward and said something that was not really a surprise.  “Father. The priest brings the word of eternal life, and Mother wants to hear more about it.”

“I bring the word of life in peace,” Patrick interjected.  “I bring only words of life for all the people.  Surely it takes no great courage to listen to words.”

Fionn objected.  “I hear these Christians eat the flesh and drink the blood of men.”

“Only bread and wine as daily reminders that as we participate in the death of the Lord, we shall also be raised with him to new life, even life eternal.”

Fionn was not finished.  “I also hear these Christians make a man go under the water, and hold him there while they say strange things over him, and when they let the man up, he is so near drowned he will do and believe anything they tell him.”

The Princess interrupted before Patrick could give answer.  “It is for cleansing and a sign of being included, but mostly for cleansing, like a good bath, you know, the thing you never do.”  Lord Flahartagh tried not to laugh.  “The only thing Patrick drowned was the snakes sent to attack him.”

“That’s right,” Giolla spouted.  “The snakes attacked him and he took them to the sea and cast them in to drown in the sea.”

“All the snakes in Ireland drowned in the sea,” Bran said.

“So what I want to know.”  The Princess got in Fionn’s face, and then took a step back because of the man’s bad breath.  “Did you send the serpents, or did you pay someone to do the dirty work for you?”

“Me?”  Fionn pleaded innocence, but he did not seem very good at lying.  “I sent no serpents to attack the priest.”

“Lord Flahartagh.”  The Princess took the man’s arm and turned him to face the place where the snake trail left the road and came through the woods.  “Who lives in this direction?”

Lord Flahartagh shook his head.  “That is Balmoor, the land that separates my land from MacNeill. Only the Witch lives there.”

“Let me check.”  The Princess stepped back and went away, and Greta came to stand in her place.  She ignored the shouts of surprise that came from the Irish and raised her hand.  She wished Briana was there.  Briana’s elect intuition could sense danger miles away. What Greta sensed was a power of some sort, and she spoke.  “Take me to this witch.  She needs to hear some of my words.”

Greta stepped down into the woods, and the men on foot felt obliged to go and protect the poor woman.  Flahartagh only paused to tell his two men to hold the horses.

The woods quickly gave way to the great field of clover.  There were ferns in places and bushes here and there, and even a tree now and then, but the field itself got squishy underfoot and shoes would soon be soaked. Greta had on her waterproof knee boots with her armor, so she paid little attention to the wet.  They climbed over several small ridges, more like rocky lumps in the ground, and came at last to a hollow below the main ground level.

Greta stopped and got her bearings first.  She saw a cave, a hole dug out of the earth, and a fire out front with a big cauldron filled with something that bubbled. A very old woman in a plain black dress stood behind the fire and occasionally stirred and cackled.  She seriously cackled.  Only one more thing to note.  A very well weathered oak branch with what looked like long-dead mistletoe, and an equally weathered branch of another kind of wood, perhaps holly, looked to be floating in mid-air in a spot by the cave.  It suggested a hole in the world, a hole to the Other Earth where the creative and variable energy that people called magic could seep through into our earth.  The thing was, those branches had to be under enormous pressure to keep the hole open seventy years after the two Earths went out of phase.  Clearly, that seepage had to be the source of the Witch’s power, and while Greta relaxed to think it was not a half-breed with the ability to tap into some great spiritual power, she recognized that this had to be a very powerful witch to keep a hole open seventy years after it should have slammed shut.

R6 Festuscato: 6 The Witch of Balmoor, part 1 of 3

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After only a few days, Patrick made a decision. He had good people in Father Teigh and Father Aon, even if they were married.  He was not needed in MacNeill’s land, now that MacNeill had turned to the Lord and things were going well, so he would take his work inland.  “No offence,” he told Festuscato.  “But I hope to get far enough away from you to where I can find some peace.  You are like the whirlwind.  Nothing around you ever keeps still.”

“It has always been thus,” Festuscato confessed. “After five thousand years, you would think things would settle down, but no.”

“How long?”

“I was firstborn when that butthole Nimrod built that stupid tower.  I figured it would not last.  Not enough straw in the bricks.”

“That long?”  Patrick patted his shoulder.  “Hard to imagine, but you have my prayers.”

“And you have mine, for what they are worth.  We got lucky to find MacNeill, a man willing to let you work for the sake of his grudge against Leinster.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Patrick said.

“Even so, Ireland is like a wild dog.  It might trot along for a while as long as it is getting fed, but it might also turn on you at any moment and on the least provocation.”

“I understand.”

“Then why don’t I leave and let you work,” Festuscato suggested.

“Indeed.  And I am sure the Lord will lead you to wherever you are needed next.”  They stood in silence for a moment on the wall of MacNeill’s fort, looking over to where the town was rebuilding after the Saxon raid.  The new tavern looked ready for the tourists.  “I think I am finally getting an idea of what your job really is,” Patrick added.  “I don’t envy you.”

“I’ll be taking Dibs, Bran, Gaius, Mirowen and Mousden,” Festuscato responded.  “That is going to leave you pretty isolated.”

“Take Seamus,” Patrick insisted.  “I am assigning him to you.  All he wants to do is tell exciting stories, but he doesn’t know any, so he mopes.  We are in prayer and he lets out a moan that has nothing to do with the Holy Spirit.”

“What?  Making friends with a dragon and fighting off pirates and Saxon raiders not exciting enough for him?”

Patrick shook his head.  “He says he was too close to it all, and the important parts went by too fast and were too confusing.  I suspect it is always like that, but I figure some time with you and he will get his fill of exciting stories.  He is young.  Send him back when he matures.”

“I can’t promise he will come back,” Festuscato said, honestly enough, but Patrick nodded.

“The gods don’t make promises.  I heard.”

Festuscato smiled.  “I don’t envy you, and I say that from experience.”

“Eh?  You carried the gospel into hostile territory?”  Festuscato thought of the church in late twentieth century America and rolled his eyes at the church lady horror stories.  Patrick gave him another encouraging pat on the shoulder.  “I better go pray.”

Festuscato watched the Bishop walk out the back door of the fort and head for the hill.  He would climb to the top and spend the next several hours in prayer and contemplation.  Festuscato thought the man ought to be successful, if nothing else for his shear dedication.  Festuscato still stood there ten minutes later when Mirowen found him and stepped up alongside him.

“Captain Breok said it will be at least a day before we can sail.  Treeve suggested two would be better; something about bringing enough feed down from the highland farms.”  Festuscato finally looked like he paid attention, so she said, “Sheep in the hold,” and held her nose.

Festuscato rolled his eyes again.  He also had news.  “We get to take Seamus.  Patrick says he is a young man in search of an exciting adventure.  I don’t know why Patrick thinks Seamus will get an exciting adventure going with me.”

Mirowen started to laugh.  It took twenty minutes to get her to stop.

###

An hour later, Festuscato, Bran and Dibs were helping Hugh, Cary and young Donogh rebuild the tavern when they saw a sight to remember.  Patrick came down from the hill, walking with his shepherd’s crook, being followed by dozens of snakes of all kinds, and they were all poisonous.

“That’s not right,” Festuscato said.  “Ireland is supposed to be snake free.”

“That’s what I heard,” Dibs confirmed.

They left their work and followed with the rest of the crowd, and stopped when Patrick stopped on the edge of the docks. “Go on,” Patrick said.  He stepped back and watched as the snakes took the plunge, sank into the sea, and never came back up.

“What happened?” Gaius asked from the other side of the crowd.

“I was in prayer,” Patrick looked up at Gaius and turned to Festuscato.  “These snakes surrounded me and would not leave me alone.  I could not focus.  I got angry. Forgive me.”

“No, no.  Quite all right.  Nothing wrong with some righteous indignation,” Festuscato responded.

Patrick looked down as he spoke.  It sounded like a confession.  “I got up to walk away.  Anger is not the answer.  I wanted to get away so I could refocus my heart on faith, but they followed me. Strange as it sounds, they kept their distance, but they would not go away.  It came to me, like the Holy Spirit speaking in my heart that the sea was the answer.  I felt led to this place, and now they are gone.”  Patrick shrugged.  He looked a little dazed, like a man living in a fog.

Festuscato felt certain there was magic afoot. Snakes in Ireland shouted as much. He knew his little ones were not responsible, and according to the Storyteller’s estimate, the Other Earth, the source of the magic, went out of phase with our Earth some sixty or seventy years ago.  There should not be any natural, human magic for the next couple hundred years at least. That suggested a power, perhaps one that should have gone over to the other side, and that was not a good thought. But what power would care if Patrick moved inland?  What difference would it make to a greater or lesser spirit if the people stayed pagan or turned Christian?

“What say we all go look at your hill,” Festuscato suggested.

“I thought you might want to look,” Patrick agreed.  They walked in silence, Dibs, Bran and Gaius following.

The hill itself appeared nothing special.  It had a clearing at the top, with enough trees to shade but not enough to block the view of the distant valley.  Dibs noticed.

“With a view like this, I can understand why you might want to move inland.”

“Not a productive valley,” Bran objected. “Looks more like fields of clover on the moor.  Maybe bogs down there in places.”

“It looks to me like the great unknown,” Gaius said.

“It looks like a ripe field, ready to harvest,” Patrick said, and they stood there for a long minute before Dibs spoke again.

“Hey, where did Festuscato go?”  They had to look to find a golden-brown-haired girl going down the far side.  They might have overlooked her if she had not been wearing Festuscato’s armor. “Hey!”  Dibs yelled.  Everyone yelled and she stopped and waited for them to catch up.

“Princess,” the young woman introduced herself.  “I’m following the trail of the snakes back to their lair.  Maybe we can find out who is behind this.”

“We, we are coming with you,” Dibs insisted.

“No you must not.  Patrick, this is where you want to go.”  She paused.  She stood no small girl, being five-foot seven, but she looked up at Bran and gave him her flower-growing smile.  “And Bran. I suppose I won’t get rid of you easily. But Dibs, you need to go back and hold the boat, and Gaius, you need to get all of our things on board, including Seamus.  He is now one of our things.”

“But, if Seamus is going with us, with you, maybe I can stay here with Patrick,” Gaius looked hopeful.  The Princess looked at Patrick before she spoke.

“No.  You need to report back to Guithelm.  Do I have to change back to Festuscato to order you?  I will, even if you won’t listen.  You know, Princes is not just a pet name.”  The Princess put her hands to her hips and stared Gaius down.  Dibs commented.

“And you look like such a fun-loving girl.”

“I am,” she said, and gave Dibs a curtsey before she shouted.  “Now go away. Be off with you, you rapscallions, you scaly-wags.  We are working here.”  She bit her tongue.  She even sounded like Festuscato.

R6 Festuscato: 5 Pirates and Saxons, part 3 of 3

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Once inside the gate, Festuscato grabbed the old man from the group that appeared around the parley.  “Macreedy,” He knew who it was.  “Why are you here.”

Macreedy put up his hands to forestall any anger. “There are only thirty of us, and we have come to protect my niece, Mirowen, and her ward, Mousden, and that’s all. You humans can play whatever game you want, as long as Mirowen is safe.”

Festuscato frowned, while Macreedy waited to see how his half-lie got taken.  Festuscato decided keeping Mirowen and Mousden safe was a valid concern, but Mousden would probably hide.  Mirowen would pull out her bow and wade into the midst of the fighting, but if Macreedy and his supposed thirty elves could keep her from serious injury, Festuscato would not quibble about how many Saxons they killed.

“All right.  Spread your men out along the wall, only keep a strong glamour on to appear human, please.  The best way to protect Mirowen will be to keep the Saxons from breaking into the fort.”

“Yes, Lord.”  Macreedy let go of his breath.  “To the wall,” Macreedy shouted, and his men appeared with dragon tunics, already on the wall, anticipating the attack.  Festuscato rolled his eyes, but said no more until Mirowen stepped up beside him and confessed.

“You wouldn’t let me go to the parley, so I called my uncle.  Sorry you weren’t here to ask.”

Festuscato only said one thing.  “Elf.”  It did not get kindly spoken.

MacNeill and Patrick looked over the wall at the gathering Saxons.  The Saxons had no siege equipment, not even ladders to scale the nine feet of wall, but even with men from the village added, the Saxons had twice the number of defenders.  The Saxons probably also thought that apart from the twenty or thirty men who worked more directly for MacNeill and acted something like soldiers, the rest likely did not have the stomach for a real fight.  They concluded that this would not take long, and the only reason the Saxons paused before attacking the fort was to visually determine where the weak spots might be in order to concentrate on those places.

Festuscato walked up and down the length of the wall. “Keep down,” he shouted.  Get your bows ready, but don’t stand and fire until I yell fire.  Don’t expose yourselves until I yell fire.  Bows ready, but heads down until I yell fire.”

All this time, Donogh kept Clugh entertained in the lair, and kept him quiet, but it became impossible to avoid the tension and excitement in the air.  Donogh felt it just outside the cave entrance, so Clugh certainly felt it. People say dragons can smell fear, but the truth is more complicated than that.  They can actually sense things like stress, worry, apprehension and the like and feel the general emotional state in the air around them, even if there is something near, like someone invisible that they cannot see or smell or hear.  That is why it is all but impossible to sneak up on a dragon, unless the dragon is sleeping, but as said, waking a sleeping dragon is not recommended.

“Wait until I say fire.  Ready.  Heads down,” Festuscato jumped up beside the Lord and the Bishop.

“I see you found some friends,” MacNeill said and pointed at a nearby man in a dragon tunic.

“These are not like the glorious ones that shined even in the dim light of dusk,” Patrick said.  “There is something more earthy and humble in these.”

“Like Mirowen,” Gaius said, as he stepped up beside the others.  Festuscato said nothing.  He took a good look at the enemy and jumped down to continue his walk up and down the back of the wall.

“Heads down.  Bows ready.  Wait until I yell fire.”

Clugh came out of the cave despite Donogh’s protests.  Seamus was there, but it did not help.  The people who did not find a place inside Lord MacNeill’s manor house, or in the barracks, or out back by the blacksmith’s and other shops, backed up as far as they could.  Some screamed on sight of the dragon, but not many noticed, concentrating as they were on the coming battle.  Festuscato ignored the interruption and kept walking up and down the back of the wall, yelling in as calm a voice as he could muster.

“Keep down and be ready.  Not until I yell fire.”

“Donogh, lad.  Clugh can’t be out here,” Seamus said,

Donogh had one hand on the back of Clugh’s neck, where the dragon liked it, but Clugh squirmed and Donogh appeared anxious himself, so the scratches behind the ears did not really help.

“Ready,” Festuscato yelled.  They heard the Saxons begin to scream their war cries.  They would scream wildly for a minute or so, a technique intended to unnerve their enemy.  “Ready,” Festuscato repeated as he jumped up to the back of the wall.  He raised his hand and waited while he looked up and down the line.  Men here and there could not help a peek at the assembled Germanic horde.  Some chose not to look.  Generally, the only heads above the wall were MacNeill, Patrick, Festuscato and Gaius, and they stared, and not one of them looked concerned.

“Ready.”  Festuscato yelled, though it became hard to hear him above the Saxon din.  The Saxons charged.  They did not have much ground to cover, but Festuscato immediately lowered his hand to point at the enemy and he yelled, “Fire!”  Knowing he would be hard to hear, he yelled it several times, up and down the wall.  “Fire. Fire.”  He knew the elves would hear, and spaced as they were among the men, when they stood, the men stood and the arrows flew.  He did not know Clugh would hear, and fire was one word the dragon knew.

More than thirty Saxons got dropped in the first volley.  Whether they were dead or wounded hardly mattered.  They were taken out of the action.  Another twenty fell quickly, but then the Saxons raised their shields and began to fire back, so the third volley looked much less effective.

The Saxons chose their targets well.  There were a few places along the wall where the wood had sufficiently splintered from age or got wobbly in construction so men could get handholds and climb.  The gate got the makeshift battering ram the Saxons made from a whole log taken from a house in town.  But even as Gaius started suggesting it would be inevitable that the Saxons get in, Clugh could not contain himself.  He took to the air when Festuscato yelled and, on seeing the Saxons roaring, Clugh roared and came in like a dive bomber spewing flame everywhere.  Part of the fort wall got set on fire, and one Saxon became totally crisped while quite a few were badly burned.  To be sure, when Clugh landed and roared, every Saxon within flame range turned and fled.  That seemed all it took to get the whole lot of Saxons to run.  They dragged off some of their burnt and wounded, to their credit as soldiers, but they did not stop long enough to see if some of their men might be saved.  The ones who could not even limp were abandoned.

Once Clugh landed, he slithered to the crisped Saxon and bit off the dead man’s head.  No doubt he found it tasty, but with that, Festuscato sighed.  He knew once Clugh got a taste for human flesh, he would not be contained, no matter how well the Agdaline command words were pronounced.

“Lord.  Save Clugh,” Donogh yelled as he came up alongside the others and stood on his toes to look out over the top of the wall.

“I cannot help the dragon.”  Festuscato spoke gently to the boy.  “But maybe the Lady can.  Maybe mother can help.”  Donogh and Seamus thought he spoke of Greta, but he meant Danna, and he traded places with her through time and immediately became invisible.  She floated down to the dragon where she became visible again and calmed the beast.

“Mother,” Clugh said, but Danna shook her head and lifted her voice.

“Rhiannon.  Come here. I need you.”  She spoke, not a harsh call, but a request, and Rhiannon appeared, her face full of curiosity.  “Rhiannon, dear.  You need to take this beast and keep him from people.  He has tasted human flesh, so now there is no turning back.”

“Mother.  I have nowhere to keep such a creature.”

“Well, it is either that or I have to put him down. And he is still such a youngster, you know, a child in need of a good mother.”

Rhiannon screwed up her face.  “You cheat,” she declared.  “What am I going to do with a dragon?”

“I was thinking.” Danna folded her arms and put a finger to her temple.

“A dangerous sign,” Rhiannon admitted, but she waited for the shoe to drop.

“There is a lake on the edge of Amorican territory in the forest called Vivane.  Do you know it?”  Rhiannon nodded so Danna continued.  “The naiad there is getting elderly, but she is very nice.  I am sure she would not mind if you built a castle on the small island in the middle of the lake.  There are plenty of spirits who live in the forest.  You could hold court there and keep Clugh as a pet.”

“And why would I want to do all that?”

“Because your work will come to you there.  I have seen it.”

“You have seen the future?”

“No, I live there, remember?”  Danna stepped up and kissed her many times distant daughter. “I have tweaked the image of mother in the dragon’s mind so you will fill the role, only don’t get too attached. Leave him in Amorica, and one day this male will sire babies, I think.”

“But you just told me to go to Amorica.  Now why are you telling me to leave him there?”

Danna shrugged.  “Just don’t get too attached.”

“Mother.  Why do you have to be so mean to me?”  Rhiannon reached out to pet the dragon and Clugh purred.

“Because you don’t belong here, you should be over on the other side.”

Rhiannon said nothing.  She looked unhappy but disappeared, and took the dragon with her. Danna reappeared on the wall and went away so Festuscato could return.  He smiled for his friends before he hugged Donogh.  “Don’t worry,” he said.  “Rhiannon will take good care of Clugh.”

“The goddess?” Donogh wiped an eye. Festuscato looked briefly at Patrick.

“And should no longer be here, but out of Ireland at least.  And Danna should not be here, either.  She knows that.  I’m sorry. The new way has come.”

“The old way has gone, though stubbornly I see.” Patrick turned his back and said no more.

************************

MONDAY

R6 Festuscato: 6 The Witch of Balmoor.  Don’t Miss it.  Until Monday, Happy Reading

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R6 Festuscato: 5 Pirates and Saxons, part 2 of 3

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

The gate to the fort got closed and locked when the last of the villagers straggled in.  They knew Sean Fen was MacNeill’s cousin, so he and his men were not there to loot and pillage, apart from stealing whatever brew they had; but they were pirates, and it was generally not safe to be around pirates, especially for young women.  The courtyard of the fort presently teemed with young women and Festuscato could not help pausing and admiring a few.  He turned to look outside the fort when he heard Sean Fen’s voice.

“Roman.  It would save us both a lot of trouble if you just came out and gave yourself up to the sword.”

“Give me some time to think about it,” Festuscato said, as he looked around.  The sun looked nearly set and Sean Fen’s men started lighting torches, as did some of the men in the fort.

Sean Fen looked like he might be thinking.  “I will give you until the sun is fully gone, and that is more than generous, and only because I don’t want the bother of having to fetch you.”

Festuscato said nothing when a strange, Asian looking man stepped up beside him.  Mirowen noticed and curtsied for the man.  Festuscato frowned.  “Yin Mo,” he said.

“Lord Agitus.”

“Macreedy sent you, didn’t he?”

“As you say.”

“This has got to stop.  The knights have no business being here, of all places.”

“Yes, Lord.  But the Knights of the Lance might send your enemies to various places around the island without actually injuring them.  I had thought an end to the trouble that avoided shedding blood might be preferable.”

“There is that.”  Festuscato thought about it while the druid shouted up to the wall.

“Crooked heads, come down.  It will be my privilege to remove the crookedness from the land by taking your heads from your bodies.”

“Tell him those that are with us are more than those that are against us,” Festuscato offered, and Patrick repeated the words before responding to Festuscato.

“What?  So now you are Elijah?”

“I don’t remember.  Was it him or Elisha who said that?  Anyway, just watch.”  He turned to Yin Mo and gave his okay and Yin Mo waved his arm.  As Festuscato figured, well more than a hundred Knights of the Lance appeared just outside, at the base of the castle wall.  They charged.  Most of Sean Fen’s men had the good sense to run for their lives, not that it did them any good.  Every man vanished as soon as he got touched by a lance, and the knight vanished as well. The knights did not stop, however, until they got to the docks.  Where Sean Fen’s three ships went was anyone’s guess.

When the action finished, an action very hard to see and follow unless you had night vision like a goblin, or Mousden, Yin Mo also vanished and Festuscato spoke again.  “I would have told him no more than in Greta’s day, like Gerraint told him, but he snuck about five or eight hundred into that battle.

“When was that?” Gaius became curious.

“Oh, about a hundred years in the future.”

“As you say.”  Patrick had picked up the phrase.

Sean Fen and the druid were the last two still out front, but men with torches came from the village and MacNeill and his men came out of the fort so there seemed nowhere the two could run.  It got hard to hear the yelling that went on when they met, but Mirowen likely heard with her good elf ears.  It also got hard to see exactly what happened, but at some point MacNeill pulled his sword and chopped off the druid’s head.  He later explained.

“I knew the man.  He would have devised some poison or some ambush, and he would not give up until the deed was done.  Removing his head simply removed my headache.”  MacNeill headed them back inside to salvage what was left of the meal. “I hear in Britannia, the one they are calling the Pendragon has forbidden the killing of priests.”

“That includes druid priests,” Festuscato said.

MacNeill shrugged.  “Well, maybe starting now.”  The man smiled for his mother.  “But who would kill the druids there?  I am told the Christian God is all about love and peace.”

“Never fear,” Patrick said.  “The church has its share of militant priests.”

“Really?”  MacNeill smiled.  “There may be something to this faith of yours after all.”  Festuscato just laughed and prepared himself to answer questions about the Knights of the Lance.  Those questions did not come, but from that day, all over Ireland, scattered here and there, pirates appeared and told about a man named Patrick and the power and the miraculous army of his God.

###

At the end of the second month, Clugh started taking to the air in anticipation of his visitors.  He found the fire pit fairy quickly, and on scattering it, he almost set the fens on fire, wet though the swamp was.  The men had to build a new pit out behind the tavern, and then with MacNeill’s permission, in the courtyard of the fort itself.  He had men dig out a great underground chamber, lined with stones and with a great bed of stones and broken and rusty spears and swords, plows and axes for the dragon’s bed.

Clugh actually arrived only two days after the construction finished.  Some were not sure he would come into the midst of so many humans, but Clugh had become accustomed to his brothers and his one sister, and he showed that perhaps humans were not the enemy.  Whether or not he considered humans to be edibles remained to be seen.

Festuscato figured it would only be a matter of time once Clugh went airborne.  He kept day-old, burnt meat in the nest, and he called it a nest for Clugh when he arrived. The dragon slithered in and squealed, flamed the walls and roared, which made MacNeill and most of his people doubt the wisdom of making a home for the beast.

“It is frightening,” MacNeill admitted.

“Nonsense,” Festuscato responded.  “All that fuss just means he likes the new nest.  Just think what the other Lords around will say when they realize you have your own personal dragon guarding the place.  Why, I bet Leinster will get so jealous, he will run out and try to get one of his own.”

That made MacNeill grin.

Clugh settled in for about two weeks.  MacNeill lost a couple of good hunting dogs, and he had to move the stables further away.  He also took back his old barn from Patrick, though Patrick did not mind because of the church they were building.  Overall, Clugh stayed good, and Donogh was there every day to play with his brother and keep him somewhat contained.  By then, Clugh knew how to say “Donogh”, though it came out more like “Dalnaw.”  For his part, Donogh learned a reasonable amount of dragon words.  He learned to say come and stay and stop and no and Bran suggested the boy was learning parenting skills.

 After two weeks, Festuscato knew it would not work.  As much as the people might be willing to give it a try, and as good as Clugh could be, eventually the dragon would get big enough and old enough to where he could not be contained.  Given the circumstances and the regular feedings, he imagined Clugh might stay good for another fifty or so years, or at least as long as Donogh remained alive. But there would be incidents, no doubt including some crispy people along the way, but after two weeks, circumstances changed.

Festuscato, Dibs and Gaius sat in the tavern, reminiscing, when the Saxon long boats were spotted, headed for the port.  They had little time to evacuate the village before the Saxons landed and began burning and looting everything in sight.  People crowded into the fort, but left a wide area empty around Clugh’s home.  Donogh and Seamus went down into the dragon’s lair and tried to keep the beast calm, but it was not easy given the air of excitement and distress all around.

It did not take long for the Saxons to gather outside the fort.  Mirowen counted about two hundred which seemed quite a sizeable group for a raiding party.  Festuscato knew that Saxon raiders were much like the Vikings that were to come centuries in the future.  They tended to avoid direct conflict with large groups of armed men and avoided forts, unless they had something to gain.  Raiders, like pirates, struck hard and fast, took what they wanted, and left before any serious opposition could be raised.  In this case, though, the Saxons looked like they had something in mind.

Festuscato, MacNeill, Cormac and Murdoch went out to meet the Saxon leaders before hostilities erupted.  It turned out Festuscato and the Saxon knew each other.  It turned out to be Gorund, the chief who wanted the Cornish gold that did not exist.

“Take what you want from the village, but leave my people alone and you can go in peace,” MacNeill said.

“But what I want isn’t in the village,” a big fellow named Herslaw countered.  “We have been very well paid to come here and do a job, and when we bring back some heads, we will receive the other half of the payment.”  Gorund simply watched and kept his eye on Festuscato.

“Leinster.”  Cormac spit.

Gorund grinned.  “I am thinking you don’t want to fight any more than we do.  You can send this Dragon and his priests out to us and we can go away, and nobody needs to get hurt.”

MacNeill folded his arms and looked at Festuscato. Festuscato took that as permission to speak.  “Listen, Gorund, Coleslaw.  The problem with the priests is they have been declared off limits for killing by Lord MacNeill here, and as for myself, the one some call the dragon, you see, there is an actual dragon, a real dragon behind the fort wall ready to defend the people here.  The real dragon came from Rome, burned his way across Gaul and has been terrorizing the Fens for some forty years, until we made peace with the beast.  Leinster wants you to get the real dragon.  I am sure you don’t want to get involved in that, though I see where you might have been confused.”

Gorund did not budge.  “I heard a rumor about a real dragon, but I figured it was just you. I heard you only have two men with you, and that seems a small price to pay for a village.”  He turned and saw the smoke rising near the docks.  “What is left of it, anyway.”

An uncomfortable silence followed for a moment as MacNeill thought through a number of options before he spoke. “Nope.  You have already done your damage to the town.  There isn’t much more you can do unless you want to waste your men attacking the fort.  As my friend said, the priests are off limits, and as for the dragon, now I am talking about the man, I figure he has a few tricks up his sleeve that none of us can imagine, so I’ll stick with what I’ve got and you can go back to Leinster and tell him you changed your mind.

“Ah, but I can’t do that, you see,” Gorund responded with a wave of his hand.  There was movement in the Saxon line until ten men appeared out of thin air around the group, and each man had a bow with an arrow pointed right at Gorund.  “Hold it,” Gorund shouted for his life.  “No tricks.  We do this the proper way.”

Festuscato and MacNeill walked casually back to the fort. Cormac snickered and Murdoch nodded in agreement.

R6 Festuscato: 5 Pirates and Saxons, part 1 of 3

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

It took two months for the dragon wing to heal. Donogh went almost every day.  He would have gone every day, but sometimes he had too many chores.  On those days, he made sure whoever went took something special for Clugh.  “A boy and his dog,” Festuscato quipped.

Festuscato went himself every day at first, and Dibs, Bran and Seamus went often.  Mirowen said they were all mad, and Mousden screamed the same thought every time they invited him to tag along.

They kept Clugh fed by building a fire pit near the boulders where they could burn whatever deer or other generally smaller animals they could catch.  In the second month, Seamus went one day by himself with a book he made of blank parchment. He tried to get a sketch of the dragon, but Clugh would not leave him alone.  He wanted to be petted, and only took a break when he inhaled his daily offering of food.

Clugh slept for a whole week in the second month. Festuscato explained that dragons stuffed themselves over several months or years before they finally had to hibernate and digest it all.  The older Clugh got, the longer the time of hibernation.  He was aware that after ravaging a countryside, some big old dragons could sleep for a whole generation, about thirty or forty years. Clugh sleeping for only a week showed how young he really was.  Festuscato also pointed out that when a dragon awoke after a long sleep, they were very bloated with gas and tended to flame everything in sight for a while.

“It is not a good idea to wake a sleeping dragon,” he said.

“It is not a good idea to go anywhere near a dragon,” Mousden shrieked.

Festuscato kept one eye on the dragon during that time, but the other eye stayed on Patrick.  The Bishop seemed to be making good progress and even converted the local Lord MacNeill’s mother.  MacNeill complained about it to Festuscato.

“Time will come when every Irishman will be a Christian, and then we won’t be able to fight anymore.”

Festuscato laughed.  “I wouldn’t worry about Irishmen fighting.”

Chief MacNeill’s home looked something like a fort, a good-sized manor house, barn and stables, barracks for the men that worked for him, and a short wooden wall around the complex.  Needless to say, he was not happy when he heard about the dragon in the swamp, but he and his men were stymied as to what to do about it other than hide behind their wall.  They were honestly afraid; all of the people who heard were afraid, but Festuscato and the others assured them they had things well in hand and would resolve things before they had any trouble.  The people did not exactly trust the Roman, but they were willing to hold back for the sake of any man who could command elves and pixies to do his bidding.

“Ha!” Festuscato nudged Mirowen one evening when they were feasting in MacNeill’s home with Patrick, Gaius and MacNeill’s mother. They were six weeks into the dragon business at that point, and the dragon was into his long nap.  “Since when do you do what I tell you?” he asked. Mirowen said nothing, but Patrick interjected a thought.

“I don’t know.  She and you seem to end up in the same place even if you come from completely opposite directions.”  Mirowen and Festuscato looked at one another and shook their heads.

“True enough,” Gaius agreed with Patrick.  “She is pure and you are anything but.”

“That might have been true in the past, but not now that he has taken up with a dragon.  Madness.” Mirowen looked away.  MacNeill’s mother, Fianna dropped her eyes and wiped away a small tear, and MacNeill took a moment to show his concern for her.

“I am sure you have heard,” he said.  “My father was killed by the dragon some forty years ago when I was a small boy.  Many people died, including his druids who thought they could devise a way through magic and such things to control the dragon.”

“They were the first eaten,” Fianna interrupted, and Patrick responded to her.

“Trust in the Lord, the Almighty. He is the only sure and certain help in time of trouble.”

“Anyway,” MacNeill began again with a hard look at Patrick, not happy with the interruption of his tale.  “They say the dragon began in the Alps, burned its way across Gaul, and eventually crossed over the sea to settle in our fens.  Some say there were two of them in that rampage, but some say only one.  I can tell you, there was consternation in the lands all around here for forty years, on and off.  Leinster got burned regularly.”  MacNeill snickered at the thought.  “Anyway, about ten years ago it appeared as if the dragon moved north.  Ulster suffered, and maybe that encouraged some to accept the Roman offer cross the sea to live between the walls, I don’t know.” He paused to grin.  “I remember Lord Giolla, Leinster’s right hand man, sent a small army against the fens.  They did not fare well.”

“They got bogged down,” Festuscato joked, and to the looks of the others he added, “Well, someone had to say it.”

“Anyway,” MacNeill continued.  “About a year ago, almost two I suppose, everything stopped. No one knows why, but there has not been any word of any dragon in the fens for ten years, and for the last two, no word of any dragon in Ireland at all, until now.  Now, people are afraid to go into the fens again, and I say I can hardly blame them.”

“It isn’t like that,” Festuscato said.  “I can make a good guess what happened two years ago.  First of all, I would guess two dragons, and I would guess Mama dragon had her babies in the fens.  Papa dragon did his best to feed them for forty years, but by then the babies started getting old enough and big enough to be worth eating.  I would guess Mama dragon took her babies elsewhere, and Papa dragon followed.  No telling how it ended up.  At that age, more or less, the babies are old enough to escape and make their own way in the world if it comes to that.”

MacNeill and his fellows, Cormac and Murdoch all groaned at that thought of having the whole countryside covered with dragons.

“Anyway,” Festuscato used MacNeill’s word.  “I don’t know how it turned out between Mama and Papa dragon, but little Clugh got left behind because his wing was broken. He probably hid from Papa, and likely would not have survived if young Donogh had not found him.  The boy fed him and nursed him as well as he could for at least a year before we arrived.  Now, with Greta’s help, the wing will be properly healed, and then I just need to decide what to do with him.”

“We’ll make a raft so you can take him with you when you leave,” Cormac mumbled and Murdoch nodded in agreement.

“I should whip that boy,” MacNeill mumbled at the same time.

“The opposite, I would say,” Patrick objected to MacNeill’s thought, and Festuscato picked up on it.

“Donogh has proved himself to be clever and capable and fearless.  I would think you should help raise the boy.  He may prove very valuable in the future.”

“We may take him for the church,” Gaius suggested.

“Now wait a minute,” MacNeill put his hands up to hold off that thought.  “What the Roman says makes sense.  If he is as capable as all that, I may bring him into the fort and train him myself.”

“Lord MacNeill.”  A man stood in the doorway, reluctant to interrupt the event.  “The people from the village are coming in the gate. Sean Fen has sailed into the port with three ships and a hundred men thirsting for blood.”  Everyone stood except Festuscato and Mirowen.

Festuscato first threw his wash cloth down on the table. “What is it with this pirate?  Why does he feel obliged to interrupt my dinner parties?”  Before MacNeill could give answer to his man, Mousden came flying in, screeching and screaming.  He went straight to Festuscato and Mirowen where he squeezed between them and shivered. Mirowen did her best to calm the pixie. She got him to get big and made a place for him between her and Festuscato even as Bran, Dibs, and Seamus came tumbling in the door.  Dibs still carried his sword, and it looked used.

“They off-loaded some men in a cove a mile down shore and they came up to take the tavern at dusk,” Seamus reported.

“We would not have gotten out if Mousden had not distracted them with all his screaming,” Dibs added.

“Lord MacNeill.”  Another man came into the room.  “A message from Sean Fen.  He says send out the dragon and his men so he can exact justice for his men that were murdered.”

“Dragon?”  MacNeill looked confused until Cormac whispered in his ear.  “Of course, I had forgotten.”  He turned to Festuscato who sat looking calm and undisturbed. “Actually, that explains a little bit.”

“Lord,” the man was not finished.  “The druid with Sean Fen says send out the priests. There is a price on their heads.”

“Tell him,” MacNeill paused and looked at Patrick and his mother.  “Tell him I will do no such thing.  He will have to fetch them himself.”  MacNeill and his men sat again at the table and Gaius helped bring up chairs for Dibs, Bran and Seamus.  Dibs, Bran and Gaius looked and sounded almost as calm as Festuscato, but Seamus was new.

“What are we going to do?” he asked.

MacNeill got their attention.  “I cannot help you,” he said.  “Sean Fen is my cousin.  He was born in the fens, but when the dragons came forty years ago, his father, my uncle took him to sea, saying a dragon would not be interested in all that water with so little to burn.”

“Now Sean Fen has taken over for his father,” Fianna interrupted her son.  “He spends his days raiding Wales and sometimes Cornwall and Lyoness.  He is a horrid man.”

“He doesn’t get much for his efforts,” MacNeill added.  “And what he gets he wastes on drink and women, and buying the favor of men like Leinster.”

“But you can’t help us because he is your cousin.” Festuscato made it a statement, but MacNeill answered it like a question.

“Yes.”

Festuscato sighed and stood at last, so the other members of his company stood as well.  “Might as well go see what Sean Fen has in mind,” he said.

“Might as well,” Patrick agreed, and the priests followed Festuscato and his company out the door.  Mirowen held tight to Mousden’s hand, and Fianna followed her and remarked how she was not aware Mirowen had a son, and so big, and she was so young.  Mirowen did not bother to correct the kindly old woman, but with Fianna along, MacNeill and his men also followed, curious about how things might turn out.

Festuscato let go of his comfortable clothes and called for his armor and weapons as he exited the home.  Dibs and Bran took a bit longer as they unwrapped their dragon tunics that they kept folded and hidden in a secret pocket they had built into their own version of armor.  When they climbed the five-foot rise that was just inside the nine-foot wall that allowed a man to stand and look down on an enemy, Mirowen put Mousden in Fianna’s hands.

“You stay with this nice lady,” Mirowen said. “She is the mother of the Lord of this castle and there are no safer hands you could be in, so stay with her and stay big.”  Mirowen meant it.

“Yes, mother,” Mousden teased, and stuck his tongue out at her.