A pot of water warmed over the hearth. Siobhan pulled a patch of linen out of it with a hook and transferred it to a bowl of vinegar on the table. Finn had taken Mrs. MacSweeney’s seat at the end of the table and spun it backwards to let Siobhan dress his back.
“I’m not bleeding?” Finn asked. “That is a relief.”
“You are bleeding. A light amount,” Siobhan said as she added some salt to the bowl. “You already have a fierce bruise and it will cover your upper back in a few days. Your skin’s broken in the center of the bruise; that’s probably what you felt.”
Finn’s leine shirt soaked behind him in a bucket. The ionar vest that masked any trace of the bleeding was clutched between his chest and the chair back. His cheeks were pink.
“I’ve never seen a wound like this before,” she said.
“See a lot of whip strikes, hai?” Donal asked.
“Whisht, you,” she said. “Finn, are you sure it was a whip and not a club?”
“I had a real close look,” Finn said. “It was a whip, long and made of bone. Its handle was that hard, too.” He rubbed the back of his head.
“Bone could do this, I suppose,” Siobhan said. “I won’t lie to you. This will sting.”
She pulled the linen from the bowl, folded it and dabbed the center of the bruise. Finn inhaled and exhaled through gritted teeth.
“A couple of days of this, that’s all,” the widow said, patting Finn’s hand. “We’ve got enough linen—”
Donal’s chair fell backwards to the floor as he sprang to his feet. The eyes of everyone in the room rose from it to his face.
“‘That’s all?’” Donal asked.
Donal had seized the floor without a plan. He had only this brief moment of surprise to devise one and it wasn’t long enough. Mrs. MacSweeney’s polite grin dropped and showed Donal the face of someone unaccustomed to interruption.
G’wan, Donal, he told himself. They won’t stop and listen to you again if you don’t.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. MacSweeney. I mean no disrespect. But my brother should be dead.” He put a reassuring hand on Finn’s shoulder to maintain his momentum. “You call the headless thing a ‘dullahan’ like he’s an aul’ fella selling vegetables at the fair. You three know things we don’t and it’s time you stopped talking around it and tell us straight. What is happening?”
Mrs. MacSweeney and Siobhan looked at Murrough. The old man stared at Donal, likely measuring his next words with care.
“It’s not just those three,” Finn said. “I know what a dullahan is but I have no idea why it’s up and about in the world.”
“Grand,” Donal said, weary of the circular discussion. “What’s it doing here, Murrough?”
Murrough sighed and patted his knees with his hands. “You’ll have to sit through a tale. Without interruption, hai?”
“Will I finally get an answer to what’s happening?” Donal asked.
“By the end, you will,” Murrough said.
Donal reached back and tipped his chair upright. “Get on with it.”
“Finn,” Murrough said, “can you tell us about the time Lugh came to Tara?”
Finn wrinkled his nose at the unexpected request. “Why that story?” he asked. “And why me?”
“Humor an old man, would you?” Murrough asked.
“Who’s Lugh?” Donal asked.
“He’s talking about Lugh Lamhfada,” Finn said, “from the Tuatha Dé Danann.”
“The name sounds familiar,” Donal said, “but I don’t remember him.”
Finn sighed. He looked at Murrough with his eyebrows pinched and raised. He tilted his head and drew back one corner of his mouth in a last plea when his uncle’s face did not change. Murrough at last answered with a gesture to Donal.
“The Tuatha Dé were a lock of people believed by our ancestors to be gods, an arrangement not unlike the ones the Norsemen worship in Dublin,” Finn said. “They had gods and goddesses for all kinds of things—war, love, hunting, fishing, farming. One of the strongest and most notable was a man named Lugh Lamhfada, or Lugh of the Long Arm. He was the brightest among them, many revered him as if he were God of the sun itself. The story Murrough would like me to share is the day Lugh traveled to Tara to join them.”
Finn rubbed and clasped his hands and, with frustrated glance toward Murrough, he began the tale.
There was a great feast among the Tuatha Dé when Nuada returned to the throne. Despite the formidable walls surrounding them, two men named Gamal and Camall were called upon to watch the gate.
A handsome stranger approached the entrance. He had the build of warrior but there was a brightness to him, as if he glowed, and he was draped in a fine cloak.
Gamal stepped in front of the man and held up his hand. ‘Who are you, sir?’ he said.
‘I am Lugh, son of Cian and Ethniu, grandson of both Diancecht of the Tuatha Dé and Balor of the Fomor, foster son of both Manannan mac Lir and Tailtu. I would like to join the feast.’
Gamal told Lugh, ‘Only those with a skill useful to King Nuada may pass. What skill have you?’
‘I am a carpenter,’ Lugh said.
Gamal shook his head. ‘Luchta is our carpenter, and we have no need for another. Have you another craft?’
Finn’s retelling was fitful with stops and starts. Donal never asked him about his studies and it was clear Finn gave them little thought over the past three years.
‘I am also a smith,’ Lugh said, ‘master of many metals. Let me in so you can test me.’
‘And we have Goibniu, the greatest with silver, bronze, steel and most metals,’ Gamal said. ‘If it’s brass we turn to Crédne.’
‘I am a fierce warrior, strong and masterful in single combat,’ Lugh said.
‘We have many warriors,’ Gamal said. ‘None, though, are as powerful as Ogma or as fierce as Bresal.’
‘Surely you have need of a harper?’ Lugh asked.
‘We call on Auchán, son of Bicelmois for that,’ Gamal said.
‘I am a poet and a historian,’ Lugh said.
‘So is én, son of Ethamain,’ Gamal said. ‘He’s feasting with us now.’
‘Do you have a sorcerer as skilled as myself?’ Lugh asked.
‘Not just one,’ Gamlan said. ‘We have The Morrigan, Mathgen and the queen of the druids, Druanthia.’
‘I’m a skilled healer,’ Lugh said. ‘I can heal all ills.’
‘Your own granddad, Diancecht, is our healer,’ Gamlan said, ‘so you know we have greatest in the land.’
‘Surely you’re in need of a shipwright,’ Lugh said. ‘I was trained by Manannan mac Lir.’
‘I know him well,’ Gamal said, ‘for he’s already here with the king.’
‘I am a master of strategy,’ said Lugh.
‘The king himself is a master of that as well,’ Gamal said.
‘Fine, fine,’ Lugh told the guard. ‘You do have wonderful masters in all of these separate skills. But do this for me: go to Nuada and ask him if he has anyone who is a master in all of them.’
‘Stay with this man,’ Gamal told Camall. ‘I will go and speak with the king.’
Gamal walked back up the hill to the feast and joined Nuada’s side. ‘There is a man at the gate that wishes to enter,’ Gamal told him. ‘I asked him what craft he practices and we already have a master for each and every one he claimed. He claimed to be a master in all of them.’
Nuada scratched his chin with his new hand, the one built of silver, and looked across the feast until his eyes rested upon some revelers playing a game of fidchell. ‘Take the fidchell boards down to him,’ Nuada said. ‘Then return to me with the outcome.’
Gamal brought down the boards and Lugh beat the two guards in every game they played and the guard returned to the feast. Upon hearing the outcome, Nuada bid Gamal to bring Lugh inside, for Tara had never seen his like before.
Lugh entered Tara and they tested everything from his strength to his skill as a musician. By the end of the day he was dubbed ‘Ildánach,’ or master of all arts.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“You look like you have a question,” Murrough said.
“What’s this fidchell?” Donal asked.
“That’s your question?” Finn asked. “It’s the game you never want to play with me.”
“That circle game you and Uncle play with the weird lines and stones?” Donal asked.
“Hai, Donal, ‘the circle game,’” Finn said with a sigh. “Uncle, can you please tell me what an old myth has to do with what happened tonight?”
“What if I told you it wasn’t a myth?” Murrough asked.
“After making me tell that entire story given the night I’ve had?” Finn asked. “I’d walk out the door.”
Donal looked from the widow to Siobhan. Neither woman showed any signs of incredulity at Murrough’s statement.
“It’s the truth,” Murrough said. “Mostly.”
Finn scoffed. He leaned forward in his seat as if to leave. He looked at the widow and then over his shoulder at Siobhan. Neither showed any signs of shock or incredulity—though Siobhan’s hands hovered above Finn’s shoulders as if she wanted to hold him in his seat.
“I suppose you are going to sit there and tell us that the Lebor Gabála is real as well?” Finn asked.
“Mistakes and exaggerations grew as the tales were shared down through our generations,” Murrough said. “Then the monks took them and tried to line them up with the Bible’s timeline. That’s why we have different tellings of the same events. The Book of Invasions and our other folk tales aren’t true as they were written. But there is more truth behind them than most believe. The Tuatha Dé traveled from the north shrouded in smoke. They defeated the Fir Bolg down near Sligo town.”
“So they’re Norsemen after all,” says Donal. “Fierce, sure, but nothing godlike to ‘em.”
“I didn’t say that,” said Murrough. “Some know them today as fairy folk, or the ‘Aos Sí.’ They came here from the north. However, the place they left is another land entirely, one of the Otherworlds.”
“Otherworlds, as in more than one?” Finn asked. “Are you talking about ‘Tír na nóg?’”
“What’s a Tír Nóg?” Donal asked.
“It’s the Otherworld,” Finn said. “As believed by the old druids.”
“The Tuatha Dé came from Tír na nóg,” Murrough said. “But there are others. Some are easier to access. Some lands, such as Tír na nóg, only can be entered from specific places. There are islands south of Iceland, named after our people, and the Tuatha Dé crossed into our world there.”
Finn looked unimpressed. “The Dagda, The Morrigan, Cú Chulainn—”
“—their ancestors, their magic, their enemies,” Murrough said. “All real.”
“Suppose I believe you,” Finn said. “What bearing does all this have on what happened tonight?”
“As I said, there are details lost or exaggerated over time,” Murrough said. “We know about many famous children and grandchildren of the Tuatha Dé and similar tales, but not all. Some we lose track of, some we never knew. When the core of Tuatha Dé lost at the hands of men, they retreated to places like Tír na nóg. Still, some children and half-children remained here in Ireland living unassuming lives. Over time, many of these descendants became unaware of their connection to their otherworldly ancestors.”
“Many, but not all,” Mrs. MacSweeney said with a nod to Murrough.
“Hang on, are you three some of those people?” Donal asked. “Who, then? How do you know?”
“My own family—the O’Donnells—go back centuries,” the widow said, throwing a thumb over her shoulder toward the shelf of books. “Some of our families have been blessed in keeping our druidic roots. Mr. MacSweeney can trace his kin back to Tuireann.”
Donal waited for the widow to elaborate. When she did not, he looked to her daughter.
“He had control over thunder and lightning,” Siobhan said.
Donal’s stomach felt like it dropped through his chair and onto the floor. He held up a finger until the words that spun around his head settled and then waved that finger at Siobhan when they did.
“It was you at the tomb!” he said. “That wasn’t a coincidence, you made the thunder that knocked the dullahan backwards!”
Siobhan beamed. “Now you’re getting it.”
“But how?”
“A bit from my mam’s side,” she said, “a bit from my da’s.”
“And we’re back to cryptic answers,” Donal said. “Grand.”
“We’ll get to that shortly,” Murrough said. “But now we’ve arrived at the point where we can tell you your place in all of this. You two descended from the Tuatha Dé yourselves.”
“Is that right?” Donal asked. “Who or what?”
“Lugh himself,” Murrough said. “On your mother’s side.”
Finn scoffed. “‘Lugh,’ of all people, he says. Uncle, passing down these tales as part of our culture is one thing, but treating them as anything more than that is foolish.”
Siobhan crossed her arms, pulling the bandage away from his wound for a moment. “You think so? Describe what happened to you without sounding ‘foolish.’”
Finn flopped his hands about as he sought an answer. After a half-minute of stammering, his answer clicked.
“I was involved in a single wayward encounter with something that may or may not be a spirit,” Finn said. “Now you’re telling me that otherworlds and our mythological heroes are real? And people have secretly passed down supernatural abilities for a few thousand years? On top of all of that, a couple of nobody farmers like Donal and I descended from Lugh Lamhfada?”
“Speak for yourself, hai?” Donal said.
Finn had been through a lot tonight but Donal didn’t like being dragged into such a miserable portrayal.
“Better yet, dry up altogether,” Donal added.
“Donal, you’re falling for this?” Finn asked.
“Finn, it’s been a long, trying night,” said Murrough. “You could bring some things that Donal packed from the wagon.”
“Uncle,” Finn said, “if this is supposed to be true, then—”
Siobhan swung around into his eyeline. “Finn, please. At least do it for the fresh air. You two are sleeping here tonight.”
Finn looked in disbelief at Mrs. MacSweeney, then Murrough. He shook his head and walked out of the house holding his vest, leaving several minutes of silence behind him. Mrs. MacSweeney took the silence as a cue to disappear into the storage room. Siobhan cleaned up the ingredients and extra linen.
“What about these ‘Fomori?’” Donal asked. “I remember you two mentioning their names before. Were they living here the whole time?”
“Quite the opposite,” Murrough said. “They were raiders from the sea, though they spent a great deal of time living on Tory Island. Our ancestors talk about our ancient history as six different periods of ‘invasions.’ The Partholónians, Nemedians and Fir Bolg all fought the Fomori before the Tuatha Dé finally scattered them.
“Some of the Fomori were monstrous in appearance, like their leaders Cichol and Balor. Many looked human, more or less. They, too, came from otherworlds. They, too, had unnatural abilities and they, too, have descendants among men.”
“Is the dullahan a Fomori?” Donal asked.
“It is not, but it was they who summoned it,” his uncle said. “We think they’re behind other incidents, too.”
“Who’s ‘we?’”
“There are a few dozen of us throughout the island that we know of. A handful of us here in Tyrconnell. Niall MacRannell, for one.”
“Niall?” Donal asked. “That’s wild. Who’s his kin?”
“Nuada, of the Silver Hand. You’ll meet two more of us when we head to Dunfanaghy tomorrow.”
“So that’s why you had me pack.”
“We’re going to be gone for a while,” Murrough said.
“Is this Lugh business the reason I could toss that knife so far and hurt the dullahan?” Donal asked Siobhan.
“Mostly,” she said. “Dullahans are vulnerable to golden weapons. I also put a tad extra on the knife before I handed it to you. Luckily for me you took care of the rest.”
“Is it the same ‘tad extra’ that you put on your walking stick when you fought thing?” Donal asked.
“Indeed,” Siobhan said. “But in light of what you’ve learned, do you still think this is a mere walking stick?”