“What are we to do, Grandad?”
“I will do what little I can to help you. Teach you some things in the short time we have before you leave.”
Leave!
Kate’s mind reeled at just that single word.
“Teach us what?” Mark’s incredulity did not stop him from asking.
“How to get you past the gate.”
“Get past the gate!” more than one voice shrieked at once.
“Are you not heading for the summit of the mountain that is calling you?
Sidhe ár Feimhin
is surely your destiny.”
“Hey, just let me pack my overnight travel bag, folks. I’m on a little jaunt to the world of fairy tales.”
“Scoff as you will, young Mark. But I wager you will still answer the calling. And you have precious little time to prepare for it. For, if I judge right, Grimstone is back in just twelve days.”
Mark’s face paled.
Alan’s eyes met his grandfather’s. He understood now the hurt in his expression, his fear of losing him.
“Supposing—let’s just say supposing—we did climb to the top of Slievenamon, what are we going to find there?”
“There is a cairn of stones at the very top of the mountain. Legend suggests it marks the portal.”
“But what does that mean?” Alan shook his head in bafflement. “Are you saying there’s no real gateway into this world?”
“If legend is true, and a portal there is, it will hardly take the form of a gate of lintel and wood.”
“But then how the heck do we find it?”
“Hidden within the cairn of stones lies a basin of stone. I know it is there because I have seen it with my own eyes. It seemed an altar of sorts, but to what unearthly power I could not even hazard a guess. If
legend is true, the altar is warded by invocation to that power.”
“What sort of invocation?”
“Drawn in the same Ogham you saw in the barrow.”
Alan shook his head. “Invocations to what power?”
“Grimstone carries a black cross, which, if I guess right, is the hilt, cross-piece and upper blade of Feimhin’s dagger. This has spoken to him of old power, a power lost and buried for millennia, but still clinging to the landscape. Slievenamon is at the heart of it, the mountain itself, and the three rivers that girdle her skirts.”
“Thuh-thuh-thuh . . . thuh-Trídédana?”
“You’ve a great deal of sense in you, Mo Grimstone. The Trídédana indeed!”
“What does that mean?”
“We know that to the Celts all rivers were sacred. Indeed, rivers were seen as sacred to a great many ancient peoples. Even in Christian teaching, did not John the Baptist wash Jesus in the waters of a river? Do we not baptize using water?”
“Yuh-yuh-you remember what Grimstone said about ruh-rivers.”
“Mark?” Kate turned to him.
Mark smiled wryly, then intoned Grimstone’s snarl, “‘Three rivers—evocative of the foulest pretense—the stink of a heathen trinity’?”
There was a silence lasting several seconds as they all digested that.
“So.” Padraig rubbed at his brow. “If I interpret the best course, you should gather the waters of the three rivers—we still call them the three sisters—to mix in the stone basin. Then invoke the Ogham you discover there.”
“But none of us can read Ogham.”
“I’ll have to teach you what I can.”
“In just twelve days?”
“It’s all the time you have. And we must also equip you with a weapon.”
“What weapon?”
“One appropriately warded with force. I doubt you will get safely through the gate without it.”
Alan shook his head. “Aw, come on, you guys! This is getting crazy!”
Mark laughed softly in Alan’s ear. “What have I been telling you? Welcome to cloud cuckoo land!”
The Spear of Lug
When, at the crack of dawn, Padraig emerged from his front door, Mark was already up and waiting for him. Mark sat in the fragrant grass by the side of the dairy, leaning against the pear tree, which was fruiting tiny, stone-hard fruit. He watched Padraig stride up the short curl of gravel path in his direction, then halt mid-stride when crossing the yard in the direction of the timber sheds. Noticing Mark, he came over to see what he was doing there so early.
“Well?”
“Mr. O’Brien, I want to help you.”
Silent for a second or two, Padraig peered at the young Londoner as he swiped at grass heads with a stick.
“How do you propose to help?”
“I’ve a pretty good memory for languages—foreign words.”
“You mean you want me to teach you Ogham?”
“I’m not pretending to believe everything you’ve been telling us. But one thing I do know now is that we’re down to eleven days. Then Grimstone will be back. When he comes back he’ll take me and Mo away from here for good. I—I don’t want that to happen.”
Padraig swiveled his head around, as if ready to walk away.
“Mr. O’Brien—I’m telling you the truth.”
Padraig hesitated, gazing down at Mark, eye-to-eye.
“Please, Mr. O’Brien! Mo is really frightened.” Mark pressed his lips tightly together. “I don’t want to appear vain, but I really don’t believe any of the others could learn enough Ogham in that time.”
“But you reckon you could?”
“I could learn a little—maybe enough to make a difference.”
“Why would you offer to become sorcerer’s apprentice when you doubt the very art of sorcery?”
Mark nodded. “I know how it must look. I can’t pretend to believe everything you’ve told us. But I saw the sigil on the sword. I saw it glow in the dark. I saw the insects fry on the blade. I don’t think Grimstone’s cross is a cross at all. I think you’re right—it’s what’s left of a dagger.” Mark scrambled to his feet so he wouldn’t have to squint in the low morning sunshine when looking into Padraig’s face. “I don’t really know what it is, or what Grimstone is up to, but it frightens me too. I can’t bear the thought of going back to live in that house.”
Padraig put his hand on Mark’s left shoulder.
“I know you’ve done your best to protect your sister.”
“For all the good it did her!”
“And you believe you can learn some Ogham in eleven days?”
“I’ll work really hard at it.”
“Arrah, this will be blacksmithing in a hot forge. Devilish hard work—harder than you could possibly imagine.”
“I don’t care how hard it will be.”
“Then we are agreed!”
Padraig surprised him by spitting into the palm of his right hand, like a tinker at a horse fair. He extended his hand. Mark hesitated, then did likewise. His hand was dwarfed by the callused and horny grasp of Padraig’s.
Later that same morning, when Alan heard that Mark had volunteered to assist his grandfather in the little-used smithy behind the house, he couldn’t hide his astonishment. He couldn’t stop talking about it to Kate and Mo when they gathered, as usual, over the table in the dairy.
Mo said, “Muh-Muh-Mark is duh-desperate.”
“Heck, I don’t know! I just don’t know what to make of Mark any more.”
What was he supposed to think? Just when he was beginning to admit to himself that the skeptical Mark had probably been right all along, Mark did the very opposite of what you would expect, going to work for Padraig like some willing convert to his grandfather’s superstitions. Since yesterday’s trip to the mountain,
Alan had had time to sleep on it, and today it seemed that the strange calling on the top of the mountain simply defied all common sense.
“We’ve got to look for normal, rational, explanations for all of this.”
Kate shook her head. “Don’t you start pretending that yesterday didn’t happen.”
“C’mon, Kate! You can believe it’s like Slievenamon calling?”
“You have an alternative explanation?”
Oh man!
Where was the skeptical Mark when you needed him? “Oh, come on guys! How the hell are we supposed to buy what’s going on? You know as well as I do it’s crazy. You can’t communicate with a mountain.”
This just led to furious glares from the girls.
But his natural skepticism continued to haunt Alan and he couldn’t help going over things, again and again, in his mind.
Wasn’t it more than enough that they were no longer orphans struggling to carry on alone? They were friends, with common experiences, who wanted to support one another. That was good enough for him, without the contagious blarney that had taken hold of them on the mountain. He tried again with the girls. “Hey, we have a lot of hurt in common. We’ve got to recognize that that could play tricks with our feelings, like some kind of common emotional charge.”
They shook their heads.
“Can’t we just go back to having fun?”
“Oh, Alan!”
But he really meant it. The way he saw it, something really nice had blossomed among them. His rational mind ached to find a way of getting back to that.
Over the days that followed he took to driving around the tracks in the woods, sitting on his own in the bench seat of the old flatbed truck Padraig used to deliver logs. He’d pull in to a halt in the middle of the track, or in a tree-framed glade, looking out the windshield into the summery sky, watching the clouds roll over, as if the answer lay there. Clouds and sky and trees. And mountains—one mountain in particular!
Oh, boy!
Here in Clonmel, even in the depths of the woods, you couldn’t escape the brooding shadow of Slievenamon!
The townspeople, now that his despair was lifting, seemed like friendly, decent people. They talked a little different, with a lilt to their words, but essentially they came across as the same kind of commonsense people he had grown up with. That approach had been drummed deep into his way of looking at the world. Now, suddenly, right in the middle of things going right for him, a big hole had appeared in his world. Nothing added up anymore.
It was driving him crazy.
He was just sitting there in a daydream, the truck’s cab throbbing to the rhythm of the diesel engine, when he was aware that somebody was rapping for his
attention on the window. He jerked with surprise, then saw that it was Kate.
“Alan! You have to turn this thing around and go back to the mill. Your grandfather has something to show us.”
Alan groaned. He threw open the passenger door, which was missing a handle on the outside, so Kate could join him in the cab. He performed a seven-point turn in the narrow confines of the tree-hemmed track and headed back.
Kate had to hold firm to the dash, grinning as the vehicle rocked and jerked through the maneuver. “Where did you learn to drive a thing like this?”
He shook his head, little inclined to explain that his dad had taught him to drive, off-road, for his fourteenth birthday.
“Alan, will you stop moping like this?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re out of your mind with jealousy, because Mark is working in the forge with Padraig.”
It hadn’t for a moment occurred to him that that was what the girls were thinking. And now that she said it, it only made things worse. He refused to speak another word over the mile or so of weaving and winding, until they broke free of cover at the edge of the mill yard to find Padraig sitting with Mo and Mark on the knoll by the dairy. Across Padraig’s knees was a strange metal object, heavy, shallow and S-shaped, about three and a half feet in length. It certainly wasn’t made of steel.
It had a greenish metallic sheen, like old bronze, but was cut with patterns and arabesques that flashed and glimmered with the slightest movement.
Even the skeptical Alan couldn’t deny his curiosity. “What the blazes is that, Grandad?”
“Well now!” Padraig’s lips crinkled into a wry smile. “Will you take a look at the weapon that killed Prince Feimhin!”
“I don’t understand!”
“I was impetuous, foolishly arrogant. Not a lot older than you and young Mark here. My father brought me to the grave and explained it, much as I explained it to you. But there was a single difference. This battle-axe adorned the lintel, just inside the entrance, as if to ward it. Though hoary, with three thousand years of patina, it had resisted decay—much as you saw with Feimhin’s blade.”
Alan stared at the weapon, which was about three-quarters the length of a long bow, with a central hilt between two heavy blades, curved like opposing scimitars.
“What are you saying—this is what killed Prince Feimhin?”
“Cleaved right the way through helm and head! Sure didn’t I hold it square against that terrible wound to confirm my suspicions, soon after I had first cleaned and oiled it? Everything fitted exactly, like the pieces of a jigsaw. This is certainly the weapon.”
Padraig took a firm grip of the central stock of the battle-axe with his right hand, allowing it to twist and
turn with a balanced flexion of his wrist. The bright-cut patterns decorating the cutting edges glittered. Alan realized that the patterns were not mere embroidery. They appeared to be invocations, but drawn in a very different script from the Ogham they had seen in the burial chamber.
“It doesn’t look like any battle-axe I’ve ever seen.”
“Of course you’ve seen many ancient battle-axes!” The old man laughed at his expense. “But you’re right—there’s none to my own mind that is remotely like it. From the shape of it, I believe it’s intended both for close quarter hand-to-hand combat and most particularly for casting.”
“You mean, like throwing?”
“Indeed!”
“Can I hold it?”
“You may—but be prepared! It’s quite a weight.”
Padraig laid the axe across the palms of his outstretched hands so Alan could take it in both hands by the central stock.
“Careful now!”
“Oh, baby!” Heavy was an understatement. Alan found that he was hard-pressed just to hold it steady in his hands.
“Study its geometry carefully, its curves and patterns. As you’ll discover, it’s not flat, but subtly curved in three dimensions. The work of a master craftsman—truly a fearsome weapon!”
Alan felt a curious thrill just to hold it. “You’re saying that this belonged to a Fir Bolg warrior?”
“I would assume that you’re holding the weapon of a warrior prince—a leader of that race in his own right!”
“Man! This is really what killed Prince Feimhin?”
“I’m certain of it. Haven’t I studied that axe for most of my life? But even in all that time I’ve glimpsed no more than a hint of its potential. I’m going to attempt a demonstration. See—I’ve set up a target yonder.”
Padraig nodded to the stump of a tree about forty yards away, close to where the track took off into the woods. It was perhaps a foot in diameter and stood about six feet out of the earth.
“I’ll attempt a single throw. No more! I’ve learned from experience that use of the weapon draws deeply on the thrower, in body and spirit. It’s my guess that the inscriptions you see on the cutting edges of the blades were meant to be invoked in the act of throwing. I cannot read a single character of these but I’ll make do with a mantra of my own. In the meantime you should all stand well clear.”
They drew back and watched.
Padraig closed his eyes, rocking slightly on his feet as he searched for balance in his grip. Opening his eyes again, his gaze focused on the distant tree trunk. His right arm sprang back in a curve, muscles standing out like hawsers. In that same movement, his head inclined so that his line of sight was one with the target, and then, as a low-pitched growl of song burst from his lips, the weapon leaped from the twisting curl of his wrist.
The battle-axe whirled, making a low humming noise, as if in reply to the invocation of Padraig’s chant, while the four friends watched in astonishment. When the axe struck the tree trunk, the dense wood shattered, as if struck by an explosive missile. But still the humming and whirling continued. Only the pitch changed, signaling what appeared to be an impossible change of direction, as the spinning blade wheeled around in an arc, heading back to be grasped, as if in a consummation of purpose, by Padraig’s upraised hand.
With gasps of awe, the four friends gathered around Padraig, witnessing the discharge of spiritual tension that exhausted him as he slowly fell to his knees and, with a reverential right hand, laid the battle-axe on the ground.
That night Alan woke from sleep with the memory of Mo’s sweet song to the mountain like a caress in his mind. He sensed what was coming.
He murmured, “No!” But it was a token resistance.
The wave came, more gentle than before, a slow rise over many minutes, washing over his skin like a mist of kisses, as though this time the seduction was meant for him alone. His mind opened out onto the vast panorama that bridged the valley, until the vision of the mountain filled all of his senses. He felt its breath touch the membranes of his eyes. He tasted the exultation of its longing on his tongue. His body unfolded to the ecstasy of the calling, embracing every delicious mote as it flowed, in streams and rivulets of abandonment, through the inner spaces of his being.
Day after day, blue smoke rose from the soot-stained steel chimney over the corrugated iron roof of the old forge. Here, in the summer’s heat, the pulse of the hammer rang out, steel-ringing and clear, disturbing the blackbirds, robins, blue tits and sparrows, and causing them to shriek outrage at the invasion of tranquility in the broken walls, hedges and hinterland of trees that framed the mill yard. Meanwhile, the days passed by in a blur of enchantment.
Indeed how else could they think of it but as enchantment, days and nights that were woven with spells of seduction, a calling every bit as strange and inexplicable as the caterpillar entombed in its cocoon of magic, from which the magnificent new being, the moth or butterfly, would ultimately appear? An enchantment in which the last vestiges of rational resistance, the last clinging to orderly commonsense, were abandoned to the waves of calling, no matter that, in their more lucid moments, the four friends sensed the anguish of having to say farewell to the world they had been born into, with its comforting bedrock of reason.