“I have not decided,” Morrigu replied. “Iron, perhaps, for the fires of the world’s first making certainly flame in him. Or maybe gold, for the glory of learning which never fades from him. Or possibly silver for the power a ring of that metal once had over him.”
“Or maybe mercury for the way he slipped through Ailill’s fingers,” suggested Lugh. “Or lead like a fisherman’s sinker for the network of plots that seem to be tangled about him.”
“Perhaps,” said the Mistress of Battles. “Or perhaps he is not the one we need at all.”
David found himself blushing in spite of himself, but then he realized he had forgotten something: the most important thing, the reason he had come here!
“Milord Ard Rhi?
I…
I mean
Your…
Majesty?”
“Speak, mortal boy.”
“I…well…
this is all very interesting, but you do recall why I went through all this in the first place: so that I could crave a boon of you?”
Lugh raised an eyebrow. “That is the way I recollect it.”
David squared his shoulders. “I have a boon,
then…
I mean, I
crave
a boon.”
Lugh’s eyes twinkled above the sweeps of his mustache. “Ask, and if it be within my Power to grant, I will.”
“I ask that you—or someone skilled in Faery magic—please heal my Uncle Dale. He was wounded by
a…”
“By a Faery arrow,” finished the High King. “This I know. But you yourself have already helped cure your uncle. For one of the Laws of Power states that if a man be wounded by a thing of Power forged in a World not his own—unless he die from that wound—it has power over him only so long as he whose Power is in that weapon lives.”
David looked confused.
Nuada came to his aid then, and pointed to the white-draped body of Fionchadd. “With the death of the slayer, the spell itself dies. The death of Ailill’s son, who was the instrument of your uncle’s wound, has broken the Power of the arrow within him. The old man sleeps the sweet sleep of mortals. When he wakes tomorrow, he will be healed.”
Lugh regarded David. “I would speak to you now, mortal lad. And I think I would like to speak to you again in a few years’ time, when you have gained more wisdom. For I think I begin to see something of what Nuada saw in you: more a helper than a foe, and truly something of a hero as well. But the time for that is not yet. Until then, you do pose a problem. It is customary to blind those who look upon the Sidhe unbidden, and I could do that
now…”
He raised his hand, then hesitated. “But I have always thought that rather—shall we say—shortsighted, so I will simply lay a ban on all of you that you may speak of nothing you have seen or heard today to any dweller of your world save yourselves.”
Lugh surveyed the host one final time and grasped the ragged ends of the broken reins in one closed fist. A nod of his head, a narrowing of his eyes, and the break was mended. He shook the leather strips experimentally, setting the bells upon them to jingling. “Well, unless someone
else
has a boon they want to crave, let us now proceed,” he cried. “It seems we no longer have need to ride to the Eastern Sea, for Ailill will not be leaving after all. But there is still time to make that journey today, if we depart at once. If anyone objects to such an outing, let his voice be heard.” He fixed Ailill with a burning stare. “I believe my daughter and I will lead the procession a while, in the absence of my honor guard,” he said, and added almost as an afterthought, “Nuada, since you are so fond of mortals, you may escort our guests back to their home.”
Nuada nodded and remounted. From somewhere three white horses appeared, saddled and bridled with red leather. Nuada motioned David and his friends to mount, which they did with ease by virtue of the Power of that place. “These horses never tire, never lose their way, and never throw a rider,” Nuada said, “not even if that rider has never sat a horse before.”
Nuada shook his reins, the bells chiming softly as the smaller procession formed. Somewhere the harp music began again; somewhere was the dull buzz of warpipes coming up to cry, and a tentative run on a chanter.
David had held his peace as long as he could. He urged his horse close beside that of the High King. “Can I come back next year and watch, at least?” he blurted out.
The Ard Rhi raised an eyebrow. “With your lips bound, who can worry about your eyes? If you are at the right place and time mayhap you will see us.”
Lugh turned once more to face the milling host. “Now let us ride, Lords and Ladies of the Tuatha de Danaan and the Sidhe!” Nuada’s small company watched as the greater host passed down the Straight Track which had been David’s road to Faerie. David looked down at the head of his brother who sat in the saddle before him—now wearing a yellow tunic belted at his waist. He ruffled his brother’s hair. “I wonder how we’ll explain your wardrobe,” he teased. Then he added, “How’ve you been, kid?”
“Sleepy,” said Little Billy. “Real sleepy.” He paused. “And I’ve got to get Pa’s ax.”
“You can get it in the morning,” said David.
Alec whistled. “That was something else!”
“That’s an understatement,” nodded Liz.
“Three are mightier than one,” David grinned.
“But one is mightiest of the three,” cried Alec and Liz in unison.
David scratched his finger where the ring once again was set, and watched the Sidhe ride away, a line of glittering lights against the edge of the forest. It was twilight again. And he saw a smaller party ride closer by, entering the woods that marked the shorter route to Tir-Nan-Og. Amid that company rode Ailill, under heavy guard.
The Dark One said nothing as he passed, but his eyes betrayed his thoughts, and Nuada sighed before he set his horse onto the Straight Track. Ailill would take some watching.
Epilogue: In the Lands of Men
(Monday, August 17)
David stood staring at Uncle Dale’s wound. Little remained of it now, only a tiny white circle which was rapidly darkening to the color of his flesh. The old man’s face was relaxed, his breathing peaceful.
Quietly David turned and reached for the doorknob.
Someone coughed in the room. “Thank you, boy,” rasped a wonderfully familiar voice.
David whirled around and dashed quickly to the bedside. The old man’s words were thick, but clear; he raised his arm—his right arm—high enough to pat David on the hand. His grip was weak but firm, and there was warmth in the hand. “You’d better not tell yore folks ’bout me,” Uncle Dale said. “You don’t know nothin’ ’bout this, but I’ll be better in the mornin’.”
“Whatever you say,” David smiled. “Whatever you say—and thanks for holding out.”
“I knew you could do it, boy. I never doubted.”
A moment later he was snoring.
David smiled again and quietly stole from the room. A glance in his own room across the hall showed Little Billy also asleep. The little boy would remember nothing of his time in Faerie, Nuada had told him. That and the journey home would seem like a dream. His last clear memory would be of lightning.
He glanced at the clock on the wall as he rejoined his friends in the kitchen. It was a little after one. Time had passed, but not enough. How much time
had
they spent in Faerie? he wondered. Days and days it had seemed, and yet no time at all. He found himself looking at the ring.
The circle of Time that encloses all things:
another thing Nuada had told him.
Car doors slammed in the yard. Laughter floated clearly in from outside. David and Alec and Liz exchanged knowing looks—and began a mad scramble back to the table.
“Let’s see, you had landed on Boardwalk again, hadn’t you David?” Liz said as they returned to their places.
“Oh no! Not that old ploy,” David replied. “Why look, Liz, your hotels are all over the floor, and I bet you don’t remember where they were, do you?”
“Want to bet, David Sullivan?”
“Why, Liz, you know I’m not a gambling man,” David said—and rolled the dice.
Historical Note
As is probably evident to the reader,
Windmaster’s Bane
owes a considerable debt to the folklore and mythology of Ireland and Scotland. What is perhaps less obvious is the debt the novel owes to the folklore of an entirely different culture: the Cherokee Indians of the southeastern United States. It was Cherokee folklore that provided the collaborative evidence which solidified the notion that one could, indeed, write a Celtic fantasy set in the Appalachian Mountains.
There is the matter of the piled stone fortifications on Fort Mountain, for instance. These structures are usually attributed to Prince Madoc of Wales, who supposedly founded a colony in Mobile, Alabama in the year of 1170, and later worked his way inland. The Cherokees, however, attribute them to the “moon-eyed people.” It was my efforts to learn more about these mysterious folk that first led me to James Mooney’s
Myths of the Cherokee.
Alas, Mooney’s book provided little illumination on the matter of the “moon-eyed people,” but it had something better: the Nunnehi.
According to Mooney, the Cherokees believed in a race of spirit people called the Nunnehi, a word meaning something like “the immortals,” or “the people who live everywhere.” The Nunnehi lived in “townhouses” high in the mountains, or under water. They were fond of music and dancing, and usually helpful to humans—at least to the Indians, on whose side they fought as recently as the mid-nineteenth century. With the Nunnehi, I had both a link to the Sidhe of Irish mythology and to Tir-Nan-Og, the paradise to the west. The rest, as they say, is history.
TFD
Athens, Georgia
12 April 1986
About the Author
Tom Deitz grew up in Young Harris, Georgia, a small town not far from the fictitious Enotah County of
Windmaster’s Bane
, and earned a Bachelor of Arts and Master of Arts degrees from the University of Georgia. His major in medieval English literature led Mr. Deitz to the Society for Creative Anachronism, which in turn generated a particular interest in heraldry, historic costuming, castle architecture, British folk music, and all things Celtic. In
Windmaster’s Bane
, his first published novel, Tom Deitz began the story of David Sullivan and his friends, a tale continued in
Fireshaper’s Doom
and more books in the series. He won a Georgia Author of the Year award for his work and a Lifetime Phoenix Award from Southern fans. In addition to his writing, in private life a self-confessed car nut, Tom was also a popular professor of English at Gainesville State College (today the Gainesville campus of the University of North Georgia), where he was awarded the Faculty Member of the Year award for 2008. On the day after his birthday in 2009, he suffered a massive heart attack and in April of that year he passed away at the age of 57. Though he was never able to realize his dream of owning a small castle in Ireland, Tom had visited that country, which he loved, and at the time when he was stricken with the heart attack he was in the planning stages for a Study Abroad trip to Ireland that he would have led. The trip took place, and some of Tom’s teaching colleagues scattered his ashes in a faery circle.