Jack of Ravens(7)

Tannis eyed Church curiously. ‘Between the Tuatha Dé Danann and the Fomorii.’

Church was puzzled. He presumed Tannis was talking about the Second Battle of Magh Tuireadh, a major event in Celtic mythology when the godlike Tuatha Dé Danann finally defeated the demonic Fomorii and slew their leader Balor, the one-eyed god of death. ‘You believe that actually happened?’ Church asked hesitantly.

‘It took place these four days past. On the night before you came upon us.’

More superstition, Church thought. There was no point questioning it. ‘Then you’ll be leaving soon?’

‘No. We are waiting.’

‘Everyone’s waiting. What for?’

Tannis grinned. ‘Does it concern you?’ He punctuated the question with a laugh, slapped Church on the back and returned to the raucous noise emanating from inside the house.

Church let the unceasing rhythm of the rain ease his troubled thoughts for a few more minutes. In another lightning flash, he thought he saw the black fire again, though he knew it could easily have been his imagination. He immediately went back inside, shutting the door tightly. But for the rest of the night he found himself listening intently to every sound made by each gust and eddy of the wind against the building, strangely fearing it was a hand trying the door, searching for a way in through the window.

He didn’t know why he thought that. He didn’t know anything any more. Nor did he know why a scraping fear was clawing its way slowly up from the deepest part of him, whispering words of warning: run away. Run away, Jack, Giantkiller.



5



The storm blew itself out during the night. Church was woken sharply by Etain, at the edge of the communal hut where he had drunk himself into a stupor of forgetfulness.

‘What is it?’ he groaned.

‘You must come.’ It was all she said before departing quickly.

Church emerged into a bright dawn of fiery reds and shimmering golds. All of the villagers were gathered around a mound on the north side of the settlement, and Church could see they were laughing and cheering. As he neared he saw they were all drinking again, clashing their mugs with gusto. The reason for the party only became clear when he saw Ailidh sitting amongst the loudest group, clutching a swaddled bundle to her. She looked pale and exhausted, her cheeks tearstained.

Church went over to congratulate her, but as he peered into the bundle, he saw that the child’s face was blue. Ailidh’s eyes confirmed his fears.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. Through the idyllic days and nights he had spent with these people so far he had forgotten the harsh realities of life during that time.

‘No,’ she replied. ‘Only joy.’

Owein clapped Church on the shoulder and thrust a drink into his hand. ‘A time for celebration, Giantkiller.’

As Owein wandered off, singing, Etain took Church’s arm and led him to the edge of the group.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said simply.

‘We cry at the birth and rejoice at the death,’ she replied. ‘That is our way. Ailidh’s child lives in peace in the Summerlands now. He will not have to suffer this world.’

Church knew the Celts believed in the soul, and in a cycle of reincarnation. At death, the soul would pass to T’ir n’a n’Og, the Otherworld, where the gods lived, where it would wait to be reborn into the world.

‘I understand.’ He sipped his drink, wishing he could find comfort in similar notions.

Etain surveyed the tranquil landscape. ‘You do not share our beliefs. I know that you come from far away where other things are held dearly. But if you think the gods only live in stories, you are wrong.’

Church said nothing.

‘The Tuatha Dé Danann have been all around us since the First-Times. They have golden skin and beautiful faces, but inside they are cold and hard and they would treat us in a way that we would not treat our animals. They see this world as their dominion, one of the Great Dominions. They believe they can take what they want, and do what they will. But that must change, for we have suffered long enough.’

Church listened carefully, saying nothing that would show his disbelief. He understood that the Celts saw the world as a magical place, filled not just with gods, but with spirits and strange beasts. After encountering the giant, he could not dismiss their worldview so easily, but he still hoped for a rational explanation.

‘The … gods fought a great battle here recently – the Second Battle of Magh Tuireadh?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘They defeated their great enemy, the Fomorii, the Night-walkers. But they have suffered greatly, too, and they have returned to T’ir n’a n’Og to lick their wounds. They will be back. But until then we have time to forge our own destiny, free of their influence.’ She raised her face, proud and defiant, and pressed his cup to his lips. ‘So drink now, for our poor, frail kind, and know that we will find strength. And we will not be broken down again.’