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Note: This is the fourth story/chapter in my serialized Irish/Celtic mythology novel. The previous three stories—“Balor and the Boar,” “Finegas and the Fish,” and “The Voyage of Viona,”—feed directly into this story (but it’s not one-hundred-percent necessary that you read those first three to enjoy this one).
It was a beautiful young bird. A hawklet. Still unable to fly but growing increasingly comfortable with the spoken word.
“Stop,” it chirped as Viona and Cal approached the iron gate.
“Mistake,” it squawked as the head of the welcoming committee turned his iron key in the iron lock.
There would be several more gates with several more locks requiring several more keys, all of which the hawk would greet with a negative word.
“Bad.”
“Wrong.”
“Don’t.”
“Blasphemy.”
But the committee had its orders. And Viona had her knowledge. And Cal? Well, Cal had no intention of ever turning back, rendering any feelings of foreboding moot.
The innermost wall of the Fortress of Shadows was little more than a series of pikes implanted in the ground, their points angled outward—a far cry from the crenulated monoliths that comprised the fortress’ outermost walls. Beyond this final and comparatively flimsy barrier lay a stone circle. And in the center of that stone circle? A thatched blackhouse. Not the traditional variety, mind you—this one boasted the modern innovation of a chimney, which coughed up a steady (and seemingly never-ending) stream of peat smoke, a stream that surged up to the sky before branching off into gray and white ribbons, where it then conspired with the coastal fog to form an impenetrable ceiling of smog.
“I love that smell,” Cal shared with the group, unprompted.
“Get used to it,” said Viona.
The closer to the blackhouse the group drew, the darker the sky grew, and when they crossed the threshold of the stone circle, it was as if someone had suddenly cranked a room’s dimmer knob to the darkest setting.
“Lanterns,” called the committee leader. And faster than you could say ignis fatuus, from beneath their cloaks the committee members pulled a harvest of beets and turnips and mangelwurzels, innards ablaze, outtards carved into menacing faces.
“I take it pumpkins don’t grow here?”
Cal’s question was met with puzzled glances.
“What’s a pawn-king?” asked the committee leader.
It was then that Viona noticed the large silhouette crouching in the doorway of the blackhouse.
“There will be no kings on this island,” the silhouette said, standing to its full seven-foot height.
The committee members fell to their knees, prostrating themselves before the shadowy figure.
Cal followed suit.
Viona stood fast.
“My apologies,” the committee leader groveled, doing his best to disappear into his black cloak. “I misspoke. I did not mean to imp—”
“Hush,” said the silhouette, lurching closer.
Cal tightened his grip on his oar-spear, his knuckles grinding in the dirt.
Viona cupped her hands around the hawklet, forming a protective dome above its bald head.
And in the lantern light, the silhouette’s true colors were revealed: the soft blue of woad tattoos, the fiery orange of untamed hair, the milky white of exposed skin that never sought the sun.
Around her waist she wore a belt of human skulls in various states of decomposition. The skull furthest to the left was pure bone and bore the sheen of polished ivory, while the one furthest to the left was like an art project in its roughest, earliest stages, the papier-mâché still damp, flaps dangling from a crude wire frame.
“You must be Ska,” Viona said.
The giant warrior-woman nodded.
“And you must be the one who ate the fish of Finegas.”
Viona nodded. Gave her name. The name of her brother.
“So which of you is it?” Ska asked, stepping forward, her skull-belt rattling.
Cal instinctively slinked behind his older sister.
“Which of us is what?” Viona asked.
“Which of you is the champion?”
“Well, I ate the—”
“Yes, I know you ate the fish. But your brother has the Oar-Spear.”
“Is that even a thing?” Viona asked.
“It might be a thing now,” Ska said. “Folks are sick of the fish story. They crave new origin stories—nay, better origin stories—for their heroes, stories that eschew serendipitous seafood consumption in favor of purposeful decision-making, protagonists gaining power through experience rather than chance or fate or what have you. And that’s really got me wondering…”
Ska looks from Viona to Cal, from Cal to Viona.
“Are you really the protagonist of this story, Viona?”
Her response is automatic.
Human.
And only half-believed when uttered.
“Of course I am.”
Ska shook her hood.
“But I hardly know who you are.”
“You’ve only just met me,” Viona protested.
“I’ve only just met your brother,” countered Ska, “and I already know his whole deal, his motivations, his weaknesses.”
“Because he’s a simpleton,” said Viona. “No offense, brother.”
Cal snorted.
“I’m a private person,” Viona continued.
“You’re a blank slate of a person,” said Ska. “Absorbing events like a faceless sponge. Really, it could be anyone in your shoes. Anyone could have eaten that fish.”
“I think that’s sort of the idea,” said Viona, looking up at the smog-filled sky.
“And I think a right-place, right-time protagonist who goes through heroic motions simply because she feels compelled to do so courtesy of magic or what have you makes for a decidedly uncompelling champion.”
“Yeah?” barked Viona. “Well I think you speak in italics too frequently. You’re overdoing it.”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“And another thing,” said Viona, “Cal tagged along with me. I invited him. I was the one who planned it all. I was the one who found a captain. I was the one who did all of the heavy lifting—literally and figuratively.”
“Like when you lifted the cauldron?” said Ska.
Viona hesitated, sensing a trap, then said, “Yes, like when I dug through the rubble and—”
“And where is the cauldron now?” Ska asked, eyes wide, lips stretching over teeth.
“That’s not important,” said Viona.
“It could be important,” said Ska, “later in the story. Assuming you make it that far. Because I’m starting to have my doubts.”
“Will you cut her some slack already, Ma?”
A second figure appeared in the doorway of the blackhouse, a figure that could have been the warrior-woman’s doppelganger, if not for the kinder eyes, softer features, and lack of a skull-belt.
“Ah,” said Ska. “The prodigal daughter arises.”
“And not a moment too soon by the looks of it,” said the daughter. “Are you really trying to scare away our champion before she even starts her training?”
“I’m not so sure she is our champion,” replied Ska.
In an act that has been repeated ad nauseam since time immemorial, the daughter ignored the mother. Marched right past her and up to Viona.
“I’m Reggae,” she said, extending a toned, tattooed arm.
“Of course you are,” said Viona, accepting the hand at the end of it.
Reggae smiled. Looked Viona up and down. Took a deep breath through her nostrils as if breathing her in.
“I think she’s perfect.”
“Perfect for what, exactly?” Ska chided.
“Lots of things,” said Reggae, still holding Viona’s hand.
“Danger!” clacked the hawklet in Viona’s other hand, and the noise startled her so much she lost her grip.
The bird tumbled.
Reggae swooped in to catch it.
“You lay this little guy?” she asked casually, as if chatting about the weather, before handing the hawklet back to Viona.
Viona nodded, embarrassed, but in truth it was a waste of embarrassment, given what Reggae would say next.
“Which end did it come out of?”
Training began the next morning following a restless night in the blackhouse—four bodies sprawled ‘round the fire, at least two of them buzzing with tension. Wool blankets electric on goosepimple skin. In the weeks to follow, the sleeping arrangements would evolve. A tent would be erected on the edge of the stone circle. And Viona and Reggae would only be seen outside of it during training hours.
Speaking of training…
It was what you’d expect, assuming you’re familiar with the old stories. Long runs through the forest, hurdling logs, ducking errant branches, learning how to commune with nature, how to forage, how to track, how to build shelters (tents included), how to build fires, how to hunt and fight without the benefit of weapons, how to hunt and fight with the benefit of weapons, slings and swords and spears, mostly spears, how to hold them, how to thrust them, how to throw them: with one’s foot, as it turns out, was Ska’s preferred method, as it was the only method of spear-throwing that harnessed the human body’s biggest muscle groups: the glutes and quads.
They totally had extra spears, by the way. I mean, it was a fortress. It was full of weapons, weapons with eons-worth of bloody tales trapped in their rusty blades and splintered handles. Cal never even touched his allegedly miraculous Oar-Spear during training; it remained leaning against a wall of the blackhouse. And the Lightning Spear, which was Viona’s by fish-ingestion right? It was up on some mountaintop somewhere, acquiring it meant to be some final challenge, lifting it to the lightning-crackled sky meant to be some grand heroic moment. A graduation ceremony. The proverbial tossing of the cap.
Assuming she made it that far.
Admittedly, she wasn’t very focused.
There was Reggae, of course, Viona’s first real fling (flame? (love?)) in years. But there was also the other distraction, the one that had taken to perching on her shoulder, the one whose only purpose in its reincarnated life was, it seemed, to chirp relentlessly in Viona’s ear, to point out anything and everything she did wrong. And she was always doing something wrong, apparently. Ska’s initiatory ribbing now seemed kind by comparison.
“It shouldn’t be you,” was the first full sentence the hawk uttered.
“Anyone but you,” was the second, although technically that was more of a sentence fragment.
There was nothing the hawk could do, however, to remedy what it considered to be a colossal quagmire. It was not within the scope of its power to remove or replace a hero in active service, no matter how unqualified. Once the Knowledge was acquired, a hero was compelled to act, compelled to follow a path familiar to anyone who’s ever read any story ever. The hawk was compelled by the same forces, it considered. Its role in things defined by the same cosmic framework.
It cackled nervously at the revelation. At the realization that it and the burger-flipper might be more similar than different.
No.
It was an elder.
And she? Well, she was an…
“Idiot!” the hawk screeched in Viona’s ear.
She had been balancing on one foot atop a stone pillar, only to wobble to a fall after a few measly seconds.
“I’ve seen fish with better balance than you,” said the hawk. “Heck, I’ve been a fish with better balance than you. And a boar.”
“Your stories are a bore,” said Viona.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s what I thought. Now get back up on the pillar. And this time, really try to do it the way your brother’s doing it. He’s got a natural talent for these physical challenges, you know.”
“Oh, I know,” said Viona. “How could I not know? You keep reminding me.”
“Clearly, it hasn’t sunken in yet,” said the bird. “The jumping. The fighting. The spear-throwing—especially the spear-throwing. He’s your better in every arena.”
“Every athletic arena,” Viona corrected.
“Oh, what? Do you think your wits alone are going to lead you to victory? You think your enchanted singing is going to save you from Balor? I can’t believe Ska still allows such nonsense to be taught within these walls.” The hawk rustled its feathers and glared at Reggae, the implication clear as a drumbeat.
From an adjacent pillar, Reggae glared back. She’d been balancing on one foot for nearly an hour now.
“What the Dagda are you looking at, you stupid parakeet?”
“I’m a hawk,” said the hawk.
“A hack?” replied Reggae, cupping a tattooed hand to her ear while still balancing on one foot.
“No, I’m a—”
“A hack whose only loyalty is to an ancient bureaucracy?”
“No, I’m—”
“A pawn who’s only capable of thinking and moving linearly?”
“No, I—”
“Of guiding the narrative from square A to square B?”
“No—”
“What you are, my feathered friend, my pal with the plumage, is a glorified box-ticker.”
Reggae did a backflip off of her pillar and landed on her toes like a cat.
The hawk was quiet for a moment, then it spoke in a tone not much louder than a whisper.
“I’ve met the monster,” it said. “You haven’t. You’ve been here. Always here. Safe behind these walls in your cloud of smoke. Meanwhile, I’m out there. Every cycle. Every damn cycle, I’m out in the trenches, making sure everything goes to plan, keeping everyone safe, keeping you and your mommy dearest safe. And this cycle? This cycle’s Balor is completely unhinged. It has no regard for the narrative whatsoever. No regard for life whatsoever. It incinerated me mere minutes after crossing over. So you tell me, little girl, what are you—”
Before the hawk could finish, Viona threw her head violently to one side, knocking it off its perch on her shoulder.
There was a frenzy of feathers.
Unfortunately (or so thought Viona), the hawk was able to prevent itself from crashing to the ground, using its wings like a parachute.
“Sorry about that,” said Viona. “There was a bug in my ear.”
She hopped down from the pillar. No backflip. No cat-like landing. But the movement was not entirely ungraceful.
“And now that you’ve finally shut that beak of yours,” Viona continued, “let me take this opportunity to remind you that I also met the monster. I stood toe-to-toe with it. And instead of incinerating me, it saved me. Carried me across the street to safety, best I can tell.”
“After murdering all of your coworkers,” the hawk reminded her.
“I’m not saying it’s not a monster,” said Viona. “I’m just saying you’re mischaracterizing it. I don’t think it torched you because it’s unhinged; I think it torched you because you’re an asshole.”
Now Reggae took up the charge.
“Tisk, tisk,” she said, wagging a finger at the bird. “You claim to be guiding the narrative but you don’t even understand the characters. Not even your own self. Who knows who else you’re wrong about?”
She gave Viona’s hand a squeeze. Winked.
“I am definitely not wrong about her,” said the hawk, not even attempting to mask the annoyance in its voice.
“Now, now, children, what seems to be the problem?”
Ska was walking over to them, Cal in tow.
They were holding hands.
Viona fought back the urge to vomit.
“She must be twice your age,” Viona had told her little brother upon learning about the liaison.
“Actually, she’s more than a thousand times my age,” her brother had replied. “And believe me, those millennia of experience really come through in the boudoir.”
The siblings had spoken very little after that, with Viona spending the majority of her time training under Reggae, and Cal spending the majority of his time training under Ska.
This was a rare moment, the four of them altogether. Five, if you counted the hawk. But really, who wanted to count the hawk?
“The problem,” said the hawk, “is this whole cycle is going to shit.”
“And whose fault is that?” asked Ska.
“Hers,” said the hawk, thrusting its beak toward Viona. “She should have never eaten me when I was a fish.”
“Believe me,” said Viona, “had I known you’d be popping out of me nine months later, I would never have helped Finegas. I would’ve told him to chuck your fishy ass in the bin and forget about the whole thing.”
“Clearing the way for Balor to wreak havoc on the world,” said the hawk. “Lovely. That would’ve been just—”
Whoosh.
A spear flew past the hawk’s head, so close that it clipped one of its feathers.
Whoosh.
A second spear came flying toward the hawk’s torso, but Ska caught the projectile in midair, saving the bird from certain death.
“Down!” she shouted.
The four of them pressed their bodies to the ground, Ska putting a protective arm over Cal, Reggae putting a protective arm over Viona. The hawk, meanwhile, took off into the smog-filled sky, narrowly avoiding a fresh volley of spears.
“What’s happening?” asked Cal over the relentless whooshing, the din of metal on stone.
Ska shook her head.
“It’s—”
“It’s her sister,” said Viona, removing the thumb from her lip. “Calypso.”
“And her three sons,” added Reggae. “My cousins. They’re—”
“The worst,” finished Ska.
And with that, Ska took the spear she had caught and threw it (with her foot, of course) in the direction from whence it had come.
A scream in the distance.
Then silence.
“They’re retreating,” said Ska, pushing herself to her feet. “But they’ll be back.”
“What do they want?” asked Cal.
Ska frowned.
Reggae smirked.
“You don’t need a magical fish-thumb to figure this one out,” the junior warrior-woman said.
“They want the spear,” said Viona, thumbs in her pant pockets.
“My oar-spear?” asked Cal.
Ska dropped her head into her hands, defeated.
“Why are the pretty ones always so stupid?”
“Ahem.”
Reggae. Clearing her throat. Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.
“Men,” Ska specified. “I was obviously talking about men.”
“They want the Lightning Spear,” Viona told her brother, who had still appeared puzzled.
“Right,” he said, cheeks ruddy. “I knew that.”
“Of course you did, sweetie,” said Ska. “Now, let’s hunker down for the night. We’ll need our rest if we’re to square off with them again tomorrow. Knowing my sister, she’ll be back at first light.”
“What light?” asked Viona, peering up into the darkness.
“Why don’t we go after them?” asked Cal, ignoring his sister’s snark. “They couldn’t have gotten far.”
“Too dangerous,” said Ska. “We have a solid defensive position here inside the fortress. No sense in giving it up.”
“It really isn’t that solid though, is it?” said Cal. “I mean, that stupid bird was a hair away from becoming shish kebab.”
“A feather away,” corrected Viona.
Once again, her snark went unappreciated.
“Are you insulting the integrity of my fortress?” Ska said to Cal, her tone taking on new weight.
“Of course not,” said Cal. Then he considered for a moment. “Well, actually, maybe a little bit.”
“Ruh-roh,” said Reggae. “Looks like we have our first lovers’ quarrel on our hands.”
“Ew,” said Viona. “Don’t call them that.”
The night would pass uneventfully—at least for three of them, anyway. In the morning, Ska would awake to an empty floor. No warm body beside her. No goosepimple skin electric beneath the wool blankets.
Fearing she’d overslept, the seven-foot-tall warrior-woman darted out of the blackhouse, crouching as she did to fit through the (relatively) tiny doorway.
And that’s when she saw him.
Standing there in the morning gloom.
He looked different.
And it wasn’t just the hawk perched possessively on his shoulder.
Or the three severed heads adorning his belt.
He was taller.
His hair unkempt, spiking out at odd angles.
“Cal,” she said softly.
“The one and only,” Cal responded. “And I come bearing good news, my love.” He drummed on the bloody heads hanging from his waist as if they were a trio of bongos. “Your nephews won’t be giving you any more trouble. Not now. Not ever.”
Curious as to the source of this early morning commotion, Viona and Reggae emerged from their tent.
“Hey, girls,” said Cal.
“Jesus Christ, Cal,” said Viona.
“Who?” asked Reggae.
“What happened to you?” Viona continued.
“Gather ‘round,” said Cal, “and I’ll tell you the story.”
“Now wait just a minute,” said the hawk. “This is a linear narrative. You can’t just start—”
But Cal did start.
And everyone listened.
Thanks for reading
Fan of Irish and Celtic mythology? Check out this anthology I put together, which features short stories from sixteen incredible authors (an also one penned by yours truly)
Neon Druid: An Anthology of Urban Celtic Fantasy
“A thrilling romp through pubs, mythology, and alleyways. NEON DRUID is such a fun, pulpy anthology of stories that embody Celtic fantasy and myth,” (Pyles of Books). Cross over into a world where the mischievous gods, goddesses, monsters, and heroes of Celtic mythology live among us, intermingling with unsuspecting mortals and stirring up mayhem in cities and towns on both sides of the Atlantic, from Limerick and Edinburgh to Montreal and Boston. Learn more…