Scions of the Tuatha Dé

Putting a hand over another person’s mouth stops them from speaking but it doesn’t stifle the grunt from a flying tackle.

Donal’s first instinct wasn’t to free himself but to look after the rider he was chasing. Indeed, the horse halted some two hundred yards north of the crossing. A missing head did little to stop this rider’s ability to hear, apparently.

Donal laid prone on the shoulder of the road. The hand that quieted him now reached from behind his head. He stiffened on the chance his mark’s missing eyes were as good as his absent ears. Whatever held him down laid as still and silent as he did.

Branches rustled in the tree overhead. The horse stepped toward the hedge. Donal’s eyes widened and remaining frozen in place no longer required effort. His own captor pressed their weight upon him.

There was no sound other than hooves on dirt. The horse’s slow, steady stride carried it halfway to Donal’s hiding place. Its red eyes didn’t behave quite like the lanterns he first imagined, but soon they’d illuminate him all the same.

A second rustling came from trees farther behind him, followed by the faint pulse of an owl hoot. The rider yanked its reins and the horse continued north.

Donal tried turning his torso to push himself up and after his mark, but the person that clamped him down resisted him in kind. Until now, he’d given little thought to who had brought him down, but when they finally relented and allowed him to roll onto his back, he was stunned.

“Donal MacLaughlin, what on earth are you doing?” Siobhan MacSweeney said, as loud as a whisper could allow.

“What makes you any more suited than I to ask that question?” Donal said.

He slid from under her and stood.

“To start, I’m not the one about to chase down a thing like that on foot with nothing more than a garden spade and a young man’s temper,” she said.

Donal pointed in the direction of the rider.

“And you have a plan for this?” he asked. “Go on!”

“I do have one,” she said. “Well, parts of one. I can’t say it all yet.”

Donal scoffed and backed away from Siobhan. It was pure luck that the rider was too far ahead to hear them. They stood in the open with no consideration of remaining hidden or silent anymore.

Donal studied her face for any signs worthy of trust or doubt. During the day the sun would transform Siobhan’s long curls of red copper hair into fire but the moonlight gave it an ethereal glow, almost as eerie as the eyes of the steed he wanted to pursue. She pulled it back from her forehead as she considered her next words.

“We need a bit more than we have now.” she said, this time without the whisper. “Let’s follow that river back to your place. It’s a shorter path, it’s covered and it keeps us off the road in case that thing comes back our way.”

Donal pursed his lips in frustration. He didn’t see the upside of delaying his brother’s rescue, but for whatever parts of her plan that she ‘couldn’t say,’ Siobhan’s plan was better than his pride wanted to admit.

“Fine,” he said. “We’ll do it your way.”

Siobhan turned back to the patch on which they hid to get her walking stick. Donal tapped the handle of his spade on the road.

“How is that manky tree branch you’re carrying any better than my spade?”

“You’ll see,” she said.

She narrowed her eyes and shoved her smirk to the side of her face as she tapped her stick on the ground.

Donal followed the stone wall west, knowing it led to the banks of the Owentully River. It flowed north and reached the bay near his house. He kicked at the ground as he walked until a hand grabbed his arm and whirled him around. Siobhan placed her hands on both of his shoulders to secure his attention.

“Listen,” she said. “We’re going to get him back, right? He’s going to be alright.”

He said nothing. For all they had just witnessed, she was remarkably calm and self-assured. She made him believe she might be right. She held his gaze with her green eyes until he acknowledged her. With a nod, he followed her toward the river.

****

Finn had two choices, neither good. He was slung over the bony haunches of a horse with his hands bound behind his back. He could slide off the back of the horse with the hope of avoiding trample or a kick on the way down. He would have to land without breaking an arm or leg, and then somehow outrun an otherworldly horse and rider on foot.

Or, he could stay put and work on his binds in secret to loosen them, waiting for an opportunity to escape from whatever destination lay ahead. Of the two, this option had the least amount of risk.

The shock of his kidnapping had worn off but he embraced the ongoing denial of certain circumstances. Reports of bandit attacks across the countryside weren’t rare but bandits that lacked a head and rode a beast disguised as a horse—well, that was too much to accept.

The rider approached Finn as he brought his cart home from Gortahork. Before he could make out any detail about his pursuer, his gut urged him to turn around and run back for the cover of the town. The hoofbeats behind him quickened. The rider held a whip at ear level, ready to strike.

Finn slipped his hands under the cart’s handles and flung them straight up. He ducked before the whip strike dropped broken boards in front of him while the rest of the cart landed on his back. The rider overshot his approach; it would have to slow down in order to regroup for a second attack.

That was Finn’s chance. He slid out from under the loose heap of wood and ran west towards home, away from town. He searched in vain for a break in the treeline on either side of the road. Absent of that, all he could do is dodge the next strike and hope the attacker moves on for an easier target. The piercing pain between his shoulder blades ended that hope and the force of the strike knocked him to his knees.

The lone solace in Finn’s dire situation was the location of his injury. Yes, he could feel his shirt stick to the wound on his back as well as a small trickle down the side of his ribs. He was bleeding; the extent of which was unknown. However, had he been struck in the chest, he’d be bouncing on that wound for however long the trip lasted.

Finn raised his head after every bend in the road to orient himself. They were still on the main road, as if he was being taken home. He knew they would ride through Ards Beg soon—a much smaller town, sure, but someone would see him. Someone would help him.

We’re here. Steady now, he told himself.

The only thing greeting them, however, were gasps and sounds of doors and shutters slamming.

How could they do nothing?

“A fine, brave group you are!” Finn yelled as they exited the village. “If I die, I’m coming back to haunt the lot of you! Help me!”

His frustration with the citizenry of Ards Beg distracted him from the person—or thing—next to him on the horse. The rider reached toward his hip and reminded Finn of his presence with the butt end of his whip’s handle. Message received. Finn kept quiet as they continued down the road, though the jostling caused the horse to make a horrid noise.

The horse veered right but stopped shortly after. Finn raised his head. Between the oncoming dusk and his shifted perspective, he did not recognize the area.

Are we here? Are we meeting someone?

The horse reversed direction, walked backwards and stopped once more.

He thinks we’re being followed, Finn thought. What could he be scared of?

The horse resumed its original direction and rode for another quarter of a mile. It slowed before coming to a halt next to a tree. This stop was deliberate yet there was nothing here but some large stones stacked amidst some rubble.

The rider dismounted and secured his horse to the tree. He grabbed Finn by the belt and slid him down onto his feet. Colors of dusk reflected off the bay. They were close to home.

The rider slapped Finn’s back to usher him around the back of the horse. The slap caught Finn a bit too close to his wound and the jolt of pain caused him to stumble. As the rider reached down to grab his captive’s collar, Finn saw the moonlight glint off a medallion on his chest. He dragged Finn toward the stone pile.

Finn noted that the larger stones weren’t simply stacked, they were arranged. Two similarly-sized stones supported one larger, flat stone. None of them showed any signs of masonry work and yet they stood in the form of a doorway—and he was going through it.

The ground sank as they crossed the threshold.

This is a portal tomb, Finn thought.

He read and heard much about the old stories of portal tombs, sídhe mounds and fairy circles. As a child, he listened to his parents’ tales as a welcome distraction as he worked. As he grew, he analyzed them with Murrough and appreciated the tradition that handed them down through generations. Now, the pragmatism required to run a farm and raise his brother scuffed the luster away from it all, one pass at a time, until these tales were little more than a legend of his own past.

The ground leveled. The rider tossed Finn in the middle of the chamber. He grunted as he landed on his back. The rider turned away from Finn to face the entrance of the chamber. Finn scrambled to his knees and attempted to stretch his bindings. The remaining light from outside the tomb flashed on the rider’s hip revealing to Finn the whip that brought him down. It was made out of a spine—a long one.

Finn no longer had the luxury of voluntary denial. The missing head, the ghastly steed, the bone whip—he knew exactly what had kidnapped him.

****

The river was the shortest route home but Donal began to doubt it was the fastest. He followed Siobhan as they slunk along the vegetation on the river’s bank. It was all Donal could do to keep up with her as she dipped in and out of cover through the weeds and the muck.

Some of Siobhan’s steps were more measured than others, but her pace was steady. They rarely lost sight of the road they left, but no signs of Finn or his kidnapper were seen.

Donal’s eyes drifted away from his path and across the river winding along his left side. It was twilight and he was peering through two separate lines of timber looking for signs of his—

He grunted as he bumped into Siobhan. Her outstretched arm was a signal to stop and he missed it.

“Will you stop acting the maggot?” she whispered. “This is serious.”

She pointed to his right. Tied to a tree one hundred yards away was the rider’s horse. Twenty feet beyond, a giant hill of rubble rose out of the ground, capped by a large, flat stone. The horse was facing the road, away from the river.

“We’ll be crossing the river soon,” Siobhan whispered. “Stay quiet.”

“Sorry,” Donal said. “I’m behind you.”

The next 150 yards felt twice that far to Donal. They reached a break in the ferny undergrowth and stepped through. The dry season halved the Owentully’s usual width of fifteen feet. Crossing the Shannon this was not.

They took turns putting one foot at the edge of the water and bounding as far as possible. Siobhan remained dry; Donal climbed out soaked up to both knees. Siobhan failed to stifle a laugh.

“Shut it!” he snapped.

“Sorry. It’s not really that funny,” she said.

Another chuckle slipped out.

“So how does a fancy rich girl learn to move about this mess so well?”

Siobhan’s smile dropped.

“Maybe I’m not good at it. Maybe you’re just really bad?”

He started to brush past her toward the road. Once again Siobhan spun him around by his shoulder.

“Come here to me, Donal. Don’t judge me on stuff you know nothing about, alright?”

“Fair. Now what do we do?”

“We keep heading to your house,” Siobhan said, “You’re going to have to trust me for now.”

“Why don’t you trust me enough to tell me?”

“Because once I tell you, it will be nothing but questions and arguments, maybe even ridicule. Finn doesn’t have that kind of time.”

She stopped Donal with a raised hand. He caught it this time and stiffened with his chest puffed out.

“Did you leave a fire burning when you left?”

“Of course not,” Donal said. “Not since that one time.”

She pointed toward his cabin. A pillar of smoke rose from the roof, though not in the way that sometimes landed him in trouble.

“You have a visitor,” she said.