STORIES
Scroll down
Oxford University Press, 2024
Dagda wanted Bóand. He had watched her at feasts and games, and in the solemn crowds that gathered to hear his judgments. He had spied her slipping into the river in the moonlight. He had heard of her skills at magic and her talents for pouring drink, an important duty for the wife of a ruler. Her skills as a lover were obvious to him. Her beauty, in his eyes, was unsurpassed.
Bóand wanted the Dagda. What woman would turn him down? Granted, he was a giant of a man with a long unruly beard. His clothes never fit properly. He was always hungry—he could consume a whole cauldron full of porridge. Still, he was fearless, good, and wise, and he ruled the Túatha Dé. He was skilled in many arts. He was a druid. He had a cauldron always full enough for a feast. He carried a massive club—one side crushed enemy heads, while a touch of the other side could resurrect a man. He also owned an oaken harp whose spellcasting voice set the pace of the seasons and ordered the minds and hearts of the Dagda’s people.
But Bóand feared the wrathful power of her husband Elcmar. If he found out about her tryst with the Dagda, Elcmar would punish her, not by beating or starving her as some husbands did to their wives, but with magic. He would challenge the Dagda with spells and spears. After all, the man’s name meant Spiteful.
Becc Dreams of War
Note to self: Find a publisher…
Becc Dreams of War, set in 8th-century Ireland, is about an itinerant teller of tales named Becc who begins to suffer terrifying visions of a battlefield deep in carnage. She knows she must try to prevent the destruction she has seen, but where and when is the battle that haunts her, and who will fight it? She seeks help at Tobur Brigte, a settlement of renowned scholars and monks, where she finds mentors and allies, lovers who become traitors, and clues to the source of her powers in the ancient Irish Otherworld. But as Becc’s nightmares worsen and the battle of her dreams threatens to destroy Tobur Brigte, and she must draw on all her volatile visionary and storytelling skills to save her friends and her kingdom -- if only she can stay alive long enough.
[A] shadow rose up, took human form, and approached. Mud smeared the wrinkled cheeks and grimy robes. The Abbess leaned on a crooked staff, like Holy Brigit on the carved door.
“I need my supper," she croaked and hobbled forward.
Áedán cleared his throat. “Forgive me if I disturbed your prayers, Mother. I found a lost girl in the woods. She asked to speak with you.” He gave Becc an encouraging nod.
Becc lifted her chin. “I told you, I am not lost. I know exactly where I am.”
Mother Abbess shuffled past. Becc was confused -- had she not spoken aloud?
"A woman is not lost if she knows where she is." The Abbess’s nose reached only as high as Áedán’s shoulders. She jabbed a finger at his heart. "Is this not so, son of Fiannamail?"
"In fact, it was she who found me," Áedán agreed.
"Take her to Sister Fuinche and drag that impudent northerner away with you.” Mother shoved off.
A disappointed cry escaped Becc. She called after the old woman, her voice hoarse from the cold and wet and the knock to her head. “I beg pardon, Abbess Rígain Ingen Bróin, but I have traveled for two days with a message..."
The Abbess spoke to herself without missing a step. “The problem with young ones is, they think when they should act and they act without thinking. Off you go, the lot of you, to your supper. Do not oppose me, or may sprites bite your heels.”
Becc’s shoulders slumped. “Is she always that rude?” she asked the men, her hopes leaking away. “Fat Óengus Mac Feradaig sent me!” she called out.
The Abbess stopped short. Without turning, she asked wearily, “Well, banfile, what is so urgent that you delay my meal?"
No one had told Mother that Becc was a poet. The men watched silently. "I am Becc, daughter of no known kin, foster-child of Fat Óengus Mac Feradaig.“
The Abbess grunted, “I know who you are. Óengus told me all about you. What do you want?”
Becc’s mouth fell open. She felt like she had forgotten part of a tale.
The old woman lifted both hands toward heaven, one still grasping her stick. Becc sensed both impatience and mercy in the gesture so she cleared her throat, bowed her head, and tried again. “Óengus said I could find sanctuary at Tobur Brigte."
The old lady grumbled, “Are you telling me, girl, that Óengus sent you to take your vows, like the other pious Christian daughters of lords and chieftains who live here chastely and obediently?"…
Becc despaired at the thought of trudging off in the morning to…where? Back to Óengus? Conchenn would murder them both. She drew herself up. “Lady Abbess, I am a teller of tales and a singer of verses. I know stories, old and new. I trained with Scanlann, the greatest poet of Osraige. I have learned more than two hundred ancient scéla of all types, Wooings, Elopements, Destructions, Cattle Raids...” She added quickly, “I can tell the Lives of saints, too. And, Mother, I…” She choked a little before revealing her ambiguous talents to all of them. “I see things in dreams, by day and night. True things. Most of the time. Well, so far as I can tell.” She lifted a hand, a kind of plea. She felt the gaze of the two kings’ sons. “Lately I see a battlefield deep in blood. I see a house afire and a baby inside. I see your church burning down.”
The Highwayman
In progress
What if an heiress returned to Ireland to find that her estates included an entire kingdom of fairies? Worse—what if the fairies were rebels fighting to expel the colonial government?
The robber ducked and raised one arm up to snag the bag and dropped it neatly on the ground. With his weapon still levelled and eyes on the prisoner, the masked rogue bent and slid a hand into the satchel to probe its contents, lifting out a pair of trews, then a book. His mouth turned down in dismay.
“You did not mention a book,” the robber said, trying to peek at a few pages one-handed while keeping eyes on the victim. He dropped it on the ground. “The Villain of Penrys Castle?” The robber sighed. “I declare, sir, not only do you appear to be appallingly bust, but you have deplorable taste in literature. Poor fiction and penury in a hired coach.” The robber pushed his hat brim higher with the tip of his pistol. A few dark brown wisps of hair escaped. “What are you then, the youngest son, sent off to Ireland as punishment?”
The sky had been spitting before, but now rain dripped steadily on the robber and his prey. The passenger yanked off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “Something like that,” he ground out. He tapped his fingers on the edge of the window but when he saw his opponent watching, he clenched his knuckles.
The Highwayman spotted the glimmer of the gem in the squalid light of the wet evening. He said cheerfully, “Right, you liar, give us the ring.”
“You will have to take my finger with it.”
“I suppose I must shoot off your hand. I see no other way of gaining the ring. Did I mention that I am quite a good shot? With a duelling pistol, I can blow the center out of the ace of hearts at ten yards.” The villain steadied his weapon and regarded the victim. “But I cannot promise to ruin only one finger with a weapon of this sort. It is not precise enough. Alas.” He was grinning.