The Answerer: A Modern Tale Of The Tuatha De Dannan

The Answerer

  A Modern Tale Of The Tuatha De Dannan

  By

  Joseph H.J. Líaigh

  To my family: my wife, Mandy, and my sons, Timothy, James and John, who have graciously and generously put up with my writing; especially to John for whom this story was originally written.

  PO Box 2123, Parkdale, Vic. 3195, Australia.

  Email: [email protected]

  First published in Australia 2015

  Copyright © Leach Publications 2015

  Cover design: Caligraphics

  Editor: Isabella Kružas

  ISBN: 9781310018787

  All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express prior written permission of Leach Publications.

  The moral rights of the author are asserted.

  Liaigh, Joseph H.J.

  The Answerer: A Modern Tale of the Tuatha De Dannan

  Cover layout and design by Caligraphics

  Cover Image: Copyright: beawolf / 123RF Stock Photo

  Acknowledgments:

  This book would not have been written without the encouragement and support of my family. I would especially like to thank John, for whom this story was originally written, for sharing his story with the rest of the world.

  Chapter One – 1171 AD

  Heavy grey clouds hung low in the sky as Padraig lay close to the ground. He could hear the Norman soldiers talking as they rested from their march. They were lying on the other side of a low mound from him, less than fifteen feet away. He could hear them talking and laughing as they passed around a flask of whiskey. He clutched his burden tighter to himself. The Red O’Connor’s Avenger had given it to him and he had sworn not surrender it this side of death. Eventually a series of orders were given and the soldiers moved off. Padraig sighed with relief and began to stretch the cramp out of his limbs. He was till to solve his problem. Where in all of Ireland could such as this be safe? He didn’t even know how to start looking.

  An old monk had once told him that, when you don’t know what to do, then only thing you could do, was pray. Padraig fell on his knees. As he was praying, a rider came out of the west, mounted on a milk white horse. Her hair was red gold and hung in flowing curls down her back. She was more beautiful than any woman Padraig had ever seen and he had seen a few. A radiance seemed to come from her and everything about her: a glow that made the backdrop of rolling hills seem grey and uninteresting. When she stopped in front of Padraig, he quickly made the sign of the cross. The rider on the horse laughed.

  “I’m no demon, Padraig,” she said, “In fact, I’m an answer to your prayer. I’ve come to take that which you carry back with me to Tyr na nOg. It exists out of its time and it must pass with us beyond the western sea. If it does not, great sorrow will follow.”

  Padraig stood still, frozen in shock and fear. Here was the stuff of legends come out of the west and he knew the stories. He knew he was in mortal danger. Nothing good ever came of mixing with the Sif. Men disappeared, or died, or went mad. Yet when the lady reached down to take his burden from him, he drew back and clutched it even tighter.

  He summoned all his courage and said, “No! This was given into my care by the High King’s Avenger and I will die before I surrender it. I have sworn to keep this safe. I cannot, in honour, give this to you but even if I could, I would not. Ireland is already a land of sorrow and this is a thing of great power.” He raised his burden, a massive, double handed sword, above his head and cried, “Here lies the answer to Ireland’s pain and Norman blood to anoint her wounds.” The lady looked at him in sorrow and said nothing. Eventually he had to lower the sword, which was quite heavy. “It is a mighty weapon,” he said, “and we need weapons.”

  The lady sighed and said, “If you must, you must. But at least I can show you where such as that can be safe. Follow me.” She led Padraig to a fairy mound a few miles away. At a word from her, the green turf parted and a doorway of grey stone appeared, framing a square of darkness. Once again, Padraig made the sign of the cross and was praying silently as he passed through the doorway. Inside the mound, the darkness was not as complete as it had seemed from outside and Padraig found himself in a vaulted chamber. In the middle was a raised stone slab, carved into intricate patterns. Padraig placed the sword on the slab and left the chamber as quickly as he could.

  He blinked as he once again stepped into the overcast sunlight. The lady was still on the horse in front of him but when he turned around, there was only the green turf of the fairy mound and no sign that a doorway had ever existed.

  The lady smiled sadly at him. “Don’t worry Padraig,” she said softly. “You did your best and you have ensured that no Norman will ever wield that sword.”

  Two days later, Padraig was dead. While trying to re-join the O’Connor’s forces, he was discovered by a Norman patrol. The red of his blood stained the green Irish turf - but he had company.

  Chapter Two – 1972 AD

  Connor’s ears rung from the explosion and clods of earth rained down around him. He lay flat on the turf, waiting for the second round. It never came. Eventually he heard the English trucks drive away. Connor stood up and looked around. The mortar shell had blown a huge crater into the side of a small hill and had evidently broken into some hidden cavity because there was a dark opening in the crater wall. Connor climbed down to investigate. As one of the newest gunmen in the Provisional IRA, Connor was not superstitious and the dead certainly held no terrors for him, but he still made the sign of the cross as he entered the darkness.

  Light streamed in through the opening and, as soon as his eyes became accustomed to the relative darkness, he could see quite well. He found himself in a vaulted stone chamber which was empty except for a raised stone slab in the centre: a slab carved with some of the most intricate pre-Norman stonework Connor had ever seen. On this slab there lay a sword, a sword such as men dream about: a steel sword, double handed, black and silver, darkly shining, possessed of unlimited power. Connor took up the sword and became aware of nothing else.

  Later, and without any recollection of movement, he was standing in the open. It must have been several hours since he had entered the chamber because the sun was setting: a real sunset, red as if all the west was stained with blood. In his hands he held the sword.

  The British soldier came over the hill, carrying his rifle at the ready. Connor knew that the rest of the patrol would not be far behind. The soldier opened his mouth to shout something at Connor but stopped when he saw the sword. Still and silent, he watched as the sword rose and caught the fire of the sun. Connor gave a cry, full of anger and the desire for revenge…

  In the early morning twilight, before sunrise, Connor woke to find himself surrounded by bodies: bodies hacked apart until they were almost beyond recognition. A four wheel drive truck stood motionless on the road with its windscreen smashed and a great gash through its radiator. The decapitated body of the driver was still slumped behind the wheel. The green hillside was red with blood and Connor shuddered at the horror that memory brought him. He had done this.

  He looked at the men he had killed, at their sacred humanity scattered cross the hillside like so much rubbish, at their eyes staring blankly into the sky: men reduced to waste offal. He remembered his mother begging him not
to go and join the fighting and he fell to his knees and wept. He wept for the men he had killed and for the sad and sorry world in which they had died. Most of all, he wept for all the dark and hidden passion that raged in his soul. He wept at the thought of the type of man he had become. His tears fell on the sword and washed some of the blood from the blade. They mingled, blood and water, and flowed into the earth.

  Then he heard a woman’s voice calling him, soft as falling rain. He looked up and saw a vision from a legend. A woman with skin as white as snow and hair as red as fire. She was sitting on a pure white horse and seemed to glow in the pre-dawn twilight.

  ‘Connor,” she said. “You need to give me the sword. It has stayed in the world long beyond its time. I am of the Tuatha De Dannan. I have been sent to bring the sword to Tyr Na nOg but I cannot take it from you. You need to give it to me freely. Give it to me and it will pass into the west, beyond the world, where it can be safe.” He knew that she could not be real: a woman as beautiful as legend riding a horse as white as snow. He shook his head.

  “It is An Fragarach,” he said. “It must be. It is the Answerer and we have need of answers.”

  “Connor,” she said urgently. “In your hands, the only answer it can give is violence and vengeance. Do you like the answer it has already given you?” He looked about him and saw again the mangled bodies and was struck even more forcibly by the broken humanity of each. He remembered the blood, and the screams, and the pain. He shuddered again at the horror of it and closed his eyes to try and shut out the memory.

  “Take it,” he said suddenly. “Take it away. I want no more of it.” His only answer was silence. When he opened his eyes, she was gone. The sun rose and plated the eastern sky with gold. In the west, the last stars were dying in the light of the rising sun.

  The silence of the dawn was broken by the sound of an approaching helicopter. Connor didn’t hear it. He was lost in himself, remembering the passions that had raged in his heart, the demons in his soul. Yes, the sword had set them free but the demons were his own. The pain and guilt grew within him until it was unbearable and he didn’t know how he could live as the person who caused this carnage.

  In desperation he cried out, “My God forgive me! I wanted none of this.”

  The pilot of the attack helicopter paled as he saw what lay on the side of the hill. He saw that one of the rebels was still there and in anger he fired his guns, one short burst and the figure fell to the ground. Briefly, lying on the cold earth, Connor smiled for he knew that he had been forgiven and he gratefully accepted the gift of death.

  There was a bit of trouble afterwards. The Irishman shot by the helicopter was found to be unarmed, except for the rusted and broken remains of an ancient sword. There was no reasonable way he could have caused the carnage on the hill. It was decided to hide the remains of the sword away in a regional museum and forget that the incident had ever happened.

  Chapter Three – Present Day

  It was a fine, soft afternoon with the wind coming in from the west. There would be rain later but for now the sun was shining, the wind was in the grass and it was lunchtime. Guard Sean MacCarthy relaxed, ate his sandwiches and watched the waves roll into a small, deserted beach. He was just eighteen months out of the Garda College in Templemore and on his first posting as a probationary member of the Garda Síochána na hÉireann: the Irish police force. Mind you, his first posting was not entirely to his liking. He had been posted to Dingle, on a small peninsula in the far west. It was a beautiful place to be sure but one where the only crime was of a petty, mundane sort: not the sort of thing on which to build a notable career. In short, it was dull and Sean had ambitions for higher things.

  He was not sure when he first noticed the boat but he had been watching it for a while when it occurred to him that it moved very strangely through the water. It was also a very strange boat and it was moving to make landfall on the nearby beach. He decided that it was something he should investigate. As he had been told to do in the training college, he went up to his patrol car and reported in.

  “Sergeant, its Sean MacCarthy here. I’m at the small beach up near Brandon Point. There’s a boat I’m a bit suspicious of about to land near here and I’ll be going down to investigate.”

  Sergeant Murphy, the desk sergeant for the day, sounded as if the last thing he needed was an eager young probationary guard complicating his day. “Fine, but be careful,” he replied. “What do you think it is; drugs or guns?” Sean paused before replying. What did he suspect? He didn’t really know. He just knew that the boat wasn’t normal and he needed to investigate.

  “Not sure,” he replied. “It’s just ... strange.”

  He walked down to the beach as the boat was coming in. It was a curragh, a canoe, made of white bullock hides with slim lines and a high prow. Although it had no obvious mean of propulsion, it moved easily through the surf and glided up onto the sand. It had only one occupant and he stepped easily and gracefully from the boat as it came to rest. He was dressed in a white tunic which came down to his knees and had a brightly coloured cloak around his shoulders. He had long, sandy-red hair and deep, royal blue eyes. Sean was considered tall but this character had a good few inches on him. He also had a short sword hanging from each hip. Sean began to wish that he was armed. Of course he was not. There was no need for it in the small rural communities of the peninsula. The stranger greeted him in Irish.

  “A blessing to you,” he said. Sean came from an English speaking family but he knew enough Irish from his studies at the Garda College and from his work around the peninsula (where everybody spoke Irish) to get by.

  “And Jesus and Mary bless you,” he said in reply. “Is it that you are part of an historical re-enactment group?”

  The stranger smiled. “No,” he said. “Not quite. I am Declan MhicOisin of the Tuatha de Dannan and I am here because we find ourselves in the unusual situation of needing help. We have encountered something we have never seen before and it may be that we have need of the skills of the Garda Síochána.” Sean just starred at the stranger trying to decide if he was mad and/or dangerous.

  “OK,” he said at last and in English. “I need to know who you really are and why you are walking around armed with offensive weapons. Tell me now and we’ll say no more about it. Continue with this fairy land malarkey and there’ll be real trouble. No more messing about! It’s a serious thing to lie to a Guard and even more serious to try and make fun of him. I’m warning you: when someone is armed I lose all my sense of humour.”

  The stranger smiled broadly. “You people cling so tenaciously to your limited view of reality,” he said. “I had really hoped that I wouldn’t need to do this. I thought I might but I really didn’t want to. Ah well, it’s probably easier this way.” He pointed at Sean and the world began to spin and become a blur. Sean had a surge of panic. He knew that he was moving but he could make no sense of his surroundings. Then he fell asleep.

  Chapter Four – A river journey.

  When he woke, he was lying in the bottom of the boat. It was gliding up a river whose banks were covered with deep, ancient oak forest. The character who called himself Declan was standing at the prow with his back to Sean, looking up the river. Sean felt calm and relaxed and he knew that he shouldn’t.

  “You’re doing that to me, aren’t you,” he said to Declan’s back. “I should be afraid, I should be worrying about where I am and how I got here but I’m not. You’ve given me some drug that’s messing with my emotions.” Declan turned around and it was clear that he was trying not to laugh.

  “No, it’s not a drug,” he said, “and I can release you to panic if you wish but I’d rather you were rational.”

  “Well then, I’ll give you something rational to go on with,” Sean said. “You’ve kidnapped a guard. That’s a very serious crime and the whole force will be out looking for me. They will chase you down wherever you go.”

  Declan was still smiling. “I seriously doubt it,” he
said. “Sean, I am one of the Tuatha de Dannan. I have the power to change reality at will. Your ancestors would worship us as gods. What are your comrades going to do? Arrest me?” He held out his hands and handcuffs appeared on his wrists. “But that really wouldn’t work, would it?” The handcuffs shattered and fell as a pile of steel fragments into the floor of the boat.”

  “Nice magic trick,” Sean said. “But I’ve seen better on TV. What was it? Liquid nitrogen on the steel to make them brittle?”

  Declan gave a deep sigh. “By Lugh’s shiny left hand, you are more stubborn than an ox. I’m sorry about this but I do need to convince you.” He made a small rising motion with his hand and Sean found himself being lifted up into the air. He stopped when he was about twenty meters above the boat.

  “Now, you’ll stay there until you admit that what I’ve said is true,” Declan said, before turning back to again look up the river. Sean twisted in panic but he could find no purchase anywhere. There were no wires, no supports, nothing. He was just hanging in thin air. After a while he calmed down enough to look about him. The floor of the river’s valley was covered with forest and in the distance there were rocky mountains, tall and steep. He knew he was not in Ireland any longer. It had been hundreds of years since such a forest existed there and he did not recognise any of the mountains. He looked down at the boat, gliding upstream along a broad and swiftly flowing river with no motor, or sail, or oars. He looked at the figure standing at the prow: a figure straight from childhood tales and legends and yet real and solid. He felt something within him give way. A door that had been firmly locked shut was opened.