A Spark is Struck in Cruachan Read online

  A Spark is Struck

  in Cruachan

  A Spark is Struck

  in Cruachan

  The Chronicles of Pádraig

  Book 1

  Bill Stackhouse

  A Spark is Struck

  in Cruachan

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2015 by Bill Stackhouse

  Revision N - 2017

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the author.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Acknowledgements

  I can’t express enough gratitude to two women, without whom you would not be reading this book.

  First, to my mother, Eleanor. Some of my earliest memories are of her taking me by streetcar (Yes, I’m that old!) to the public library in Cleveland, Ohio. And when I reached my teens, it was she who introduced me to Rex Stout and Manning Coles, infusing me with her love of mysteries.

  Secondly, and most important, to my wife, Arlene. When in the throes of a mid-life crisis I left a fairly decent job to become a writer, never once did she say, “Why don’t you go find yourself a real job,” although, I’m sure she must have thought it many times.

  My heartfelt thanks to both of you!

  Also, my thanks to Arlene and her cousin, Carole Klusman, for their proofreading assistance. Once you’ve been over the text so many times yourself, your mind begins to read what you meant, not what you actually wrote. I appreciate the second and third set of eyes.

  Also By Bill Stackhouse

  The Ed McAvoy Mystery Series

  Stream of Death

  Hickory, Dickory

  Encore to Murder

  Wash and Wear

  Candle Snuffer

  Thin Ice

  Forget Me Not

  The Caitlin O’Rourke Mystery Series

  Black-Irish Setter

  Icon Feel Your Power

  Creature of Habit

  The Chronicles of Pádraig

  A Spark is Struck in Cruachan

  The Embers are Fanned in Cruachan

  A Fire Rages in Cruachan

  The Fire is Quenched in Cruachan

  Character Names

  Aednat-----[AY-nit]

  Ailill-----[ALL-yil]

  Aislin-----[ASH-lin]

  Alroy-----[ALL-roy]

  An Fearglas-----[on FAIR glahs]

  Aoife-----[EE-fah]

  Beibhinn-----[BEE-veen]

  Bowie-----[BOO-ee]

  Bradan-----[BRAY-don]

  Breasal-----[BREE-sal]

  Brian-----[BREE-an]

  Brynmor-----[BRIN-more]

  Cabhan-----[KAV-an]

  Cadwgawn-----[kah-DOO-gan]

  Cahal-----[KA-hal]

  Cearul-----[KAR-ul]

  Cian-----[KEE-an]

  Coinneach-----[KOY-in-ock]

  Colm-----[KOL-um]

  Conlaoch-----[kon-LAY-ock]

  Daragh-----[DYE-ruh]

  Déaglán-----[DECK-lan]

  Diarmuid-----[DEER-mid]

  Donnan-----[DUN-ahn]

  Donny-----[DUN-ee]

  Eamon-----[AIM-an]

  Eógan-----[OWE-in]

  Faolan-----[FOY-lan]

  Feidhelm-----[FAIL-im]

  Fergal-----[FUR-gul]

  Finbar-----[FIN-bar]

  Fionnuala-----[fin-OWE-luh]

  Gearóid-----[GAHR-ohd]

  Ginebra-----[GIN-eh-bruh]

  Glendon-----[GLEN-dun]

  Håkon-----[haw-KUN]

  Hugh-----[hue]

  Iollan-----[OOL-on]

  Jarlath-----[JAR-leth]

  Keiran-----[KEER-awn]

  Killian-----[KILL-ee-an]

  Kyna-----[KEY-na]

  Lachtnán-----[LACHT-nawn]

  Lairgnen-----[LAIR-gnen]

  Liam-----[LEE-am]

  Lorcan-----[LOR-kawn]

  Máedóc-----[my-AY-doc]

  Máiréad-----[MAWR-aid]

  Marga-----[MAR-gah]

  Meig-----[meg]

  Murtagh-----[MUR-tah]

  Neave-----[NEE-av]

  Niall-----[NIGH-ul]

  Odhran-----[OWE-ran]

  Pádraig-----[PAW-drig]

  Parnell-----[PAH-nul]

  Phelim-----[FAIL-im]

  Radha-----[ROWE-uh]

  Ranait-----[RAN-eh]

  Ríoghán-----[REE-awn]

  Rionach-----[REE-in-ock]

  Risteard-----[RISH-taird]

  Ruari-----[RO-ree]

  Rutger-----[RUT-gur]

  Scoithniamh-----[SKUH-nyee-uv]

  Scolaí-----[SKUL-lee]

  Seamus-----[SHAY-mus]

  Siobhán-----[shi-VAHN]

  Suibhne-----[SIBE-nuh]

  Tadhg-----[tige]

  Taliesin-----[tal-ee-ES-in]

  Taran-----[TAH-rhen]

  Teagan-----[TEE-gun]

  Tierney-----[TEAR-nee]

  Ulf-----[OOLTH]

  Ultan-----[ULL-tun]

  Yseult-----[EE-solt]

  Place Names

  The Otherworld

  An Saol Eile-----[on sail ELL-ah]

  Tangled Woods

  Coedwig Dryslyd-----[KOID-wig DRIES-lid]

  The Northern Shires

  Árainn-----[ARR-in]

  Béarra-----[BEAR-ah]

  Cairbrigh-----[CAR-uh-bree]

  Callainn-----[COLL-een]

  Gabhrán-----[gull-RON]

  The Western Shires

  Báinigh-----[by-NEE]

  Cairbre-----[CAR-bur-uh]

  Ceatharlach-----[CAT-her-lock]

  Dealbhna-----[DEL-ab-nah]

  Fotharta-----[FOR-har-tuh]

  Iorras-----[ERR-iss]

  Lorg-----[LURG]

  Orrery-----[are-or-EE]

  Tulach-----[TUH-luh]

  The Eastern Shires

  Ceanannas-----[CAN-non-nus]

  Gabhalmhaigh-----[gull-WE]

  Gaileanga-----[GYAL-lean-gyuh]

  Liatroim-----[LEE-uh-trim]

  Luíne-----[LEAN-yuh]

  Muraisc-----[MORE-ishk]

  Seanaid-----[SHAN-idge]

  Sruthail-----[SRUTH-uh]

  Words & Phrases

  anam cara-----[ah-nahm KHAR-ah]

  soul friend

  cathair-----[COT-ur]

  stone ringfortress

  Cosaint agus Seirbhís-----[CO-sint ah-gus SHUR-beesh]

  Protection and Service

  Dáil-----[doyl]

  Assembly

  Daoine Dofheicthe-----[dee-nee doe-ET-chee]

  Hidden Folk

  dúnfort-----[DOON-fort]

  citadel

  færing-----[FEH-reng]

  small four-oared boat used by the Northmen

  kelpie-----[KELL-pee]

  malevelant water-horse

  phooka-----[POO-kuh]

  mischievious water-horse

  poulaphouca-----[poll-ah-POO-kuh]

  phooka-pool

  ráth-----[raith]

  earthen ringfort

  Roghnú-----[ROW-new]

  Selection

  Seirbhís a Tír agus Rí-----[SHUR-beesh ah TEAR ah-gus REE]

  Service to Country and King

  Skeið(ir)-----[SKAY-j(er)]

  longship(s) used by the Northmen

  Sláinte!-----[SLAWN-shuh]

  Health!

  tríbhís-----[TREE-veesh]

  conjoin
ed triple spiral

  Oakday - Falcon 64th

  Tulach Shire

  Soaring high above Fox Pond, a fish hawk glided from one thermal to another with just an occasional lazy flap of its wings, circling round and round and peering down from its lofty height. Beneath the hawk, two boys circled the small, glassy pool, their third time around.

  “Look at you, Paddy,” the boy in the lead taunted the one two strides behind. “There’s the finish line, and you’ll be lucky to make it there under your own power. You’ve gotten soft.”

  Were it not for their clothing and their eyes, the two boys would be difficult to tell apart. Both, the same age, had light-brown hair and somewhat similar body types of the gangly mid-teens.

  Now, nearing the end of the race, brown-eyed Liam, dressed in the fine garments of the nobility, pushed himself harder, opening up the gap between the two of them to three strides.

  Pádraig, with deep-blue eyes, in the simple cotton and leather of a tradesman, smiled slightly, but said nothing in reply to the gibe. A bit more muscular and tanned than his noble friend, he matched the increase in pace, reducing the separation back to where it had been just moments before.

  Three times around Fox Pond. That had been the bet. Three times around any pond was always the bet when the two boys found themselves in the same territory. And in an island nation like Cruachan, small pools were plentiful, especially in the Kingdom of the Western Shires—with its many marshes, lochs, ponds, rivers, and other water features.

  Atop a boulder at what would be the finish line, a maiden with alabaster skin and long, flame-red hair sat smirking, shapely legs curled up under her. Her attire, like that of the boy leading the race, was not the clothing of a commoner. She wore an emerald-green dress with a white girdle, white slippers, and, around her head, a circlet of finest silver.

  Oh, Paddy, Máiréad thought, giving a frustrated shake of that head, sending her curls in motion like numerous wriggling coral serpents, You’re letting him win. When will you stop being so subservient?

  With a sigh of exasperation, she then mentally answered her own question. Probably never.…Oh, well.

  Responding to a slight motion of her left hand, the root of a willow tree that had grown into the rough trail around the pond raised itself about two inches from the ground directly in front of Liam.

  “Soft, Paddy. You’re soft, I tell—”

  The remainder of his goading changed to a yelp as the young noble’s foot caught the root and sent him headlong onto his belly, ripping the front of his fine-woven, white tunic from neck to belt, as well as the sleeve where his elbow hit the dirt.

  Pádraig glanced over at the girl, shook his head in reproach, and frowned at her. Nevertheless, he did cross the finish line before returning to his friend lying in the middle of the path. Panting, he bent over and extended a helping hand.

  Writhing in pain and holding his right elbow with his left hand, Liam spat out at him, “You tripped me!”

  “How could I have tripped you? I was behind you, you clumsy oaf.”

  Liam let go of his elbow just long enough to slap Pádraig’s hand away. “You used one of your tricks. You broke the rules. I said, ‘No tricks,’ and you agreed.”

  “If you had been looking where you were going instead of back at Paddy, you would have won,” Máiréad said to him as she approached the twosome. “Maybe next time you’ll be a bit less arrogant and a tad more watchful.”

  She handed a farrier’s hoof-pick to Pádraig. The wrought-iron pick had been forged in the image of a hawk. He stuck it in his belt as Máiréad casually tossed two other items she had been holding into Liam’s lap—a scabbard containing a dirk with an eight-inch blade, brass guard and pommel, and ebony grip, as well as a bronze torc, the neckwear of a prince.

  “I won anyway!” Liam snapped, jamming the black leather scabbard with brass fittings into his belt. “We agreed on no tricks. He broke the rules and cheated, so I win.” He then positioned the torc around his neck with the twin wolf-head ends facing forward.

  “If you really believe that I cheated you, Your Highness, then, yes, you win. Now, here, let me help you up and let’s take a look at that elbow.” Pádraig again stretched out his hand.

  “No, Paddy! No!” Máiréad scolded him, her green eyes flashing. “Why do you always let him have his way. Oooo, you make me so angry at times.” Turning from them, she stomped back to her rock, pouting.

  Assisting Liam to his feet, Pádraig took a look at the elbow, protruding from the ripped sleeve of the tunic.

  “Ow! That hurts!” Liam complained as his friend squeezed the joint slightly.

  “Don’t be such a baby, Your Highness. There’re no bones broken. It’s just a scrape.”

  “How would you know whether or not it’s broken. It feels broken to me.”

  Squeezing the elbow once more, not to ascertain the damage, but because Liam’s complaining was beginning to irritate him, Pádraig said, “The bones in your arm aren’t all that much different than the bones in a horse’s leg. I work with horses all the time and I know a break when I feel it, and this isn’t one. You’ve got a scrape. A little scrape. Now, if you want me to make the pain go away, be quiet.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know what he’s going to do,” Máiréad spoke up, “but if you don’t stop that whining, I’m going to turn you into a pig. A squealing, little pig.” She held out her arm with her palm toward Liam.

  Reflexively, he flinched.

  While his friend had been distracted by the girl, Pádraig had put both his hands around Liam’s elbow and had closed his eyes for a few seconds. By the time Liam’s attention had returned to Pádraig, the pain had been dispelled.

  “Here,” Pádraig told him, taking a lump of raw sugar from the pocket of his breeches and holding it out toward Liam.

  “What’s that?” his friend asked, looking at it suspiciously.

  Pádraig grinned at him. “Sugar. When a horse cooperates with me, it gets a treat. This is yours.”

  “Fool!” Liam replied, slapping the lump of sugar away.

  “The lad who is so clumsy that he trips over his own feet has the nerve to call someone else a fool?” Máiréad said. “That’s rich!”

  Ignoring her and flexing his arm, Liam asked Pádraig, “How did you do that?”

  The other boy simply shrugged. “A gift from An Fearglas,” he replied, bowing his head slightly and touching his forehead, chest, then his mouth with the first two fingers of his right hand as he uttered the Deity’s holy name. Both Liam and Máiréad did likewise, all three mentally reciting the ritual act of submission as they did so: May His tenets be always in my mind, in my heart, and on my lips.

  “All three of us come of age in the new year,” Liam reminded him. “I suppose you intend to put yourself up for admission to the Blacksmiths’ Guild at the Mid-Winter Roghnú? But with your gift, you could join Máiréad and stand for entry into the Academy for the Spiritually Gifted. It would be a prestigious appointment.”

  “My future is already set, Your Highness, as is yours. Your da is a chieftain and a king, so shall you be one day. My da is a farrier and a blacksmith, as was his da before him, as will I be with him and after him.”

  “Really, Paddy.” Liam raised his left palm. “A blacksmith?” Lifting his other palm, he continued, “Or a wizard?” He made a small juggling motion with both hands. “Who knows? If you received an appointment to the Academy you might even end up one day as my court wizard when I am King of the Western Shires, or even Arch-Wizard when I am High King of Cruachan.”

  “King of the Western Shires, most definitely,” Pádraig responded. “But High King like your da? Aren’t you getting just a little ahead of yourself? Even though all the high kings have been from the house of Seamus since the Confederation, they have to be elected by the entire Dáil. It’s not automatic. The Assembly of Shire Chieftains could just as well choose one of the other two provincial kings.”

&
nbsp; “Don’t forget, Paddy,” Máiréad piped up. “In addition to the King of the Northern Shires or the King of the Eastern Shires, the Dáil could also choose the King of the Fools rather than a donkey like Liam, with seemingly unbridled ambition. Yes, now that I think of it,” she said to Liam, “you bray just like a donkey.” She put her hands up to the side of her head like ears, and wiggled her fingers. “Hee-haw, hee-haw, hee-haw, future King of Donkey-Town.”

  “Take care with your words, Meig,” Liam said, using the diminutive of her name, clearly not amused by her remarks. “Remember, wizards serve at the pleasure of the kings, and the High King makes the appointment of three of the five positions in the Sodality of Master Wizards—the court wizard of his own kingdom, the Master of the Academy for the Spiritually Gifted, and the Arch-Wizard of all Cruachan. That leaves only two other openings. And, with your attitude, if neither of the other two kings will have you, you’ll be shut out of the Sodality entirely and be relegated to permanent duty as a journeyman wizard, trying to make it rain for some shire chieftain’s poor peasant farmers.”

  Bristling at the idea of being a shire chieftain’s journeyman wizard, or a journeyman anything, for that matter, Máiréad snapped, “I think not. I intend to be the most powerful wizard in Cruachan, and all the kings, you included, will be beseeching me for my services. Besides, you heard Paddy. He’s not the least bit interested in attending the Academy.”

  “You accuse me of unbridled ambition? You haven’t even been selected to the Academy, yet. And if you are, remember that the first tenet of wizardry is ‘Seirbhís a Tír agus Rí.’” He held up a hand to stifle any response as the words in the language of the ancients—‘Service to Country and King’—sunk in. Narrowing his eyes, he lowered his voice, almost hissing, “And also, dear cousin, while you’re threatening to turn someone into a donkey, remember that crossing over onto the dark path is punishable by death.”