can be harmed in their stead. With this in mind, in 537 AD, Ogma approached me on the far reaches of continental Saxon territory with a task he thought I’d find attractive. It wasn’t the first time he had asked for my services; he’d asked me to raid the Library at Alexandria once because he’d foreseen its destruction.
“Some bloody Pictish git has stolen Dagda’s cauldron and taken it into the western territory of the Britons,” he told me. He was referring to what would eventually become Wales; at this time the Britons there were just beginning to form their Welsh identity. “But he’s spread some sort of arcane fog across the area, preventing us from divining his precise location and from shifting directly there. We need someone who can go in there and take the cauldron back.”
“And I was your first choice?”
“No, we’ve sent some others in as well.”
I noticed the “we” but didn’t comment. “Other Druids?”
“Aye, there are few enough of you left, but there were a couple willing to go.”
“Sounds bereft of entertainment or profit to me,” I said.
“Did you not hear me, lad? We can’t see into the area and can’t shift there. Considering that you’ve been on the run a good while now, does that not hold some attraction to you?”
He was hoping I’d jump at any chance to escape the eyes and ears of Aenghus Óg, the Irish god who wanted me dead, but I shrugged. “It sounds like I’m trading a god who wants to kill me for a mad Pict with a giant pair o’ balls and some magical talent. One’s not necessarily better than the other.”
Ogma laughed. “Fair enough. But you’ll be earnin’ my gratitude on top of it. The Dagda is me brother, you know.”
“I thought I earned your gratitude already for that favor I did you down in Egypt.”
“True. But this would be
more
gratitude.”
Unspoken was the certainty that my refusal would mean
less
gratitude.
“All right. Get me a good horse and a proper kit from Goibhniu so that I look like I deserve respect. Shift me as close as you can and point me in the right direction. I’ll make up the rest as I go.”
“Attaboy,” Ogma said and clapped me on the shoulder. “I’ll see you soon.”
It was a week before I saw him again, but he had the promised armor from Goibhniu and a fine horse for me to ride. There were also provisions for the both of us. I changed happily into my kit, feeling optimistic for the first time in months, and then we shifted through Tír na nÓg to a spot near the old Roman road leading west from Gloucester. It was raining heavily.
“I’d forgotten the rain here,” I said. “And you didn’t remind me, did you?”
Ogma ignored my complaint and pointed west. “Go that way.”
“How far before Aenghus Óg won’t be able to sense my magic or divine my location?”
“Not far at all. You’ll sense the change once you pass through it. My advice is to make friends with your horse before you do. I’ve heard they spook easily in there.”
“What can you tell me about the Pict?”
Ogma shrugged. “He’s mean and ugly.”
“Right. Onward then.”
Ogma wished me well and shifted back to Tír na nÓg, leaving me alone in the rain.
The horse snorted and looked at me uncertainly. I approached him calmly and petted his neck, slowly introducing my consciousness to his, so that he would pick up on my emotions and vice versa. What I got in response was much more than that.
the horse said.
I was startled to hear his voice in my head.
One of who?
Where did you learn language?
It appeared that Ogma had taken my request quite literally; he’d not only gotten a kit from Goibhniu, but the smith god’s personal horse. And it was because of this experience that I began to teach my animal companions language from that time forward.
I am called Gawain
, I said.
Do you have a name?
“Some bloody Pictish git has stolen Dagda’s cauldron and taken it into the western territory of the Britons,” he told me. He was referring to what would eventually become Wales; at this time the Britons there were just beginning to form their Welsh identity. “But he’s spread some sort of arcane fog across the area, preventing us from divining his precise location and from shifting directly there. We need someone who can go in there and take the cauldron back.”
“And I was your first choice?”
“No, we’ve sent some others in as well.”
I noticed the “we” but didn’t comment. “Other Druids?”
“Aye, there are few enough of you left, but there were a couple willing to go.”
“Sounds bereft of entertainment or profit to me,” I said.
“Did you not hear me, lad? We can’t see into the area and can’t shift there. Considering that you’ve been on the run a good while now, does that not hold some attraction to you?”
He was hoping I’d jump at any chance to escape the eyes and ears of Aenghus Óg, the Irish god who wanted me dead, but I shrugged. “It sounds like I’m trading a god who wants to kill me for a mad Pict with a giant pair o’ balls and some magical talent. One’s not necessarily better than the other.”
Ogma laughed. “Fair enough. But you’ll be earnin’ my gratitude on top of it. The Dagda is me brother, you know.”
“I thought I earned your gratitude already for that favor I did you down in Egypt.”
“True. But this would be
more
gratitude.”
Unspoken was the certainty that my refusal would mean
less
gratitude.
“All right. Get me a good horse and a proper kit from Goibhniu so that I look like I deserve respect. Shift me as close as you can and point me in the right direction. I’ll make up the rest as I go.”
“Attaboy,” Ogma said and clapped me on the shoulder. “I’ll see you soon.”
It was a week before I saw him again, but he had the promised armor from Goibhniu and a fine horse for me to ride. There were also provisions for the both of us. I changed happily into my kit, feeling optimistic for the first time in months, and then we shifted through Tír na nÓg to a spot near the old Roman road leading west from Gloucester. It was raining heavily.
“I’d forgotten the rain here,” I said. “And you didn’t remind me, did you?”
Ogma ignored my complaint and pointed west. “Go that way.”
“How far before Aenghus Óg won’t be able to sense my magic or divine my location?”
“Not far at all. You’ll sense the change once you pass through it. My advice is to make friends with your horse before you do. I’ve heard they spook easily in there.”
“What can you tell me about the Pict?”
Ogma shrugged. “He’s mean and ugly.”
“Right. Onward then.”
Ogma wished me well and shifted back to Tír na nÓg, leaving me alone in the rain.
The horse snorted and looked at me uncertainly. I approached him calmly and petted his neck, slowly introducing my consciousness to his, so that he would pick up on my emotions and vice versa. What I got in response was much more than that.
I was startled to hear his voice in my head.
One of who?
Where did you learn language?
It appeared that Ogma had taken my request quite literally; he’d not only gotten a kit from Goibhniu, but the smith god’s personal horse. And it was because of this experience that I began to teach my animal companions language from that time forward.
I am called Gawain
, I said.
Do you have a name?
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