Waves in the Wind Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Waves in the Wind

  Dedication

  “I am convinced that the terrestrial paradise is in the Island of Saint Brendan, which none can reach save by the Will of God.” Christopher Columbus

  Acknowledgment

  Book One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Book Two

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Waves in the Wind

  By Wade McMahan

  Copyright 2014 by Wade McMahan

  Cover Copyright 2014 by Untreed Reads Publishing

  Cover Design by J.D.Netto, JD Netto Designs

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Also by Wade McMahan and Untreed Reads Publishing

  Flying Solo

  The Complete Richard Dick Mysteries

  http://www.untreedreads.com

  Waves in the Wind

  Wade J. McMahan

  Dedication

  In memory of that gentle Irishman, Michael D. Mitchell of Belfast, who provided much of the inspiration for this novel.

  “I am convinced that the terrestrial paradise is in the Island of Saint Brendan, which none can reach save by the Will of God.” Christopher Columbus

  Acknowledgment

  Our thanks to Beatrix Färber, Project Manager for CELT (Corpus of Electronic Texts), University College Cork, Ireland, for generously granting use of a reference from the mysterious, ancient Irish manuscript, “Annals of the Four Masters.”

  Book One

  Chapter 1

  Eire. 516 A.D.

  The Morrigan came to me today, an old gray crow squatting in the field of stones outside my cave mouth. Behind her, the vast emptiness of the wave-tossed western sea swept the horizon.

  “Ossian,” she croaked. “What a poor thing you are, a king of stones and rotting fish.

  Your wounds are healed, your father will not rise from the dead, nor will your sisters. Your gods are fading, Ossian, old gods fall before the new, as I will. But not yet, though the followers of the Risen One grow stronger every day.”

  Now, it is a poor thing to be mocked by your gods when you have tried to keep faith with them. Where was she when the Corcu Duibne came, my family slaughtered and our village put to fire? I had only the chance to strike one blow before a rider knocked me senseless and left me in the fields for dead. A simple kirtle to cover my nakedness and the serpent ring but all I carried here—here in my solitude these many months by the western sea.

  Firelight danced upon the cave walls as I rose to face her. “Why do you come here to scoff at me now, My Queen? I have nothing, nothing! Why do you come to me now when there is naught more I can do for you?”

  “Naught more?” she cackled. “Naught more you can do for me? I expect nothing and need less from you, Ossian, for you not only have nothing, you have become nothing. We had great hopes for you during the short years you stood beside us, but no more. Now you choose to cower within this lowly cave where you endure hunger and shiver from the cold. What a miserable being you’ve become, little man.”

  “My Queen, I…”

  “Silence!” she shrieked. “You will soon die here in this wretchedness of your own choosing. Oh yes, you will die unless once again you desire to wear the mantle of a man.” Her hoary wings spread wide. “The choice is yours, though the Lordly Ones care little either way.”

  Her wings flapped once as she took flight into the murky, midday sky, and she was soon gone from view. The Lordly Ones little cared whether I lived or died, she had said. In that, they shared my own view of myself.

  I threw myself upon my simple bracken bed as thoughts battled within my head. A thousand times I had prayed to the Lordly Ones that they might direct me from what I had been toward what I might become. A thousand times they ignored my pleas. Now, they sent their goddess, the Morrigan, but to what purpose? To warn me that I faced death? Yes, I might very well die here, and with no thanks due any of the gods for their beneficence.

  It had not always been so for me. Was I not of the Eoghanachts of the Cork region, son of Ciann Mehigan, son of Gicrode? Was I not highly educated and trained in the ways of the Druids?

  Augh! Of what measure were such thoughts, such remembrances when they offered no consolation and merely compounded my torment? Perhaps they weren’t even true. Perhaps an evil fairy planted false memories in my mind as a means to taunt me. Even so, the past came flooding back from a time before the skies grew dark…

  * * *

  My father sat upon a stone in the Sacred Grove. His face revealed no emotion as he spoke. “Ossian, I received word today through a messenger that my petition to have you placed in the school at Dún Ailinne has been accepted.”

  Boyish excitement flooded through me, though I stood silent, respectful before him. I knew Dún Ailinne well. Had I not accompanied my father there more than once for the annual Beltane celebration?

  High above us, interlacing gnarled branches of towering oaks created a magical bower of dark green foliage. Dappled sunlight illuminated my father as he sat there, an image I had seen countless times.

  The hood of his immaculate white robe framed his face, a sharp contrast against his shoulder-length red hair and carefully groomed beard. He continued. “You have reached twelve years; it is time for your formal education to begin. We may only pray the many lessons I have taught you here within this Sacred Grove will serve you well. Now, I place you in the hands of the Master at Dún Ailinne, who shall further your education that many years from today you may carry the sacred staff of the Druids as I do, and as did my father before me.”

  Gentleness flowed from his blue eyes as was often the case when he spoke with me. It was a characteristic he held closely within him, one he rarely, if ever, displayed beyond the intimacy of our immediate family. I knew what he was seeing as I stood there, a boyish image of himself, a rather tall boy, skinny in the way of
many lads at that age, my red hair flaming in the sun.

  He nodded. “Now, you may speak.”

  In my young eyes, my father was the wisest of all men, for he was Druid and chief advisor to King Domhnall. A proper response was expected. It was with the thought of pleasing him that I chose my words. “Thank you, father. I shall endeavor with all my heart and mind to honor you, our family, and our King. If it is the will of the gods, I shall succeed.”

  “Hmm. Yes, I see the truth in it, Ossian, though it is not your heart that I entrust to the Master, only your mind. I know you will do your best, but do not place over much reliance in the Lordly Ones; they can be a capricious lot. Always remember, to be accorded the order of Druid is not a birthright, nor is it founded upon prominence or political favor. You must follow a long, difficult path to wisdom, to at last be measured on your merits alone.”

  He rose, gestured for me to follow and we walked from the Grove to our village, Rath Raithleann, a thatch-roofed community of nine hundred souls. Already, news of my selection for the school at Dún Ailinne had swept through the folk there. The men were working their fields, but the women and children greeted my father with great reverence, and to me they offered encouraging smiles and words.

  That night following our evening meal within my father’s spacious roundhouse, my sisters Ceara and Aine badgered me with questions. Ceara was two years my elder, with dark hair and eyes. Within a year or two she would catch the eye of her future husband. Where Ceara was dark, Aine, at eight years, was sparkle and light with flashing blue eyes and long auburn hair.

  “Oh Ossian!” Aine chattered. “You are going away to school at Dún Ailinne? Oh how glorious that will be. How I wish I were a boy and could go to school too.”

  “No,” I smiled to her, “you must stay here and learn the ways of women from Fainche. Your fingers are still far too clumsy for the weaving of linen.”

  “Humph, that is not true! Well, not very true anyway. Fainche says I am learning quickly. Tell me, when you come home from school, will you teach me the powers of necromancy?”

  “Of course I shall do no such thing! You must learn to mind your tongue girl, for you might be overheard. It is dangerous to speak of the dead. Now, be away with you. I have much thinking to do before I leave.”

  I could never be angry with Aine. Was she to blame that her birth was ill omened? Our mother died during Aine’s birthing, a family tragedy preordained by the gods. Soon afterwards, our father found Fainche, an older, generously proportioned widow who came to help with our raising. She was a kind woman who saw to our needs with caring hands.

  Later, I lay in my bed, my mind busy with thoughts of the school at Dún Ailinne. At some point I drifted off to sleep, and for the first time in many years my mother entered my dreams, her shrouded face a gray shadow against a dark sky. She turned and gestured behind her. In the far distance, spanning the black horizon, the world was on fire…

  Chapter 2

  Dún Ailinne

  I waited in the stone-paved compound of the school at Dún Ailinne feeling very small, and, for the first time in my young life, all alone. It was the silence I noticed most. Breathless quiet altogether unlike the busy bustle and chatter I had grown up with in my home village.

  A few students clad in the brown robes of acolytes strode among glistening white wattle and daub buildings serving as dormitories, classrooms and a dining hall. The students pursued missions I could only imagine.

  Sweat trickled down my face as I stood fidgeting under the hot morning sun. My new rough woolen robe itched, and chafed my skin. In time, my name would be called to climb the tall, grass covered hill before me, the sacred Knockaulin, and at last stand before the Master.

  When the sun reached its peak, my turn came and I began the long walk up the earthen pathway to the crest. My head swiveled ’round as goose bumps ran down my body. During past visits I overheard whisperings that in olden times human sacrifice was practiced here. What boy wouldn’t fear the presence of ghosts, the angry shades of the dead ones sacrificed by ancient Druids in foolish rituals?

  At the mid-way point I rested and gazed down on the compound surrounded by the thatched roofs of the school. Beyond a wooded grove, and further on, partially screened by the trees, lay the small village of Kilcullen. Why did the old priest Patrick choose the village so near our sacred Dún Ailinne to build a Christian monastery?

  Solitude ruled the shrine at the summit, and I recognized the grand design of it, one that reminded me of ripples created by dropping a pebble into a quiet pool—an outer, perfectly circular earthen wall and within it two deep inner trenches. Blackbirds fluttered, cackled and roosted among numerous heavy wooden posts forming the innermost circle.

  I hesitated, a lump in my throat. The Master dwelt within his small stone sanctuary at the center of the shrine’s universe.

  My future would begin here. Upon hearing of my acceptance at the school, King Domhnall had declared a feast of celebration, and my name was raised within all the homes throughout my village. Again, I bowed under the burden of it as I stood there, and again I felt the weight of the gold paid by my father that I might follow in his footsteps.

  The polished oak door of the sanctuary loomed before me and I rapped upon it with my knuckles. There was no response. Uncertain of what do, I considered tapping again when a deep voice bade me enter. Upon opening the door, a musty aroma of ancient dust mingled with incense assaulted my nose. My eyes grew accustomed to the candle-lit dimness as I shambled forward, my new soft sandals making swishing sounds as I crossed the stone floor.

  Before me a mighty, fearsome image, the Master posed in an ornate high-backed chair behind a table piled with manuscripts. A full gray beard framing his round face cascaded from his chin to spread across a considerable paunch concealed beneath a Druid’s black and white striped robe.

  Here sat Tóla, his stern, gray eyes holding me in their grasp as he leaned forward to inspect me. “And so, Ossian, your father prepared you well for our school here?”

  My teeth gripped my quivering tongue as I bowed and forced myself to murmur, “My father sends his reverent greetings, Master Tóla, and asks you be the judge of it.”

  “Humph, yes, of course. Your father was one of my best students, who has since matured into a fine advisor to the King at Rath Raithleann and priest to your people. As for you, we shall measure the scion against the tree.”

  My heart skipped at hearing his words. I feared I would look foolish indeed in the eyes of the Master if he were to compare my poor skills against the great knowledge and boundless wisdom of my father.

  He leaned back in his chair, and cocked a bushy gray eyebrow. “So tell me. The history of our land is closely held within our oral traditions. As a Druid who merits the right to be called Wise One, you shall be expected to recite Eire’s history from the time of the Great Deluge forward, year by year. Do you know why that is important?”

  “My father says what has been will be again. The past offers a window into the future.”

  Gray eyes seemed to bore through me as he leaned forward. “Your father says? What say you?”

  It took a moment to swallow a pesky lump forming in my throat before replying. “I say my father is most wise.”

  “Hmm. Yes,” he muttered, clasping his hands atop the table.

  The annoying lump returned as he continued. “We still don’t know about your wisdom, do we? Complete this quotation for me if you can. It was the Age of the World, 3303…”

  So, the testing of my preparation was to begin immediately. An anxious chill ran through me beneath the fullness of my robe. In the manner learned through my years spent in the Sacred Grove, I closed my eyes and calmed my mind so that a correct response might form.

  It was a straightforward question, for 3303 might well be the most important year in Druidic Irish history. I began, “For thirty-seven years the Firbolgs ruled Eire. It was in this year the Tuatha De Danann arrived and gave battle to them in Connaught. During t
he battle King Eochaidh of the Firbolgs was slain by the sons of Neimhidh of the Tuatha De Dannans, and the Firbolgs were vanquished and slaughtered.”

  “Stop!” The Master held up his hand. “It seems you have a quick mind and gifted memory. However, remember this, for it is very important. When you tell the history of this land, do not simply recite it. Your stories must bring mood and motion to the peoples of the distant past, give your listeners a sense of actually being there.”

  “I begin to understand, Master, and shall strive to improve.”

  “No, Ossian, you must improve.”

  Remaining rigidly erect, I nodded my understanding. Sweat trickled down my spine beneath my robe.

  His questioning resumed. “We realize humans descended from trees. Our Tree Calendar speaks to the thirteen phases of the moon. Tell me, what is the significance of the seventh month?”

  There was much that could be said in response to his question, but what did he truly wish to know? The wisest course seemed to remain wary, so I offered the only liturgy I knew. “The seventh month is that within which the royal tree, the Oak, rules under the hand of the god, Duir. It is said that its midsummer blooms speak to endurance, strength and triumph. It is further said that it was on the 24th day of the month the Oak-king was sacrificed by fire. The final seven days of the month, which are also the first seven days of the second half of the year, are dedicated to his remembrance, and each year includes a great feast in his honor. There is—”

  “Enough!” The Master peered at me, eyes squinting. “You have arrived at Dún Ailinne, but I wonder if you recall the story about the girl for whom this place is named?”

  “Yes, Master Tóla, I think so.” I blessed my father’s foresight to prepare me for this question. Again I closed my eyes, thought back and quoted,

  Across the snow the wolfpack raced,

  Wolves or men still all the same,

  Within the rath the he-bear slept,

  He lost his cub to the wolves that night.