The Heros of Connemara

Siofra, who was covered by a well-worn simple grey shift which showed every detail of her bony body, was somewhat of a legend. A status all the more remarkable because it was achieved before she was fourteen, by fierce intelligence and reckless bravery. Then, at fourteen she had entered the stone tower to train at the craft. She had only emerged a few days ago

When Siofra had appeared on Keavy’s doorstep earlier in the week asking for her old protector, Keavy had modestly claimed she was more a housewife than a warrior these days

Keavy’s man, Art, had asked, “why her? how dangerous is this going to be?”.

Siofra brushed his objections aside. “No danger, just for company really.”

They had heard that before and didn’t find it reassuring. In the old days, danger had followed Siofra like a loyal hound. All the same, Keavy had polished her sword and taken a deep breath in as Art pulled the strap of her breast plate. She had rounded in the ten years since they had last seen Siofra. When she was ready, she pecked Art on the cheek, said goodbye and climbed onto her stout grey pony. They set off together to the gathering in the Connemara hills.

“Is this what you trained for?” Keavy had asked, struggling to find anything to say to her once so familiar but now distant and quiet old friend.

“No, no, lords no, this is a normal request to elders with the craft to seek a solution to some annoying humans digging where they shouldn’t.”

Then they had ridden in silence through the lower fields, criss-crossed by stone walls holding large, placid cows. As they rose into the hills, they were met by a wild but friendly landscape; soft, rolling grass hills with swathes of flowers rolling over pale grey stone; In the distance, at the coast, dark, jagged, rock cliffs rose straight up from the water. And the water, coloured by the algae on the seabed, reflected swirls of dark green and purple beneath the white foam lashing into the rocks. Eventually an impressive stone mansion came into view and ten or twelve large square white canvas marquees, which spread across the gently sloping lawns of the ClanCarthy estate. A few hundred of the folk, of the great and the good gathered to find a solution. Humans were building a motorway through the Connemara hills, where the giants slept.

As they walked across the lawn dozens of ancillari, all young, pale blonde girls, swarmed across the lawns from house to tent to tent and back to the house. Like pretty blonde ants stealing a picnic.

“Where do the ClanCarthy’s get them?”

“I’m not sure anyone knows that, but I doubt they arrive here willingly.”

They were pointed toward a bunch of fretful administrators whose brows knotted tightly as they ticked off lists and mumbled private concerns. Grey men on spindly legs in cheap grey clothes. A chubby man with prematurely greying hair points a quill. “Over there, the yellow tent, the fox table.” He stops short, embarrassed, unsure of how to address Siofra and worried he is giving offence.”

“Do I wait somewhere?” asked Keavy.

“No, come, come.” Siofra insisted, offering the administrator enough of a smile for his brow to relax for a second, before he faced the next guest.

They headed for a yellow flag and entered a humid tent and found the table decorated by a bright red wooden fox. They sat for several hours, with a minor aristocrat whose attendance was somewhat pointless, an administrator, whose whole existence was questionable and a Scot, casually referred to as Mac. A large man with an insanely large beard, which gave the impression of a litter of playful blond puppies constantly tumbling across his face. He had sharp small eyes and was obsessed with rock; Any and all rock. Siofra’s laser eyes flew around the room causing many a lower mortal to avert their gaze. Only when they met Keavy did they soften. There was a clear and deep affection.

The tent was warm in the late summer, rich nibbles of food were served and wine and mead flowed, and little of use seemed to be achieved. Despite the muttering clusters of administrators in each tent there was little organisation or process. No one seemed clear what was expected.

The ancillari were serene, efficient and polite but on close inspection their facial muscles were tense. With good reason. They were clearly used to being calm, cool and spotlessly clean, with virgin white dresses and hair viciously pulled into tight buns. The effects of the summer heat and dust left them uneasy. Used to being as immaculate as angels they were sweating and increasingly smeared with red dust. It stuck to their hands and with each touch, as a dress pleat was flattened or an insect swept aside, it crept across them. Offensive painterly strokes of imperfection.

An inexperience young grounds keeper, Brindle, who had recently inherited his post from his late uncle, had, with every good will, flooded the man-made lake across the lawn in the hope of giving the tired grass a last lease of life in the dry dog days of summer. The Lake man could have warned him it was a salt lake, but he wasn’t taken by the pup. So the sluice gates were closed, the water rose and within a day, far from creating the lush green lawn intended, not a blade of grass remained. The marquees were erected on what was now a platter of dust. The ancillaries spent the day setting tables with the fine china, linen tablecloths and polished silver. When they left the clouds of fine dull red dust settled. They had been awoken rudely before dawn to clean, wash and reset the tables from scratch.

Something about their calm obedience wasn’t convincing and gave a hint that terror wasn’t too far away. One felt they, despite their calm and soft smiles, feared the lack of perfection could result in painful beatings.

Danand, an energetic young chieftain from Galway, had snapped at the groundsman, barely holding her infamous temper in check, until a temporary solution was found. Brindle would spread damp woodchip across the ground inside the tents in an attempt to hold the dustbowl at bay. This he and his men endeavoured to do under the increasingly red stained and sore bare feet of the ancillari.

The day progressed slowly. The woodchip migrated, slowly kicked and scuffed out of the tents. The elders were mostly asleep in the stifling heat of the late afternoon, so that eventually everyone adjourned and agreed to an early start the next day.

The little they agreed was that the workers weren’t Irish, weren’t bothered by magic, just wanted their days wage. This wasn’t a dozen Irish lads to be frightened away by the gentle folk as in days of old. It was a modern corporate machine which planned to crawl profitably across Connemara, leaving an ugly motorway, oblivious of the dangers at hand.

None of the folk doubted the dangers. If the giants were awoken it was easy to imagine the discomfort this might cause to everyone concerned.

The giants hadn’t exactly willingly fallen asleep and although it was many years since they had walked the earth few doubted their proclivity to reasonable anger and resentment should they be woken. The folk had kept them asleep for rather longer than they would be pleased about. Humans had long forgotten that they had ever existed. It would be an embarrassing situation all round. Things would be tricky to explain and some anger might well be expected and justified. And the construction of a motorway across their toes seemed very likely to wake them. They would, someone quipped, be hopping mad.

The second day started with enthusiasm, clean skin and snow white dresses, but as the dust levels rose the girls became noticeably tetchy and their irritation was accompanied by an oratorio of coughing old lungs which built slowly to a crescendo. By mid-afternoon the scribes grumbled that their nibs were having to dig furrows through a fine layer of dust on every flat surface. Cups of mead were quickly sealed under dull red dusty lids. The girls, sore footed from the woodchip and exhausted, polished incessantly. Danand called for more woodchip to be spread that evening. Bringle, the groundsman scuttled away to arrange it. Again, they adjourned early, with just a day left and little hope of any new inspiration.

The administrators met in the evening and over sandwiches discussed progress. They struggled to avoid looking at the beautiful young girls serving them. It was a short discussion, followed by a good deal of grumbling and wishing for the simpler olden days. They didn’t notice the furtive glances and raised eyebrows of the girls. They slept fitfully.

The girls, exhausted, rubbed their feet and after washing themselves and their dresses slept naked in a long line, making small, sweet snoring grunts, like a litter of slim blond piglets. They rose, yawning, before dawn to iron their dresses and pin their hair.

Before anyone was abroad and the silence was only broken by a few arguing gulls. Brindle shook the groundsmen awake. The early morning haze on the lake on the third day hinted of an even closer, stickier day. A little later, Bringle could be heard screaming at the groundsmen.

“Look, you morons, look, can you not read?” In an ill rehearsed and mumbled chorus, they assured him they couldn’t. “This, this is woodchip, picture of a tree, that’s the clue. These, which you have spread in every tent, sixteen sacks in every single fecking tent, these are goose dropping manure. Picture of a fecking Goose. Goose shit!”

The thick heat and heavy stench of goose manure caused many to take an involuntary step back at the marquee entrances. The ancillari, deeply demoralised and increasingly sleep deprived, looked on hopelessly. They served lemonade from a wagon on the lawn in a last ditch effort to save face. They weren’t happy to be walking on goose droppings, but it was at least kinder than woodchip on their toes. Danand snapped at a passing groundsman to tell Brindle that if she saw him she would gut him like a fish. Fortunately, no one saw him that day. Everyone felt a quick agreement to almost anything was a good option, but no one had offered any hint of a believable solution yet.

Siofra, irritated by the pointless chatter and the rich food which left her stomach, used to porridge and heavy bread, empty and rumbling, tapped her staff on the table. Glass and silver rattled in time with her slow beat. When the chatter had died down she rose and quietly addressed the tables.

“I have been hearing, at some length, from this gentleman about the rocks which compose the mountains. Volcanos are not usual here, but there is a ridge toward Iceland and there are I understand outlying volcanos. I propose I cause a small volcano at the head of the motorway. The magma will run downhill and destroy the work they have done and make it difficult to complete the road as they intended it. Even if it doesn’t stop them for good I believe it will hold it up for a few years.”

“A volcano in the hills of Connemara?” a few muttered with varying degrees of disbelief.

“Unless anyone has a better idea?”

“And you can do this?”

“I would hardly have suggested it if I couldn’t.” Siofra failed to hide her annoyance, she briefly considered a small volcano on the top of the man’s head as proof of concept.

Mac looked encouraging, mostly shocked that it seemed Siofra had actually been listening to him. “Aye, could be done, aye, small volcano. They would have to think it a natural event and it will certainly do the job.” He nodded enthusiastically. The dancing puppies cavorted joyfully.

“Excellent,” snapped Danand, “sounds perfect, all agreed, let’s get the hell out of here. And I’d suggest the bards start working on some pretty impressive complimentary stories about giants. They will wake up eventually and it might be wise to have a good story to turn to when they do.”

Administrators flew into paroxysms of intense worry. “Was that a proposal, or a conclusion or a resolution?” They seemed positively disturbed as people started to leave. Papers and protocols were shuffled uneasily. An ancient elder from Connaught moaned about proper procedure, a few scribes looked concerned and scribbled hurried notes. Everyone else, relieved to be released from the stinking inferno, walked briskly toward the stables.

The ancillari immediately started to clear the tables, slyly slipping morsels of the fresher more delicious treats into their mouths. One or two bottles of mead disappeared as they moved the China to the vast kitchens of the mansion. At sunset, Brindle, still hiding in the lakeman’s shed, heard splashing, giggles and shrieks from the red mud edge of the lake.

“We aren’t going to wake any giants?” asked a nervous Keavy as they mounted their ponies.

“I don’t think so,” Siofra reassured her, adding, “home before tea,” with a smile.

They rode into the hills. At the head of the motor works Siofra planted her staff into the rubble and stood in silence for long minutes, her eyes keenly focused on her staff’s head. Keavy sat awkwardly on a rock looking uncomfortably around at the strange orange machines, unsure when to expect a volcano and keen not to be seen by any motorway workers.

“It will take a day or so,” Siofra finally assured her. “To actually appear… to, what’s the word? Erupt.”

They rode for home.

“I will return to the tower, but before I do, do you still make that barnbrack?”

“Warm from the oven, with hot fresh tea. Yes, of course”

“Wonderful.”

The bards would, of course, tell stories of the great wisdom of the elders, of the blood soaked heroine, Keavy, valiantly, desperately wielding her sword, fighting off a hoard of huge, vicious humans as Siofra wielded a column of fire, raising the very devils of hell, to save the giants from certain destruction. But, well, that’s what bards do, isn’t it.

The barnbrack, dripping with melted butter, was delicious.

Art hugged Keavy especially tightly that night,

“You miss me?” she asked.

“Just your body heat, the bed was a bit cold,” he teased.