With his friends placed into the sleep of the ages, by Fintan Mac Gabhann, a minion of the mischievous Goban Saor, Gwri is forced to serve them in their plot to strike back at Brarn the Reaver. Set before him was six tasks to gather six items. This is the tale of the second of those tasks.

rowning into a piece of polished metal, Gwri studied the curse of the comb. Though his mother, in their brief time together, had named him for the shock of yellow hair on his head, time had turned it into a dirty brown. No longer, now it hung to his waist and a shone a fiery gold.

Fin tried to ease his mind with stories of Lug’s golden hair, but Gwri would not be appeased, thinking Niamh a worthier comparison. Thus, he had taken a knife and lopped it off. However, later that eve, while relaxing after a meal, he found himself absentmindedly running the comb through his hair, restoring the golden mane. No matter how often he cut it, at some point he would find comb in hand, undoing the knife’s slice. Finally he had given up, letting it hang down his back, tied in place with a leather thong.

Meanwhile Gwri prepared for the next verse. Cleaning and repairing gear, he tried to extract clues from Fin.

“My guesses are probably the same as yours, Gwri. The fallen stone is probably a sky stone. But where to find it? Well I suspect you need to follow the path.”

Gwri’s guesses matched Fin’s. Thus one morning he walked along the path, following it as it soon curved towards the North. This journey lasted much longer than that to the forest and the slight incline caused his legs to ache as he climbed into the cold. Prepared by the verse, he added another tunic and then his coat. In time he found himself in a snow covered expanse, the path drawing a straight, black line to the North. Onwards he walked, his pack growing lighter as he emptied it of the clothes needed to stay warm. Rarely stopping, for that made him feel the cold even worse, he worried about the night. He saw no shelter on the horizon nor anything with which to start a fire.

So he walked, dreading the arrival of a dark that never came. On and on, until he did not want to continue. Yet he forced himself to take another step and then another. Wrapped in his woolen blanket, head bowed to shelter his face from the wind, he grew weak. Fearfully Gwri looked upwards, seeking anything in the barren lands. Weary steps stumbled at what he spotted.

Ahead, stood a stone fence, circling a pasture in which cattle grazed. Almost he thought he dreamt, until his steps brought him against a gate where the path intersected the wall.

Reaching for the latch, Gwri hesitated. Who would he find in this seeming paradise, surrounded by nothing? Assuredly someone with powers beyond the norm. And how would they take his arrival? He decided it did not matter, since he could not turn back. He had come too far and when he looked to his rear, the path no longer existed. He needed to stop, to rest. Therefore, he opened the gate and stepped onto grass. From the winter cold into summer warmth.

As the cattle curiously lowed their greetings, Gwri moved towards a small hut, seeing smoke arise from a hole in the thatched roof. Nearing it, he spotted a dock and a boat, both seemingly frozen into ice. He realized he had reached the Sea, though one not of water.

Looking out over the frozen sea, Gwri momentarily forgot the hut. Thus he spun in surprise when a voice said, “Greetings stranger, what brings you to my farm?”

Unsure who to expect, Gwri saw a farm wife, probably of an age with Nareene. Confused, he answered, “My name is Gwri, Goodwife. I ask shelter for the night.”

“But why are you here?”

“I seek a sky stone.”

She snorted and said, “Which one of them set your foot on that trail?”

Something in that disdainful snort told Gwri he faced no normal woman, as if he had not already suspected. “The Goban Saor, Ma'am.”

“Of course. I should have known, particularly after finding his clever toy beside my dock. Well come inside and we’ll talk. And call me Ann.”

First inclination led him to doubt she could be who he guessed. But when he thought about this fertile farm in the middle of winter, cattle in its pasture, and suspected she truly was Anu. With this understanding, Gwri meekly followed her and sat where directed. While she prepared a meal, he told his story.

“You’ve been ill prepared for such a journey, young Gwri. Yet the rescue of your friends is a worthy goal, as is the end of Brarn. I would offer help, if you would accept?”

“Willingly, Ann. I have no idea where I am going, how to get there, or what to do if I arrive. The Goban Saor picked poorly in choosing me as his tool.”

“As always, he assuredly has his reasons, convoluted though they probably would be to understand. So be assured that he believes you have a chance to succeed, another reason why it is worth my time to assist. First you must prepare for the cold, which makes the winter around my home seem as summer. Eat.”

That proved to be a common command during the following days, as Ann prepared him for the journey. Days separated by sleep and work rather than light and dark. And whenever he returned from his tasks, she would have waiting a meal of potatoes, onions, and beef. So often and so much did she feed him, that his girth grew until it seemed his footsteps plodded with a thump similar to that of the cattle.

Each day, Ann sent Gwri out to work on one of two main tasks. Mainly he gathered rations. Bags of vegetables from Ann’s gardens or sides of beef, harvested from the unshrinking herd of cattle. Or chunks of ice, cut from the frozen sea, to melt for drink. All of which he stored in the hold of the Goban Saor’s boat, Sgá th. As Ann had said, the boat was a clever creation, sitting upon skis so as not to be frozen into the ice and equipped with an ever burning stove, within its comfortable cabin, to make the months worth of rations he gathered edible or drinkable.

On the boat he also found iron traps, which made his second task possible. Hunting the giant snow bears that prowled the ice. From their carcasses, he obtained thick fur pelts, which he sewed together so fur faced out from either side. These two sided pelts he sewed into pants, shirt, long coat, gloves, hat, and boots. Thus clothed, he barely felt the bitter cold.

Ann also helped him prepare his mind. She told him the loneliness and darkness would be his greatest enemy. That they would prey on his thoughts, attempting to break down the walls of his mind’s fortress to let in the demons. For they would not be ravening beasts, seeking to him tear apart, instead they would be wraiths trying to drive him mad, to make him forget his task, to tempt him into joining them in their endless prison of despair. In order to combat this, Ann had him learn to distract himself with the songs and lays taught by his Grandmother. Presented with a worn old harp, similar to Keelin’s even to its sound, she told Gwri to play, to sing, while she went about her chores. If he turned his head at a loud noise or responded to a comment, she chastised him. Repeated practice brought an end to these admonishments.

A final defense came not from Ann, but from the Goban Saor. Again, aboard the Sgá th, Gwri found a featureless bronze mask, polished to a mirrored sheen, which comfortably molded to his face, due to a soft leather lining. Ann speculated it would reflect a demon’s visage back upon itself, confusing it. And while she doubted the effectiveness of the mask, she agreed that any help was worth accepting.

By the time he boarded the Sgá th to begin his journey North, few would recognize Gwri. Faceless behind the mask and massive like the bears in whose furs he now clothed himself.

As the boat glided Northwards, requiring no assistance from its passenger, Gwri found himself surrounded by emptiness. The very nothingness proved oppressive when all he had to combat this oppression was his stories and songs. Only in sleep or while eating did he allow himself silence. Silence he cherished. Yet he did not cheat, for Ann had told him to sing, so sing he did.

Only once did he forget her warnings. Uncounted, endless days after setting sail, he climbed above deck to survey the horizon. What he saw struck him dumb, for the boat slid towards a wall of darkness. Not like approaching night, instead it seemed as if the brightest of day and the darkest of night had been sundered in twain at that very spot. Unsure what approached, he armed himself and returned to deck to wait. Doubting his ability to combat whatever lurked in the dark, he loudly sang battle hymns, trying to rally his nerve.

And then it was dark.

And Gwri was still alone.

How long he stood on deck, waiting, he did not know. For time in the dark held no more meaning than it had in the light. Finally he lowered his shield, spear, and voice to look about the boat. He could see nothing, but time had emblazoned his surroundings upon his mind’s eye. So with the horizon hidden, he returned to his cabin. There he sat until his body told him to sleep, accepting the dark, though comforted by the warm glow of the Sgá th’s stove.

The light to which his awakening sight slowly adjusted, until he could see. What he saw caused him to yell his fright, before immediately he launched into song, specifically the Raid of Begagha. Where his scream caused the ghostly figures to open their mouths and add their dreadful cacophony, the song calmed them while it distracted him.

Instead they just stared. Waited.

With the return of his wits, Gwri realized these were the demons for which he had prepared. Momentarily their prior wailing made him think of the feared Ban Sidhe, until he saw some appeared male. They also seemed to have a patience not associated with those harbingers of death.

All through all the time he stayed awake they hovered, never allowing a moment between songs without starting to shriek. Each bite of food, each drink to soothe his raw throat, resulted in the return of the horrific sound. Not until he felt too exhausted to care did he fall asleep, slumped in the chair that had served as battleground during that long, dark day. Only to have it start again when he awoke. Day following upon day.

Slowly Gwri found himself able to look upon the demons with tempered fear, as they did not attack. With time he could distinguish individuals, wondering who they had been in life or if they had ever lived. Many would pass through the cabin once, never to be seen again, but the four became regular visitors.

One who appeared to have been middle aged man, with tangled brown hair falling to his shoulders, seemed to be attracted to the music, often drumming silently along with his fingers. The next two, an old man and an old woman, were drawn to the Sgá th`s stove, causing Gwri to wonder if they felt its warmth. Last, was a beautiful young woman, yet she frightened him most.

The others kept their distance, but she drifted close. While he now usually murmured his songs under breath, her presence found him in full voice. Yet she ignored that, until she hovered within an arm’s length. Gwri’s voice did not tremble as his terror fermented beneath his calm nor did he flinch in fear, as she lifted an arm. Yet she did not strike, instead her hand slowly rose to touch her own face. Confused, Gwri suddenly remembered his mirrored mask. He suspected that she looked not at him, instead she looked at herself. Again and again her vanity drew her to him until he hardly noticed her hovering form.

Over time, Gwri almost thought of these four as his companions, taking comfort in their presence. So while others who floated through were horrible to look upon, victims of vicious wounds or death’s rot, he welcomed the four.

Instead a new worry took hold. His food supply, once abundant, had shrunk nearly in half. Not having begun the return trip, Gwri cut his meals in half. Now he fought a battle of willpower with his appetite, grown immense during his time with Ann. Often he gave in, until time allowed him to conquer his cravings. Still, barely a third of his supplies were left when, one day, he realized the boat had stopped.

Pulling on his coat, mittens, and hat, Gwri took his weapons and a torch with him as climbed above deck. There he found the Sgá th against the shore, a blizzard obscuring most everything beyond the light. However, one area remained free of the storm. The path from Fin’s cabin had reappeared.

Unsure how far it would be before he reached his destination, Gwri decided to scout forward a short distance. Climbing down from the boat, onto the ice, he felt unsteady, for the sway that had grown natural did not exist upon the ice. Taking hold of the boat, he waited until the ice felt solid under his feet, then carefully he walked to shore and stepped onto the path. With the storm howling to either side, Gwri moved forward, almost immediately coming to a stop.

He had expected numerous ends to this journey. A temple to some unknown deity. A mythical beast to overcome. Yet a crater, its edges blackened against the snow, holding a grey rock, had never came to mind.

It pleased him in a way that little had, since leaving Mullinglas. In this happiness, Gwri knelt to lift the stone, but found it frozen in place. So with his dagger, he dug around the edges until it moved and he could lift it free of the earth’s grip. The size of a human’s head, Gwri found it heavier than expected. Confirmation that he held his prize came when he climbed aboard the boat and the Sgá th glided away from the island, traveling in a great arc before heading back in the direction from which he had come.

Gwri’s days varied little from those during his outward journey, though no more did his ghostly visitors appear, not even the regular four. All he could do was to wait for the trip to end and worry about his shrinking supplies. That grew to be all he thought about, as even his meals left him hungry. Constantly he found himself in the hold counting, stacking, sorting, and parceling provisions out for meals. Meals he held off from eating, for as long as possible.

By the time the Sgá th slid back into the light, Gwri’s clothes had grown baggy. By the time he reached the shore, his food long gone, he appeared a shadow of his former massive self.

To his dismay, Ann’s farm no longer appeared to exist. Only the trail.

Hungrily, Gwri hitched drooping pants with a length of rope, ensured his prize was tucked away inside his pack, and began his next journey. If his journey to the sea had seemed difficult, he learned how wrong he had been. Physically weak and unused to the solid ground, he shuffled along from the very beginning. Only the hope of reaching Fin’s allowed him to keep moving.

Thus, never had Gwri seen a more welcome sight than the plateau with its stable and hut. Where once he could not wait to escape, now his shuffle became a shambling jog as approached.

Fin, sitting at his table eating a meal, looked at him, frowned, and asked, “Who be you, barging into my home like this?”

Hardly noticing the man, his gaze focussed on the food, Gwri said, “Fin, I’ve got it. What’s the matter? It’s me, Gwri.”

“Gwri?” Fin asked, in a hushed tone.

Remembering, Gwri reached to take off his mask, but could not find its straps. With a sinking feeling, he gently touched a petite nose, then full lips. A gesture strikingly similar seen so many times, just out of his reach, by the female wraith.

igh above Fin’s cabin rose a cliff face, one that Gwri had climbed too during his aborted attempts to escape. Desperate thoughts had brought him to it once more. During that prior attempt at escape, one method he had not considered.

Now, looking out over the cliff, he knew it still was not an option. Even with so little control left of his life, Gwri knew there was too much and too many people he liked, to give up the chance to not experience them again, whenever, if ever, the Goban Saor’s capricious plan came to fruition. A plan which he suspected he now understood. One totally in keeping with the mythical smith’s reputation as a trickster, who solved problems in a manner unconsidered by anyone else. He felt the plan depended on the geis placed upon Brarn by his adoptive mother Morrigu.

Of particular interest was the final line, which could hold the key to the reaver’s defeat. Could Brarn only be killed by a man during the Season of Life, when he would surely shelter himself away from all except his queen of the year? And if only she would be with Brarn when he could be defeated, how could the Goban Saor set the killer beside the reaver? It seemed like a task that could only be performed by the greatest of craftsmen, to replace the loveliest of the yearly Bealtaine’s queens with the man who would do the killing?

The Goban Saor apparently thought himself that craftsman. Unfortunately for Gwri, he appeared to be the ingot that the smith attempted to mold. First his hair, now long and gold. Then his face, shaped to mimic that of a beautiful ghost. And there still remained four more verses.

Gwri looked upon the only escape left, then turned, and began the decent to the cabin. There he found a relieved Fin, who he ignored. Instead, Gwri finished his preparations to once more leave. However, before he left, Fin spoke.

“You’ll need to want to survive the fire, Gwri. For even the finest of smith will toss aside a bar with impurities.”

As he accepted the prison of the path, Gwri thought about the warning and wondered once more if Fin actually was the Goban Saor? If so, should he place more weight upon that warning? Likely not, the words held a truth no matter from whom they came. He knew he would try as hard as possible to succeed, even if the final destination appeared so bleak. He could do no less. Not if he wanted to save Con, Sloan, and Tanguy. Not if he wanted to offer the needed comfort to his grandmother, Keelin. Not if he wanted to be true to himself.

Therefore he could not, would not, intentionally sabotage this twisted journey which he traveled. If he survived to its end, he could decided upon his next step.