To subvert your will to vengeance requires you to throw yourself to something with no understanding of mercy. So it will use you, take from you your very being, in the pursuit of its end. And if victory is achieved, then vengeance will toss you aside, unneeded and forgotten.

But first there needs to be something avenged.

ires heralded the end of the season of dark, welcoming the season of light. Fires lit by Con the Druid, using logs from the nine sacred trees carried by the nine chosen men of the farming village of Begagha. Fires between which the cattle had been driven to their summer pastures, and through which the people, old or young, weak or hale, had walked or been carried. Fires which provided spark to hearth and home. Brilliant fires of fortune. Brilliant fires of health. Brilliant fires of prosperity. The fires of Bealtaine.

As the flames leapt to chase away the dark, so too did the songs and dance of the merry making villagers. But as the flames sunk low, the villagers began to leave the hill top. First babes in arms and toddlers in hands of grandmothers, followed by older children shooed away by mother and father, then couples hand in hand in all directions, like the rays from the sun they would welcome in the morning.

With only embers left, few remained on the hill besides the old men and the drunkards, the first reminiscing quietly, the second snoring loudly. Only Con and his apprentice, Eoghann, paid attention to the two fires while they chanted the ancient chants.

Their duty kept them awake and aware, more deeply aware than at any other time of the year. Hence it was a feeling, as much as the first signs of the sun’s nimbus forming on the horizon, which told Con that Bealtaine Eve was ending. As had been the case for a number of years, he begrudged the loss of the night’s peace, knowing that daybreak would replace it with joyful mayhem.

Gesturing Eoghann to his side, Con said, “Eoghann, you will lead the festivities today, I'll take the coals from the sacred fires and spread them amongst the fields.”

“Master?” The apprentice asked, barely concealed excitement in his voice.

“It is a festival for the young and you are more than ready. While I, I would experience solitude a little longer.”

“Thank you, Master. I will not disappoint.”

“I know you won't, Eoghann. Now go, the people will soon begin to gather the boughs and flowers with which to decorate the village.”

“Yes, Master.”

As the young man hurried off, brimming with enthusiasm, Con took a moment before heaving himself first to knees and then to feet. Stretching, he chased away some of the age that had crept into his bones during the night. A hunk of bread and pitcher of small beer, left over from the previous night, served to break his fast, while watching the sun creep over the horizon, into the sky, to start to a new season.

The time was right, so he scooped coals from the left fire into one clay pot and coals from the right fire into another. Ensuring his actions had stirred the coals to expose red embers, which would provide the passing villagers with the sparks needed to relight the fires in their own homes, Con used a yoke to lift the pots to rest upon his shoulders. All morning, he walked amongst the fields, casting coals in all directions. It reminded him of his days when he had been the apprentice and for a time a spring came to Con’s step. But by the time he had blessed the last field, he felt the miles walked and the sleepless night. Deciding to delay return to his people, the druid took a drink from a nearby creek and lay upon it`s bank to rest.

When he awoke, Con saw the sun had traveled through much of its afternoon’s journey. Laying still for a moment longer, he listened to the growl of his belly compete with the songs of the birds. When the sounds of hunger won the contest, the druid decided his time for solitude was over. Struggling to his feet, Con again lifted the yoke, now with its empty pots, to his shoulders. Then putting one foot before the other, he began the trek home to Begagha.

Passing the pasture lands, into which Sloan and Tanguy, the grandsons of old Weylyn, had driven the village's cattle the night before, he looked for, but did not see either them or their charges. Reasoning that the cattle were at the stream, beyond the pasture’s hill, Con continued onwards.

However, the smell of smoke, made him question his reasoning. Unlike the clean smell of the Bealtaine fires, it seemed heavier, cloying, almost sickly. Con did not need to see its source to know what burned. Dropping the yoke and wishing good luck to the out-of-sight cow herders, he trotted forward, his legs protesting but willing to be so used, once more. Then his eyes confirmed what his nose had already told him.

Begagha burned.

He paused, not in cowardice, for the only invaders who remained were the ravens and crows flitting about the village, but in guilt. He knew that in shirking his duty, during the day`s rite of fortune, he had brought misfortune upon his people.

With heavy heart he plodded the final steps to the village and encountered the first victims. Kentigem the Headman and Weylyn the Wolf, both of whom had quit reaving to become farmers, yet died with sword, not plow, in hand. With them were all the other stout men of Begagha. Even Eoghann, staff in hand, had ended his days attempting to stem the raiders’ advance. Moving from hut to hut, Con found no signs of life, except for missing faces.

Unsurprised to see Cinnia, the day’s Queen, and her maidens missing, all lovely girls, he wondered why Berta, the wife of Kentigem, was taken. Last seen, heavy with child, seeking to ease birth by circling the Bealtaine fires, she had left the festivities along with the grandmothers guiding babes and toddlers. The raiders would have no reason to take her. He wondered if she had not been absent, for she would find the festivities wearisome. She may have sought peace, just as had he. If so, Con knew where to look. Often, when he searched for herbs and plants, he found her at a quiet glen not far from the village. Hope leant his footsteps speed as he headed in that direction.

“Con. Con!”

Spotting Nareene, Berta's maidservant, he hurried to her near the edge of the trees and asked, “Nareene, where is Berta?”

“Oh, Con, she needs you. We came here for the quiet, but when we heard the shouts from the village and it was all I could to stop the Lady from returning. But it was too late, the commotion caused the baby to come early.”

“And you left her alone?”

“Oh, no, her mother is with her. Keelin was waiting at the glen when we arrived.”

Usually the minstrel made Con nervous, but now he was glad she was near. “Lead me to them, Nareene.”

They were too late. When they arrived, they saw a cloaked figure laying upon the ground, which caused Con to bow his head and Nareene to let forth a keen of sorrow.

“Quiet, woman, before you bring down the crows of Brarn upon our heads. Here, take this to occupy your mind.”

Their eyes were drawn from the unmoving figure to the woman who stood above, clad in dun coloured leathers and holding the swaddled figure of a babe. Seeing this, Nareene rushed forward to take the baby from the older woman, cooing to comfort herself as much as it.

Her burden removed, Keelin gazed at Con and said, “I had not expected you to be still with us, Druid.”

“I should not be. But I shirked my duties, preferring the quiet of the fields, rather than the merriment of the village.”

“I did not accuse, Druid. In fact I am gladdened to see that you have escaped the noose of Brarn the Reaver and his crows.”

“Brarn?”

Keelin looked towards her harp bag, but did not move towards it. Still, a minstrel must tell a story as a minstrel will.

fter the first Battle of Mag Tured, Nuada, the King of Tuatha Dé Danann, was removed from his throne. Physical perfection, having been lost when the Fir Bolg champion, Sreng, had, with a mighty swing of his sword, sliced through Nuada’s shield and wrist. On his throne was placed Eochu Bres, son of á‰riu and the Fomorian, Prince Elatha.

A poor choice, for Bres identified with his father’s people, subjecting the battle diminished numbers of Dé Danann to tribute and slavery. However, his reign was short, for the leech Dian Cecht grew a silver hand for the maimed ex-king, which allowed Nuada of the Silver Hand to regain his throne. Deposed, Bres fled to the protection of the Formorians, whose thumb still rested upon their cousins and would until the coming of Lug, also of mixed birth.

Now Bres and Lug were not the only children to be born both of Fomorian and Dé Danann. Unlike them, most were not born into greatness, many were born into poverty and despair. Often the unwanted and unnamed get of foreman upon slave woman.

They were the lowest of the low, but when Lug called forth all Tuatha Dé Danann to join him in overthrowing their oppressors, few of the half-bloods did not heed the call. Arriving in Mag Aurfolaig, on Samhain, they found that the host still scorned them. But the leaders, who knew how much greater were the numbers of Fomorian over the numbers of Dé Danann, ignored that each was unblooded and ill-prepared, instead they welcomed the half-bloods. Clad only in rags for armour, Lug sent them to Goibniu the smith, Luchta the wright, and Crecht the artisan to each have made three spears to throw, one to thrust, and a shield to fend off those of others.

But upon reaching the three craftsmen, Goibniu asked, “Hast thou ever cast a spear?”

Each of the half-bloods answered, “No.”

And Luchta asked, “Hast thou ever thrust a spear?”

Again, each of half-bloods answered, “No.”

And Crecht asked, “Hast thou ever wielded a shield of protection?”

For a third time, each of half-bloods answered, “No.”

At this, all three craftsmen, in one voice, asked, “What weapons dost thou know?”

The half-bloods were chagrined, for their lives had been those of beasts of labor. Finally the eldest stepped forward, with half of his fellows, and said, “We have wielded axe to fell more trees than there are stars in the sky.”

Then the largest stepped forward, with the second half, and said, “We have wielded hammer against mountains, seizing gold and silver and copper from their greedy grasp.”

Hearing this, Goibniu went to his fires and forged the heads of great axes and monstrous hammers. During this time Luchta carved long shafts of sturdy yew. These they took to Crecht, who made the rivets and cleaved the makings of Goibniu to the makings of Luchta. And so the half-bloods were armed.

But arms did not make them ready for battle against the hauberked and helmed warriors of the Formorians. Though the half-bloods proved ferocious and fearless, not a single escaped being struck down in the first day of battle. More than half would never rise. The rest, no matter how fiercely wounded, were carried and dropped into Slane, the well into which Dian Cecht and his family sang their spells of healing, making each of the wounded whole and able to face their enemy on the next day.

So the mold was cast for each day of the Second Battle of Mag Tured ( http://web.ncf.ca/dc920/tured.html ). The numbers of the half-bloods shrunk, but those who were left grew quickly in skill. Deadly became the slash of axe and brutal became the swing of hammer.

In the end, after Lug had slain his grandfather and the Formorians were sent fleeing to the seas, only six were left. Three who wielded axe and three who bore hammer. Champions all, but with battle ended, none had a home to which they could return. The oldest, who had become their leader, sought a lord to welcome them into his hold. Again and again he was rebuffed, until he came before Morrigu, the new wife of the Dagda, who saw the anger lurking beneath the surface of her petitioner. It matched her own.

Thus she said to him. “Find me, you and yours, upon the shores to the East and I will offer you position and place.”

There they waited, until Morrigu found them, after having spread word of the mighty battle to every corner of Eire. When she did arrive, Morrigu appeared upon a black boat, with three oars to a side, and into whose prow was carved a raven’s head. Grounding the boat, she approached them in her terrible splendor, causing the six to settle upon knees before her.

At this Morrigu said, “I cannot take your oaths if I do not know your names.”

The leader answered, “We have no names. Neither our fathers nor mothers wanted us.”

Morrigu said, “I will be your mother and give you names.”

Hearing this, Morrigu’s sons said, “We accept, Mother.”
Brarn, as was his right, said for all. “What would you have of us, Mother?”

Morrigu's gaze swept across her sons, then settled upon Brarn. To him she said:

Brarn bowed his head in agreement. Gesturing towards his brothers, they took up their packs and axe or hammer, then as one they boarded Dá­oltas. Pushing away from land, they began to row, nobody except their mother, Morrigu, watching or caring where they went.

In April, last year, the May Day contest was announced and I struck upon an idea built around a Celtic saga, based around the attributes to which I see in those stories (mischief, vengeance, violence, journeys, betrayal, monsters). It quickly ballooned in size and into doubt, but it would not let go of my brain and struggled to write something else. Finally, I am in the home stretch and plan to post it over the next month.

Warning: It is more of a transformation (a slow transformation) story than a transgendered story.