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 first of those tasks.

aking the morning after accepting his fate, Gwri found Mac Gabhann bustling about the hut. Watching with distrustful eyes, he saw Fin carrying his own pack to the table.

Gwri asked, “How do you sabotage me now, smith?”

“No sabotage. Since you act for my patron, I seek to assure your success. Look here, will these not serve you better than your own.”

Rising from his blankets, Gwri moved to the table where lay a sword, spear, shield, and helm. Even before he picked each up, he sensed they were of a quality better than those Einon had made for him in Mullinglas. His hand reached towards the shimmering sword, tempted, but he forced himself to jerk it away, to instead take a hunk of bread.

“Take them, Gwri, they’re yours.”

“What will you require in payment?”

“Only what you have already agreed to do.”

Gwri finished the bread before he studied each, confirming with touch what his eyes had already seen. Worthy of a lord. Sighing in acceptance, he took the tooled leather sword belt and wrapped it around his waist. Sliding the sword into its sheath, he settled the helm upon his head, strapped the shield and pack to his back, and lifted the spear.

“Is there any reason for me to delay?”

“No, I have prepared all you need.”

“You have no more advice other than the poem?”

“The poem and the knowledge that the path will take you where you need to go.”

With a nod of his head, but no good bye, Gwri left the hut. Ignoring the stables and the horses, Gwri set foot upon the path. Almost immediately he found a turn that had not existed during his attempts at escape and knew this time he would be free of its grasp. Momentarily, he wondered if he should ignore his promise, to again seek escape, but when he remembered his slumbering friends and the powers of Fintan Mac Gabhann, or more likely his patron, he decided to keep his word. No sooner had he decided this, then the trail came to an end. However, an end unlike the beginning he remembered, instead he looked out upon a vast, unknown forest. Fin proved correct, the trail’s magic of the trail, or more likely the Goban Saor’s magic, guided Gwri’s steps to where he needed to travel.

Unfairly he cursed his grandmother, for getting him into this predicament, but he cast aside all thoughts of blame. Rather he look over the endless forest, wondering where to find a comb of gold. Until, in the distance, he spotted a mound thrusting above the trees. In this direction he marched.

A journey that proved longer than initially expected. Nightfall barely found him the outskirts of the woods and anxious about being so. The trees grew larger than any he had ever seen and the animal spoor seemed of a size to match. Nervously he decided to forego a fire, instead he climbed a tree and tied himself upon a branch against its trunk. An uncomfortable night, but when awoken by the snuffling of a beast at the tree’s base, he felt grateful for the perch.

The next day found him moving carefully, particularly after he spotted a giant bear drinking from a stream. In fact, every beast he saw, from rabbit too deer was larger than normal, making him wonder if he had crossed into Tá­r na ná“g.

Not until the fifth morning did he approach his destination, though still Gwri did not grow careless. Thus he scrambled down, beside a tree, at the sound of loud buzzing. Laying there, he looked about, trying to identify the source of the sound. He saw a bee, almost the size of his shield floated amongst the trees.

Throughout the day, he ducked for cover whenever he heard that sound. Well he did, for later on, while crouched beside another tree, the buzzing grew louder. Fearfully he stayed in place, as the sound of snapping branches and hoof prints heralded a running deer, fleeing not from bear or wolf, but a swarm of the bees. Gwri was spared the sight of its demise, for it ran with great heart, until he heard the unmistakable sound of its death shriek.

The deer served enough to feed the insects, for no longer did he hear them as he moved toward his destination. Reaching it, late in the day, he crept to the forest’s edge to look at the mound, a tunnel bored into its side from which bees fluttered in and out. Apparently it served them as their hive.

In that moment, Gwri knew his prize would be found inside, guarded by hundreds, if not thousands, of the giant bees. Indeed he would have to be bold to steal the ore from inside. Better still, he needed to be smart.

Thus he spent the rest of the afternoon, hidden away, watching. In many ways the hive seemed no different from any other. Only their size was strange and the workers returning with bloodied hunks of meat. Unsure how to proceed, Gwri retreated into the woods, found a tree for sleep and returned, in the cool morning, before they stirred from their hive. While he watched, he hatched a plan in his mind.

Only after the sun sunk and the workers returned to their hive did Gwri enter the clearing. Quietly he made for the entrance, where he listened, but heard nothing. Satisfied, he scoured woods, gathered dry dead fall, and piled it near the entrance. Long into the night he worked, the light from the nearly full moon guiding his steps, still he did light it before retreating to his previous night’s camp.

At his post the next day, Gwri felt pleased to see the bees ignore his construction. Anxious though he was, Gwri again did not light the fire on that calm night, wanting the wind to blow towards the tunnel. Therefore, he added more timber to his pyre.

Sleeping late, he spent the next day scraping moss from trees. He also killed every bee he saw, his spear’s thrust proving deadly to the insects.

As the wind grew throughout the day, he anxiously waited for the evening, while trying to hold his boldness fast. Finally he decided to light the tinder. In a short order the dry wood took the flame, smoke billowing towards the hole in the side of the mound. Slowly he added more logs until the fire’s heat made it difficult to approach it. Lastly he threw the gathered moss on the fire, turning the smoke acrid.

It was time.

Gwri wrapped a soaked cloth around his face to cover nose and mouth. Thrusting a prepared torch into the fire, he held it in his left hand, thrusting above the shield strapped to that arm. With sword drawn, he entered the tunnel.

Despite his mask, the smoke almost overwhelmed, causing the flames of his torch to flicker strangely against the ceiling and walls. In that light he noticed pick marks, proving the tunnel had once been mined, hopefully a gold mine not emptied of all its wealth. Gwri continued forward, until the flames from his fire disappeared in the distance. Penetrating deep into the earth, he spotted the first guard, fluttering erratically towards him. Without thought, Gwri took three steps and slashed it in two.

Then he saw it, blocking him from going any deeper. From side to side, floor to ceiling, stood a wall of honey comb, solid except for a hole in the middle, through which came a distant angry buzz. Frustrated that he had found no vein of gold, he almost turned back.

Dismissing the cowardly thought, Gwri thrust his sword into its sheath and unhooked the pick-axe from his pack. Hefting it, to measure its weight, he slammed it forward into the wall, which caused a large chunk to break away, falling upon the floor. Again and again he struck, into the fragile yet thick wall or at the curious bees, which came through the hole.

It proved slow going, despite how the pick damaged the barrier. Light headed from the smoke and tiring work, he lowered his arm in rest. Unsuccessfully he brushed sleeve across his face in an attempt to remove the reddish tinged honey splattered across his face. Somewhat rested, he again swing the pick-axe against the wall. Soon, he swung it as often against bees as at the wall, he worried about failing before he finished a single verse of the poem.

That thought made Gwri think about the verse and his assumption he needed to find gold ore, melt it down, and pour it into the mold, which Fin had placed inside his pack. Now he wondered. Why would he not take any ore to Poolrua? How could he turn nuggets into molten ore in the middle of a forest?

Suddenly a new thought forced itself through the fog in his brain. Dropping his shield, he dragged the pack from his back and scrounged inside until he found a cup and the mold for the golden comb, to two blocks of wood wrapped together with cord and bored through on one end into which liquid could be poured. Killing another bee, to add to the pile heaping upon the ground, Gwri grasped a chunk of honey comb and squeezed so its contents dripped into his cup. Another piece met the same fate, then three more before the cup was full, ready to pour into the mold.

While he refilled the cup, he noticed he breathed easier and his eyes teared less.. Frantically Gwri worked to fill the mold before the angry bees shook off the hold of the smoke. Nervous looks towards the hole in the combs made him slow to react when the mold overflowed. Two more combs me their doom before he used the waxen mess to seal the liquid in. He placed the mold into his pack, which he shouldered into, before he picked up his shield and torch.

Almost immediately, another bug came through the hole. He thrust the torch forward, its fibrous hairs instantly starting afire. Watching it writhe in agony, he thrust once more, this time at the wall of honey comb. Multiple strikes caused the wall to burst into flame. The smell of singed eyebrows temporarily overpowered by the sweet smell of burning honey, as Gwri ran towards the entrance. Again smoke enveloped him, this time from the attacking flames that consumed the wall. Finally he reached the outside, gasped for air, then turned to look at the opening.

Waiting.

Nothing came. Nothing except the smoke.

Gwri crept into the forest’s edge to watch. He waited until the first rays of sunlight appeared above the trees. Even when the light of the sun drove away the shadows of the trees, long after the workers normally left their tunnel, none appeared. Not then, not when the sun rose to its apex.

Satisfied, Gwri left the clearing and began to walk. First to a nearby stream, where he failed to remove the sticky mess from himself and his gear. Then on towards the mountain.

Tired, he did not get far, before climbing into a tree to sleep. Yet he awoke early. Continued his trek.

As he walked, his worry about the predators was pushed aside by the worry he had made a mistake. Should he have returned to the caves, to seek once more for gold, instead of walking away with a mold full of honey? Should he have searched for nuggets from the forest’s streams, instead of bracing the bees? But when he reached Slieve Gullion and spotted the trail, he began to hope his idea proved correct.

Relieved that home, or at least a home, was near, his pace quickened. It lead him toward the plateau upon which Mac Gabhann’s hut stood. Inside, Gwri passed through the blanketed opening into a tunnel, which now seemed more welcoming after that in the mound.

The sound of the hammer upon anvil, drew him to Fin, in the cavern where slept his friends. Each laid upon newly cut reeds and covered in his own blanket.

“So I take it you found it?” Fin asked, turning from his task.

Not answering, Gwri dropped his sticky pack and reached inside for the mold. This he placed upon Fin’s anvil. Peering first at it, then at Gwri, Fin grinned. “Well done, lad, well done.”

While the smith examined the treasure, Gwri sought the metal trough against the wall and ducked his head beneath the warm water. Repeated dunks softened the honey caked spikes into which his hair had been shaped, allowing his scalp to shed the itch it had endured. Looking towards the smith, he saw the man throw the wooden mold into the bubbling pool. As it burst into flame, Gwri surged upright, his hair shedding a spray of water, and shouted in anger.

Fin ignored him. Instead he used long handled tongs to take something from the pool and drop it into a bucket of water. Waiting for the burst of steam to diminish, he reached inside.

Gwri saw Fin hold up a red tinged, honey coloured comb. The glow from the pool flickering through its transparent form.

“Is it what you needed?” Gwri asked.

“Close enough.”

“What’s it for?”

“Ehhh? I guess it’s to comb hair.”

“What! That’s all? After all I’ve been through?” Gwri said, outraged by the unfairness.

Somewhat abashed, Fin said, “It does seem underwhelming.”

“Bah, you may as well give it to me. Maybe it will help me get this honey out of my hair.”

Catching the thrown comb, he stared at it angrily, seeing little difference between it and any other comb, before drawing it through matted hair. Yet instead of catching, yanking at snags, it glided through unhindered. Grateful he finally felt clean, Gwri continued his long strokes.

“Oh, that’s what it does.” Fin said.

Gwri did not answer. Instead he looked, wide eyed, at the hunk of hair through which he had run the comb, so much thicker and longer than ever before.