Eileann thinks about Angusel in RAGING SEA Ch4/Sc 1A #Arthurverse #amwriting #MFRWAuthor

Pictish stone graphic overlay
(c) by Kim HeadleeOne of the side benefits of the linguistic work I performed for the second edition of Dawnflight , which carried forward into its sequel Morning's Journey and now Raging Sea, was the expansion of the mythology that I had begun developing for the Caledonach people, or "Picts," as their neighbors the Celts call them.

Nowhere was this more evident than when I began examining the meaning of the ancient harvest festival known today by its most common name of Samhain--or Samhainn as it is called in Scottish Gaelic and in The Dragon's Dove Chronicles. I discovered that the Scottish Gaelic words samhradh (“summer”) and samhladh (“ghost” or “replica”) are linguistically similar to samhainn ("hallowtide"). In keeping with the fairly widespread cultural association of heat with a place of eternal punishment, I created a mythological linkage between "summer," "ghost," and "hallowtide" for the Caledonaich, which begins in this excerpt and concludes next week.

Many folk traditions contain several layers of meaning, and in this excerpt Eileann begins to explore some of the beliefs associated with her people's celebration of Samhainn while contemplating the young man who is destined to capture her heart.

Previous excerpts of Raging Sea  Chapter 1: Scene 1 | Scene 2 | Scene 3 | Scene 4 | Scene 5 |Chapter 2: Scene 1-A | Scene 1-B | Scene 2 |Chapter 3: Scene 1-A | Scene 1-B | Scene 2 | Scene 3-A | Scene 3-B |
Raging Sea Chapter 4, Scene 1-A©2015 by Kim HeadleeAll rights reserved.

EILEANN nic Dynann watched from her seat on the feast hall’s dais as servants delivered more brimming pitchers of heather beer and platters heaped with Samhainn cakes to the lower tables. Each fist-size cake was filled with apple mush, and their appearance on this, the final night of Samhainn, heralded everyone’s favorite rite of the year: the Dance of the Summer Wraiths.

Symbolic of the eternal struggle between the Army of the Blest and the cruel Samhraidhean, this dance was a young warrior’s first opportunity to earn the privilege of joining the Army of the Blest in the Otherworld, should it befall him—or her—to die before experiencing combat on this side of the veil. The unblooded dead were consigned to the ranks of the Samhraidhean, doomed to suffer the ravages of blazing eternal summer without hope of ever receiving the succor of autumn’s bounty, winter’s rest, or spring’s rebirth.

Clan outcasts shared that fate, blooded or not.

Unbidden surged the memory of Angusel trudging from the field hospital’s Caledonach ward, and unbidden sprang Eileann’s tears.

She blotted them with a fingertip on the pretense of scratching an itch.

“An itchy eye means you’ve seen your future mate.” Her mother, Chieftainess Dynann, grinned at her. “Coileach, or perhaps Iomar?”

A fortnight earlier, Eileann had bidden farewell to those men, Coileach mac Airde of Clan Alban and Iomar mac Morra of Clan Rioghail, the latest in a suitor parade that had begun at Belteine. All the visits had gone as well as could be expected under the circumstances—a feast of awkward with a heaping side dish of embarrassment—leaving Eileann no closer to choosing a consort than swimming to the Isle of Maun by way of the ice-shrouded Orkneys.

“We”—Dynann nodded toward her consort and Eileann’s father, Chieftain Rionnach—“favor Chieftain Ogryvan’s cousin Iomar. Ogryvan’s daughter had the wisdom to marry an army.”

Forcing a smile to keep from displaying her discomfiture to everyone in the feast hall, Eileann whispered, “Mother!”

Dynann shrugged and returned to the morsels of roasted venison and carrots on her platter. She speared one of each with the tip of her meat knife, popped them into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “I cannot see why Clan Tarsuinn shouldn’t benefit from Argyll’s closer alliance with the Pendragon.”

“The way I understand it,” Eileann said, “the Pendragon promised to aid all the clans as the need arises. Did he not?”

Rionnach, seated on the other side of Dynann, gave Eileann a long appraisal. She resisted the urge to squirm. “Aye, lass, that he did. But tell me who will be first in line for that aid.” Eileann opened her mouth to answer, but her father was faster. “His kin-by-law, that’s who. Stands to reason. No man in his position would do one whit differently.”

Eileann thought about quipping that Arthur the Pendragon did seem to be a different sort of man, based on the tales Tavyn already had shared with her since returning home for the winter, but she refrained. Sometimes there just was no arguing with her parents.

Most times, in fact.

“You cannot postpone your choice forever, daughter,” Dynann said. “Our Ab Fhorchu ferry business shrinks by the day because of the thrice-cursed Angalaranach hold upon Dùn Éideann. Next year they will be menacing other launch points along the south bank, sure as we’re sitting here. Having extra incentive for the Pendragon to help us would be a tremendous boon to the clan.”

“I know, Mother.” First Eileann had to figure out how to stop thinking about someone who could never become her consort. Sighing, she chafed her falcon tattoo and closed her eyes.

“Patience, Dyn,” she heard her father whisper. “Nothing good ever comes of a rush to judgment.”

“Nothing good ever comes from doing nothing,” Dynann murmured.

Eileann couldn’t bear to admit they were both right. Eyes still closed, she sighed again.


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