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The Season of the Wolf	By : LadyOfTheSouthernIsles Category: G through L > Hellboy Views: 1434 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Hellboy or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter List
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Beyond the trees, a low-lying hill rose up from the flat expanse of snowy fields. Silver shafts of cloud-cut moonlight reached down to caress the stony, moss-covered ruins on the crest but were quickly chased away by the burnished flames of five or six large fires which blazed within the sheltering circle of the ancient fort. A sudden chorus of raucous laughter shattered the crystal stillness of the night, telling the world that Man had staked a claim to this place now. But from deep in the forest, under the watching eyes of the night, a piercing howl rang out as if to dispute that claim. The laughter faltered for a moment and then the discordant voices settled back into a dull drone…
"More wood on the fire, ye fool!" Garbhán didn't even bother to look at his son as he barked out the order.
"Aye, da," mumbled Treasach. He gently laid down his fretting bundle and struggled to his feet.
Garbhán sneered as the shambling youth made his way over to the bramble thicket, and the great pile of branches his men had gathered in the forest earlier. He was about to tell the idiot to get a move along when a distressed wail from the baby caught his attention, and he turned to glare at her instead. "Shut yer gob, ye elven brat!" His lips twisted in a snarl and he spat at the crying infant for good measure. But his burst of satisfaction was short-lived; when he lifted his head, he found his simpleton of a son staring at him. The flickering fire-cast shadows gave the fool's twisted features an even more grotesque appearance than usual, and the Toísech shuddered with loathing.
Treasach was torn; Dadaí had given him an order and fool though he was, he knew better than to disobey it. But the poor baby was frightened and hungry, and he didn't want to leave her on her own. Da's raised fist helped him make up his mind; he shuffled off towards the pile of branches with an anxious look on his crooked face.
"Why'd ye let him take it for anyway?" asked Mathúin. He belched and tore off another mouthful of meat from the goat's shank he'd managed to get his hands on.
"To stop the idiot from blubbering an' pissin' himself again!" chipped in Ruadh. "Ow!" A greasy chunk of bone caught him square in the forehead, putting an end to his helpful observations.
"An' you can shut yer mouth too!" snarled Garbhán as the other man rubbed his head. What Ruadh said was true enough, and that ate away at Garbhán's pride like nothing else could. Treasach… the son who had been born under an auspicious omen, and named accordingly. The one who'd had a great prophecy cast for him by the Druids – all the Heavens, and the Earth too, will bear witness to his valour and his name will not be forgotten, they'd said… He should have been the crowning glory in Garbhán's achievements. Instead, five summers after he'd been born, the boy had fallen under the hooves of his father's horse and Garbhán's high-flown hopes for the Clan na Dáirine had been trampled into the dust along with Treasach's body and mind. For the promise given to Treasach at birth had been a promise given to his clan too, and though there were others who would make good enough leaders when Garbhán passed from this world, none of them had had a great future scried for them like Treasach had. It was all gone now and to add insult to injury, Garbhán was stuck with a son who was worse than useless. 'Twould have been better had the mangled lump of flesh been left to die but oh no! A prophecy had been foretold and so the Druids and the Healers strove mightily to save him. They had succeeded too - in keeping him breathing, at least - and Treasach's prophecy had become a stone to weigh around Garbhán's neck these last nine years.
"Should have just killed it," muttered Berach, who was now the clan's tanist.
"Aye, and so I would have if they'd let me," replied Garbhán, his gaze fixed firmly on his son as the boy struggled back with an armload of wood.
Berach followed the line of his cousin's eyes. "I was talkin' about the elven brat," he murmured under his breath.
"What?" Garbhán's head whipped round and he glared at his man.
At that moment, the baby started crying in earnest and the men nearby stopped what they were doing to look at her. Her distressed sobs grated on already frayed nerves. "Shut the bloody thing up!" one of them yelled. Several of the others took up his call.
"Give it here! I'll show ye how it's done," shouted another, seizing up his pikestaff and waving it in the baby's direction.
Treasach paled and froze.
"Nay!" cried out someone else. "Let Mathúin do it! He got three of them on his spear today!" There was a low hum of admiration at the reminder of Mathúin's skilful feat.
"So I did," said the man himself. Spittle and goat's meat flew from his mouth. "Up the arse and out the head! Gotta be quick though! Get it done before they turn to stone otherwise there's no doing it at all." Mathúin's sagacity won him another murmur of approval from his comrades. He belched again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
The baby's crying grew even louder and more frantic.
"No one will be showin' anyone anything!" snapped Garbhán. "Treasach! You'll get something sharp up your arse if ye don't shut that little piece of shite up now!" His voice dropped as he turned back to Berach. "And don't you worry yourself none. It'll be joining its kinsfolk soon enough."
Berach merely snorted and took a swig of ale from the leather jug he'd been nursing on his knee.
Spurred on by his father's threat, Treasach moved again as quickly as he could. He reached the fire and dumped his armload of branches onto the flames before sitting back down beside the baby to attempt the all but hopeless task of getting her to settle. A good hiding seemed a foregone conclusion but just as he had resigned himself to the fact, a sudden gust of wind whooshed in across the top of the rise, causing the flames of the fires to career wildly. The livestock shifted restlessly and the tethered horses bridled and whinnied as it whistled past. Every human, to a man, jumped at the eerie groan that filled the air.
"By Taranis!" gasped Berach, choking on a mouthful of grog. "What was that?"
"'Tis a bean-sídhe, to be sure," replied Ruadh, thumping Berach vigorously on the back. He was glad of the opportunity to cover his own fright and his tone was not so much helpful as sly. "Or maybe a taibhse. You know, one of them elven bitches ye rode to death today. Come back for more 'cause ye left her wantin'."
There was a loud guffaw of laughter from the other men gathered around the fire but it was bravado for the most part. Though they had cause to celebrate, thanks to their successful raid on the elven village, the sun had set now and they were on edge. The nasty thought occurred to more than one man that it was the voices of the eldritch dead coming to them on the wind, and each was quick to grab hold of the chance to mask his own fear even if it was at his clansman's expense.
Berach came up fighting though. "Ah! Well! At least I had the sense to take me pizzle out before I killed them."
Another guffaw of laughter, real amusement this time. Most of those present had seen the look of sheer panic on Ruadh's face when one of the women he'd raped and killed that afternoon had started to turn to stone before he'd gotten clear of her, and those who hadn't actually seen it for themselves had soon heard all about it.
Ruadh scowled at the reminder.
Berach continued. "There was a time or two there I thought we'd have to cut off your pizzle – to save ye from the cold embrace of a stony elven snatch, ye know!"
More laughter. "Ha! Well put, Berach!" someone called out. "The bit about cuttin' off his pizzle, that is!"
"Aye, and his pizzle is only a little bit too!" said another man. "Maybe 'twas a taibhse come back for you, Ruadh!"
Ruadh sprang to his feet and took a threatening step towards his tormentors. "Why, I'll - "
"Enough!" shouted Garbhán over the noise. He knew his men and he knew that if he let them run on, it wouldn't be long before the talk returned to his own humiliation that day. Speaking of which… His eyes sought out Treasach; the fool was fussing over that damned elven brat! To Garbhán's annoyance, it had quietened down when the wind blew through and he no longer had any reason to give his idiot son a good belt. Not that he needed a reason; it was just that it was too cold for him to bother getting up without one. He drew his fur-lined cloak more closely around himself, his lip curling in disgust as he continued to stare at the hunched figure sitting apart from the others. As usual, it was more than he could bear and he swiftly turned his gaze to the hypnotic flames of the fire instead.
He had brought the fool on this raid to teach him a thing or two, make as much of a man of him as he could – maybe even see him killed, if he was really lucky - but so far it was looking set to be one of the worst ideas he'd ever had. Garbhán shook his head at his own folly. Why he'd ever thought the simpleton might be inspired to change his ways was beyond him. The boy had seen plenty that day to know how to be going on but when Garbhán had tossed him a bit of elven snatch, the idiot had done what he always did whenever he was faced with anything which upset him; he'd burst into tears and pissed himself, and then he'd stumbled off to hide in one of the villagers' huts, leaving Garbhán to see to the weeping, wailing bitch himself. Not that that had been any great hardship once he'd thumped her into submission. She'd been a tasty young piece. Or at least, Garbhán thought she'd been young; it was hard to tell with the Aes Sídhe. But that wasn't the point. No, the fool had embarrassed his father and to make matters worse, he had found that squalling little lump of elven shite inside the hut. He'd come shuffling back out quick enough when he realised the place was about to be put to the torch but he hadn't had the sense to leave the puling whelp behind. And then when Garbhán had tried to take it off him - to kill it – sure enough, the tears had threatened and the snow under the idiot's feet had started to turn a pale, dirty yellow. In the end, it had just been easier to let him have the damn thing.
"Will those beasts see us through to Imbolc, d' ye think?" Berach's question broke in on Garbhán's dark musings. Ruadh was sitting down again by now and the talk had turned to the spoils of the day, and the losses too. Several heads, Garbhán's included, turned to stare at the stolen elven livestock sheltering on the far side of the ruins, beyond the fires.
"They'll have to," replied the Toísech. "We've picked as much of the meat off the bones in these parts as we can for now and 'tis not the season to be ranging any further afield than this."
There was a murmur of agreement from the others. The summer just gone had been a very successful one for the reivers of the Clan na Dáirine and there were not too many human settlements between the Mountains of Arigneach to the west and the Seas of Lir to the east which hadn't been forced to give up something to them, be it weapons, livestock and grain, or women of breeding age. The clan had also added to its ranks of fighting men with some of those from the holdings they'd raided swearing allegiance to the Chief of the Name. In addition, a good number of itinerant travellers had recognised the benefits of joining up with a larger group and several strategic marriages had seen an increase in the fortunes of the tribe. The Gods had most assuredly smiled on the Clan na Dáirine that summer and the men were secure in their favour.
"There's still plenty of meat left on some bones in these parts," said Mathúin as he tore off another mouthful of goat's flesh.
"Aye, so there is," agreed Berach. "Plenty of meat left on elven bones."
He had barely gotten the words out when a second gust of wind blew in. As before, the horses and livestock moved restlessly and the flames of the fires in the ancient fortress flared in a mad, flickering dance. And once again, the noise of the humans stopped abruptly as the groaning wind swept across the rise.
Garbhán made an effort to carry on as if nothing had disturbed him. "I know," he said, in answer to Mathúin and Berach's comments. "But I don't want to push our luck - not just yet. I would rather we didn't attract the Elf King's attention for the moment."
Mathúin glanced uneasily towards the darkness before turning a skeptical eye on his Chieftain. "D' ye not think we'll be attractin' a bit of attention after today's doings then?"
"'Twas a risk worth taking," snapped Garbhán.
"Ah!" said the other man, as if that explained everything. He belched again and then proved that it didn't. "And how would that be then, Garbhán?"
The Chieftain gritted his teeth; for all Mathúin's skill with the pikestaff, there were times when he could be an even bigger fool than Treasach.
Berach saved Garbhán the trouble of answering. "'Tis the middle of bloody winter, man! You know there's no one abroad at this time of year and word is slow to get round, if it gets round at all. And besides, there's no one in the village left alive to carry any tales – well, at least none that can carry any tales." He eyed the tiny elven baby cradled in Treasach's arms.
"Don't ye fash yerself, Mathúin," counselled Ruadh, as if he were speaking to a child. "Eld Balor will be sittin' snug by his hearth right now and by the time he finds out about that village, we'll be sittin' snug by ours."
"And safe too, here's hoping," muttered Mathúin, with a dark look at Ruadh.
"Sitting safe and snug by a hearth never increased any clan's holdings," Garbhán pointed out tersely. "How many men did we lose today?" he asked, of no one in particular.
"Five," replied Berach, "and twice that number wounded - six of them badly."
"Will they live, d' ye think?" The Toísech looked over to the fire where the wounded were being tended to.
"One or two might… if they're lucky!"
"Then if they're still alive come morning, we'll take them with us," said Garbhán.
"And the others?" asked Berach even though he already knew the answer.
"No sense carrying dead weight – or nearly dead weight." Garbhán frowned as he did some quick calculations. "So that leaves just under four dozen fighting fit men in our party now and another four dozen back home, guarding our own village."
"It does," confirmed Berach.
Garbhán bent his head and thought about that for a few moments before coming to a decision; it was time to lay out his plans before his men. He looked up and spoke. "Today's raid was just a testing of the waters, so to speak."
All the men around him, except for Berach, looked puzzled.
"I've had it in mind for a while now to help me self to some of the meat on those elven bones," Garbhán explained.
That got him his men's full attention; they straightened up and leaned in closer.
"There were good pickings to be had today, for sure," Garbhán continued, "but the real point of it all was to find out what sort of a fight they'd put up… so that when we go in search of even better pickings, we'll know what to expect." He opened his mouth to say more but a fierce howl rent the night air and put a hitch in his breath instead. Every eye turned towards the forest but nothing stirred out in the moonlit trees.
"Is all well out there?" Garbhán called to the sentries around the fringes of the stony ruins.
"Aye!" came back several muffled replies from the other side of the great menhirs and fallen walls.
The men around the fires settled down again and after one more look at the forest, Garbhán continued outlining his plans to his closest kinsmen. "We'll go reiving to the south-west next summer - take what weapons, women and food we can get. But what I really want is more fighting men. We need to replace the ones we lost today and I want at least another couple of dozen before we even think about trying our luck with any of the larger elven villages. 'Twas numbers that decided the outcome today but even so, those villagers were harder to put down than I thought they would be."
That last caused a few grumbling comments and the talk quickly turned to elven fighting techniques.
"They're quick on their feet, to be sure," said Ruadh.
"Aye," agreed Mathúin. "Ye can't take yer eyes off them, not even for an instant."
"The Druids say the Aes Sídhe can disappear and travel many leagues distant in just the blink of an eye," piped up Ardghal, a young man of some sixteen summers who was on only his second outing with the reivers.
"'Tis what we mean by 'not even for an instant'," said Berach dryly. "Remember that, me buachaill. Best not blink around them or they'll confound you and cleave you in two before ye know it. And the Druids are right; the elven tuatha can disappear and be far, far away in the twinkling of an eye."
Ardghal flushed. "Then why did they not do that today? Disappear, I mean - to save themselves," he asked.
"The young ones," said Garbhán, his voice flat. "They will not leave their young behind, not even to save themselves."
"And they won't leave the sick or injured either," added Ruadh.
"Or run from a fight," chipped in Mathúin.
"I – I don't understand," said Ardghal hesitantly. "Why would they have to leave their young behind? Or the sick and injured?"
"Because magic is a craft that has to be learned and most of the young ones don't know enough to save their own hides," replied Garbhán. "They can't travel great distances in the blink of an eye - at least not on their own they can't. And if any elf is sick or badly wounded, then he'll lack the strength to summon his magic."
"The others can get them away safely but only if they're holding onto them," added Berach. "'Tis why we went for the children first today."
"Separate them from the others and none of the rest will be going anywhere without them," Garbhán finished for him.
Ardghal twisted round and stared at Treasach and the elven baby for some moments as he thought about what he'd just been told. He turned back to his kinsmen to ask how they knew what they did about the Aes Sídhe but the talk had moved on and so after another calculating look at Treasach and the baby, he got up and went to sit next to the Toísech's ungainly son. One of the other young men, sensing the opportunity for a bit of fun, joined him.
Their raised voices soon caught Garbhán's attention. He watched on disinterestedly as the tall, strong, well-formed youths started to wind up his weak, twisted fool of a son. Treasach was a source of great amusement to the younger members of the clan and a favourite game was to see who could be first to make the idiot piss himself. The youths – and young maidens too - could be quite ingenious in their efforts. Though Garbhán felt the humiliation keenly when they succeeded, as they invariably did, there was always the hope in the back of his mind that one day they would take things too far and his son would meet with a fatally unfortunate accident. But though they dared much, the young of the clan never actually crossed that particular line – thanks to the Druids and their damn prophecy, no doubt. With one final dismissive glance at the trio, Garbhán turned back to his other men.
"Young Ardghal gave a good accounting of himself today," Berach was saying.
Garbhán eyed his cousin suspiciously. Though Berach's words seemed casual enough, the tanist had a way of putting the knife in without being obvious about it. Ardghal had indeed given a good account of himself. He had made his first kill - one of the elven villagers, a young man like himself - and when he'd caught hold of an elf maiden, he'd known exactly what to do with her. The contrast with Garbhán's idiot son couldn't have been more marked - or humiliating – and the Toísech was fairly certain that that was the whole point of Berach's seemingly innocent comment. All he could do though was grunt in reply and change the subject as quickly as possible.
… …
Treasach looked down at the elven baby in his arms. He was glad she had stopped crying but he knew it was only a matter of time before she started again. She was hungry and cold, and he had no idea what to do. Though she'd been dressed warmly when he found her in the hut, it was night time now and they had been outside for hours. He held her close and tried to wrap his fur-lined cloak more tightly around her but it was only an old one of Da's and it barely kept him warm.
At the thought of his father, he glanced up furtively. Da was mad at him for taking the baby, amongst other things, but when he'd seen his clansmen about to set fire to the hut, he couldn't leave her in there to be burned alive. With her hair of gold and her pale, smooth skin, she reminded him of Órfhlaith, who had only been a baby when he'd met her. Órfhlaith had seen out two summers now and she was the best and only friend Treasach had. She didn't flinch from his twisted face and form, and she was happy to include him in her play. Her mother, Áine, was nice to him too, sometimes.
Da had gotten Áine and Órfhlaith the summer before last when the Clan na Dáirine had raided a small holding to the north. He had been struck by Áine's beauty and had taken her for his woman, after he'd killed her husband and brothers. In fact, Da had been so struck by Áine that for a while there he'd hadn't exercised his right as Toísech to lie with whatever woman in the clan caught his eye. And just because Áine had pleaded with him not to, he hadn't put Órfhlaith out in the snow when times had been hard last winter even though it had caused some grumblings amongst their kinsfolk on account of the other babies and young children they'd had to put out. That was the only time Treasach had ever seen Dadaí change his mind about anything just because of someone's tears. He was glad Da had changed his mind; he would never have known Órfhlaith for a friend otherwise.
And now here was someone else who might be a friend when she got a bit older, he thought as he watched the elven baby... so long as he got her back home and convinced Áine to wet nurse her. If he could do that, then she would be safe. But convincing Áine would be the hard part. She'd had a babe of her own only two moons ago – a son, and another friend for Treasach as well as a half-brother – and she was short on patience these days.
A shadow fell over Treasach, interrupting his thoughts and blocking out the heat of the fire. He looked up to see Ardghal and Cathair standing over him, and tensed as they nodded in greeting. His nervousness only increased when they motioned for him to make some room so they could sit down, one on either side of him. It rarely meant anything good whenever any of the young men or women of the clan sought him out.
"How are ye there, me buachaill?" asked Ardghal as he put his pikestaff down on the ground beside him. He gave the Chieftain's son a hearty slap on the back.
Treasach buckled under the force of the blow and shrivelled up inside. This time was obviously going to be no different. Not knowing what else to do, he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the elven babe cradled in his arms. At the last moment, he remembered to mumble a reply. He may as well not have bothered.
"What's that ye say, Treasach? Eh?" demanded Ardghal, his voice rising with his excitement. "You really should learn to speak up!"
"Aye!" said Cathair; it was his turn to slap Treasach on the back, and his lips curled in a cruel smile when the boy was knocked off balance once more. "Come on, Treasach. Speak up!"
The baby started to grizzle and fuss again.
"Here, give it to me, Treasach," said Cathair, reaching for the infant. "I'll quieten it down for you."
Treasach wasn't in the least bit fooled; he was well acquainted with the mean look in Cathair's eyes. He hunched over the baby to protect her, and turned away from the young man's grasping hands… only to run smack into Ardghal's.
The elven baby had worked herself free of Treasach's cloak by now and was waving her arms around, her little fists clenched in distress. Ardghal grabbed hold of one fluttering limb and pulled hard; he was determined to get her off Treasach. There was a sickening snap as something in her shoulder gave. She screamed in pain, and suddenly, the world erupted in chaos.
As Treasach's voice joined the baby's in a loud cry of anguish, a furious baying tore through the air, as if from the throats of a thousand wolves. A black cloud wrapped around the moon and the flames of the fires collapsed in on themselves, plunging the ancient fortress into darkness for several moments before they flared back up again. Men leapt to their feet, seizing up their weapons. They looked around frantically as they called out to each other and tried to get their bearings. The snarling howls became deafening and in the next instant, a mass of dark, powerful forms rushed through the gaps in the crumbling stones, coming at them from all sides.
"Wolves!" cried out a man as he swung his spear at one of the leaping beasts.
"Nay! War dogs!" shouted another as he did the same. But his aim was off. The hound brought him down and tore out his throat.
No one had the time to wonder where the war dogs had come from… or what else was out there in the darkness; they were too busy fighting for their lives.
The sentries appeared from behind the standing stones and came running into the circle, weapons drawn.
How in the name of Taranis had they escaped the dogs, thought Garbhán as he fought off one of the snarling, slavering creatures. His question was quickly answered. The guards ran straight past the hounds and attacked the other men instead.
"Elves!" spat Garbhán in disgust as they dropped their glamour and showed their true faces. "There's still more of us than you though, for all your elven tricks." he muttered. He lifted his sword and rushed back into the fray.
… …
The sudden howling of the dogs gave Treasach a fright and he abruptly stopped his crying. He heard a strangled grunt to his left and turned around to see Cathair sitting there with a shocked look on his face. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and he was looking down at his pikestaff, the gore-covered end of which was protruding from his chest. There was a loud 'thwack' as something struck him hard on the back of the head, caving in his skull. Bits of bloodied bone and brain matter flew everywhere and he pitched forward, dead.
Treasach was terrified as he looked up but all he could make out was a dark blur of movement and a flash of silver. A harsh gasp came from his right, and he spun round towards the sound. What he saw made him tremble.
A tall, fierce-looking elven warrior had wrenched Ardghal to his feet and now held him by the throat with one hand. In his other pale hand, he held a gleaming sword of silver. There was blood and viscous material on the pommel; it was obviously the weapon that had just smashed in Cathair's skull.
Treasach was frozen to the spot with fear; all he could do was stare. The elven warrior stood straight and proud, the lean, muscular lines of his body speaking of strength and power. . His pointed ears were just visible under the war braids adorning his long, white-blond hair, and he had strange markings on his face. Treasach hadn't seen any such markings on the elves in the village that day but then again, he hadn't really looked closely at them because he hadn't been able to stomach what was going on around him. Although he could barely stomach what was going on now, he looked closely at this one; he couldn't help it.
The warrior was dressed in the colours of the night: black leather and brown suede – pants, shirt, and surcoat – and hard leather armour covering his broad chest and shoulders. Thick leather boots shielded his knees and shins, and black leather vambraces protected his forearms. His pale skin and hair stood out starkly against his dark clothes, as did his flame-gold eyes and sharp, gleaming teeth. Treasach caught sight of another flash of colour - a glint of gold on the dark sash tied around the elf's waist – and he looked again. His heart sank as he recognised the leafy pattern of Aiglin, The Father Tree… the crest of the Royal House of Airgetlám, the House of the Elf King of Bethmoora. So much for 'Eld Balor' not finding out about their raid on the village until they were safely away.
Treasach's eyes were drawn unwillingly to his clansman. Ardghal was clawing desperately at his captor's hand but to no avail. The elven warrior shook him ferociously and put an end to his attempt to break free. He tried to speak next but with his windpipe being crushed, it was impossible to manage anything more than a rasping croak.
"What's that you say, buachaill?" The elf's eyes gleamed with a cold, hard light and his lip curled in a vicious sneer.
Ardghal made another strangled sound.
The elven warrior tilted his head and examined him for a moment, as if he were some sort of loathsome bug.
Treasach shivered with fear and squirmed uncomfortably; the pressure on his bladder was starting to mount. If the deadly look on the elf's face was anything to go by, this wasn't going to turn out well for anyone. But then the elven warrior surprised him; he dropped Ardghal and started to turn away.
Treasach thought for a split second that his clansman was going to be spared but in the next instant the elf spun back round, moving so quickly that Treasach didn't really see what followed. There was a flash of silver and in less time than it took to blink, Ardghal's head was lying at his feet. Unseeing eyes bulged with an awful look of frozen horror. The elf took a quick step back and the rest of the corpse slumped to the ground, landing with a dull thud.
"You really should learn to speak up," said the warrior with grim satisfaction. And then he turned his head and fixed his hard, flame-gold gaze on Treasach… and the distressed elven baby still cradled in the terrified boy's arms.
.

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References:
Garbhán: (Irish Gaelic) name meaning "rough one"
Treasach: (Irish Gaelic) name meaning "warlike" or "fighter".
Toísech: (Irish Gaelic-Old Irish) leader or chieftain.
Dadaí: (Irish Gaelic) Daddy (pronounced DAH-dee), "da" for short.
Mathúin: (Irish Gaelic) Modern Irish form of Mathghamhain, a name meaning "bear".
Ruadh: (Irish Gaelic) nickname meaning "red" (as in red hair).
Clan na Dáirine: (Irish Gaelic) Dáirine Clan. The Dáirine were the proto-historical rulers of Munster prior to the 7th century AD and may have been an especially violent tribe based on the cognate meaning of their name (Dari (o) - tumult, rage). Their ancestors are known as the Clanna Dedad in the Ulster Cycle, one of the four great cycles of Irish mythology.
Berach: (Irish Gaelic) name derived from the word biorach meaning "sharp".
Tanist: the next heir to a chieftaincy, elected by family heads in full assembly at the same time as the king or chieftain is elected. Eligibility for these roles was based on patrilineal relationships, meaning that the inheritance of the title passed through the male line. The tanist would become chieftain immediately if the current one died or became disqualified. See 'tanistry' – a custom in Ireland and Scotland whereby the kings or chiefs of clans were chosen, as described above. Once elected, the chieftain held office for life so long as he was in possession of all his faculties and without any major blemish of body or mind. This meant that there was more chance of the most able of men being chosen to lead their clans though it could cause strife within families and between clans when ambitions came into play. (Compare to the English system of primogeniture whereby the eldest son inherits regardless of ability.)
Taranis: the old Celtic God of thunder, worshiped principally in Gaul, Gallaecia, Britain and Ireland. Likely related to Tuireann, a figure from the Irish Mythological cycle. Taranis is sometimes identified incorrectly as one of a sacred triad along with Esus (God of vegetation/forests) and Teuttades (God of warriors/tribal protector).
Bean-sídhe: (Irish Gaelic) In Irish mythology, a female spirit - often considered an omen of death and a messenger from the Otherworld.
Taibhse (THIGHV-shah): (Irish Gaelic) ghost.
Aes Sídhe (ays sheeth-uh): (Irish Gaelic) the term for a magical race in Irish mythology - can be likened to elves.
Imbolc (i-molk): one of the four Gaelic festivals of the seasons, this one marks the beginning of spring. It is usually held 1st February, roughly half-way between the winter solstice and spring equinox. Originates from the Old Irish i mbolg, meaning "in the belly" (referring to the pregnancy of ewes.) The date is thought to have had significance in Ireland since Neolithic times (4000 – 2500 BC). For example, the inner chamber of the Mound of the Hostages (built 3000 – 2500 BC) on the Hill of Tara is aligned with the rising sun on this date.
Reivers: (Scottish) raiders, robbers.
Arigneach: (Irish Gaelic) Former name for Arigna, a village in County Roscommon, Ireland.
Lir: (Irish Gaelic) A sea god in Irish mythology. 'The Seas of Lir' is my name for the Irish and Celtic Seas.
Chief of the Name (or 'Captain of his Countrie' in older English usage): (Anglicised Gaelic term) the recognised head of a family or clan.
Ardghal (AHR-dahl): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning "high valour".
Buachaill (or bhuachaill): (Irish Gaelic) boy (pronounced VOOuh-chul).
Tuath (plural tuatha): (Irish Gaelic) Old Irish word meaning "people, tribe, nation".
Órfhlaith (OR-la): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning "golden princess".
Áine: (Irish Gaelic) name meaning "radiance".
Toísech's right to sleep with any woman in the clan: no historical basis whatsoever for this one, though it may well be true. Have loosely based my usage on the idea of droit du seigneur (French - "right of the lord"), a term synonymous with jus primae noctis or "right of the first night". Refers to a medieval/feudal European context and subsequent widespread popular belief about the alleged legal rights allowing a lord to spend a night and have sexual relations with a subordinate woman (for example, taking the virginity of his serfs' maiden daughters.) The idea gained currency after Voltaire accepted it as authentic in his Dictionnaire philosophique (1764).
For an anthropological perspective/discussion of infant exposure (Órfhlaith being put out in the snow), see Blaffer Hrdy, Sarah, Mother Nature: A History of Mothers, Infants, and Natural Selection, Pantheon Books, New York (1999).
Cathair (KA-heer): (Irish Gaelic) name meaning "battle man".
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The Season of the Wolf