[NSW-Fic] The Leeanan

[machievelli]

A brief bit of history on this story.

 

I spent 11 years working at the Renaissance Fare here in California, five of those years telling stories on stage, and passing the hat afterward. What surprised me was how man people came back more than once, and all say the same thing;

 

Don’t give us an old story from somewhere else. Do you have one of your own to tell?

 

Oddly enough as any storyteller will tell you, they spring up and demand to be told, and She that gave me the gift set only one rule. I must tell for free until one asks to buy it. And so I do.

 

But one day, a young boy told me at faire that he wanted to be a storyteller just like me. So I took him off to a corner, and this is what I told him.

 

The Leeanan

 

Among the races of man none it is said, none drink as much as we Irish do. If ye ask them, an Irishman spends his day in back breaking toil only so that he can spend the dark drinking. But if you ask a Celt who drinks the most they would point at one like me. Not publican or farmer or any other worker of the world. Not soldier or King.

 

But at the storyteller.

 

We are the most loved among our people. For we take the drab and dull world around you, paint it in the colors for spring or summer. We make it new to your eyes so you look at everything in a sense of wonder.

 

We are the most hated among some. For we take the drab and dull world around you, paint it in the colors for autumn. We make it clear to your eyes so you look at everything in a cold light and those that lie to you are revealed.

 

We are the most feared among our people. For we take the drab and dull world around you, paint it in the colors of winter instead. And grown men go to their beds shivering, praying to all the gods that what we describe willna come and say hallo in the depths of night.

 

I was in an inn, bound for Tara. The story I had told that night had been of the middle variety. When the baron found what I said, he would not be happy. But I was safe, for no man dares raise had to the bard. The gods dinna like it when ye harm Seanchai.

 

The publican knew what might happen, which is why he earned their blessing by pressing a flask of uisce beatha into my hand and waved away my coin.

 

Water of life it is called. Whiskey to the English. It is said that the Gods gave the Irish uisce beatha so they would not rule the world.

 

This is a base slander.

 

As I turned, I spied a lad in the corner. I had seen him a village away two days before. Yet he was here now. He fit for he was but a fine Irish lad, but he did not. For I never see the same faces in that manner. If he were here, he would have been following me.

 

I thanked the publican, stepped out into the mist, walked to the edge of the building and quickly around the corner. I crouched; an then came up like a pike after a fly, slamming the boy into the wall. My dagger was before his eyes. The gods dinna like it when ye harm a bard. But men can be bloody stupid when they put their minds to it.

 

“Well, will ye try to kill me?” I waved the blade, his eyes following it as if it were an adder. “Make up your mind lad. I grow older as we speak.”

 

“Please.” It came as a soft whisper. “Only you...”

 

I sighed. Oh, he was one a those. I caught him by the scruff of the neck, and we went back in. The publican looked up as I slapped the coin down. “Another. This lad will need it.”

 

He started to simply give it as a gift, but I waved it off. “This is for him and the gods alone. I canna accept what he might hae to pay for.”

 

It is said that the Gods gave the Irish uisce beatha so they would not feel the pain of the world.

 

This has some truth, but not all of it.

 

I took him to the stable, pushed him to the straw, and handed him the bottle. “Drink.”

 

“But I-“

 

“Ye made your offer, now you quail at the price. If ye wanna be free, ye need a touch of the creature. If you fulfill the oath you will learn to love it or die.”

 

He stared at me, sipping, choking at the neat spirit. I took me own bottle and set it to the side. While it was mine, I could not help him if I touched it. “Now, speak. Tell at least one tale to break free.”

 

He had a halting manner. The kind of lad that would go to the harvest dance and a colleen would have to drag him into the measure of the dance. The kind that would lose his virtue and marry the girl because he sees no other way in our world.

 

“I watched a storyteller that came to our farm a few months ago.” He said. “The words were like fire, burning with truth and beauty. And I wished to be one like him.” He looked at me, in yearning. Aye yes, I knew the type; had been the type once upon a winter morn. I signaled. As much as it pained me, I could not help. It was his oath, and he had to live up to it.

 

“So I asked for the gift. And it came.”

 

“For ye said it aloud didn’t ye?” I asked. “Ye said it where all the things in the world might hear it.”

 

“Yes.” His voice was so soft that any other man might have strained to hear.

 

“The first night she came. A being of pale flesh and hair as red as fire. With eyes of fire and a kiss that would stir the dead.”

 

I could see why she gave it too. He had the way with a word that appealed. But I sat mute. He looked at me as if begging for me to fill in this tale, but I merely looked at him.

 

“She kissed me upon the cheek, whispered into my ear that I would be granted the gift if I swore to use it. And the next day, I awoke.” He gave me that same look I knew had been in my eyes that first morn. “And there like a clean newly polished blade, I had a story to tell.”

 

“But ye didn’t tell it, did ye?”

 

“No.” He looked at me again. “I thought it was a clean new sword, but what if my da had called it base metal? What if it was meant to cause man to cry and instead the laughed and made mock of me!” I shoved the bottle back into his hands, and at my unspoken command he drank. This went down easier.

 

“So I would not tell it, and the next morning there was another, and it was as beautiful and I feared scorn as much, and then another and another-“

 

I stopped him pushing the bottle back. When he lowered it he had put almost half of the pint inside him by then, and uisce beatha will feed the gift at need as he might have learned in time.

 

He steadied down. “Then she came. She was angry. She became a demon from the pit of all the hells, and drove me from dream to dream. Every day there was another tale and since I was sore afraid and wouldna tell she would scourge me through the night.

 

"There are none like ye in my village except for those that pass by. So when I saw you, I followed, I only hoped that you would help.”

 

I looked at him for a long moment. Eight ounces of whiskey would calm a raging stallion.

 

It is said that the Gods gave the Irish uisce beatha so that the bard may know the stories to tell.

 

This has some truth, but again not all of it.

 

“Lad ye have a choice. Ye see, she gives the gift because you are worthy of it, whether you believe it or not. If ye do not use it, she sees it a spurning her gift, and as much as we speak of the woman scorned, one o her kind that has been spurned makes every woman born seem like a kitten.

 

“Ye must tell or she will drive. You must tell or she will hunt. Ye must tell or she will drive you to madness and death, then through every hell for betraying her trust.

 

"Now my question is this. Will you live up to your oath? Or will ye give it up” For is ye say aye, it is your life ye give her, and if ye say no, it is the gift you will deny never to return.”

 

He looked at me in that stage of almost drunkenness when everything is so clear. Tis said that if you drink exactly the right amount every day you will live forever. Considering my life, I dinna think it a bargain I would accept.

 

“I want to sleep. To be free.”

 

I shoved the bottle back at him, and like a babe at his mother’s breast he finished the bottle. I waited until he fell into a stupor, then into sleep. I lit me pipe and had a smoke. It would happen soon enou.

 

It is said that the Gods gave the Irish uisce beatha to drive men mad.

 

This is no truth to this.

 

I was upon my second pipe of the long evening when he stirred. I heard him moan, hands raised as if to hold something away.

 

“Lady, a minute of your time please.” I said softly.

 

A figure rose, going from a mere outline to the full figure of the Leeanan in a breath.

 

“I know you.” She said.”

 

“That you do.” I replied. “I thanked you when I was barely the age of that lad who sleeps.”

 

“Sleeps and throws the good gold of my kind to the ground.” She gritted out. “Stands mute a day with the words I gifted him unsaid.” She grew in height, red hair flying as if a great wind blew, and she stomped her foot like a petulant child. When she is in ire she would be called vampire in the eastern lands of the continent. “Takes the gifts of the gods and spurns them! He knew the price, yet still he does nothing!”

 

“Oh he did something.” I said mildly. I wasna afraid. I had seen her in worse moods than this. “He asked me for help.”

 

She looked at me, her hair settling back, her face looking curiously smaller for it is we that are her meat and drink. When it is blood she drinks, it is the Seanchai that gives it if we betray her trust; yet every minute of our lives she feeds upon our words, for they make the world different, and the very thought of those who hear feed her. And she makes us less than the man we were until finally we disappear, and only our words remain “I give him the words, for he has the gift.” She asked plaintively. “Does he hate me that much?”

 

“Tis not hate, tis fear and not even of you.” I said softly. "His da is a harsh taskmaster. He fears that man’s scorn more than all ye can do to him.” I knocked out the pipe, and began to fill it.

 

“Leave him go, my lady. Take his gift so he will not be foolish enough to ask again as you must. But he canna stand where I am, where I have been so long.”

 

She sighed, kneeling over him. Her hand brushed his hair, and she sighed again. “And one day he could have been as grand as you are now.”

 

“Not if he is not free to do it.”

 

She nodded, and then gave him a deep kiss of lips and tongue. Then she stood away from him. She put her arms around my neck, and gave me a kiss as deep. She smelled of new mown hay, of spring flowers, of crisp apples. “You will not forget me?”

 

“My lady I gave my oath. I could not forget you if I wanted to.” I kissed her in return. “Now I must deal with him.” She stood in my arms, looking into my eyes as she faded from sight, leaving me with an arm full of air.

 

I picked him up, carrying him inside, and the publican showed me a room for him. He dinna ask what had occurred. After all there is the business o the world and the business of the Seanchai.

 

I walked from the inn, bound for the border. I saw a flicker of motion, and the salamander that liked to sleep in my pipe opened ruby eyes, leaning up on the bowl to look ahead. There was music, and I knew there would be dancing if I was of a mind. A pack of leprechauns passed me, waving a cheery hello, faerie and sprites dancing above on the wind. One stopped to kiss my cheek afore going on.

 

Above me I heard the thunder of a dragon flying over, his eye watching me. I walked until I was tired, then I found a small circle, asked them that lived there if I could rest, then took out my bottle.

 

No dainty sips for one like me. The golden elixir slid down my throat and soothed me. The dryad in the tree leaned forward, giving me a gentle kiss, and I snuggled into her arms, content.

 

It is said that the Gods gave the Irish uisce beatha so that the Seanchai may sleep.

 

This is the sum of the truth.

 

Seanchai: Storyteller, bard in Celtic

uisce beatha: Water of life in Celtic

[JasraLantill]

Good tale! Brings back nice memories of past Ren Faires... *sigh* (They don't have Ren Faires in the UK. Suppose that's because they've got the real castles and stuff over here. )

 

But I'm surprised that no one has commented on this one before now. It deserves at least one kudo.

 

And, btw, how old would the boy be now? Could he possibly be a storyteller himself by now?

[Bee Hoon]

Very nice! I must admit that I don't know the meanings of some words, but never mind. It was a lovely story! There's a few minor typos, but no biggie.

[machievelli]

Very nice! I must admit that I don't know the meanings of some words, but never mind. It was a lovely story! There's a few minor typos, but no biggie.

 

If there is a specific gaelic word you need a translation of, just PM me.

[Empress Padme]

Your even great at non-Star Wars writing.* looks into being called Machievelli Groupie*

[machievelli]

This evening my daughter read this, so I am bumping it.