The Tuatha Dé Danann are loath to put themselves in harm’s way when someone else can be harmed in their stead. With this in mind, in 537 AD, Ogma approached me on the far reaches of continental Saxon territory with a task he thought I’d find attractive. It wasn’t the first time he had asked for my services; he’d asked me to raid the Library at Alexandria once because he’d foreseen its destruction.
“Some bloody Pictish git has stolen Dagda’s cauldron and taken it into the western territory of the Britons,” he told me. He was referring to what would eventually become Wales; at this time the Britons there were just beginning to form their Welsh identity. “But he’s spread some sort of arcane fog across the area, preventing us from divining his precise location and from shifting directly there. We need someone who can go in there and take the cauldron back.”
“And I was your first choice?”
“No, we’ve sent some others in as well.”
I noticed the “we” but didn’t comment. “Other Druids?”
“Aye, there are few enough of you left, but there were a couple willing to go.”
“Sounds bereft of entertainment or profit to me,” I said.
“Did you not hear me, lad? We can’t see into the area and can’t shift there. Considering that you’ve been on the run a good while now, does that not hold some attraction to you?”
He was hoping I’d jump at any chance to escape the eyes and ears of Aenghus óg, the Irish god who wanted me dead, but I shrugged. “It sounds like I’m trading a god who wants to kill me for a mad Pict with a giant pair o’ balls and some magical talent. One’s not necessarily better than the other.”
Ogma laughed. “Fair enough. But you’ll be earnin’ my gratitude on top of it. The Dagda is me brother, you know.”
“I thought I earned your gratitude already for that favor I did you down in Egypt.”
“True. But this would be more gratitude.”
Unspoken was the certainty that my refusal would mean less gratitude.
“All right. Get me a good horse and a proper kit from Goibhniu so that I look like I deserve respect. Shift me as close as you can and point me in the right direction. I’ll make up the rest as I go.”
“Attaboy,” Ogma said and clapped me on the shoulder. “I’ll see you soon.”
It was a week before I saw him again, but he had the promised armor from Goibhniu and a fine horse for me to ride. There were also provisions for the both of us. I changed happily into my kit, feeling optimistic for the first time in months, and then we shifted through Tír na nóg to a spot near the old Roman road leading west from Gloucester. It was raining heavily.
“I’d forgotten the rain here,” I said. “And you didn’t remind me, did you?”
Ogma ignored my complaint and pointed west. “Go that way.”
“How far before Aenghus óg won’t be able to sense my magic or divine my location?”
“Not far at all. You’ll sense the change once you pass through it. My advice is to make friends with your horse before you do. I’ve heard they spook easily in there.”
“What can you tell me about the Pict?”
Ogma shrugged. “He’s mean and ugly.”
“Right. Onward then.”
Ogma wished me well and shifted back to Tír na nóg, leaving me alone in the rain.
The horse snorted and looked at me uncertainly. I approached him calmly and petted his neck, slowly introducing my consciousness to his, so that he would pick up on my emotions and vice versa. What I got in response was much more than that.
<Oh, good,> the horse said. <You’re one of them.>
I was startled to hear his voice in my head. One of who?
<One of the humans who can hear me.>
Where did you learn language?
<Goibhniu taught me.>
It appeared that Ogma had taken my request quite literally; he’d not only gotten a kit from Goibhniu, but the smith god’s personal horse. And it was because of this experience that I began to teach my animal companions language from that time forward.
I am called Gawain, I said. Do you have a name?
<Apple Jack. Quite fond of apples, you know. I don’t suppose you have any?>
I checked the provisions and found a significant store of apples in one of the saddle bags. I removed one and offered it to Apple Jack.
<Thanks,> he said, taking it from my fingers with his lips and then crunching down. <I think we’ll get along just fine. Just one more thing. When I smell things that scare me, you have to either kill them or let me run away. Because you heard that guy who brought me here. Since I’m a horse, I spook easily. Deal?>
Well, it depends on what scares you. I can’t commit to a blanket statement like that. What if you get scared by the scent of an attractive woman?
<I have been reliably informed that there are no attractive women outside of Ireland. If you see one here, then it must be a witch and you should either kill it or run away.>
Goibhniu has trained you very well.
<He had a lot of apples to secure my attention.>
I’ll bet he did. I threw my leg over Apple Jack, gathered the reins, and gave him a friendly slap or two on the neck. Let us sally forth, my good horse! Follow the road west. To danger and glory!
<Are those villages?>
Danger and glory? No. I was being dramatic.
<Please stop. That could get us in trouble.>