“Well, you’re not cut,” Siobhan said. “So there’s that.”

A pot of water warmed over the hearth. Siobhan pulled a patch of linen out of it with a hook and transferred it to a bowl of vinegar on the table. Finn had taken Mrs. MacSweeney’s seat at the end of the table and spun it backwards to let Siobhan dress his back.

“I’m not bleeding?” Finn asked. “That is a relief.”

“You are bleeding. A little.”

She added some salt to the bowl.

“You already have a fierce bruise and it will cover your upper back in a few days. Your skin’s broken in the center of the bruise; that’s probably what you felt.”

Finn’s leine shirt soaked behind him in a bucket. The ionar vest that masked any trace of the bleeding was clutched between his chest and the chair back. His cheeks were pink.

“I’ve never seen a wound like this before,” she said.

“Do you see a lot of whip strikes?” Donal asked.

“Whisht, you. Finn, are you sure it was a whip and not a club?”

“I had a real close look,” Finn said. “It was a whip, long and made of bone. Its handle was that hard, too.” He rubbed the back of his head.

“Bone could do this, I suppose,” Siobhan said. “I won’t lie to ya. This will sting.”

She pulled the linen from the bowl, folded it and dabbed the center of the bruise. Finn inhaled and exhaled through gritted teeth.

“A couple of days of this, that’s all,” the widow said. “We’ve got enough linen—”

Donal’s chair fell backwards to the floor as he sprang to his feet. The eyes of everyone in the room rose from it to his face.

“‘That’s all?’”

Donal had seized the floor without a plan. He had only this brief moment of surprise to devise one and it wasn’t long enough. Mrs. MacSweeney’s polite grin dropped and showed Donal the face of someone unaccustomed to interruption.

G’wan, Donal, he told himself. They’re not going to stop and listen to you again if you don’t.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. MacSweeney. I mean no disrespect. But my brother should be dead.”

He put a reassuring hand on Finn’s shoulder to maintain his momentum.

“You call the headless thing a ‘dullahan’ like he’s an oul’ fella selling vegetables at the fair. You three know things we don’t and it’s time you stop talking around it and tell us straight. What is happening?”

Mrs. MacSweeney and Siobhan looked at Murrough. The old man stared at Donal, likely measuring his next words with care.

“It’s not just those three,” Finn said.

“What?”

“I know what a dullahan is. I have no idea why it’s up and about in the world, but I’ve read about them before.”

“Grand,” Donal said. “What’s it doing here, Murrough?”

Murrough sighed and patted his knees with his hands.

“We’re going to have to go back a long, long way,” he said. “Lest you interrupt every explanation by asking for more explanations. Are we clear?”

Donal reached back and tipped his chair upright.

“Get on with it.”

“Finn,” Murrough said. “Tell us about the six waves of invasions.”

Donal shifted in his seat. Finn wrinkled his nose at the unexpected request.

“What does the Lebor Gabála have to do with this?” Finn asked.

“I did say I was going back a long way,” Murrough said. “The basics, if you please.”

“First, there was Cesair,” Finn said. “Granddaughter of Noah. She wasn’t allowed on the Ark, so she led dozens of people in three ships as far west as they could go, which was here.”

Finn’s retelling was fitful with stops and starts. Donal never asked him about his studies and it was clear Finn gave them little thought over the past three years.

“The story says they were mostly women and three men: her father, Bith; her future husband, Fintán; and a third. They were meant to repopulate the world. After two of the men died, Fintán wilted from the task and turned himself into a salmon. Cesair died of heartbreak and the rest drowned in a flood, save for a woman named Banba. Right?”

“Very good,” said Murrough. “How about the Partholónians?”

“They landed right here in Tyrconnell, traveling from Greece. It says they cleared four plains and burst seven lakes from the ground. They were the first to fight the Fomori. They lived here more than 500 years, then all 9,000 of them—again, save for one person—died in a plague within one week.”

“Let me guess: he turned himself into a fish?” Donal said.

“He did not,” Finn said. “The man was a bogger and went feral for a few decades. He watched from a cave as the next wave of people arrived.”

“Good. That’d be too much of a coincidence if he did.”

“He did turn into a stag later,” Murrough said. “But it’s unclear if he did that by himself.”

“Sorry I asked.”

Finn settled into his rhythm.

“Nemed and his people came next. They left Scythia in 44 ships; only one made here. They cleared more plains, burst more lakes. They defeated the Fomori in three major battles but lost the fourth. After that battle they were forced to pay an embarrassing tribute once a year. Eventually they revolted and razed the raiders’ tower on Tory Island, slaying the Fomori champion. The Nemedians paid dearly, though. What few survived that battle scattered in many directions.”

“Would you please take over?” he asked Murrough.

“Soon, but not yet,” Murrough said, a broad smile across his face. “You’re doing fine.”

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“Well, some of the Nemedians that fled made it all the way to Greece, of all places,” Finn continued. “There they were treated poorly and made to carry dirt in bags for more than two hundred years. One story says they turned those bags into boats and returned. Their rule was not long. These Men of Bags ruled for only a few decades before they were defeated.”

“‘Men of Bags?’” Donal asked.

“‘Fir Bolg,’ to be precise. They were defeated by the Tuatha Dé Danann, most well known of the invaders,” Finn said, glancing at Murrough. “I’ve read a few tellings. The Tuatha Dé is considered to be a wide array of gods in all of them. Not terribly dissimilar to the one worshiped by the Norsemen down in Dublin.”

Murrough interrupted Finn with a raised hand.

“The difference,” he said, “is that we know the tales of our ‘gods,’ for the lack of a better term, have some truth behind them.”

Donal looked from the widow to Siobhan. Neither woman showed any signs of incredulity at Murrough’s statement. Finn, however, looked at his uncle as if an arm had sprouted from his ear.

“G’way with that, uncle.” Donal said. “I’m never going to get a straight answer if you keep that up.”

“It’s the truth. Well, mostly.”

“Are you going to sit there and tell us that the Lebor Gabála is real?” Finn asked.

“Mistakes and exaggerations grew as the tales were told down through our generations. Then the monks took them and tried to line them up with the Bible’s timeline. That’s why we have different tellings of the same events. The Book of Invasions and our other folk tales aren’t true as they’ve been written. But there is more truth behind them than most believe.”

Finn turned his head sideways, away from Murrough, as his uncle continued.

“The Tuatha Dé traveled from the north shrouded in smoke,” Murrough said. They defeated the Fir Bolg down near Sligo town.”

“So they’re Norseman,” says Donal. “Fierce, sure, but nothing godlike to ‘em.”

“I didn’t say that,” said Murrough. “Some know them today as fairy folk, or the ‘Aos Sí.’ They came here from the north. However, the place from which they left is another land entirely, one of the Otherworlds.”

“Otherworlds, as in more than one?” Finn asked. “Are you talking about ‘Tír na nÓg?’”

“What’s a Tír Nóg?” Donal asked.

“It’s the Otherworld,” Finn said. “As believed by the old druids.”

“The Tuatha Dé came from Tír na nÓg,” Murrough said. “But there are others. Some are easier to access, some lands such as Tír na nÓg can only be reached in specific places. There are islands south of Iceland, named after our people, and the Tuatha Dé crossed into our world there.”

Finn looked unimpressed. “The Dagda, The Morrigan, Cú Chulainn—”

“—their ancestors, their magic, their enemies,” said Murrough. “All real.”

“Suppose I believe you,” Finn said. “What bearing does all this have on what happened tonight?”

“As I said, there are details that have been lost or exaggerated over time. We know about many famous children and grandchildren of the Tuatha Dé and similar tales, but not all. Some we lose track of, some we never knew.”

“When the core of Tuatha Dé were defeated by the invasion of man, they retreated to places like Tír na nÓg. Still, some children and half-children remained here in Ireland living unassuming lives. Over time, many of these descendants became unaware of their connection to their otherworldly ancestors.”

“Many, but not all,” Mrs. MacSweeney said with a nod to Murrough.

“Hang on, are you three some of those people?” Donal asked. “Who, then? How do you know?”

“My own family—the O’Donnells—go back centuries,” the widow said, throwing a thumb over her shoulder toward the shelf of books. “Some of our families have been blessed in keeping our druidic roots. Mr. MacSweeney, on the other hand, can trace his kin back to Tuireann.”

Donal waited for the widow to elaborate. When she did not, he looked to her daughter.

“He had control over thunder and lightning,” Siobhan said.

Donal’s stomach felt like it dropped through his chair and onto the floor. He held up a finger until the words that spun around his head settled and then waved that finger at Siobhan when they did.

“It was you at the tomb! That wasn’t a coincidence, you made the thunder that knocked the dullahan backwards!”

Siobhan beamed. “Now you’re getting it.”

“But how?”

“A little bit of my mam’s side, a little bit of my dad’s.”

“And we’re back to cryptic answers. Grand.”

“We’ll get to that shortly,” Murrough said. “But now we’ve arrived at the point where we can tell you your place in all of this. You two descended from the Tuatha Dé yourselves.”

“You think so?” said Donal. “Who, or what?”

“Lugh, of the Long Arm,” Murrough said. “On your mother’s side.”

Finn scoffed. “‘Lugh,’ of all people, he says. Uncle, passing down these tales as part of our culture is one thing, but treating them as anything more than that is foolish.”

Siobhan crossed her arms, pulling the bandage away from his wound for a moment. “You think so? Describe what happened to you without sounding ‘foolish.’”

Finn flopped his hands about as he sought an answer. After a half-minute of stammering, his answer clicked.

“I was involved in a single wayward encounter with something that may or may not be a spirit. You’re telling me that otherworlds and our mythological heroes are real? And people have secretly passed down supernatural abilities for a few thousand years? On top of all of that, a couple of nobody farmers like Donal and I are descended from Lugh Lamhfada?”

“Oi, speak for yourself!” Donal said.

Finn had been through a lot tonight but Donal didn’t like being dragged into such a miserable portrayal.

“Better yet, stop speaking altogether.”

“Donal, you’re falling for this? Figures.”

“Finn, it’s been a long, trying night,” said Murrough. “Maybe you should go out to the wagon and bring in some of the things Donal packed.”

“Uncle,” Finn said, “If this is supposed to be true, then—”

Siobhan swung around into his eyeline.

“Finn, please,” she said. “At least do it for the fresh air. You two are sleeping here tonight.”

Finn looked in disbelief at Mrs. MacSweeney, then Murrough. He shook his head and walked out of the house holding his vest, leaving several minutes of silence behind him. Mrs. MacSweeney took the silence as a cue to disappear into the storage room. Siobhan cleaned up the ingredients and extra linen.

“I have questions,” Donal said.

“Of course,” Murrough said.

“What’s the big deal about this Lugh guy?”

“Lugh is one the Tuatha Dé’s greatest heroes.”

“Sounds like they had their fair share,” Donal said. “What made him so special?”

“When Lugh finally came to Tara to join the king’s court,” Murrough said, “A guard stopped him and said, ‘Only those useful to King Nuada may pass.’”

“Lugh told the guard, ‘I am a fierce warrior, masterful in single combat.’ The guard replied, ‘We have many warriors, all skilled in single combat.’”

“He said, ‘I am a master of strategy.’ The guard said, ‘The king himself is a master of that as well.’”

“Lugh said, ‘I am a smith, skillful in working with all metals.’ ‘And we have Goibniu, the greatest with silver, bronze, steel and all other metals,’ the guard said.”

“‘Surely you’re in need of a shipwright,’ Lugh said. ‘I was trained by Manannan mac Lir.’ ‘Sure, I know him well,’ the guard said, ‘for he’s already here with the king.’”

“Lugh told the guard, ‘I am a bard well versed in lore and history.’ The guard said, ‘We have none other than Ogma himself for that.”

“‘Do you have anyone as skilled as I in magic and sorcery?’ Lugh asked. ‘We have The Morrigan, Mathgen the sorcerer and the queen of the druids, Druanthia.’”

“‘I’m a skilled healer,’ Lugh said. ‘I can heal all ills.’ The guard told him, ‘Your own granddad, Diancecht, is our healer, greatest in the land.’”

“‘Lugh told the guard, ‘Fine, fine. You do have wonderful masters in all of these separate skills. But do this for me: go to your king and ask him if he has anyone who is a master in all of them.’ The guard did as he asked. The king agreed that he did not, in fact, have someone like that, and he agreed to let Lugh into his court.’”

Donal leaned back in his chair and mulled his uncle’s story over.

“Could Lugh do those things, or was he feeding the guard a line?” he asked.

“The tales say he could do that and more,” Murrough said. “That story is longer than what I told. I left out several parts about his carpentry, poetry and music.”

“What about these ‘Fomori?’ Finn mentioned them a few times. Were they living here the whole time?”

“Quite the opposite,” Murrough said. “They were raiders from the sea, though they spent a great deal of time living on Tory Island. Some of them were monstrous in appearance, like their leaders Cichol and Balor. Many looked human, more or less. They, too, came from otherworlds. They, too, had unnatural abilities and they, too, have descendants among men.”

“Is the dullahan a Fomori?”

“It is not, but it was they who summoned it. We think they’re behind other incidents, too.”

“Who’s ‘we?’”

“There are a few dozen of us throughout the island that we know of. A handful of us here in Tyrconnell. Niall MacRannell, for one.”

“Niall, really? Who’s his kin?”

“Nuada, of the Silver Hand.”

“Is he related to our Long Arm guy?”

Murrough chuckled.

“You’d think so, but he was not. You’ll meet two more of us when we head to Dunfanaghy tomorrow.”

“So that’s why you had me pack.”

“We’re going to be gone for a while,” Murrough said.

“Is this Lugh business the reason I was able to toss that knife so far and hurt the dullahan?” Donal asked Siobhan.

“Mostly. Dullahans are vulnerable to golden weapons. I also put a tad extra on the knife before I handed it to you. Luckily for me you took care of the rest.”

“Is it the same ‘tad extra’ that you put on your walking stick when you were fighting that thing?”

“Indeed,” Siobhan said. “But in light of what you’ve learned, do you still think this is a mere walking stick?”