My two previous stories "Stolen Kiss" and its sequel "The Nightmare" were inspired wholly by Michael Flatley and Lord of the Dance. This the third and final story in the trilogy. It was, however, inspired by Kestrel the Defender of the King and the Royal Court of Flatleyland, in other words Lacy Robinson. As some may remember, one of the former regulars on the LoTD "VB", Lacy, was hit by a drunk driver whilst she was jogging. After spending some time in a coma, she slowly recovered. She appears in the story as one of its main characters. In addition this story is naturally dedicated to Lacy, as well as her remarkable friend Stephanie. Every warrior and hero like Lacy should have her own legend.To read "Cry of the Celts" I advise that you first read my two previous stories as this new story is the third in a trilogy. Just like Return of the Jedi doesn’t make much sense unless you’ve seen The Empire Strikes Back and Star Wars. Also, I make reference to several Celtic themes and elements. To explain, "ÓFlaithfhileadh" is the ancient Irish name for Flatley; "Samhain" (October 31st/November 1st) is the night all the gates to the Otherworld were opened and the inhabitants could set out to wreak vengeance on those living in this world who had wronged them; "Scottish Horses" are in reference to Clydesdales, and I do realize that I may be wrong on the time in which they appeared in the UK. I would also like to point out an interesting coincidence (but I think it’s fate), Michael’s age (39) minus Lacy’s age (23) equals 16, the age Michael won the All World Irish Dancing Championship and the age he ascends to clan chief in the story. In addition Lacy’s character is born on the day that Michael becomes chief. Cosmic Irony? I know Lacy’s B-day is Tuesday the 19th, but the math worked out when I wrote it! Anyways....enjoy!
Michael’s father had kept an amicable peace among the clans that scattered the land for his entire rule. His example of dedication and love for his people was one that Michael took to heart. As a small child Michael, although he reveled with his friends and brother, was primarily focused on learning with the skills of his father.
But it was just as the child was maturing that his nighttime haunting began. Every night his parents would find their son caught in an iressurrectable nightmare, voice cracking in wailing sobs and arms flailing as though he was fighting off a pack of wolves. Though his parents would attempt both to shake him from his torment or hold him down tight, he remained within the nightmare. As strenuous and overwhelming as his nighttime world was, by morning’s first light he had calmed and awoke content, appeased by an unknown force.
Despite the prying concerns of his parents and siblings, Michael never spoke of his dreams. As he grew the violent physical outbursts receded to dwell within the boundaries of his mind.
Years past and it came time for Michael to ascend as chief. The tribe had immense confidence in him; Michael’s leadership in battle had instilled in his people love and loyalty towards him. The ceremony was void of pomp and circumstance, but full of revelry. Michael stood before the clan members that had gathered in the center of the village. He scanned the faces he knew so well already - his loyal friends and family, warriors, elders, farmers, shaman and druidic men and women, farmers, craftsmen, slaves and families.
At 16, Michael had excelled more than any ÓFlaithfhileadh chief before him. He had the heart of a leader and patriarch, with the soul of a bard. His father removed the gold torc he had worn around his neck for almost 30 years and gave it to his son. Michael accepted the torc and let it shine in the sun. He put it around his neck and the crowd erupted in roars and cries.
The day continued with congratulatory encountered and a slue of innuendoes from prospective young brides. As dusk set in Michael was approached by Ciaran, a strong warrior in the clan.
"Michael can you come to my home?"
"Absolutely Ciaran. Is it Traesa?"
"Yes, our daughter was just born, and we have named her Kestrel."
"No doubt she’ll be a strong warrior like her father," smiled Michael.
"I don’t think that’s what her mother is hoping for." They arrived to find Traesa asleep, with Kestrel in her arms. The High Druid Priest was also there, as well as the priestess who had taught Michael the poetic works of the ancients, Caeri.
"The child looks very healthy, Ciaran"
"The birth of this child on the day of your ascension is a good omen, she has a great destiny ahead of her," quietly spoke the High Druid. Ciaran picked up his daughter and lay her in the new Chieftain’s arms. Michael felt an instant connection to Kestrel, as she softly cooed and rested contentedly in his arms.
Later that evening Michael relaxed in his own hut. He drank a cup of sweet wine and drifted into slumber. The dream came again. Each night the dream played out the same as it had a thousand times before. Michael saw a dark ominous man swing a sword towards his head, and the scene became black. The void was suddenly interrupted by a flash of fork lightening. His vision rose over a hill to reveal a massive battle.
Legions of warriors were engaged in awesome turmoil. The bloodshed stretched to the horizon. As Michael neared the battleground he saw with horror the gruesome slash of each sword, it was a battle inlike any he had seen in the Natural Plain. Men and women slipped in the pools of sticky blood and stumbled over the corpses of fallen warriors. Michael recognized so many of them - though he knew he had never met them. Michael was anguished each time he saw a familiar face pale and fall to the red, muddy earth. Yet as many as there was that had fallen, the warriors kept on against the dark warriors. Michael looked around desperately for any relief from the war. His eyes fell upon a castle and in an instant he was there, inside. He drifted down long hallways and entered a bedroom. He felt lost and all was becoming black again.
Michael’s despair was tearing the soul from his body. Then, just as it seemed that Michael would be lost in the nightmare forever, the dream changed. A soft gentle hand brushed its fingers over his lips, they tasted like the feeling of love. A celestial pale face surrounded by an angelic cascade of whispy blond curls, came into focus. It was like looking into the face of love. The lady smiled and Michael felt appeased. It was there that Michael awoke. Despite the heinousness of the nightmare, Michael never dreaded falling asleep. Each night would begin in torment and end in the aura of all encompassing love and peace.
As time passed Michael truly came into his own as Clan Chief. As strifes arose between neighboring clans, Michael brought them down and maintained control. He was virtually flawless in the eyes of his people. Michael had taken Kestrel under his wing. He and her father began her training as a warrior the moment she took her first steps.
Kestrel learned quickly and with enthusiasm - sword fighting, archery, tactical techniques, but above all, from Michael, compassion and diplomacy. Michael was indeed proud of his "apprentice", and in turn she was attentive and hard working.
It was during the celebration of Kestrel’s 23rd year that words came from a farmer attending a field that a league of warriors from the Northern Region, ruled by Queen Moya, was coming to raid and conquer the clan of ÓFlaithfhileadh.
The warriors armed themselves a ran from the confines of the village to engage Queen Moya’s minions. Michael and Kestrel on their mounts led their warriors, anticipating a harsh, but victorious confrontation.
Kestrel had seen battle before and by the grace of Michael was focused and steady. She was first to catch sight of the enemy, coming over the next plain. The groups rushed forth in battle cries. The sound of so many swords clashing at once and the tangibility of the spraying blood brought a surprising flashback of his dream to Michael. The dream had never before penetrated his waking world. He attempted to purge his thoughts, but to no avail. Kestrel clearly noticed that Michael had lost his ground. She fought on against her opponents and moved her stead through the fighting towards Michael. He seemed to flux between moments of rage and instances of panic. Kestrel was approaching as quickly as she could, but more and more of Queen Moya’s warriors came to challenge her.
Queen Moya herself appeared, seated on a Scottish horse. Michael’s attention turned to her and he urged his horse around to face her. Kestrel approached within 20 feet just as Michael was thrown from his stead. Moya drew her sword and went to strike him. Kestrel, by pure instinct and without a second’s thought, reacted back and with her bow sent a slick lance of sacred oak through the woman’s heart. She fell, dead. Michael whipped around to see Kestrel, his defender and savior.
Kestrel’s horse strode ahead for her to assist Michael. Just as she reached Michael, him having recovered from his fall, a club struck her head and knocked her from her mount. Michael caught her limp body and a panic unlike any her had ever sensed before, rose inside him. Ciaran also saw his daughter fall and he rushed from his adversary to her. Michael got on Kestrel’s horse and Ciaran lifted his daughter’s body to the Chief she so trusted. He rose swiftly back to the village, Ciaran following on Michael’s horse.
The ÓFlaithfhileadh warriors returned the next day, victorious. But their elation was marred by Kestrel’s fall. Even in light of the pessimistic worries of some, Michael refused to lose a moment’s faith in his champion.
Kestrel awoke within a few days and was coherent. However she did not escape all injury. Her speech was slurred somewhat and her vision hazed. The Druids and clan members convened many healing circles and prayers in her honor. Michael barely left her side and her sister Stephanie kept vigil when he could not.
Little by little Kestrel recovered, with new heart and strong conviction. By the time of the harvest, Kestrel was on her feet and resuming her ways. Michael thanked the gods every time he saw her.
One brisk blue night Kestrel’s mother approached her, to offer her advise. Later on, under a full white moon, Kestrel found Michael, alone by his hearth.
"Have you a moment to speak with me?"
"Always Kestrel, come and sit." She entered the hut and sat across from her friend and mentor.
"My mother asked me a ludicrous question tonight," Kestrel lowered her head but stayed focused on Michael’s eyes," She wanted to know why you had not married me yet, or any other for that matter." Michael’s reaction surprised her.
"It’s not ludicrous Kestrel. I understand your mother’s wishes, and you are my closest friend and confident."
"But nothing more?"
"Oh much more, Kestrel, of course. I know how closely connected we are. I felt it on the day you were born and everyday since. We could be very happy together."
"Are you saying my mother’s intuitions are right?" Kestrel was intrigued. Michael took her hand and held it in his.
"Kestrel, do you remember when you were injured, that one night you asked me to tell you about my dreams?" She nodded "Despite the tenderness I have for you, there as always been something inside me that knows I am not bound for marriage and family in this world." Kestrel was disappointed, but not sad.
"The woman in your dream."
"I cannot articulate it. You are the only person who I have told of my dream to, and I think you are the only one who could possibly understand."
"I do, in all honesty. But will your vision ever come to fruition? Or has Eire condemned you to love a woman who you only ever know when you sleep?"
"I sense that all these years of wanting are about to culminate into one event, but I know nothing more." Kestrel rose and leaned down to Michael, she kissed him tenderly on the lips, smiled and left his home. Nothing , really, had changed their relationship, their souls would remained intertwined for eternity - and they each knew it.
Weeks passed, the winds grew colder and it was now only days from Samhain. Michael had grown introspective as of late and Kestrel was concerned. She knew his intuitions were dead on, something was coming - a force that would irrevocably change everything they knew. Kestrel couldn’t help but think, with Samhain only days away, about Queen Moya. Would she come over from the Otherworld to seek revenge?
The day of Samhain arrived and Kestrel woke with a nervous feeling in the depth of her gut. She instantly sensed the energy surrounding the clan had changed. She warily completed her morning routine and went immediately to find Michael. She crossed the village, over to the Chieftain’s hut, along the way passing the few others who had risen as early as she. When no response came from within, Kestrel entered Michael’s home.
She ran from the hut screaming and calling all from their beds. Terror spread through all when it became known that their leader was gone, his weapons and horse still in the village. Normally no one would have left safety of the village fold on Samhain, but the insistence and pleading of Kestrel persuaded the bravest warriors to venture out with her.
Half the day was gone and still no sign of Michael had been unearthed. The group neared the forest and all but Kestrel stopped short of the first trees.
"Kestrel it is one matter to search the open plains of Eire, where we can see an enemy coming. But on Samhain to go into the woods......it’s certain death. If our Chieftain is in there - he is only bodily remains," warned Seamus. Kestrel dismounted her horse and handed the reins to him. She drew her sword and entered the forest, leaving her cowardly companions behind. Kestrel’s fear paled in comparison to her devotion to Michael and her determination to find him.
When night fell however, despair began to set. She would not give up, and kept on deeper into the twisted woods. A soft blue glow ahead drew Kestrel forward. She came to the clearing that had been known for over a hundred years as "The Lovers’ Bed". She stopped and stared as she found Michael sleeping on the dewey grass, just 13 feet from her. From the blue light in the center of the clearing emerged a divine woman from the Otherworld. Kestrel felt true joy in seeing her, Michael’s dream in tangible form, Eire had not disappointed her loyal servant.
Kestrel watched with intensity as Michael awoke to find his true love before him, to hear her words and feel the passion of her kiss. But Kestrel was shocked when the lady drew her dagger and plunged it into him, then rise and walk away to be reabsorbed by the light.
Kestrel rushed to Michael’s side, attempting to seal his wound. Michael stopped her and took her hands in his.
"Kestrel, I am returning to the Otherworld. The people there need me."
"Michael, what of us here!? You cannot leave us, we need you, I cannot let you die!"
"My beloved Kestrel," Michael kissed her hands. He then removed the gold torc from around his neck and placed it around hers, "They are yours to lead and protect, Kestrel my defender......." Michael slipped away and Kestrel felt his soul leave his earthly body.
Kestrel emerged from the forest shortly after dawn the next day. Samhain being over, had brought the majority of the clan to the forest’s edge.
She stood before them and they saw the gold torc shining in the sunlight - as it had on the day Kestrel had been born. The clan solemnly kneeled to her and then rose in mighty cries for Kestrel, The Defender!