Dr. Rookwood and the High King of Ireland

Two Years Ago, Inis Mór, Ireland

"Water?"

Josiah looked up and smiled briefly before glancing around nervously. "Trying to get me tossed over the cliff?"

Annabell laughed and leaned back against the low wall, providing the labouring linguist some much-desired shade. "I won't tattle." Her voice was heavily accented - not the dialectical English of her mainland counterparts, but actually accented by her native tongue. One of the handful of people in the whole country for whom her mother tongue was her first language. "Do you really think they'd send you to the mainland?"

Josiah shrugged. "I don't really want to risk it." He squinted in the sun and made some notes in a notebook that was falling apart at the seams. She slid down the wall to sit beside him in the grass.

"Doesn't it hurt your head to think all day as Gaeilge?"

"Does it hurt yours to think in English?" He brushed away a little more dirt to expose a bit more of the wall text.

"No," she sighed. "But I grew up with it. It's harder if you didn't."

Josiah frowned and blew out a breath. "Tá a fhios agam." She was practically quoting him. "I think this is a fairy tale, here," he said, changing the subject and gesturing to the wall. "Do you
recognise any of this?"

She took the notebook from him and glanced over the page. "Some words. It's old," she murmured. "Macha? She's the..."

"Horse goddess," Josiah finished for her when she didn't remember, peering at his notebook upside down. "I think she's the Irish cognate for the Greek Demeter Melaine. The king of Ireland was supposed to mate with her and then ... bathe in her blood to claim kingship." He
made a face, and she laughed at him. "Demeter Melaine had the head of a horse, and the concept of Demeter in general has a lot to do with rebirth and things." After a pause, he added, "If I'm right, it makes her a cognate of Isis, as well."

"You don't sound certain."

Josiah looked at her, shading his eyes with a hand. "I'm not certain."

"But you /are/ thirsty." She waggled a little thermos.

"Oh." He grinned sheepishly at her. "Yeah."

"And you missed lunch."

"Oh." He looked at his watch.

"It was three hours ago."

"Oops." No wonder he'd felt snippy. "She actually /is/ the land. That's where I keep getting hung up."

Annabell frowned. "What?"

"Macha. She /is/ Ireland. The king mates with Ireland, to... conquer her? So that he can protect her as her ruler?" He knitted his brows thoughtfully at the stone slab wall.

Annabell pursed her lips. "Mr Rookwood."

"That doesn't annoy me," he replied without looking away from the wall. It'd been a year since he'd replaced the "mister", so while it didn't annoy him, the fact that she /thought/ it'd annoy him just embarrassed him, because he himself couldn't yet say "Doctor Rookwood" without going all pink and mumbly about it. "It would make sense, though."

"That you're a mister?"

Josiah quirked a brow at her in confusion. "What? Oh. No. That in a society where women are still regarded as something to be possessed and protected, the king should possess his land in order to protect it..."

"So why are you getting hung up on it?"

"Because while Demeter protected the land, 'the bringer of seasons,' she wasn't the land itself. And whenever a man crossed her," he continued thoughtfully, brushing away more debris. "She..."

Annabell frowned and followed his gaze, but she didn't see the big deal. "What?"

He didn't look at her, only gently pulled his notebook from her uninterested fingers. He mumbled under his breath for a few minutes as she creased her brow, doing calculations using his own historical transformational rules. "Conas a dearfá..." He glanced up at the wall. "Conas a dearfá 'scaith,' as Béarla?"

Annabell blinked. "Scaith? Nothing. Do you mean... 'scaipthe?'"

The linguist wrinkled his nose. "What's that mean?" he murmured, running a pencil through his rule set again.

She shrugged. "Scattered."

"She made them.. scattered? That can't be right..."

Annabel sighed and shifted so she was leaning back against the wall again. He did this. He was such a kind, gentle guy, but when he got entrenched, he forgot anyone else was around. So detached.

"Oh."

She looked at him askance. "Not 'scaipthe?'"

"Not even 'scaith,'" he replied, correcting a couple of rules in the algorithm. He looked between his notes and the wall to translate the past into the present, step by step. "What's 'sc... scrio...s?'" He petered out, once he'd figured out just what he'd figured out. But it didn't fit. She didn't... He looked up at Annabell. "Conas a dearfá 'scrios,' as Béarla?" She didn't answer him right away, just looked surprised. "Ta Béarla 'destroy,' isn't it. She destroyed them."

Annabell nodded. "I thought you said she was the bringer of seasons."

"Ah, no," he murmured distractedly. "That's Demeter. This story here is about Macha... Demeter was nasty if you crossed her. Macha, though." It didn't fit. The horse goddess should have been the compliant, willing sacrifice to ensure Ireland's safety under a king. She wasn't supposed to have any other volition but to protect her soil. Of course, there /was/ the issue of the fifty some rock slabs in the western shore that'd been cut out but never hauled off. Someone stopped right in the middle of it, and no one really knew why. Macha? Someone pissed her off? That was silly. She was just a myth.

Josiah shook his head. "I think I'm hungry now," he said.

"Ah, ah," Annabell chided. "Gotta make up for all of that illegal English. En francais, sil vous plait."

Josiah rolled his eyes. "Tá ... ocras orm," he said, feigning heavy thought about it. "Was that right?" He blinked innocently.

"Yes. You get a cookie. Now hush up. You don't want to get thrown off the island, do you?"

Dr. Rookwood and the Lucht Siúlta, Part five

Two Years Ago, West Ireland

part one
part two
part three
part four

With a hand still clamped to the side of his face, he stumbled along with the travellers as they dragged him toward the sound of the villagers, who'd gotten pretty vocal. It could have been heartwarming, if Josiah'd been in a state to appreciate it. As he was pushed back down to his knees in front of the rebuilt bonfire, he called out, "Imigh sa bhaile, Aodh." Well, he tried to call it out. Groaned it out would be a better description. For his effort, he got a foot between the shoulderblades and pitched forward onto his hands. Seriously, Aodh. Go home. You're not helping anyone here.

"We won't be goin' home!" Missus Ó Connacháin replied. Crap. Was the whole village here? There were some largish rocks near his knees on the ground. He /could/ conceivably get to them, aid in his own rescue. But he'd have to conk someone on the noggin, and he knew from experience now that being bashed in the head was a trying experience. No, better they all just go home. The Travellers had treated him well until the entire gaeltaecht'd shown up to take back their property.

"Lemme just-" he started, looking up to the oldest brother beseechingly. "Lemme just get one of them here, to talk. How about that?"

The traveller considered it, then grinned. "Oiya!" he called, and Josiah sat on his feet and tried to rally his waning attention as a conversation ensued. He didn't actually end up getting anyone over to talk, because all the traveller needed was the seed of idea, and then he did the rest on his own. Whatever they were saying, Josiah didn't pay attention except to listen for tone. He breathed a sigh of relief when the conversation ended without raised voices. But when the representative from the gaeltaecht stepped into the firelight, he almost groaned again.

"Missus Ó Connacháin," he muttered. "This is not a good idea."

"Think they'd hurt me?" she replied in that lilt that barely passed as English. "I'm safer here than you are."

Maybe if the travellers had been more unsavory, maybe if she'd been alone, she'd be wrong. But they weren't, and she wasn't, and if the travellers wanted to take out their anger on anyone, a male stranger without kin in the area was a much better target.

"Please go home," he mumbled instead of acknowledging the truth of that.

"Leave you here, should we?"

"Yes. I can get home on my own."

"And can the pig get home on its own, then?"

Josiah blew out a breath. "Obviously not. Just. Give up on the pig, all right?"

Missus Ó Connacháin leaned forward a bit. "Come along, then," she murmured, glancing up at the travellers who stood just feet away. She grabbed at his arm and he saw what she meant even as he got himself to his feet. Yes, ok. He was in for this part of the plan, at least.

He'd only gotten two steps into escape when he heard the "Oi!" and the backward jerk of an arm around his neck. A moment later, he found himself on the ground, dazed and coughing through the sudden, if short-lived, strangle hold. Crap. He looked up just in time to see someone shove the Missus back into the dark. Someone else yelled something about a "blac," and he realised in a crowded moment that they wouldn't deal with a woman again. Not because of any perceived weakness, but because they wanted to be able to beat up on anyone who tried that again without damaging their personal moral codes. Cripes. Stupid complex society.

Okay. This was figure-out-able. It was probably even more figure-out-able in the light of day, with a whole night of nice, satisfying sleep under his belt. And whatever happened to the idyllic Irish countryside the pamphlet talked about, huh? No one ever said, be wary of situations involving stolen pigs. By the way, if a teenager says "we're just gonna steal it back," get the Heck out of there. And while you're at it, don't try to break up the fight. They needed a new copywriter.

"Oi!" Ok, so, the travellers wanted an answer. All right. They didn't want to be ignored. Right, because as a people they were either ignored or reviled by the country at large. That was easy. And they weren't bad - they were good to visitors, had solid if unusual moral boundaries. Ok. So. There was a reason this pig got stolen. Why did they steal the pig? Rabeen's voice filtered back to him as he sat up in the dirt. /They deserved it, Mister Josiah./ Moral code, plus a fairly unbothered philosophy on life - meant probably that they weren't actually taking stuff just because they simply felt marginalised. They probably really did deserve some kind of... payment.

Duh. The ó Cuinns just got their roof reshingled, didn't they? And who did that work? Probably these guys. What if...

"Hey, Muireadhach," he murmured, sitting on his butt in the dirt and rubbing his temple. But while he was figuring out something everyone else already knew - including Aodh, the little jerk - the travellers were having an argument of their own. Rabeen had her finger in Muireadhach's chest, sounding kinda miffed. She glanced over at him and huffed, putting her hands on her hips. She was still angry with him, probably, for asking about the pig. But it seemed like she was on his side.

Unfortunately, she didn't win the argument. Muireadhach strode over to him and hauled him to his feet by the arm. "Oiya!" he called, and they all just sort of assumed the villagers were watching from the dark. He shook Josiah violently as he spoke, and before Josiah could fully translate what he'd said, the traveller'd spun to him and crashed his knuckles into the linguist's jaw.

/Ow./

On the ground again. Grrreat. Oh, right. Boxing was a popular past-time among gypsies, wasn't it? No wonder he was still seeing stars. He wasn't a big guy to start with, and had no experience fighting. He didn't much enjoy the prospect of being a punching bag just to win a pig. "Wait!" he bumbled, palm of one hand to his jaw. The stupid ring had split skin to bone, it felt like. Ow crap ow. "Wait wait wait!" He got to his feet and put his hands out to either side, an alarming reminder of what had gotten him into this mess to start with. "Damn it, wait!"

The members of the gaeltaecht had never heard him curse before, and on them at least, it had the desired effect. The travellers were less impressed, but looked at him in amusement.

"You," he said, gesturing loosely toward the travellers. They looked a little agitated to be gestured at, but he didn't care. "Did /not/... steal a pig." Outrage from the villagers. Of course. "You were owed payment, right?" Outrage on one side, vehement agreement on the other. "But!" he continued, stemming the premature victory. "A pig wasn't the agreement, was it?"

Shuffling feet. Murmurs of "nil" and "nip" and "No it wasn't!" from both sides.

"Ok," he said raggedly. "Then what are you going to do about it? Fight? You're all civilized, bi- or tri- lingual people here, for cryin' out loud!" That got them thinking. He put a hand up to the cut on his chin and winced. A few feet off, he heard Rabeen's murmuring voice at Muireadhach's side, damning and beseeching all at once. He wavered on his feet, feeling dizzy and sorta sick, and let her do her thing for a few minutes, assuming a purely observational role, as he should have done to start with. Voices were lowering. Some little kid started wailing in a camper. Some coin jingled. And from what he gathered before he passed out in the dirt, the villagers had decided to buy back the pig, and keep it in the village rather than giving it back to the ó Cuinns, who through the entire ordeal had slept soundly in their beds in a big house on the hill.

Wow, he wanted a bath.

Dr. Rookwood and the Lucht Siúlta, part four

Two Years Ago, West Ireland

part one
part two
part three

"S'a fight!"

Crap. That snapped him awake. "What? Why!"

"Com'on," the traveller said, jerking on his arm. "Yer our one, a'right?"

"No, no, no," Josiah muttered, swinging his legs over the side of the low bunk. "I'm not getting in the middle of this. No way."

"Awready did," the lad snapped back in a so-far rare display of temper. He jerked the linguist out of bed and propelled him down the camper steps. Josiah winced at the spinning ground and stumbled. Already did? What'd he do? Tried to save either side from going to battle in the first place, didn't he? Did he? He still couldn't remember how he'd gotten on the ground, but he assumed it'd happened right after his whole "can't we all just be friends" routine. But if he'd said something else, sparked some kind of feud that wasn't already there... Craaaap.

"Sho-sye!" That was Aodh's voice, for sure. He yelled something Josiah was too groggy to understand. He sounded worried though. The lad next to him yelled back, something not very polite, and shoved Josiah forward and onto his knees.

"Aodh!" he called, rubbing at his temple. Ow, damnit! "What are you doing?"

"Oi, gadje," said the oldest traveller brother, suddenly crouched at his side. He snapped off a bunch of Shelta that made Josiah's head spin, and the linguist put his hands on the gypsy's shoulders in an attempt to slow absolutely everything down, lest he throw up the dinner they'd so graciously given him.

"Wait," Josiah mumbled. Clearly, whatever the old woman had given him for dizziness the night before had worn off in his sleep.

"Stee quiet, yeh?" the traveller hissed. In the distance, one of his brothers called out something in broken Irish that insinuated a trade, then Josiah's sort of mangled Irish name Sho-sye, and... pig. The linguist sighed. They were going to make a sort of trade - the villagers could either have him back, or the pig, but not both. And as obvious as it seemed that they'd choose Josiah over a pig, it was just as likely that they'd leave Josiah to leave the gypsies on his own. It wasn't as though the travellers were into the white slave trade, or anything. Theoretically, he could just take his leave of him the next day.

Apparently, someone from the gaeltaecht had come to the same conclusion, and shouted back that they'd take the pig, along with an unnecessary comment about it smelling better anyway. Ha, freakin' ha. Josiah slumped a little. Now that that was settled, maybe they could all go back to sleep. He wasn't feeling his best.

He felt even worse when the eldest traveller brother hauled him to his feet by his collar.

"Whoa, wait--"

"Oi!" the taller guy called out into the darkness, where presumably, Josiah's rescuers waited for their pig. He shook the linguist by the neck, and Josiah couldn't help grunting a little at the wave of nausea it induced. He missed the string of mostly Irish that followed, but he caught Aodh in the distance saying something like "You haven't got the balls!" or something. Not smart, Aodh. He didn't need to concentrate to understand that the vehement jabbering that came next meant, "Oh yeah! I'll show you balls!" The lead traveller leaned close to say, "Gov us a yell, then, blac."

Josiah wrinkled his nose up. "Just give em the pig. You stole it to start with." Not smart, Sho-sye. But even though his head ached and it'd really suck to walk all the way home the next day, it made the most sense.

Until it suddenly dawned on him what the string of mostly Irish had been, and what the traveller really did have the balls to do. Of course, it had to occur to him /after/ the traveller'd shoved him backwards into the waiting arms of two of his brothers. "Wait--!" he started, and was cut off by a backhand that would have sent him reeling if he hadn't been held up by the brothers on either side of him. He must have yelped or something, because Aodh's voice was almost immediate, asking them to stop or wait or something. He dragged a hand up to his face. For poor gypsies, they seemed to have no problem finding rings to wear. /Ow./

part five

Dr. Rookwood and the Lucht Siúlta, part three

Two Years Ago, West Ireland

part one
part two

Hands were on his shoulders, pulling him up and over onto his back and rolling a wave of nausea up against the back of his eyes. "Wait, wait!" he sputtered haplessly. He squinted up at the eldest gypsy through crooked glasses, ashamed to be surprised at the lack of malice.

"Oi, gadje," the lead Traveller said.

Josiah worried his bottom lip for a moment, then went for broke. "Josiah," he said, touching his chest first, then extending his hand to shake.

The gypsy's face broke into a relaxed grin and he clasped the linguist's hand to help him up. "Sho-sye!"

All in all, they were just as welcoming as the villagers in the gaeltaecht had been, maybe a bit moreso. After the wizened old camp mother had finished patching up the knot on his head and had given him some kind of herbal something for the dizziness, he was pressed into dinner, had to refuse several offers of drink. When the ragged looking musical instruments came out, he'd put up his hands against dancing with a shy-looking girl with wavy dark hair and big golden-brown eyes. She pouted, he relented, and halfway through the song, she had to laughingly walk him back to the stump he'd been using as a seat because the world wouldn't stop spinning around and he'd stepped on her feet too many times to be cute.

Josiah was in danger of thinking movies weren't romanticised after all, and that gypsy camps really were just as fun-loving and relaxed as the stories made them out to be. Once the party died down a little and some of the brothers went off to play cards, the mother and some of the girls fairly cooed over him, grilling him about his family and what he was doing in Ireland in a stilted, heavily accented Irish-English mix.

"Oh, no..." he murmured, frowning a little as he understood the question. "My mother's passed on. Ah... Mother?" He mimed cradling a baby, and the shy girl he'd danced with pursed her lips in thought for a moment before murmuring, "Nadram." He was getting the hang of this canorous language. "My, ah, nadram... she's..." He crossed his arms over his chest in what he hoped was a meaningful way.

"Ah," breathed the girl. "Tarsp. Yer nadram's tarsp..."

Josiah swallowed. "Nadram's... tarsp," he echoed hollowly.

The old woman made a disapproving sound. Her daughter, or maybe her daughter's daughter, batted at her. "Husha, karbug..." she murmured. "Sho-sye's in shliuchter." She smiled at him, and then repeated, "Learner, yes?"

Oh. Scholar. Shliuchter. More of that inversion stuff. "Yes, scholar."

"Yer nad's shib? Sho-sye," she explained, touching his chest. "Rabeen," she continued, gesturing to herself. She pointedly didn't introduce the old woman, casting her a glare before smiling back at him. "Yer nad?"

"Oh. Alma Dooley."

That seemed to spark some heated discussion, and the other girls just watched in undisguised amusement as his would-be tutor rattled at the older woman. He hadn't meant to cause anything, and he had no idea what was going on. And his head ached. But the lucht siúlta were sort of known to be linguistically stingy, in academic circles, and this was a great opportunity. He had a willing teacher, and even if the lump on his noggin had come from one of the gypsies, they'd taken him in and seen to his owie, and that was good enough for him. After a few minutes, the girl turned back to him, all smiles. "Yer our one," she announced, looking pleased. "A Dooley's alwas wulcome." She spoke better English than she'd let on. They probably all did. Cripes. Just making fun of him. He sighed and grinned and relaxed. "Stye wi' us fer a night," she invited. "'N tak ya ham on morrah."

Take him home tomorrow, he worked out. Gosh, did he even want to go? One look at the "karbug" was enough to tell him he didn't actually have a choice. Pleasant people or not, they'd developed their own language and customs specifically to keep themselves separate from rooters, gadje, like him. He nodded.

"Hey," he said, snagging her sleeve as she stood up. "Did your boys really steal a pig?" It was a risk.

Rabeen twisted her mouth up at him and looked disappointed. "Dey deserved it, misser Sho-sye." And then she stalked off, her mood considerably darker.

Damn. He'd been hoping Aodh was wrong about the gypsies.

They'd let him stare into the bonfire for a couple of hours before pulling him fully clothed to his borrowed bunk, among the lads. They slept six to a trailer, including him, and though he couldn't usually fall asleep quickly in strange places, though he was worried about the whole pig thing, and though he was sort of worried that his continued dizzyness and slight nausea meant he had a concussion and shouldn't sleep - though /all/ of that, he dropped off before most of the others even started snoring. That concussion stuff was just old wives' tales anyway, right...?

He woke up to the sound of his own name being called, from just beyond the camp's unmarked boundary. ... Aodh? What time was it? His watch glowed briefly in the dark when he touched it. Four am. Barely three hours' sleep. And wow did his head ache. Lights swam before his eyes while they tried to get used to the dark.

"Misser Sho-sye," said a voice near his ear. One of the lads took his arm and sat him up.

"Wass goin'on," he slurred, rubbing at his face. In the scant moonlight that made it through the lace curtains on the window, he could see the gleam of the lad's grin.

"S'a fight!"

part four
part five

Dr. Rookwood and the Lucht Siúlta, Part two

Two Years Ago, West Ireland

part one

"Lucht siúlta stole the ó Cuinn's pig."

Uh oh.

"You sure?" Josiah murmured, eyeing the somewhat abandoned campsite. Now that they were closer, there were obvious signs of habitation, dashing all hope of convincing the boys that these gypsies hadn't stolen anything.

"Just gonna steal it back," Aodh murmured, apparently trying to reassure him. He wasn't reassured.

And then he was even less reassured when four or five gypsies appeared as if out of nowhere, looking wary and jabbering to each other in some dialect of Shelta, a language that wasn't fully Irish or English, and not something he could decipher on the spot. He looked to Aodh, who looked slightly concerned. Crap.

"Hang on, Aodh," Josiah murmured, tugging at the young man's elbow. He was the grown up, but he was so, so outside the situation, he might as well have been a two year old.

Aodh didn't acknowledge him. The gypsies were more ranged in age, starting around maybe... eighteen or so, and rounding out probably twenty five. Their dynamic bespoke a sort of relaxed hierarchy, the younger ones looking to the oldest, but the oldest without an overt sense of leadership. From their features, Josiah thought they might have all been related, brothers possibly. And then he mentally smacked himself in the forehead for thinking about such ridiculous stuff when there was a fight impending.

The silence that settled was uneasy. Neither group /wanted/ to fight. An undercurrent of uncertainty filmed through the non-verbal dialogue between the two of them. But there was a pig in the balance, and out here, that mattered.

Augh, it was so stupid to put himself in the middle of this. He'd just end up looking like an idiot and probably get his kiester handed to him by either the gypsies or the villagers who thought he was meddling. Still.

"Hang on," he said more loudly, stepping forward. He knew the Irish would understand him, and the gypsies were looking like they at least got the drift.

Aodh barked something in quick Irish, his temper putting a flare on the usually relaxed drawl of it and mangling it so that Josiah didn't recognise anything but "pig!" Craaaaap. The gypsies laughed and made fists and their body language told Josiah what their speech could not - they were prepared for a fight. But more than that, they were defensive, indignant. Who wouldn't be, being accused of stealing a pig? And suddenly he was pretty convinced they hadn't stolen a pig at all.

"Aodh!" he called sharply. "Do you even have any proof?"

Aodh pushed him and Josiah could see the stoic kindness leech away into the back of the boy's mind as he stumbled backward a couple of steps. Aodh pushed him? He glanced quickly at the other village boys, and they were all looking pretty uncomfortable. There'd been scraps between the boys and the gypsies in the past, Annabell'd said, but never over actual property. And while it was true that half the time, the village treated him like some invading force, the other half of the time, they treated him like a lost lamb of God, had taken him into their homes and listened to him in their church. And he'd never been laid a hand on. Crap crap crap.

One of the gypsies hefted a shovel, barking something unintelligible and pointing at Josiah. Crap. Tuama snapped something back, and Josiah caught "outsider" and something about leaving him out of this. But damnit! He was standing right here, couldn't just watch whatever this was happen without at least trying to make someone see reason!

"Ná troid!" Keep it simple, stupid. The gypsies looked over in surprise, clearly astonished that the outsider could make himself understood. Josiah had his hands raised to both sides, his heart hammering in his chest for no good reason at all save that he felt impending doom hulking just in the wings. "Ná troid..."

Well, that hadn't worked. Josiah winced himself awake and coughed on the mouthful of dust his wakefulness had tried to breathe in. Rapid mostly-Irish dialogue whipped back and forth over his head, so he knew he hadn't been out more than maybe thirty seconds or so. He didn't remember how he got on the ground, and honestly didn't know which side he should've been rooting for, and then he grimaced into the dirt to think that he might root for /anyone/. Trying to lift his head more than an inch off the ground only brought nausea and a worrying fuzzyness to his vision, so he dropped his cheek to the dirt and watched, trying to rally. They were fighting, despite his best efforts, or maybe because of them - he couldn't remember. And then, the unthinkable. Aodh shot him a guilty look before backing up a couple of steps, and that before turning tail and running, the rest of the village boys hot on his heels.

Leaving him alone with the gypsies he couldn't understand, lost in the middle of the Burren.

part three
part four
part five

Dr. Rookwood and the Lucht Siúlta, Part one

Two years ago, West Ireland

Josiah winced as the back of his head conked against the dirt road. He was a mess, dirty, a little damp from having stepped full-foot into a water-filled rut in the worn road.

"I give up!" he cried, but his assailants were ruthless, all four of them piling onto his chest. He looked up at them, half-heartedly shielding his face, and said, "You'll never get away with this! Yarg!" And with a surge of energy, he gathered all four small, giggling boys up in his arms and overpowered them, sitting up and laughing maniacally. "Ah hahaha! You can never escape!" One boy squealed as he got away only to be pulled back by the belt on his muddy trousers.

"Sho-sye!" he screeched, laughing and trying to look demanding at the same time. He twisted and exclaimed something half-Irish, half-Universal Kidtalk.

Josiah grinned. "English."

"Le - mee - GO!" the kid repeated, emphatically stamping his little foot. Josiah didn't actually have a choice, because keeping one hand on the kid's belt left only one arm to corral the other three, and they jostled him so much that he had to let go anyway. Freed, the kid didn't run away, only stumbled forward a few feet and then turned on him and growled like a lion, clawing his little hands up. Inspired, the other three suddenly became lions as well, and Josiah got more than one tiny foot in the gut for his trouble.

"Samhradhán!"

Samhradhán stopped mid-grr, then scampered around to the other side of the prone man to peer at his mother. The three other boys vaulted over to join him, and Josiah winced good-naturedly up at the approaching woman, shielding his eyes from the watery afternoon sunlight.

"Missus Ó Connacháin."

"Mister Rookwood," she replied, smiling grimly. "Thank you for watching the boys," she added, her voice seeming to barely touch English. The boys in question scattered toward the tiny town down the dirt road as she knelt in the damp dust to help him sit up. "You've got your trousers all muddy."

"It's no big deal," he murmured.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't teach my Samhradhán to speak English."

Josiah flushed pink. "Missus Ó Connacháin," he started, but she cut him off.

"He has got only a few more precious years until schooling will force his native tongue out of his head. I should prefer it to be well set-in before then. /Mister/ Rookwood."

Thoroughly chastised, Josiah averted his gaze and folded his hands together, elbows on his knees. "Tá brón orm," he mumbled, clearly contrite. Her face softened, which he didn't see. He didn't agree with her. Learning languages simultaneously wasn't a detriment to either language. It only meant Samhradhán would have the edge he'd need to stay in the school he'd only be able to attend three times a week as it was. He didn't agree. But it wasn't his choice. So he sighed and looked back up in surprise when he felt her hand on his arm.

"Don't think of me unkindly, Mister Rookwood. Thank you for getting him into school." And then she was gone, striding away in all of her deceptively complex grace.

Josiah collected himself gingerly, hugging an arm round his ribcage. Little kids had the unfortunate advantage over grown men, in that they kicked without thought and didn't have to worry about retribution. He shook out his wet foot and looked into the sleepy village that had been his home for the last three weeks. He'd broken the rules of the Gaeltaecht more often than he should have, and only thwarted his punishment by giving painstaking Masses on Sunday mornings. He'd had to spend every night a week translating a Mass he was unfamiliar with into Irish, those weeks he'd been egregiously defiant. No use complaining that he wasn't Catholic, didn't even know the Latin, let alone the English. No use mentioning that the presiding Father would've given the Mass in Latin anyway. Never should have let on his previous life's work.

But it was that, or be thrown out, sent back to Galway, kicked out of the program with a dishonorable discharge. Not that it truly mattered. He wasn't in it for the little embossed piece of paper.

"Not getting sweet on widow Ó Connacháin," said a voice behind him, interrupting his thoughts.

"Oh, no," he replied. He hadn't meant to start a revolution, and of course he hadn't actually done anything of the sort. And it wasn't that his Irish was so abysmal that they could think he mightn't understand them. He was getting pretty good at it, actually. But it seemed he could tell who liked him and who didn't by whether they spoke to him in Irish or English. He'd given the matter some thought and come up with two possibilities. The one he actually hoped was more true was the one where they tried to get him in trouble for speaking English. Simple, straightforward.

"It'll be far too soon for that," the younger man advised, somewhat less than pleasantly.

"I know." Josiah turned to face Aodh, a dark haired youth whom he was aware fancied himself the village's chiefest protector against those who'd try to force change. He considered Aodh frankly, standing up to his full height and just barely cresting the still growing teen. "I'm not after anything, Aodh." He tried a smile. "Let's take a little walk."

Aodh gave him a thoughtful look and nodded after a moment, starting off down a path headed away from town. They didn't talk much, just walked along /almost/ companionably. Josiah didn't expect any revelations or to forge new friendships. He remembered being Aodh's age - seventeen or so, full of thwarted emotion and mis- or undirected drive to... do something. It wasn't true that young men were angry, not necessarily. Aodh, for example, was a fine specimen of that elusive and understated complexity that hung about the whole village. He wanted a simple life, and he wanted to protect the people he loved, and at the same time, he wanted what youth wants - to change the world, to change /something/. And Josiah thought he was kind. That under the stoic, protective-through-intimidation exterior, he was capable of great kindness.

Of course, Josiah thought, glancing at the boy askance, his idealism had made him a poor judge of character in the past.

"So, where're we goin?" he murmured, glancing around. Fields, as far as he could see. The ocean was a dull rumble just under the sound of sea birds and lowing cattle. Stone walls gridded up the countryside haphazardly.

Aodh looked around. "Nowhere," he answered simply. Josiah understood. They'd just been walking without direction, a common past time. Aodh'd know how to get home, no matter where they ended up. The Irish took hours' long walks without even thinking of it, and if Josiah'd remembered that, he might've suggested something else. "Dia duit, Tómmán."

Josiah looked up and over to see Tuama and the rest of the crew hopping over a low fence. About six of them, including Aodh, from sixteen to about eighteen. A pot of barely-surly, subdued frustration. Awesome.

"Ná glaoigh Tómmán--" Tuama complained jokingly, but stopped short when he saw Josiah. He twisted up his mouth and looked away. "Don't call me Tómmán," he muttered more darkly, his accent thicker than Aodh's by a lot and barely understandable even to the linguist. Another villager who didn't like him. Josiah offered him a meagre smile and gave them their privacy as Aodh moved to join them near the fence. Their murmured Irish was too faint and fast for him to make out, which was probably the point.

And then they were moving out, on some kind of mission. Josiah raised his brows and looked around. Crap. Oh man, he was lost. His instincts to leave the young men to their task warred with his more logical drive to not be lost in the middle of the Burren with no food or water and the closest house some hours' walk away, /if/ he chose the right direction. Well, he could always head for the sea and loop round the coast. There were always houses on the coast. If he was lucky, one of them would have a working car, or maybe a pony for rent.

And then Aodh was turning back to him, raising his brows and asking without asking, "You comin'?" Thank goodness for that buried kindness. They walked for another twenty minutes in uncomfortable silence. Clearly, it was only Aodh's presence that had garnered him this rare opportunity to observe the wild young Irishman in his native habitat. Ahead of them, the once colourful signs of an encampment waved in the breeze, and Josiah wrinkled his brow in thought.

"Lucht siúlta stole the ó Cuinn's pig."

Uh oh.

part two
part three
part four
part five

What the Heck am I doing?

Of course I missed my flight. It wouldn't be nearly as fun if I were, you know, on time. Or early, even. I meant to be, by a day. Instead, I arrived in Colorado Springs a scant three hours before my first meeting, and got on Base a mere 17 hours before we're due to step through the Gate. I haven't seen it yet, by the way. Seems like I could get to it though, if I tried. There are 50 trillion guards everywhere, but there aren't a lot of places my card doesn't scan, not that I've found, anyway. I admit I haven't tried. To scan my card in random doors or to see the Gate. This has been a really long day.

Thoughts on Silverhawk: She's ... standoffish. Not that I don't understand it or can't deal with it. I'm a bit standoffish myself, I've been told. (By a treehugger, but still.) She has this... way about her. I know, how trite. Of course she has a way about her. But I mean it. I'm hoping I'll be allowed to call her Rowena eventually. That name is really under-rated. Of course, "Major Silverhawk" is fine too. Nothing wrong with showing respect. Actually, that might be better. She's the boss. She deserves to be acknowledged as one.

Thoughts on this whole military thing: I don't like it. I never did. I don't like the idea that so much of my training to get here involved how to kill stuff. (I really don't like how bad I was at it, either.) That being said, I'm determined not to mess with the system. I wouldn't want military dudes coming in and wrecking my nice, orderly (there's order! You just have to know the system!) researchy stuff, waving their guns around and reorganizing the files. So, I'm going to do my best not to subvert the system, to follow my CO's orders, not get myself in trouble I can't get myself out of, and generally be a good kid.

Thoughts on whether I'll succeed: Don't know. Really don't. I've messed up on this before, with the best intentions. It's always been hard to sit by, and while I've been told that the best way to study is to sit back and observe, I've never been able to. As a historian, there's no one left to save. As a linguist, there's more value in getting into the dirt and actually talking to people. As either of those things, there's nothing in the back of my mind telling me that I'm screwing up, that I shouldn't be getting involved. Not until I'm already involved and blood has been spilt. Figuratively. Well, ok. Once literally. But it was mine. Does that count? Oh, forget it.

Thoughts on the Tok'ra: Whoa. Ok. Yes, I was briefed. Do you know how many times I've had to backup today and say "Oh, yeah, I was briefed. I just..." whatever? Yes. I was briefed. But come on! You're a freakin' alien with two personalities, and some great measure of power, and apparently we've been working with you for years. Just give me like... five minutes to decide you haven't just been fooling people for those years, to decide I should trust you too. Because where I come from, if you say you've got two personalities in you, they lock you up. Still, it was incredible talking to her - them. Arg. I fear both of them are waaay smarter than I am. Then again, I've been given such a really really short time to adjust all of my "country" references to "planets," "worlds" to "star systems," and "fiction" to "fact." I can't believe I actually thought she was talking about a parallel universe. I'm embarrassed to think about it even now. Gotta set the dial a little lower - not everything that once was science fiction has become fact. Some stuff is still just ridiculous. Parallel universes. Pif.

Thoughts on other people I met today: Man there were a lot. Note to self, self: Stay the Heck away from Malone. Also, find Randi Kavangh again and smile at her. You'll want all the friendly faces you can get. Start making a list of people you haven't embarrassed yourself in front of yet. Try not to cross anyone off. Good boy.

Final thoughts: I am SO not going to be able to sleep tonight. -sigh-