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