Novel Treatments / The Legend of Diarmid

Prologue

In the days of King Áedán, a legend was born. A legend whose acts of faith and miracles would be carried from generation to generation in tale. In the days when druids ruled and evil magic permeated the land, a figure rose up to fight for what he believed in. But fight with a sword and a shield he did not, instead using the wit of his tongue and the blade of his reason to bring people to the truth.
His name was Diarmid. The son of a bishop and the grandson of a priest, the boy grew up in the small kingdom of Calen. Such a small kingdom as it was, it had for many years, along with the surrounding kingdoms on the island, been under the military protection and control of the great Empire. Our story begins in his sixteenth year, when the foreign knights and soldiers were called suddenly away to defend the Empire, leaving Calen to defend itself against its direst enemy, the kingdom across the sea, Erin. This country was famous for its piracy, slaving, and looting and it was only a matter of time before they descended on the defenseless land of Calen.

Across the sea will come Adze-had, crazed in the head
His cloak with hole for the head, his stick bent in the head
He will chant improprieties from a table in the front of his house
All his people will answer: “so be it, so be it.”
-Druidic prophecy

Chapter One

The day was just beginning. The palest of rays from the sun were barely peaking timidly over the dark horizon. Even the birds had not yet begun to sing and a quiet blanket of sleepiness hung over the land. A soft breeze caressed the forests and the mountains; the leaves quivered on their branches.
Nestled at the foot of the great mountains, a castle’s spires reached toward the slowly lightening sky. Here, too, not a living thing was stirring. The castle cats were contentedly curled, their soft bellies ever so slightly rising and falling, and the hunting dogs were sprawled on the cool stone floors.
In one finely furnished room, a boy, not yet quite a man, slept peacefully beneath a woven blanket of dark colors. The curtains over the one window wavered slightly in the wind, allowing the predawn light to steal in. The room was neat and ordered; a book lay open on the low table next to the boy’s bed. Outside the window, a bird sounded the morning’s first tentative chirp and the boy stirred, then his eyelids flew open, revealing his clear blue eyes. In a moment he sat up and smiled as he realized that it was a special day. It was on this day that he turned sixteen years of age, on this day that he was now considered a man.
Diarmid slipped from his bed and went to rummage in his wardrobe. It was too early yet for even the servants to be awake, so he would take advantage of the freedom to escape for a few hours down to the ocean, his favorite haunt. Pulling from the drawers a simple tunic of undyed wool, for the early spring air would be chilly at this hour, and a set of simple brown breeches, he quickly dressed and slipped on his shoes.
He opened the door to his chamber on nearly silent hinges and stepped into the passageway. Diarmid broke into a loping run, around corners and down staircases, stopping in the larder for a leftover roll from the day before. He opened the door of the servant’s exit and eagerly ran down the path and through the sleeping town until he stood contentedly on the rocky beach. For a moment he just stood, breathing deeply the fresh smell of the early morning air and brine. He gazed out over the endless, swirling waves which eventually met the pale, clear sky. His eyes lit upon a set of white sails in the distance and he strained to identify the flag which was gently waving from the main mast. A sudden burst of wind blew the flag into full flight and Diarmid gasped. The flag showed a stark, rearing white stag upon a green backdrop.
For a moment Diarmid was frozen on the shore, then he turned and ran back the way he’d come, his breath heaving and his heart pounding. When he burst threw the servant’s exit and into the kitchen, the servants, who had now risen and begun to prepare breakfast for the castle’s residents, stared at him in alarm.
“They are come!” he managed to declare.
“Who, child?” The castle’s elderly housekeeper frowned down at him. “Who has come?”
“There’s a ship, far out yet, but the flag… the flag is that of Erin!”
The response was immediate and panicked. “You’re sure, child?” said the housekeeper, her eyes wide. Diarmid only nodded. She stood there for a moment, then ran out the door, Diarmid close on her heels. The ridge outside was high and afforded a view of the ocean. The matronly woman stood and scanned the horizon, her hands shaking. But the horizon was empty.
Diarmid just stood, in shock. How could it not be there? It had been there, crystal clear, bobbing on the ocean waves, not five minutes before. The housekeeper sighed in relief.
“It must have been your imagination, child. There is no ship.” And she turned to enter once more, loudly announcing that it had been a false alarm, leaving Diarmid staring at the empty horizon. What had happened? He could not have imagined that stark flag against the palest of skies. And then, for a moment, there it was again! Those huge sails and that distinctive flag could not be mistaken. Diarmid blinked and looked again. And it was gone.
What did this mean? An apparition? A vision? Or had the early morning and the excitement of the day addled his mind?

Several hours later Diarmid was seated at a long table in the place of honor at the front of the large banquet hall, dressed in his finest. The clothes were tight and uncomfortable; Diarmid absently pulled at the tight collar round his neck as he looked out over the hall. The scene was opulent, crowded, and merry. The rich clothing displayed every color imaginable and belonged to people from every walk of life, from rich, old men to young, peasant children in their cleanest and best. And all had come to celebrate the coming of age of the bishop’s son.
Diarmid shifted in his chair, uncomfortably aware of the array of eyes that rested upon him, appraising, judging, watching. He knew the people wanted to know what kind of bishop he would be. The tales were far too numerous of bishops and priests who took advantage of those in their parish and he knew they watched carefully for any signs that he would be in such a strain. But his father had taught him well.
Diarmid was unaccustomed to being the center of attention, to sitting at the table on the dais, and to wearing clothes of such bright colors and fine fabrics. But the coming of age of a young man or woman was so highly celebrated; even the poorest peasants received this treatment. Their lord, King Áedán, provided a room in the castle, though Diarmid lived there anyway, fine clothing, lush food for a feast, and a festival in the young man or woman’s honor. The coming day would be filled with merrymaking and feasting. There were acrobats and magicians, animal tamers and musicians. And after sundown would be a great ball with the king’s own musicians, where they would dance until midnight.
On Diarmid’s left sat his father, the Bishop of Calen, and on his right sat his mother, both beaming proudly. Diarmid’s eyes roamed the hall and the food on the table before him, but he wasn’t really seeing any of it. His mind was on the changes that were to come now that he was of age. It had been talked of for years, but Diarmid hadn’t expected to come so quickly. It had sneaked up on him, unawares, playing on his mindset that such a reality was yet years to come. For now he would be leaving the home he had known since birth and sent from the kingdom to join a monastery and, eventually, become a bishop like his father. There was a time when such a possibility was agreeable, even exciting for the young boy. But no more. Diarmid loved his home; he loved the sea, the woods, and the mountains. He loved the simple, comfortable life he lead there. And most of all, he loved his freedom.
The life of a monk would remove all of the good things in his life: his family, his friends, his home. And for what? God? Diarmid gave a little laugh under his breath. When had he ever needed God? His life was perfectly adequate without God breathing down his neck. Growing up as the bishop’s son, he had been spoon-fed stories of God and His Son his entire life. He knew the stories backwards and forwards and upside-down. He knew what his father said God had done for him: the ultimate sacrifice of His Son, Jesus. That Jesus died on the cross for all the sinners of the world. Sinners. Not him. Though Diarmid had read countless times passages in the Bible telling him that he was a sinner and needed a savior, he wasn’t convinced.

It was late. The celebration was finally over; it had stretched into the wee hours of the morning. Diarmid sat, alone, in his chambers, weary of celebrating, weary of polite smiles and small talk. The window seat where he was curled up was soft and comfortable; as he looked out over the bay, his eyes drooped and his thoughts grew hazy. Then, suddenly, he came wide awake and he stared through the glass, inexplicably sure that there was something out there. Something out there that shouldn’t be.
Diarmid spotted movement on the horizon and squinted, trying to make out what it was. He strained, listening as his eyes roved the beach, searching. The soft lapping of waves methodically caressing the shore was unpunctuated; the crickets chirped, undisturbed. Diarmid almost looked away, sure that he had imagined the sense of something wrong, but then he saw it. Movement. On the shore.
Diarmid gaped, for there, emerging from the shadows, came several dozen men. Their ship was clearly anchored out in the bay, its sails already bound. The sailors crept quietly from the boats, looking furtively around. Diarmid knew immediately that these were not honest men and they were not from Calen. Their clothes were ragged and foreign in cut; their skin was painted with war paint in patterns chillingly eerie. The swords still hanging at their sides, instead of long and straight like the swords of Calen, were curved: the barbaric swords of Erin.
For a moment Diarmid was frozen where he stood. An invasion? A pirate attack? Whatever it was, he had to warn everyone. Reality hit him and thawed his limbs; he ran from the room, shouting as loud as he could. People began to appear in doorways, looking sleepy and disgruntled, then alarmed when they realized what he was saying.
The next minutes were nightmarish for Diarmid. The leering pirates left no room without plundering and never hesitated to remove anyone in their way. Diarmid ran through the castle, weaponless, frantically searching for his parents. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead, knowing his parents neither could nor would defend themselves against intruders.

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