The Price of False Judgement

 The hawthorne’s green had sprouted in abundance with the arrival of the  spring. It’s branches blossomed with the bursting exuberance of new life  as they waved in the gentle breeze. 
He  was tired. It had been a tough day, as tough as they come really. A day  when the shift of the world was weighted in but a few simple words. 

Words which He himself had spoken.
“.....by your wrong judgement upon me, the rightness of your rule is proved as false!” 

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He  had walked it off at the time. Well worked it off might be a better  term. The fortifications the ‘King’ had demanded were complete and soon The Dagda's price would be paid him, but still those words bothered him so. The  muscle ache from his labours had not passed and though rest was greatly  needed, his mind would not give him peace and so he had set his feet  beneath him towards the one place he knew answers could be found. 

The  day was in its fall as he approached the gate to the Otherworld. He  knew by the breath of the wind, the whisper of the trees, the warmth of  the sun the rush of the streams, that She was not on this side.  To the  saol eile She has gone as was her way and business and so it was to  there that he must travel. 

The hawthorne leaves were green and bright as he moved his big frame  beneath it. This part always bothered him, but no matter how slow and  careful he was with his frame, the tree’s thorns took their price of blood from him. A scratch here, a prick there, not a lot to bear for a  big man like him, but it’s hunger and need to taste of him was what sent  the shivers running across his skin. So much like Her perhaps? 

The  gate is closed to many, for not many can enter the death darkness with a  willingness to not return from it. For that is what awaits. The Saol  eile, the other life, the existence beyond this world. The Other World.  The gate is closed to many, but never so for Him. 

There  are many ways to cross the step, many paths to the beyond, but there  was only one that would suit his needs this day. It was the way of  darkness, the way of deaths passage, the way of monsters, the way to  Her.
Seating himself upon the Earth he slowly lowered himself into the dark beneath  the  tree. The ways of earth and rock are no mystery to him and indeed  give much comfort for its steady solid presence. Yet as he shifted his  frame down, slipping and sliding on the muck, turning and twisting  between the rocks, crouching and crawling deeper, the comfort of that  steady solid presence became a heavy pressure upon his senses as it’s  layers of weight rested just above him, ready to crush or crunch him  without a moments notice should the earth move but a fraction away from  solidity. Still he moved forward. This was the first. The self and its concerns for preservation. 

Within  the shortest distance of a step he was clear. The earth pulling back  from him as he entered an open space. The sucking mud grabbed at him,  clutching and pulling. The weariness if the days labours added to the  strain of the descent and the warmth of this space was a welcome change  to the harshness of the exterior world. There was a ledge he would often  sit on and rest himself, a comfortable warm closeness in this space  beneath the earth. Away from the noises. Away from the people of the  world and their woes. Away from the judgement of light. He  could stay here, sit in the spot upon the ledge. Rest himself and  release his aches and pains. Relax and forego the struggles of life  and it’s complexities. Stay here in the dark and just let go. The Dagda turned his back from the ledge and it’s final comforts. This was the second. The Will and it’s drive to proceed. 

Across  the space and back was the next path and for this he had best turn  Sideways. The step took him from the cave and into another darkness, the  darkness one finds in many places but most commonly behind your own eyes. Here  the path was broad and straight, well built with solid sunk  foundations, scree for drainage, and wide rock slabs interlocking over  it for stability. The path carried his feet forward through the silent  blackness all about, straight and sure. It was always so, for it was his  path and he had built it for his feet. The  path lead to many places though not once did it branch nor split, but  today it’s destination was clear as his feet strode it towards Her.

All  about the blackness existed, as part of the path but separate from it.  For him there was no danger to this place for he had traveled its ways  often, but to the ill prepared and unwary a step from the path could  doom a soul to wander lost in their own darkness, surrounded in silence. His  eyes followed his path, big feet placing a heavy stomp upon it to  ensure its solidity, scanning for any wear or cracks. This was his path  in, but also his way out and so he gave the passage along it the  attention it deserved. 

Soon  and not Soon the door was there.  Big broad and heavy it’s solid  blackened bog oak carved in mixed relief depicting Her various forms,  Her triumphs, Her sovereignty, Her Power. So  it was the big hall today, he thought as he placed his rough hands upon  the paneled wood, set his shoulders square and pushed.  The  rumbling groaning creek of the wood as it shifted moved forward onto  the space beyond, for no sound could travel back into the blackness. The  doors swung wide back upon their hinges and the Dagda stepped over into  the chamber, feet coming off his path and onto her hard pack rush  strewn floor. 

The  room was wide and high, great hearth fires warming it and torches  flickering their smokey light about its edges. It was filled with  people moving about in discussion and debate, in conflict and combat, in  whispers and whimpers. 
He  felt a cold clawed hand scratch slowly and lustfully along his  shoulders, ears picking up a purring noise as he turned. She was  slight and beautiful, fiery tresses all undone about her pale skin, robe  hanging loose about her body giving just a hint of the naked flesh  beneath. She looked up at him with the heat of her lust in her eyes and her teeth biting  the redness of her lower lip, eyebrows arched in suggestion. 
Dagda turned away. She was not who he was here for. 

Stepping  forward he passed amongst the throng moving carefully so as not to  disturb them, but giving no other attention their way. These were her  people and today he was not here for them.
Coming  out of the group he saw Her, sitting straight backed and proud upon her  throne. Proud and terribly beautiful. Warrior’s frame covered in the  curved plates of her armour, tresses tied and bound with oaths about her  crown as one arm gripped the haft of her wickedly pointed spear and the  other lazily stroked the stone head of the great cat sitting beside her  leg. Her eyes locked to his, grip causing the spear to shudder and crack with her strength as She glared down from her seat of Power.
Dagda turned away. She was not who he was here for.

Moving  back through the throng he stepped about them and their businesses. He  knew each by name and indeed had made himself of use to many at various  times, today was for business of his own. Stepping  from the group once more he saw Her. Crouched and feathered, her  midnight black form twitching and hopping, head turning this way and  that eyes always watching, even as her beak descended time and again to  pluck and peck at gobbets of gore where they flowed along a stream  toward her. Her eyes locked to him as she hopped about, moving to keep a  view of him as She continued to feed. At last She ceased her pecking  and opening her blood smeared beak let out a raucous caw upon him. 
Dagda turned away. She was not who he was here for, yet this time he knew were to look. 

Stepping  about he turned to follow the flow of the stream along the side of the  chamber, moving about the peoples where they stood or milled around. All  the while the flow of water began to darken and redden as more and more of the gore and gristly remains flowed passed.

Then he saw Her. Hunched and bent over the streams edge, features scarred  and lined, wisps of steely grey hair escaping her hooded cloak. Twisted  gnarled hands grasped blood soaked clothes, thrust them time and  again into the waters, ringing them then dunking again and again with a  relentless rhythm. The  Dagda slowly moved closer approaching her so that She could mark Him  with his slow passage. Taking up a seat beside her on the bank he  reached into the basket for the next bloodied item and joined her in the  washers work. Soon the Big mans hands and forearms were stained with the blood from the  garments, but he neither stopped nor raised complaint. This was the third, acceptance of responsibility for ones actions. 

No  words did they exchange for what words were needed. The Dagda worked  the garments with her and shed them of their gore marking each item for  the knowing of the owner. To his sadness there were a great many to be  washed, but he would not be stayed nor slowed and worked time and again  at each item to until they were clean and set aside for the drying, all  the while his big hands carried the stain of the blood upon them. So  many. The Dagda’s tears joined the flow of the streams waters.

Time in this space has no meaning as it does in the Other World, the world of season, sunshine and people. In this ‘saol eile’, you are as you are meant to be for as long as it’s meant to be. Still the toil of the labours set a soreness to match the sadness upon the Dagda until the redness of the stream at last began to lighten. The Dagda reached for the next item and found none for his blood stained hands to take up. Lifting his big head caused shooting agony about his neck and across his  shoulders but he looked up to see Her standing above him, her washers basket held empty in her strong, gnarled and twisted grip.

“Not as much as there might have been.”

With those words she turned and shuffled away, disappearing among the people. 
The  Dagda laboriously heaved himself upright, every part of his being in pain for the efforts he had undergone, every part of him but one. His mind was at peace.

With  shuffling step the Dagda began the return journey. Blood stained hands hanging limp at his sides, mind numb and not able to focus, the only thought left to him being how grateful he was to himself for making such a wide and sturdy path to carry him home.

“Not as much as there might have been.”

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