It is then that Lug said: I may look small next to you, but I am the one who will choose the day of your death. And Balor replied: Now I see that in the germ of the seed that I planted lies the form of my own destruction. Lug replied: It is so, for…
Category: Stories by Chris Thompson
Chris Thompson’s retellings of the old stories. All work copyright Chris Thompson.
The Morrigan’s View
Then the Morrigan said … So it came to battle at the last. It came, at last, to red and slaughterous battle as it always has, and it always will. It came, at the last, to the calling of kings To the feats of feasting The feasts of poetic words The talking and taking of…
The Craftsmen and the Fomoire Spy
The battle lines were drawn up. Spear-tips glinted in the sunlight, a forest-line of readiness. The sharpness of swords behind shields. He would not stand in that line. He would not shed the redness of his blood in that battle Rúadán was not a fighter, but he might have been. Too young, they told him, too…
The Dagda’s Track
The Oak of two meadows The rightness of Four Angles Come Summer, Come Winter Mouths of harps and bags and pipes And didn’t that harp fly? Like a spring storm that scatters the blossom of apples. Like an Autumn wind that whips the waves into flowers of foam. Oh, yes, that harp flew, its melodies…
The Coming of Lugh
The Door-Keeper Speaks… Who is this young warrior who came late to the gate of Tara, after the feasting was begun? Who is this fine and shining youth who stood before me, Camall Mac Riagail, gate-keeper of the Túatha Dé? Oh, he was pleasant to look upon, his cloak threaded with gold. He was tall…
The Story of Bres
It wasn’t his fault. How could one so noble, so beautiful, have been at fault? He was the golden youth, the beloved one chosen by his mother’s people. How could it all have gone so wrong? How had his golden dreams become so tarnished? He had grown up with his mother’s glowing stories. “When you…
The Story of Nuada
Nuada stared into a palm of silver, a cupped pool reflecting a refracted and shattered image of his frowning face. He held the hand up before him, flexed his fingers and five silver rays flared like a crown around his image. So it worked to his will then. It was more than a magnificent glove….
The Morrigan’s Prophecy
From “the Morrigan’s prophecy” spoken at the close of the battle of Moytura. (based on the translation by Isolde Carmody) Beneath the peaceful heavens lies the land. It rests beneath the bowl of the bright sky. The land lies, itself a dish, a cup of honeyed strength, there, for the taking, offering strength to each…
Brig and Rúadán
It was the first time keening had been heard in the green land of Ireland. The poetry of mourning, the ritual of the eulogy. Brig keened for her lost son, her impetuous red-headed boy, Rúadán. Rúadán was dead, killed by the spear of Goibniu, and the smithcraft of the Dé Danann, killed as a…
Airmed’s Story
Airmed The green grey morning is soft with mist. Airmed sits on the soft earth of the mound, her yellow cloak spread empty before her covering the damp earth. All around her lie green herbs, no longer fresh and growing for they were harvested in hope and are now scattered in sadness. Airmed gathers the…