Shanakee's Tale Read online

  But he did understand. He understood the pain in Sena’s chest and the need to fill this void with purpose. He nodded. “Just never forget that this is your home.”

  With these words, he left to continue the preparation for the burial.

  He thought of John, whose corpse they had never found. Had he perished? Had they taken him?

  Several hours later, when the sun had crossed the horizon, they had piled up the corpses on pyres and lit the fires. The notes of the ancient Gaelic song rose in the air. Tonight was the night of the dead. Tomorrow, they would begin the day of the living.

  Sena had left before the funeral, without saying goodbye. Arthur looked at the lake where only several years ago, John, Sena, and he had bathed during the night, innocent boys without a care in the world. It seemed an eternity away.

  Arthur peered into the vastness of the Glencoe valley when he saw a figure against the sky that was still slightly lit by the fading sunlight. He narrowed his eyes, preparing to raise his dagger. But then he recognized him. It was Conall.

  As he came closer, he saw that he was carefully carrying a small bundle at his chest. A child. Arthur smiled. It felt like a sign for a new life from the gods. A new beginning for all of them.

  CONALL

  The flames flickered and lit the curios faces gathered around the huge fire.

  It was the feast Lughnasa where they celebrated the beginning of the new harvest. Conall looked around. It had grown very silent and the anticipation felt electric in the air. Even his grandson, who was six already, stared at him with wide, big eyes. Kyla’s eyes. They were expecting the Shanakee’s tale. The storyteller’s magic. Conall smiled, spread his arms, and began to speak: “Today, I will tell you the story of Prometheus. A god, a man, no one really knows.” Conall closed his eyes, emerging himself into the ancient myth he had grown so accustomed to tell. “Back in the ancient days, when the gods still walked among men, and the earth was raw and untouched, the gods saw the potential and power mankind could acquire, and they feared it. So they made a plan to rob mankind of fire, rob it of power, warmth and means of survival. This way, they intended to eternally rule over men. Submit them to their will.”

  The audience stared at him while he intentionally distorted his face in anger.

  “But Prometheus would not watch his creation suffer any longer from the suppressing hands of the false gods. It was him, after all, who had created mankind out of clay, and nourished it since. So he took a fennel stalk, lit it in the heavens, and brought it back to earth, this way restoring fire to humanity, and giving back their power and dignity.” His voice rose. “So what is fire but the power to live freely, be bold, and strong? What is fire but power to suppress your enemies?”

  The reaction followed as intended. The people murmured in approval, and movement began in the crowds. It always happened when he told this story throughout the villages of the Outer Areas, here in the Highlands. But Glencoe was his home, and he was glad to be back. It had flourished in the past years, many houses were rebuilt, and the population grew steadily. Conall glanced over to Arthur McIan, who had proven to be a leader like his father. He still occupied the new big hall on his own, unable to get over Aideen’s ghost.

  “But the gods were angry with Prometheus. They condemned him to eternal punishment. Chained to a rock of a mountain he hung for ages, suffering for our good, for what he had done for mankind.” Every time he said those words, he could not help but think of John. What had become of him? Conall hoped that he was dead, but he doubted it. Manasseh would not be finished with him that quickly. “An eagle ate from his liver every day, and every day it would grow back as Prometheus was immortal. So his agony continued for ever and ever. Never ending pain. He was ready to pay the price for the redemption of humankind.”

  Conall made a pause, eyeing his audience with intention, one after another.

  “He is still among us. And one day, he will rise again.””

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  About the Author

  D. Wink is striving to kidnap her readers into make-believe worlds, blend the borders between past and future, and master her own curiosity. In her spare time, she directs movies and rewatches Christopher Nolan films, empowers creatives to tell stories themselves on storyartist.me and explores theatres, cities and wilderness with her bearded dancer husband.

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