It wasn’t the lion who killed him.

Rian walked out of a meadow containing his tent and his dog and his six-year-old son, blinked in the disorienting shock of going through the Veil, and out into a different meadow with a lion pacing around a tree. In the tree were two children, praying and clutching each other. Rian surveyed the rest of the scene—empty except for himself—sighed, and drew his sword.

On the very few occasions Rian has told this story, this is where the listener always interrupts to say there aren’t any lions in Ireland.

Rian shakes his head. He knows there aren’t supposed to be any lions in Ireland.

“I don’t know who put it there,” he replies. “I’m nothing but the hired muscle-man. I just arrive and chop things up.”

Anyone who knows Rian well enough to hear his true stories has their opinion about whether Rian is defined by his brawn, but Rian just shakes his head again. 

“I’m good with my sword, and had the misfortune that our Good Neighbors noticed me. That’s it. Did you want to hear about the lion or not?”

Rian conquered the lion. He felt bad for it, because it wasn’t the lion’s fault that it was trying to catching children in a rowan tree in the Kingdom of Leinster, instead of catching gazelles on the African savannah, but his library had been bringing him Barbara Kingsolver lately and he knew that an apex predator in the wrong ecosystem is only going to cause problems for everyone. So he killed the lion.

In the middle of that fight, he got a scratch on his arm and took a tumble that left some bruises, nothing bad. And those healed up just fine.

But the children were too hysterical to come out of the tree, or simple drop where Rian could catch them. He tried and tried to persuade them. The one that was old enough to have sense was in the throes of some sort of religious fervor, and seemed to be waiting for Jesus to remove her to solid ground. The younger one tried to follow Rian’s instructions, but when the branch swayed (as branches do) he lost what was left of his wits, poor mite, and would do nothing but cling to the trunk and wail.

So Rian climbed the tree, slung the boy on his back, and climbed down, with the clutches transferred to his neck in a highly uncomfortable way. And the older sister still would do nothing but wail about Jesus. 

“It’s a trauma response,” Rian announced to the empty meadow. “They can’t help it.”

And he climbed the tree again, and tried to manage the girl, but she was somewhat chubby and wouldn’t stop throwing her hands around, and then when they were halfway down the boy touched the dead lion and the girl flailed like mad. Rian couldn’t help but drop her but she took him down with her. 

It wasn’t a bad fall. It knocked the breath out of him for a solid few seconds, but he got up again. He had just hit a snag somewhere, in the tree or on the ground, and it ripped his pants and chafed his thigh. Just shallow and annoying. He still had to get the children back to their village, wherever it was, and so he went through all the tedious and necessary steps to manage that. It turned out they were wealthy children, and their father was very grateful, and he held a feast and gave Rian a bed for the night. But the next day Rian had to attend meetings and explain about the lion, because lions don’t belong in Ireland. That was normal. He usually stayed in a place for several days after the sword work was done. 

The healers took very good care of him, especially the scratch from the lion’s claw. The scrape from the fall out of the tree seemed like nothing, but two days later, it flared up raw and throbbing. Within hours, Rian couldn’t walk or lift his head, the pain spreading in red rivulets up his leg. The healers gave his teas, put on poultices, heated the room so the sweat poured off of him, but Rian’s head sagged against the pillows. The pain faded as the fever built. He didn’t care.

When he is telling the story, Rian knows that it sounds dramatic to say that the tree killed him, given that he is—well, telling the story. Not dead. But no matter how many books he reads, how many places he visits, Rian belongs to his own time. He was born in the world he was born in. And in that world, Rian knows death as well as he knows the back of his hand, as well as he knows the rhythm of the seasons and the rising of the sun. He knows what it looks like when someone dies of blood poisoning, and it is exactly that. It happened to him. He died.

In the bed in the rich man’s house, the only thought Rian could hold on to was his love for his son. 

“River,” he mumbled, then “River!” he yelled. 

The healers gave him water, and he swallowed automatically, his fading mind on his son. He had left River in the meadow. He had the charms to come back to him, but he had to come back. Even with a dog to protect him, the child couldn’t last long in the woods. He had to get back. He had to get back!

Rian clutched his armlet, which burned—although everything burned by then. The extremity of illness, of death, is a doorway in and of itself, but where could it take him? Medicine. Was there anywhere, any when, with medicine that could heal this? Charms, charms for the Veil. Like calls to like. 

His head was blurry, suffused with love and panic and desperation. Love. He must return to River, he must, he must. He flailed one clumsy, lumpy arm and found a bottle on the table beside him. Medicine. The future. His hand closed around the bottle, his mind fixed on the future, Rian used the last pulse of his strength to push himself forward. Falling off the bed, into—

Cold pavement, bright sunlight. Voices talking, crying out. Women around him, white cloth fluttering. Hands gripped him, and Rian faded out of consciousness. 

He woke up a day or two later, his mind as clear and sharp as glass. What a fascinating place! He got talking to the fellow in the bed next to him, and then talking to the lady in white when she came back to give him more medicine. This was a hospital, he discovered, and later deduced that it had been built on exactly the site of the rich man’s house, which must have made it easier for the Veil to take one medicine bottle and one desperate wish and spit him out where he needed to be. 

The ladies dressed in white were nurses, and if he cocked his head and grinned, some of them were very cheerful about telling him anything he wanted to know. On a slow afternoon, he learned everything there was to know about antibiotics, cell diagrams and all. Rian loved cell diagrams, perched on the edge of his hospital bed and passing the pad of paper back and forth with the bemused nurse. So many new words to learn! So many truths about the human condition! By the time she brought a pile of pamphlets, an A-level textbook, and swished off to her next task, Rian had reached some conclusions: Antibiotics had brought him back from death. 

And if he had to keep doing this job, fighting lions and Celtic barbarians and whatever both Fionn and the armlet threw his direction, he was going to figure out how to keep antibiotics on hand. Oh, and some of these pain-killers too, they were amazing. And a fast-track to the hospital in 1971.

The last one was easy enough; he brought a memento of the place, of the time, a stone from the river in back. Later, he sewed them into another pouch, because you never know when you’re about to die but could get patched up with a modicum of modern medicine.

First, he went back to River.

Rian walked out through the trees, a half-opened flower and a smooth carved lump in his sweaty fist. His breath came short—what if this was the wrong time? Even a day late, everything could have gone wrong.

The dog bayed as he came into camp. The summer sun was sinking behind the hills, the breeze with the hint of night-time chill. Rian rubbed the dog’s ears, looking around desperately. The horse was cropping grass, swishing her tail, unconcerned, but River was nowhere to be seen.

In a flurry, the little boy burst out of the tent and threw his arms around his daddy’s waist. Rian gave a wordless cry and knelt, pulling his son’s body snug against his chest, rocking them back and forth. The dog pushed his nose in, licking them both.

After a minute, River pulled back. “I wasn’t scared,” he said earnestly. His face was covered with tear tracks, mud smeared up to one ear, his eyes swollen.

Rian smiled through his own tears. “Of course you weren’t,” he answered.

“You were just gone for a little while,” River insisted. 

“Longer than I meant. I’m sorry.” Rian knew it had been so much longer for himself than the boy. He was growing older faster than his child.

“But you were just getting a pheasant for dinner. And I can manage the camp now! I can! I could do it all night if I had to, ‘cause I’m brave!”

Rian patted his son’s back, rising to his feet. “You are that, for certain. But do you know what’s even better than being brave?”

River slipped his hand into his father’s. “Being smart? Being…prepared?”

“Yes.” They walked to the first circle. “What would be the first thing you would do, if you were in charge of camp for the whole night?”

“Make dinner!”

Rian chuckled. “First, who are you responsible for?”

“The dog and the horse,” River answered promptly.

Rian looked at the sky, purple and gold, and was profoundly grateful to be who he was, alive, with the honor of loving and being loved. That was enough with lessons for the night.

“That’s a good man,” Rian said. “I’m proud you always put other needs ahead of your own. Now, go and fetch your bedroll, and we’ll make a lovely snuggle nest for you right here, while I light the fire and make us a stew. And I’ll do the horse and dog, too.”

River gave his dad another flying hug. “I want a nest! But I’ll give the horse her dinner, I’ll do it!”

He was a good boy with a good heart, and Rian loved him. It was worth always coming back. 

The next summer there was too much fighting for a camping trip, but they had a long visit at midwinter. As River joined his foster mothers’ formal training program, Rian saw him at the solstice and equinox celebrations, but there were fewer quick and casual visits. Fionn mac Cumhaill had to learn that he could expect Rian to do anything—except during those days when River visited. Everything else had to pause for their time together.

For River had so much yet to learn. He was enthusiastic, yes, but he needed to learn to think before he dived forward. Like his father, he was charming and made friends easily; but unlike his father, he didn’t yet know how to consider whether his friends told the truth. 

In preparing to teach his son how to hold his temper, Rian learned how to control his own. In showing his son to slow down and listen, Rian noticed more about the world. In explaining to his son how to respect women, Rian held himself to a standard of respect. 

But there was still so much more, and children do not remember everything the first time you tell them. So by the time Rian heard a rumor that River’s mother might want to take him back, it seemed like nothing but the chatter of jackdaws. His mother would be more than welcome to be part of their lives, but she would want the best for River, and that meant his formal training with his foster mothers, and his heart-training with Rian. Nothing would come between them, certainly no woman.

“You aren’t going to get married, are you?” River asked.

to be continued…

The Knight and His Magical Armlet

Why am I receiving this?

You're signed up for the Sheltie Gazette, and this is a special book launch series. You will get several interconnected stories this week, and then back to your regular Sheltie-centered content. Search your in-box for "The first time was a burnt-out village" if you missed the first installment.

Is "The Knight & His Magical Armlet" a stand-alone?

All of the characters are introduced in Rian's first story, including how Rian ended up with his son River, who is based on the Irish mythology about Conchobar mac Nessa.

"From the first chapter, I was transported. Christy Matheson has created a universe where stories quite literally shape the world around us..."

"…richly woven with relatable, flawed characters who I truly rooted for right up to the beautiful and emotional ending."

The Squire and His Magical Library

Prefer reading a paperback?

Rian's paperbacks are coming out soon! Meanwhile, you can catch up with this omnibus edition of the first three books (plus a bonus short story). I just got my author copies, and as someone who has eye trouble, these are so soothing and beautiful to read!

Paperback fairy tales