Forsaking the Old Faith
An Eachann and Connor Story
Eachann MacLeod and Connor Ua Sreng return for another adventure! Their travels take them to the northeastern coast of Alba where the Seal People hold dominion over the land and sea. Although they dislike outsiders, the Seal People have heard tell of the lads’ deeds and believe they could rid them of an ancient, bloodthirsty entity that has loomed over their tribe since their dimmest days.
The sand seemed to laugh through its sea-soaked grains as Eachann and Connor fled from the Seal People. The lads allowed themselves a single glance over their shoulders to witness their pursuers; over a dozen men chased them. They were short, stout people, with dark hair and eyes, and deep blue spirals of woad tattooed on their naked arms and chests—other images upon them were fishtails and jaws of sea monsters. The Seal People—known as Selkies to themselves—whooped and cried out in their tongue, foreign to the lads, swinging flint weapons wildly above their heads. They had leapt out from behind low crags on the shore and gave chase the moment the lads set foot on the beach. Those crags rose into cliffs as they went down the narrow strip of virgin sand. The waves on the right of the runners licked the shore in sheets of foam. Pungent brine wafted on chill winds from the water, making breaths short-lived and burning their nostrils.
One of the hunters paused for a moment and hurled a spear. It landed right between his prey.
“Macrall!” shouted Eachann, the lad closest to the sea. He was a lean, copper-haired youth with fair freckled skin and grey eyes. A short chuckle escaped his throat—for all the danger he was in, he was still a boy and thrilled easily. He looked to his left and addressed his companion hastily, “Any bright ideas; shall we try climbing the crags?”
The landward lad, Connor, was shorter—or rather, his hunched posture made him shorter—than Eachann. He had sun-tanned skin with hair and eyes as dark as the Seal People’s. Sweat dripping from his brow ran between a symmetrical ridge of proto-horns. He huffed his response, “No, we should swim.”
“These are no normal Picts,” Eachann said. “They’re Seal People; those hides they wear are those of sea lions. They’ll change into them, chase us down there, and probably rend us.”
Connor gave a quick furrowed glance to his ally. “Any other bright ideas, O Knife—”
A huge net, weighted by stones on eight sides, fell from the cliffs upon the lads and pinned them to the sand. The holes in the net were woven too small to reach out of, but they could see the shadows of the Seal People gather above them against the grey sky. The shouts gave way to hasty whispers as they trained their weapons—spears, axes, spiked clubs, short bows, hooked fishing staves, and a single crossbow—over the vital areas of the lads’ bodies. The lads did not dare squirm.
“I don’t suppose you speak Pictish,” Connor grumbled.
“I’ve been told that mine has a bad taste,” Eachann confessed. “Even then, these Seal People are far removed from most Picts.”
The Seal Person with the crossbow leaned closer. He was a man whose hair was shaved down the sides, with the remaining length split and braided together around his neck and down the front of his bare, woad-covered chest. Besides a pair of woolen trousers, the only thing he wore was a sleek sealskin on his back. He kept his weapon trained on Eachann but looked him in the eye.
“Gwadell,” the crossbowman said after a moment of silence. Many of the other Seal People changed the target of their weapons from Connor to Eachann.
Eachann contorted his face as the word came to his ears. “It’s pronounced Gay-al; I’m a Gael you fish-loving, salt-smelling sav—”
Though prone, Connor managed to jab Eachann before a tirade compromised the both of them. “Hush now, he knows what you are, what if he knows a few words of Gaelic as well?”
“Unlikely,” Eachann grumbled. The weapons came a little closer to Eachann’s chest, stomach, heart, and groin.
Connor sighed. “If we get out of this, it will be another story worthy for a bard’s lips.”
The Seal People suddenly stopped their advancement. They muttered amongst each other, some quietly echoing the word “bard.”
But Eachann, in his quiet fury, failed to witness their hesitance. “Aye, we have some good material for Llewis so far—”
The crossbowman completely lowered his weapon and crouched over the lads. He looked them both in the eyes, widening some of the holes in the net with his fingers to better see their faces. He even tapped Connor’s horns; the lad grimaced at the touch.
In broken Gaelic, the crossbowman said, “You know…Llewis? Bard Llewis?”
Eachann and Connor exchanged glances; the former said to their captor, “Yes, he is known well to me.”
The crossbowman nodded and stood. He waved his hands at his troop of twenty, speaking commands as he did, and they put away their weapons. With another order in Pictish, two hunters pulled off the net. The crossbowman leaned over the lads and put his hands above them, preventing them from rising just yet.
“Weapons, shields,” he demanded.
Eachann hissed between his teeth, but he relented and removed his round shield with the heraldry of a bull from a strap on his back, his sword—with a crossguard shaped like the rim of the moon—from its sheathe on his left hip, and a dirk wrapped in leather from between his belt and waist. Connor relinquished a tall ovular shield and a simple, yet finely-crafted club. Once those had been put into the Picts’ hands, the lads were guided to their feet, and their hands were bound with coarse rope, the same kind as the net, but less slimy.
“We take you to Llewis,” said the crossbowman, “but if you know him not we feed you to sea.”
“At least I like swimming,” Eachann retorted. The crossbowman glowered and went behind the lads, urging them forward with a tap from the head of his loaded bolt.
“You have quick tongue, Gwadell,” said the crossbowman as his captives started forward. The other Seal People gathered behind Eachann and Connor, shaping themselves into a bowl-like formation to close in on and catch any runners.
“I must say, Eachann,” Connor said quietly, “these people, from what little I remember, remind me of my own Fir Bolg kin.”
Eachann snickered. “Really now? The Fir Bolg can’t be as backwards as this lot, can they?”
Connor shot his foot at Eachann’s shin when he was not looking, causing his ally to stumble and nearly fall. The Seal People behind them stopped and shouted at Eachann. The crossbowman steadied and shoved him.
“You’ll have to excuse him,” Connor said, glancing back to his captors, “he trips over his words, sometimes.”
***
The settlement of the Seal People was centered around a short stone broch on a low hill that overlooked the sea. Walls of grassy sod topped with stone palisades made out the perimeter, ending at the natural wall of unscalable crags to the northeast. Eachann and Connor were led off the beach and into wild, windswept grass a few miles back. They reached the encampment when the sun exposed itself for the final time that day; a sliver of molten orange slid below the western mountains. Wisps of smoke, a little darker than the sky drifted above the walls, and sounds of commerce and the drone of conversations followed.
Two shield-bearing guards at the gate called out to the approaching party. The crossbowman called back and gave Eachann and Connor each a shove as he spoke. One of the guards shouted and the doors opened, pushed by brawny guards from the interior. Sod and stone huts riddled the hilly area, some of those mounds were carved out for living spaces, and each place of common gathering had a firepit burning with bundles of peat. Eachann and Connor were led in and pushed through the village. A rough, trodden trail snaked through the homes and branched off into smaller ones, leading to other corners of the place; the party stuck to the former. Just above the heads of the party, the earthy smoke of the peat fires converged with the ripeness of wet wool, the salt-slime stink of fish, and the anchoring pull of rain-soaked mud. All the while, Eachann tried to keep his chin high, but Connor made no such display. Some of the hunters broke off to reunite with their kin while half a dozen remained, the crossbowman included, to escort the lads. Men, women, and children broke their eyes from their duties as the newcomers passed. The word Gwadell was echoed throughout the murmurs and jeers spoken by the observant folk.
The escort came to the foot of the hill where the broch sat, surrounded by a wall of sod and stone like the one that encompassed the entire village. The party entered through a gap the wall and ascended the hill. Guards who wore sealskins like the crossbowman descended from their posts flanking the threshold of the broch; an orange glow pulsed from within. They spoke with the crossbowman in Pictish who replied and gave Eachann a brief shove in the middle of his explanation. When their conversation resolved, the guards turned around and marched upward, and the party followed behind. At the threshold, the guards resumed their posts, facing each other on opposing sides as the party entered the broch.
Inside, the earthy blanket of peat-smoke was thick, but Eachann found some comfort in it. He found even more comfort in a song echoing up the walls of the broch; the verses welcomed the party through a short passage between the broch’s main hall and the rest of the world. Two thresholds flanked the main passage; sniffs and mutters sounded from within the one on the right, and the one on the left led to ascending stairs. Eachann breathed a sigh with Connor as they came within the main hall, for they knew who gave the song. The place was small but still fit many kin, retainers, and servants standing, kneeling, and sitting. They all faced northwards where the tribal king of these Seal People sat on a wooden throne upon a stone dais. A cross made of bundled sticks, as tall as a man, dangled above the seat, lashed together by rough rope.
Open urns lining the circular wall breathed thin arms of flame from their bellies and crackled softly between the singer’s breaths. Smoke from a central hearth that was unseen by the newcomers—for it was crowded by the audience—rose up to the second floor of wood planks with a hole in the center filled with dangling fish, and up to the thatched dome of a roof.
The lads’ captors led them along the right side of the hall. They moved with ease and stealth as to not break the gathering.
However, Eachann whispered to Connor, “By Crom’s head! How did Llewis get to this side of Alba?”
“Shut your trap; I thought your people weren’t supposed to break a Bard’s spell,” Connor replied. Afterwards, the crossbowman yanked Eachann’s braid sharply, but the Gael ground his teeth, so he would not cry out.
The party stopped halfway around the hall—some of the crowd towards the middle rested themselves on the ground, exposing the high flames of the hearth. A small, empty path from the northernmost end linked a thin space around the hearth to the throne of the king, a small elder whose darkness had left his hair and long, braided beard. Under his eyes were designs of woad that looked green in the flames’ glow. Like everyone else, he stared at the figure in the center who walked around the hearth; a tall man with black hair cut short gave the song. He donned a set of blues robes and lashed across his left eye was a cloth of matching hue. His words were unfamiliar to the lads, but his face was welcome to them. They joined the silence of the rest of the hall until the Bard’s song ended.
The final words rose and dissipated with the smoke. When their resonance faded, the silence was broken by cries of celebration, as if a great battle had just been won. The Bard smiled and bowed to his audience, making a separate one to the king who had tears tumbled into his beard—though a huge smile crossed his face.
“Llewis!” Eachann yelled against the din. “Bard Llewis!”
Eachann’s cries caught Llewis’ attention and he dropped his smile to search for the inquirer. He looked through the heads and raised hands of the crowd and soon smiled again as he met Eachann and Connor’s eyes.
“By all that is wild and grey in this land,” Llewis made his way through the Picts, “and it so happens we meet again. Oh, how are you, lads?”
Though, some of the Picts turned with Llewis’ traversal and their eyes fell on the captives, bringing rise to another round of “Gwadell.”
The crossbowman, before Llewis could touch the lads, put himself between the Bard and them. Llewis cleared his throat and spoke in Pictish, but the crossbowman argued, until Llewis raised his voice slightly so that it boomed in the hall. The increase even jostled the lads in their place. The crossbowman stepped aside and Llewis came up to Eachann and Connor, smiling, but frowned and pointed at their bound hands. After two quick slices from another captor’s knife, the lads and Llewis embraced each other.
“O Llewis, what brings you to Caith?” asked Eachann as he and Llewis separated.
“Why the spreading of your tale, Eachann,” answered Llewis. “The story of Eachann Scían Tethrach MacLeod must be heard by all tribes.”
Llewis frowned as he looked towards Eachann’s belt. “Where’s it gone? Ah, they’ve taken it haven’t they? You there!”
Llewis pointed to the Pict who carried the lads’ war gear and gave orders in Pictish. Soon, Eachann and Connor were reunited with their things, but tradition of hospitality made them keep the killing-ends to the ground.
“Well then…” Llewis sighed, “I should ask the same thing of you lads; why are you here?”
“Eachann wished for me to see the whole of Alba,” said Connor. “Though, we’ve had a few chance encounters along the way.”
“It’s all part of being in my land,” Eachann protested. “Don’t tell me you didn’t face any foreign monsters or strange cults in Éirinn.”
Connor glowered at Eachann, brow furrowed. “I didn’t because I was in a pit for half my life. But I supposed our ‘chance encounters’ have been…enculturating.”
Llewis waved his hands. “Ah, enough for now, I should like to hear your news, lads, somewhere quieter.”
Eachann nodded and glanced around; some Picts were staring at him, still spitting, “Gwadell.”
“Llewis,” he took his eyes off his observers, “how did you fare so well against the Picts?”
“Hmm?” Llewis flicked his eyes over his shoulder, “oh! you see, it happens that my people—the Cymry—and the Picts share some of the same words. When I first encountered them they were hostile, much like in the common songs the Gaels sing of them, but when I pled, they halted long enough for me to sing them a song.”
Llewis pointed over to the king, who wiped his eyes and sighed. “Their king, Fiachu, was also so taken by my songs that he has allowed me a place in his broch; it’s been almost three weeks now.”
King Fiachu looked over to Llewis and the lads. His bittersweet expression suddenly scrunched up and he pointed at Llewis and leaned forward. He croaked out a few words and upturned his finger, curling it towards him.
“Ah, it would seem king Fiachu wishes to speak with you,” Llewis explained. The Bard led the lads through the crowd whilst the crossbowman followed a few paces behind. They came past the breath of the hearth and up to the path to the throne. They stopped just before an imprint in the stone floor; a man’s footprint was carved into one of the flagstones before the king.
Fiachu kept his finger up—it quavered—pointing at Eachann and Connor behind Llewis who stepped aside. The Bard introduced them most elegantly in Pictish, adding wide gestures and expressive tones.
Then, he leaned closer to the lads and whispered, “You should kneel, now.”
Eachann remained stoic, but Connor knelt.
“Eachann, down!” Connor jammed his fist behind Eachann’s knee, and he went down with a curse.
“Macrall! Alright! Alright!” Eachann straightened himself and cast his eyes down. Though he glanced up as Fiachu’s ancient woolen robes scraped against the throne when he leaned farther forward. The king was silent long enough for Eachann and Connor’s knees to grow cold and sore against the stone, but they upheld their homage. Fiachu shuffled back into place and spoke.
Llewis translated. “‘Ye outsiders are of Llewis’ songs, if what he says about Sreng’s Greatest Grandson and Scían Tethrach is true…’”
“Why did he address you first?” Eachann whispered, glancing at Connor. The Fer Bolg grunted and jostled Eachann on the shoulder.
“‘There is a trouble in my land I, and my tribe, would much like to see brought to an end…’”
Eachann looked over his shoulder at Llewis, brow furrowed. “Has he no warriors among his tribe to settle this matter?”
Llewis quickly suppressed the interruption and spoke to Fiachu who scowled as he answered, “‘I would, but this thing—an ancient one—has brought suffering to all Selkies who tried before; it cannot be killed by one of our own.’”
“Your own?” Connor echoed.
“Hush, now.” Llewis finished Fiachu’s proposition. “‘I am old…too old to be worrying about blood-feuds between Selkies and Gwadells’—sorry, Eachann, Gaels—‘I wish to have this curse pass into legend, so that it can remain that way, just a story.’”
“Trouble?” Eachann said. “Thing? Curse? Llewis, speak plainly.”
“I only speak all that he is telling me, although I’m not sure myself what Fiachu is saying. It seems whatever he speaks of is some kind of threat to his people that has been around a long time.”
Fiachu spoke further and leaned forward, his eyes trained on Eachann and Connor. Llewis further translated: “‘There is a stone that stands within an ancient circle. Etched upon it is an idol of a pagan devil—the Vuadd—a demon of blood and slaughter who once brought fortune to the Selkies for a price, but now it seems only sadness is what remains once it comes into our settlement. We have been under its rule for so long none of us can lift a blade against it, although we have turned to the true God. You, outsiders, can for you do not share the same blood-fealty.’”
The king went silent. The other Picts whispered and cast their gazes on the lads. The pair looked back to Llewis.
“Fiachu awaits your promise,” Llewis pointed at the footprint in the stone.
Eachann stood up and shuffled away. Fiachu scowled and the crossbowman reached for his belt quiver full of arrows. Connor arose and held up both hands, palms outward, at the king and his soldier.
“I will promise my arm and shield in the endeavor.” Connor moved for the footprint.
Eachann grabbed his arm. “What are you doing? We can’t stay here!”
“It looks to be the only way we can get out with our skins,” said Connor. “Besides, whenever do you turn down a good adventure?”
Connor shucked himself out of Eachann’s grip and his right foot out of his shoe as well. Fiachu’s wrinkles smoothed out and he reclined as Connor approached the footprint and placed his foot into the imprint—though, his was a bit larger than the ancient Selkie who first put it there.
Llewis orated something as the whispers of the Picts expanded in volume. He repeated in Gaelic, “Connor Ua Sreng pledges himself to aid king Fiachu and the Selkies.”
Connor stepped back beside Eachann, looking between him and the footprint. The Gael, however, crossed his arms.
“What makes these people less worth saving?” Connor wondered aloud.
Eachann looked around at the half-shadowed faces in the smoky, autumnal aura of the hearth. Mothers held their daughters and babies off the cold stone floor; fathers stroked their sons’ hair; elders sighed deeply as they watched a new chapter in their long, grey histories unfolding before them. Taking in the peat smell once more, Eachann felt a little homesick, especially when looking at a pair of bairns—a boy and girl—side-by-side.
Dun Bhegan, he thought, my home on an isle on the other side of this land.
Eachann faced Fiachu, approached with his mouth in a straight, hard line and eyes locked on the kings, and stopped a step from the footprint. He removed his boot and set his foot down.
“Eachann Scían Tethrach MacLeod has pledged himself to aid king Fiachu and the Selkies.” Bard Llewis’ words were drowned out by a round of cheers.
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“Forsaking the Old Faith” © Ethan Sabatella 2025 – Current Year, All Rights Reserved. Reprinting or replication of this work in its entirety in any form (written, audiovisual, etc.) without express permission of the author is prohibited. Excerpts may be used for review or promotional purposes with credit and acknowledgement of the author. This piece cannot be used for training of Artificial Intelligence programs.
What a pleasure to find this. I look forward to more. The contrasting and comparable camaraderie between the two fellows is relatable for the inner conflicts of one's self.
Another good story. I’m glad that Eachann came around to Connor’s way of thinking and decided to join in the fight!