[Intro Plays]

[The sound of a campfire is accompanied by bass heavy droning in the background, and the sound of a beating heart. Echoing whispers and screams punctuate the notes. A metal door slams in the distance and sinister laughter fades in from the background]

[Story Begins]

Tales Under A Broken Sky – Episode 05 – The Old Gods Are Dying – Prologue

[Sound of mountain wind whistling in the background. Crows cawing occasionally in the distance]

It was getting cold.

The boy had no idea how long he had been sitting on the boulder, staring across the fields that stretched down the mountainside.

He shivered as he wrapped his hands around his body and burrowed down into his jacket. He hadn’t wanted to stay at the top of the ridge, but the ache in his tired legs had gotten too much. They were no longer brimming with the earlier energy that had propelled him across the mountain, keeping pace with his grandfather’s long stride.

[Sound of footsteps on mountainside scree. They stop, following by the sound of a dog barking and running in circles around]

He had asked to stop just as they had crested the hill.

His grandfather had hesitated, looking warily at the sun dipping towards the top of the hills ahead. They only had one more fence post to mend, just on the other side of the gently sloping hollow below, and he wanted to get the job done before dark. They’d lost enough of the flock already, and with autumn rapidly fading there wouldn’t be many more chances to repair the damaged boundaries.

He must have decided he could get it done faster working on his own because he had picked the boy up and sat him on a weathered boulder; giving strict instructions not to move. ‘You should be able to see me on the other side’, he had said, ‘and I’ll only be gone for a short while.’ His grandfather was trying to sound reassuring, but he could hear the edge in his voice.

[Sound of footsteps crunching on screen moving away. Sounds of dog barking, fading into the distance, echoing as they draw further away]

He watched anxiously from his perch as his grandfather descended the slope and made his way across the shallow dip, the sheepdog at his side. He had always been terrible at judging distance up the mountain. It seemed to him that everything was both closer and further away than it looked, and it seemed like an age before the two distant shapes reached the other side.

[Sound of mallet echoing across the valley]

He heard the sound of the mallet echoing across the shallow dip. And counted the beats automatically, in tune with the rhythm his grandfather had been setting since that morning. One, two, three. Pause. One, two for the posts. One, two-three for each of the nails.

Five beats for the post, a short rest and then another six.

Silence.

He stared across at the other hill waiting for his Grandfather to start back. But instead of turning back towards him, he moved towards the crest of the hill on the other side, and disappeared, the tireless dog following, bounding in circles across the hilltop.

And he waited.

[Sound of mallet again, fainter this time]

The rhythm started again. Fainter this time. He could feel the distance in the sound, feel it amplifying the space across the mountain.

There must have been another break.

He sighed in relief as the silence fell again.

He waited, staring at the hill.

Still, they didn’t reappear.

[Hammering again, even fainter, but echoes are more intense]

The hammering started again, fainter still. Low enough that he briefly questioned if it was only his imagination that was starting to play tricks on him. It was only the echo that he could hear now, the original sound lost, and it seemed to come from all directions at once.

This time, he felt strange as the silence fell. Uneasy and afraid.

[Sound of wind drops]

He leaned forward, huddled against the cold and concentrated on the small notch he was sure his grandfather would appear over any second.

The sun was half-hidden behind the hills by now, and the shadows of the boulders that littered the hillside and the shallow valley below lengthened menacingly.

He curled further into himself, wrapping his arms around his knees and drawing them up to his chest. He wished his grandfather would hurry up and return. He had never been left alone on that mountain like this before and he was getting anxious. Visions of hot stew and the steady warmth of the large range in his grandparent’s house taunted him as he shivered from the creeping cold.

[Loud hammering, out of tempo with the previous sounds]

He started and almost fell off the boulder as another hammer echoed across the valley. The tempo was different this time, slower and more ponderous. And the sound felt heavy, more forceful.

Was that still his grandfather? He shook his head. He had always been so calm and measured, but something about the sound was angry, desperate. It no longer sounded like it came from across the valley either, it now sounded like it was behind him. He tried to shrug the thought away, sound could play tricks on you up here, bouncing off the uneven terrain in unpredictable ways. And besides, they were in the heart of his Grandfather’s holding, there was no one else up here.

[Sounds of sheep bleating in the distance]

A sheep bleated in the distance, a nervous, edgy sound.

He took a tentative glance back up at the path they had followed, his heart leaping at the heavy fog now obscuring the way back. The way home.

[Sounds of sheep bleating in the distance, closer this time]

The sheep bleated again; closer?

He shifted on the boulder uneasily, and looked back down at the valley, hoping to see his grandfather on the way back.

He felt fingers crawling up his back as he turned. He froze halfway, shrugging his shoulders against the sensation, and looked nervously over his shoulder from the corner of his eye.

Nothing.

He couldn’t shake that feeling though, that petrifying terror seizing his spine.

He forced his head back towards the downslope, his eyes nervously darting as he scanned the landscape for his grandfather.

A low fog had settled into the bottom of the dip since he had looked away.

And a chill sank into his bones.

It was always quiet on the mountain, so far away from the sounds of activity he was used to; cattle, chickens scrambling about in the yard and the distant sounds from other nearby homesteads.

[Sound of wind has died to a whisper. Deep bass begins to play in the background, accompanied by deep, reverberating kick drums, and a slow synth tremolo]

But the silence tonight was different; muted and total.

Those fingers on his spine.

He jostled against them but they held tight.

His mind flickered to the old standing stones, crowning one of the nearby peaks. The ancient pitted stone and the heavy silence that hung over the circle. He had never gone near them willingly, never had much cause to in fact.

He shuddered at the thought. It had always bothered him that sheep broken off from the flock would never enter the ring. Not once. It was like an invisible boundary at the edge of the circle. They veered around it, giving it a wide berth

Even his grandfather shied away from their shadow. He had only taken the boy there once, and even then they stayed well back from the shadows cast by the looming stones.

He had been told in no uncertain terms that he was never to enter the ring, vague worries over unseen wells and deep channels the cited reason.

He didn’t need to be told twice, the ancient, rough carved stones, emanated an aura of dread, that intensified the closer you got. Even standing outside their shadow, it was all he could do not to run away screaming.

[Sound of sheep bleating again. Louder, and more intense, echoing heavily. Sound of scrambling feet on scree]

The sheep bleated again and he pulled his gaze away from the silent monoliths.

Panic. That sounded like panic. It seemed so far away in the fog, but was that the trampling of hooves?

[Bleating gets louder, hooves echo, fading into the distance]

The chorus of bleating found its way through the whiteness to him.

Away. It was fading.

He spun around, certain a cold hand had settled on his shoulder.

Was he too old for the Faeries that haunted his dreams, stealing away children, leaving demons in their stead? Too old for them to bother with him? Or too old to pay attention to the bedside tales?

But there was nothing but the slow slope down the fog covered basin.

[Sound of hard breathing, and heartbeats]

He gripped the rough rock, knuckles turning white, and his breathing turning ragged. The cold air burned raw in his lungs.

[Sound of something whooshing past to the left]

A shadow passed his peripheral vision, his eyes flinched towards it unbidden.

Once again, Nothing. Just the blankness of the fog.

He wanted to scream, call for his grandfather. But the sound caught in his throat.

[Whooshing sound to the right]

The fingers dancing along his spine increased their tempo, building to a shuddering crescendo.

He closed his eyes to the unseen wraith,

[Whooshing sound moving from left to right]

praying to any god he could remember the name of. Both the gods of his present and the gods of his ancestors. His tongue tripped over some of the names, names that had not been spoken outside of stories in centuries. He repeated the names over and over in a whispered catechism. But the gods remained mute.

[Whooshing sound moving from left to right]

Except once, as he mistakenly stuttered out a name he wished he hadn’t.

[Sounds of distant, echoing female laughter]

As the name left his lips, he could have sworn he heard a woman laughing in the distance, a sinister cackle that echoed manically in the fog. But it was so low and distant that he forced himself to deny its existence.

Invoking her name was a mistake, even if the people had lost faith in the old gods long ago. He huddled in further on himself, floating adrift in the fog that had become all-consuming.

[Sounds of battle, screams and fire echo all around]

He lost track of time, drifting along with the flowing tendrils of the fog. Images floated across his mind, twisted visions of the old stories, filled with blood and death and suffering. And her laugh. He heard it over and over again in the back of his mind.

[Sounds of distant, echoing female laughter, swirling around]

He became lost in it.

---

[Sounds suddenly drop out and the sounds of wind and the dog barking fades back in]

He was brought back to himself by a hand settling on his shoulder.

He flinched away as he felt the touch and jumped awkwardly from the boulder, tripping as he landed.

‘Boy, it’s me, Boy!’

His grandfather.

The old man emerged from the fog and crouched next to his grandson, a look of concern on his face.

‘Are you alright?’

He nodded, embarrassed.

‘I thought, I thought…’

‘I should never have left you, boy. There were a few more posts down and it took me longer than expected. The fog threw me off track a bit too.’

His grandfather whispered his apologies into his hair as he held him close.

He squeezed his eyes closed in relief, silently cursing at the fingers he still imagined on his spine. Stupid, he thought, I’m so stupid.

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost boy.’

He could only nod in response, his cheeks warming as he blushed.

He buried his head in his grandfather’s shoulder.

‘Nothing to worry about out there Boy. Not when I’m with you.’

It didn’t ring quite true in his ears though, and he buried himself further into his grandfather’s coat.

[Laughter again, very faint in the background]

The shadow of that woman’s laughter still tickled at his spine.

He felt the dog pawing at his shoulder and he turned to hug him as well.

Something wet and sticky rubbed off on his hand.

He glanced down and saw the blood. He stared in confusion and horror, the deep red liquid was warm on his skin and his nerves tingled under it.

His grandfather flinched when he noticed and he reached down to quickly to wipe away the blood, washing the last of it away with a splash from the flask of spring water at his hip.

He could have sworn his grandfather whispered something under his breath as he worked, but he couldn’t make out the words.

‘Poor dog got caught in some barbed wire. That’s all.’ The excuse sounded forced and flat, and his grandfather made no move to tend to any wounds on their companion. He had never known his grandfather to neglect the dog, and it seemed strange to him now.

Looking across at the man from the corner of his eye, he studied him again. Was that blood on the bottom of his cane as well? And had he been extra cautious when cleaning the blood from his hands, as if he feared to touch it?

He let himself sink further into the man’s arms, taking comfort in their strength. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were still not alone.

The fog closed in, and he thought for an instant that he heard her voice again, a faint whisper of a whisper, no longer a laugh. Just three short words, stretched out and attenuated.

[Whispering echoes in background with the wind]

You owe me

[Woman laughs distantly again]

[Background]

Good evening folks and welcome to Episode 05 of Tales Under A Broken Sky. I am your host Keith and I hope you enjoyed this week’s episode.

This is an interesting episode for me, as it marks the first instalment of a longer running serialisation. This is a story I have been playing around with for a few years now, although sadly it has taken a backseat to a few more advanced projects. I have a few chapters sketched out, although this is quite literally the full extent of the story so far.

Generally I start a new story in one of two places. I have the opening scene, or the closing one, and very little on the other side. This is one of those where I have a very clear picture of the opening sequences, and a bit of a feel for what I want it to be, but have quite literally no idea as to where the story is actually going to go.

This feels a bit daunting to me, as if I want to keep moving forward and produce frequent-ish updates to the story, then it means that I will finally need to sit down and decide where the piece is going. Or, you know, we could just wing it and hope that the plot holds together over time.

It feels a bit inevitable, and perhaps a bit cliched in my more cynical moments, to be writing a story like this. Growing up in Ireland, in particular rural Ireland, it is hard not to feel like you are surrounded by history. There is a standing stone not much more than a twenty minute walk from my doorstep, I spent much of my childhood following my grandfather around, chasing sheep on rugged mountainsides, and some of my most vivid childhood memories involve stone circles and tales of druids, mythical warriors and fierce battles.

But it also seems to me, that every young person with an interest in writing in Ireland, has at some stage, thought about, considered or written a story, based on or inspired by these tales. While tales of the Scandinavian, or Greco-Roman gods and pantheons might be more familiar to modern audiences, especially with the rise in popularity of superhero movies. Nothing, at least in my own estimation, has the same sense of ‘fit’ to its place of origin, as the mythological cycles of Ireland. Crossing the Cork/Kerry border, in places it almost feels like crossing over into a Lord of The Rings movie, and it is difficult not to sense the connection of the land to the broader sense of being Irish. I may be paraphrasing Seamus Heaney a bit here, Bogland, is perhaps my favourite of his poems.

I’m probably referencing a plethora of tropes and cliches here, but the land is in our blood. The land is our history, and it is a history dotted with stone circles, cairns, dolmans, crumbling castles, fairy forts and wonders like Newgrange. Urbanisation often means some of this is hidden away, lost somewhere in translation between the past and the future, but still it is impossible to escape. It is hidden in plain sight in our language, in the Irish naming of the seasons, months and days. In the subtle recognition of ancient religious festivals in the face of more classical influences.

In the face of foreign invasions, colonisation, famine, globalisation and modernisation, we still pay tribute to a past that clings stubbornly to our consciousness.

What happens to a god when they are no longer worshipped or remembered? What happens when those old gods are no longer anything but whispers in old stories told to children at bedtime? And what happens when something long forgotten is remembered anew? Even just by one person.

But what if they were never truly forgotten, just neglected and ignored, and left to their own devices. Are the old gods ever truly forgotten when people still carve turnips at Samhain, build bonfires for Bealtaine, or make pilgrimage to Newgrange each year on the solstice?

Until next time.

[CTA]

Thank you for listening to Episode 05 of Tales Under a Broken Sky, I hoped you enjoyed this week’s production as much as I enjoyed writing and recording it.

If you did enjoy it, please consider subscribing to the podcast on your platform of choice, and leaving a rating and/or review.

Thank you again for your time. Stay tuned to hear a brief trailer for the next episode

[Trailer]

Tales Under A Broken Sky – Episode 06 – Pretender – Prologue

[Nighttime sounds in the background. Sound of brazier burning to the right. Sounds of music and revelry drift out from the inn. Intermittent sounds of horses in the stable across the yard]

Darian crouched low behind the uneven wooden fence surrounding the inn’s yard. He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, trying in vain to ease the dull ache in his legs and lower back. He’d been lying in wait for hours, hidden in the small, withered cluster of thornwood abutting the yard. He longed to stand and move again, to stretch out cold muscles and stiff joints. The discomfort didn’t bother him; his childhood and training had burned all of that out of him. But if the plan, Alaric’s plan not his, he noted grimly, turned sour, he didn’t want tired, cold muscles hindering his escape. He was already weighted down by the shirt of mail his benefactor had forced him to wear, against his own strenuous objections.

Nothing about the situation sat well with him. But that seemed to be a common theme in his life as of late. Anger welled in his chest as he recalled his apprentice’s betrayal and how he had been so easily caught up in Alaric’s schemes again. Darian had believed that he was finally in control of his life. Finding out that all of that had been an illusion. Nothing, nothing but a brutal pretence designed with the sole purpose of snaring him deeper in Alaric’s webs of intrigue had broken him, more thoroughly than any of the constant beatings and deprivations of his upbringing in the guild had.

The muffled sound of the soldiers’ boisterous singing drifted out through the back door. Darian sighed, and rolled his shoulders, renewing his effort to distract himself from the cold and the growing ache in his lower back. He listened intently, trying to identify the ballad the men were currently butchering more soundly than they had their enemies.

Badb, that bastard must have a bladder of iron! He cursed softly under his breath as he gave up trying to figure out the melody.

Darian’s instincts told him that something felt off, he just couldn’t see what.

[Narration fades to Outro]

[Outro Plays]

[The sound of a campfire is accompanied by bass heavy droning in the background, and the sound of a beating heart. Echoing whispers and screams punctuate the notes. A metal door slams in the distance and sinister laughter fades in from the background. All of the sounds are louder and closer, the atmosphere is more claustrophobic]