The Children of Kellee

[Iconoclast]

Chapter 1

Apples & Goats



It is known, the bard of Kellee will tell you, that it was Belenus, God of Gods, who brought the gods’ various creations into one: Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter. With Spring, though they meant well, the gods Dagdha, Diancecht, and Lugh, made the horrible mistake of creating immortal creatures: the Fey. For it is only in mortality that life becomes truly meaningful and precious. Belenus, the God of Gods, in his wisdom, knew this to be true, and so with the help of Brigantia, with her hammer, and Manannan mac Lir, with his trident, created the world of mortals: Summer’s Children. But the glory and splendor of Summer has now come and gone, for Arawn, goddess of death, and Morrigan, goddess of discord, envious of Belenus’ creation sought to improve upon summer, but failed horribly.

And that is where we find ourselves in these ancient lands of mists, in the season of Autumn, in the ancient forested domain of Tepest, approaching the Harvest End’s festival.


“Come on, sundown is near and if we don’t hurry, we’ll miss the apple bobbing contest at the festival.” Rory of Kellee wasn’t worried about missing any contests, although he did hope to steal a dance or two with a fair lass. But he knew that his little sister, while she was bedridden with sickness, had prayed to Belenus that she’d be well enough to enter the contest. What did worry Rory was that this might be too taxing for her yet, for she, along with several children of Kellee, had just recovered, thanks to Aunt Abigail and her healers, from a mysterious illness that had the entire community on edge.

“I’m hurrying!” pouted his little sister, her temper flaring, tears streaming down her freckled cheeks, as the two of them made their way across their family farm’s grazing field towards the edge of Goblynwood.

“Shhh....!!” Rory put a finger to his lips, then pointed towards the ancient oaken forests up ahead. “Tis best we keep quiet and alert, or find ourselves prey to goblins,” he exclaimed with a loud whisper.

Rory tugged harder on the taut rope, leading the goat to the edge of the woods.

“But why -this- one? I -love- him; he’s a -good- goat.” Rory had been dreading this moment all day, but their parents insisted that he be the one to do it. Tough as it was to see her cry like this, he knew it was necessary.

“Because it’s not a true sacrifice unless if you’re offering something that you love. That’s why it has to be -this- goat, and not the other you had picked. Those tears of yours? They are shed for love, are they not?”

She nodded, wisps of her bright red hair clinging to tear, streaked freckled cheeks.

“And what may very well happen if the gods do not accept our sacrifice?"

Her voice quivered as she answered, “Something -awful- will happen to the harvest and we’ll all starve to death a hundred times over and Winter will consume us and we’ll never feel warmth or love or see by light again.  And the goblins and Fey will come and eat all the children, too.”

“That’s right little sister. If we don’t placate Arawn, Morrigan, and the others, with an offering, then we risk our harvest being laid to waste. When I was your age, I cried, just as you, and it was father who told me what I now tell you.”

She seemed to take heart in this, somehow finding comfort in knowing that her older brother, who she adored, had also endured the same ordeal that she now faced.

At last, they arrived: the threshold between their family’s land and Gobynwood.

“Now take this rope and tie it tight, using the knot I taught you. We musn’t make any mistakes.”

Despite her quivering lip and salty tears, he was proud of her when she took the rope in her little hands. She pressed her forehead up against the old goat’s, then planted a kiss upon his nose, before tieing the goat up to the iron rod.

“Remember what the difference is between placating the gods and praying to the gods? ” 

He hoisted her up to his shoulders and did an about face, leaving the goat to its timely fate.

“Placating….” she looked over her shoulder one last time, the goat staring at her with pleading eyes“...it’s…..it’s….like….when grandpa would wake up in the middle of the night to feed that old, mean jackass an apple, because it wouldn’t shut up and let us all sleep otherwise.”

Rory laughed.

“Yes, just like that. You don’t -want- to get up in the middle of the night, just as we don’t -want- to give up your goat, but if you don’t, you’ll wish you had, when the evils of the world befall us. So you must never pray to the gods of Spring, Autumn, or Winter, but we must placate the gods always. Only the gods of Summer, Belenus, the God of Gods, above all, should ever be prayed to, and let no misguided fool or some trickster convince you otherwise. Now let’s go apple bobbing!”

[Iconoclast]

Chapter 1, Part II

Pigs & Vows


Lake Kronov, west of Kellee, following the Vaughn-Dnar River, never freezes over, even on the darkest, longest day of winter: evidence, the bard of Kellee would tell you, of Belenus’ presence in Tepest, even when Arawn, goddess of death, is at her strongest. The same cannot be said of their fertile fields of gold in winter. The Tepestani depend on a good harvest, and even if they break their backs with work, sunrise to sundown, day after day, month upon month, with the strictest observance to custom and ritual, there is never any guarantee of a good outcome.

For the men and women of Kellee, the three day festival of Harvest’s End is a well deserved respite and reward for all their daily toil and due diligence. The gods must be appeased, and the Fey and Goblyns, the “little beasties”, dealt with by either warding gesture, prayers, or sword.

Sacrifices had been made, and by all accounts, the gods had been appeased, for the food stores of Kellee were full: golden wheat and barley, turnips and potatoes, oats and aging cheese. There was much to be thankful for, but most of all, Kellee was grateful for the health of their children.

Some gave praise to Belenus, others believed it was because of their sacrifices to Diancecht, but many said it was obvious that the widow Aunt Abigail and her circle of healers were to thank for staving off the illness that threatened to rob Kellee of their most precious resource: their children.

There was much to celebrate and celebrate they did with abandon.

“Briga is here! Look how big she’s gotten Rory!” Rory smiled and waved to Enya, her husband, and their young child from across the way. He knew that they shared his relief, as well, for their two year old had also been bedridden with sickness. Nothing is more nerve wracking for a parent than a sick child. “Can I play now Rory!?”

“Yes, yes, but I’m supposed to keep a good eye on you, mother made me promise, so you have to promise me that if you start feeling dizzy again, that you come straight to me, even if I’m dancing with the prettiest lass in Kellee.”

“I promise!”  She ran off, red-pigtails and all, taking little Briga in hand, and they joined a throng of other boys and girls, scampering like little fairy, flowering children about the beautifully decorated fairgrounds. Enya and her husband smiled and waved to Rory, before leaping into the merry dance. The cloudberry wine and beer flowed. Bards played their hearts out. And Rory, hardly the drinker, had more than his share, for though he loved to dance, it seemed that alcohol was the only remedy for the curse of two left feet.  Drink and dance, he did, until he and the pretty lasses were not all that were spinning.

With the room spinning round and round, struck by a sudden nausea, young Rory staggered away form the dance, with a pretty lass helping him along. And that was all he would recall from that night.

He woke the next morning to a wet snout of a piglet in his face. Groggy and not yet half-awake, his hand pushed the wet snout away, again and again, drifting in and out of sleep, until a blood curdling scream startled him. He shot straight up, shocked to realize that he was shirtless, in a pile of straw, with a barely dressed sleeping lass at his side. The piglet squealed and ran about him. Was that scream in my dreams, he wondered. Then his question was answered with another blood curdling scream, and then another, and then another, and then a hideous cackle filled the air at the fairgrounds and absolute mayhem ensued.

For Rory of Kellee, that day and all that have since followed, was the beginning of a deranged nightmare from which there is no waking. For all that winter, he lay, despondent, in his bed, barely eating and not speaking to anyone. He ate only when forced, and never pork. No, for the people of Kellee, none dared slaughter a pig that winter nor to this very day.

For all that winter, the coldest and darkest yet, Rory lay in bed in his darkened room, with a piglet snuggled up under the covers with him. The same images cycled through his mind’s eye, over and over again, giving him no rest:

Enya and her husband smiling from across the dance hall
Cloudberry wine
Dances with fair maidens
Whirling merriment and dance
The room spinning
A wet snout in the face
A young lass in the hey
Blood curdling screams
A hag’s hideous cackle
The Inquisition
Frothing Questions
Tortured confessions
Enya, floating lifeless, bloated in the Vaughn-Dnar River
Women fleeing
Piglets squealing
Fires raging
Women screaming
Nostrils filled with burning flesh


Over and over, the images haunted him, paralyzing him with shame and guilt; for he knew that he was to blame. He had promised, after all, to keep a close eye on his sister. Yet he drank, and he drank. He flirted, and he flirted. His indulgences went unchecked, and for his poor choices, his sister suffered dire consequence.

It is hard to pinpoint, rationally, when a change is about to occur when someone is so mired in despair. But it was on a warm, spring morning, when Rory awoke and felt a surprising change within. His mother must have opened the shutters in his room, letting the light of day in, a beam of sun warming his forehead. Having not seen the light of day for months, he shielded his eyes as he pushed himself from bed. The piglet, his sister, remained curled up in the blanket, a piece of oatmeal sticking to her snout, indicating that she had already been fed breakfast.

Rory walked out into the common room. The house was quiet, for the rest of the family had been out in the fields since dawn, tilling the land, preparing for the next growing season. It seemed strange to Rory, how life continues on, despite the great suffering of others. The sun shone as it always had, even while his sister, in the form of a piglet, lay helpless in bed.

Rory approached his father’s greatsword, which hung above the hearth, and took it in hand. When he stepped outside into the light, his eyes hurt, for he had dwelled in darkness for what felt like years. And it was here, that Rory wept at last, and shouted his vow to the God of Gods above.

Rory of Kellee vowed, in the name of Belenus, to forsake all pleasures of flesh and drink, and begged for the God of Gods, though he knew he was unworthy, to do just one thing: to rescue the Children of Kellee.