Trapped

happened to bring a few bottles along. «
    We were at Luchta’s studio, one of the most pleasant work spaces I have ever visited: sawdust on the floor, milled wood stacked against one wall along with shelves of burls and knots and branches, and polished finished pieces resting against another. We were near the workbenches, where lathes and chisels and peelers awaited the attention of Luchta’s expert hands. The smells of pine and cedar and aged oak filled the space, and these were much more agreeable to everyone’s nose than rhino shit.
    We had made a brief stop at Manannan Mac Lir’s estate to clean up and get a fresh set of clothes. We looked more old-fashioned Irish now than modern American, wearing tunics and pants in his blue-gray color palette. Manannan gave Granuaile a silver belt of cockleshells and sea horses as a sort of graduation gift and made much ado about the strength of her animal forms. Fand gave her some silvery hair-clip thingies and some cookies that may have been magical. Oberon and I got ignored; they didn’t remember I was there until I said we had to get going to Luchta’s.
    Granuaile had her hair all brushed out and shining with silver bits, and I wasn’t the only person at Luchta’s shop to think she looked like a goddess. A large shadow darkened the doorway and a deep voice called, » Flidais! You are even more fetching than usual today! «
    Granuaile turned toward the voice and discovered Ogma there, who blanched once he realized his mistake.
    » Oh! I beg your pardon, « he said, a flush coloring his cheeks. » I meant no offense. «
    » No offense taken, sir, « Granuaile said, casting her eyes sideways at me with a tiny smirk. » There are worse fates than to be mistaken for a renowned beauty. «
    Ogma smiled. » I see you are now bound to the earth. Congratulations. And you have a new weapon—congratulations on that also. Are you anxious to try it out? «
    » I am, actually, « Granuaile replied, casting an admiring glance at Scáthmhaide.
    » Shall we have a friendly sparring match, then? «
    » How friendly? «
    » Say, two falls out of three. Winner takes clothing. «
    Granuaile raised an eyebrow and replied, » Done, « before I could counsel her not to. Ogma was a famed champion of the Tuatha Dé Danann, brother to the Dagda, half-brother to Lugh, and grandfather of the Three Craftsmen. He used to take care of the king’s problems; the rumors of his demise in some tales were greatly exaggerated. He was too much of a badass to die. Nuada Silver-Hand, the old king of the Tuatha Dé Danann, used to point at this unbeatable monster or that unstoppable atrocity and tell Ogma to wreck it, and it would be wrecked. One day he said, damn it, Ogma, the Irish need a writing system, and Ogma came up with Ogham script. Granuaile probably knew all this, however, and had decided to accept anyway. The time for me to offer unsolicited advice was over.
    Ogma, again dressed only in a kilt, muscles rippling with every movement, asked Luchta if he could borrow a staff. He was much taller than anyone, and his reach far exceeded Granuaile’s. Granuaile moved to the far side of the workshop, choosing her spot in the sawdust. She twirled it about experimentally, getting used to its weight and length. These twirls gradually grew faster until the staff blurred like a propeller blade.
    Ogma stepped through some of his own warm-up exercises, twirling his staff in one hand at such speeds that Granuaile’s hair was blown back a bit. He wasn’t one to be psyched out.
    Well, not with words, anyway.
    As part of Granuaile’s training in martial arts, I taught her to take advantage of men’s weaknesses prior to the first strike.
    If her opponent was a patriarchal, misogynist asshole, she could taunt him into a rash attack by the simple expedient of calling him a bitch; the same man could be set off his guard by feigned displays of fear.
    Ogma wasn’t that type, and indeed it would have been difficult to find any of that sort amongst the Tuatha Dé Danann, who had comfortably accepted Brighid’s dominance for centuries.
    If her opponent was a younger, inexperienced man or perhaps unattractive, loud speculation about the diminutive size of his penis would take him out of the cool, quiet place required for martial discipline.
    Ogma wasn’t that guy either. Ogma was the third kind of guy, like me, who would find Granuaile’s skill not uppity or challenging but rather madly attractive.
    As long as Ogma