Dinner time at Dagda’s was a homicidal affair.

The seating arraignment was peculiar to say the least. Dagda was, of course, seated at the head of the table while the Morrigan triplets formed a semi circle at the foot. Immediately to the right and left of Dagda was H and Birghid. I sat beside H, which made me nervous because I was closest to the Morrigan Three. There were a number of vacant seats between us, but still, I was closest to them.

Dagda was holding onto the drumstick of what must have been an enormous bird with one hand, and with the other was waving around a big drinking stein with the other. He was chewing and talking away with gusto. I noticed H was poking at her food, casting furtive glances at her moms. Birghid was eating only vegetables, picking at them like a bird.

“Now, I said to him, now what’s that you’ve got there?” blustered Dagda. “And do you know what the fellow said? He said it was a crutch. I said to him, do you take me for a fool? That’s a spear you’ve got there buck-o, and you’ll not be bringing that in to my party.” He took a great pull from the ale from his stein. “Do you know what I did then?”

This must have been Morrigan’s cue. All three were cutting away daintily at what looked like raw and bloody meat on their plate. Three forks lifted from the plates and three mouths chewed at the same time making three lips even redder than they naturally were. No wonder H was behaving oddly. I would have been terrified is Morrigan had been my mom.

“What’s that, dear?”

I was so glad that all three weren’t talking at the same time.

“Hah! I took my club, wound up and pow...” he looked expectantly at Birghid and H.

They rolled their eyes, and together said: “right to the moon.” They gave a forced laugh that momentarily thawed the frost.

“And that’s why there’s a man in the moon, cause I put him there.”

Trying to ignore the tension between Morrigan and H, Dagda threw back his head and laughed to his contentment. I laughed and he pointed at me.

“You know it. You know what I’m talking about. H, I like him, about time you brought someone home, not like those moon eyed poets going on about love and plucking daisies, eh?”

Birghid seemed to shrink a bit in her seat. “They like your parties, daddy.”

He nodded emphatically. “Don’t get me wrong, dear. I love poets, but only for breakfast.” Dagda threw back his head and howled at his own joke before settling back into his food with a half-dozen agressive bites. “So,” he said his mouth full, “young man, tell me something about yourself.”

"Yes, do," said Morrigan staring at me almost furosciously. Did I do something wrong?

I felt H go tense. Reaching out I ripped a chunk of meat off the same creature Dagda was eating and took a bite. “Well...” I made a face. The creature, whatever it was, tasted like burritos. “What is this?”

“Everything beast, whatever you want it to be, that’s what it tastes like. It’s my favourite. I’ve got another one growing in the back. Once we’ve finished eating this one, the other one will be ready for slaughter.”

“It’s great.”

“It is, indeed, it is. But not as great as when I fought Sreng, the champion of the Fir Bolg.”

“Daddy, you’ve told that story a thousand times,” groaned Birghid.

Dagda, with a hurt expression on his face, gave a stiff nod. “Very well...but, he held up a very thick finger, I’m sure...” and he was looking at me trying to figure something out. “What is your name? Your genealogy?”

Telling him my name was William Suntag wasn’t going to do it, nor was telling him I was Fionn, the son of Uail of the Clan Baiscne, because I really still didn’t have any memory of that. I was stuck.

Aid came from the strangest place. It came from Morrigan. She had just finished taking another dainty bite from her raw meat. “He has the scent of Nuada on him – on his mother’s side.”

Dagda’s face illuminated as though he had been just given a great prize. “You don’t know this?” he asked me.

“No, Wednesday is my birthday. I’m supposed to remember...”

“Semias,” shouted Dagda. “Semias we’ve got a tale to tell.”

Waddling into the room was the midget with the blood shot eyes. This time he was carrying a staff. He made a direct line to us, stepped onto one of the empty seats and jumped up onto the table. He kicked a few of the dinner items off, twirled the staff about his head and took up a defensive stance like a martial artist.

Birghid, who was trying to cover her head in embarrassment, groaned. “Now you’ve done it.”

With a great leap Dagda sprung onto the table kicking the cutlery and the mugs out of his way. The entire structure groaned with his great weight. He was holding a massive club, which he flourished about his head.

“Semias, you be Sreng at the battle of Mag Tuired...”

“Why can’t I be you this time?” asked Semias. “You always get to be you.”

Dagda growled. “Of course I always get to be me...I’m me. Just play along. H’s boy friend has never seen it...he doesn’t even remember who he is.”

Semias rolled his eyes, then he fixed me with a malevolent gaze. “Why not include him.”

H reached over and grabbed my hand. "Say, no," she said intensly, beneath her breath so that nobody other than me could hear.

Dagda latched onto it. “Absolutely, but what role?”

The midget’s mean face twisted with some perverse delight. “He’s related to Nuada, so, why not Nuada.”

“The High King of the Tuatha de Danann. I was High King once and would never do it again not for all the songs in the world.”

“Would you do it for me?” asked the voice of The Morrigan.

Dagda’s bluster seemed to stumble. “Well, ah...”

“Nuada?” prompted Semias.

“Done,” bellowed Dagda who waved me up onto the table.

H stared on mortified. I glanced at her as if to say, 'they didn't really give me an opportunity to say no.' She glared at me. Obviously, I was on my own.

Semias reached down, grabbed by arm, and with surprising strength, pulled me up onto the table. He gave me a twisted grin. “I get to chop off your arm.”

“Hey, wait a second...” were all the words I could squeeze out of my mouth before we were whisked away. No longer did we stand, ankle deep in mashed potatoes and roast beast. We were on a field that was populated by a hundred black towers.

On one arm, I held a shield while on the other, I wielded a spear.

Dagda was there, much the same as he always looked, massive, corpulent and cheerful. His club was so immense and I wondered how anyone could lift it let alone fight with it.

“Oh, I love this part. Here comes Sreng, the champion of the Fir Bolg.”

“The what?

“Well, he’s not really Sreng, that fellow is pushing up daisies a long time ago. It’s Semias pretending to be Sreng.”

Behind one of the towers came the biggest mountain of human flesh I had ever seen. An offensive lineman had been so big that they had to call him The Refrigerator. Sreng was like a walk in freezer. He was immense, and he was naked.

“You fought that?”

Dagda grunted. “We tried, and an amazing fight it was.” Sreng had stopped no more than a hundred yards away. He had turned around and was waving his butt at me.

“That’s supposed to make me mad?” I asked.

“It’s a grave insult," said Dagda nodding, "for one man to show another man his butt. Go on.”

“You want me to show him my butt?”

Dagda rolled his eyes. “No, lad, go tell him that his king has to give us half of Ireland.”

“Seems fair,” I said doubting Sreng or Semias would see it that way.

Much as I expected, “Sreng laughed and promptly attacked.”

Sreng’s great sword whistled towards my head. This isn’t real, this isn’t real, I kept saying to myself, just play along until we get back to the dinner table. I threw up my shield and the raw iron impact of the sword sent be flying through the air to land painfully on the ground.

“Nice plowing, lad,” laughed Dagda.

I noticed I had slid several yards, digging a furrow into the ground.

“That hurt.”

“Get on up and at ‘im, lad.”

Why did I listen to him? Was it because he was the All Father, not really. I listened to him because he was H’s father and I supposed I wanted to impress both of them. So I went at ‘im.

A man with a spear and shield has it over a swordsman every time. It’s more an issue of logic and common sense than anything. A spearman has a longer reach. The only way is for him to get close and I was determined not to let that happen.

Sreng or Semias let my spear jab slip by him. As I missed he closed his arm down on the spear shaft, trapping it like a vice, against his body. Laughing he tossed his sword to his left hand and with his right pulled the spear towards him. Inch by inch he pulled me in close where he could use that wickedly sharp sword.

Then with incredible speed the sword was flashing through the air, from left side back to right. It descended on my shield and all I could do was brace for the impact. The sword sliced through my shield and cut deep into my arm just below the shoulder. One moment I had a shield, the next moment the shield, along with my arm and copious amounts of blood were on the ground.

It was then that Dagda sounded his war chant. It was like nothing I had ever heard. It sounded like a cheerios jingle that I had heard as a kid...If I hadn’t been in so much pain I would have express my abhorrence.

Then the real battle began. I had been caught off guard, as probably had the real Nuada, but Dagda was rooted in the ground. No matter how hard Sreng bashed him he was able to absorb the punishment. As long as he had his feet pressed firmly into the soil he could absorbed the damage...he was like Antaeus, but Hercules killed him by lifting him off the ground and giving him a bear hug.

Back and forth the bashed and smashed each other until the image of Sreng began to fade leaving the heaving, exerted form of the midget, Semias panting on the table. I was still holding my armless shoulder, trying to stifle the pulsing blood when I felt the squishy potato salad between my toes.

“My arm,” I said in real relief. “I still have my arm.”

Semias was glaring at me with intense disappointment. “Unfortunately,” he drawled.

“Don’t mind him,” said The Morrigan, all three standing with their hands clasped together. She was imbued with a delight that made her eyes sparkle...but it was the coldness behind the sparkle that disturbed me. It was an empty darkness, very similar to the darkness I had seen in Cliodhna’s eyes. “I forgot how much Nuada bled. He was famous for being a bleeder.” Obviously, that pleased her.

“Who won?”

Dagda threw his arm around me and we jumped down off the table together. I caught a glimmer of a smile on H’s face, while Birghid was overwhelmed with pleasure.

“We did, of course,” bellowed Dagda. “Although Sreng swore he would take as many with him before he went. Amazing fighter, Sreng.”

“There was something about him,” I said, “something familiar.”

“There should be. The Morna lads descend from the Fir Bolg. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re Sreng’s off spring.”

“Mom,” it was H speaking. Everyone went silent. “Will needs to get back to his world. Do you think we can use the Jacuzzi?”

“Caldron!” spat out an incensed Semias. “For the last time it’s a (deleted obscenities) a caldron!”

The Morrigan smiled, "Of course, dear, if he's willing to pay the price."