CELTIC, the Prequel vol.1

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CELTIC, the Prequel vol.1

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CELTIC, the Prequel

vol.1

by D. J. HIGHLANDER

PREFACE

‘Upyerockye’.

Charlie’s bagpipe precedes the roll of the three drums, played by his bandmates. A slow rhythm, suddenly building up. Then the bagpipe fades out, leaving room for the drums and the electric guitar in the background. Some time later, joining the rhythm of the cheers, Charlie comes back to the ensemble in a traditional Scottish apparel and full grey beard, to accompany his friends with his bagpipe until the very last moment, the last roll, the last breath, down to a sudden stop.

The audience, a hundred people or so, gave a huge round of applause at the band, shouting and singing. Saor Patrol, a Scottish band from Edinburgh, were so good the were intoxicating. I couldn’t but go to the stand and buy their new album.

Milan, first days of December. The craft fair is about to end, and the band has been here since day one, singing three of their hits on the stage of Spirit of the Planet, an association promoting the traditional and ethnic cultures of native peoples of the Earth.

Still lost in their beautiful music, after the concert I took the car and drove back to my native town. On the way I played the cd I bought at the fair. When the notes of ‘Upyerockye’ came out the amps of the car sound system, a picture shaped up in my head that would keep me company until I finally got home.

A boy in the woods, fleeing from other people. He runs, slides, falls, gets up and runs again, tailed by those people, those enemies. Until…

This was the spark that brought ‘Celtic’ to life.

Before I started writing some days passed. I’d never thought about writing a novel, but this scene, its image, the atmosphere, everything of it was so clear in my mind, that writing it all down came almost natural.

Of course I had no idea where to begin, what with such an intricate plot, but places, characters, events kept popping into my head one after the other.

When in the end I decided I couldn’t keep it in anymore, I burst into writing. Twenty days later I was writing the words ‘the End’ to the first book.

What is ‘Celtic’? I’ll let the readers find that out on their own.

It’s an adventure, a great adventure that allows the mind to go over the horizon and cross every bind. Sky’s the limit, and breaking that limit the reader can taste that particular freedom no one can really describe. The Celtic freedom.

It’s been seven years since I wrote the first novel. Meanwhile it was proofread by Prof. Andrea Vitali, human scientist, medieval historian, musicologist, world’s greatest expert in medieval iconography and symbolism and creator of the Cultural Association ‘Le Tarot’. After his proofread, encouraged by his great interest in my work, I tried to pitch it to a selection of Italian publishing houses with absolutely no success. In late 2017 I finally managed to find a way to self-publish it, but in all this time something had changed.

During these years of wait, it became clearer and clearer to me that what ‘Celtic’ lacked, and surely needs is an introduction of some sort. A preamble, introducing the answers to some issues the readers will come to face in the various volumes of the novel, that would otherwise be left unanswered for lack of space. To this purpose, before I release the first volume of ‘Celtic’, I have decided to collect some short side stories in the form of a prequel, which I hope will make the readers’ immersion into the atmosphere and universe of ‘Celtic’ much more gradual and comfortable.

Pilot

The LIBRARY

"When it all begun, you ask? It’s hard to say. I think the closest thing to the truth is to assume we always existed, ever since mankind walked the Earth for the very first time. You see, these lands always exuded our culture, our way of life, the force – or spirit, if you prefer – of our tradition. We were always here. No matter how many times other peoples tried to extirpate us, annihilate us or rob us of our lands. Even though today there isn’t in our blood the biological root of the primeval inhabitants of these lands, sooner or later our strength, our essence and spirit would permeate all of those who came here, and they would become one with us. We are this ground we live on, the strength of this region, the unity of a universe destined to survive the millennia, and though we endured destruction again and again, every time we have grown back greater and stronger. Nowadays, something in our world is changing, and we cannot remain oblivious to it nor observe the changes in silence.

We cannot hide in fear of a new Era of destruction. We want to come out of the shadows and live in the light again, and finally we have enough strength to get what we want for ourselves."

The old man finished his monologue and turned his gaze towards his listener, a correspondent for the Irish Times, who had been walking behind him scribbling on his notepad trough the entire Village and was now following him into a traditional wooden house, end of the tour and home to the library.

Of course I understand your fervor perfectly, when I asked you to begin from the start however, I didn’t mean that far back… it would take, like, literally an Era, and I only have a couple of columns for this piece, you know.

The old man looked at the journalist, a young lad rather uninterestingly recording the interview on his smartphone, then moved his gaze to the floor. The wooden floorboards of a warm brown rosewood captured him as always with their alternate violet brown and purplish grains.

All right, then. What would you like to know?

Eh, so. Well… I don’t know. Something – something like how you got where you got. The Village, the places where your people originally came from, the reasons why they came here, to… this.

I sincerely doubt two columns will be enough for you to cover all that. What you ask is huge, each of those questions deserves a properly developed answer. Your two columns won’t suffice. answered the old man, beginning to lose his patience.

You choose, then. Just let me do my job, alright?

The white haired old man brought his right hand to his chin, stroking the long snow-white beard with thin, delicate fingers, lost in his thoughts. Suddenly he lit up.

I might have just what you need. Why don’t you write about our library?

Your library. I’m sorry, but what would I write about it, exactly? ‘There were four bookcases in a room’… teased the journalist. He really couldn’t believe the man.

Four bookcases in a room? Oh, come on. You wouldn’t think this room we’re in is the whole library, wouldn’t you? said the old man winking at the visitor. This is but the entrance, the lobby, the place where books await to be registered and assigned to their rightful place in the library’s collection. Come with me, I’ll show you the library!

The journalist followed the old man, still unconvinced of how a library, although kept by those weirdos on whom everybody seemed to have something to comment all the time, could become of any interest to the editor in chief of the most read newspaper in Dublin.

Here we are! exclaimed the old man showing the journalist to a chair at the long, dark red, solid wooden table dominating the centre of the room they had just entered.

Tens of thousands of books were crammed top to bottom along the four meters high walls, in a maniacally catalogued and sorted out chaos. The reporter sat heavily on the exquisitely chiseled wooden chair, decorated with the incision of a hundreds years old oak. He left the smartphone on the table and snapped at the old man:

You have no shortages of books here, for sure!

You think? Actually, this is but the tip of the iceberg. We are in the smallest of twelve book storage chambers, all located in this very building, two floors above us and four floors below. And then we have an auditorium, twelve reading rooms…

Where do all these books come from? I mean, the money to build such a collection… How could you possibly get it? asked the journalist, mesmerized.

Meanwhile, a weird-looking creature creeped up and hopped down the table and into the left pocket of the journalist’s green jacket, unseen.

This, you see, is my passion, my personal project. This is who I am. We educate many young minds among these walls, and many old ones, too. In any normal day this place teems with people. Today however the library is empty and lifeless: everybody knew of your arrival, and people here don’t care much for being photographed or filmed. We like our privacy, you know. Have I told you about our reading rooms yet?

Yes. Ten. You said you have ten.

Actually, I said twelve. Come, come. I’ll show you around.

The old man showed the reporter to the next room behind a glass door decorated with floral motifs.

You really aren’t short on nothing here, are you.

Four and twenty work stations fully equipped with everything: computer, headphones, the whole shebang. And of course my favorite: pen, pencil and paper. I’m a nostalgic, you know. I couldn’t live without them. Moreover, many people still use them. Actually, more than you’d think.

And you’ve got ten reading rooms just like this one?

Well, no…

Ah-a! It was all too much already. Such valuable equipment in this place…

… it’s twelve reading rooms. And this is nothing to the others. In fact, it’s the smallest one. Don’t fret, though, the other are nothing really humongous. The largest is equipped with barely less than a hundred workstations. Ninety-six, to be exact. said the old man with a huge smile on his face.

The reporter was dumbstruck. His mind couldn’t wrap around the idea of a treasure that huge in a place so lost to the world, so disconnected from society, and moreover, kept in such a trivial wooden barrack, not even the largest, or at least the most noticeable in the Village.

Did I spark your interest, lad?

Er. Well, yeah. I mean… this is really impressive, considering. However I am not sure a piece on a library is what my editor in chief had in mind when he sent me here, that’s all.

Not ‘a library’, young man, ‘the’ library! I’m sorry, what newspaper did you say you wrote for? I am old, you know, I forget things…

The Irish Times. As I was saying…

I can see your piece on the cover of tomorrow’s issue already: ‘An invaluable cultural patrimony hidden in the North of the Country.’ How do you like it? Over two millions volumes, twelve fully equipped reading and studying rooms, and have I mentioned our collection of rare books, yet?

N-no, actually you haven’t… stuttered the journalist.

Come, come! I bet it’ll take your breath away. went on the old man, approaching what looked like the door to another room, but actually proved to be an elevator.

I’m right behind you. Although, I’d like to take some pictures first?

Pictures? Didn’t anybody tell you? We don’t like being photographed.

I didn’t mean a picture of you. Just the library, maybe?

Don’t worry about that. It’ll be my pleasure to send you a couple of pictures to spice up your meager piece.

M… meager? How dare you! It’s two full columns, and on The Irish Times, for crying out loud! I wouldn’t call it meager. the young reporter was too proud of his job at the newspaper to let that ancient know-it-all diminish it.

Meanwhile, the elevator reached the lowest underground floor.

"Yes, yes, of course. Your perfectly decent article, then. However, we’re here now. Come. Come and see! Oh and I would like to point out for you readers that you, mr… mr… I’m sorry, it seems I’ve forgotten your name again. You, boy, are the first