A/N: I was listening to a CD, Celtic Enchantment by Greg Joy. The tunes are original as well as traditional. You might enjoy Royal Forester, Skye Boat Song, Morrison's Jig and/or Knight's Flight, as well as all the rest. It inspired this chapter.
It was one of those days when both of them where at wits end. He had had trouble sleeping and got up to clean and oil their weapons. In his mind he went over every plan he had come up with since arriving here. And each plan he examined, reworked and ultimately rejected. They did not have enough fire power to storm the gate, they did not have enough money to bribe the guards and the guards were too numerous to be diverted. Even if he and Sam managed to set the slum on fire or blow the damned place to kingdom come, no one would really care; in fact, it would be a welcomed event.
The morning, as beautiful as it was, brought no joy. They had been there too long; they could not get to the gate; no one had made the attempt to rescue them. Sam and Jack were both sure no one knew where they were. They felt hope slipping away. Desperate dangerous plans filled his mind. They were discussing the insanity of trying to storm the gate at night. And they both fell silent knowing such a plan would only bring them death.
In the quiet he heard the music, so very different from the melodies the locals hummed. At first it was clacking of sticks beating out a rhythm, then a drum was add but not just any drum, O'Neill would have bet his eye teeth it was the deep tones of a bodhran. O'Neill's curiosity was peaked; he gave a questioning glance in Carter's direction. Then he heard the pipe and he was off.
There on the outskirts of the slums were two caravan-like affairs with maybe 11 people, men, women and children, who were definitely not locals. Their dress, their build, their coloring and their carefree easy demeanor set them apart. Their music was reminiscent of the jig and reels of the Irish as well as the mournful ballads of the Isles. One of the slum dwellers cast an eye on them, muttered 'travellers' under his breath and spat. Others had gathered around to have fortunes told, pots mended, purchase unusual wares or just enjoy the music and to see the sight of these people free of the weight of the life in the slums. But they all maintained a certain distance as if these people, these 'travellers', held a power that could cause them harm.
Jack stood on the outskirts observing the crowd. The music continued and the instrument although rather crude to the outward eye produced wonderful range of music. One of the women held a wooden board with metal wires stretched between nails. She beat the wires with wooden mallets and played her version of a tiompan (hammered dulcimer). This was the music of his childhood, once played by long dead great-aunts and uncles. One year in grammar school he had step dancing instead of Gym and he found his feet, now clad in combat boots, aching to move to the music. He was sure it was in his genes as sure as eye color. Sam came up behind him, feeling his body responding to the music as she tapped the infectious melodies on his arm. They watched two of the children, totally entranced by the music, as they danced and whirled with coat tails and skirts fluttering. There was a joy these people worn like a garment and a sparkle in their eye. They were different, not the downtrodden slum dwellers, not the wealthy - bored and above it all, not the slave class - overwhelmed and beyond caring. These people were different; they were vibrant... in love with life.
When evening came round O'Neill sat near their campfire.
"You've come to have your fortune told?"
"Perhaps" Jack said.
Sam came and sat beside him.
"You don't belong here."
"Don't have to be psychic to figure that out.
I'm Jack O'Neill and this is…"
The man's expression froze, staring at Jack hard and long. He turned his head and yell back to the wagon.
"Sean, your kin is here."
A tall wiry man emerged for the wagon and cautiously walked over to Jack. He eyed Jack up and down and looked over Sam as well.
"I see the Northmen stopped by your village. In our village they usually only took things. I see they left a little something behind or did you go raiding for your prize?"
Jack just glared at the man as did Sam.
"Pardon me for my lack of manners; I am Sean Niall, of the clan of the High King."
"I'm Jack O'Neill and this is Samantha Carter."
"And what are you seeking Jack son of Niall."
"To tell you the truth we just want to go home."
"Ah now, don't we all."