How it Came to Be

My father didn't name me Connor. That, up until this last year, has been the greatest mystery of my life. The latest (and last) Connor O'Connor came from a long, unbroken line of Connor O'Connor, O'Connor, O'Connor, O'Connor, O'Connors all the way back to Connor O'TheGodsThemselves, I shouldn't wonder.
 
But my father gave me my mother’s name, Shea. “One of those funny names that goes both ways”, he would say. Whenever I would work up the courage to ask him about it he would always say the same thing, usually without looking up from whatever project he was currently building, “You’re more her son than mine”, and that was that.
 
This slight burned hotter when I was a youth. Being the first O’Connor in a thousand to be unworthy of the name seemed too hard a burden to bear when I was still a skinny lad, running through the woods headlong and reckless. But if my father had seen something inferior in me, he didn’t show it in my raising. He treated me with a love and gentle care that more than made up for never having met my mother in this life.
 
My mother had been the talk of the village for her short time here, so I’m told. When the aging, perpetually single O’Connor had shown up with his young, pretty new wife suddenly one summer the whole town had been shocked. And when I came less than a year after that their shock and gossip had doubled. The fact that she died within the first hours of my life has ensured that everything I’ve known of her has come from these same wagging tongues. From what I’m told nearly all the aspects of myself have come from her. My eyes? From my mother. The red in my hair? Mother. My indignent anger at all perceived injustices? Thank you, Mother. And from my father? Not even his name.
 
He had taught me his trade, however. The trade of all O’Connors apparently, woodworking and carpentry. “Two entirely different skills!”, he said on more than one occasion. I don’t know exactly how many Connors back the O’Connors first came to settle in Greenbriar, but from time everlasting is seems there have been O’Connors making things for the more important peoples in the world. From roofs to keep them dry, to simple chairs for them to rest their worthy, weary backsides. An O’Connor had built just about everything wooden in Greenbriar, from the Great Hall to the Smithy, and from the twenty or so small homes to the crowning achievement of the last, now late, Connor himself, the Shrine (god not yet included). The shrine had been what seemed to keep my father going the last ten years, his old hands working slowly to complete it right up till the week he finally passed away. “It’ll put us on the map, Shea”, he had promised. But now, over a year later, it still sat empty.
 
It was not too many days after his burial that the Beast was first spotted. The Beast of the Briar seemed to step out of the children’s tales and into the actual bog every few dozen years or so, although to hear it tell it had been nearly a hundred years since the last one had troubled the village. At the southern end of the great forest, when the trees gave out and the bog took over, the briars grew tall and tangled for miles. This impassible patch is what had given our little hamlet on the edge of it our name. However, what usually served as a hedge was turned into a thing of nightmares when a Beast was about. They somehow made their way through the thickets, lying in wait till the cover of darkness, then taking what flesh they could find. This one had taken its fair share of goats and chickens, but thankfully no children or dogs, by the time the village decided to do something about it.
 
It was determined that the Beast did not tend to show its face when faced with more than one adversary. Given that, the village voted that the strongest, most capable young men should, in rotation, head into the briar each night in hopes of slaying the monster. I am still not sure what compelled me to volunteer for that first night. Perhaps the loneliness of my father’s shop had been affecting me more than I knew. Or the knowledge that of the young men I likely had the least to lose. Whatever my true motives were, my plan was even less clear.
 
That afternoon I packed a night’s worth of supplies, along with an axe and my hunting bow, and went to borrow two things from my only friend, and our only smithy, Cormac. I took his family sword, the only decent weapon in town, and Billy, his goat.
 
That evening I had less fear than I had expected. I think now that I did not truly believe in such fairy monsters at that moment, much to my later regret. I cut my way about mile or two towards the bog before dusk fell. Then, finding a patch of mid-sized scrub pines, cleared and set up a small camp, staking Billy a few dozen yards away. My plan more or less was the same I would use to hunt any predator. I would conceal myself and my scent, keeping my bait in sight. Wait for a clear sighting, and then lead with my bow, switching to the sword if needed. I have many times now cursed myself for not treating this threat as the monster it was, rather than another common wolf.
 
The first few hours of the night passed uneventfully. The moon rose low and half empty. It was not until near the moon’s peak in the sky that I my senses were alerted. The first tell was the silence. Even the insects grew quiet, followed by a stench such as I have never again smelled. I tightened and scanned the area around Billy in the faint, dim light. What happened next took place in less than a heart beat, but every moment is burned into my mind. I realized too late that the smell was coming from behind me on the faint wind, and turning, was met by a hulking, hideous form less than two paces from my face. Before I could even raise an arm the Beast howled, bashing me with a long, knotted arm and throwing me into the nearest tree, where I crumbled and lay until dawn.
 
Now we come to the second and greater mystery in my short life. Somehow during that night, the Beast was slain. Not just slain, but beheaded and left lying in the small clearing I had cut out. I awoke that morning slowly and dimly, not as some mighty warrior but as a confused boy, lost in the woods. The first thing I was aware of was Billy nibbling on the leather of my pant leg. Next was the pounding in my head and turning of my stomach. As I came to my senses I found my face was covered in my own dried blood from a large gash in my head that had also covered much of the ground under me. The sun was just coming up over the bog, and my back and limbs were covered in dew. As I arose my heart nearly stopped. Lying not two arms lengths from my face was the great, ugly face of the Beast. For a moment I was sure I had breathed my least, but I slowly realized this face was missing its body, which I could see some yards away. I willed my legs to stop shaking and slowly rose to examine the scene. What I found confused me to no end. My first notion was that I must have somehow managed to fight in a daze, or perhaps go into some blind rage, and by sheer luck or maddening fury managed to cut the Beast down. But it took very little of my tracking skill to determine that I had not moved from where I had fallen for many hours. Instead I found other boot tracks, heavy and different from my own, all around and throughout my small clearing. Interspersed were the large, deep prints of the creature’s paws. Blood could be seen in multiple areas, and the whole scene spoke of a mighty battle, ending with the Beast’s demise. I tried to follow the strange boots, but they somehow disappeared directly into the thickest portion of the briars. Befuddled and on the brink of once again slipping into a daze, I gathered my things and headed back, deciding at the last moment to also bring the massive, stinking head.
 
I can only imagine the sight I made upon my return. Bloodied and limping, with a sword on my back, leading Billy in one hand, and carrying my trophy in the other. I do not blame any in the village for believing as they did, but before I had time to explain, I once again collapsed.
 
It was some days before I regained enough of my senses to get a true sense of what was now taking place. It seemed all the town had come by at some point bringing me gifts and small tokens, thanks for my perceived mighty deed. They were saying that never before had a Beast been slain with no loss of human life. They were saying I had hidden powers, give by my mother, or some forest spirit, or some hidden secret. They were calling me the Hero of Greenbriar. I tried to turn down gifts and favors as they came, but by the time I had regained enough of my voice to speak clearly, the story had taken a life of its own. To my shame, I allowed it. After all, I was never sure what other story to tell. I knew little more of the true events than any of them. I reasoned that in a few weeks, the story would fade, perhaps to be told on rare occasion with the details all blurry and misaligned. But much to my dismay, I was wrong. For the last year the story of my fame seems to have only increased. It reached a peak two months back, when the small village counsel commissioned Cormac to create a small likeness of myself to place in my father’s shrine. “If we can’t seem to find a god, we’ll have ourselves a hero”, was the common refrain. The unveiling was to be two weeks hence, on the anniversary of my grand victory. And that was where my courage finally broke. Unable to confront what had become of my life, I left.
 
And that, I suppose, is how it came to be that the O’Connors finally left Greenbriar. I find myself now out in the large world, alone and friendless. Unworthy of my given title, unworthy of my un-given name. Running. I always loved running, moving through the trees like the deer themselves. But now, I run with no destination, simply an ill-defined goal: to prove worthy