Captain De Cuellar and His Adventures

The Spanish Armada set sail to land ashore on English soil. 100 galleons with 1,000 Iberian sailors on each to land in England, in the belly of the beast. They were foiled at sea and fled journeying around the Hebrides, the last survivors were dogs, washed ashore on the West Coast, terriers that would over the centuries be westies named “Jock” posing for shortbread tins. The rest of the crews landed at Streedagh Beach, Sligo. The Gallowglass enlisted by the English took their claymore to the Spanish swines and let the beach wallow in their blood, bespectacled with Latin bodies. Few were saved for being Catholic and the rest were on the run, they ventured north and it was Captain De Cuellar who ventured to Connaught and Ulster, precariously not knowing when each night might be his last. The souls he lost on his watch haunting his every step, their spirits and blood soaking into the land and people, the black hair of the west, the strength to repel the English on the rocks and ground, through famine and purposeful pain and passing. The millions of skeletons that would perish and the language that would fervently remain; the shadow of the nation would be seeping with blood of sacrifice like a bog of an ancient bard, or a fighter who was a Milesian sparring with the supernatural force, the Tuatha De Nannan. As the clock would be covered and the death would be celebrated with a wake - De Cuellar was petrified by these lands, and he wrote his journal, begging for help from the king abroad.

He was wandering the hills at night. Where the spirits pitted the kingdoms in haunting, the bards of yesteryear would speak of lineage for eternity, how Scota, Nel and Goidel Glas gave them life and meaning through the seas, Fenius Farsaid the Scythian King tattooed his body and rode horses through heaven, writhing on the breeze, passed like the Tower of Babel, which Breogan tried to replicate to which they came, which across the sea they did come, this is not the first, but the traffic and trade flowed , which the English would try and destroy for generations. The Atlantean people, to never trust a Fitzgerald, the Normans which were given land like the rest of the French, but it was not theirs to take, as De Cuellar pondered if he would be abandoned, whose going to save them his comrades and his pen, for his life was a great deal to him, and would be to his wife, the mistress from Madrid. Would it ever come? The rescue mission. Would it be a gamble? The crew had gone, perhaps; so had his patience and his life was just a whole different matter. He was wandering alone, but not hoped, for the possibility of a return with his companions was on his mind, the biggest thing to happen in 1588, the year that thee Thomas Hobbes was birthed; nasty, brutish and short. So he wanted more, he remembered how little he would dismiss the heat of Spain, so he could not cope with the Errenn cold, the mist and the red hair he would spot, the dank cold places and rocks and islands, the cold and the wet weather hung like a veil over a mirror, the spot of bother he had encountered, the spirit, the holy spiritual power that kept him going, as he spoke to god, and asked him to show him the way home and he was dying of thirst, and he was wandering in wondering of a rescue.