The prologue of Celtic Omen went through three major iterations. The final version became a flash-forward of Jasmin kicking off the heist during the geomagnetic storm. Enjoy these two other versions. Let me know if you like them.

​

This version focuses on discovering the torc and tablets 1,000 years after the Celtic burial. In it we know nothing about how the torc and tablets got there.

​

***

​

Prologue Version 2 - Celtic Omen

​

1471 CE

Issoire, Duchy of Auvergne

​

Antonius leaned against the chapel’s cool stone as the year’s first heat wave descended with a vengeance. He stretched out his legs in the lush grass, but the verge contributed to the oppressive humidity and added to his misery.

​

Sweat beaded on his scalp and trickled down the back of his neck. He wiped it away, then used his sleeve to clear the salt sting from one eye and cursed the bishop who demanded the crypt expansion be completed before his superiors visited the next month.

​

The sun arced higher, shrinking the shadow cast by the ancient chapel, and Antonius pulled his knees up to keep his feet out of its blazing rays. In his earlier days as a shepherd, he would seek refuge in the forest or a cave during a heatwave. But since joining the priesthood, he has moved to Issoire, where he serves the Bishop of Clermont, a day’s journey to the north.

​

Antonius watched the laborers finish their bread and wine and lie under nearby olive trees. He bided his time, fighting off heavy eyelids, until the last man began to snore. Then, got to his feet and clambered down into the cellar.

​

While cooler than outside, the crypt had no ventilation, and the digging had stirred up centuries of rot. A mildewy, sooty haze hung in the dim light cast by the oil lamps. He pressed his filthy tunic over his nose and went to the far corner where he’d seen a bone before the lunch break. He kneeled and scraped away the crusted soil. Bringing a lamp closer, he identified it as a clavicle. 

​

His heart leaped.

​

The site was a pagan shrine long before the chapel, and legends said the Arverni buried their princes here. He clawed at the soil, and arm bones spilled out. He sifted through the pile for rings.

​

Nothing.

​

He jabbed the dirt, clearing an area around the skull. Yellow metal glinted from around the cervical bones.

​

Gold! 

​

Antonius dug more slowly. Then, using a knife, he worked a dirt-encrusted torc from the skeleton’s neck and held it to the oil lamp. A gold rod, as thick as his thumb, had been twisted to form a spiral, then rounded to fit a neck. He’d never held so much gold in his life.

​

He clutched it to his chest, envisioning himself wearing fine clothes in a house with servants, then slumped, remembering his vow of poverty. 

​

Looking up at the corpse, he saw there was more—a dark shape protruding from atop the sternum. His breath came fast as he wriggled a bronze box out of the dirt and cleaned it with his tunic. 

​

He imagined jewels and perhaps more gold, but his heart sank when he saw its contents: bronze tablets, each no bigger than his palm. He fingered the neatly arranged stacks, but noises from behind meant the men were coming.

​

“What did you find?” asked one man.

​

“A pagan skeleton,” said Antonius, slipping the box beneath his tunic. “We cannot let it desecrate this holy place. Cast the bones into the forest.”

​

***

​

After evening vespers, Antonius retired to his cell, setting the box and torc on the small table. Then, he laid as many tablets as would fit between two oil lamps. He’d borrowed a second, but the bronze’s dark patina was challenging to see even in the extra light.

​

An icy breeze knocked out one flame as he laid down the last square. Antonius whipped around, thinking a brother had opened his cell. No. The door was shut.

​

He looked up at the small window in the stone wall. But any wind coming through would be too high. He shivered. The lamp died, as if someone had blown it out.

​

Stop it. He admonished himself. No one’s here. 

​

He relit the lamp and focused on the tablets. Each had lettering broken into words by spaces, but he could not read them. The torc had words using the same letters.

​

He opened a book he’d brought to compare, but when he compared it to another codex, the letters were neither Latin nor Greek.

​

Three tablets depicted stars and the moon, while another showed a comet. The artist carved the soft metal using a harder tool and poked dots with radiating lines to represent stars. The moon was a larger circle, its dark regions etched in. Antonius rubbed his eyes from the stinging smoke. When he looked again, he saw two tablets with identical star patterns, but only one had the comet.

​

Were they tracking a comet?

​

Again, he tried to make sense of the writing, but not even the smallest words made sense. The bell rang for the day’s last prayer. He knew he should get on his knees, but the hook had been set too deep.

​

Forgive me. He crossed himself and stayed at the table, studying the next row of tablets. In one, people stood on either side of a figure lying down. He held the lamp close and manipulated the tablet with his other hand. The people closest to the prone figure were kneeling. One of them pointed toward the comet.

​

His drowsiness fled as everything sharpened—the light, a mouse scurrying along the wall, and the tablet’s edge. His limbs tingled as he reverently laid down the tablet and crossed himself.

​

How did a pagan get these?

​

He examined more tablets, but they only contained more of the unreadable text. His eyes grew heavy. He rubbed them, willing them to focus. But his bones ached from today’s digging, and work on the crypt began at dawn.

​

Reluctantly, he replaced the tablets, wrapped the box and the torc in a cloth, and tucked them into his cot. Then he knelt.

Please, Lord, guide me. Help me understand this message you have delivered.

​

Antonius stayed awake long into the night, thinking about that tablet with people pointing at a comet.

​

The Bethlehem Star.

​

***

​

Two days later, the bishop visited to inspect the progress of the crypt. A nighttime thunderstorm brought cooler temperatures, much to Antonius’s relief as he dressed in his best tunic to receive the entourage.

​

He’d made no progress unraveling the mysterious script, but this morning, he thought that the bishop or one of his priests from Rome had better skills in Latin and Greek. Antonius needed to get the bishop in the right mood. The man could be a tyrant and deeply prejudiced against the local ways.

​

Fortunately, the tour went well. As they moved from the remodeled chapel to the crypt, the bishop asked a few questions about the work. Antonius described how they’d cleared the remaining pagans to make room for the Christian clergy. “The expanded crypt is through here,” he said, pointing to a door where workers were placing a heavy lintel.”

​

The bishop stepped forward as a section crumbled, sending up a cloud of dust. They scrambled outside and brushed themselves off.

​

Antonius braced himself for the coming outburst, but the bishop calmly asked, “You’re sure it will be done on time?”

​

“Yes, God willing.” Antonius crossed himself, partly for missing the bishop’s wrath, then added, “We experience these small collapses daily. It’s nothing.”

​

A woman from the village approached Antonius to let them know lunch was ready. He thanked her and said to the entourage, “I’ve taken the liberty to arrange a table outside on this lovely day,” said Antonius.

​

The bishop motioned for him to lead on and followed Antonius to the olive grove.

​

Lunch was simple fare, a roasted lamb with root vegetables. The bishop relished the meal and did not turn down a third helping. When he could no longer, he asked, “Do you have any of that digestif this village is famous for?”

​

Antonius knew the bishop missed the finer life in Rome, so he catered to his whims—especially when he needed something. He poured a vibrant yellow elixir made with gentian root into small glasses. Halfway through the bishop’s second glass, he mentioned his discovery.

​

“Show me,” said the bishop.

​

Antonius produced the torc first.

​

The bishop’s eyes went wide, and a smile lifted his bushy black beard. He extended a hand for the torc rather quickly, thought Antonius, but he laid it in the open hand. The bishop moistened his lips as he studied the piece. 

​

A few moments later, Antonius set down the box, opened it, and explained what he’d seen in the drawing. The bishop put the torc around his neck before focusing on the tablets. He ran his fingers over them and paused on the one with the comet.

​

“You could be right,” he said, “but this could also be pagan nonsense. These need to be studied in Rome.”

​

***

​

Within a week, Antonius was traveling south with merchants from Rome. Not far outside the city, bandits attacked them, and soldiers traveling with them engaged the thieves.

​

Steel clanged against steel.

​

Antonius fled into the woods, pursued by two men. 

​

“Get him,” yelled one before screaming in pain and going down with an arrow in his back.

​

The other shouted, “Give me the gold, and I’ll let you live.”

​

Antonius sprinted through the undergrowth, branches clawing his tunic as he raced through the undergrowth. His breath rasped. His fingers clutched the torc beneath his cloak.

​

He circled toward the road, hoping to get back to protection.

​

Behind him, the bandit thundered closer.

​

He let a branch snap back, then darted down a ravine.

​

“There’s no escape, priest!” the thief bellowed, leaping down after him.

​

Loose rocks cascaded underfoot. Antonius tripped on a root and crashed into a leaf pile. He bounded up. Reached the ravine’s bottom and plunged into an icy stream.

​

The bandit splashed in behind him, brandishing a knife.

​

In desperation, Antonius hurled a rock. It missed, but the man flinched, losing his footing.

​

He scrambled up the opposite bank. He reached the road and sprinted toward the caravan a few strides later. A soldier notched an arrow.

​

“No!” Antonius thrust up his hands.

​

The bolt fizzed past his head.

​

A wet thwack and thud came from behind.

​

He turned to see the bandit splayed on the road—arrow protruding from his left eye socket, oozing gore into the dirt.

​

Antonius dropped to his knees and retched.

​

Rough hands yanked him upright. “We need to go. Now!” 

​

They ran.

​

Only then did Antonius realize the torc was gone. His hands dug through his clothing. “It’s gone,” he said, slowing.

​

“No stopping.” The guards forced him along.

​

As they dragged him, he replayed the chase, figuring it must have slipped from his grasp when he tumbled.

​

“I have to find it,” he pleaded.

​

“No time.”

​

***

​

In the month it took to reach Rome, Antonius wrestled with guilt at losing the torc. He sensed its lettering was connected to the tablets and swore to search for it on his return.

​

He gave the box and tablets to scholars in the Lateran library, hoping to learn more, but they ushered him away, saying they did not require help.

​

Downtrodden and alone in a massive foreign city, Antonius returned with the next caravan destined for Paris. However, the plague decimated the troop, and all knowledge of the torc passed with him to the grave.