In the Region of the Summer Stars

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  ‘Do not be angry,’ Gráinne said gently. ‘There is yet one hope. I have discussed this with Lady Rhiannon—and she tells me that there exists among her people the possibility of healing.’

  ‘They can cure him?’

  ‘A possibility only,’ she allowed. ‘It may be there is a remedy for the poison that afflicts your friend. If so, their physicians may know of it.’

  ‘Only tell me the way,’ Conor said, gazing at the wasted features of his friend, ‘and trust I will go to them and bring back this remedy.’

  ‘No,’ replied the banfaíth with a light shake of her head. ‘Rhiannon and I discussed this. It is our belief that Donal must himself be brought to the Tír nan Óg so they can examine him. That is now his only hope.’

  Conor’s ruddy stain began to itch as frustration mounted. ‘A stillborn hope, it seems to me,’ he said, rubbing the side of his face absently.

  ‘Why stillborn?’ The voice was Rhiannon’s and it was at Conor’s shoulder. He had not guessed she was there, much less that she had overheard them talking. At Conor’s forlorn expression, she put a cool hand to the back of his neck and he felt the tension go out of him. ‘Do you think I would leave Donal? Or you? Or Fergal? Or anyone who saved my life from the hateful Scálda and their killing iron?’

  ‘In truth, lady, I do not know what to think.’

  ‘Hear me, Conor mac Ardan.’ She held him with her pale blue eyes. ‘I will not abandon Donal. And I will never abandon you or Fergal while there is yet breath in my body—or Fergal’s, or yours.’ She released him then, and said, ‘Come outside with me.’

  Conor followed her out of the bothy and into the nearby wood. The sun was a little higher and the tall elms and oaks were alive with birds. Rhiannon found a place where the sunlight formed a bright patch on the ground, went to it, and stood there. ‘Stay where you are,’ she told Conor. ‘Neither move, nor make a sound.’

  Then, turning her face to the light, she lifted her right hand toward the sky and stretched her left before her. She closed her eyes and began to sing—at least, to Conor it sounded more like song than speech—just a few phrases in a rising intonation. When the song finished, she paused, and then repeated it. Conor watched her and was struck anew by how very lovely she was: the early light struck her upturned face and made her features glow; her night-dark hair gleamed and her blue gown shimmered in the play of light. Once more, Conor was transfixed by the beauty before him and was content just to stand and stare.

  Rhiannon repeated the song for a third time and then fell silent. She lowered her right hand, but kept her face raised and her left arm extended. In a moment, Conor sensed a change in the wood around them. While his attention had been on the faéry queen, the birds in the trees round about had grown more agitated, their competing calls becoming louder and more strident. He could hear the flapping and rustling of their wings in the upper boughs and, looking up, saw furtive activity among the quivering leaves: rooks and sparrows, jays and blackbirds and even little finches—all of them hopping from branch to branch and proclaiming their right to a twig of territory.

  Then, even as he watched, a great black raven took flight, circled once, and then flew down to perch on Rhiannon’s outstretched arm. The creature regarded her with a glossy black bead of an eye, ruffled its feathers, clacked its big hollow beak, and took a nip of the glimmering fabric of her gown. Rhiannon raised a warning finger to the bird, and the creature hopped a little higher up her arm. To Conor’s amazement, the raven allowed its sleek head to be stroked while the faéry spoke in low, soft tones to it—her right hand making curious signs and motions over the bird all the while.

  When she finished, a look passed between them and the raven spread its wings. Rhiannon raised her arm and, with a last command, launched the bird into the sky. Conor watched it spiral up through the opening in the leafy canopy and quickly disappear above the treetops. The faéry watched the sky for a moment after the bird had gone, and then turned with a smile to Conor and said, ‘There—the message has been sent. If all goes well my father will soon receive it and send a boat for us.’

  ‘Your father will send a boat?’ Conor repeated. ‘Because of the bird?’

  Rhiannon laughed and the sound seemed like rain sparkling in the sunlight. ‘He will send it because I asked him. I will know if he received the message before this day is out.’

  They returned to the bothy then and Rhiannon went in to help Gráinne renew the dressing on Donal’s wound. ‘If I can do anything…,’ said Conor from the doorway.

  ‘Bring us some of Tuán’s porridge when it is ready,’ the banfaíth told him, ‘and a little water. That will be help enough for now.’

  At the fire ring, Tuán was just then dropping handfuls of oats into the pot to get the porridge started, so Conor went in search of the brook that had kept him company through the night, and found it at the bottom of a fern-lined channel not far from the oak where he slept. The stream was shallow and ran to join a bright expanse of water not more than a few hundred paces further on. Conor followed the brook and soon stood at the shore of a fair-sized lough; a bed of tall reeds stretched away to his left, and on his right, a stand of small willows lined a flat grassy bank. The sunlight glinted off the blue, sky-tinted water, and a breeze ruffled the surface in tiny waves that lapped the shore at Conor’s feet. Green hills, clothed in morning mist, raised their bare heads above the trees on the far side. Among the tall, swaying reeds, dragonflies glinted—iridescent sparks in the morning light—and coots scudded about like little black coracles; along the shoreline, swans drifted in slow-moving clouds. The place was so serene, so peaceful, Conor was instantly seized by a yearning so strong it made his jaws ache.

  This is how it is supposed to be, he thought. This is Eirlandia as it is meant to be.

  He stripped off his clothes and waded into the cool clear water to bathe and swim and watch the clouds sail by slowly overhead. When he was clean and refreshed, he waded to shore and shook off the water and dried himself with his siarc, then pulled on his breecs, laced up his brócs, and, with his damp siarc over his shoulder, started back to the clóin. He had only gone a few steps when Tuán stepped out into his path.

  ‘Where are your brother druids?’ Conor asked. ‘I didn’t see them this morning.’

  ‘Eádoin and Dáithi left before daybreak to take word of your discoveries in the Scálda territories to Carn Dubh. Ovate Galin went with them to fetch more supplies for us here.’ The squat druid came nearer with his little hopping gait. ‘Eádoin is calling for a council to decide what to do. They will return for Mádoc’s sending.’

  ‘A council of druids,’ Conor mused. ‘Will that do any good?’

  ‘We must start somewhere,’ replied Tuán.

  Conor gave a curt nod, and made to continue on his way, but the little man spread his arms wide, effectively blocking the path. ‘It is not your fault that Donal was injured and Mádoc and Huw were killed. I believe in my soul that if you had your way they would still be hale and well, and Eirlandia would be a better place.’

  ‘You mock me, little man?’

  Tuán shook his head gravely and bounced up on a fallen log to stand nearly eye level with Conor. ‘No, Conor mac Ardan, I only tell you the truth. The world is not yours to command.’ He smiled, his wide mouth stretching wider still. ‘I had thought a man whose brother was a druid would have a higher opinion of the craft.’

  Conor stared at the little man. ‘My brother—you mean Rónán? You know Rónán?’

  ‘I know him well. We were many years in Willow House at Suídaur. Morien was our head there, and Rónán used to tell me about his older brothers, but it was you he mentioned most of all.’ Tuán held his head to one side. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  Conor had no need to count back through the years—that fateful day was never far from memory. He could see it still: his little brother high up on that fine horse, eyes wide with fear, clinging to the druid who had just called down a curse upon Conor
’s people … and his father standing helplessly by as his youngest son was taken from him—sacrificed for the good of the tribe, but a sacrifice all the same. The pain of that separation had lingered long. ‘It has been ten summers—at least that many—although my father got word of him from time to time, and he was brought to visit once. Tell me, how does he fare?’

  ‘Right well. His feet are firmly planted on the path to become an ollamh, or perhaps a brehon. You can be proud of your brother.’

  They talked of Rónán then, and life growing up in the druid house. Tuán proved a veritable wellspring of information about Rónán and his progress through the manifold stages of training and practice. Conor came under the sway of the small opinionated druid. By the time they returned to the clearing, he and Tuán were better friends. At the fire ring, they found Fergal awake and watching Galin, the ovate, put apples to bake in the warm ashes. Conor and Tuán sat down to wait for the meal to be ready, and Tuán said, ‘Have either of you ever heard of Balor Berugderc?’ He looked from one to the other of them. ‘Balor of the Evil Eye, they call him.’

  Conor shook his head, and Fergal said, ‘That is a name I would recall, I think—if I had ever heard it. Who is he?’

  ‘Last year—sometime after the raiding season, we believe—the Scálda warleader was overthrown. His name was Marroc and he had been king over the lesser Scálda tribes since his father Morchan died in a battle a year or two after invading Eirlandia. Marroc was of the Ochthach tribe and his favour has declined sharply, along with the status of his clan, in the last few years. He was vulnerable to a challenge.’

  Conor glanced at Fergal, and asked, ‘How do you know this?’

  Tuán’s wide mouth split in a grin. ‘The Brothers of the Oak do not spend all our time in groves staring at trees, you know. We have our ways.’

  ‘This Marroc fella,’ said Fergal, ‘was he killed then?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ replied Tuán. ‘But earlier this year we began hearing reports that Balor Berugderc—the chief king of the largest tribe known as the Fomórai—had been elevated to the throne. I would not be astonished to learn that Balor is the one building the chariots.’

  They discussed this until the meal was ready and Galin began spooning the oat and salt pork porridge into bowls. Conor took a bowl and beaker of water into the bothy for Donal, and returned to the fire ring to eat with the others; when he finished, he put a few handfuls of oats in his sparán and, with Fergal beside him, went to take care of Búrach and Ossin. The horses were tethered beside one of the standing stones at the edge of the clearing; they had grazed the area fairly well, so the two warriors pulled up the tether pegs and led their mounts to the brook for water. While the animals drank, Fergal said, ‘They took Mádoc away this morning. Did you see?’

  ‘They took him before I woke up,’ Conor told him. ‘Tuán said the druids will prepare the body for his sending tonight.’

  ‘Sending?’ Fergal regarded him curiously. ‘What is that, then?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Conor admitted. ‘I expect we’ll find out.’

  After the horses had drunk their fill, Conor and Fergal led them to the lough and into the water; they stood in the shallows, splashing water on the animals’ coats and rubbing them down with dock leaves pulled from the nearby bank. Conor gave himself to the task, happy to lavish his attention on the grey and keep his mind off the events of the last few days. While he worked, he spoke to Búrach, calling him by name and telling the handsome beast whatever came to mind; he praised the stallion for his strength and spirit, his speed and noble bearing, and told him about his home at Dúnaird and about Aoife who was waiting for him there. Now and again, Conor dipped into his sparán for a handful of oats and let the stallion nuzzle them from his hand. ‘There now, Búrach,’ he said, ‘you like these oats, I know. See how I take care of you? We take care of one another, aye, so we do.’

  The grooming finished, they led the animals to the grassy bank and tethered them among the willows to let them graze to their hearts’ content while the two warriors sat and talked and watched cloud shadows move across the distant hills.

  The remainder of the day passed peacefully enough, but Conor eventually tired of waiting for Eádoin and Dáithi to return from Carn Dubh and, as the sun began its descent into the west, he walked down the coastal path through the forest to the cove of the shipwreck. It felt good to stretch his legs and move, but as he drew near his destination, he realised there was something in him that needed to see it again. He grieved for Mádoc and little Huw, and in the back of his mind was an unformed thought that he had left something undone on the beach. And so he made his way to the strand, though what he hoped to find when he got there, he could not have said.

  He was still high up on the path above the cove when he caught sight of the calm waters of the cáel and the sea beyond. There was no sign of the ship on the rocks, nothing to show what had happened there. He resumed his walk and, upon reaching the top of the strand, saw that the druids had scoured the beach, gathering all the wreckage into a pile hard against the wall of the sea bluff on the far side of the cove; the carcasses of the drowned horses, Grían and Drenn, had been hauled off to one side and covered by the remains of the ship’s red sail. The little Cymru hill pony, Íogmar, like his young master, was missing.

  Farther down the beach, four young druids, stripped to the waist, were labouring to add timber and driftwood to what appeared to be a low tower. Conor greeted them and asked what they were doing.

  ‘This is for one of our brothers,’ the ovate told him.

  ‘For Mádoc?’

  ‘Aye, did you know him?’

  ‘I did. He was a friend of mine.’ Conor regarded the structure. ‘What about Huw—Mádoc’s serving lad? He died, too.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that,’ the druid replied. ‘Are you Conor? Eádoin told us what happened here. It was a very brave thing you did.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  The ovate shrugged and resumed his work, and Conor walked down to the water’s edge; he picked his way among the few scattered bits of flotsam and debris that still remained from the wreck. As he sifted through the stuff, he realised he was looking for Huw; half of him hoped to find the boy, and the other half feared that he would. Still, he searched until, overcome by the futility of his efforts and an unutterable pity for the poor lost boy, he sat down on the beach, wrapped his arms around his knees, and let the tears fall. ‘I am sorry, Huw,’ he murmured. ‘Truly … sorry.…’

  The tears and admission expressed the pain of grief Conor felt for the sad deaths of Mádoc and Huw, and his inability to help Donal. The sigh of the waves seemed to echo his sorrow, and he sat for a long time nursing his pain and fell into a reverie as he listened to the ceaseless wash of the water. When at last he raised his head, he saw that the sun was low behind him, casting long shadows of the sea cliffs into the bay. The tide was flowing in and he was alone on the beach. Looking down, he saw something in the wavelets lapping at his feet—a bit of debris, he thought. Reaching into the water, he snagged the leather lace of a shoe—one of Huw’s brócs.

  Holding the dripping shoe, he rose and, with a last glance out at the empty sea, turned to head back up to the clóin. He had gone but a few steps when he noticed a light in the northern edge of the forest, flickering as it moved through the trees. Conor watched and the light came nearer, and there emerged from among the trees at the northern edge of the wood a young woman carrying a torch; she was dressed in a white robe and blue girdle and her crown was shaved ear-to-ear over the top of her head, marking her as a druid. She paused at the top of the beach, and was soon joined by a procession of bards, both men and women, walking in single file to the cove. Trailing behind the procession came four of their number bearing a simple bier of woven wattles on which rested a corpse in a winding cloth bound with scarlet bands. The corpse-bearers advanced to the water’s edge and lay the bier beside the wooden platform, and the rest assembled around it.

 
Conor scanned the group; there were, perhaps, thirty or more, with Tuán, Dáithi, and Eádoin among them. He walked to where they stood, greeted them, and, holding the wet shoe, presented it to Eádoin, saying, ‘I found this. It belonged to Huw.’ The high druid took the bróc and turned it over in his hands. Conor added, ‘I think it is all that is left of him.’

  The chief druid thanked Conor and, turning, handed the shoe to Dáithi with the command, ‘Prepare another body for the pyre. Hurry, for the moment draws near.’

  While Conor watched, the druids quickly assembled an effigy. Gathering wood from the bier and dried seaweed from the top of the beach, they fashioned a small parcel and tied it with lengths of twine; to this they added the shoe Conor had found and wrapped everything in a piece of a cloak, binding it all together with some of the scarlet bands taken from the larger shroud. When they finished, two body-shaped bundles lay side by side on the strand at the water’s edge—one larger, one very much smaller: Mádoc and Huw, together in death as they had been in life.

  As Conor looked on, Fergal joined him; Rhiannon and Gráinne followed a little after, and all four stood together to watch as the high ollamh began the ceremony.

  At Eádoin’s command, four ovates stepped forward and took up Mádoc’s shroud-wrapped body and placed it atop the pyre; they nestled Huw’s shrouded effigy beside it. Then, arranging themselves in a semicircle around the pyre, the druids from Carn Dubh began to sing—a strange and melancholy melody with words neither Conor nor Fergal could understand. At their wondering glances, Gráinne whispered, ‘It is the Song for the Dead—in the sacred tongue of the bards.’

  Like the rising and falling of the sea swell, the voices of the bards rose and fell, intertwining, weaving chains of melody that stretched on and on. Meanwhile, Eádoin turned and faced the sea, searching the dusky water and the slowly dimming sky. At last the moment came and, turning to address the gathering once more, he raised his hands and called in a loud voice. ‘Brothers! Cease your sad lament. The time for home-going is at hand.’