“You ask for too much,” Finbarr had told him frankly. “You cannot expect a young woman to be as deep and wise as a druid.”
But it was more than that. Ever since his early childhood, when he had sat alone by the lakes or watched the red sun go down, he had been overcome by a sense of inner communion, a feeling that the gods had reserved him for some special purpose. Sometimes it filled him with ineffable joy; at other times it seemed like a burden. At first he had assumed that everyone felt the same way, and had been quite surprised to discover that they did not. He had no wish to place himself apart. But as the years went by, these sensations had not passed away but had grown. And so it was that, whether he wished it or not, when he gazed into the eyes of some well-meaning girl, he was troubled by an uncomfortable inner voice that said she was a distraction, taking him away from the path of his destiny.
So why was this girl with the strange green eyes any different? Was she just a bigger distraction? He did not think she was different in kind from the other women he had met. Yet somehow the warning voice that usually troubled him, if it had been speaking, had not spoken loudly enough to be heard. He was drawn to her. He wanted to know more. It would have seemed strange indeed to Finbarr that he should have hesitated so long before he had summoned his charioteer, harnessed a pair of his swiftest horses to his light chariot, and, without saying where he was going, set off towards the Ford of Hurdles and the dark pool of Dubh Linn.
And now he found her alone, with only some of the farmhands for company. Her father and brothers had gone out hunting. He saw at once that the farmstead of Fergus was quite a modest one, and that seemed to make his visit easier. If he had called upon an important chief, the news would have travelled all over the island in no time. As it was, he crossed the hurdles, noted privately that they needed repairing, and came quite naturally to the rath of Fergus to ask for refreshment before he continued on his way.
She met him at the entrance. After greeting him politely and apologising for her father’s absence, she led him inside and offered him the usual hospitality for a traveller. When the ale was brought, she served him herself. She recalled their meeting at Lughnasa calmly and politely; yet it seemed to him that there was a quiet, laughing look in her eyes. He had forgotten that she was so delightful. And he was just wondering for how long he should prolong his stay when she asked him whether, after crossing the ford, he had looked at the dark pool that gave the place its name.
“I did not,” he lied. And when she asked if he would like her to show it to him, he said that he would.
Perhaps it was the fact that the leaves of the oak tree that stood above the pool had turned golden brown, or perhaps it was some trick of the light, but as he stood with Deirdre and looked down the steep bank to its calm surface, Conall had the momentary apprehension that the pool’s dark waters were about to draw him in, ineluctably, down into depths without end. Every pool, of course, might be magical. Hidden passages below its waters might lead down into the otherworld. That was why the offerings to the gods of weapons, ceremonial cauldrons, or golden ornaments were so often thrown into their waters. But to Conall at that moment, the dark pool of Dubh Linn seemed to offer him a threat more mysterious, and nameless. He had never experienced such a sense of fear before, and hardly knew what to make of it.
The girl close by his side was smiling.
“We have three wells here, too,” she remarked. “One of them is sacred to the goddess Brigid. Would you like to see it?”
He nodded.
They looked at the wells, which were pleasantly situated on the rising ground above the Liffey. Then they walked back across the open turf towards the rath. As they did so, Conall found himself uncertain what to do. The girl did none of the things that other girls did. She neither moved too close, nor brushed against him, nor put her hand upon his arm. When she looked at him, it was only with a pleasant smile. She was friendly; she was warm. He wanted to put his arm round her. But he did not. When they reached the rath, he said he must go.
Was there a hint of disappointment on her face? Perhaps a little. Was he hoping there might be? Yes, he realised, he was.
“It is this way you’ll be coming when you return,” she suggested. “You should stay with us for longer next time.”
“I will do that,” he promised. “Soon.” Then he called for his chariot and drove away.
When Fergus came home that evening and Deirdre told him that a traveller had come through, his curiosity was immediate.
“What sort of traveller?” he demanded.
“It was just a man going south. He wasn’t here for long.”
“And you didn’t think to find out anything about him?”
“He was at Carmun at Lughnasa, so he said.”
“And so was half of Leinster,” he retorted.
“He said he saw us there,” she said vaguely, “but I didn’t remember.” The idea of seeing a stranger not once, but twice, and still knowing nothing of his business was so far from her father’s comprehension that he could only stare at her in silence. “I gave him some ale,” she said brightly. “Perhaps he’ll come back.” And at this, to her relief, her father had turned away, moved to his favourite place near his drinking skull, wrapped his cloak around him, and gone to sleep.
For a long time after that, however, Deirdre had remained awake, sitting with her knees drawn up to her chin, thinking about the day that had passed.
She had been proud of herself that morning. When she had first seen Conall approaching she had let out a little involuntary gasp, and then felt herself tremble. It had taken all her concentration and willpower, but by the time he reached the entrance she had herself completely under control. She had not blushed. And she had kept it up the entire time he was there. But had she given him enough encouragement to return? That was the question. The thought of putting him off was even more terrible than making a fool of herself. As they had walked to the pool she had wondered: should she move closer, should she touch him? She thought not. She believed she had done things the right way. But how she would have liked it, on the way back, if he had put his arm round her. Should she have linked her arm in his? Would that have been better? She didn’t know.
One thing she did know was that the longer she could keep her father off the scent, the better. Given his love of talk, he was sure to cause her embarrassment. If there was to be any hope for her with the young prince …
And why, for her part, was she so interested in the quiet and thoughtful stranger? Because he was a prince? No, it wasn’t that.
It was an old tradition that the High King must be a perfect man. He could have no blemish. Everyone knew the story of the legendary king of the gods, Nuadu. When he had lost a hand in battle, he had resigned his kingship. Then he had been given a hand of silver, which eventually turned back into a natural hand. Only then could Nuadu of the Silver Hand be king again. So it was with the High King, supposedly. If the High King wasn’t perfect, then he would not be pleasing to the gods. The kingdom would be blighted.
To her it seemed that the handsome warrior, who, she sensed, had been reluctant to meet her at Lughnasa, had this kingly quality. His body was without blemish—she had certainly seen that. But it was his thoughtful manner, the sense of reserve, even private mystery and melancholy about him, that set him apart in her eyes. This man was special. He was not for any thoughtless, coarse-grained woman. And he had come down to Dubh Linn to see her. She was sure of that. The question was: would he return?
The next day the weather was fine. The morning passed uneventfully, as everyone went about their usual business. It was nearly midday when one of the British slaves called out that there were horsemen crossing the ford, and Deirdre went out to see. There were just two of them, in a light cart with a small train of pack-horses. One man she recognised easily. The other, a tall man, she did not know.
The smaller man was Goibniu the Smith.
Conall awoke at dawn. The evening before, after leaving Deirdre, he
had crossed the high promontory at the foot of the Liffey’s broad bay and, choosing a sheltered spot by a rock, had spent the night on its southern slopes. Now, in the dawn’s early glow, he climbed up the rock and gazed southwards at the misty unveiling of the panorama below.
On his right, catching the first gleams of the sun, the gentle hills and volcanic mountains rose into a pale blue sky in which the stars were still departing; on his left, the white mist and silver sheen of the sea. Between these elemental worlds, the great sweep of open country unrolled like a green cloak down the slopes and along the coastline as far as the eye could see until the mists curtailed it. And like a border along the green cloak’s edge ran the little cliffs of the shoreline below which the sea spume spread on the distant waiting sands.
Some way down the slopes before him, he saw a fox lope across open grass and disappear into the trees. All around, the dawn chorus filled the air. Far away, by the edge of the sea, he saw the silent shadow of a heron sliding over the water. He felt the faint warmth of the rising sun on his cold cheek, and turned his face eastwards. It was as if the world had just begun.
It was at times like this, when the world seemed so perfect he wished he could open his mouth like the birds around him to give praise, that Conall would find the words of the ancient Celtic poets coming into his mind. And this morning, it was the most ancient of them all whose words came to him—Amairgen, the poet who arrived on the island with the first Celtic invaders when they took it from the divine Tuatha De Danaan. It was Amairgen, stepping ashore on a coastline like this, who uttered the words that became the foundation for all the Celtic poetry since. As well they might—for Amairgen’s poem was nothing less than an ancient Vedic mantra of the kind to be found right across the huge Indo-European diaspora from the western Celtic bardic songs to the poetry of India.
I am the Wind on the Sea
I am the Ocean Wave
I am the Roar of the Sea
So the great chant began. The poet was a bull, a vulture, a dewdrop, a flower, a salmon, a lake, a pointed weapon, a word, even a god. The poet was transformed into all things, not just by magic but because all things, atomised, were one. Man and nature, sea and land, even the gods themselves came from one primal mist, and were formed in one endless enchantment. This was the knowledge of the ancients, preserved on the western island. This was what the druids knew.
And this was what he, Conall, experienced when he was alone—the sense of being at one with all things. It was so intense, so important, so precious to him that he was not sure he could live without it.
It was for this reason that now, in the wonderful silence of the sun’s rising, he shook his head. For here was the question he could not solve. Did you lose this great communion if you lived side by side with another? Could you share such things with a wife, or did you somehow lose them? An instinct told him that you did, but he was not sure.
He wanted Deirdre. He was sure of that already. He wanted to return to her. But if he did, was he going, in some way as yet unclear, to lose his life?
He was a good-looking man, you couldn’t deny it. Tall, balding, about thirty years old, she guessed, with a face that reminded you of a mountain crag; eyes black but not unkind. They had talked pleasantly enough and after a time, when he had ascertained her likes and dislikes and, she had to suppose, made some judgements about her character—and she certainly didn’t think his judgements would be foolish—she saw him give a little look to Goibniu which must have been a signal. For she saw that the smith soon afterwards took her father by the arm and suggested they walk outside.
So that was it. She was about to be married. She had no doubt the offer would be handsome. And, so far as she could tell, her future husband was a fine upstanding man. She could count herself lucky. The only trouble was that, at the moment anyway, she didn’t want him.
She rose. He looked a little surprised. She smiled, said she would return in a moment, and went outside.
Goibniu and her father were standing a little way off. They looked expectantly at her, but when she indicated that she wished to speak with her father, he came across.
“What is it, Deirdre?”
“Is it an offer he’s making for me, Father?”
“It is. An excellent offer. Is something the matter?”
“No. Not at all. You may tell Goibniu,” she smiled towards the smith, “that I like his choice. He seems a good man.”
“Ah.” Her father’s relief was palpable. “That he is.” He seemed ready to go back to the smith.
“But I’m wondering,” she continued pleasantly, “if there’s something I should tell you.”
“What is that?”
There was nothing for it now. Whatever the risk, she must take her chance.
“Have you heard of Conall, son of Morna, Father? He’s nephew to the High King.”
“I have. But I don’t know him.”
“But I do. I met him at Lughnasa.” She paused as he stared at her in amazement. “It was he that came here yesterday. And I think it was me he came to see.”
“You are sure? He is serious?”
“How can I tell, Father? We should need time to find out. But I think it is possible. Is there anything that can be done?”
And now the chief who traded cattle smiled.
“Go inside, child,” he said, “and leave it to me.”
“She does not dislike him?” Goibniu asked sharply upon Fergus’s return.
“She came to tell me she likes him,” Fergus said smiling, before adding gently, “well enough.”
Goibniu nodded briskly.
“Well enough will do. And the price?”
“It is acceptable.”
“We’ll take her with us now, then.”
“Ah. That will not be possible.”
“Why is that?”
“I shall need her with me,” Fergus said blandly, “through the winter. But in the spring …”
“It’s in the winter he’ll be wanting a woman, Fergus.”
“If his intentions are genuine …”
“By the gods, man,” Goibniu burst out, “he wouldn’t be after coming all the way from Ulster to this miserable spot if he wasn’t genuine.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Fergus said solemnly. “And in the spring she shall be his.”
Goibniu’s one eye narrowed.
“You’ve another offer.”
“Indeed I have not.” Fergus paused. “No doubt I could have had. But seeing it was yourself I was dealing with—”
“I do not like to be crossed,” Goibniu cut him short.
“She shall be his,” Fergus promised. “There’s not a doubt of it.”
“And you will have to be his, Deirdre,” he said to his daughter later, after their visitors had gone, “if your Conall does nothing before the spring.”
III
Though Larine was one of the younger druids, he had a reputation for wisdom. The Peacemaker, they called him. So it did not surprise him, when he came one cold, early spring day to the camp by the Ulster coast where the High King was staying, that as soon as they were alone the king should have turned to him and asked, “Tell me your opinion, Larine. What I should do about my nephew, Conall?”
The druid had always liked Conall and in recent months the young prince had confided in him a good deal. He felt a tenderness and loyalty towards him. He had also been concerned by the increasing sadness he sensed in the young man’s mind. He answered cautiously, therefore.
“It is my opinion that he is troubled. His duty is to obey you in all things and to honour his father’s memory. He wants to do so. But the gods have given him the eyes of a druid.”
“You truly believe that he has a druid’s gifts?”
“I do.”
There was a long silence before the High King spoke again.
“I promised his mother that he should follow his father’s footsteps.”
“I know,” Larine considered. “But did you swear an oath to do so
?”
“No,” the king said slowly, “I did not. But that is only because, with my own sister, there was no need.”
“All the same, you are not bound.”
Again, a long silence fell. And if only they had remained alone to talk quietly a little longer, it seemed to Larine that, there and then, the High King might have granted Conall’s wish.
So it must have been fate that the queen should have appeared at that moment. And probably there was nothing Larine could have done when, after the usual greetings, she had looked at him thoughtfully through narrowed eyes and demanded to know what they were talking about.
“Conall’s desire to be a druid,” he answered quietly.
Did she care whether Conall was a druid or not? He saw no reason why she should. Nor, until the High King explained it to him, had he any idea what she meant when she furiously cried, “Not until he has brought me that bull.”
“Your uncle has not yet decided,” Larine told Conall later.
“And the queen?”
“The queen was angry,” the druid admitted.
It was an understatement. Of course, he knew about the queen’s temper, but Larine had still been shocked by the way that she had cursed her husband. He had promised to send Conall, she shouted at him, promised her personally. He was a worthless betrayer. Her husband had tried to say something, but she was in full flood and refused to listen. One thing that the druid did gather from her storm of words, however, was the deeper reason for the planned raid: the assertion of royal authority. And here he couldn’t deny the queen’s point. Others could be sent, but the handsome and untested young Prince Conall was a clever choice to show the royal family’s easy supremacy over the impertinent chief. The thing had style. But she had been foolish all the same. If she had spoken calmly and in private, she might have got her way. By shouting and heaping insults on the High King in front of a druid, she made it hard for her husband to give way and keep his dignity. Larine did not tell all this to Conall, however, but reported only: “The High King says he will decide later. He has promised me,” he added, “that he will speak to you privately first.”
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