The Silver Hand

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “We have done well,” Llew said. “It is looking like something now. I wish you could see it, Tegid.”

  “But I have seen it,” I told him. “I have seen it all.”

  “As it will be, perhaps. But—”

  “Yes, as it will be—and as it is.” I touched my fingertips to my forehead. “In the time we have been here my gift has been growing.”

  “Truly?”

  “It comes as it will—like the awen—I cannot command it. Sometimes it comes of its own, but a word will often call it forth. Or a sound. I never know when it will awaken. Yet each time I seem to see more.”

  Rhylla’s crisp nights brought the mists from the lake and sharp, golden days set aflame by the sun’s dying light. But the shining days dwindled and passed to gray, like fire to ashlike the Samhain fire that marks the year’s turning: so bright and fierce as it flares from the hill—top, holding the trouble—fraught night at bay with brave light. But the fire dwindles to gray ash in the end—gray days of rain, endless until the creeping darkness gathers them and bears them away.

  After Samhain, I often scented winter in the air. The coats of the horses and oxen grew soft, thick, and long. The warriors hunted, fished, and chopped wood for the season of snows. The women preserved the meat—smoking some and salting the rest; they baked the hard black bread that would keep us through the winter. The children covered their sunbrowned limbs with warm woolen cloaks and leggings. The builders rubbed grease on their tools at night and wrapped them away in the lakeshore huts to keep from rusting.

  We moved from our camp among the trees to the dwellings on the lakeshore. There were fewer than thirty of us, so the four big dwellings on the lakeshore housed us in comfort . . . until the first of the refuge seekers arrived.

  18

  THE CHALLENGE

  Cynan returned the first moon after Samhain, bringing with him seven warriors and five wagons loaded with supplies—food grain and seed: oats, barley, and rye—and some luxuries: honey, salt and herbs, woven cloth, and tanned leather. He also brought new spears, and swords and shields enough for all the warriors. And, as if to make certain we would not become complacent in our surfeit of riches, he also brought with him thirty weary Eothaeli—starving, footsore survivors of a tribe who had resisted Meldron’s demands for hostages and tribute and saw their king, war band, and kinsmen slaughtered, their caer burned down around them, and all their cattle driven off.

  “I did not know what else to do with them,” a mildly confounded Cynan explained. “They were wandering lost on the moors. Cold and hungry . . . bairns and all—with nowhere to go.”

  “You did right,” Llew said.

  “No weapons, no provisions—they would have frozen soon enough,” Cynan continued. “If I had reckoned on them, I would have brought more grain. As it is, I cannot—”

  “Never fret, brother,” Llew assured him quickly. “It is for them, and those like them, that we build Dinas Dwr. Bring them in, I say.”

  The Eothaeli stood apart, uncertain of their reception. Llew, Cynan, and I spoke to them—eight men, fifteen women, and the rest children, several babes in arms. Llew told them they had nothing to fear: they would be given food and clothing, they would be cared for, and, if they chose to, they could stay. Still they were reluctant to believe their good fortune.

  A baby cried out—a small, squalling keen—and was quickly hushed by its mother. The sound kindled my inner eye, and I saw a bedraggled clump of exhausted clansmen, wary and uneasy, fear peering out of their dull eyes. Foremost among them stood a gaunt, flint-faced man with his arm wrapped in a filthy, blood-soaked rag, who appeared to be the leader of the group—all that was left of three family tribes. “It is not right that we should be treated shamefully. We are not outcasts,” the gaunt man answered, his voice swelling with indignation. “We were attacked without provocation; our stronghold was destroyed, our people murdered, and our cattle driven off. We escaped death—but even death is better to us than disgrace.”

  “You are welcome here,” Llew told him. “What is the disgrace in that? Unless you believe our hospitality beneath your dignity.”

  “We are Eothaeli,” the man informed Llew icily. “We are not an unimportant people, to be treated no better than cattle.”

  Llew leaned close and touched me lightly on the arm. “You tell him, Tegid. I am beginning to repeat myself.”

  The Eothaeli are a self-reliant tribe. They live—or once did—in the south of Llogres, clinging stubbornly to their rocky coasts with the tenacity of limpets. While they are known to be fiercely protective of their small, tight-knit clans, they are not known to possess great wealth in gold or cattle, nor uncommon skill in battle. What Meldron hoped to gain by attacking them, I could not guess. A few ships, perhaps.

  The Eothaeli had begun grumbling darkly among themselves. I raised my staff and struck it sharply against the ground. “Listen, slow of wit!” I declared abruptly. “Hear the Chief Bard of Prydain!”

  That silenced them. They did not dare mutter against a bard. Llew had tried reassurance; I decided on a more direct approach.

  “Shame! Are you such ill-mannered and thankless guests that you reject the gift of friendship offered to you? You come lorn and empty-handed to us, but we do not turn you away. The warmth of our hearth is yours if you will accept it. Why do you stand there like captives of the hostage pit?”

  I raised my staff, pointed at the head man, and demanded: “What is your name?”

  “Iollan,” the gaunt man replied curtly, and then clamped his mouth shut.

  “Hear me then, Iollan of the Eothaeli. Follow your own wisdom. We have offered you our welcome. It remains for you to accept it or decline. The choice is yours. If you stay, you will be treated fairly. If you leave, however, you go as you came: alone and unaided.”

  Iollan frowned but said nothing.

  “Stubborn fool,” Cynan whispered.

  “Leave them to think about it,” Llew said, turning away.

  Cynan and I followed, but we had not walked ten paces when the head man called out, “We accept your offer of rest and food. We will stay—but only until we are strong enough to move on.”

  Llew turned back. “Very well. You are free to do as you please. We make no demands of you.”

  We led them to the meadow dwellings then and arranged lodging for them. I thought to give them a house of their own, but Llew advised against it. “No, let them be dispersed among us—they will sooner become a part of life here. No one should feel like a stranger in Dinas Dwr.”

  Accordingly, we scattered the refugees among us, making room for a few of them in each house. In one day we doubled our number, and the four houses were no longer as comfortable as before. But when the icy winds howled in the rooftrees at night, we would be that much warmer for the nearness of our companions.

  Sollen came on cold and wet, but not unbearable to us. Our houses were snug, the fires brisk and bright. Many a night we crowded together in the largest house, and I took up my harp and sang. I sang the songs that have been sung since the beginning of this worlds-realm. I sang the “Tale of Rhiannon’s Birds” and “Mathonwy’s Fountain”; I sang “Manawyddan and the Tlwyth Teg” and “Cwn Annwn” and the “Tale of Arianrhod’s Silver Wheel” and many, many others. I sang the cold Sollen away, and the days grew gradually longer.

  By the time Gyd had coaxed the young green shoots from the land, the refugees among us no longer talked of leaving. They were one with us; and their defiance—born of pride and fear—had been replaced by an equally adamant resolve to shoulder the weight of the work required to enlarge the settlement. They were eager to repay the kindness we had shown them, and their gratitude took the form of back-breaking labor: clearing the flat valley floor for crops, rowing the endless boatloads of stone for the crannog pilings, tending the oxen and horses, chopping wood, plowing ground, cooking, herding, tending.

  Wherever there was a task to be done, one of the Eothaeli was there to do it: cheerfully, tireless
ly, and with good grace. They worked harder than slaves. Indeed, had we made slaves of them, we would never have imposed such labor as they undertook themselves.

  “These people are not like us, Cynan,” Llew declared one balmy day, as he paused to look out over fresh-plowed fields. “I have never seen a people so eager to weary themselves in working. They humble us with their diligence.”

  “Then we must work harder,” Cynan replied. “It is not fitting for the noble clans of Caledon to be surpassed by anyone.”

  Alun Tringad, standing nearby, heard this and announced loudly, “Do not think to surpass the Eothaeli unless you mean to far outdistance the Rhewtani as well—and that cannot be done.”

  Cynan drew himself up to meet the Rhewtani bluster. “If the men of Llogres were as hardworking as they are boastful, I might believe you. As it is, I have seen nothing to discourage me.”

  “Have you not, Cynan Machae?” retorted Alun. “Then open your eyes, man! Did that field plow itself ? Did that wood chop itself ? Did the logs lie down and roll themselves to the lake?”

  “I believe I will sooner see a field plow itself and wood chop itself and logs lie down and roll themselves to the lake than see a plow or ax or ox goad in your hand, Alun Tringad!”

  Others heard this exchange and stopped to look on; they laughed out loud at Cynan’s reply. Someone called to Alun, encouraging him to make Cynan swallow his words.

  “Brother, you have cut me to the heart with your rash talk,” Alun avowed, his tone grave with the alleged seriousness of his wound. “I see there is only one way to save my honor. I will match a day of my work against a day of yours, and you will rue your hasty words.”

  “Unless you intend to talk me into submission,” Cynan replied, “I will match you a day’s work, and we will see who is the better man.” He turned to me. “Tomorrow we will both plow and chop wood and haul timber. From sunrise to sunset we will work. And you will judge between us who has done more.”

  “Is this agreeable to you, Alun?” I asked.

  “More than agreeable,” the lighthearted Alun replied. “If you had said seven sunrises and seven sunsets—or even seventy-seven!—I would think it no hardship. Still, one day will be enough. For I would not wish to fatigue Cynan overmuch—I know how he treasures his repose.”

  Cynan’s reply was thorny sharp. “I esteem your thoughtfulness, Alun Tringad, but you need have no qualms for me. Though I plow ten hides of land, I will still have ample time to rest while you strive to hitch the oxen!”

  “So be it!” I shouted. “Tomorrow we will all watch this marvel. And we shall see who is worthy to stand beside the Eothaeli.”

  That night, as we sat at supper, wagers were laid as to which would better the other. The Rhewtani favored Alun; the Galanae supported Cynan. Both groups clustered around their champions, encouraging them with lofty praise, and although the Eothaeli did not wager with the others, they entered into the fun all the same, lauding first Cynan and then Alun as the mood took them.

  Cynan and Alun slept well that night. They awakened the next morning at dawn and went out to the ox pen to yoke their teams and hitch their beasts to the plow. Everyone followed, laughing and calling encouragement to one or the other of the chosen champions. Children scampered ahead, skipping in the still, clear air, making the valley echo with their happy whoops and shrieks.

  Shouting good-natured derision at one another, the opponents took up their yokes and the contest began. Cynan succeeded in getting his team hitched before Alun had even yoked the first of his oxen. As he led his team from the pen, Cynan called over his shoulder to Alun, “Get used to seeing the back of me, brother. It is the only view you will enjoy all day!”

  “Your backside is not a sight to be savored, Cynan Machae! Still, it is not a view I will be seeing—save when you bend over to kiss my feet in surrender.”

  Cynan left the cattle enclosure chuckling. He led his pair of oxen to an expanse of ground that had been cleared for plowing the day before; he set the blade of his plow deep in the untilled soil and took up the willow switch.

  “Hie! Up! Hie!” he cried, and I heard the snap of the willow wand, and the soft, sighing groan as the plow carved the ground. I smelled the rich soil scent of good black earth and heard the low grunt of an ox. At this, my inner eye awoke. I saw the oxen bend their necks and lower their heads. The plow shuddered forward; Cynan, holding to the haft, forced the blade down with his weight as the oxen dragged it over the grass. A black scar appeared amidst the green as the iron blade passed.

  Cynan drove a straight, deep furrow to the end of the cleared field. He turned the oxen and started back to the cheers of the gathered throng. He finished the second furrow as Alun, having hitched his team, passed by on his way to begin plowing. “Take your ease, friend Alun,” Cynan called, “for this field will soon be finished.”

  “Plow on, Cynan Machae,” Alun replied happily. “And while you work your first field, I will finish two more.”

  Everyone laughed, but those backing Cynan began pressing the others to increase their wagers. Alun’s supporters responded with defiance, and new wagers were quickly laid.

  Alun reached the place where he meant to start; he set the plowshare and walked to the head of his team. “Beautiful beasts!” he called, loudly enough for all to hear. “Look at all this excellent ground before you. Look at the fair blue sky and the red-rising sun. It is a good day to plow. You will perform wonders this day. Come, let us show these lazy laggards how to prepare a field!”

  He then stopped and picked up a clod of dirt, crumbled it in his hands and rubbed the earth on the snouts of the oxen. Some of those looking on laughed, and someone cried, “Alun, do you mean them to eat a furrow through the field?”

  The cocky Raven made no anwer, but stepped close and whispered into the ears of the oxen, then took his place behind the plow. He did not shout, or use a switch, but merely clucked his tongue. “Tch! Tch!” he coaxed.

  At this gentle command, the beasts lumbered forward. The plow smoothly sliced the earth, and Alun Tringad walked behind, clucking gently and crooning soft endearments to his team. In this way he reached the end of the field, turned, and started back—all with much less effort than anyone would have believed. And certainly less strain than Cynan endured.

  Alun’s team pulled steadily, slicing through the thick turf and laying open one straight, deep furrow after another. Cynan, on the other hand, wrestled his way to the end of another furrow, turned his team, and, with willow switch snapping, began struggling back. The plow in Cynan’s hand dragged and jerked as the blade struck stones; Cynan’s broad shoulders bunched and bulged as he battled the plow and team. And it seemed to me that he pressed too hard—as if he would force the share through the soil with his own strength—and the earth resisted.

  Alun, sweetly coaxing and cajoling, seemed to ease the blade through the yielding earth. His team pulled evenly and cleanly. Little by little, they began to gain on Cynan’s team.

  Furrow after furrow they plowed. The rich soil rolled from the plowshares in long, unbroken black curls. Birds gathered to hop among the new-cut ridges, in search of their supper. The sun rose higher and the day grew bright and warm. Cynan saw his lead shrinking and redoubled his efforts. He shouted and slashed with the willow wand, driving his oxen harder and harder. The stalwart beasts lowered their heads until their noses almost touched the ground; their great muscled bodies heaved against the wooden yoke, hauling the unwilling plow forward.

  For all his strength and struggle, Cynan could not prevent Alun’s team from drawing even. Step by step, Alun’s gently persuaded pair matched Cynan’s hard-striving team . . . and then passed it.

  Alun’s supporters shouted aloud as the last furrow was completed and Alun unhitched the plow; he led his team away from the fresh-tilled square of earth, calling and waving cheerfully to all. Cynan, jaw set, brow lowered, finished his field, released his team, and hastened to catch Alun, who was already disappearing into the forest, ax
in hand, a stream of followers trailing behind him down the slope.

  “The only work accomplished today will be done by Cynan and Alun,” I observed, as the stragglers hurried away to join Cynan.

  “Give them the day,” Llew replied. “They have earned it.” He grew reflective. “In my world,” he said slowly, “people are granted a day of rest from their labors—one day in every seven. In past times it was a jealously guarded gift, though now it is no longer recognized as such.”

  “One day in seven,” I replied, considering the idea. “It is an uncommon practice, but not unknown. There are bards who have asserted such notions from time to time, and kings have decreed for their people.”

  “Then let us make such a decree.”

  “So be it! One day in seven the people of Dinas Dwr will rest from their labors,” I agreed.

  “Good, we will tell the others,” Llew said. “But not yet. Let us join Cynan first and rouse him to victory.”

  Cynan had paused long enough to choose a good stout ax from the storehouse on the lakeshore. We joined him as, ox goad in one hand and ax in the other, he drove the oxen along the lakeshore path leading to the forest.

  “Well done, Cynan,” Llew told him, and could not resist adding: “Still, I thought you would finish well ahead of Alun.”

  “And I thought I would never finish at all. That was the hardest ground I have ever put plow to. Did you see the size of those stones? Boulders! And these oxen are the most stubborn beasts alive!”

  “Do not worry, brother,” Llew said. “You will catch him soon enough. Alun is no match for you with an ax!”

  “Am I worried by the likes of Alun Tringad?” Cynan snorted. “Let him chop all he likes, I will dazzle him. Give him fifty strokes to one of mine, and I will still fell more trees!”

  By the time we reached the forest clearing where the workers had been cutting timber for the crannogs, Alun had managed a fair beginning. He had one large pine tree leaning and about to fall. The onlookers stood in the clearing, shouting their approval at each stroke.