Song of Ireland

by Juilene Osborne-McKnight

  “I said that they are dangerous and duplicitous, keepers of secrets. And is that not borne out by the deaths of Ith and Mil? Perhaps it was one of their own lightning bolts which killed our uncle. Ask Airioch.”

  I turned toward Airioch Feabhruadh. “Brother?”

  Airioch stood among the company like a stranger, clearing his throat and shuffling from side to side. He would not meet my eyes. It seemed to me that he had not returned from Inisfail, nor from his month of wandering, the bold and insouciant Airioch of old. I wondered how much of that had to do with the Children of the Braid. Had he angered them somehow? Been frightened by them?

  “Tell us what you learned on Inisfail,” I commanded.

  “I tried to enter one of their secret doorways,” he said. His voice was soft. A wave of chatter passed across the company but I kept my eyes on Airioch. A crafty and calculating look passed across his face. Here at last was the Airioch of old.

  “They are keepers of great treasure, these Danu. They guard it well; they charge their doors with bolts of lightning. I told this to Uncle Ith, but he was not much interested in worldly goods, as well we know.”

  His statement had precisely the effect he desired. My brothers Eremon and Eber Finn stood at once.

  “More reason still to go!” shouted Eremon.

  “I agree,” cried Eber Finn. “Donn has told us that there is land and cattle pasturage aplenty. Now Airioch tells us of treasure. And all of this in the possession of a people who have killed our uncle and our father, he who wished forever to journey to Inisfail.”

  “Then we shall take him with us!” cried our mother. She lifted my father’s urn, which she would not allow from her sight. She held it into the firelight. “The sons of Mil shall take their father to Inisfail!! And their uncle Ith as well.”

  And so it was decided.

  I returned to the tower with Skena. I folded myself down into her arms, and I allowed myself to weep like a lost child for my father, who had never seen his dream; and for my uncle, who had seen it and had not lived to tell the tale; and for myself, who had lost not one father but two, and who had not been able to dissuade or protect his clansmen, though I sensed great danger in the journey.

  Eber Donn was dispatched to the south, to the people of the Arganthos, who traded silver with the Greeks, there to trade tin and other goods for the fleet that we would need to journey. In the end, we required only seven ships, for many of the people of the Galaeci declined to accompany us, based, I supposed, on the tales of Airioch and Eber Donn and on Ith’s death, for he had been beloved of the Galaeci. Frankly, I thought them wise.

  We departed in the month of April, with a fair wind and sunny skies, a fleet of three biremes and four cargo ships. Scota and our baby brother Colpa sailed on the first ship, with my brother Eber Donn and his three wives and children. They were followed by my brothers Eremon and Eber Finn, each in his own ship with wives and children and retinue.

  My own ship consisted of myself and Skena, now four months heavy with our child, Bile, Ir, An Scail and the three druids who had chosen to accompany her to Inisfail, and various of the Galaeci. Airioch Feabhruadh commanded our ship, though many of the Galaeci who had chosen to accompany us seemed less than happy to have him as commander.

  Most of the days of the journey were uneventful, though once I thought that I saw her, the woman of the message, when I was seated with my map across my knees. The vision slipped away when Airioch interrupted me with a reprimand.

  The weather at that time of year was warm, and Skena and I slept each night on the open deck, the clouds scudding across the moon, the great veil of the cosmos throwing its diaphanous scarf across the night sky. My love for her, my adoration, grew as the child in her belly grew, and somehow I felt that something of Ith and Mil would be returned to us with the birth of our child.

  Despite the deaths of my father and Ith, we were true Milesians, I suppose, for a spirit of adventure overtook the company as we moved north.

  Skena and I whispered of it in the darkness.

  “I wonder if we shall always be this way,” she whispered, “the people of the Gaels, scattering ourselves before the wind, turning toward every curve in the road.”

  I had my arm wrapped around her and I whispered gently in her ear. “These are the only curves I wish to travel.” I ran my hand gently over her swelling breasts and belly.

  She giggled aloud. “Your babe will hear you,” she whispered.

  “Then she will know how much I love the mother who bears her.”

  “She, is it?”

  “It is. And I think that she will be as beautiful as her mother with skeins of ruby hair.”

  “Such foolishness.” She swatted at me, her eyes full of laughter.

  “I am foolish for you,” I answered, and she turned on her side toward me and pressed her lips to mine, making our little foolishness as vast as the stars sweeping by above the moonlit clouds.

  We sighted land in the far distance on the day that tragedy struck. Oh, we were filled with high spirits! Even the sea-wise Greeks had caught some spirit of adventure from us and had taken to calling the island Inisfail. One of our Greek sailors had scurried up the rigging and cried the sighting aloud. I shaded my eyes and watched him from my position in the stern. “Three days hence,” he called.

  Excitement raced through the ship.

  Far ahead, near the bow, Ir and Bile were dashing from railing to railing to see if they could spot their destination. Ir clambered up on the railing, in imitation of the sailor in the crow’s nest. Skena was amidship and she called to him to climb down. I saw Ir’s little body shifting forward like a seabird, too far forward on the railing. We ran for him, both of us at once. Skena was closer and reached him first. I saw her arms dart forward, saw her swipe at his little body where it tipped above the railing.

  She had him! I saw her arms close tight around him. They would have been fine. But then the great ship plunged downward into the trough of a wave. I saw Skena lose her balance, tip forward at the prow.

  I called her name aloud, ran toward them.

  If only she had not been so heavy with child, her balance undone. If only we had begun the climb along the next crest! They would have been flung back to the deck. Instead, they were flung forward into the sea.

  Her face turned toward me as they fell, on it a look of terror and sorrow.

  By the time I reached the prow of the ship, both Ir and Skena were gone.

  Behind me Bile began to wail his “Ah, ah, ah,” and my own soul emptied into the sea and drowned.

  PART TWO

  NONE WILL KNOW US DARKLY SUNG

  AM GAETH I M-MUIR

  IS GAOTH AR MUIR MÉ

  AM TOND TRETHAN

  IS TONN TREATHAIN NA FARRAIGE

  AM FUAIM MARA

  IS GLÓR NA MARA

  AM TORC AR GAIL

  IS TRC AR GAIL

  AM BE I L-LIND

  IS BRADÁN I LINN

  AM LOCH I M-MAIG

  IS LOCH I MAIGH

  AM BRÍ A NDAI

  IS BRIATHAIR AINDÉITHE

  13

  “People of the Danu, we call this Council. May we seek wisdom in the Braid!”

  The assembled Danu began to take their places, to move from the clusters of discussion in the room to the long, curving benches which lined the walls, their cushions and backs adorned with braiding in cobalt blue and red and emerald green.

  The room was a soft blue-gray, the lighting muted so that it would not trouble the eyes of the Ancients. Curling all around the ceiling in purest silver and gold, inlaid with gems, was the unbroken symbol of her people, the woven knotwork that symbolized the Braid.

  The acoustics in the chamber were perfect, the walls curved and arched and battened. Eriu would need only to speak in a normal voice. She sighed. The sound carried around the room. The people of the Danu began to silence themselves.

  The Sisters stood before their assembled people in the Great Council Hall. Eriu sto
od at the prow and raised her arms high. She felt the hands of Banba and Fodla slip into hers. Not for the first time in her life, she experienced profound gratitude that she traveled through life in the company of these, her beloved sisters.

  “We serve you as did the three brothers before us,” said Banba. She referred to Mac Cuill, Mac Cecht, and Mac Grene, who had been the Triad of Brothers before them, and who had been also their three first husbands and teachers as the Sisters trained for their duties as Council Triad.

  We serve you as Threeborn of One Mother,” Fodla intoned, aware of their nearly miraculous status as triplet sisters.

  “We serve you in the ancient Triad decreed by the Weaver of Worlds, she our mother, the Danu. Know in us that all of the creations of Danu are Mother, Child, and the Love that moves between them. See us now and know that you are seen and loved by the Maker of the Braid.”

  The room silenced, the people’s upturned faces waiting. Eriu took a deep breath. She spoke.

  “Now is the time to prepare, now when there is still a little time before the arrival of the Invaders. To remember is to prepare. Our own history will sustain us now; we will gather from it the wisdom to go forward. As we have done before.” She paused.

  “Speak to us of the Invaders,” one of the people called out from the crowd.

  Eriu nodded. “They come from the south, from a land they call Galicia in a country at the western edge of the Internum Mare.” She paused, considered for a moment. Her people would know or remember the reference. It would need no explanation. “They call themselves the Galaeci. Of those who came with them, one was a priest, a druid called Ith. He was a man of great spirit and honor; when he learned of our doorways and saw our Hybrid children, he decided that his people would not return. Of this decision, he said that the Galaeci and the Danu would succeed only in frightening each other.”

  “And yet you say that they return? Where is honor?” one of the people called out.

  Banba spoke. “To our great misfortune, he was not their only spokesman. With him were others of his priestly caste and three warriors. Of these, one was a massive, loud, and hairy being who tramped every field for miles and shouted about cattle and pasturage. The other was a tall and handsome Greek”—here the crowd chuckled, knowing Banba’s preference for Greeks—“who was nonetheless far too curious. He asked many questions about our jewels and once tried to enter Tara through one of the portals.”

  A collective gasp went up from the company. Murmurs of “Fomor,” “Just like the Fomor,” ran through the room.

  “How would you assess them?” asked one of the Ancients, her voice practical and competent. Her very tone seemed to quiet the room, to quell the impending panic.

  Fodla stepped before the company. “From what we have been able to judge, they are brighter and more developed than Fir Bolg. Their civilization is complex; they have traveled well. Although we cannot yet know, they seem less brutal, less warlike than Fomor, but far more curious and perhaps as acquisitive. Obviously, they are stubborn or single-minded, as it seems they return against the advice of the wisdom keeper. If these who came here are an indicator, they are, as a race, quite large.”

  A collective murmur ran through the room.

  “And so, what will they think of us?” asked one of the Danu.

  Eriu sighed.

  What would the Invaders think of them indeed, her diminutive race with its huge eyes and long fingers; what would the Invaders make of their nimbus of light, of their Ancients, of their Raveners?

  Here, deep below the earth, in the great city of Tara beneath the great hill, it was not necessary to maintain the Metaphor. Eriu looked out over her people. The littlest children of the Danu dashed about laughing. Their laughter pierced Eriu’s heart. Would they laugh again if they could not play on the surface, tumble in the long grasses, bathe in the lakes and waterfalls? How long could she and her people hide here below the surface? The subterranean cities were large and well supplied, but they were purposed to keep the surface pristine and green that all the people of the Danu might enjoy the upper world. And when they could no longer hide, where would they go? Worse, would they laugh again when they had heard the terrible story of the Journey of Exile?

  The Ancients were already seated, their skin pale, almost gray, their eyes gone dark and cloudy. Some of them wore the dark lenses that covered their whole orb even here in the soft, subterranean chamber. They gestured slowly with their long, thin fingers. So few were left of the original Braided Ancients, these few who were not of the mixed race of Braided Danu who had married with the Penitents. Eriu herself was mixed, her eyes the soft blue-gray, her hair the curling silver that the Penitents had brought on the Journey. The day would come soon when there would be none of the First Journeyers, when all of the Danu would be those who had been born here on the Green Orb. The few remaining Ancients had lived for more than two millennia.

  Some of the Hybrids moved among the Ancients, gentling, bringing libations. Among them she saw Illyn moving, directing. Her heart ached with love for this little daughter of the Bog People, the Fir Bolg.

  Near the far wall, some of the Raveners were present, the black almonds of their eyes impenetrable as always. Even in Metaphor nothing could change those eyes, that darkness. Perhaps the Raveners were the inevitable result of the long-ago experiment that made them exiles. Or perhaps darkness simply found a way, as it always did, to sidle into the world. She wondered briefly if the coming Invaders were servants of the Braid or of the Unweaver. Perhaps they knew of neither. How should the Danu protect themselves?

  “There is one more thing that you should see,” said Eriu softly. The acoustics carried her voice around the room. The Danu stilled, looked up expectantly. From its velvet bag, Eriu took out the gift that Ith had given them. It was a wine cup in fine silver, its handles rendered as leaping stags. All around the rim of the cup was elaborate chasework, and endless series of braided knots.

  “By the Braid!”

  “O Danu, what does it mean?”

  For the chasework on the cup and the braidwork at the ceiling of the room were nearly alike, an unending stream of ribbons and knots, complex, beautiful, eternal.

  Before any of the people could render opinions on the meaning of the coincidence, one of the doors hidden in the wall made a soft swishing sound and opened. Morrigu entered. Around the room, the assembled company grew silent, then whispered their presence to each other.

  The three sisters of Morrigu were clothed as always in unremitting black, their long slender fingers gesticulating as they talked, their black eyes deep and hungry. Eriu realized with a start that even when Morrigu had hidden herself in Metaphor, she could not hide the dark hunger of those eyes. Around their heads moved a cloudy nimbus of darkness. They formed themselves into a triangle, standing at the far end of the hall. Eriu felt Banba and Fodla move closer behind her, instantly moving into the protective triangle. Eriu held the cup behind her; before Morrigu could see it, Banba slid it into its velvet case, hid it under her skirts on the floor.

  The triangle of the Braid faced the triangle of the Raveners, like the prows of two great ships. The room silenced. It had been five hundred years since last they had all gathered in this room for this purpose. For many children in the room it would be the first time that they had ever seen the Journey of Exile, the first time they had ever known themselves as Braided Children. Eriu ached for them at the knowledge. It was time to reopen the Journey of Exile.

  The lights in the room dimmed to an ambient silver glow near the floor. To the left and right of Eriu, the walls grew viscous, like a waterfall made thick. Suddenly the room was filled with stars, a sky full of stars. They were not the stars that arched in the night sky over the Green Island.

  Among the people, one or two of the Ancients cried out, as if they remembered these pathways, this night sky.

  Eriu did not remember. Nor would her own parents have remembered. Not the sky, not the journey that had brought them through it. />
  The voice of the Teller issued through the walls. Not for the first time, Eriu wondered who he had been, his voice mellifluous and so sorrowful.

  “This is the place you came from,” he intoned. The stars blurred and swept through the arc of the sky, and they were on the Homeworld. The room filled with its sights and its smells—mint and water and something honey warm in a breeze. There were long green fields filled with flowers, huge trees, their limbs shifting from side to side in an emerald forest. By a great sea were cities of gleaming crystal and coral and turquoise, some of the shapes and colors mimicked even now in their own underground cities. Vehicles shaped like triangles of light moved through them in the air.

  Eriu reflected that it seemed to be less bright there than here. The quality of the light seemed somehow softer, muted. She wondered if that was why the light so troubled the eyes of the Ancients, so that they always covered their eyes, wearing dark lenses over the whole eye. Another reason for their love of the Green Island, for it was often rainy here and soft. Eriu stifled another sigh, knowing that it would carry around the room.

  “We were a learned people, as you can see. We had learned to preserve our world in pristine beauty. We educated our people. We had mastered the world of science and we bent its rules to our uses. All of these things we had learned over centuries. We believed that we had learned at last to value the ways of the Braid. We tried to emulate Her in all things. Our mistake was that we tried to take from her the power of Creation. Because we made many mistakes in the management of our world, many—no, most—of our people became infertile. Women were unable to bear. We tried to correct that problem with the best and brightest of our people.”

  The picture shifted again; it seemed to show some hall of science. Patients were receiving care. The Teller’s voice resumed, weighty.

  “We had become healers of great skill. The lame and the blind we healed, the paralytic and the diseased. We did this through PreBraiding and ReBraiding. Even now, we hope and believe that Danu, the Weaver, would be proud of us for the healing of her children. Among us now, even such healing as that has been banned. We take responsibility for that loss. In our great pride, we went beyond healing to try to usurp the right of Creation, the power of life and death. Over many generations of the Danu, you, the Children of the Braid, were created.