They were standing in a sort of triangular shape, the sister with the curling red hair at their head. I mimicked their formation, placing An Scail before me and stepping slightly back and to her left. Bile, in perfect silence, his eyes wide, did the same on the right.
I said nothing at all, assuming that there could be no way that any of their people could know the language of the Galaeci, so I was startled when the threesome inclined their heads toward An Scail and spoke in perfect Gaeilge.
“Elder woman, we welcome your wisdom among us. We are surprised at the return of the sons of Mil. Where is Ith among you?”
“Ith’s spirit has departed from among us. I am An Scail, the Shadow. He sends me as his voice, his eyes and ears.”
I was surprised again to see an expression of real sorrow shift over the faces of the Sisters.
“We sorrow to hear that he is not with you. We valued his wisdom. It was the decision of Ith that the sons of Mil would not return to this place. May we ask what it was that made him change that decision?”
I spoke for the first time. “Ith returned to us wounded and unable to speak. He was not able to tell us of a decision.”
The lead sister turned her face up toward me; her eyes seemed to take me in and swallow me. “How was he wounded, Amergin?”
“How do you know my name?”
“You were beloved of Ith. He spoke of you often and in detail, as he did also of An Scail and Bile and of Mil, your father. We thought that the chief of the sons of Mil would attend this first meeting.”
“Our father has also died,” I said.
The little woman looked down at the bier on the stony beach below, looked back at me. “And these?”
“My wife, our unborn child, and my brother.” I could feel my eyes filling again with tears. I blinked them back.
She sighed, a sound so reflective of our own sorrow that I nodded my head and raised a shoulder at the obvious overabundance of our sorrows. There was nothing more to say on the subject and I could not speak.
“What names do you bear?” I asked when I could speak, hoping to move away the awkwardness of the moment.
The lead sister looked flustered. “Forgive my rudeness,” she said quietly. “We have forgotten the courtesies. It has been long since strangers came among us. I am Eriu. These are my sisters Banba and Fodla.” She gestured first to one side and then the other. The sisters inclined their heads in acknowledgment, but still they said nothing. I began to wonder if, like Bile, they were mute.
“Is it you who have cared for … our dead?” I asked quietly.
“We have,” she said softly.
“Then I thank you for your kindness.” My voice broke on this last and I lowered my eyes from her gaze.
“Tell me their names that we may honor their journey with our chant.”
“She was my wife, Skena. The boy is our brother, Ir.”
Bile raised his eyes skyward but he made no sound.
“And you are his beloved brother?” Eriu said. She had turned her whole attention to Bile, her eyes fastened upon him. He nodded once. “And you loved Skena as though she were your mother?” He looked startled, vocalized once, a long “Ahhh.” Eriu smiled gently. “I understand. I saw you weep them, child; your very bearing spoke of love.”
She turned back to me. “She was bearing with you a child of the Braid?” she asked this softly.
“The Braid?” I shook my head. “I do not know the term; Skena was bearing our first child.”
A look of such sadness passed over her face that for a moment I thought she might also weep.
“What does this mean? The Braid?”
“The cup,” she said. She gestured with her slender hand. “The gift of Ith. It is chased and incised with braidwork. We assumed that it was important, thought perhaps that it might refer to your god.”
“It is the pattern of life,” said An Scail quietly. “Life is braided into life, ever and eternal.”
“And there is no death,” said the woman quietly.
“Ith has told you this?”
“It is what we believe, as well.”
Eriu seemed to think for a moment, then raised her hands skyward. Without a word, her sisters stepped forward and caught at the upraised hands. A deep chanting sound began to issue from them that reminded me of the sound of our gaita.
“From this moment,” said Eriu, “this place shall be known in your tongue and in ours as Inver Skena, the river of Skena.”
Bile could not help himself after this pronouncement. He threw back his head and cried out, “Ah, ah, ah.”
“It is our honor to do this,” said Eriu, inclining her head toward Bile as though he had said something she understood perfectly.
He nodded and then suddenly stepped forward and extended his good hand toward her. She put hers into his instantly with no hesitation. He lifted it gently to his lips. It was an old Galaeci custom, courtly, an expression of appreciation, but I feared that she might not understand it that way. I stepped toward him; she turned her face toward me and shook her head once. Her eyes shimmered with water.
And that was the moment when I knew that at least she had not wounded Ith.
I interrupted them. “Speak to us of how Ith was wounded.”
She looked perplexed. “This is what we asked of you, Amergin.”
“We have been told that it occurred on the night before his return voyage, which he spent with you in his dwelling.”
For the first time, the dark-haired sister spoke. “And was that piece of intelligence given to you by Airioch Feabhruadh?” Her voice was caustic, intelligent. I looked at her in surprise.
“It was,” I said.
“He is your brother, is he not?”
“He is.”
She said nothing more.
Now the golden-haired sister spoke.
“Know that Ith was safe among the Danu. He was an elder of great wisdom, and so we treated him.”
“The Danu? That is the name of this place?”
“No … No … This place has no name.” The tone of her voice was surprised, as if it were something she had not considered before. “We call it as we found it—the Green Isle.”
I looked around and nodded; it was green in shades and gradations, richly emerald.
“We are the Danu,” said Eriu. “That is what our … tribe … is called. The Children of the Danu.”
“And you have come here from Greece?”
“A very long time ago, yes.”
“I have traveled much in Greece.”
She nodded and smiled. “Then we must speak of it further. We have not returned for many years. It has undoubtedly changed behind us.”
“I knew of no Danu in Greece,” I said softly. I changed my language to Greek, asked softly, “Where did you dwell in your time there?”
For a moment Eriu was quiet. She lowered her head, touched the triangular shape at her throat. I was reminded suddenly of the shape that had appeared in Uncle Ith’s ogham curve.
In perfect Greek, Eriu answered me. “We lived on the isle of … Thrace.”
“My mother gave birth to my brother—he that you have cared for—on Irena.” I felt suddenly ashamed for the trick, remembering their gentle care of Ir and Skena.
Still in perfect Greek she continued. “And for that she named him Ir? Ah, our neighbor then. So you too have seen the exquisite blue of the waters?”
I could not fault her answers, yet all the while that we were conversing, the Sisters seemed to tighten their formation, to move closer to each other in their odd triangular shape.
Suddenly, An Scail spoke. “But surely these are all things of which we will speak further, Sisters, as time does not hurry us to know all things at once. Will you join us for the Feast and Spirit Fire tonight?”
“Spirit Fire?”
“We release the spirits of our dead in fire.”
“Release them to where?”
“To the Western Isle of Feasting.”
Suddenly Eriu smiled full on and her face lighted with the look. “We have much in common, An Scail,” she said. “We would be honored to join you.”
27
“That did not go well at all,” said Banba. She tapped her triangle, releasing Metaphor, and folded back into her tiny, wide-eyed self.
“Banba!” said Fodla. “The Ancients have asked us to remain in Metaphor at all times.”
“I don’t care; it wearies me. We are safe here in Tara.”
“Remember the Fomor,” said Fodla. “They penetrated the cities. These Galaeci strike me as very intelligent indeed; they do not miss much in conversation. What would happen if they saw us as we are?”
“Fodla speaks wisely,” said Eriu. “They did seem especially skilled at nuances of conversation, winding back to the things they wished to know when we least expected it, picking up on every slip in our story. Always with great courtesy.” She shook her head. “Of course there were no Danu among the Greeks. No city-state with such a name. What a fool I am. Amergin lulled me into a feeling that I was safe; how was this done?”
“Do not berate yourself overmuch, Sister. It is the same story we told to Fir Bolg and Fomor alike, and they never questioned our journey,” said Fodla.
“But they had never been in Greece,” said Banba. “These sons of Mil have journeyed there and farther. And Ith. Wanting to know how he was wounded and when and by whom. As if we, with our little hands, would knock an elder to the ground. And Ith one of their priests!”
“Evidently Airioch has hinted so,” said Fodla.
“Oh, do you think so?”
“Banba!” said Eriu. “You take out your worry on our sister with your stinging tongue.”
“I do,” said Banba. “I am sorry. But Eriu is right; even the eyes of Amergin are intelligent … questing. We must be careful.”
“We are all worried,” said Fodla with a shrug.
Banba nodded. “He is beautiful though, is he not, their Amergin?”
Fodla shook her head. “Do you never stop?”
“Well, so tall. Taller than a Greek. And all that dark hair and those eyes. So large a man.”
“He is a man in grief for his beloved and his child,” said Eriu. “A child he believes that he has lost.”
“That, in effect, he has lost,” said Banba.
Eriu nodded. “These are the things that we must remember when we speak to him. His sorrow may make him overquick and oversensitive for quite some while. He may be too quick to draw conclusions; he will think with his anger and his loss. He may wish to place the blame for their loss on this journey, and hence on the Green Island or on us, who dwell here. Or his own grief may cause him to miss things among his own people, to make decisions based in haste and sorrow. Such a man is dangerous.”
“Less dangerous, I think, than Airioch, who thinks with his greed and his lust, or Eber Donn, who thinks with his anger,” said Fodla.
“Not so,” said Eriu. “You are right, Banba. Amergin is intelligent. Dangerously, deeply intelligent. Know it, Sisters; I see it clearly in his eyes. He is a seeker of truth; he does not rest until he knows the truth. The Children of the Danu are in much danger there.” She sighed. “Well, I am glad for our care of his lost ones. Such kindness will mean much to such a man. And he is, I think, a voice of wisdom for his tribe. I do so wish that we could tell him …”
“We cannot,” said Banba. “And we must not speak of her except among ourselves. Ever.”
“Come,” said Fodla. “Think not on it. When the time comes for the child to be born we may all be surprised. The Mother works in the world in ways that none of us understands.”
“True enough,” said Eriu. She sighed. “We will prepare for their feast.”
Sparks rose skyward at the edge of the water, in preparation for the funeral pyre. In the quiet bay, the Greek ships rode at anchor, their sails furled. The cargo ships, hired for the trip only and returning empty of plunder, had made for the sea at first light.
Already, the Galaeci had begun to make themselves a permanent place at the edge of the river. Dwellings had hastily been erected near elaborate tents of silk. Horses were penned at one edge of the beach, cattle at the other. Though there were not many, they looked like good breeding stock. With each group were giant dogs with curly hair. They seemed to patrol the stock both within and without; they were themselves the size of ponies.
At the very edge of the tide, the Galaeci had built a great bonfire. They had placed Skena and the child together on a wooden bier at the edge of the water. Beside the bier were two urns.
From the headland above, Banba whispered to her sisters. “These must be the vessels for their dead.”
“There are so many of these Galaeci,” said Fodla softly. “They number more than two hundred surely.”
“And they have not even begun to reproduce,” said Banba dryly. “From the look of them they can do that very well indeed.”
“Banba!” said Eriu sharply. “And they do not know how few our numbers are.” She sighed. “Let us go among them and try to behave as Greeks.”
“How do Greeks behave at Galaeci funerals?” asked Banba.
“How should we know that?” asked Fodla, her tone exactly like that of her more caustic sister.
The funeral feast that followed the fire was held at hastily assembled trestle tables under the open sky. The Sisters were given a place of honor between Bile and An Scail although most of the Galaeci avoided them completely, not even meeting their eyes.
To the Sisters it seemed a raucous celebration for a funeral feast. The Galaeci danced wildly under the stars while they beat on drums and whistled on bone flutes. From time to time, their pipers would play haunting and eerie tunes on the pipes. At those times the Sisters saw several couples slip away into the darkness.
“I told you that they would mate well and often,” hissed Banba to Eriu, who sat at the center.
“Hush,” Eriu said softly.
Only Amergin and Bile sat silent at the table, eating nothing and speaking not at all.
In a lull in the merriment, An Scail leaned toward the Sisters. “You wonder why we celebrate with such gusto at such a time.”
“It seems a most joyful occasion,” said Eriu cautiously.
“We keep vigil with the dead. We wake with them and celebrate the journey they begin. Our couples mate that we celebrate the force of creation and life, which will eventually return them to us. There will be time for grief on the morrow.”
“We too celebrate the passage of our Ancients, Wise One. We are only sorry that these two have left you so young.”
“Three,” said An Scail. “For among us, a child is a returning spirit.”
Eriu drew in her breath, closed her eyes briefly.
An Scail continued. “Among you, few die young?”
“Few until this time,” said Eriu. “We have lived without war for a very long time.”
An Scail nodded. “We too. Galicia was far removed from Rome and Greece, from Carthage and Persia. We mined our metals and herded our cattle. We made our wines. We traded, but we had precious little contact with the outside world.”
“And you were happy?”
“We were.”
“So why did you come here? What impelled this journey?”
“Mil, the father of Amergin, was ever a wanderer. A restless warrior and a dreamer. Inisfail was his dream.”
“Inisfail?”
“That was his name for this place. Isle of Destiny.”
“And how did he hear of this place?”
An Scail closed the rheumy silver eyes. “I know not,” she said softly. “Sailors speak of it; they say it is a place of magic. They have seen lights emanating from the place, even far out to sea. Perhaps Mil heard of it from them. Ith told me that Mil had dreamed of the place from childhood, saying that here the clan of Mil would meet its destiny.”
“And you wish that he had not.”
An Scail smiled, a small, sad smile. “In the pursuit
of this place we have lost Ith and Mil, Skena and Ir, and Amergin’s unborn child. Scota, the mother of Amergin, has lost her beloved husband and her child. She continues on fury. Eber Donn, eldest of Mil, vows revenge. I suspect that we are not yet done with losses.”
“Why do you tell us this?” asked Eriu, astonished.
“We have come among you with our purposes and our sorrow. I hear in your voices that you are … older … than we, and perhaps wiser. I tell you so that perhaps wisdom will prevail.”
“And Amergin?”
“He is our Bard; his word carries much weight with our people.”
“And yet he does not seem to be of your people.”
“A bard stands apart. He trains with druii. He captures the history of the tribe. He sings our history. He directs its behavior when it is most required.”
“Druii?”
“What I am. Perhaps what you are to your people.”
“His wife was also druii?
“Skena was that rarest of healers, a weaver.”
“A weaver?” Eriu felt excitement coursing through her. “Speak to me of this.”
“A weaver binds people together. Skena wove Amergin and Bile into the tribe. She wove the tribe together with her presence and her calm. She wove the sick into the care of the healthy. She saw us as one people, and so she behaved. Among us, as among all people, are those who weave and those who sunder. We will miss her great skills here in this new place.”
“We have among us a healer of great wisdom. I should like for you to meet her.”
Eriu turned toward Amergin, spoke softly. “When you were at sea, we thought that we heard the sounds of music. It was … most sorrowful. Was it you?”
“It was Ceolas.”
“Ceolas? Who is he?”
Suddenly Bile stood and loped away from the table.
“Have I said something to trouble him?” Eriu half stood, as if she would follow the child.
Amergin halted her, his hand on her wrist. Eriu stared down. The great hand covered and encircled her slender bones, seemed to cover half her forearm. Would he feel the true bones beneath the skin of Metaphor? Fear beat suddenly in her throat. Then just as suddenly he released his hold. “See where he returns bearing Ceolas.”
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