The trader believed me. One tribe is always willing to believe the worst of another.
“I can provide six crewmen for each boat, including myself,” Goulvan finally announced.
“Twelve men to transport twenty passengers? Do we really need that many? How much is it going to cost us?”
Goulvan was not stupid; he realized that our funds were limited. Given the condition of his boats he was in the same position. He needed us; we needed him. It is the best situation for conducting negotiations.
“If some of your party can handle the oars you can cut your costs a little,” Goulvan told me. “Not much, mind you. But a little.”
So it was agreed. And our women gave up their jewelry.
When I questioned Goulvan about the sunset island he claimed to be well familiar with the place, and further informed me it was inhabited by Celtic tribes similar to those of Gaul.
“Are there no Romans, then?”
“Not a one,” Goulvan asserted.
“Will the natives resent us?”
“They’re quite prosperous, they have more than they need. A score of new people will make no difference to them. Aside from the welcome sight of some new women,” Goulvan added with a leer in the direction of my wives.
Briga rewarded him with a look that would have frozen fire. “If the men are like you, I would rather eat dung with both hands than have anything to do with them.”
“My senior wife is only making a joke,” I said placatingly. “Or perhaps you don’t understand our sense of humor?”
His eyebrows drew together like two bulls rushing to butt heads. “That didn’t sound like a joke to me.”
“It was, I assure you. Before Briga and I were married she said dreadful things about me, it was her way of hiding her true feelings.”
Goulvan looked at Briga with renewed interest. “Is that a fact? I like a spirited woman.”
My senior wife scowled at me. “Ainvar,” she said in the low, deadly voice a husband learns to recognize. Her intonation told me that I would not be warming myself with her body that night.
IN THE NORMAL COURSE OF EVENTS, A MAN WITH THREE WIVES COULD seek comfort from one of the others. Unfortunately that option was not open to me. Sometimes I actually suspected—with no proof at all—that my three wives were in a gleeful conspiracy against me.
From the beginning Briga had undertaken to make allies of the other two. Because she and Lakutu shared an interest in herbalism she had led the Egyptian from one patch of weed to another. My eyes had observed my second wife solemnly nodding as Briga explained how chewing this green leaf could relieve toothache, or a paste made from those stems could be smeared on the lids of clouded eyes to improve sight. The exchange of information was not all one way, however. Briga once informed me that among Lakutu’s people strange spices were used to preserve the bodies of the dead for all eternity.
How she learned this, when I could get almost no information about Egypt from Lakutu, I shall never know.
Briga had established a bond with Onuava through their shared nobility. Soon Rix’s widow thought of Briga as a sister, while I was merely the husband. Whenever a dispute arose between myself and either of them, the pair looked down their noble noses at me in unison.
My three wives presented me with a united front in all domestic matters. It was enough to make me consider taking a fourth wife and keeping her well away from the others. But the only other adult females in our band were Keryth the seer, who had lost her husband and children in the war with the Romans and vowed she would never marry again; Sulis the healer, who was the sister of the Goban Saor and married to Grannus; and Damona, the only wife of Teyrnon.
While one may sleep with another man’s wife if both parties agree, one cannot marry another man’s wife if he is still able to protect her himself. Besides, we had seen too much of war already. I did not want to have one of my few remaining friends come after me with his knife in his hand.
Arrangements in the boats were determined by kinship. With Goulvan in the lead vessel was my family, consisting of myself, my wives, and their children. Except for the son of Vercingetorix. As a show of independence Labraid demanded to go in the second boat. Although he could not yet be counted as a man, he was big and burly and increasingly felt a need to prove himself.
He and Cormiac had begun eyeing each other in the way of hounds with raised hackles.
Goulvan told me our voyage would follow the route of migrating birds. “It’s a good omen, Ainvar. Immense flocks set off from these shores to enjoy the fruits of Albion.”
“Albion?”
“Your destination,” he said firmly. “No doubt about it; Albion’s the place for you. Wonderful climate, hospitable people, and the entire island is fertile. In one summer your clan will be fat.”
The trader claimed to be on excellent terms with the tribes in the south of Albion, where we would go ashore. “Everyone who matters knows me,” he boasted, sucking the stumps of his rotten teeth. “The great chieftains of the Catuvellauni, the Dumnonii, the Atrebates—they’re all personal friends of mine.”
My head warned me that he was lying; great chieftains would not bother with someone like Goulvan. I chose to ignore my head’s wise counsel. We had been driven to the edge of the Earth and must jump off, even if we died for it.
Death is of little consequence. However, Celts have a visceral aversion to rigidity. Because the natural world is full of movement, the curve and the spiral are beautiful to us. Romans, on the other hand, are addicted to straight lines. The squares and boxes they construct imprison free-flowing spirit. Even a day spent in a Roman cell would cripple our children.
Vercingetorix had been imprisoned in Rome; left to slowly starve in a cramped cell, he whose roof had been the stars. He whom duplicitous Caesar had promised to treat as befitted an honorable opponent. In the end, Rix had been dragged through the streets in a final act of humiliation and publicly strangled.
For this alone my spirit would hunt that of Gaius Julius Caesar down all the roads of Time.
BOATS ON THE OPEN SEA HAVE A NASTY EFFECT ON THE BELLY. THE only person who did not vomit over the side at least once was Labraid. When the two boats were close enough together to make conversation between them possible, Labraid called to his mother, “I think I was born for the sea. From now on you can call me Labraid Loingseach; the Speaker Who Sails the Seas.”
Youngsters are not given the privilege of naming themselves arbitrarily. I caught Onuava’s eyes with a question in mine. She shrugged one shoulder to indicate she had no objection.
“Labraid Loingseach,” I repeated, validating the new name. “Don’t get too used to the title, though. We’re not going to do this again.”
The boy grinned and tossed his head exactly the way Rix used to do. “I might,” he said. He began pestering Grannus to be allowed to take a turn with the oars.
Unfortunately Ainvar the druid did not have a warrior’s belly. Members of the Order of the Wise pride themselves on their dignity, but mine came pouring out of me in ugly gobbets that floated on the surface of the waves as if to taunt me. When I tried to read the omens in them, they capriciously dissolved.
At sunset the Armoricans took down the heavy sails and let us drift with a current which, they swore, was going in the right direction. Some of my people slept, but I could not. I lay awake with my head pillowed on Briga’s warm belly and gazed up at the stars. They had changed, those stars. Their configuration was not quite the one I knew.
Would their changed Pattern change ours?
When the sun rose, the sails were raised also and we continued our journey. There was no land to be seen in any direction. Even the seabirds that frequent the coast had deserted us. Yet on we went, until a misty headland rose before us. “Albion!” Goulvan announced happily.
The relief I felt was short-lived. Even as we were bumping through the pebbled shallows, I spied a settlement on a promontory. A square, sturdy, fortified settlement built in a style I reco
gnized.
I rounded on Goulvan in a fury. “There are Romans here!”
He tried to look surprised. “Are there?”
“You know there are! What place is this again?”
“Why, Albion. I told you.”
“By some terrible chance could Albion also be known as the land of the Britons?”
“I believe it is,” the scoundrel conceded.
“Which means the Romans are here before us, you wretched pustule! What was your plan, Goulvan—to sell us to them like bags of wheat?”
The trader held out gnarled hands. “By the wind and the waves, I swear—”
“Swear nothing. Your words are brass posing as gold.” I turned toward the second boat, which was following close behind us. “I need a sword!” I cried. We all carried personal knives but I wanted something more intimidating that could be clearly seen by the crews in both boats.
Although his beard had not begun to grow, young Labraid’s body housed a fully fledged warrior spirit. His proudest possession was a shortsword modeled on the Roman gladus. Labraid had coaxed and bullied Teyrnon into forging the weapon for him shortly before we left Gaul.
In response to my cry Onuava’s son drew his sword from its sheath. Holding it by the leather-covered grip, he brandished it in the air. “Here, Ainvar! Catch!”
“No!” I shouted. If either boat rolled at the wrong moment, a useful weapon would be lost to the sea.
I need not have worried.
While Labraid was waving his sword around, Cormiac Ru assessed the situation accurately and sprang from his boat to ours in one tremendous leap. He landed in a crouch at my feet. Straightening up, he drew his sword from its bronze-and-leather sheath. My father had carried that sword. Made in the ancient Gaulish design, longer and heavier than a shortsword, the weapon had fought in many battles. The iron blade was permanently discolored by old bloodstains.
On his fifteenth birthday, the age when Celtic boys traditionally took up arms and were counted as men, I had given my father’s sword to the Red Wolf.
Now he offered it to me.
“It’s still yours,” I told him. “Show Goulvan how sharp your blade is.”
The sword sprang forward to press against the trader’s neck, delicately slicing the flesh until a thin red line appeared. A necklace of tiny ruby drops on a windburned throat.
Goulvan rolled his eyes like a panicked horse.
I asked him, “Is this the only island?”
“There’s one farther west of here,” he stammered, “but not nearly as big as Albion. And you wouldn’t want to—”
“Have your men row away from the shore as fast as they can,” I demanded, “and order your crew in the other boat to follow us.”
“Where shall we go?” His voice was a hoarse croak.
“Toward the sunset.”
“No!” Goulvan cried.
The very fact that he did not want to go in that direction was enough for me. “Yes!” I roared with all the power in my lungs. “We go west! What is the name of the next landfall?”
Goulvan muttered under his breath.
“What? I can’t hear you.”
“I said ‘Hibernia.’ If we’re lucky. Or unlucky,” he added cryptically.
By this time I had no faith in Goulvan’s word. Perhaps there was no other island. Or if Hibernia existed, perhaps it too had been seized by the Romans. In that case I would force the crews to row on and on until we were swallowed by the endless sea, which might not be the worst fate for us.
At least we would be free.
Accepting the inevitable, I sat back down in the boat and surveyed the heaving sea with something akin to complacency.
The Armorican crewmen were not so sanguine. They dug their oars into the water so violently I feared we would overturn while they jabbered of boiling seas and monsters as big as mountains.
Onuava soon lost her temper. Onuava in a rage was like a huge male swan protecting his brood: terrifying and gorgeous. More the former than the latter, however. “You’re frightening the children,” she shouted at the crewmen, “and I won’t have it! If you won’t take us any farther I’ll personally throw the lot of you over the side. We can row the rest of the way ourselves.”
The Armoricans shuddered at the threat. Like most seamen, none of our crew could swim.
chapter III
WHILE WE BATTLED HIGH WAVES AND ROUGH WEATHER, DAY DIED and was born anew. The color of the sea changed from sullen gray to a blue so dark it was like a well of night. The height of the waves lessened but my stomach was not mollified. There was nothing on, under, or above the earth that I wanted as much as I wanted to set my feet on dry land. Nothing except the knowledge that my children were beyond the reach of the insatiable brute called Caesar.
If only I could go to the Great Grove of the Carnutes; if only I could once again be alone in the sacred silence with That Which Watches! By drawing on the wisdom of the oaks my head would become wise again. Sadly, all that remained of the Great Grove were charred stumps. The affliction called Caesar had burned the ancient trees and sown the earth with salt.
The Romans, who are unwilling, or unable, to understand any society other than their own, described the druids as ignorant savages who worshipped trees. A Roman simplification for simple minds.
Trees are a visible representation of the sacred forces of wind and water and sun. Their shapes conform to the wind that swirls around them; their roots drink from the breast of Mother Earth; their arms are lifted in supplication to the Great Fire of Life. Therefore we worship among trees and with trees. Our reverence, like that of the trees themselves, is directed toward the Source of All Being.
The Source has many faces, each a living embodiment of its power. Sun and moon and fire and water are sacred to us as aspects of the Source. When we offer appropriate sacrifices to them the Source sees. And knows.
That Which Watches.
The Romans, on the other hand, adore statues. It is not the marble they worship, however, but human images hacked out of the stone. They bow down before gods and goddesses they have made for themselves—and can unmake just as easily.
Slumping down in the boat, I pulled up my hood and retired to the world inside my head. My imagination created a tree-covered island set like a jewel in the sea. A place where no one ever grew weary in his spirit. Druid magic, as strong as it ever had been, lay like stardust across the hills.
Time passed while I drowsed and dreamed. The sea heaved around us but I was secure on my island. There are times when the contents of our heads are all we have.
“Ainvar!” cried Briga from some great distance. “Do open your eyes and look!”
She sounded exasperated. I must have been asleep for a long time. Rubbing my eyes, I sat up and followed her pointing finger.
A band of richest green lay on the horizon. Never in my life had I seen such an intense color. I thought it was part of my dream until Goulvan said, “There it is, that’s Hibernia.”
In the language of Latium, my head reminded me, hibernus meant “wintry.” Suddenly I was wide-awake. “The Romans named this place,” I cried, “so they’ve been here after all! Cormiac, acquaint this man with your blade again and make him tell us the truth.”
Druids may not always recognize lies, but they know the truth when they hear it.
Cold iron is persuasive. With the edge of Cormiac’s sword pressing against his throat, Goulvan revised his story. “The Romans may have known about this land for, ah, quite some time. They purchase native goldwork and pay high prices for certain giant hounds that are bred here, the largest dogs in the world.”
“Go on,” I ordered through clenched teeth. “There’s more to this than trade. How did the island come by its name?”
“A Roman expeditionary party came here a few years ago seeking a site for a garrison. They sailed from Albion in late autumn, or so I was told, and made landfall in terrible weather. Howling gales and icy rain. The Romans hated the island on sight. Albion was
cold and wet; they weren’t looking for more of the same.”
“Cold and wet,” I repeated. “Yet you described Albion to us as a paradise.”
Goulvan rolled his eyes. “You have to expect a trader to exaggerate a little! Anyway, the small party of Romans ran into a large tribe of belligerent natives who called themselves the Iverni. To Roman ears this sounded like ‘Hiberni.’ The coincidence suited the scouts perfectly. They hurried back to Albion to report that the island to the west was called ‘Hibernia’ because winter lasted all year. They claimed the island would not support a garrison.
“The Roman commander, whose supply lines were stretched to the utmost already, was willing to take their word for it. So this island was spared invasion. There are no Romans here, Ainvar. I swear it.”
Perhaps not. But we Gauls were.
Unlike the Roman expeditionary party, we reached Hibernia in late spring on a day of dazzling sunshine. As we drew near the shore, my eyes informed me that even Gaul had nothing to surpass the verdant luxuriance of the land the Romans had rejected. A warm, fragrant breeze blew toward us. It smelled…green.
I made my way rather gingerly to the prow of the boat and raised my arms in thanksgiving to That Which Watches.
“The Source is,” I chanted. “We are.” And my people chanted after me, “The Source is. We are.”
We made landfall on a beach as white as salt. There was no sign of life apart from the seabirds who still hovered around us, hoping for scraps of the fish we had caught earlier in the day.
Yet our crew was visibly nervous.
As head of my clan I was the first out of the boat. With some trepidation I stepped into thigh-deep water, and felt the foam of the surf curl around my legs. A few steps took me to dry land.
I was the first of the Carnutes to set foot on Hibernia.
The moment my foot touched down something inexplicable happened. It felt as if I had come home.
Treason! cried my head. Free Gaul is home. This is only a place of exile.
I stopped and looked back at Briga, who was leaning over the edge of the boat. “What are you waiting for, Ainvar? Go on!” she urged. She vaulted over the side as sprightly as a young girl and came splashing after me.
The Greener Shore Page 3