The Greener Shore

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Several huge, coarse-coated hounds were lounging beside the nearest lodge. They raised their heads to look at us but did not bother to get to their feet. To dogs of their size we posed no threat.

  Meanwhile men and women of all ages were moving about the settlement, doing those important trivial things that people do every day. They seemed as unfazed as the hounds by our appearance. And why not? They had us greatly outnumbered.

  The majority were fair and ruddy, the usual coloring of Celts. Only a few had brown hair like mine. In Gaul we had called that “a touch of the Scyth,” referring to the strain of Scythian blood that ran through us.

  The inhabitants of the stronghold were well nourished and better clothed than Cohern’s clan. Both sexes wore woolen tunics that extended to the knee in the case of the men, and to the ankles of the women. The garments were dyed in an array of colors: blue and green and brown, yellow and crimson and gray. Some were also speckled in a pattern unique to their clan.

  The men belted their tunics with wide bands of leather held by huge bronze buckles. The waists of the women were encircled with corsets set with polished stones or plaited from the tails of young foxes. Underneath their tunics the women wore linen gowns embroidered with blue and crimson knot-work along the sleeves. Several of the older women also wore short, hooded capes made of badger skins, so skillfully sewn that it was impossible to detect the seams.

  Yet everyone was barefoot.

  “Stay close by me,” I muttered to Dara. “Stand tall, and no matter what happens, say nothing.”

  “Even if they kill you?”

  “I don’t think they’ll kill me.” Trusting that Briga was right, I headed toward the largest lodge.

  As I approached, a man emerged and stood watching me. He had a big red face as ample as a full moon, and piercing blue eyes below a heavy thicket of sandy-colored eyebrows. His torc betokened his rank: a massive gold neck ring much wider and heavier than the torc Cohern wore. Gold fasteners at his shoulders secured an immense cloak of wolf fur that hung down his back almost to his ankles. His tunic was of crimson wool. Heavy gold bracelets adorned both of his muscular forearms. More gold gleamed from his earlobes in the form of twisted rings.

  When the sun struck him, he blazed.

  “We salute you as a free person,” I called out, trying to match the tone of my voice to the dignity of his appearance. “I am Ainvar of the Carnutes, and this is my son Dara.”

  “Free person. That is a fine greeting, Ainvar of the Carnutes. I am Fíachu, chief of the Slea Leathan, the tribe of Broad Spears, and this is the kingdom of the Laigin. You have entered my stronghold without invitation, but you will observe that I bid you welcome. My clan is famed for its hospitality.” He smiled, revealing large square teeth. “I myself am a direct descendant of Éremon, and as everyone knows, Éremon was the most gracious and the most noble of all the sons of Milesios.”

  That sounded familiar.

  Having observed the formalities, Fíachu—whose name meant “Deerhound,” though the dogs we had observed outside were too heavy of bone to be deerhounds—ushered us into his lodge. The interior was at least three spear lengths across. In the center of the room was a hearth made of carefully placed stones in the form of a spiral. The curvilinear design of the iron fire dogs was recognizably Celtic.

  A sheaf of spears with iron heads was stacked just inside the doorway. Painted shields made of boiled leather attached to wooden frames hung on the walls. Even in daytime, beeswax candles burned extravagantly, revealing a packed earthen floor almost covered by carved timber boxes and wickerwork chests. Like his jewelry, the Deerhound’s lodge testified to his status as the chief of a powerful tribe.

  Once the Carnutes had been a powerful tribe. This place might almost have been the Gaul I knew before Caesar.

  Fíachu invited Dara and me to seat ourselves on a bench padded with furs. Two very pretty women provided basins of heated water so we could bathe our hands and faces, then gave us silver cups brimming with golden liquid. The aroma of fermented apples flooded my nostrils; the richness of the fermented honey seduced my tongue. My head warned me to guard my speech, lest the mead make me foolish.

  The warning was timely. We no sooner drained our cups than Fíachu began asking the sort of questions one asks of strangers.

  “We’ve traveled across the Great Sea from our homeland in Gaul,” I told him.

  “Gaul? I don’t know it.”

  “One of the Celtic lands,” I said, verbally reclaiming our sacred earth from the loathsome grip of Caesar. “As I’m sure you’re aware,” I added to flatter him, “the territory of the Celts stretches from one sea to another.”

  “Of course, of course,” he replied in the manner of a man who has no idea what you are talking about. “Gaul.” He pronounced the name with a peculiar twist of the tongue. “Are you here to do trade? When are you going back?”

  Going back? My testicles shriveled as if a cold wind blew over them. “We’re staying, Fíachu. We intend to raise our children and their children here.”

  “Aha! You were either starving or driven out, then. It’s an old story. But if you come as allies, not enemies—allies of mine,” he stressed, “then you’re welcome.” He gave us a broad, if rather calculating, smile. “Did you bring any silk thread with you? My wives love silk thread. Or perhaps you brought a seed bull I could use on some of my cows?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Aha.” A change of tone. “No silk. No bull.” A moment’s silence. “What is your rank in your homeland?”

  His eyes were very sharp; the eyes of a man who can see through a dissembler. I decided I had better tell the truth. “In Gaul I was the chief druid of my tribe.”

  Those piercing eyes narrowed further than I liked. “And do you propose to be chief druid of a tribe here?”

  I saw where this was going. “My tribe will not be coming to this land,” I assured him. “The Carnutes don’t even exist anymore. I brought the last living remnants with me: a very small clan indeed. There are barely a score of us and we’re no threat to anyone. Women and children, mostly.”

  Fíachu’s whole face brightened. “So! Where are you living?”

  “On the clanland of Cohern.”

  He gave a disdainful sniff. “Too bad for you, then. Cohern’s tribe is descended from an inferior son of Milesios. When the Slea Leathan go to war against the Iverni we always win.”

  His claim fell on my ears like seeds on stone. From long experience I knew that a warrior’s boast is self-aggrandizement and not always to be believed.

  “Cohern is a man of bad aspect,” Fíachu confided. “He would never admit it, but I suspect one of his mother’s mothers was Fír Bolg.”

  “Fír Bolg?”

  “A tribe that was here before the Milesians,” Fíachu said vaguely. Obviously the subject did not interest him, but it intrigued me. Who were they? And what of the Túatha Dé Danann?

  Everything I learned in Hibernia led to more questions.

  “Actually, I’ve been aware of you for some time, Ainvar,” Fíachu said. “My scouts reported that Cohern had strangers as clients. It was only a matter of time before you learned how worthless he is and began looking for a more valuable protector.”

  Honor compelled me to say, “Cohern has treated us well enough. Our only quarrel with him is about seed corn, for which he asks an excessive price.”

  “Seed corn, is it?” Fíachu waved a hand weighed down with finger rings. Gold and silver and beautifully enameled copper the Goban Saor would appreciate. “We do no farming, we’re cattle people. We trade for our grain. But you can take as much as you want from my stores. For nothing,” he added, to my astonishment.

  Women are naturally generous; the Source imbues them with that quality to prepare them for giving birth. But when men give something, they usually expect to get something in return.

  I stood up, in order to put our dealings on a formal basis. “We’ll pay for enough grain to plant,” I said
firmly, thinking of our precious salt. “We prefer a fair exchange to being in debt.”

  Thoughts flickered behind the chieftain’s eyes like fish darting through shallow water. Before I could catch one and examine it more closely, he said, “Your dealings with Cohern have misled you as to the true character of the Gael, Ainvar. Allow me to make this gesture on behalf of the line of Éremon. You can have your seed corn, plus the free holding of a portion of our tribeland, so your women and children can feel secure. We refuse to accept payment for either. The Slea Leathan can afford to be generous.”

  A freehold on his land? That would make us at least nominally members of the Slea Leathan. But why not? They could give us a degree of protection we had not enjoyed in years.

  “If you put it that way,” I told Fíachu, “on behalf of my people I can hardly refuse.”

  He gave me a mighty slap on the back that nearly drove me to my knees. “Sit down, sit down, Ainvar, and we’ll fill our cups again. A bargain must be sealed with good drink. And meat, no? We’ll roast an ox for you tomorrow. Two, if you like!”

  His inclination to expansive gestures boded well, I thought.

  “Is there anything else we can do for you?” he asked.

  I hesitated.

  “Yes? What?” Fíachu leaned toward me, deliberately moving into my space. Breathing my air. But I could not draw back, for fear of insulting him.

  “Well,” I said, “I would like to know more about those people you mentioned earlier. The Fír Bolg.”

  The tangled eyebrows crawled upward toward his hairline. “Why?”

  “Cohern never mentioned them, and I’m curious.”

  “Cohern doesn’t know anything about anything,” said Fíachu. “My bard can satisfy your curiosity.”

  “You have a bard?” Cohern never mentioned bards; I had supposed they were unknown in Hibernia.

  “Oh yes, there are quite a few bards among the Slea Leathan. The best is one of my cousins, a man called Seanchán, who will entertain us tonight.”

  My spirit sang at the prospect of hearing a bard again.

  In Gaul the bards were among the most highly regarded members of the Order of the Wise. They spent as much as twenty years on their studies. Some memorized the entire lineage of their clan to the thirty-third generation. Others learned the vast body of tribal history since before the before. Still others observed current events and committed them to memory so they would not be lost in the river of time. All of this was accomplished through the medium of poetry: a stern discipline. Every word and phrase had to be chanted without the slightest deviation.

  Without having access to bards, people were cut adrift from their past. We know who we are by knowing what we have done.

  Caesar the mendacious had justified genocide by inventing monstrous lies about the Gauls. Although many druids were familiar with Greek letters, we had no written account of our people with which to refute him. The Order of the Wise insisted that no matter of importance be committed to something as easily destroyed as parchment. Knowledge engraved on the brain and scrupulously passed down from generation to generation was immortal. Therefore we had stored everything within the bone vault of the skull.

  A conqueror’s most dangerous opponents are not the warriors, but the thinkers. Realizing this, Caesar had ordered his legions to hunt down the Order of the Wise and put all they found to the sword. With those murdered men and women had died much of our past.

  No bard survived to enrich our small band of refugees. Perhaps in time some child of ours would demonstrate the gift, yet who was there to teach that child the true history of the Gauls?

  My head does me no favors by asking questions I cannot answer.

  That night Fíachu introduced us to Seanchán the bard. Seanchán was a big man, tall and wide, but his mouth was as tender as a woman’s.

  The lips of one who recites poetry must be supple.

  I took for granted that Seanchán was a druid. To my surprise, he denied this. “I’m no sorcerer, Ainvar, I’m a storyteller.”

  “There is sorcery in storytelling,” I assured him. “A good bard enchants his audience.”

  Seanchán frowned.

  At that moment Fíachu caught me by the elbow. “Come with me, Ainvar. I want you to meet another of my cousins, Duach Dalta. Our chief druid.”

  “What are his duties here?” I asked out of professional curiosity.

  “He conducts the rites of inauguration for chieftains and kings.”

  “What else does the chief druid do?”

  Fíachu gave me a blank look. “What else is there?”

  “Well, what are the functions of your other druids?”

  “They interpret omens.”

  “Is that all?”

  “What else is there?” he repeated.

  What else indeed.

  My thoughts ran back to Gaul. Druids whispering to seeds in the frozen earth so they would burst forth in the springing time. Druids lighting the fires that called back the sun from the kingdoms of ice. Druids recalling the past and foreseeing the future. Druids supervising birth and burial. Druids keeping the dead and the living in harmony with each other, with the Earth, with the Otherworld. The whole complex structure of druidry that had been so elaborately interwoven to cherish the creations of the Source.

  Gone.

  Duach Dalta was about my age, with the powerful body and elastic movements of a much younger man. Fíachu introduced us by saying, “Ainvar claims to have been a chief druid in his homeland.” Duach Dalta’s expression curdled like sour milk. I murmured his name, he murmured mine. His long, sharp nose twitched derisively. He quickly abandoned me to speak to someone he felt was more important.

  I made my way back to Seanchán and tried to resume a conversation. “In the land where I was born,” I told him, “bards were the equal of princes.”

  “Among the Gael there was a bard who was also a prince,” he replied. “He was Amergin, a son of Milesios. But that was a very long time ago. And the Slea Leathan are not his tribe.” His tone informed me that the descendants of Amergin were not allies of the descendants of Éremon.

  I dropped the subject.

  That night we were served a feast that put Cohern’s to shame. With my first bite I realized these people did not need to buy our salt. They seasoned their food with seaweed. Watercress provided a delightfully peppery taste. In addition to the promised roast ox we were offered boiled mutton and wild pig; trout and salmon and eel; seven different cheeses; oatcakes glistening with butter, porridge drenched in cream; wild apples simmered in honey; buttermilk and mead and malted ale. Copious quantities of ale.

  I ate until my belly hurt.

  After the feast Seanchán rose to speak. His listeners made themselves comfortable as he smoothed his tunic and cleared his throat. I was sitting on a padded bench, for which my bones thanked me, while Dara flopped down cross-legged at my feet. Boys have no bones.

  Seanchán carried a beautifully carved harp. It consisted of a triangular wooden frame fitted with brass strings, and was small enough to be held by one hand.

  In my experience, the bardic harp was used to intensify the mood by replicating the sounds of nature. A ripple of water could soothe, a roll of thunder could excite. I looked forward to hearing the voices of Hibernia that Seanchán would summon from his instrument.

  He allowed an expectant hush to build, then strummed the harp strings once or twice. After that the instrument lay idle in the crook of his arm.

  Obviously he preferred the sound of his own voice.

  “Before the before, this land belonged to the birds and the beasts,” he began. “And the trees. This was the island of trees, with a dense forest that stretched from north to south and from east to west. Then an adventurer called Partholon arrived with a fleet of ships to establish a colony.”

  I recognized Partholon as a Greek name. My mouth opened with a question but Seanchán plowed on. I should have known better anyway; bards reject interruptions. “The coloni
sts cleared enough land to build a few settlements,” he was saying, “and planted the corn they had brought with them. They also began trading with others who were beginning to venture into these waters.

  “But after several generations the Partholonians succumbed to a terrible plague. A few escaped in a single boat, living just long enough to tell their story. No more traders visited these shores.

  “Then only the song of the wolf, the grunt of the boar, and the roar of the stag were heard here. Alone was the land, and content in her loneliness. She dwelt with the sea and the sky and needed nothing more.”

  Now, and at last, Seanchán spoke like a true bard. Young Dara sat spellbound.

  The moment was too brief. Seanchán resumed his narrative in a commonplace tone. “When sufficient time had passed for the warning to be forgotten, another group of colonists arrived: surly, coarse-fibered folk who heard no music in poetry and saw no beauty in nature. They called themselves Fír Bolg, meaning men of the bag, because they were slaves whose masters forced them to carry heavy objects in leather bags.

  “In spite of their low station in life the Fír Bolg possessed a certain cunning. Some of them mastered the skills of seafaring. Led by a man called Nemed, they watched for their opportunity and stole enough ships for their people to escape. When they reached these shores they thought they were safe at last. They lived on the fruits of the sea and the forest, and also established trade with Albion to obtain tin for making bronze. It is said of them that they were skilled craftsmen.

  “But they were not as safe as they thought. All too soon, the Fír Bolg were being attacked by a race of marauding seafarers called the Fomorians. The Fomorians, who worshipped a terrible fire god they knew as Baal, landed here to capture sacrifices for their insatiable deity. In an attempt to repel them the Fír Bolg built great stone fortresses along the western coast.”

  I had assumed Hibernia was our secret sanctuary. I was wrong. Any number of people knew about this place.

  The discovery brought Caesar chillingly close. I actually shuddered.

  “At last the Fír Bolg succeeded in defeating the Fomorians and held this land uncontested,” Seanchán related. “But only until another wave of invaders appeared. They called themselves the Túatha Dé Danann: the people of the goddess Danu. Although they cunningly disguised their origins, it was believed they came from the region of the Mid-Earth Sea.