The Greener Shore

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “The Dananns defied understanding; wizards and sorcerers, all of them. They could fly with the birds and swim with the fish. They talked to one another without words. Their wealth was incalculable. They possessed a cauldron that was never empty and a stone that could turn a man into a king.” I longed to ask questions but Seanchán never paused for breath. “The Túatha Dé Danann loved this land, and the land loved the Dananns. Love can end in grief, however.”

  To illustrate this the bard described the war that had ensued between the Fír Bolg and the Túatha Dé Danann. Curiously, he related the epic from the point of view of the defenders rather than the invaders. We were given a vivid picture of the descendants of Nemed being overwhelmed by a spectral magic they could neither understand nor counter. The Fír Bolg were commemorated as heroes, even as they went down in defeat, while the infinitely more fascinating Túatha Dé Danann were kept in the distance like figures in the clouds.

  In Gaul the bards had not immortalized failures. They had concentrated on the high deeds of victors. Yet Seanchán did his best to exclude the Dananns from their own story, as if he feared his very thoughts might summon them.

  Once again I thought of Caesar. Then hastily slammed the doors in my head.

  The climax of the bard’s story was the arrival of the Milesians. In narrating this event Seanchán concentrated on the invaders. The Milesians had brought swords and spears of iron, as opposed to the bronze weapons of the Dananns. Cold iron had proved to be a powerful weapon against magic. Defeated, almost exterminated, the Túatha Dé Danann were forced to surrender the bountiful land they called Eriu. Some of them fled into caves under the ground. Others simply melted into the hawthorn trees and became one with them.

  “Now their land is ours, and shall be ours forever!” the bard concluded triumphantly. Rediscovering his harp, he strummed it once or twice before bowing his head in acknowledgment of the enthusiastic applause.

  My head contemplated the tale he had told. Was it history? Or myth, as history so often becomes? The overlapping of myth and reality is like the twinning of spirit and flesh, a manifestation of the Two-Faced One.

  I did not believe Seanchán had given us the whole story, however. Druids are sensitive to nuances. Whenever he mentioned the Túatha Dé Danann I detected a disturbing change in the bard’s voice, an undertone of lingering fear.

  Not fear. Terror.

  chapter VII

  IN MY YOUTH I ONCE HAD HAPPENED UPON THE STRANGE RITUAL the druids called the Crow Court. A solitary crow was encircled on the ground by a flock of his fellows. The unfortunate creature had transgressed some law of crow society. The others would not allow him to fly away, but forced him to stand waiting while they strutted around him, eyeing him in eerie, unnatural silence.

  Then they all flew at him at once and pecked him to death.

  On the occasion I witnessed, the slain crow’s only crime had been that he was an albino. If he had resembled the other crows he would have been safe.

  Nature is ever the teacher.

  When the feast in Fíachu’s lodge was over, Dara and I retired to bed. We were not invited to sleep in the chieftain’s lodge but offered accommodation nearby, with a family of his cousins. They supplied us with sheets woven of linen and blankets of wool. They even put a pitcher of mead close to hand, in case we were thirsty in the night.

  Fíachu had not overestimated his clan’s hospitality.

  I had a little talk with Dara before we slept. “As of this night,” I said, “we must cease to be Gaulish.”

  The boy stared at me as if I had suggested we leap into the air and fly. “How can we, Father? How can we stop being what we are?”

  “We have no choice. It’s a matter of survival.”

  “What shall we become, then?”

  “Were you not listening to the bard?”

  “Oh yes,” the boy murmured. “I was listening.”

  “Then you heard him say that in order to survive on their own terms after their defeat at the hands of the Milesians, the Túatha Dé Danann became something else. We must do the same.”

  “You’re going to work magic again!” crowed the boy.

  His faith in me, though misguided, was touching. “No, this is a magic the whole clan will have to work together. I propose to turn the last of the Carnutes into Gaels.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I believe we share a common background with these people,” I explained. “So it should be possible for us to blend in with them until Caesar himself could not tell us apart.”

  Yet even then, I knew I would still dream of Gaul.

  I lay awake for most of the night, developing my plan in my head. I realized that Cohern could present a problem. He had been good to us in his way and was sure to resent our leaving. At the least he would think us ungrateful; at the most, treacherous. He might precipitate a fresh outbreak of hostilities between the Iverni and the Slea Leathan which would result in the final extinguishing of his clan. And the possible deaths of Cormiac Ru and Labraid.

  Yet I must do what was best for my clan as a whole. Responsibility is a heavy stone to carry.

  Dara and I spent a complete phase of the moon in Fíachu’s clanhold, studying the people and developing ties of amity with them.

  Hunting was a favorite pastime among the Slea Leathan. Their territory abounded with wild boar, wolf, red deer, and badger. In the early morning the glens resounded with the echo of horns and the cry of hounds. Cormiac would be in his element here, I thought. He too loved the chase.

  The red deer of Hibernia was the giant of its species, as tall at the shoulder as a horse. They customarily were hunted with deerhounds but were almost too fleet for a man to follow. The deer sometimes escaped. Because a large clan required a lot of meat, a more satisfactory method had been devised. A spear, point upward, was firmly fixed in stocks at the bottom of a deep pit. A complicated wooden framework was erected along with the spear, so that even if a deer escaped the iron spearhead, its legs would be firmly caught and held. The mechanism was concealed beneath a light covering of branches. These traps were placed at random intervals throughout the forest and checked daily, almost always yielding at least one deer. Similar traps were also employed for wild boar, who were very dangerous if cornered, and occasionally for birds.

  These people had good heads, my own observed. We could learn from them.

  Dara became Seanchán’s shadow. Revealing a prodigious memory for a lad so young, my son began to memorize the sagas of the Milesians. I was amazed by his eagerness to learn, because he had never seemed anxious to learn anything from me. But a parent is handicapped by being too familiar. Children are intrigued by the new and strange.

  Dara informed me that a Gaelic bard composed his work under very particular circumstances. A special bed was prepared for him, using wattles of mountain ash covered with the hide of a bull. The bard’s eyes were bound with a thick piece of cloth before he lay down on the bed. Then he was left alone in the darkness, with nothing to distract him but his thoughts.

  “The bull’s hide summons inspiration through the spirit of the animal,” said Dara.

  In Gaul we had no such custom. Yet I detected a distant echo of druidry in the use of tree branches, and there had been a time when Celtic shape-changers covered themselves with animal hides to lure game within range of the hunter.

  Dara told me that he was going to ask the Goban Saor to make a harp for him.

  I had no doubt that the great craftsman could fulfill the task; he could pattern the instrument on the one belonging to Seanchán. But there would be a problem. “Who will teach you to play it?” I asked my son.

  “I’ll teach myself,” he said with the confidence of youth.

  I was not sure I wanted the bardic life for my oldest son. A poet must be detached, almost remote, if he is to observe clearly and chronicle accurately. Dara was a vital boy. I thought he should plunge into the center of the stream and live fully as I had done, rather than stand on t
he bank watching.

  But that was not mine to say. It is always a mistake to force a child to follow the parent’s Pattern.

  Dara blended easily into the society of the Slea Leathan. I, being older, was less adaptable. In large ways and small I felt my differences. Going barefoot, for example, was painful. After only one day I had a distressing accumulation of cuts and bruises. I had never really looked at my feet before. Ugly things, feet. Yet they serve us so well; they are indispensable. This led me to consider my body as a whole, until I acquired an almost filial love not only for my feet, but for my hands, my limbs, all the outposts of my head, without which I would be left desolate. What is a head without a body?

  But the body must make some sacrifices. Although wearing a Gaelic tunic beneath my druid robe added a welcome layer of warmth, the robe itself set me apart from the men of the Slea Leathan. So I discarded the robe.

  Fíachu gave me a wide leather belt carved in the designs favored by his tribe. “This will hold your tunic close to your body and keep out cold drafts,” he said, adding with a wink, “but take care not to outgrow it. A man who gets too fat to wear his belt loses status.”

  “That should be no problem for me. I’ve always been lean.”

  He studied me as if deciding how large a hole would be needed to bury me in. “Bony, I’d say. Anytime you feel hungry, ask one of my wives for something to eat. I’d recommend the porridge they make. It’s something you can eat right- and left-handed until you’ve put a little padding on your ribs. We don’t want you leaving here with gaunt cheeks, Ainvar; someone could accuse me of breaking the laws of hospitality.” He threw back his head and laughed.

  My new friends appeared to be as guileless as children. The expressive shrug so ubiquitous in Gaul was unknown among the Gael. Great talkers, they let their words speak for them. A man or woman would abandon the most urgent task to carry on a protracted conversation about trivial matters. They constantly complained to one another about the weather, though their climate was mild by our standards.

  The Gael were more spontaneous than we, and more exuberant. Quicker to laugh, slower to cry. When one of them did weep it was a great flood of tears that carried all before it, then passed as swiftly as a Hibernian rainstorm and was replaced by a rainbow of smiles.

  As I studied them I felt myself changing. Tight knots inside me that I had never even suspected began to dissolve. The dignified Ainvar was giving way to a man who might someday enjoy going barefoot.

  By the end of our visit the Slea Leathan had fully accepted us. When he bade me farewell, Fíachu said, “What was that greeting you gave me on the first day, Ainvar? I salute you as a free person? You and your clan will be free persons on the Plain of Broad Spears. Your holding will be inherited by your children’s children.” He beamed at me and gave me another ferocious slap on the back.

  Fíachu’s beneficence proved that hospitality was one of the foundations of Gaelic society.

  So was honor. Which meant I must deal honorably with Cohern.

  As we headed southward Dara inquired, “Why are you frowning, Father? Haven’t things turned out well for us?”

  “I’m wondering what to say to Cohern. He forbade us to leave the valley for our own good, you know, and now we’ve disobeyed. He well may feel that we’ve betrayed him.”

  The boy grinned. “I can persuade him we haven’t.”

  Young eyes see no hills too steep to climb. “This is a serious matter, Dara, not a game for children.”

  “Would you agree that Seanchán the bard is no child?”

  “I fail to see what he has to do with this.”

  “I’ve been listening to him carefully, Father. There’s a certain rhythm to his speech that gathers his listeners like fish in a net. When they’re firmly caught they believe everything he says.”

  “That’s an astute observation. However, I can hardly ask Seanchán to explain our situation to Cohern.”

  “You don’t have to.” Dara turned to face me. Standing with his feet firmly planted and his head thrown back, he closed his eyes. Haltingly at first, then with gathering confidence, he began to chant the story Seanchán had told. Instead of the words he put his emphasis on the rhythm. The magic inherent in the rhythm…

  In spite of his youth his voice resonated in his chest. Resonated in my bones.

  And I knew.

  My eldest son would never be a warrior. Hibernia had presented us with another druid talent.

  Briga welcomed us home with joyful abandon. She threw herself into my arms and pressed her body so tightly against mine that the pair of us barely made it into our lodge. “I’d begun to fear I might never see you again,” she whispered. Just before we fell onto our bed in a tangle of arms and legs.

  Later—much later—Briga turned her attention to my feet. Noticing their condition, she made the tut-tutting noise familiar to every man who has a wife. She rummaged through her collection of herbs, put several aside, and took a lump of butter from the churn. I watched as she kneaded herbs into the butter.

  “Sit down by the fire, Ainvar, and put your feet on that stool.”

  Kneeling before me, my senior wife began rubbing the butter into my feet. She started with my toes, repeatedly caressing each one from the root to the toenail. Warmed by her hands, the fragrant grease sank into my flesh. Her fingers found every injury and soothed the hurt away. Slowly she worked her way up the arch of the foot. Rubbing, stroking, massaging. Bending over with her hair unbound, so that an occasional lock strayed across my bare ankles.

  A glow of pleasure spread through my groin. Briga was making love to my feet. My poor, ugly, damaged feet.

  In the morning there was not a cut or a bruise to be seen.

  The following day I received a private welcome first from Lakutu, and then Onuava. Much time had passed since I last lay with Lakutu; I had almost forgotten her exotic arts. Even at her age she retained the ability to stir and surprise me. Afterward I held her tenderly in my arms and stroked her hair as she stroked mine, in mutual gratitude.

  Onuava never wanted tenderness, only praise. Intensely competitive—what a match she had been for Rix!—she did her best to outdo the other two. She performed for herself, however, and not for me. Or perhaps for the shade of Vercingetorix, watching from the Otherworld.

  It can be exhausting to have three wives.

  “I’ve brought no seed corn with me because we’re going to plant our grain elsewhere,” I told my clan. “On the other side of those mountains is the territory of a powerful tribe. Their chieftain, Fíachu, has offered us land, not as tenants, but as equals.”

  “We can’t shift to another place,” wailed Damona, “we’re barely settled in this one. I’ve just found a good puddle of clay for making pottery.”

  “Our roots are still shallow,” I said. “Here we are ferns by the riverside. A flood would carry us away. On the other side of the mountains we can put down deep roots and grow strong.”

  The women might be uncertain but I could see that the men were interested. After a brief conference, the Goban Saor spoke for them all. “Do whatever you think best, Ainvar. You’ve got us this far, we’ll go the rest of the way with you.”

  On the next bright morning I went to see Cohern. One should never attempt persuasion on a dark day. Dara went with me. He carried a spear but it was just for show. The real weapon was in his mouth.

  Cohern greeted us by saying, “It’s about time you came for that seed corn. I feared it would sprout before you collected it.”

  “We appreciate the offer,” Dara replied courteously, “but we no longer need your grain. We have a gift for you, however.”

  The clan chief looked from me to my son and back again. “This mere boy speaks for you now, Ainvar?”

  “He’s growing fast and needs to learn the skills of a man. Negotiation is one of them.”

  “If you think using a child will soften my heart and make me lower my price, I warn you: It won’t work.”

  “You need
not lower your price,” Dara said smoothly. “We have made other arrangements.”

  While Cohern was trying to adjust to this news, Dara told him, “Fíachu of the Slea Leathan has promised not to attack your clan again if our clan joins his tribe. That is our gift to you. A chance for peace.”

  Cohern’s mouth fell open.

  “Let me tell you how it will be.” Dara’s voice dropped into his chest, became a rhythmic chant as his words painted pictures on the air.

  We returned in triumph to the valley. No longer a man and a boy, but a man and a much younger man who had done what his father could not do.

  “Dara was amazing,” I told his mother. She listened with the smug smile women wear when their children are being praised. A smile that says, I knew it all along, and most of the credit is down to me, though I’m too modest to say so.

  “Dara’s skills are not yet polished,” I went on, “but he spoke with surprising authority. And his voice, Briga! It rolled and rippled, soared and sang. Within a dozen eyeblinks he captured Cohern by describing the benefits he would gain if we joined the Slea Leathan.”

  “Cohern accepted it?”

  “He did indeed. Dara showed him a vision he couldn’t resist.”

  Dara chanted, “Fat on the knife and fat under the skin. Boys live to sire children and become old men.” He smiled at his mother. He was very pleased with himself. “Cohern’s willing for us to go now, in fact he’s eager. As soon as we arrange a truce with Fíachu, he’ll release Labraid and Cormiac Ru from his service.”

  Briga looked toward me. “Are you sure you can arrange a truce?”

  “Our son can,” I replied with perfect confidence. I was still caught up in the spell of the bard myself.

  That night in our bed I told Briga of my plan to merge our clan into the Slea Leathan. She accepted it without hesitation, and went one step further.