“Caesar is destroying Gaul, Ainvar. His people are planting Roman crops and building Roman villas and speaking the Roman tongue. The Gauls who survive are being forced to accept the Roman Pattern. That’s the final extermination, the ultimate crime.
“We must reject the Roman Pattern entirely. This land took us in when we had nowhere else to go, so it is right and proper that we adapt ourselves to her. We’ll worship among her trees; we’ll do homage to her mountains. All the faces of the Source are sacred no matter what name one uses.”
Briga was the first of us who truly became a Gael.
The accents of Hibernia came easily to her lips. Already she knew the name of every hill and hollow in our immediate vicinity, and if they did not have one, she gave one to them. “It’s important, Ainvar,” she stressed. “Being named consecrates a common clod of earth. This is our place now; this is our earth.”
I fleetingly wondered if my Briga consecrated the earth simply by walking upon it.
Most women hate to abandon a nest once it is built. With the exception of Briga, the women of my clan were no different. So Dara painted word pictures for them, too. Larger lodges built of sturdier timber; cows who gave more freely of their milk; more children for their own to play with and grow with and marry. Best of all, the comfort of being part of a strong tribe again.
My son. Hardly more than a child himself, yet with the head of a man. The druid gift defies understanding.
We were warmly welcomed by Fíachu’s clan and given land an easy walk from his fort, with loamy fields for planting. Our new lodges would stand at the edge of an immense forest which offered an unlimited supply of timber for building and deadfall for firewood.
When we awoke in the morning, the first breath we drew would be the exhalation of oaks.
On the other side of our new clanhold Briga discovered a grove of wild apple trees. She came running back to tell me, “We can make vinegar!”
My senior wife was a great believer in the efficacy of vinegar.
She was equally pleased to find an expanse of bog in the other direction. “Sphagnum moss, Ainvar!”
“We can’t eat moss.”
“No, but we can use it to keep the bottoms of infants dry, and to stanch the flow of blood from wounds. That particular moss will soak up many times its own weight in liquid.”
I saluted Hibernia in my head. We had arrived as impoverished refugees; we were going to spend the rest of our lives in the midst of plenty.
With the help of Fíachu’s men we began to build our lodges. It would be a race against time; the women wanted the roofs thatched before the worst of the winter. The chieftain himself strolled out to observe our progress. He seemed quietly amused. Eventually I asked why.
His bright blue eyes glittered. “Cohern put you on his border to use as a buffer against me. Now the obstacle is removed.”
That possibility had never occurred to me.
The Gael were neither as simple nor as guileless as I assumed. I had to wonder if Dara would be able to affect a truce between Fíachu’s powerful tribe and Cohern’s enfeebled clan. Probably not.
Surely not.
We had betrayed Cohern after all.
“Poor Ainvar,” Briga commiserated when I shared my thoughts with her that night. “Don’t torture yourself about it. You had good intentions.”
“Look what my good intentions accomplished! Cohern was clever to locate us where he did, and now I’ve removed his only shield. He’s vulnerable to Fíachu again.”
“We could always go back to him, you know.”
“Then we’d be vulnerable to Fíachu, who would not thank us for refusing his hospitality. No, we’ll have to stay here.”
“You don’t sound very happy about it, Ainvar.”
“It’s all the fault of my head. I should never use it to make plans anymore. The time we spent at sea addled my brains with all that rolling and heaving.”
Briga laughed. I did not see anything funny.
At least we had left Cohern better-built lodges than his own. He would not occupy them while they were so close to his enemy. But Cohern expected us to change his enemies into friends.
Deep in my mind was a story I had heard long ago in Gaul, from one of our own bards. Among the early Celts there were shamans known as shape-changers who assumed the form of wild animals. Changing one thing into another seemed to be a Celtic specialty.
Like changing people into hawthorn trees…
Was it possible that the Túatha Dé Danann were Celts?
I spent a sleepless night on speculations. Outside the lodge where I lay—one which Fíachu had put at my disposal while our own were being built—was the usual complement of night noises. Sometime before dawn they changed. The rustle of trees in the wind became a chorus of sibilant voices.
Listen, I commanded my ears.
In addition to the voices there were other sounds, like the pattering of small bare feet. Moving carefully so as not to awaken Briga beside me, I got up and went to the door of the lodge. When I looked out I saw only the surrounding lodges. The bare earth was white with moonlight.
Yet I could hear whispering voices and running feet. Very, very close now.
The hairs rose on the back of my neck.
“What is it, Ainvar?” Briga called sleepily. Lakutu began to stir in her bed. Onuava coughed, and little Gobnat made querulous, about-to-wake-up sounds.
“I thought it might be raining,” I said.
“And what would you do if it were? Stop the rain?”
That was cruel; probably because she had been awakened out of a sound sleep. Briga knew I could no longer stop the rain.
I continued staring into the empty moonlight. Wondering what had been summoned by my thoughts. At last I went back and lay down again, but I still could not sleep. Fear crept over my skin like a skulk of foxes.
Once I was brave. A long time ago. Warriors must be crazy-brave, able to face anything. My courage came from being self-controlled and thoughtful. For most of my life that had been sufficient. Until Caesar. As casually as the scythe cuts the mistletoe from the oak, the fiendish Caesar had stripped me of my courage.
Briga is the opposite. When we first met she was a frightened child who aroused my most protective feelings. That which has broken me has made her stronger. She is the brave one now, as fierce as lions if need be. It is Briga who protects Ainvar, who lifts my heart and stiffens my spine.
I should be grateful. I am grateful. Yet a small, mean part of me hates her for having the courage I lack.
Love and hate; the Two-Faced One. Can the faces ever be reconciled?
chapter VIII
WITH THE HELP OF FÍACHU’S MEN OUR NEW LODGES WERE SOON built. They were even larger and more beautifully crafted than those we had abandoned. The Goban Saor carved our doors as Fíachu’s tribe carved theirs, and Glas decorated the door frames with colorful Celtic designs. Teyrnon demonstrated his ironwork by making door hinges so intricately shaped that they attracted attention in their own right. While he was forging them I wandered over to watch.
“It’s like magic,” I said, paying him the ultimate compliment. “You make it look so easy.”
Teyrnon grinned; flash of white teeth in a blackened face. “You have to work at the forge to feel the heat, Ainvar.”
Soon Fíachu’s clansmen were requesting new weapons from him. Their womenfolk asked him to fashion cauldrons and flesh forks. No one asked Teyrnon to forge a plow, though. The Slea Leathan were cattle people.
By talking with them while our new lodges were being built, I extended my knowledge considerably.
I learned that society in Hibernia was highly stratified and militarized. The island was roughly divided into a handful of kingdoms. Each was ruled by an overking who claimed the allegiance of the tribes in his territory and demanded tribute from them in the form of cattle and warriors. In return the king defended his kingdom against incursion by outsiders.
The kingdom of the Laigin extended sou
th from a river called the Liffey. A vast stretch of bog in the midlands served as the western boundary. The major tribes of the Laigin were ruled by chieftains who claimed descent from Éremon. They and their related clans comprised the warrior elite. Below them in rank were freemen with less prestigious antecedents, and then the unfree: men and women in bondage who had been seized in warfare.
The king of the Laigin was elected from among the tribal chieftains. The current king was an elderly man long past his fighting prime. Although Fíachu hoped to succeed him, his fellow chieftains also coveted the title.
A similar situation pertained in the kingdom of the Deisi, southwest of us, and also among the Ulaid in the north, from whom the Laigin obtained woven linen when the two kingdoms were not at war. Which was not often. No wonder warriors were at a premium. All Hibernia was a battleground.
Ensconced within a strong tribe, at least my little clan would have a degree of security. “We were wise to accept Fíachu’s offer,” I told Briga. “For the first time in years, we stand with the winners.”
My senior wife said smugly, “Aren’t you glad I sent you for seed corn?”
In honor of our new homes, Fíachu’s clan treated us to a celebratory banquet. The principal dish was roast swan. The bird, so rare in Gaul, was common on the lakes and rivers of Hibernia. The chieftain’s wives had pillows stuffed with swansdown. The creatures were highly regarded, however, and rarely slain for meat.
Briga managed to get through the whole meal without taking a bite of swan. When I asked her why not, she said, “They’re too beautiful to eat, Ainvar.”
Suddenly I had no appetite for mine, either.
When our lodges were ready Briga made a little ceremony of unwrapping her set of enameled bowls, lining them up, admiring them, then rewrapping them in fresh linen and secreting them at the very bottom of the wooden chest that would hold her possessions. She never looked at them again but we knew they were there.
We knew we were home.
The first night we slept in our new lodge I had a troubling dream about the Crow Court. The crows taking part in the ritual were all female, though how I knew this I could not say, since male and female crows look alike. When I awoke in the morning I interpreted my dream to mean that our women were in danger of alienating the Gaelic women.
Which proved that I had no gift for prognostication.
The following morning the air was full of the crisp, white smell of winter. Stepping outside to do the necessary, I felt ice crunch under my poor bare feet.
Later in the day I went to call upon Fíachu. I found him wearing soft, low boots of untanned leather though his legs were still bare. The boots were formed of two pieces, with a separate sole, and were slightly pointed at the toe. The upper surface was decorated with elaborate stitching.
“I didn’t know you wore shoes,” I remarked.
“My people have better sense than to walk on ice barefoot, Ainvar. I’m surprised you don’t.”
As soon as I got back to my lodge I put my old shoes on.
Almost every day brought something new. Relentless in his search for materials with which to work, the Goban Saor reported, “This land is rich beyond measure, Ainvar. There’s not only gold and iron but ample deposits of copper and lead. In fact, just about any sort of mineral one might want. Some can be ground into powder to use for enameling. Others can be polished and set as gemstones. And speaking of stone—I’ve found marble, granite, sandstone, limestone; an absolute plethora of building materials we could use if we wanted to emulate the Greeks. How clever you were to bring us here.”
I responded with a modest smile as if I had known it all along.
Never refuse a compliment.
We were frequent visitors to the chieftain’s stronghold that winter. At every opportunity, my Briga praised the beauty of the Slea Leathan women and admired their domestic skills. She made them feel good about themselves. Before spring my senior wife was the most popular woman in the whole area. Wives sought her advice about their husbands. Young girls asked her how to attract the men of their choice. More often than not, when I entered my lodge I would find Briga sitting cross-legged on the ground, plaiting some girl’s bright locks while she chatted over her shoulder with a graying matron.
Many women were drawn to Briga, but aside from sharing communal tasks such as dyeing fabric, most of them had little to do with one another. Their lives were extremely circumscribed. Loyalty was limited to their immediate families; ties of blood were considered stronger than marriage.
It was not much better for the men. The Gael clung to the heritage of personal rivalries that had plagued them since their arrival in Hibernia. A man’s “friends” were those who fought beside him or, more rarely, were willing to lend him something of value. Like love in a marriage, true friendship was considered a fortuitous adjunct to a much more important alliance.
Onuava was jealous of Briga’s popularity. She reacted by flaunting herself in front of other men. Onuava of the tawny hair and opulent breasts could still draw men’s eyes. Neither of Fíachu’s wives liked Onuava. When my third wife stood near him a fine dew of perspiration beaded the chieftain’s brow and his attention wandered.
Onuava also caused problems in another way. She kept urging me to bring Labraid back from Cohern.
“Cohern won’t release him until there is a truce between himself and the Slea Leathan,” I tried to explain to her.
“Then do it now, Ainvar. What are you waiting for?”
“It’s not that easy. Fíachu’s happy with the situation as it is.”
“Well, I’m not. Do something!” She stamped her foot and tossed her hair; the lodge echoed with her strident voice. Briga ignored her. The children hurried outside.
Vercingetorix had been able to control Onuava. He had even enjoyed her tantrums, but she rubbed my nerves raw and made my head ache. A man must have peace in his own lodge, so I spoke to Dara. “We have to get Fíachu to proclaim a truce with Cohern as soon as possible. Have you mentioned it to him yet?”
The guilty expression in my son’s eyes was my answer. “I thought maybe you would say something first, Father? Prepare the way for me?”
As chief advisor to Vercingetorix during the battle for Gaul I had been at the center of a giant spiderweb, with threads stretching in every direction. My task was to accumulate and assimilate information and determine the best way to use it. This required an understanding of our warriors and those of our allies; the Romans; their unpredictable German allies; their traitorous Gaulish allies…and foul Caesar himself.
Demanding though it was, and tragically though it turned out, I was gifted for that sort of work. My intuition about other people usually was sound. My own family was more difficult. I was never certain how to handle any of them.
“Dara, you wanted to do this, remember?”
He scuffled the earth with his toe. “Yes, Father.”
“So you must have thought you could.”
“I did at the time, but I’m not sure now. What if I make a fool of myself?”
The confidence of Vercingetorix had been contagious. It was almost enough to carry us to victory against overwhelming odds. I stood very still, reaching back into memory. Envisioning Rix at his most impressive. Then I hurled that image at my son. “You can do it, Dara,” I said as convincingly as possible. “You can.”
The following morning Dara went alone to the chieftain’s lodge. I took myself into the forest to wait. Walking in large circles; nervously rubbing my elbows. Above my head the oaks knotted their limbs in sympathy.
It was a large responsibility to lay on the shoulders of a mere boy. Onuava was not the only one with a lot at stake. She wanted Labraid back; I wanted Cormiac Ru. The Red Wolf had become something more than a son to me. We need those people who fill in the missing parts of ourselves.
Which brought me back to Vercingetorix.
There was no denying the power of Hibernia to draw people to its shores. In Thislife I would never see
Vercingetorix again, but we were soul friends; we would meet again. When we did, it would surely be here.
I tried to imagine what it would be like with both of us inhabiting very different bodies. Would our spirits recognize each other? And would Briga be there, too? Would I know her? Would—
Dara came running toward me. “It’s all right, Father!” he shouted. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
Fíachu was going to meet with Cohern to discuss a truce.
It would not involve all of the Iverni, only a single clan, but would mean a radical improvement in Cohern’s situation. A runner had been sent to invite him to meet Fíachu at a point halfway between their respective clan-holdings, and Cohern had agreed.
“Fíachu’s asked me to accompany him to the meeting,” Dara proudly informed me.
Not me, but my son. I was no longer at the center of the spiderweb. I thought I was glad. Yet when I saw Dara march off with Fíachu’s retinue I felt a great longing for the old days with Vercingetorix.
We never fully appreciate today until tomorrow.
Onuava was ecstatic when Labraid returned. She paraded him around the clanhold, introducing him to everyone as the son of the greatest warrior who ever lived.
When Cormiac Ru rejoined us he looked older than I remembered. After the style of warriors, he now sported a flowing moustache and divided his fiery hair into seven plaits. But his eyes were the same, as deep and colorless as water.
I thought of the voices in the night and the little pattering footfalls. “I want you to sleep in our lodge,” I told Cormiac.
His strange eyes looked into mine and straight through them to my hidden fears. “If you wish, Ainvar.”
Onuava insisted on having Labraid with her, and the addition of two more men crowded our lodge considerably. The only solution was to build more lodges. Our little clan had not yet celebrated a new birth, but we were expanding all the same.
Life is good, I whispered to That Which Watches. It is well to give thanks whenever there is a reason to do so. The Otherworld rewards gratitude. And punishes ingratitude.
The Greener Shore Page 10