The Greener Shore

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Our eyes locked and held.

  For a moment I was terribly tempted. A single thought stopped me. If I saw through the eyes of the deer would I ever be able to eat venison again?

  I waved my hand. The great stag bounded from the path and vanished, leaving not a leaf disturbed to mark his trail.

  On the following day our lessons concerned the nature of thought. “Thinking is a creative process,” I explained. “When we think we perform an action, rather than being acted upon by someone else. Thought is infinite. It has power that we can use for ourselves or pass on. Thought is imperishable. If I give you a thought of mine, when I die that thought continues to live in you and can affect your life and the lives of others. Therefore what is more valuable than thought, and what is worth more than a head?”

  “Is every head precious?” asked Niav.

  “Every one. The head of a dog or a bird is as precious to that creature as yours is to you. Obviously, however, a wise head is a special treasure.”

  Eoin said, “A wise human head, you mean.”

  “Not necessarily,” I told him. Thinking of the red deer. And of the silver wolf, who was tangled in my thoughts like a burr in a woman’s hair. His physical intelligence was greater than all the acquired wisdom in my head.

  What might we not learn from animals, I wondered, if we did not war against them?

  I believed my horizons had shrunk when I ceased to be chief druid of a powerful Gaulish tribe. But they had only been altered, forcing me to look more closely at what was right in front of me. Perhaps that was a necessary part of my Pattern. If so, where would it lead me next?

  More questions; always questions.

  I forced myself back to the task at hand. From discussing thought it was but a short journey to the topic of magic. “Magic begins in the mind,” I told my listeners. “The first step is to imagine. What you can imagine can be made real.”

  The son of one of Fíachu’s many cousins gave a delighted gasp. “Everything?” As clearly as if I could see into his head, I knew its thoughts. They were concentrated on a plump girl with plump breasts and a plump mouth.

  “Magic is rarely necessary,” I said. “Thought and patience can accomplish a lot on their own. Especially patience; it’s a quality women appreciate.”

  His face flamed with embarrassment. His comrades laughed.

  “Is that magic?” asked Cairbre. “Knowing what he was thinking about?”

  “No, it’s remembering. I was remembering my own youth. Never forget yours. Memory is a key that will unlock many doors. No matter how different someone seems, that person has a lot in common with you. Finding the common ground will give you better understanding.”

  My younger students did not yet comprehend, but I saw a dawning wisdom on the face of the older ones.

  We spent several days discussing the simpler permutations of magic. “Every creation of the Source contains its own magic,” I explained. I would have liked to tell them about the wolf but they were not ready.

  I am not sure that I was ready for the wolf.

  Instead, as a first exemplar I chose the trees. I explained their ranking, beginning with the oak, then moved on to discuss the particular magic properties of each. “Through close association with the oak one can slowly acquire some of its wisdom, which is the result of great strength as well as a long life. The oak is an observer. Its roots go deep into the earth, its head rises high into the sky. It provides nourishment and shelter for multitudes, and something of the multitudinous wisdoms of bird and insect and animal are absorbed into the great tree. Because it stays in one place it cannot act upon what it knows, but only store the knowledge. Be with the oaks. Sit beneath them, lean your head against them…and be patient,” I added for the benefit of the boy who wanted a certain plump girl.

  I explained that objects made of yew wood should be given to the dying to encourage their rebirth. “The yew appears to die in its center, but the outermost branches bow down and take root, and the yew’s life begins all over again.”

  “But is that magic?” I was asked.

  I smiled. “All of life is magic. If you learn nothing else, learn this from me.

  “The rowan is not one of the noble trees but it can work great magic. Rowan has the ability to protect. Tomorrow I want you to bring me rowan berries and rowan bark—taken gently, without endangering the tree—and we will fashion some simple protections.”

  How excited they were! Looking back, I could recall my own excitement when I first began to study magic.

  During the days that followed my students studied meditation with the ash tree and erected defenses with the holly. With each new lesson our numbers grew. Children told their parents, parents told their friends; soon a small crowd was waiting for me each morning in the forest.

  Something else was waiting for me, too. I could sense the chief druid’s growing enmity like a stain on the air, though he did not pay me another visit. Our confrontation had left him bruised.

  If Duach Dalta complained about me to Fíachu when he returned from war, I felt confident the chieftain would take my side. I had proven myself in the matter of growing grain and increased his support among the other tribes. There was now every expectation that Fíachu would be elected king of the Laigin when the time came. What had Duach Dalta done to compare?

  To be certain I was safeguarded against any malice on the part of the chief druid, I gathered rowan and holly and worked a little private magic on my own. After that I stopped worrying about Duach Dalta. His abilities were no match for mine.

  Arrogance was another quality I seemed to be acquiring from the Gaels.

  The wheel of the seasons turned.

  The Goban Saor set off on a mysterious journey and returned with a wife: his fair-haired partner from the Lughnasa festival. She was young and nimble and good-natured, with broad hips that promised easy childbearing.

  “The Goban Saor will soon enrich us in more ways than one,” Keryth said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

  “That,” I told her, “is not a prediction but an inevitability.”

  The seer threw back her head and laughed.

  The number of my students was increasing. So was the complexity of their lessons, determined by their interest. When I outlined the various aspects of Gaulish druidry they wanted to know more about divination and judgment, so I asked my fellow druids to address them.

  Keryth described some of the techniques she employed, such as chewing the raw flesh of a wild boar before a divination. “The boar is fearless,” she explained, “and one must be fearless when asking the Source for a glimpse of the future. In my sleep afterward, the knowledge I sought was revealed.”

  Of course she did not tell them everything she did. At the heart of every branch of druidry there is a secret known only to the initiated.

  My Briga did not tell even her closest friends every item she put in the cooking pot.

  Sulis talked at length about the abilities of healers and the way to diagnose illness. “One of the surest methods is to taste the urine of the ill person,” she explained.

  Several of the girls grimaced. One nodded.

  At first Dian Cet was reluctant to discuss the duties of a judge. “In Hibernia all judgments are made by the chieftains,” he said. “What would Fíachu do if I usurped his privilege?”

  “You’ll be doing no such thing. You’ll simply be telling them how it was done in Gaul. We were fortunate to be there and see the Order of the Wise at its peak. Knowledge should never be lost.”

  “No,” Dian Cet agreed. “Knowledge should never be lost.”

  So he did as I asked and told my students how he came to be a judge. He described the arduous tests he had been given by the Order of the Wise, to be certain he was capable of being impartial in the most difficult circumstances. “Unlike chieftain or king,” said Dian Cet, “a druid must make decisions based upon a higher imperative than self-interest.”

  A boy from the fort spoke up; a lad called
Morand, who was inclined to be disputatious. “That may be your way but it’s wrong. Our chieftain makes all our important decisions.”

  “Suppose there was a quarrel between Fíachu and another member of the Slea Leathan. Whose side would your chieftain take in rendering judgment?”

  The young fellow stared at me in consternation. I responded with a bland smile. “Every tribe has its own customs, Morand. One leaf is not superior to another, merely different. The more different leaves we examine, the more we learn about the nature of all leaves.”

  Trying to beat an idea into someone’s mind only breaks the skull. Far better to allow the intended recipient to discover it for himself. I displayed druid wisdom as a merchant displays his wares, stood back, and watched my students stumble across treasures.

  In time Morand became an avid student of the laws governing tribal behavior.

  Another lad could not resist laying hands on wounded creatures and helping them to heal. One of the girls had demonstrably prophetic dreams. And there was my own son Dara, with the tongue of a bard.

  Those of my clan who possessed gifts of the arm were proving themselves as well. Young Glas made a number of bracelets out of bone and carved flowing Gaelic designs into them. After staining them with ocher to resemble old ivory, he gave Damona her choice of the collection in return for a wide band of finely woven wool. Glas took the rest of the bracelets to the fort and bartered them for two unworked lumps of silver. Gold, being found in so many rivers and streams, was easier to acquire. Glas fashioned the silver into two interlocking knots of Gaelic design and set them with gold bosses. When the girdle was complete he presented it to his mother.

  Lakutu promptly brought it to me. “Fasten this around me, please.”

  I did.

  chapter XVI

  WHEN WE FIRST CAME TO HIBERNIA I HAD THOUGHT MYSELF A failure. A man can bear many things, but a sense of failure is not one of them. Discovering that I loved teaching raised my spirits. The Pattern had brought me where I never thought to be, but that is the magic of the Pattern. I was content.

  Contentment is more to be desired than happiness. It can last longer.

  All people want security and respect. Unfortunately there are men who believe they acquire these things by taking them away from others. Something is very wrong with a head that thinks such thoughts.

  I was not taking anything away from Duach Dalta. By introducing an expanded concept of druidry I was enriching his tribe. He would have his moment of personal glory when the time came to inaugurate Fíachu as king of the Laigin. Contentment is more desirable than glory, in my opinion. But then, I am not a warrior.

  On a night of stars, Onuava gave birth to a son.

  The child’s father returned to the Plain of Broad Spears with all the glory any warrior could want. Fíachu had won a number of battles and taken many cattle from the Ulaid, as well as valuable plunder and several healthy young women. The plunder included a Ulidian chariot. When I saw it I could not help thinking of Cormiac Ru, who as a small boy had aspired to ride in a chariot.

  Once Gaulish chieftains went to battle in chariots, but that practice had largely died out by the time of the Roman invasion. Vercingetorix had ridden a splendid black stallion with a great fall of mane that extended almost to its knees, and a tail that touched the earth. Rix loved that horse more than he loved any of his women. Caesar—may his teeth rot and fill his mouth with pus—had murdered the black horse as he murdered Vercingetorix.

  Romans have no respect for nobility, human or animal. But the Source brings all things into balance. Sooner or later, the Romans will be crushed beneath the heel of those they call barbarians.

  A Gaulish chariot, or battle cart, was made of timber with four large wooden wheels. It had to be large enough to carry the warlord and his weaponry, his personal shield-bearer, and a driver to manage the horses. A slow, clumsy vehicle, the chariot was merely a means of transport, allowing a chieftain to save his strength for his enemies. Once he reached the battlefield he fought on foot.

  The chariot Fíachu had captured from a chief of the Ulaid was neither slow nor clumsy. The body was skillfully woven of wickerwork and mounted over a single axle between two wheels. The flexible wicker absorbed most of the jolting that had made Gaulish carts so uncomfortable. There was only room for one warrior and—if the man were thin enough—a charioteer. Extremely light in weight, the chariot traveled as fast as its team of horses could gallop.

  With typical Gaelic fondness for decoration, the Ulidians had covered the outer surface of the chariot with gorgeous plumes and painted the hubs of the wheels in brilliant colors. The wheels were inset with bands of iron and copper. Iron for strength, copper for gleam.

  Fíachu gleamed, too. Standing in the chariot he looked taller than ever, and broader, filling the cart until there was no room for a charioteer. He held the reins himself, driving a pair of horses who matched each other stride for stride, galloping with astonishing speed. The feathered chariot skimmed over the earth like a swallow. Behind it ran the warriors of the Slea Leathan, drunk with victory.

  My head was pleased to observe that Fíachu, who had never been in a chariot before, was open to new ideas. I remarked on this but Briga just looked at me. When my senior wife looks at me in a certain way without saying anything, I feel uneasy.

  Following Fíachu’s return an immense feast was held at his stronghold. Every member of the Slea Leathan who could run, walk, or crawl made an effort to attend. The ostensible reason was to celebrate the chieftain’s newborn son, but the real reason was to be present when he divided up the loot from the north.

  It was to be expected that Fíachu’s favorites would be given the best cattle and their choice of the women. A woman taken in battle became a bondwoman. Thus the daughter of a chieftain might find herself a servant in her captor’s household.

  The Source brings all things into balance.

  No matter what their original rank in society, however, those in bondage were treated with dignity. They might be servants but they were not slaves; not like the slaves of the Romans. Their captor numbered them among his possessions but never abused or humiliated them. Such actions would bring dishonor upon himself.

  Even in defeat, bondmen and -women were counted among the Gael, and the Gael were a free people. A free people. You could see it in their faces, in the way they walked and talked and stood.

  I had not known a genuinely free person in a long time. The last, I suppose, was Vercingetorix. Now my entire clan was free. We had joined the Gael.

  Dressed in their best, my clan made its way to Fíachu’s celebratory feast. My three wives walked with me. Briga at my side; Lakutu and Onuava, with her tiny son in her arms, a step behind. As we passed through the gate of the fort, Onuava strove forward to walk on my other side. Had she not been carrying Fíachu’s child I would have sent her back where she belonged. The ranking of wives must be strictly observed or marriage breaks down in a welter of resentment.

  “Perhaps Fíachu will give us a few more cattle,” I said to Briga.

  “I suppose a lot depends on how well Dara performs.”

  “What has Dara to do with it?”

  “Oh, Ainvar, don’t you ever pay attention? Our son’s going to recite at the feast. He mentioned it just this morning, weren’t you listening?”

  My well-trained ears hear everything. But they only report on the things that claim my interest. These are not necessarily the same ones that Briga notices.

  We caught sight of Dara in a crowd of young men near Fíachu’s lodge. Our son was wearing a new tunic that I had assumed Briga was making for me. Before I could ask her about it, she turned aside to speak to some of the women. Onuava and Lakutu joined her and I found myself alone.

  The head is always alone.

  I worked my way through the crowd to Dara’s side. “Congratulations!” I said. “It’s rare for an apprentice bard to help entertain the chief of the tribe. Seanchán must be very pleased with you.”


  “Seanchán didn’t invite me. Fíachu did.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. Yesterday I was standing right where you are now, admiring the new chariot, when Fíachu walked by and asked if I could compose a praise-poem about his victory and recite it tonight.”

  “But you’ve had no time to compose a poem!”

  Dara smiled. “Ah, but I have. I’ve been working on it since the day Fíachu and his army set out for Ulidia.”

  There could be no doubt that Dara was druid. His head worked on many levels.

  “What about the harp? I know the Goban Saor finished making one for you, but have you had time to familiarize yourself with it?”

  He shook his head. “The harp is wonderful but I can’t do everything I want to with it, not yet. And I must not hurry. Tonight I’ll rely upon the composition alone.”

  I left him with his friends and went looking for his mother, so she and I could bask in the glow of our son’s success. For a parent there is no happier fire. Briga’s reaction was not what I expected. She gave me one of her looks; the one meaning “I know more than you do.”

  My excitement seeped away. “What’s wrong?”

  “Dara and Seanchán, you and Duach Dalta. I’m not a seer, Ainvar, but even I can see trouble brewing. We’re newcomers here and newcomers are always suspect, no matter how warmly they are welcomed. You and Dara are slipping into the shoes of men long-established and they’re sure to resent it. Duach Dalta’s already given you a warning. Will Dara be next?”

  “You can’t expect us to go on tiptoe for the rest of our lives for fear of offending. We’re part of this tribe now, Briga, and we have a right to seek our own level. You’ve made a place for yourself; would you deny that right to your husband and son?”