The Greener Shore

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “Just be careful, Ainvar. That’s all I’m asking.”

  I gave her the reassuring smile women like to receive from their men. But her apprehension worried me. At the feast my eyes and ears must be vigilant.

  At first it seemed we had nothing to worry about. Seanchán and Duach Dalta were both present; they were among the select guests who would join the chieftain in his lodge while the rest of us celebrated outside. Duach Dalta saw me before he entered and gave a nod by way of greeting. I nodded back as if we were the best of friends.

  Then we followed our noses to the feast.

  Two great firepits had been dug in the center of the fort and lined with stones. Whole bullocks were roasting on iron spits. As melting fat dripped from the meat, the flames snapped and crackled. My stomach gurgled approval. One of Fíachu’s women circulated through the crowd, handing out cups. She was followed by other women, carrying pitchers of mead.

  By now I could drink as much honey wine as any Gael. Since I had not been raised on the stuff this feat did not come naturally to me. After several unfortunate experiences and a miserable day after, I had been forced to resort to a little magic.

  Magic begins in the head.

  I had told my head that the liquid in my cup was the purest, sweetest spring water. With every swallow I repeated this message. When the cup was empty I spent time reflecting upon how delicious the water had been, and recalling my exact feelings on other occasions when I had quenched my thirst with water.

  Mead went into my mouth. But it was water that entered my belly.

  Therefore my head was clear when Dara was summoned to the chieftain’s lodge to recite. He held out his hand to me. “Come with me, Father.”

  “I wasn’t invited.”

  “I invite you,” said my son.

  The eyes of the crowd followed me until I entered Fíachu’s lodge. Inside I was met by the eyes of his guests, including those of Seanchán and Duach Dalta.

  Fíachu greeted me as warmly as if he had invited me himself, and gestured me to one of the benches. This necessitated some crowding over on the part of those already seated. I offered a placating smile. After a moment, the man nearest me smiled back.

  I whispered, “My son’s reciting a composition of his own tonight. It’s the first time he’s been asked to entertain publicly.” Then I settled myself to bask in Dara’s success—if success it was to be.

  I need not have worried.

  The highest level of bardic poetry strives to express that which is beyond expression, striking responsive chords in the unplumbed depths of the spirit. True bardic recitation does not follow the everyday rhythms of sowing and reaping and breathing. Alternately fluid and fiery, it adapts to the dreams of the listeners.

  No sooner had Dara begun to speak than his gift became apparent. He recounted the old tales of the Milesians in a grand saga that was fresh and new. On the surface the tale glittered like a sunlit river; in its depths lurked dark mysteries. The darkness yielded to the magic of the bard as Dara gathered up his listeners and swept them irresistibly along from one crest of excitement to the next.

  Dara was better than Seanchán. He was better than any bard I ever heard. I wished Briga could be with me to share this moment, but the only women allowed inside the chieftain’s lodge were his wives.

  Perhaps in time that custom could be changed.

  When my son stopped speaking Fíachu leaped to his feet. “Did you not hear the roar of the ocean and the rhythm of the oarsmen? Did you not see this land rising out of the mist? Did you not feel the clash of battle and the joy of victory? This young man has brought our ancestors back to life before our very eyes!”

  Holding his cup in one hand, the chieftain wrapped his other arm around Dara’s shoulders. “Drink, all of you,” he cried, “to the new bard of the Slea Leathan! Abu Dara!” Dara Forever!

  As we drained our cups I sneaked a glance at Seanchán. He was staring fixedly at my son. When a person tries too hard to keep his expression impassive, strong emotion forced to the surface by inward pressure can seep through the cracks and crevices.

  Seanchán was rancid with bitterness.

  Yet the old tree must fall in order for sunlight to reach the young tree.

  Fíachu had not finished speaking. Turning toward me, he said, “As for the man called Ainvar, he brought his clan to us with little more than the clothes they wore. One might think it was a mistake to take in such impoverished people. But no. Looking back, I can see a change in our fortunes from that very moment. Ainvar’s people have enriched our lives with their skills and craftsmanship. They have taught us how to plant and harvest enough grain to protect ourselves from hunger no matter what the weather brings. This in turn has greatly raised my esteem among the tribes of the Laigin.”

  His listeners exchanged meaningful glances. They supported his ambition to become king because it would greatly benefit the clan.

  “Last but by no means least, Ainvar has been very generous to me personally,” Fíachu said with a grin. We all knew exactly what he meant. “In addition, I have been informed by a woman who is, ah, very close to him, that he is a skilled practitioner of magic. If the son is an exceptional bard, then the father is a great druid. We need more like him.”

  This time they raised their cups to me. “Abu Ainvar!” they cried. Except for Duach Dalta, who now wore the same expression as Seanchán.

  Honor bestowed on one is often perceived to be stolen from another.

  For the rest of the night I kept my head down. When someone spoke to me I made a point of being modest about my abilities. The more diffident I became, the more people swarmed around me, eager to absorb whatever special qualities I might possess.

  Magic is not contagious.

  As soon as I could slip out of the lodge without attracting too much attention, I went in search of Briga. I told her of Dara’s success but said nothing of my misgivings about the evening. Perhaps I thought I was sparing her any worry. Perhaps I was just saving myself the pain of admitting to her that she was right.

  Later—much later, when even the stars had closed their eyes in sleep—I found an opportunity to speak with Dara out of anyone else’s hearing. “Your composition in praise of the Milesians was splendid, but it hardly mentioned the Túatha Dé Danann except as ‘the enemy.’”

  “That’s what they were, Father.”

  “They were much more. I want you to commemorate the Dananns. I thought you understood that.”

  “I do. But if I celebrated the people his ancestors slaughtered, would Fíachu thank me? I think not. Tonight I followed the wise path just as you would have done, and limited my accolades to the Milesians.”

  The wise path. Had I been so wise after all? Dara was right; Fíachu would not want to hear the Dananns praised.

  For several nights and days the Slea Leathan feasted on victory, talking of little else. The chieftain’s fort was aswirl with people, food, drink, shouting, laughing, boasting. The jubilant atmosphere was irresistible. Yet life has a way of creeping in like grass breaking through paving stones. Eventually we had to address ourselves to the tasks of every day.

  Tragically, some of the Slea Leathan could not. A man who goes to battle puts on a warrior face which he must set aside when he returns to his women and children. But if the fighting is too savage and goes on for too long, a few cross a line they cannot cross back. They come home with the blood still boiling in their veins. The scars on their bodies will heal; the scars inside their heads will last a lifetime. Bal Derg, Fíachu’s nephew, had been an affable young man before the war in Ulidia. He came home surly and belligerent.

  My head wondered: What effect would battle have on Labraid, if he was still alive?

  chapter XVII

  THE PHYSICAL ENERGY OF MY YOUNG STUDENTS EXCEEDED MY own. At close of day they often left me and went off to play games or run races. I watched them go rather wistfully, but the comfort of a fire on the hearth and a hot meal in the belly were more appealing.

/>   One evening as I returned from the forest I noticed a stillness in the air; an abnormal hush that alerted my senses. Before I reached our lodges Briga came running to meet me. Her face was the color of milk with the cream skimmed away. “Oh, Ainvar! Something terrible’s happened!”

  “What?”

  “It’s Onuava.”

  “Is she hurt?”

  “She’s been killed. She and the baby both.”

  Not just dead. Killed. “Onuava?” Sudden shock can numb the head. While I could ask questions, I could not comprehend answers. “What happened?”

  “The bodies were discovered just a little while ago. It looks as if they were beaten to death.”

  “Beaten to death,” I repeated. Trying without success to take it in.

  “Onuava and Lakutu were supposed to dye wool together today. When she didn’t appear Lakutu began work alone, assuming—and you can’t blame her—that Onuava was simply ignoring an unpleasant task. Dyes smell bad and she’s always complained about them. But when the day grew old and there was no sign of her, Lakutu was worried. So she went to Onuava’s lodge and found her…found her and the baby….”

  “Found them how?”

  “Lying on the ground in a pool of blood, with their skulls smashed.” Briga stared up at me with stricken eyes.

  The sacred head.

  Rage ripped through me. If at that moment Onuava’s killer had stood before me, I would have torn him to pieces with my bare hands.

  I fought to regain control. “Are you certain they’re dead? Could you not…”

  “There was nothing I could do,” Briga said in a defeated voice. “The bodies were already growing stiff.”

  “And no one heard anything? I don’t understand how that could happen.”

  “I heard the baby crying early this morning, but he’s a fretful little lad and cries…cried…a lot anyway. When he stopped I paid no more attention.”

  The disaster was beginning to seem real to me. “Have you seen them?”

  Briga nodded. “I sent Grannus to the village to tell Fíachu about the killings. Are Cairbre and Senta with you?”

  Until that moment I had not thought of Onuava’s other sons. My sons as well. Motherless now. Like a stone dropped into a pool, a single death creates concentric circles of loss.

  “I want to see Onuava, Briga.”

  She shuddered. “No you don’t. It’s horrible.”

  “I’ve seen more awful things.” We had all seen more awful things.

  The sight of Onuava’s corpse was bad enough, though. That big, tawny woman, always so proud of her appearance, was nearly unrecognizable in death. Stooping down, I lifted the blood-matted hair away from her face. One savage blow to the side of her skull had been enough to kill her; surely it had not been necessary to beat her face to a pulp as well.

  Among Celtic tribes it is a breach of honor to brutalize a slain enemy.

  As for the baby…I could not imagine who would do such a thing. After one swift look I had to turn away.

  I went back to Onuava with the regret that death engenders flooding into my throat like vomit. I should have paid more attention to her. Should have praised her more often. Should have…I bent down to plant a last caress on her ruined face.

  As my fingers touched her skin they detected the lingering essence of her killer. The hairs rose on the back of my neck.

  Fíachu arrived at the run, bringing a dozen well-armed warriors with him. “Who did this awful thing?” he demanded when he emerged from Onuava’s lodge.

  “We don’t know,” said Briga, “but we’ve asked Keryth to read the signs.”

  “She wasn’t a witness to the killings, was she?”

  “No, but she’s a seer. Telling the unknown is her gift.”

  Fíachu glanced at me. I nodded. “Keryth was the best in Gaul,” I assured him.

  “Very well, then. Let her try.”

  At Keryth’s request, everyone except me moved away from the lodge. “Stand at the doorway, Ainvar,” she directed. “Make sure I’m not disturbed.”

  While the two bodies lay on the ground like the discarded husks they were, Keryth built a fire on the hearth. From leather pouches tied to her girdle she took an assortment of dried herbs and powders. One at a time, she sprinkled them on the flame. Some were as pungent as ripe fruit. Others had the bittersweet fragrance of half-forgotten memories. One, as foul as burning hair, made me cough.

  I watched Keryth’s fingers weave the cloud of smoke into grotesquely writhing shapes. It appeared as if she were dancing with the fire. Three times she paused and turned to look at the dead woman. The third time, she spoke to the corpse in words too low for my ears to report.

  Keryth used three buckets of water to kill the fire and then sank down on her haunches beside the drowned ashes. She remained there for a long time, immobile, staring into the shadows of here and now with eyes that saw otherwhen.

  I have always been fascinated by the way Keryth practices divination. She does it in a variety of ways. Once I saw her spin around and around with arms outstretched until she fell down from dizziness. When her head cleared and she was able to get to her feet without staggering, she related a wondrous vision from the Otherworld. Someone else might try the same technique and get no more than an upset stomach.

  The method by which a druid, any druid, achieves a result is intuited according to the circumstance. Exceptional intuition is a large part of the druidic gift.

  The first druid had no teacher. Druidry cannot be taught, only encouraged. The gift itself is innate.

  Long before the time of our fathers’ fathers, someone whose name we do not even know became aware of a unique quality in himself—or herself—that set him apart from his fellows. Fortunately he possessed enough curiosity to follow the newly discovered internal path and see where it led. Thus the first druid stumbled upon the unseen world that envelops our own.

  Imagine his astonishment! What my colleagues and I consider natural must have struck him like a bolt of fire from the sky. Did he tell anyone? We can never know. But as the wheel of the seasons turned, a few others discovered similar gifts. The first of anything is never the last.

  When they began using their special abilities to benefit their people, the Order of the Wise was born.

  Realistically, all I can teach my students is how to search within themselves. This is akin to standing in the forest listening to the multitude of birdsong and trying to pick out a single voice. With intense concentration, a born druid can recognize that voice.

  There is no druid but a born druid.

  For every one who is genuine, there are many who want to be. They may even pretend to have the gift. When asked to prove themselves they must rely on trickery and the gullibility of others.

  Keryth had no need for trickery. She was genuine. Her gift lay in being able to trace the invisible pathways that join all the elements of creation. Sometimes, though not always, she could find the point where individual Patterns connected.

  Alone in the lodge with the dead woman and child, Keryth sought their murderer. I did not envy her the task.

  After a timeless time she called my name. “Ainvar? Are you still out there?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Then you’d better come in and help me up. My old knees are locked.”

  When we emerged from the lodge Fíachu and his men, as well as my own clan, crowded around us. By torchlight it was obvious that Keryth was exhausted. Her hair hung in wet strings and her skin was deathly pale. Fíachu was not concerned about her condition; only one thing mattered at that moment. “Do you know who did this thing?” he demanded of her. “Was it a member of the Deisi or one of the—”

  “The killer belongs to your tribe, Fíachu.”

  “The Slea Leathan? That’s not possible.”

  “I’m afraid it is. More than that, he’s a member of your own clan.”

  “In living memory no descendant of Éremon has slain a woman, never mind a child! Tell he
r, Ainvar; tell this woman she’s wrong.”

  “I cannot,” I said sadly. “I’m no seer, but when I touched the dead woman I found a lingering shadow of her killer. The members of a family share a certain…smell, for want of a better word, though it is not detected by the nose. Onuava’s killer smelled of your clan.”

  Fíachu spread his feet wide apart, bracing himself. It was obvious why he was chief of his tribe. The big man had the spirit of an oak tree. He was badly shocked, but already his head was beginning to work again.

  I read his thoughts in his eyes and confirmed them. “If one of your own clan has committed this crime,” I said, “you’ll have to decide where your loyalties lie.”

  Fíachu turned toward Keryth. “Are you absolutely certain of what you claim?”

  “I saw the event as clearly as I see you now. Before he struck Onuava the first time her attacker threw off his cloak. He was wearing the speckled tunic of your clan. No one else wears that design. I can tell you his every move, Fíachu. I can even describe the efforts Onuava made to defend her child, if you wish to hear.”

  “Just give me the killer’s name. That’s all I want from you.”

  For the first time I sensed a hesitancy in my old friend. “In my vision his back was turned toward me most of the time, and the fire was out, so the light in the lodge was dim.”

  “But you did see him?”

  “Yes.”

  Fíachu deliberately moved closer until he towered over her. “Then, who was he?”

  If she had been a younger woman Keryth might have been able to resist the intimidation of Fíachu’s physicality. The weight of many seasons pinned her down while he skewered her with his eyes. She said in a faint voice, “He was very strong and agile. A young warrior, I think.”

  “That’s not good enough. I have to have his name.”

  Keryth shrank into herself. She glanced to one side and then to the other, but we could not intervene. Fíachu was the chieftain. “Tell me, woman!” he thundered.

  “I’m afraid it was Bal Derg,” Keryth said in a whisper.