The Greener Shore

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “Fighting the Romans? Do you mean Probus?”

  “Oh no, not him! I can tell you about him later, Ainvar. First you must hear how I reached the coast of Albion. Not one man in a thousand could have done it. We only had a little boat meant to row officers ashore, and there was a terrible gale blowing. The waves were like mountains crashing over us. But I’m amazingly skillful at sea, so I…”

  At some point my ears stopped listening, leaving my imagination to fill in the details. Which I am sure it did with more accuracy than Labraid’s hyperbole.

  He fell asleep suddenly, between one word and the next.

  “Pick him up and put him in his bed, Grannus,” Briga instructed. “He’s overexerted himself; I was afraid of that. For the next two or three days he’s not to leave this lodge. Stay right with him so he doesn’t. And don’t you tempt him to go outside again, Ainvar!” she added to me. The charge was unjust, but when a wife wants someone to blame a husband is a convenient target.

  Before I went to my bed there was something I had to do.

  Cormiac Ru appeared to be asleep. When I bent over him he opened his eyes. “Ainvar,” he whispered.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Better than yesterday.”

  “I’d like to ask you something, then. Am I right to assume your swords were taken from you when you were captured by the Roman warships?”

  “They were.”

  “And the sword you lost…was my father’s?”

  “I’m sorry, Ainvar.”

  “It’s of no consequence, I just needed to know.”

  “It is of consequence. Your daughter and your sword. I wanted to bring them both back to you.”

  “You’ve come back to me, that’s all I needed.”

  And it was true.

  The following morning was bitterly cold; the wind off the sea slipped icy fingers through the walls of wattle and daub and ran them up our spines. With Grannus guarding the doorway, Briga kept all three of her invalids indoors. I was free to wander around on my own and talk to anyone who would talk to me. In this way I enlarged my knowledge of the region.

  Thus I learned that the estuary of the Liffey provided one of the few breaks in the mountainous, forest-clad, natural bulwark that encircled Hibernia, embracing the fertile central plain. The people of Dubh Linn were in an ideal location to carry on seagoing trade, yet I was told they preferred to fish. “Everything we need is already within our reach,” said a cheerful woman as freckled as a blackbird’s egg. “Why would we want to give our wealth to strangers trying to sell us what they don’t want?”

  One often encounters wisdom in unexpected places. When we were home again I would tell my students—many of whom would never travel this far in their lives—about the Gaels of Dubh Linn.

  How odd to realize that we, who had been the Gauls, who had traveled the length and breadth of a land vastly larger than Hibernia, now made our home on an island where a day’s journey was considered a sizable undertaking, and our grandchildren might never see the sea.

  Life expands and then shrinks. And then expands again, like some great creature breathing.

  I walked as far as the neck of a peninsula that jutted out into a great bay. The bay was large enough to accommodate hundreds of trading vessels, but only a few fishing boats were visible, hugging the shore. As I gazed at the incoming tide I tried to convince myself that Gaul was still out there, somewhere. I could no longer remember the way the light fell on the fields, or the fragrance of the vineyards.

  Even when we stand still, the past runs away from us.

  At last I roused myself from my reverie and went searching for someone who might answer the riddle that had been tormenting me ever since we arrived: the identity of the thing that had screamed in the night.

  “It’s one of them,” I was told by a toothless old fellow I found mending his fishing nets. Having mentioned “them,” he looked fearfully around, then got to his feet and performed the curious ritual of spitting in four directions, turning solemnly as he did so. It was astonishing that a dried-up old man had so much spit in him.

  “Who do you mean by ‘them’?”

  He looked me up and down. “You’re not from around here, are you.” A statement, not a question.

  “I come from a place far away.”

  “Then maybe you don’t know about the good people.”

  “Good people? You act almost as if you’re afraid of them. Why should you be afraid of good people?”

  He gestured to me to bend down until my ear was level with his mouth. “They aren’t really good,” he whispered. “We only call them that so we don’t make them more angry with us than they already are. They can do terrible things.”

  Suddenly I understood. “Are you saying it was one of the Túatha Dé Danann?”

  He took a step backward and made wild gestures with his hands. “Don’t do that, you’ll call her!”

  “Call who?”

  “Rígan’s bean sídhe!” he cried, using the Gaelic for “fairy woman.” With these words his nerve broke entirely. Pulling his cloak over his head, he scuttled away from me as fast as he could.

  I found Rígan at the Black Pool, where a score of small boats were undergoing winter repairs. Both men and women bustled around them, each to their allotted tasks. Men cut out and replaced damaged bits of timber framework. Women mended the leather hides used for covering the boats. As I walked up, the men were exchanging improbable fishing stories. They fell silent when one of the women began to sing. A song matched to the rhythm of the sewing, a song so perfectly crafted that music and work became one and the same.

  Rígan was standing off to one side, though whether supervising or merely observing I could not tell. When he saw me he gave a nod of greeting and beckoned me to join him. We spoke of Cormiac and Labraid—and Probus, though I did not mention the Roman by name. Rígan expressed interest in their progress. “Will you be taking them home soon?” he asked me several times.

  Since I could not yet answer his question, I asked one of my own. “What can you tell me of the bean sídhe?”

  Rígan stiffened. “Where did you hear about that?”

  While I related my brief conversation with the old man Rígan stared past me, wearing the grim expression I had seen on his face the night we arrived. The look of a man expecting disaster.

  “Is it true, Rígan? Is there such a thing as a bean sídhe?”

  His shoulders slumped. “Oh yes, I’m afraid there is. More than one, in fact. Quite a few clans of the Gael have a bean sídhe. They attach themselves to a direct descendant of the sons of Milesios, and when that person is about to die the bean sídhe screams. Some call it a wail of grief. Others say it’s a shriek of triumph. Either way, it’s horrible.” Rígan shuddered.

  “I myself,” he went on, “am in a straight line leading back to Ir the Visionary, who saw a god leap out of the sea. Ir was the cleverest and the most noble of all the sons of Milesios. His brothers were…” he began counting on his fingers, “Éber Finn the Warrior, Amergin the Bard, Éremon the—”

  “Many times grandfather of Fíachu of the Slea Leathan,” I interrupted. “Which means that Fíachu might have a bean sídhe.”

  “He probably does.”

  “He never mentioned her to me, Rígan.”

  “I never talk about mine, either. I only wait. And listen. I heard her the night you came here.”

  “So did I. And…” I paused, struck by the wonder of it. “And so did my wife and our friend.”

  Rígan was ashen-faced. “I shall not live to see the next full moon, Ainvar.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “One is always certain when the bean sídhe cries. Besides, I have five brothers, all of whom want to be chieftain, and matters are coming to a head. I’d suggest you return to the Plain of Broad Spears as soon as you can.”

  chapter XXIX

  RÍGAN HAD GIVEN ME SOUND ADVICE AND I MEANT TO TAKE IT. I was grateful for the kindness he had shown
us, but I had seen all I wanted of war. Men killing other men for the sake of ambition makes no sense to me. In nature there is no model for ambition.

  When I returned to the lodge, Cormiac was sitting beside the fire with the others. He was pale and a little shaky, but clearly much improved. The look Briga gave me warned that I must not tax his strength. I limited our conversation to a cheerful greeting, then chatted with Labraid long enough to determine that he too was getting well.

  I drew my senior wife aside. “Rígan says there’s going to be a clan war here, and very soon. I think we should be on our way before that happens. Will Cormiac be able to travel in a couple of days, if he sits on a horse?”

  She glanced over her shoulder at him. “I can’t say, Ainvar. He’s an amazingly strong man, but he suffered appalling injuries and he’s still in a lot of pain. Are you sure Rígan’s right about the war?”

  “I have good reason to believe him.” I did not want to go into details. There were too many things I needed to think through in the quiet of my head.

  Although I had been speaking for Briga’s ears alone, the Red Wolf overheard. “I can do it, Ainvar. I can sit on a horse.”

  “If you’re going to ride a horse I want one, too!” cried Labraid.

  Briga assumed her sternest expression, which did not fool anyone. She could be strong but never stern; it was a mistake to confuse one for the other. “Both of you are going to stay right here for at least two more nights, war or no war. After that, we’ll see.”

  “What about me?”

  Briga turned toward Probus. “You’re able to travel now if you have someplace to go.”

  “I don’t.”

  Labraid said, “You old fool, you’ll always have someplace to go. Wherever I am, you are welcome.” He put his hand on the other man’s shoulder. Not an extravagant gesture, nothing of the sort one would expect from Labraid. Yet it spoke more eloquently than all his words.

  For the first time in his life the Speaker was thinking about someone else.

  The old woman was restless that night. She twisted her gnarled fingers into fantastic shapes and paced the floor. “I can’t seem to settle,” she complained.

  “Perhaps it’s the wind,” I suggested.

  She seized on my words. “That’s it, the wind!”

  She continued to wind and rewind her fingers. After a while Grannus said, “Maybe it’s something you ate.”

  “That’s it, something I ate!”

  She kept on pacing.

  “Sit down, woman!” the old man roared at her.

  Her nervousness infected us all. No one slept much. At last Briga, with her head pillowed on my shoulder, whispered, “Perhaps we could leave in the morning, Ainvar; if we’re very careful and travel slowly.”

  And so it was.

  At dawn I made my way to the pen that held our horses, along with the tribe’s milk cows. The gray and the chestnut were standing head to tail, dozing. The dark horse stood a little apart with his head up, watching for me.

  “We’re going home,” I called to him.

  Until that moment I had, quite sensibly, intended to put Cormiac on the gray horse because it was the gentlest. Labraid would be given the temperamental chestnut—let him boast of his horsemanship then!—and Briga would ride my horse, whom I had no doubt she could handle.

  But when the dark horse threw up his head and came trotting toward me, everything changed. I looked into his eyes and everything changed.

  The old woman gave us food for our journey. Rígan’s women provided sheets of well-worn linen which Grannus tore into wide strips for Briga, who used them to bind Cormiac’s broken body tightly enough to give him some comfort. Lastly we wrapped both our young men in blankets. Probus declined to accept one. “I am accustomed to having only a cloak,” he said.

  It was harder than I had expected to say good-bye to the old couple. They had two great virtues: They had been generous to us, and they had not interfered. Such people are to be commended.

  I gave them a pair of arm rings of hammered silver that young Glas had made for me.

  When all was in readiness I brought the horses to the door of the lodge. “You’ll ride this one,” I told Labraid, indicating the gray. “Probus, you’re familiar with horses. Will you take the reins and lead him?”

  “I don’t need anyone to lead my horse!” Labraid protested, but I ignored him. I handed the reins of the chestnut mare to my senior wife. “You’ll enjoy her,” I predicted. Briga laughed and stroked the animal’s neck. “I know I will, Ainvar.”

  Lastly I turned to the dark horse. “Grannus, help me lift Cormiac onto this one. Gently, now.”

  The dark horse stood as if carved of stone. Although we hoisted Cormiac up as carefully as we could, I saw him go white with pain. I assured him, “We’ll only go at a walk. I’ll hold the reins, and Grannus will be right beside you every step of the way in case you get dizzy or lose your balance. But you can trust this animal to let no harm come to you. He’s fit for a chieftain.”

  With an effort of will Cormiac made his broken body relax so he could settle into the curve of the horse’s back and adapt his legs to the spring of the horse’s ribs. He, who had never ridden a horse before, became part of one. Seeing him absorb some of the creature’s strength and splendor, I might almost have been looking at Vercingetorix again.

  “I’m ready,” said the Red Wolf.

  Our little procession slowly moved away from Dubh Linn. One step at a time, which is how everything happens.

  Rígan came to the gates to watch us go. He lifted a hand in farewell but I suspect he was not thinking about us. He was already anticipating the thrust of a sword in his belly.

  There are few easy endings to Thislife.

  We had made the journey from the Plain of Broad Spears in a long hard day and part of a night, but I suspected it would take at least seven days to return, with many stops along the way and the nights reserved for sleeping. There would be plenty of time to hear the rest of the story from our three adventurers. First, however, I wanted to be alone in my head for a while.

  Labraid denied me that chance. We had barely passed the rock outcropping when his complaints began. He was too warm, we must halt and unwrap his blankets. Then he was too cold and needed more blankets. We had not gone much farther when he announced that his shoulder was hurting. Next he claimed a pain in his head.

  The end came when he demanded the horse Cormiac was on. “My father was a great chieftain,” he reminded us unnecessarily, “so I should be riding the best horse.”

  “You are not riding any horse,” Probus pointed out. “You are only sitting on one. So what does it matter?”

  “It matters to me. Ainvar, you knew my father. If he were here today, you know he’d want me to have the best horse.”

  Through clenched teeth I replied, “Yes, I knew Vercingetorix from boyhood. In his entire life I never heard him complain, yet since we left Dubh Linn you have done nothing else. If Rix were here today he would be ashamed of you.”

  Labraid lapsed into an affronted silence.

  Probus glanced in my direction, and winked.

  Incredibly, I found myself actually liking a Roman.

  SOUND CARRIES ON THE RIVER. ALTHOUGH WE WERE NOW SOME LITTLE distance from Dubh Linn an appalling noise, one we had not heard for many seasons, reached us. The sudden din of battle. The shouts and screams of men doing their best to kill one another.

  Briga reined in her horse. “Should we go back and try to help Rígan, Ainvar?”

  Labraid forgot his aches and pains in an eyeblink. “I can do it! Just give me a sword!”

  “No,” I said firmly. “What is meant for him will not pass by him, and we will not interfere. Let’s go, Probus.”

  The Roman tugged the reins of the gray horse and we rode forward again.

  I longed to reflect on the implications of the bean sídhe, but Rígan’s fate was too distracting. So I asked Labraid, “Do you feel like talking?”

  �
��I feel like fighting!”

  “I appreciate that, but we’re not going back. I was hoping you’d tell us what happened after you deserted the merchant ship and before you met Probus.”

  I did not have to ask twice.

  “We rowed the boat for a long time—I did most of the rowing, of course, since I’m stronger—but finally we caught sight of land. Huge white cliffs rising straight up out of the sea. There were tremendous breakers but I managed to land us safely on a shingle beach. After we’d rested, I went hunting and found enough small game to feed us and—”

  “What did you use for weapons?”

  “Oh, Cormiac made some,” Labraid replied offhandedly.

  I looked over my shoulder at Cormiac Ru. “Out of what?”

  “Driftwood. Stones. The thongs of my sandals.”

  “And you took part in this hunt too, I suppose?”

  “Yes.”

  Ignoring this exchange, Labraid said, “As soon as I provided food we got back in the boat and made our way south along the coast. For days and days and days. The edge of Albion is very rough and broken, extremely difficult to navigate, but I did. When we saw smoke from fires we didn’t go ashore in case there might be Romans.”

  “Albion is inhabited by Celtic tribes,” I informed him. “Your chances of encountering Romans would have been small.”

  “That’s all you know! Just listen. Eventually we rounded a great finger of land that sticks way out into the sea and headed north again, across what appeared to be a very wide river mouth. At night I studied the stars, trying to determine when we should change course for the west. Finally I was just about to give the order to Cormiac when we were hailed by a group of men onshore.”

  “Hailed in Latin,” Cormiac added.

  “I’m telling this,” Labraid testily reminded him. “I shouted back at them before I realized they were speaking Latin. At once a large boat put out after us. We tried to outrun them but it was no use. They forced us onto the land and attacked us. There were at least fifty of them, Ainvar, with breastplates and helmets, and…”

  “There were twelve,” said Cormiac.