by Wade McMahan
King Domnhall rose from his chair to stand before us, arms crossed. “It seems the bishop is an arrogant bastard but at least he appears to hold some measure of common sense.” A smile flickered on his face. “Congratulations, Ossian. You have won your truce and proud I am of you. Everlasting peace the bishop decreed. Now let it be so, eh?”
Relief flooded through me as I sat there, humbled. Much work remained to ensure a lasting peace, but for now at least our people could pursue their lives without living under the cloud of possible Christian attacks. A contented sigh escaped my lips as my father stood and offered a prayer of thanks to the Lordly Ones.
Chapter 14
Beware the Open Hand
There was much to do as the midsummer festival neared. For one thing, we must call upon the goddess Aibheaog to bless the wells and springs. With this in mind my father directed me to groom the spring in the Sacred Gove.
My head shook at my father’s odd behavior as I walked through the village. Granted, my return to the village relieved him of his most tedious duties, yet he seemed to grow more distant and indifferent to his responsibilities each day. Still, my confidence in him remained unshaken and I grinned, remembering the cause for his distraction. A man could easily daydream in the presence of the widow Riona.
Songbirds trilled in the early morning air as I followed the well-worn path into the Grove to perform the cleansing ritual. The gentle strumming of a lyre blended with the birdsongs and I grunted in surprise. It was early for Laoidheach to be awake and stirring.
As I came into view he glanced up from the bench where he sat and grinned. His brilliant yellow tunic stood out against the shadowy wooded background. “Is there no place a man can hide?”
“Just what is it you’ve done now that requires hiding?”
He stretched mightily, arms above his head, stiff legs outstretched before him kicking the air. Then he drooped, elbows on knees. “It isn’t what I’ve done, it’s what I haven’t done. Aine told me, you know.”
It seemed an odd response, as if I might divine his meaning. “Know what?”
“About our fourteen children, of course. How is a poor bard supposed to care for so many?”
Laughter sputtered from my throat. “Poor bard indeed. Hasn’t the King favored you? Besides, as for the children—”
“That he has. It’s true the King has favored me and thankful I am for it. Yet even through his beneficence I cannot feed such a brood.”
“As to the fourteen children—”
Waving a dismissive hand, Laoidheach rose from the bench. “It isn’t that a bard cannot afford so large a family. It is simply that I can’t, at least not yet.”
Fists on hips, elbows wide, I tried again. “Will you stop for a moment and hear me out?”
He ignored my words as if they were chaff in the wind and continued his pacing back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. “I’m not blaming you that Aine shall bear so many children. No, you merely foretold the future while well I know who will be responsible for creating them.” He stopped, glancing toward me. “I have a plan. Will you hear it?”
Snorting my disgust, I gave up and nodded.
“Good.” He resumed pacing. “Your future is assured. As a Wise One, wealth will come your way like butterflies to a floral garden. The same can be true for me,” he stopped, raising a wagging finger into the air, “provided my name becomes known beyond the walls of Rath Raithleann. We can both recite the names of famous bards who earn vast riches by accepting invitations to perform in villages across the land. It is in my thoughts to become one of them.”
If he was going to pace about, I intended to sit, and plopped down on the vacant bench. “You’ve the talent for it, to be sure.” I nodded. “Yes, your plan can work, but I must remind you that becoming a noted bard relies as much on luck as talent.”
“Thank you my friend. And right you are about needing luck.” He stopped pacing, and stared into the sky. “Noted bards have something more I lack; new, original songs and ballads all their own.” He glanced toward me. “I think to write a ballad about our fighting the Christians. Many heroes fought with us yet I must select the deeds and valor of one such man. Can you suggest someone?”
I thought for a moment and nodded. “Torcán perhaps? He is a fearless warrior and great horseman.”
A grin spreading across his face, Laoidheach snapped his fingers. “Torcán. Yes, of course. He is a perfect choice. He’s a dashing character and no man fought harder or with greater skill. Torcán it is then.”
“Good.” I began to rise, but dropped back down as Laoidheach continued.
“Of course the warrior’s ballad is only a beginning. No matter how original the story, I cannot rely upon it alone to catch the attention I’m seeking. No.” Shaking his head, Laoidheach frowned. “I need something more, something new, a tale of gods and men. Tell me Ossian, do you know such a story that remains untold?”
Yes, I knew such a tale, though hesitated to tell it. Nearby stood the altar where it began and ended. Memories returned of my visit to the Underworld, of speaking with Master Tóla and of a ghost ship bound for Tír na nÓg. Now my friend stood waiting, hoping that I might help him, so slowly, haltingly, I told him of that night and his eyes widened as I spoke of it.
His mouth fell open, and he swallowed hard. “Why have you not spoken of this before?”
“Perhaps because I felt it was a gift, a personal gift given me by the gods. Much there is I do not understand about the reason behind that night. But it was real enough. Of that you can be sure.”
“If you say it is true, then I am sure of it.” Excitement radiated from his face. “Just think of it, a visit to the Underworld. It is the stuff of an epic poem, a hero’s tale begging to be shared.”
“You make too much of it.” I snorted. “A hero’s tale indeed.”
“Quiet. It is you who makes too little of it. There are old stories, ancient tales of men encountering such things. Yet, yours is a new one, a miracle within our time.”
Shaking his head he began pacing again, and I waited for him to speak. Finally he stopped before me. “Words cannot express my feelings at this moment. Yet, make no mistake; they shall come, yes, they shall come in the form of a song. By that song I promise you, your name will live forever.”
* * *
The cleaning of the spring entailed stepping among the stones and pulling up weeds by their roots. Muttering prayers as I worked alone around the pool, tossing the weeds into a wicker basket, the morning sun beat down on my uncovered head.
With the thought of a handful of water in mind I knelt upon a stone at the water’s edge and leaned forward. My reflected image peered back up at me, bringing a wry smile to my face. Red braids fell below both ears, the remainder of my hair pulled straight back to form the thick plaited strand falling down my back. A close-cropped beard framed my tanned, angular face.
A wind gust stirred the air as I leaned further forward, stretching outward to capture a handful of water. Ripples formed upon the surface of the pool and I paused, hand suspended. A moment later the waters stilled and I found myself staring into a pair of piercing gray eyes. That the head and shoulders image within the spring was that of a Lord of the Sidhe I had no doubt. The hood of his scarlet robe shaded much of his bearded face.
Transfixed, I remained frozen, hovering above the pool’s edge like a stone statue. Most certainly he was a god, but which one? Lugh? The Dagda? Mac Lir? There was no way of knowing. I remained silent, humbled, fearing to ask.
The god began to speak, his voice like rumbling thunder,
Within the copse atop the rise,
A stag proud with antlers wide,
About him, does, fawns his like,
His sovereignty unquestioned there.
Hunters keen with spear points bright,
Surmount the hill, creep through the trees,
The herd serene, unknowing, graze,
Unaware as peril nears.
From within
the wood a spear is thrown,
Behind it fly half a dozen more,
The herd entrapped, senseless fall,
Their king struck, dead eyes glaze.
Sweat beaded my face as his eyes lingered on mine. I blessed my years of Druid’s training that allowed me to hear and remember his every word. He continued,
War horns blare as banners wave,
Hunters of men, swords aflame,
Warriors all, tranquil prey in flight,
The peaceful ones fall and burn.
Hunters of game, hunters of men,
Feed their bellies or stock their folds,
Wise men beware the open hand,
For peace is a fool’s delusion.
Overhead, leaves rustled while a light breeze brushed my cheek. Stirred by the wind, again the waters rippled and the image vanished as quickly as it came. The handful of water forgotten, I rocked back on my haunches, the words of a god echoing in my mind.
I was awestruck, but then could any man not be astonished and honored by confronting a god? The experience held me spellbound, my mind on fire, remembering his face, his every word and nuance. My stomach knotted as the import of his words took hold.
Rising to my feet I began pacing. My thoughts darkened as his warning grew clear. Beware the open hand, he said, and peace is a fool’s delusion. Sickness filled my belly as I wondered if I was acting the deluded fool to trust the bishop’s truce.
Again I knelt beside the pool, this time filling both cupped hands, splashing the cool water on my face, trying to bring clarity to my judgment. I pieced together key phrases hidden within the message and gasped as the god’s warning became apparent; Hunters of men, swords aflame, The peaceful ones fall and burn, Their king struck, dead eyes glaze. We were going to be attacked. Domnhall, King of Rath Raithleann, and his people thinking now to live in peace were going to be attacked.
I raced up the path toward the village, torn between speaking with my father and going directly to the King. The message came as a matter of gods and men so I chose to first seek my father’s counsel. He would not be home at this hour so I hurried directly to the longhouse. The sentry outside the door told me my father had stopped by earlier but was already gone. I knew where next to look for him.
Footsteps and stirring within the widow Riona’s dwelling responded to my urgent rapping. My father opened the door, stepped outside to stand beside me and nodded with questioning eyes.
“As you requested,” I began, “I visited the Grove to begin preparations for the midsummer ceremony. While there a vision appeared within the pool, speaking a warning.” I went on to describe the vision, recite the message and tell him my interpretation of it.
His head shook, his face grave. “By your description the vision in the pool was none other than the great Lugh himself. It had to be, as it matches descriptions passed down from the Ancient Ones. Ossian, sometimes you…” He paused, his head again shaking. “You have a special relationship with the gods.” Hands sliding inside the sleeves of his robe, arms crossing over his chest, he added, “However, I heard no words within the message that spoke to an imminent attack.”
“Father, you must listen—”
“Ossian, I heard you. Lugh’s message was for your ears, that you not be overly trusting of the Christians. That was all he was saying to you.” Head lifting, he paused and gazed into the cloudless sky. “I confess, however, that a voice whispered a word of warning in my ear during my morning prayers.”
My sense of urgency heightened. “What voice? You heard it today?”
“No. It was more than a week past. Indeed it was on the same morning your message from the bishop arrived. The voice was feminine, one I did not recognize.”
Relief flooded through me knowing my father already took steps to avert danger. “How has the King responded? What protective measures is he taking?”
“I said nothing to the King. That day it seemed your truce was more imperative.” He swayed and shrugged. “Since then many important matters take my time and I have been busy you see…” His voice trailed away.
His behavior was baffling. Was it not a Druid’s foremost duty to protect his King? “Then you understand we must report to the King, that he might raise the guard.”
A growing premonition of danger weighed upon me as he merely responded, “Of course.” His eyes moved to the widow’s door. “Perhaps later. Yes, tonight during dinner we will speak of this.”
“No, father, not tonight.” I hesitated, fists clenched at my sides, amazed by his indifference. “We must speak of it now. The King must be warned right away. Scouting parties must be dispatched, sentinels posted—”
“Not now, Ossian,” he insisted, “we must discuss this at length. This moment I am…” Again his anxious eyes moved to the door. “Tonight will be soon enough. Afterwards I will decide if the King should become aware of it.”
“Father, if you are busy, I will go now and speak with the King.”
I turned to go and he grabbed my arm. “No. We mustn’t alarm King Domnhall and the villagers needlessly.” He placed his hand upon my shoulder and gave me a comforting smile. “Remember the bishop’s message. He promised peace, did he not?”
Was it me or himself that he reassured? “Aye, he did that, though Lugh’s warnings now speak otherwise.”
His tone was gentle. “I ask you again. Did Lugh warn of a Christian attack?”
“No, but little it matters who might bring it.”
“Who?” A small smile touched his lips. “What nearby tribe must we fear? We have no enemies now that we have a truce with the Christians. We must think this thing through, you and I, eh? Tonight. I promise we will decide a proper course tonight.”
Foreboding filled me as he turned his back, re-entered the cottage and firmly closed the door behind him. It was the thought of disobeying his orders and hurrying off to warn the King that turned me toward the village longhouse. Yet, my footsteps faltered, for the ropes that tie a son to his father’s will are strong.
I stood there, gripped by uncertainty, absently rubbing the serpent ring, a prized possession that never left my hand. Disrespecting one’s father was a shameful thing yet I remained torn between my duty to him and my King. Spinning slowly about, I reflected upon the widow’s cottage. My father was almost certainly right; we should discuss it. Spreading an alarm without cause would be a foolish act.
With my mind still busy with indecision I turned away, my steps leading toward my father’s home. As I walked, a shadow crossed the ground before me and I glanced up. High aloft, a solitary crow rode the wind, circling the village.
* * *
Wood chips flew as the axe head bit deep in time with the rolling of my shoulders. Little time I owned to spend to my own ends. The fields given me by the king produced overgrown brush. Following my conversation with my father, I chose to spend the afternoon hacking away my frustration along with the brambles and small trees. By the following summer my fields must be ready for cultivation.
The rhythmic pounding of the axe against a tree almost drowned out the distant cries.
“Corcu!”
“Run!”
“Attack! Attack!”
“Horsemen!”
“To arms! Raid!”
The sun’s glare fell upon my face as I straightened up, stretching my work-stiffened back. Sweat soaked the ragged kirtle I wore to the field. Squinting, hand shading my eyes, in the distance swirling banners erupted from the forest’s edge amid onrushing horsemen and chariots followed by swarming warriors afoot. A huge warrior led the way; two horses pulling his racing chariot while below his gleaming bronze skullcap long red hair flowed freely. Within the charging horde I counted one…two…three crucifixes held high.
My white-knuckled hands gripped the axe as fear, desperation and the awareness of my earlier failure to raise an alarm crowded my mind. I remained transfixed for only a moment more, cursing my stupidity for trusting the promises of the Christian bastards.
I turned to flee as sounds I knew well, war horns and drums, clamored within the onrushing enemy. Even as I ran I realized it was too late. Horsemen would overtake me long before I reached the village.
Behind me screams and shouts grew louder. Glancing over my shoulder, farmers working farther afield fell beneath the swords of galloping horsemen. Mounted warriors gained on me and I recognized the colors and banners of the Corcu Duibne tribe who dwelt far to the west alongside the sea.
Two warriors reined toward me and there was no hope for it. I turned to face them, filled with bitterness, resigned to defeat. Axe head held at the ready at shoulder height, I waited.
The horsemen rode in tandem, the one on my right wielding a sword, the man on the left a war club. Onward they came, armor gleaming, eyes fixed upon me, bared teeth flashing within heavy beards. The warrior on the right canted over, arm cocked, holding his sword low as if to use it as a scythe to cut me down. It was he I chose as the target for my axe.
They came upon me in a rush of pounding hooves and I whispered a final prayer that my soul might be welcomed at Tír na nÓg. My axe swept down to counter the swinging sword—
* * *
The aroma of soil and grass first touched my rousing consciousness. Awareness took a tentative hold on my mind though I knew not where I was or why I was there. My eyes flicked open. Moon glow lit the field. I lay face down, lacking the strength or desire to rise.
Pain streaked through my skull like a lightning bolt and I stirred only enough to roll onto my side and violently retch, stomach cramping, I retched again. My senses whirled and I struggled to maintain my grasp on reality or such little reality I could muster.
My hand reached to my throbbing head and came away covered with sticky, sweet-smelling blood. The thought came that I lay dying but I was completely indifferent to it. A black cloud developed in the back of my mind and rapidly swept forward to re-envelop my senses.
* * *
“Ossian.”