by Wade McMahan
“Satisfy your hunger for tonight with the bread, old friend. Our breakfast waits there.” I pointed into the darkness toward the river. Even as I said it, I was hoping that my old skills had not deserted me.
Seating myself beside him, I continued, “So, we have much to tell each other. How is it that I find you here a prisoner?”
Laoidheach was chewing the bread, but glanced towards me. “First, quickly. Tell me of Aine. Have you seen her?”
“No, my friend, I have not seen her, but I know she is dead.”
His expression did not change as he urged, “If you have not seen her, how can you be certain?”
“It was told to me by…” I hesitated. How could I explain the Morrigan? “It was told to me by someone who was there and knew her for dead.”
He hung his head quietly for a moment, and sighed. “I knew it for the truth, though I held small hope… She was not among the other captives, you see, so yes, I suspected as much.”
“We both lost much to the Christians that day, my friend. Much more, I fear, than we can ever replace. So, tell me of the other captives.”
The names he cited were people I knew, or had known, though he didn’t know all their names or if they all still lived. I nodded as he spoke of them, and, when his list ended, I asked, “How was it you were taken?”
“I’ve a simple story,” he shrugged, “with little to tell. I was in the long hall with the King when the Corcu Duibne came. Their attack came as a surprise; as you know. We were not prepared to defend the village or ourselves. Mounted warriors streamed into the village as our men ran to their homes for their arms.”
I nodded. “Aye, I was in the fields when they struck and was knocked senseless early in the raid. The big man there, with the red hair,” I nodded toward the corpse, “I remember seeing him. He rode his chariot and was among the leaders.”
“Yes, his name was Ó Scannláin, and he was their most beastly killer. You see, the Corcu Duibne took me and a hundred or so others of our village prisoner. They insisted we march under guard to pay homage to their king. Those who were grievously wounded during the battle, or were too young, ill or feeble to make the march were slaughtered without delay. Ó Scannláin took great glee in the killing of our innocents.”
The image of it filled my mind, and my guilt over killing the man turned to dust as I spat. “His death was well done then, though small penance for our many dead.”
“True. The man was an animal.”
“But Laoidheach, they left you alive. Why?”
“Their king liked my songs and ballads…at least he did for a while. Later, he demanded I learn the songs of the Christians, songs exalting their God and Jesus Christ. That was all very well; it makes little difference to me what I sing, so long as I am alive and fed. So, I sang their songs of piety, the songs of their beliefs.”
“And yet, I find you here, a slave on his way to the salt mines in the north.”
“Yes. Is there more bread?”
I reached into the bag and handed him another piece.
Wiping crumbs from his mouth with his tunic’s filthy sleeve, he continued, “A few weeks ago, I forget the day, the king said I was to make up a new ballad to praise his greatness. He insisted the ballad include verses to honor his raid on our village. I could not do it, Ossian; I would not.”
“You said as much?”
His eyebrows shot up. “Of course I did no such foolish thing! The king would have lopped my head in a moment at such arrogance. I found excuses to delay creating his ballad, citing a lack of inspiration, you see, that sort of thing. Finally, the king grew weary of waiting…in fact, I believe he grew tired of me generally, and decided to be rid of me. So, here I sit.”
* * *
Sunrise had not yet chased away the morning mist when I made the short walk to the river where I cautiously peered into the cold clear water. Two fat salmon not yet spawned rested in a pool beneath an alder tree and I sang to them as I sank my hands into the water and gently stroked their bellies. I quickly jerked them onto the bank and they were soon roasting on a spit.
Laoidheach walked over and eyed the salmon. “Aren’t those fish cooked yet?”
I smiled. “Patience, my hungry balladeer friend, just a bit longer.”
Goban lounged beside the fire and pointed to the bodies of the Corcu Duibne warriors. “We must bury those pieces of shit soon. They will begin to stink and attract the carrion birds that will draw attention to this place.”
He was right. “Yes, the bodies might be found, but we must be far from here when they are.”
“The chariot can be burned here on our fire, and we must search their belongin’s for things we might use. The big bastard there,” he nodded, “wears a kirtle studded with iron. I would take it if it suits ye.”
“Take it,” I shrugged as I eyed the short, almost gnome-like man, “though it be overly large for you.”
“It’s true I haven’t the son of a bitch’s height, but the shoulders and girth will fit me well enough.”
“Tell me Goban, you are a smith? How is it you came to be here, a captive?”
“My home is Tara—”
“The city of the High King?”
“Damn it man, and what other Tara is there? I am a smith, as was me father and his father before him, and came to Tara from the drumlin midlands some twenty years ago. I work silver, gold, copper, bronze…metals of all kinds, ye see, though I prefer the working of iron. I was among Tara’s best smiths.” He straightened up. “No, I was Tara’s best smith. No man can equal the strength of me iron.”
Laoidheach glanced at him with a grin. “Tara’s best smith, you say? What manner of great smith and tradesman are you that that you lie here and starve alongside us? Speaking of starving, Ossian, see to the fish. Aren’t they yet ready?”
“No, my friend. Bide a while longer, for the salmon will taste all the better for it.”
“It is not I that is impatient; it’s this unruly stomach within me.”
Goban was a man who interested to me. He was a difficult man to age, but I thought him only a bit younger than my father. “As a smith at Tara, you must have been a man of respect and wealth. How is it you became a slave?”
“Humph. I worked many years, and, as ye say, accumulated wealth in gold, land and cattle,” Goban growled. “Then, foul priests branded me a sorcerer who practiced black magic, and demanded the High King banish me from his city forever.”
The King had shown his support for priests in the past, so I was not surprised. “Why should they do such a thing? Why would they take offense against a common smith? Are you also a sorcerer as they claimed?”
“I am a man! I am Goban! I am what and who I choose to be! I choose to be a common metalworker who plies his craft in the age-old ways of his father…in the ways known to smiths long before the priest Patrick arrived in Eire and began convertin’ our people to the new religion.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “The foolish priests overheard me citin’ the ancient prayers to Lugh, Go fannan and Ebhlinne during the making of me fire and the meltin’ down of metals. They declared them to be spells, they did, invokin’ profane magic. When the priests speak through their asses, the King smells nothin’ else. Bah! I waste words speakin’ of it.”
Images of a blue flame, molten metal and white-hot sparks spiraling into the sky filled my mind. How could there not be enchantment behind it? “No, Goban, your words are well said, and yet it would seem the King showed poor judgment toward you in relying on the priests’ nonsense.”
“There was more, Ossian, for in his eyes, the King showed great judgment. You see, the King’s Gatekeeper’s cousin’s son-in-law is also a smith there. The son-in-law was envious of me success and the Gatekeeper knew of it. When the priests brought up me name in court, the Gatekeeper whispered in the King’s ear, and that was the end of me.”
“The end of you? I don’t understand.”
“It is all very simple. The King’s power rests upon
the shoulders of his most trusted supporters, don’t you see? He strengthens his power by occasionally bestowin’ gifts upon them. By means of the priests’ accusations, my removal became a gift to the Gatekeeper’s family, no more, and now they are even more beholden to the King.”
The truth of it was plain to see although so was the injustice. “But the Gatekeeper’s gift was small compared to the shameful thing the King did to you. How can a King treat his people so unfairly, and still—”
“Unfairly? Unfairly, Ossian? Powerful men offer fairness only when they have nothin’ to gain by withholdin’ it, and that’s a bitter truth. This was not a matter of fairness as you and I judge it. Ye see, I meant nothin’ to the King, and yet, through me, he could appease the meddlesome priests, delight the Gatekeeper’s family and, as an added measure, take all me possessions into his treasury. In his beneficence, he left me alive when he had the power to do otherwise…which I admit was no small thing. Oh yes, Ossian, the King likely considers his actions most fair.”
Laoidheach could no longer remain quiet. “You both chatter away while my stomach is treated unfairly. Surely, the salmon are well done. See for yourself, they are beginning to char.”
Though Goban’s words still stirred me, I nodded. “Very well, yes, it seems the fish are ready.”
We sat down beside the fire and ate greedily.
“Needs butter,” grunted Goban, stuffing pieces of fish into his mouth. “Salt too!”
“Food, food,” muttered Laoidheach, “that’s all you ever think of.”
“And who was it, me harpist friend, just now whinin’ over the cookin’ of the salmon?”
“It’s called a lyre,” he cocked an eyebrow, “and I merely wished to be sure the salmon was cooked properly.”
Goban licked his fingers. “In a goat’s ass.”
Chapter 20
A Hero’s Journey
We buried the Corcu Duibne warriors that morning. I walked the riverbank and found two rowan seedlings, transplanting them atop the graves. In keeping with tradition, I muttered a plea to the seedlings that they hold the warriors’ ghosts in their graves lest they escape to haunt me in coming years.
We inspected the warriors’ gear, but found little of use. Goban retrieved his heavy smith’s hammer, iron tongs and hand bellows, and Laoidheach found his lyre. The chariot we would burn as Goban suggested, but we would keep the two horses for our travel.
Goban tossed a leather purse to me. “Look there, the big man carried it. It contains coins, I think.”
I emptied the contents of the purse into my hand—nine copper coins bearing the image of an old Roman. I tucked the purse inside my kirtle.
Laoidheach absently strummed his lyre, and, without looking up, asked, “So where go you from here, Ossian?”
“I will return to Trá Lí Bay. A Christian priest is there, his name is Brendan, and I will go with him on a voyage to the west.”
“To the west of where?”
“We sail west to find the Blessed Isles.”
Laoidheach almost dropped his lyre. “To Tír na nÓg? Are you daft, man? No mortal can sail to the Blessed Isles. Everyone knows that.”
“Beware what everyone knows, Laoidheach, lest you know it too.”
“What?” Laoidheach shook his head. “Listen Ossian, this priest, Brendan, has he bewitched your mind with his Christian ways that you would attempt so foolish a voyage?”
“Perhaps it was I who bewitched him. My old friend, this is not merely a voyage I would make, it is a voyage I must make.”
“You speak in riddles, but I suppose that is the Druid in you.”
“Ossian is a Druid?” Goban was surprised.
“Of course he is…oh wait, we forgot to mention it, did we not?”
“Yes, but it explains much.” Goban nodded toward me. “So, Ossian, tell me more about this voyage of yours. Do ye think there might be a place for a smith on your ship?”
Goban seemed a solid, reliable man, and I found the suggestion in his words agreeable. “The decision would not be mine alone, I’m afraid, but yes, if I have my way, you will be welcome.”
Laoidheach shook his head in astonishment. “Crazy men! I am in the company of crazy men!”
Goban’s eyes glinted. “Ye say so, Laoidheach? And where go you from here? Ye think to sing sweet songs to a king while he blows in your ear?”
“Well, I hadn’t actually thought upon it…that is, I haven’t considered the future. I am a bard, and as such will be welcomed in many circles.”
“No, me fine lad.” Goban shook his head. “Once ye would have been welcome, but now? Ye’re an escaped slave and filthy murderer. Ye’ll be hounded by the Corcu Duibne when their warriors fail to return. They are Christians and have much influence among all the clans. Can ye say as much?”
“I killed no one!”
“Yes, Ossian killed those scum, but it will make no difference. Ye’ll be sought after as a killer.”
Laoidheach stood and began to pace. “I…I still have friends who will hide me. After a while, I can travel to new provinces and…” His voice trailed away as the enormity of his changed status dawned upon him.
“Yes, ye can travel the land until caught, and then…krrrrk!” Goban grinned evilly as he drew his index finger across his throat.
Laoidheach stopped, clasped his ashen face in his hands and then peeked at Goban through his fingers. “So, if I stay here, I will have my head lopped, but if I go with you, I will surely drown in the sea?”
“Those seem to be your choices, yes,” Goban smirked.
“You have the dark heart of a slave trader, Goban, and take pleasure in tormenting me.”
“If so, it is because ye are so easy to torment, Laoidheach. But if I was a motherless slave trader, I’d not be wastin’ my time on the likes of ye.”
“Hah, and what would you know of such things?”
Goban scowled and shook his head. “I’ve seen much of slave traders and their ways. On me way here, there was a girl…”
His mood swinging in an instant at the mention of a girl, Laoidheach grinned. “A girl you say? Tell me of her.”
“She was a beautiful thing, young, fifteen or sixteen years I would say, with long reddish hair, and the world’s bluest eyes. She sat in chains, surrounded by a group of dick-head slavers, though she held her head high.”
“Who was she? How did such a girl become a slave?”
“I was not permitted to speak with her, of course, but she is called Aine, and I learned she was captured months ago when the dog filth Corcu Duibne raided her village.”
“Aine!” Laoidheach spun to face me. “Ossian, you heard Goban? Aine! Think of it, our Aine captured and a slave; it must be her, for there cannot be two such girls in all Eire!”
My mind swirled at Goban’s words. They could not be true. Aine was dead. The Morrigan had said to me…your father will not rise from the dead, nor will your sisters.
“Ossian!” Laoidheach urged. “Listen to me, listen to Goban. My betrothed, and your sister Aine is alive and a slave!”
It was impossible. I fought back the hope that surged in my heart. “No, my friend, Goban describes another girl, though her name and description be altogether the same as our Aine. There can be no doubt of it. Our Aine is dead.”
“How can you be so sure? Ossian, you didn’t see Aine yourself after the Corcu Duibne attacked our village, and you didn’t witness her lying dead.”
“No, I did not see her.” My hands scrubbed my face, a hundred thoughts battling within my head. How could I explain my conversations with the Morrigan to these men? “I say again, there is no doubt of it.”
“I say there is doubt! How can you give up on your sister so easily? I will not. I leave immediately to go to her, and you can damned well come or go as you will!”
Aine was dead. Had not the Morrigan, the goddess of death herself, said exactly that? Yet, Laoidheach was right. Goban’s description of the girl planted a seed of doubt, one I cou
ld not ignore.
Rising to my feet, hands clasped at my back, my eyes closed as my thoughts raced. How could I go in search of the girl and thereby be certain about her without breaking my vow to the gods that I would return to sail with Brendan? He planned to sail within two months, and already much time had passed since last I saw him. I could not break my pledge merely on the possibility that my Aine lived.
A promising solution came, my eyes opened and I pointed to a nearby hill. “I will go there alone. At the crest of the hill, I will build a sacred fire and call upon the gods for guidance. Will you wait for me here, my friend, until I return?”
Laoidheach nodded. “Of course I will wait, but how long will it take for the gods to answer?”
“Who can say? Today, tonight, tomorrow…perhaps never. The gods speak when they will and no sooner.”
“It had best be the sooner, for I will wait for you until morning, Ossian, but only until then.”
Goban had been watching, and now offered caution. “I know ye for a Druid, Ossian, and know your powers. Still I warn ye be wary. Humph, ye may be favored by the gods, but as for me,” he spat into the fire, “I would have nothin’ of it.”
Picking up the sword taken from Ó Scannláin, I left them with a nod to walk up the hill alone, thoughts on the ritual before me. My Druid powers had waned during my long months of isolation, though I hoped my mission would succeed. Praying to all the gods for illumination would do no good. One god must be called upon, the god most likely to care about the well-being of a desperate woman. The names of the many gods and goddesses swam in my head until I settled upon Brigid, goddess of all feminine arts.
The day was in the eighth month, the month in which holly ruled. Therefore, it was fitting to kindle my fire with holly branches. Casting about the hillside I came upon a holly tree and lopped branches from it with my sword until my arms were full. I muttered my apologies and appreciation to the tree as I did so.
Upon the summit of the hill, I created a small fire, and sat stiffly erect, cross-legged beside it. Soon a column of smoke spiraled upwards, and I reached my hands outwards toward it. Only then did I begin my prayer to the goddess, Brigid.