by Sarah Rayne
Finn of the Fiana and the High Queen Dierdriu… The thought sprang unbidden, and Flynn frowned, because there was something there, something he ought to remember … And then memory shifted and fell into place, and he remembered that only a direct descendant of the Royal line could break the Enchantment of Captivity, and he remembered that someone, somehow had certainly broken it, and then memory moved again, and he was standing in the chambers that ran beneath Tara, staring at the carved face on the Rock.
Dierdriu, and yet Joanna … He thought: but of course Cormac has her, and of course she is safe, and it was as if a great calming hand had laid itself on his mind. It will be all right. I shall find her.
Oscar was saying, “Well, Flynn? What do you say? Do we travel to Gallan by night?” and Flynn discovered that they were all looking at him expectantly. He started to say, “but you know this terrain far better than I do,” and he looked at the map again, and saw the clarity of the route they ought to take, and saw that after all he knew the terrain very well indeed and knew that this was the way he must lead them.
But he said only, “Shall we vote on it?” and then had to explain what he meant, because the concept was entirely new to them.
“But it’s rather a good idea,” said Conaire, fascinated, and Flynn, watching, thought they were exactly like children sometimes.
They voted. “To go sensibly and stealthily by night,” said Oscar.
“Or boldly and openly by day,” said CuChulainn, and Flynn counted hands carefully.
Oscar, of course, voted for his plan. “Of course he did,” said CuChulainn.
CuChulainn wanted to travel in the day. “Let’s let them know we are coming,” he said, striking the table with his fist, setting the maps slithering, and dislodging the weights that Conaire had set on the Gallan/Muileann map, so that one fell on Midir’s foot, and Conaire lost the road through the mountains altogether.
CuChulainn apologised to Midir at once. “Even so, I still say we march by day,” he said. “Are we warriors, or are we mice?”
“We’re pretty useless warriors with bruised toes,” said Midir crossly, nursing his foot.
Both the twins opted for going by night in the end. “Safer,” said Midir, and after some thought, Conaire agreed with them.
“I’m sorry,” said Flynn to CuChulainn. “You’re outvoted.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said CuChulainn. “I dare say you all know best. I’m a warrior, you see,” he explained to Flynn afterwards. “Nothing more. I don’t pretend to be clever like Oscar, or far-seeing like Conaire, or even amusing like the twins. But I’ll fight as well as anyone when we get to the battle,” he said anxiously, and Flynn was rather touched. He thought that CuChulainn was perhaps not overbright, but he was loyal and true and trustworthy.
“Oh, he’s as stupid as an ox,” said Sean, who received the news of their nocturnal journey with philosophical calm. “Because I’m not here to fight anyway, if you recall,” he said.
Even so, Sean was doubtful about the wisdom of night travel, although he thought it might make a rather good poem. “‘The King’s Armies by Night’ — yes, that’s got a goodish ring to it. Fetch me something to write on, somebody.”
“Fetch it yourself,” said Etain, but Flynn noticed that she got up and went in search of the thin woven sheets that were used for writing.
“He’ll be like this all the time,” said Conaire to Flynn. “Writing everything down. Still, we do want an account of the battle, of course.”
“Of course,” said Flynn, who was not, truth to tell, thinking very much about the battle at all, and who now remembered that a very fearsome battle certainly lay ahead, and that he might not find Joanna until after it was all over.
“Yes, but you cannot get out of the battle,” said Amairgen later that night. “It is something you must be a part of, I think.” He tilted his head to one side, and, not for the first time, Flynn received the eerie impression of sight where there could not be sight. “You are Finn of the Fiana again,” said Amairgen. “He has woken in you in earnest now, and he will spur you on. You will not be able to deny him, Flynn.” He took Flynn’s arm. “I think you will fight for the Wolfking again, Flynn, just as you did for Dierdriu all those centuries ago. I think you will be compelled to do so by Finn, for if Ireland is not restored to the rightful High King, a terrible and ancient evil will envelop the land.”
The Erl-King …
“You are right. I wish you were not.” Flynn knew that even while he was rent apart with anxiety for Joanna and aching with longing to see her and know her safe, still the thought of the battle that must surely be ahead of them, was exciting him.
Amairgen said, “I wish I could be there with you,” and Flynn felt as if something had fallen away inside him.
“But you will surely be with us —”
“You cannot possibly take me,” Amairgen said gently, and Flynn felt the anguish and the burden of Amairgen’s blindness descend upon his own shoulders for a moment. He saw Amairgen’s hand come out, and he saw Portan take it, and he thought: they are very close now, these two, and felt the sharp loneliness for Joanna again. Aloud, he said, “But I can’t go off with these people and leave you,” and at once saw the absurdity of this, because Conaire and the others were friends, he knew them and he trusted them entirely. He was at home with them. Even so, “I can’t leave you,” he said.
Portan leaned forward. “Flynn, there is nothing that Amairgen or I can contribute to this venture,” she said, and then, releasing her hand from Amairgen’s, stood up and took Flynn’s arm. “Come with me,” said Portan, and led him out through the massive iron doors of Scáthach, so that they were standing looking out across the valley. Flynn drew in a deep breath, and felt the sweet night air fill his lungs, and felt, as well, an immense calm.
At his side, Portan said softly, “You see it, don’t you? You feel it. No longer a place of desolation.” She stood close to him, staring out across the valley, to the blaze of lights that was Tara. “I think that for many years it was a terrible place. I think that for Cormac it was.”
“Five years,” said Flynn.
“Perhaps a little more. And there are places of immense despair,” said Portan. “I have walked through Scáthach, and I have felt them, Flynn. It is like — like falling into an icy cold blankness. There are — I do not have the words to explain — but there are patches of the most immense sadness. As if Cormac’s anguish and his loneliness has soaked into the walls, and as if some of that loneliness still lingers. I recognise it for what it is,” said Portan in a very low voice, and Flynn turned to watch her.
“Was it so very bad?” he said gently. “In that place?” And thought that of course it had been so very bad, and of course it would never be possible to understand.
“It was more terrible than ever you could imagine,” said Portan, “but always there was hope. Always there was the dream of being rescued, and of a life beyond. Sharing. Working. Being a part of a community. Accepted. Oh Flynn,” said Portan, her eyes bright with joy, “you cannot know what it has meant to me to be accepted by these people.” She smiled at him. “Here is the dream, Flynn,” said Portan softly. “Here, with these people. I am no longer repellent, or even very different.” She looked out across the valley again. “I believe we will stay here, Amairgen and I, I believe we could dissolve the sadness in this place and sweep away the desolation. Already there is a feeling of happiness here. Have you not felt that?” Flynn, who had felt something but not the whole, nodded and understood.
“What should you do?”
Portan said, “Amairgen is clever, you see. He is a scholar. A thinker. People would come, just to talk with him.”
“Yes,” said Flynn. “Oh yes, they would.”
“And I could be his sight,” said Portan, and again there was the delight in her voice and in her eyes. “I could write his thoughts and his philosophies and all his learning, so that they could be shared. I could be useful,” cried Portan, and Fl
ynn smiled, and blinked rather hard, because there was such sheer undiluted joy in her voice, and such unshadowed gratitude in her eyes.
“But before we can think of such things, you have to find Joanna.” Flynn knew that however far behind he might have to leave Portan and Amairgen in the journey ahead, they would yet be with him in their thoughts. Strength. Yes, they would give him strength.
When he said softly, “Think of me, Portan. Through what lies ahead of me.” Portan took his hand and looked at him for a long moment.
“You will never be entirely absent from my thoughts for all of my life, Flynn,” said Portan. “And when you leave for your own world, I shall set aside a part of each day to think of you.” Again the smile, shyer this time. “You will never cease to be a part of me,” said Portan.
*
They set out at dusk the next day — “A good time for a new venture,” said Conaire.
Flynn, who had seen the dawn rise in Tugaim many times, was very nearly speechless at the sight of the pink and grey light pouring down over the Morne Mountains, etching fingers of colour across the terrain ahead of them.
“Wait until we are in the mountains themselves… said Oscar. “For there, as nowhere else in Ireland, in the world perhaps, one may wake with the dawn and feel the colours and the scents and the sights of each new day.” He glanced at Flynn. “From the Morne Mountains, you may stand in the dawn light and see nothing but pure new light reaching out to bathe the entire country. And you may know that in one direction there is nothing between you and the very top of the world, where the great travellers say are ice sheets and glaciers and snow-covered lands.”
Even so, Flynn was rather silent, for it had been very hard indeed to bid farewell to Amairgen and Portan, and go off into the unknown.
“But you went into the unknown when you went through the Time Curtain,” said Amairgen.
“You were with me,” said Flynn.
Conaire and the others understood about Flynn’s sadness, of course. CuChulainn said, “It is very hard to go into a battle leaving friends behind,” and Flynn felt again the sense of belonging. He thought that after all this was his place in the world.
They talked as they went along, telling Flynn all the grand old legends of Ireland, and all the stories of the High Kings and Queens, back to Dierdriu. Flynn was interested in it all; he was especially interested in Dierdriu, and he listened absorbedly, occasionally recognising a snippet of legend, or a fragment of folklore.
Conaire told stories of how the Court had been in the years of Cormac’s reign; “A marvellous, brilliant place,” he said. “It drew all of the gifted artists and the music makers and the ballad singers. People would travel across the Northern Seas just to come to Tara.”
“And they would always be sure of a welcome,” said Oscar, rather bitterly.
“Oh yes, for no one was ever turned away,” said Conaire.
As they left Scáthach farther behind and the Morne Mountains began to loom nearer, CuChulainn told them stories of Ireland’s most splendid battles; the Second Battle of Mag Tuired, fought between the Tuatha who were the people of the mother-god Danann, and the marauding Fomoire, led by Cichol Gricenchos, son of Goll the One-Eyed and by his monstrous mother Lot, whose bloated lips were in her breasts, and who had four eyes in her back and the strength of twenty men in her arms. He told, as well, of the famous Battle for the Trees, which had been fought between the Morrigna and the armies of Dierdriu. “And which,” said CuChulainn, “was won by neither side, for the Trees fell into a great sleep from which it is said they will never wake.”
“They would surrender to neither side you see,” said Oscar softly, “neither side could claim victory, and so the Battle for the Trees is still known as Ireland’s great unwon war.”
“And ever since,” put in Midir who had been listening, “the Morrigna have never ceased to seek out Dierdriu’s descendants and try to destroy them.”
At that, Sean launched into the Lay of Dierdriu, and everyone joined in the chorus, and CuChulainn became rather emotional when they reached the part about Dierdriu promising to return, and had to be given a drink from Conaire’s flask, retiring to the back of the procession to blow his nose and recover.
Sean became quite militant as they sighted the forest surrounding Muileann, and composed a stirring march about the Wolfking’s armies going into war, and everyone learned it that night as they ate their supper round the fire, and sang it the next morning. As CuChulainn said, it had a grand swing to it, and you could march better with a rousing song to cheer you on.
“It makes us sound a much larger army than we really are,” said Midir when they had sung it through twice, and CuChulainn had finally got the words of the last verse right.
“We won’t be small when we call up the Bloodlines,” said Etain.
They made camp each dawn and ate very well it seemed to Flynn, who was not accustomed to this way of life. But there were wild animals to be shot or trapped — “Not our own creatures, of course,” said Oscar.
And Flynn said, “Of course not.”
As they passed through the forest, there was fruit which gave Flynn a sudden sharp jolt of homesickness for Tugaim and the orchards, there were pigeons and some kind of wild pheasant. It was all very amicable, and more than once, Flynn found himself enjoying the easy camaraderie.
Ahead of them was the forest screening Muileann. “Although Muileann is on the floor of the valley,” said Oscar, “we would go through the forest to come out directly above the township, and then we would go down into the valley if we were going through Muileann itself. As it is …” he paused and they waited. “As it is,” said Oscar, “we can skirt the forest, and wait until nightfall. Then we will go across the sides of the valley. Beyond that are the Morne Mountains, and beyond them Gallan.”
Even so, they could see Muileann as they went cautiously through the trees, and Flynn felt a tightness in his chest at the sight. The township was so dark and so filled with shadows, that he found himself thinking that anything might lurk down there, and he found that he was extremely glad they had agreed to Oscar’s plan to cross the plain and avoid the town. He was just thinking that they ought to be considering making camp for the day while the trees still sheltered them, when Conaire, who was in the lead and who saw better than any of them, stopped and said sharply: “There’s something moving in those bushes,” and at once everyone froze.
Lying on the bracken between Etain and Oscar, Flynn saw for the first time the unmistakable signs that these people had indeed the blood of the beasts in their veins. It was in the way that Conaire stood looking into the forest, not narrowing his eyes at all, but looking straight into the glare of the setting sun. And it was in the alert stillness of Oscar and the twins, and in the sudden tensing of CuChulainn’s powerful muscles. Flynn felt rather useless beside them; if something threatening was lurking in the forest he would not be of very much help. But he tightened his grip on the sword he had borrowed from Conaire, and he kept very still and presently there was another scuffling, and Flynn saw Conaire spring forward and pounce, and heard a yell of indignation.
“Well!” said a cross voice from the bushes. “If that’s how you treat the Wolfking’s supporters, Conaire of the Eagles, all I can say is it’s not surprising we’re all forever fighting!”
The bushes rustled irritably and Conaire let out a shout of laughter and said, “By Dagda and all the gods, if it isn’t one of the Wolfking’s Cruithin servants!” and a great sigh of relief went through the watchers, because, as Sean said to Flynn, anything might have been hiding in the bushes.
“There’s all manner of nasty things bound to be abroad in this vicinity,” said Sean, brushing himself free of bracken. “I wonder we’ve got this far, I do really. I said it was a mistake to come this way in the first place.”
Conaire marched the Cruithin servant into the clearing grinning hugely, and beckoning to the others to come out.
“It’s Domnall,” he said, “who we
nt with His Majesty to Scáthach.”
“Along with the other faithful servants of the Wolfking,” said Domnall with a nasty look at Conaire, and Flynn hoped they were not going to have animosity among their own people.
“Oh I shouldn’t think so,” said Sean, who had been listening. “But I daresay Domnall’s annoyed with Conaire, well, you can’t blame him; have you ever looked at Conaire’s hands? Oh they’re just like talons. Eagles, you see. He wouldn’t mean it, but I expect he’s given poor Domnall a fine set of bruises. And of course, the Cruithin have always considered themselves the High Kings’ chosen followers. Well to be fair, so they are. Only they like to remind you of it.”
Conaire seemed to be treating Domnall cautiously however; he invited him to be seated, and waited to hear more of the Wolfking.
“And we know he’s not at Scáthach any longer,” said Midir, “because we’ve been there.”
“Oh, he’s not been at Scáthach for many a night now,” said Domnall. “Didn’t you know that? Didn’t you? I thought everyone knew. Oh yes, the Enchantment’s wound up and he’s free. Well, nobody expected Scáthach to hold him for long in the first place.”
“Just as I said,” put in Sean pleased. “Didn’t I say just that?” And he retired to his hillock again, to just note a few ideas for “The Wolfking’s Escape” which would go down very nicely at the celebrations when Cormac returned to Tara. After they had routed Eochaid Bres and the Fox.
Flynn, unable to help himself, leaned forward and said, “Had he anyone with him when he left?” and waited, and thought: I cannot bear it, this is the worst yet, for if Domnall says that Cormac was alone, then I am once more without hope. And he fixed his eyes on the small, slightly gnarled figure of Domnall and waited.