Innisgarbh (Prince Ciaran the Damned Book 1)

by Ruari McCallion

  “I can’t see how you could,” he smiled. “Your Dark Twin’s a much better swordsman than you are.” I smiled in return and the bubbling pot subsided some more. “What is clear,” he continued seriously, “is that you see yourself as responsible for his death.” He calmed the bubbling pot again as it threatened to rise up. “Visions are not necessarily true pictures of what will happen. They are symbolic, more often than not. Take that lamb you Saw - have you ever seen a sacrificed animal get up and run around again?”

  “A chicken. I saw a headless chicken do it.”

  “Yes, but they’re so stupid they don’t need their brains. What you Saw is some kind of symbol. Take it as a warning to be careful in your judgements of others. Be careful of all courses of action presented to you. It may be that you could make a mistake, trust someone who shouldn’t be trusted, or take the wrong decision, which could lead to Coivin’s death. I don’t think you’ll do the deed yourself, you can relax. But be on your guard. If it is your decision that leads to his death, then you could feel as responsible as if you’d killed him yourself. Do you understand?” I nodded. “You have a great Gift, Ciaran, a very great one indeed. You must learn to use it properly. That way, you’ll be less likely to bring any harm to your cousin. As you learn, you’ll find that this Vision fades, or becomes less sharp, until it doesn’t appear at all. Use it as a barometer of how you’re mastering your talent.” He stood up and stretched his back. “I must go now. Ieuan, stay with him here for the rest of the afternoon. Bring him down at suppertime. Have a sleep if you feel like it, Ciaran. The Sight is an exhausting thing.”

  “I’m hungry. Can I have something to eat, please?” Diarmuid smiled.

  “You’re well on the mend. But no, not just yet: you couldn’t hold it down right now. Maybe a biscuit in an hour or so. Have you got such a thing about your person, Ieuan?” Ieuan nodded, jerkily. His appetite was well-known. Fasting would present him with a real problem. Diarmuid nodded back and then left the room.

  He went straight to Amergin, his superior, and related what he had been told. The High Druid’s eyebrow raised at the tale of the lamb.

  “You sure you haven’t been putting anything into his head? I know you’re interested in the Christians.” Diarmuid shook his head vigorously.

  “No, absolutely not. I wouldn’t share any of my own uncertainty with a child. Depend on it.”

  “Was I wise though, to put you in charge of such an impressionable and malleable mind? I wonder.” Diarmuid said nothing. the two tall men stood face to face and looked deeply into each others’ eyes. Amergin broke the contact first. “Very well. I believe you.”

  “I would have rather you’d trusted me, without that. It wasn’t necessary. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  “You couldn’t,” Amergin said shortly. “I do trust you, Diarmuid, and I apologise, if it makes you feel better. But I have my duty as well. You have told me his Gift is very strong. I have plans for the boy. As I have plans for you. No. Hope, that would be a better word. I still have hope for you.” Diarmuid said nothing. “Tell me what you think.”

  “His Visions are very literal. With the exception of the lamb, there doesn’t seem to be any symbolism. He Sees straight into the future. No distorting mirrors or lenses.”

  “So he will kill his cousin?”

  “But there is the symbolism of the lamb. I can’t believe it, can you? For one thing, he dotes on Coivin, no matter what the little monster does. He always forgives him. He wouldn’t even raise a fist to him if the other didn’t first. Even then, he barely puts up a fight. I can’t see it.”

  “See or see?” Diarmuid half-turned, almost in frustration.

  “I’ve Seen nothing that affects him. Have you?”

  “No. It’s as if the gods have plans for him themselves, and they don’t want us to know about them.” Diarmuid looked askance. They both were of the opinion that no-one received a Gift from those they worshipped unless it was to be used in their service. And the spirits rarely shared their ideas with mere men. “All right,” Amergin smiled easily, “and thank you for avoiding a lecture. So what are we to do?”

  “Continue monitoring him. Closely. He said would rather kill himself than kill Coivin. I believe him.

  “Suicide! Surely not? So young? Just a passion, it must be. He could have no idea!” Suicide was one of the greatest taboos for the Druids. The risks associated with trying to force the gods to deal with your soul before they were ready were huge. No-one really knew what the punishment would be but they were certain that there would be no time allowed for rest between the incarnation illegally ended and the next, so the following life would be tainted by exhaustion.

  “He would do it, I think, if it meant saving Coivin’s life.”

  “Keep close watch, then. Anything else?”

  “Yes. Keep that brute Lucius away from him. He’s done enough damage as it is.” Amergin nodded.

  “As far as I can. I can’t send him anywhere else, no-one will have him. And we have to keep an eye on him as well. And? Anything else you suggest?”

  “Beyond that, what can we do? The gods will have their way. We can’t stop them. I wouldn’t even dare to try. It would only make things worse, I’m sure.” Amergin nodded agreement. The discussion was over.

  Diarmuid went back to his cell to consider Ciaran’s Vision. First, he checked the boy was all right: he could feel he was dozing peacefully. Good.

  The lamb. Or rather, the Lamb. He had become interested in Christian belief and ideas when Colum, Amergin’s foster-brother, came to visit for the last time nearly two years previously and announced that he was leaving to join the Christians. The High Druid had been furious, but his fury overlaid the deepest sadness and depression. He felt as if his brother’s apostasy was taking him away as surely as death. But Diarmuid wasn’t sure. Colum seemed more alive than ever. The two of them had kept in touch - secretly, for Amergin would not permit direct contact - and it had become clear that Colum was as anguished for Amergin as the other way round. He was also a zealous convert, who tried hard to bring Diarmuid over as well. His excessive fasting hadn’t interested or attracted the Druid in the least, but the philosophy and teaching of this dead and resurrected God intrigued him. This came from the East but it was so similar to his own faith, the sacrifice of the son of the Sun-god, as if the earlier story was an echo of the later one. He recalled the old prophecy, dating from who knew when. All the gods shall be one God, and all the kings one King. The Druids were still trying to understand what it meant. Many had come to the conclusion that this Christian God was the one God foretold and converted. But the kings? He thought with something that could have become despair of the petty brutes who called themselves kings, squabbling and fighting as if there was nothing else to their lives, and who would as soon go to war over a cow as slice a steak from its haunches. One king? Fat chance.

  But Ciaran’s Vision. He had told Amergin that the boy’s Sight was almost literal, that he saw straight and true. So was he seeing Erin redeemed by the Lamb? The Christians called their resurrected God the Lamb. Ciaran could know nothing about it. No-one had mentioned Christianity to him, not here, not at a Druid College. The two boys had come here at the age of seven and so the Christians in the north wouldn’t have had a chance to have a go at him. So how come he came up with this Vision?

  Diarmuid sat bolt upright. He tingled and then felt emptiness in his stomach. Was the Vision for him? He had been appointed to look after the boy and to teach him. He was closest to him now, out of all of the druids there: no-one could even approach the child without his permission. So was it sent for him?

  “Oh, God,” he said aloud, and put his head in his hands. What was he to do? He was interested in Christianity, yes: but only on an intellectual level. The charity appealed, as did their style of living. Their communities weren’t organised that much differently from the druids - how could they be, when so many of the Christian monks had been Druids before their conversion? - but they actual
ly practised it. Far more than any of the druid communities he’d come across. And the notion that the death of their God’s Son was the last and most complete blood sacrifice: that appealed greatly. There were indications that some of the Old practices were arising again, in remote and benighted areas. God help us if the Wicker Man ever reappeared! If Cromm (he made the sign against Evil, as if even thinking of the demon could bring him to life) was wakened, what evil would come of it? He put his head in his hands again. He was talking himself over to the Christians.

  A picture of Ciaran came into his mind. Ciaran lost in a forest, with the fog and the darkness closing in. There were the noises of nameless beasts - and maybe they walked on two legs - coming out of the murk. The child was under threat, and there was no-one there to help him. A hooded figure appeared in front of the boy and picked him up, swinging him easily over his shoulder. He carried him into a clearing and dropped his inert body onto a stone slab. A tall, dark stone with slits for eyes and a crude mouth watched over everything. The hooded figure turned and started an invocation to the stone god. He was dedicating the child to the demon and there was no-one there to protect him. Diarmuid reached automatically for his bottle of medicine after the Vision. He carried it with him at all times. It had been a while since he’d had Sight and he’d begun to think it was deserting him. And now it returns with a vengeance! He took a swig against the headache and looked out of his door. It was still light, late afternoon at a guess. Not much time taken up with this one.

  He knew what he had to do. He must stay near the boy as long as he could. Without his protection he could be led well astray, he was certain, and used for the gods (or God?) only knew what ends. He would join the Christians, but not yet. Not until Ciaran was old enough to look after himself. A couple of years, anyway. He would learn more about it all in secret, and try to keep it from Amergin. He didn’t wish to deceive his friend but the High Druid wouldn’t countenance any hint of Christianity within the walls of Innisgarbh. He would be careful, and avoid taking part in the Rituals as much as he could.

  I recovered quickly from the trauma of the Vision, as before, but my troubles weren’t over. During the next few weeks the Sight came more and more, and stronger and stronger. Each episode was similar to the first: a riot of contrasting images, flashes of scenes, and a detailed image of Coivin dying and a smoking sword dropping from my hand. I was becoming constantly upset and started to fear the arrival of my Gift. I had kept the Vision from Coivin at the cost of avoiding him, which in turn upset and annoyed him. He reacted as could have been predicted: he became more belligerent within the community and took to sneaking out and wreaking as much havoc as he could within the nearby town. He was spiralling out of control: abused by his carers and avoided by me, the only person he trusted.

  Diarmuid sought Amergin out again.

  “We must do something to help him. To help both of them. Coivin depends on his relationship with his Dark Twin: even though he resents him, he needs him.”

  “What is it that’s causing it? What’s at the root?”

  “I don’t know for sure. Have you any insight?”

  “No. I could tear my hair with frustration, but the gods won’t favour me with the knowledge.”

  “Me neither,” Diarmuid replied, although he mentally substituted ‘God’ for ‘gods’. “But I suspect Lucius and his crew.”

  “I’ve warned him. He and his friends must keep themselves to themselves. Do you have any evidence?” Diarmuid shook his head.

  “None. None at all. Just the feeling.”

  “Not enough. Without Sight, we can’t move against him. We must uphold the Law. If we aren’t just among ourselves, how can we administer justice in the outside world?” Diarmuid nodded.

  “They couldn’t be shielding themselves somehow, could they?” Amergin thought before replying.

  “Possible, but unlikely I would have thought. You or I would have been able to detect the shield,” he paused. “Wouldn’t we?” It was Diarmuid’s turn to think before replying.

  “Yes, I think so. But there is the old knowledge...” he left the statement hang in the cold air.

  “That’s a very serious suggestion. I can’t believe that. We would have felt it, surely?”

  “Let’s hope so, anyway. But it’s been centuries since...No, we must feel it if they follow that route.”

  “Maybe it’s just your dislike of the man, clouding your judgement.”

  “Let’s hope so,” he said again. And after a moment, he continued. “But what are we to do about Ciaran? He’s frightened of his Gift now. His progress has almost stopped. He doesn’t seem to remember what I taught him only last week, whereas before he could recall everything from months ago. He’s greatly distressed. He’s resisting.” Amergin suggested that he should intervene and calm the boy more strongly. “It’s getting beyond that. I’ve already gone in as far as I dare. Any more might damage him, or create an umbilical link. I would avoid that, as I’m sure you would wish. Perhaps you could?” but even the High Druid was reticent.

  “Your Power is almost equal to mine. If you daren’t, then neither will I. What else is there?” Diarmuid hesitated before replying. He didn’t even want to suggest the alternative. “Speak.” Amergin ordered, gently but firmly.”

  “Forgetfulness. We could use the forgetting-spell so that at least he isn’t bothered by the memories.” Amergin regarded his brother druid for a long time before answering.

  “That way,” he said at last, “his Power would grow untrained - if it grew at all. Who knows what might come of it. Is there any other intervention possible?”

  “We could separate them now, keep them apart for the rest of their lives.”

  “Coivin would suffer. You said so yourself. Does this mean you think he will do it?”

  “No. I still can’t believe that.”

  “Well, clearly, something is likely happen. And how can we defy the will of the gods? If we try, we could make it worse. Remember your Greek - the more they strove to escape the gods’ plans, the more they became enmeshed.”

  “Forgetfulness, then.” The High Druid thought about this for a long time and Diarmuid felt obliged to add, “he is very distressed. He may take his own action to stop it happening.” Amergin continued thinking, looking at nothing in particular.

  “Maybe. Possibly. Not yet,” he said at length. “That has its dangers for the boy as well. It’s a last resort. The very last resort, short of killing one or other of them ourselves and getting it over with. And I don’t want to answer for that when I go to the Orchard, do you?” Diarmuid shook his head. “Try your best. If you don’t get anywhere, we’ll talk about it again.” Diarmuid agreed, but reluctantly. He was of the opinion that Ciaran’s trial had already gone far enough. If it was God’s Will that Coivin die at his cousin’s hand - or, more likely, through the boy’s misjudgement - then there was nothing he or anyone else could do to stop it. But he liked the lad, and would spare him his current torture if he could.

  5

  Diamuid couldn’t spare me anything. Two more Visions in a week and I was at the end of my endurance. I would not submit to the games of the gods and kill my cousin, my foster-brother, my companion almost from birth. If one of us had to die, it would be me. I would sooner have my own life on my hands than his. And I didn’t believe Diarmuid any more when he told me it was just a symbol. I had felt the sword in my hand, I’d seen the wound, the blood, and Coivin’s death. I knew it was me, even though I didn’t know why.

  Coivin went rushing to Diarmuid’s cell, face flushed and crying with fear. The Druid had to calm him down before he got any sense out of him, and even then he had to supplement the incoherent, panic-stricken story by looking directly into his mind to get the full picture. I was climbing to the top of Sliabh Gaoil, the mount of Love, and my cousin was frightened that I was going to kill myself. He was dead right. Diarmuid ran, sending his mind out ahead of him to me, his charge.

  He found me. I felt it when he mad
e contact and I tried to shut him out but he would have none of it. He could see through my eyes and knew what I intended. I was almost at the top of the hill and was going to throw myself off the North cliff. Diarmuid mentally pleaded with me to stop. From my seething, confused and disturbed mind I refused. He tried comfort, all the while running as quickly as he could. I threw the soft touch of my mentor’s hand aside, as if it was a fly. I was determined. He called for the High Druid. We were mentally bound together now and I knew everything that passed between them.

  Amergin! he flashed the whole picture, in a fraction of a second. We must act now, or we lose him for ever!

  What do you want me to do?

  Hold him! Hold him as tight as you can! Slow him down, do anything! I’m a mile away and I’ll have to call on everything I have to get to him! Do it now!

  Can you do that?

  I have to. Just do it!

  Amergin flashed agreement and turned his attention to my figure on the mountainside. He sent a message full of sleep.