Patrick

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  We gathered our things and proceeded to the ráth, where the people had assembled. The mood was high and bright as the sky that day and, if not for Datho’s demise, it would have been a splendid celebration.

  Soon after our arrival Buinne, Iollan, and myself sought out the king and informed him of our ollamh’s death. “Datho dead?” said Miliucc, taken aback by the news.

  “Lord and King,” replied Iollan, “we are confounded and bereft. It has overtaken us without sign or warning.”

  “How did it happen?” asked Queen Grania gently.

  “Who can say, my Queen?” said Iollan. “Corthirthiac went to wake him and found him dead.”

  “He died peacefully,” I offered. “His end was serene and quiet. We knew nothing of it.”

  “Indeed,” confirmed Iollan sadly, “we knew nothing at all.”

  “It is unfortunate,” said Miliucc. Turning to Iollan, he said, “Datho was a loyal and faithful friend. I will miss his wise counsel and shrewd judgment.”

  “Of course,” said Buinne, deftly interposing himself, “you will not lack the counsel and wisdom of a druid so long as I am here.”

  The king regarded him dully.

  “You are quick to dismiss your master and friend,” the queen observed. “But Datho’s place will not be so easily or readily filled, I think.” She regarded the young druid with a look of unconcealed rancor.

  Buinne, realizing his mistake, quickly became solicitous. “Naturally we are all mindful of our loss. With your permission, lord, we will depart for the Comoradh as soon as the celebration is completed, and we will take the body with us. There are rites to be performed.”

  “You have my permission,” said Miliucc. “Do as you think best.”

  “Thank you, my King. I will obey.” The snake—he made it sound as if it were all the king’s idea and he but the dutiful servant carrying out his lord’s command.

  The festivities were conducted. Owing to my having to take a larger part in the observances, it was past midday before I found a chance to speak to Sionan alone. I waited until our absence would not be noted and pulled her into the stable with me. “I have missed you,” she said, enfolding me in a passionate embrace. She kissed me hard and, taking my hands, pulled me down into the hay in one of the empty stalls.

  I returned her kiss, but she sensed my lack of ardor. “Well! Have you grown tired of me already?”

  “Never say it,” I answered. “I have something to tell you.”

  “Tell me, then,” she said, kissing my neck. “And when you finish, make love to me.”

  “Sionan, listen,” I said, taking her hands and holding them still. “Something dreadful has happened. Datho is dead.”

  She stopped kissing me. “When?”

  “During the night, I think, or early this morning. I found him in his bed.”

  “Oh, mo croí, I am sorry.” She put her hand to my cheek.

  “He was a good friend to you and Cormac.”

  “That is not all. I think Buinne might have had something to do with it.”

  “You think Buinne killed him?”

  “Yes—I mean, I think so. It is merely a suspicion, but I think he poisoned Datho.”

  “Have you told anyone?”

  “Not yet.”

  “But you must tell the king.”

  “Not until I can be certain.”

  “What will happen now?”

  “We will take the body to the Comoradh. The other filidh will help with the—”

  “No,” she interrupted, “I mean, what will happen to us?”

  “Us?” I could not think what she was saying.

  “Datho was going to ask the king for your freedom.”

  The shock of Datho’s death had completely driven that fact from my mind. A great surge of dismay rolled over me, and I went down beneath it. I stared at Sionan, unable to speak.

  “Succat, did you not think of that?”

  I fell back in the hay and lay there as despair clasped me to its cold heart and claimed me for its own. “No,” I groaned, “I did not think of that.”

  “What are we to do now?” she asked, her voice taking on a shade of the woe I felt.

  I heard the question but was so dismayed I could make no reply.

  “Succat?”

  “Well,” I said at last, “I suppose it will have to wait until I can find someone else.”

  “What about Iollan?”

  I considered this possibility. “I could talk him into it, I suppose. In any case he is my last hope.”

  “What about Buinne?”

  “Buinne hates me,” I told her. “He would know I put Iollan up to asking the king for my freedom, and he would find some way to prevent it. He would, I know it.”

  “Well, we can worry about that some other time,” she said. Putting her hand behind my head, she drew my lips to hers. “One way or another all will be well, I know.”

  She meant to cheer me, of course, but her vague assurance only made it worse. The prospect of having to worry about what Buinne might do cast me into a dismal, hopeless state which not even Sionan’s ardent lovemaking could banish.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE JOURNEY TO Cathair Bán was markedly unpleasant. It rained most of each day, slowing our labored progress all the more. The weather suited my mood, for we were carrying my best hope for freedom to an untimely grave. Lord Miliucc had given us an oxcart for the purpose of conveying the ollamh’s body from the druid house to the Cormoradh, where Datho would be accorded all the dignities of his rank. Now, wrapped in his feathered cloak, oaken staff firmly grasped in his cold, unfeeling hands, he rode for the last time through the land he so loved.

  I remembered how Cormac and I had carried Madog’s body with the aid of a simple rune of power, and I wondered why we had not done so now. When I ventured to suggest that such transport would be preferable to contending with an ox and cart all the way to Cathair Bán, I received merely a growl of disdain from Buinne and a shrug from Iollan, which suggested that neither of them possessed this particular skill. Thus we were forced to lumber along in a monotonous parade, wet to the skin and miserable. Heber and Tadhg took it in turns to help, one riding in the cart while the other led the ox, so I had little to do but endure the long, slow march and keep out of Buinne’s way.

  I still had my suspicions that he had somehow abetted Datho’s demise, and I watched for any sign that might betray him, but Buinne gave away nothing, and so my misgivings settled into a nebulous haze of doubt, suspicion, and sour distrust.

  Forlorn, dispirited, and increasingly wary, I very soon began to contemplate running away. I might simply slip off in the night, I thought, and would be long gone before anyone thought to search for me. With every step the impulse grew—until I could think of nothing else.

  All that prevented me was the certain knowledge that if I was caught, I would be killed. Without help or aid of any kind, I would eventually be caught, and, fledgling bard or not, I reckoned that Lord Miliucc would have no qualms about carrying out his promised retribution. So I grimly slogged on, heartsick with self-pity and writhing in a torment of frustration.

  The gathering received the news of Datho’s death with profound sorrow. Owing to the inevitable fact of decomposition—we had been more than a few days on the trail, after all—within moments of our arrival, the necessary ceremonies were begun. The whole of the first day was taken up with rituals of passage devised to ease the transition of the newly deceased to another form of life. The filidh believed that the human soul not only survived death but continued its existence in the Otherworld with all faculties intact. Sometimes, however—as when the attachment to this life was unusually strong for one reason or another—the soul had difficulty in passing.

  An ollamh, it was thought—owing to the very nature of his deep knowledge and appreciation of life—often experienced this difficulty acutely. Thus the Learned Brotherhood had created a series of rites to alleviate any suffering on the part of a deceased brother a
nd ease his passage into the world beyond.

  The first sequence of rituals was conducted around the oxcart—declarations of lamentation mostly, along with staff waving, bowing, and recitations of a highly symbolic nature that I could not follow at all. When these were finished, Datho’s body was taken up and carried to the nearer of the two small mounds adjacent to the great mound; it was laid at the entrance to the mound, and the eldest ollamh present sat with the corpse while the rest of us stood off a short distance and chanted a simple refrain of farewell. Spreading his cloak so that it covered both his head and that of the deceased, the ancient ollamh remained in this morbid communion despite the ripening stink of death.

  After a time the old druid emerged to announce that the soul of Ollamh Datho had made its way safely and without undue trauma to the Otherworld. This declaration was met with cheers from the filidh, and the next series of rites commenced; in contrast to those already performed, these were to celebrate the life and achievements of the departed brother and lasted until dusk, when the body was taken up and carried three times very slowly around the mound in solemn torchlight procession while the filidh sang a song of triumph for a life journey well completed. At the conclusion of the third circuit, the body was borne into the mound, where it would rest until the bones could be gathered and removed for secret burial elsewhere.

  Upon leaving the mound the principal filidh and all the rest of us looking on placed our burning torches in a heap at the mound’s entrance, whereupon the officiating ollamh invoked a powerful rune of protection for the guarding of our dear friend’s corpse. The rest of the night was spent in silence as we meditated on life’s brevity.

  Next morning the main business of the gathering resumed. During the course of the day, several of the filidh came to express their sorrow over Datho’s passing. They made it a point to inquire how I was bearing up under the loss of my master. I told them in all honesty that my grief was more for myself and those left behind than for Datho, since while he had a new world to delight in, the rest of us were deprived of the presence and company of our good friend. Beyond that I could not mourn for him. In truth, this was how I felt.

  This frank sentiment produced a fair reaction among the Learned, who took it as a sign of profound faith; perhaps it was. I could not say one way or another. Nevertheless they commended me to my studies. One of the druids, a high-ranking ollamh named Calbha, came to pay his respects; we talked for a while, and then he said, “As you know, our departed brother considered you a filidh marked for greatness.”

  “I know he was encouraging to me in every way,” I replied.

  He nodded and pulled on his mustache. “Have you given any thought to where you might go now?”

  “Indeed,” I answered truthfully, “I have thought of little else since Datho’s death.”

  “Be assured,” the wise ollamh said, “this very question has occupied our thoughts as well. It has been decided that you will come and join my house.” He peered at me with hopeful intent. “Is that agreeable to you?”

  “To be sure, I would like nothing better,” I lied, “but my lord Miliucc may have other ideas about the best use for his slave. I expect he will put me to herding sheep again.”

  Calbha’s brow furrowed slightly. “I assumed Datho had made it clear to your lord that you were now to become a filidh.”

  “Datho was going to request my freedom from the king.” I raised a hand to my slave collar. “But as you see, I am still Miliucc’s slave. And now that Datho is dead…” I let my voice trail off into uncertainty.

  “The king’s wishes will not be allowed to interfere with our purposes,” Calbha declared. “After all, anyone can herd sheep, but a filidh of promise is more difficult to find.” He nodded sharply, deciding the matter then and there. “Let him find another shepherd, I say.”

  “Will you intercede for me, Ollamh?”

  “It is as good as done,” Calbha answered. “I will come to Cnoc an Dair in the autumn to celebrate Samhain. I will ask the king to release you then.”

  I thanked the ollamh and asked what I should do until Samhain. Calbha replied, “What I have told you will be formally announced before the end of the gathering. Your questions will be answered then.”

  Pleased as I might have been to receive the ollamh’s assurance, the prospect of having to wait until Samhain to gain my freedom only increased my despair. As the day drew to an end, the clouds covered the hill and the rain set in, reflecting my dismal state.

  I waited for word the next day, but none came. It was not until the following day, just before the Comoradh broke up and the druids began their journeys home, that Calbha summoned me. He was standing with another, and he introduced me to his companion. “This is Ollamh Tirlandaio, great among the Learned of Éire. He will deliver the judgment of the Brotherhood.”

  I greeted him and took my place before him. “Your bardic name, son,” he said in a deep voice, “tell me.”

  “Corthirthiac,” I replied, “given to me by Ollamh Datho.”

  He nodded. “Your situation is unfortunate, Corthirthiac,” he told me, “but not unknown. Our deceased brother considered you a young man possessed of enormous potential. He had high hopes that with the proper training you would become a great and powerful bard.” He regarded me thoughtfully. “Did you know that?”

  “I know he was pleased to allow me to serve in his house,” I replied.

  This brought a smile to Calbha’s lips. “Modesty sits uneasily on your shoulders, Corthirthiac—as it does on the shoulders of all who are born for renown.” He glanced at Calbha and smiled. “You can speak freely to us, as we will to you.”

  “Since the two of you have already reached an understanding between one another, I will make this short,” said Tirlandaio. “We have decided that Ollamh Calbha is to be your master.” He paused, perhaps noting my lack of enthusiasm. “Is that agreeable to you?”

  “In every way, master.”

  “You have no objection?”

  “What objection could I have?” I said. “Only perhaps that I must wait so long to sit at the feet of my new master.”

  “I understand your eagerness,” said Calbha, “and I commend it. Unfortunately, I cannot begin this undertaking until after Samhain. I must see my present filidh through to the completion of their fourth year. When they have moved on, I will be free to take on a new and promising pupil.”

  They dismissed me then, and I walked back to our little camp, where I learned, much to my dismay, that Buinne had not been idle. Owing to Iollan’s reluctance to assume Datho’s position, Buinne had requested the honor of becoming the master of Cnoc an Dair, and—beyond all reason—his request had been granted. Buinne had assumed authority over the druid house.

  My heart sank as I heard the news. Afterward I sought out Iollan to ask how this could have come about. “You should take Datho’s place in our house,” I told him, “not Buinne.”

  “That is so,” he allowed. “But I asked to be excused.”

  “Why?” I said, far more sharply than I intended. “How could you do that?”

  “The rule of a house is too much for me,” he said, his voice breaking with sorrow. “Until they can find a new ollamh to replace Datho, Buinne will be our master.”

  “But he is not ready for such responsibility,” I objected.

  “He cannot possibly be master.”

  “It is only for a short time,” Iollan said, pleading to be released from my remorseless inquisition. I turned and stumped away. “It is only until Datho’s successor can be found,” he called after me.

  Dreary as our outward journey had been, it was a festival in comparison to our return. I walked through the rain leading the ox and cart, which was empty save for the times Heber and Tadhg rode in it. The two youngsters, mindful of the black mood of their elders, talked quietly with one another and did their best to stay out of the way. From time to time I diverted myself by questioning them about their lessons or asking them to recite portions of the s
tories they had learned—but nothing lifted our spirits for very long, and we traveled mostly in an unrelievedly grim silence.

  Upon our return to the druid house, Buinne let us all know that he would be a very different master from Datho. He lorded it over us with offensive and insulting impunity, swaggering about, calling commands as if he were an emperor and we his laggard minions. Meanwhile I swallowed the indignity and schemed for a way to get to the ráth to see Sionan and share the bad news with her.

  Just when I was thinking I would have to risk sneaking out at night, a warrior appeared with a saddled mount and a message for me from the king. “Lord Miliucc says you are to come at once.”

  “Gladly,” I replied. “Am I to know the reason for my lord’s request?”

  “The traders have returned. He wants you to speak to them.”

  “Of course.” I bade him wait for a moment and went to inform Buinne that I would be away a few days helping the king.

  He did not like it. He glowered at me and fumed and went out to see for himself if what I said was true. But as the king’s man was there waiting with a horse for me, there was nothing Buinne could do save let me go. Thus I spent the remainder of the day greasing the axles of commerce for my lord. That night, instead of returning to Cnoc an Dair, I accompanied the king and queen back to the ráth where, upon leaving my mount at the stable, I hurried to the queen’s house in search of Sionan.

  “Succat!” She came into my arms in a rush and greeted me with a kiss. “How long can you stay?”

  “Tonight at least—perhaps tomorrow as well. I am helping the lord and lady with the traders. We have just come from the ship.”

  “The queen has returned?” She pushed me away. “Then you must go.”

  “In good time.” I felt the tingling rush in the pit of my stomach and pulled her to me.