“It is a fair distance, yes, for it lies some way northeast of here on the coast near Muir n’Guidan.”
Cormac had said it was on the coast. “Is it near a place called Cend Rigmonaid?” I asked.
“Oh, aye, it is that. But I would not advise you to make the journey just now. Much of the way is through mountain and forest, and the trails can be treacherous this time of year.”
“I have a horse,” I pointed out. “I can travel quickly. Indeed, if you would direct me to the place, I will set off at once.”
Sadwrn would not hear of it. “You have traveled far already, I think. Stay here and rest a little—a day or two will not matter. Then, if you are still determined, you may go.”
“There is nothing I would like better than sitting by your warm fire,” I said. “Very well, I accept. But one day only. I must find my friend.”
“Of course.” Indicating the gathering gloom, Sadwrn said, “Come inside. Let us discuss the way over supper.”
This I did, and spent an enjoyable night in their company. They sang for my benefit a song I had never heard: “Pwyll and Rhiannon,” and we traded news of our respective gatherings. Next day, after I had seen my horse fed and watered, Sadwrn told me the best way to Tuaim Bán. It was all I could do to force myself into the saddle once more. As I was taking my leave of the bards, one of them, a fellow named Tarian presented me with a chart he had made. “I know it will be of little use to you,” he said apologetically, “but winter comes quickly to the north, and even well-marked trails can become difficult to find.” He handed me the little scrap of lambskin he had prepared. “If that should happen, this might help.”
“I thank you, brother,” I told him. “I hope we meet again one day in Ireland, and I can return your kindness.” I bade them all farewell and was genuinely sorry to leave them so soon. Their “God speed you, brother!” was still resounding in my ears as I snapped the reins and moved on.
The land to the north grew more extreme in every way. If the south had forests, in those of the north the trees were taller, the wood denser, darker, and more forbidding; if the south had hills, the north had mountains of jagged rock surrounding steep-sided valleys almost always filled with cold, black, deep water lakes. And if the south had wind and rain? Well, the north had raging tempests which drove stinging sleet through the warmest cloak and drenched a body to the bone.
The few hardy souls who lived in the region clung precariously to the sides of the hills, hunting in the forests and fishing in the lakes for their food. Mostly, however, the high, wild, craggy hills were empty, desolate, and forsaken by all save red deer and eagles.
Despite the dangers of the wood—wolves, bears, and the large spotted wildcats—I much preferred the quiet of the forest pathways to the barren hills; at least the sheltering trees kept the worst of the wind and rain and snow off me. My horse proved good company. A confident mount, he showed no fear of the dark wood, and even when we heard the occasional howl of a wolf, he did not shy but trotted on regardless. I named him Boreas in memory of another stouthearted beast, and took care to dry his coat with grass or leaves whenever we stopped.
But the days were short and growing shorter. Though we made use of every last moment of light we were granted, we did not advance so rapidly as I hoped; the rough trails and increasingly bad weather conspired to keep us moving at a crawl. Once, during a storm, Tarian’s chart proved invaluable as snow wiped out the trail and I was forced to reckon by the landmarks he had painstakingly indicated.
In summer the journey might have taken eight or ten days. Instead it took all of seventeen—the last two into the teeth of a ferocious northern gale. It took all my strength of will just to keep moving. I buoyed my resolve with the thought that I would soon be with Cormac again and the world would right itself once more. This thought alone kept me going.
No one was ever so glad as I was when, gazing across a frozen stream, I saw the dark, lumpy mass Sadwrn had described—a great black rock of a hill rising across the valley—and hoped against hope that we had arrived at last. “This has to be the place,” I said, relief quickly mounting to elation. “It must be.”
I let Boreas pick his way carefully across the stream and then gave him a slap of the reins. “Hie! Hie, up!” I shouted, and we galloped the rest of the way as fast as he could run, reaching the base of the black hill breathless and exhilarated. I worked my way around the lower slopes until I found the trail leading up to the top. Twilight was upon me by the time I reached the large timber house. I called a greeting and slid from the saddle, hurrying at once to the door.
In my elation at having found the place and arrived safely, I failed to notice that no smoke issued from the smoke hole in the roof. The house and yard were quiet. I called again, lifted the latch, and pushed open the door.
The druid house was empty. One glance at the dark, cold interior showed that no one had been there for a long time. I walked to the hearth and put my hand to the ashes, hoping, I suppose, to find them still warm—even though I could see that the embers were long since dead.
As my fingers touched the lifeless ash, the heart went out of me. I closed my eyes against the tears already welling there and bent my head as a sob tore from my throat. I wanted to die. Disappointed, frustrated, exhausted, hungry, and cold, I rolled onto my side and lay there wishing I might just rest my head on the stones of the hearth and never have to rise again.
The gloom of the house was all but complete when at last I forced myself to my feet and made a desultory search of the place to see what I might discover. I found some dry goods in the storeroom: a measure of fine-milled flour in a stoneware jar and oats and barley in leather bags. There was also water in the stoup, but it was stale. I discovered a wedge of cheese—hard as rock—and a few dry white beans. There was no meat or bread, but there was some lard and a lump of salt.
I went back outside and tended to Boreas. I dried him with some pine needles and put him in one of the two small outbuildings behind the big house. There was a wooden tub, which I filled with water, and I found some dry fodder hanging in a bale from one of the roof beams. I pulled down a fair portion of the hay and left him to rest for the night.
Returning to the house in the fast-falling darkness, I brought in wood from the stack beside the door and set about building a fire in the hearth. As soon as I had a blaze going, I busied myself making supper and, exhausted from the journey, went to sleep before the fire. Sometime during the night a storm moved in, and I woke the next morning to a fresh covering of snow.
I decided to stay at Tuiam Bán for a few days to rest and think what to do next. It was possible, I told myself, that the filidh might return to the house and find me waiting. I did not hold out much hope that this would happen, however; it seemed to me that they had gone elsewhere for the winter.
I occupied myself with small chores throughout the day: fetched clean water from the well for the horse and myself, piled rush mats and fleeces beside the hearth for a bed, set a handful of beans to soak for supper, and made a batch of dry, crumbly bread. I carved the lump of salt in half and took one half out into the woods, cleared a space for it beside the trail, and left it there. Returning to the house, I cut a piece of leather strap and bound my knife to the end of a slender length of ash, then went back out to sit behind a tree within sight of the salt.
I waited long, but as the sun began to fade, my patience was rewarded by the appearance of a large, fat hare. Readying my makeshift spear while the animal tasted the salt lick, I took aim and let fly. It was not the cleanest kill; the wounded animal darted into the bush, but I quickly caught and dispatched it. I took the plump little carcass back to the house to clean and dress it, pleased to add roast hare to my meal of bean soup and bread.
There was no beer, of course, but I had filled the stoup with fresh water, and while the hare was cooking, I went to fill a bowl, taking up one from among those beside the basin. However, upon my leaning forward to dip the wooden vessel into the basin, a strange sensation ca
me upon me—as if someone had called my name. There was no sound. I heard nothing. Even so, the sensation that I had been addressed by someone—or something—was unmistakable.
I paused, the bowl halfway to the water. “Yes?” I said aloud. The sound of my voice resounded in the empty house.
There came no answer, so I resumed my task and dipped the bowl, filled it with water, and brought it to my lips. In that instant I felt Cormac beside me: inexplicably but unequivocally Cormac. Indeed, the impression was so strong I turned my head, knowing there was no one there yet unable to stop myself from doing it anyway.
The uncanny sensation so surprised me that the bowl slipped from my fingers and fell into the stoup with a splash. The sense of his presence ceased immediately, and I was alone once more. I waited for a moment to see if the ghostly presence would return, but when it did not, I drew the bowl from the water and filled it again. The sense of Cormac’s closeness returned as soon as I touched the bowl.
This, it came to me, was the imbas forosnái: the knowledge of enlightening—a bardic skill which Ollamh Datho had spoken of many times and had encouraged me to investigate. That it should come to me now, in this way, surprised and disconcerted me a little. Why now? I wondered.
Straightaway I grasped the bowl and brought its edge to my forehead, closed my eyes, cleared my mind of thought, and tried to see if I might learn anything more from the object. Alas, aside from a very strong, almost corporeal sensation of my friend’s presence, nothing else came through. Nevertheless I welcomed the knowledge as confirmation that Cormac had indeed spent time in the house.
I carried the bowl back to my place at the hearth, where I ate my solitary meal beside a fine warm fire and considered what to do next. I might, with difficulty, spend the winter at Tuaim Bán—but spring was still very far off, and the thought of staying in the house all alone through the bleak season did not sit well with me. I decided to chance the long ride back to Bras Rhaidd, where I might spend a more comfortable winter with Sadwrn and the others and resume my search for Cormac with their help in the spring.
Next day I made all the flour into bread and packed the remaining supplies to take with me, then watered and fed Boreas with more of the dry fodder. Thus prepared, I spent a last warm night beside the fire and departed the druid house at dawn. The sun rose bright in a clear blue sky, and though my breath hung in clouds before my face, the sun was soon warm on my back—a good sign, I thought, that I had chosen well.
Ah, but signs can be deceiving. The world is impossibly vicious and contrary, delighting always in the destruction of men and their dreams. This I know.
THIRTY-FIVE
AT DUSK, ELEVEN days after leaving Tuaim Bán, disaster overtook me. As the short-lived sun faded, clouds had come in on a sharp northern wind and it began to snow. I came to a break in the wood where a stream ran through the forest and decided to halt for the night in a stand of tall pines just across the river; their branches, wide and low, seemed to offer a dry spot to sleep. The water, though fast, was not deep, so I urged Boreas into the frigid flow.
I was halfway across when the horse stumbled on an icy rock. But it was nothing serious; horses stumble all the time. It was a warning nonetheless—a warning which went unheeded. I should have dismounted then and there and led the exhausted animal the rest of the way across. But the water was freezing cold, and I was tired; I did not care to spend the night in wet clothes. So I kept my saddle and coaxed Boreas to finish the crossing and climb the opposite bank. Unfortunately, the bank was steeper than I realized. Snow and ice on the rocks made the footing treacherous; the horse stumbled twice, and I was just sliding from the saddle when the animal slipped again.
Unbalanced, I was thrown down onto the rocks, and Boreas, unable to find his footing, stepped on me, his hoof striking me on my left side. I heard a soft crunch and felt something give way in my chest. I let out a scream of pain, and the horse, frightened now, reared. I saw his forelegs pawing the air as his hind legs struggled, hooves skittering on the ice-covered rocks. The poor beast went over backward and landed on his side in the stream.
Gulping air against the pain, I jumped up and plunged into the water to grab the reins, lest the frightened animal take it into his head to charge off into the wood without me. I snagged the reins and tried to calm Boreas and get him on his feet again.
The horse neighed and thrashed about, but try as he might, he could not rise; he had broken his right hind leg in the fall. There was blood in the water, and he brayed with pain every time he tried to get up.
There was nothing to be done. I could not leave him in the middle of the freezing stream all night, and I could not move him out myself—and even if I might have accomplished that somehow, I could not have bound and healed the broken leg overnight.
Taking my makeshift spear, I unstrapped the knife from the ash branch, and then, kneeling in the water, I got Boreas’ head around and, speaking soothing words into his ear, calmed him, telling him how he had been my bold, good champion, my strong, brave steed, and how sorry I was that he had been injured through my willful negligence. I asked him to forgive me for what I was about to do and then, with a quick, biting stroke, drew the knife blade across the soft skin of his throat beneath the jaw.
Distracted by the pain of his broken limb, I do not think he felt the blade at all. I continued to hold his head and stroke him, filling his ear with kindly words as his life flowed from him. In a little while he slumped down; a quiver passed through his body, and he lay still. “Farewell, Boreas, good friend,” I said and, my heart aching with regret, I dragged myself from the ice-rimmed stream.
My own pain, held in abeyance until now, set in with a fierce, fiery throb. I lay on the frozen bank panting like a winded dog, until I realized the light was going. I had no choice but to return to my dead mount to get the supplies he carried behind the saddle. Wheezing like a broken bellows, my side throbbing with every step, I slogged my way into the water and to poor dead Boreas once more. Working quickly, I loosened the knots and dragged the leather bag back onto the bank, then collapsed beside it in the snow, tears streaming from my eyes.
After a while I marshaled my strength and rolled myself under the low pine branches. It was dry there, and the pine needles were deep. I scooped out a hollow and, taking the flint and iron from the bag, soon had a tiny flame fluttering in the dry needles. I fed small twigs into the fire until it took hold, then lay down beside it and heaped masses of pine needles over me.
The snow continued through the night. I lay in agony, biting the insides of my cheeks to keep from crying out, listening to the thin wail of the wind sifting through the trees, and waiting for daylight, when I crawled from my crude nest to survey the damage. Slowly, carefully, I opened my robe, pulled up my tunic, and looked down at my side. The sight which greeted me brought the gorge to my throat. From hip to chest the entire left half of my body was a virulent, deep-colored bruise. That was bad enough, but the sight that alarmed me most was a crescent-shaped bulge of dull, angry red just below my last rib.
With trembling fingers I brushed the hoof-shaped bulge lightly with my fingers and felt that it was hot to the touch. Picking up a handful of wet snow, I pressed it gently to my side. The intense cold made my flesh writhe, but it gradually leached away some of the pain.
Closing my robe, I got to my feet and edged my way down the slippery bank to the stream; I cupped freezing water to my mouth, swallowing as much as I could hold. Then, with a last farewell to my dead horse, I hefted the leather bag and, taking up the ash pole for a staff, resumed my journey on foot.
By my closest reckoning I was at least seven days’ ride from Bras Rhaidd—on foot, eleven or more. Allowing for the weather, I would be fortunate to reach the druid house in twice the time. Indeed, injured as I was, I would be lucky to reach Bras Rhaidd at all.
My best hope, I decided, was to find a nearer settlement. True, I had passed very few on the journey north, and thus the chance of finding one now seemed particu
larly remote. Even so, Tarian’s rudimentary map identified a road to the south—one of those serving the garrisons north of the Wall. If I could reach that road, I might soon find a settlement along the way. In the bag was food enough for another three or four days—after that I would grow hungry. But I was used to hunger. And cold, too. Neither of those hardships worried me. I had endured them often enough on Sliabh Mis, and I could do so again.
Thus, with confidence banked high in my heart, I set off in the certainty that I would soon reach a settlement where I could get help and wait out the worst of winter.
For two days I walked south and east, following Tarian’s chart as well as I could. The way was rough and wild and made more difficult by snow and ice. I stumped along through the wind and cold, half frozen, dragging the leather bag of rapidly dwindling provisions behind me. At night I slept in the driest places I could find—usually under low-lying pine boughs, huddled beside a small sputtering fire. Often I heard wolves, sometimes close, and once I even saw one; but as it was early winter and he was not so hungry yet, he was content to leave me alone.
At the end of the third day, I finished the last of the food. Taking the empty bag, I split it down one side and along the bottom to open it up. This I tied around my head and shoulders to give me better protection from the wind, rain, and snow. I could do nothing for my injured rib, however; the perpetual pain deepened to a fiery ache that throbbed with every step. I wheezed when I drew breath now, and there was an ugly gurgling sound deep down in my left lung which I did my best to ignore.
For the next two days I stumbled on, head down, suffering with every step. My hands and feet felt like lumps of ice on the dead ends of my limbs, and my chest burned with a low, angry fire. I could no longer walk upright but held myself crooked to one side to appease the pain. My steps grew slower, my rests more frequent. I drank from icy pools and ate snow to ease the pangs of hunger, but as the unrelenting cold sank into my bones, I could feel my strength dwindling.
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