Only the Stones Survive: A Novel

by Morgan Llywelyn

  His bed’s location was a compromise.

  When Shinann entered, Joss was sitting crosslegged on the floor beside the Dagda. The bed was piled with blankets and cloaks. Near the old man’s head was a beeswax candle stuck to the top of a stone with melted wax. The pale light falling across his features revealed stark bony prominences and deep caverns. At first glance, Shinann thought he was dead. She made an inadvertent sound of distress.

  Joss got to his feet, flexing his legs one at a time. “It’s all right, Shinann; he’s only sleeping. You can sit beside him if you want to. I need to move around a bit anyway. Melitt, why is Drithla squalling? She’ll wake him up.”

  The old woman pressed the baby into her bosom to comfort her. “If only she could wake him up.”

  “He’ll come back to us when he’s ready,” Joss assured her.

  I am not ready yet, said the voice in his head.

  I know that.

  Just give me a little peace.

  We will give you anything you want if you stay with us.

  The Dagda tried to censor his next thought, but Joss heard him anyway: I do not want to stay.

  One of Éremón’s advance scouts, a young Mílesian called Ruari, had unusually keen eyes. This was his first time to carry battle weapons; he was taking part in an expeditionary foray into Éber Finn’s territory to identify hidden pockets of the Fír Bolga. While the others were setting up camp for the night, Ruari made an interesting discovery.

  As the last light faded, he saw a faint trail crossing open ground. Silvery, delicate, it resembled the track a snail might leave on a stone, but snails meander aimlessly. Whatever left this had been moving in a straight line. Going forward with a purpose.

  Ruari called the strange trail to the attention of Gosten, his commander. In the Gaelic style, the army of the north was composed of a number of small companies provided by the clans who followed the chieftain. Each company was led by a commander whose loyalty was beyond question. Gosten hoped to be rewarded for his with a house inside Éremón’s fort.

  “What do you make of this?” Ruari asked him.

  The older man scratched his head. “I don’t know what it is, but I don’t like it. This is a dangerous land, and we need to keep our wits about us.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Follow that trail, Ruari, and see where it leads.”

  “Me?”

  “You are the only one around here who’s called Ruari, aren’t you?”

  “Can I take someone else with me?”

  Gosten snorted. “Why? You are a warrior of the Gael. Show some courage!”

  The scout gave a sullen nod. Fortunately for him, Gosten could not hear his unspoken thoughts.

  With his eyes firmly fixed on the ground and his hand on the hilt of his sword, Ruari began to walk along the shining trail. After a few paces, he inadvertently touched it with his foot. The strange light faded. Within a few more steps, it was gone.

  The baffled scout halted and looked around for new instructions. However, Gosten had issued his orders and marched away, back to the comforting light of a blazing campfire.

  Ruari was alone and very young. In the gathering dark, in a dangerous land.

  He could throw down his spear and run; the idea had strong appeal. But where would he go? Whatever was out there would surely get him.

  If he returned to Gosten with nothing to report, the older man would berate him savagely.

  Ruari sat down on the cold damp ground and wondered if he was too old to cry.

  I was not trying the keep the Dagda’s condition hidden from him; I am sure he knew it better than I did, though I did not think he would care to hear it described to someone else. After Shinann sat with him for a while, she and I went outside the cave to talk. I repeated what Cleena had told me about her father’s illness.

  Shinann’s eyes glittered suspiciously, but she did not cry. “We have to accept the fact that the Dagda is very old, Joss.”

  “No one can say how old,” I agreed. “I’m not even sure Melitt knows.”

  “And he’s not in any pain?”

  “I don’t think he is.”

  “He may recover, then.” She looked at me hopefully.

  I did not give her the reassurance she was seeking. Better to accept the pain now, I thought, than to be ambushed by it later.

  My father climbing the burial mound. Me expecting him to come back down.

  After an uncomfortably long pause, Shinann said, “The Dagda would be a great loss; there are so few of us left now.”

  “Did you think he and Melitt were going to add more children to the tribe?”

  She smiled; she could not help it. “You must admit he is a remarkable man.”

  “You will get no argument from me.”

  “I suppose anything is possible,” Shinann remarked. “Melitt is not even his first wife; the Dagda was married before, you know. To a princess of the Iverni.”

  My face must have shown the astonishment I felt.

  “Does that surprise you, Joss?”

  “He never mentioned it to me.”

  “Why should he? The only reason I know is because one of my grandmothers told me. When she was a girl, she had hoped to marry the Dagda herself, but he married the Ivernian to encourage peace between our two tribes.”

  I was not only astonished but fascinated. “What happened to her?”

  “She grew old and died,” Shinann said casually. “Her people don’t live very long.”

  “I thought we only married other members of the Túatha Dé Danann.”

  “The Iverni are not that different from us, Joss; we can have children together. We might even have children with the Fír Bolga, but who would want to do that? Ugh.” She gave a delicate shudder.

  A shocking thought occurred to me. “Do you suppose we could have children with the New People?”

  By the light of the moon I saw a blush creep into her cheeks. “I would not know,” said Shinann.

  But her eyes were dancing.

  “There are times when you remind me of your mother,” Melitt said to me the following day. She had been spooning a broth made of mushrooms and thyme into the Dagda’s resistant mouth and looked up to see me watching. “You have her eyes, Joss. And the same span of forehead.”

  “Was my mother Túatha Dé Danann?”

  My abrupt question took her by surprise. “Of course she was.”

  “What did her name mean in the old language?”

  “Lerys?” Melitt’s wrinkled old mouth softened as it shaped the name. “It means “starbird.” We knew the girl ever since she was born, and from the time she could talk she babbled about the stars. She dreamed of them every night, she insisted; dreamed that we were birds who had flown here from the stars. Her parents began calling her Starbird. I don’t remember what she was called originally, but Starbird was a lovely name that fitted like her skin.”

  The dreams of children are dismissed as fanciful. I have now lived long enough to understand that some of them are not dreams but memories, carried into thislife from Before the Before.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  THE MYSTERY OF THE SHINING TRAIL preyed on Gosten’s mind. He went to tell Éremón, whose interests were elsewhere. “This is a strange land, and strange things happen here, Gosten,” he said dismissively. “There is something more important for you to do. My wife is about to bear my child, and I’m having all my fortifications doubled. Higher walls, deeper ditches, more guards on duty. Fortunately, one of the druid samodhii who oversee birth has survived, but I don’t want to take any chances. No more native incursions to upset her. See to it.”

  Gosten interpreted these orders as permission for a band of warriors to investigate the shining trail. He had no doubt that some of the natives were involved.

  Young Ruari was summoned as the only witness. That evening, he showed the other men exactly where he had been standing when he first saw the trail and indicated the direction he thought it had taken.

  “Right!” said Gos
ten. “Let’s go. Come along, Ruari, don’t just stand there staring at me.”

  The Dagda did not recover, but he did not appear to be failing further. I was spending a lot of time with him. I had learned a lesson when Mongan died; I wanted to ask all my questions of the Dagda while he was still with me.

  He could speak a little, but he preferred not to; if he spoke aloud, others would talk to him, which was a strain for him. He was quite content for me to sit beside him and engage in a silent conversation.

  Now the gift of memory that I had received from Mongan came into its own. When I shared my deepest concerns, the answers the Dagda gave would stay with me forever.

  If the others will accept me, I am willing to take my father’s place, but I am unprepared.

  We are always unprepared, Joss. Every day we awake is a journey into the unknown.

  They may say I am too young to lead them.

  You are as old as the way you think.

  If you go, who will I have to help me?

  We only have ourselves. From birth to death, we only have ourselves.

  I cannot imagine you dying.

  Death and birth are but the change of the seasons. If we want another spring, we must endure another winter.

  You will go somewhere else? And teach someone else?

  The achievements and discoveries of a great but dying society can bring light to a young and growing one.

  Was that what happened to the Túatha Dé Danann in the time Before the Before?

  I waited eagerly for the answer to that question—but the Dagda had fallen asleep. If I woke him up, Melitt would make my life a misery.

  Ruari was sorry he ever mentioned the shining trail. His quiet father, married for a lifetime to his loud and argumentative mother, often advised, “Whatever you say, say nothing.” Now Ruari could see the wisdom of those words. Against every instinct in his body, he was part of a warrior band hunting something unknown through the mysterious night. With no hope of finding it. Whatever it was. And no idea what it might do to them if they found it.

  Stumbling over rocks and roots. Jumping out of his skin every time an owl hooted. And the older Mílesians laughing at him, teasing him about seeing things.

  It was easy to “see things” in a land where every tree and bush had an unfamiliar shape and any large rock might be a crouching enemy.

  At the outermost edge of Ruari’s vision, a pale shape glimmered briefly and was gone. “There!” he shouted. “Over there, look quick!”

  His directions were far from specific. The little band scattered to search the immediate area, but nothing unusual was found. Gosten was not pleased. “If you are making this up for some reason, Ruari, you had better admit it now. We have a bard to tell us tales; we don’t need a beardless warrior to waste our time with fanciful notions of his own.”

  “It’s not fanciful,” insisted the young man. “I really saw that trail and just now I’ve seen a…”

  “A white cow,” one of the warriors interrupted. “There is a large one over the brow of the hill. Your sharp eyes saw her and made a monster of her.”

  The other men roared with laughter.

  The evening’s entertainment over, Gosten led his men back to camp for a meal and a good sleep. Ruari slunk along at the rear, feeling humiliated.

  Gosten did not sleep well. He kept thinking about Ruari. The lad was young but no fool, and his words had the ring of truth. Gosten had faced the Túatha Dé Danann on the battlefield; he knew that much of what they did was inexplicable by normal standards. If enough of them had survived after all and were planning an attack on Éremón, this might be the way it would begin.

  On the following day, Gosten assembled a much larger company to undertake an extended search. Should they be successful in finding the Dananns and putting an end to them once and for all, Éremón would be exceedingly grateful. And generous, no doubt. Gaelic chieftains traditionally showered rewards on followers who rendered exceptional service.

  Being decisive had made Gosten a commander in Éremón’s army, but the full benefits of that position had yet to reach him. Éremón was still too occupied with consolidating his own position.

  A short, stocky man with a proclivity to warts, Gosten was not the material of which champions were made. Women were not attracted to him; in Iberia, it had been said that he had a face like a lizard. He would have to do something exceptional in order to acquire the sort of wife he wanted. If he was given a house in Éremón’s fort, it would improve his status, but more was probably needed.

  He would begin by following the only clue he had: the shining trail. If Ruari was to be believed—and Gosten chose to believe him—the trail had pointed south and east.

  Supplied with adequate weapons and enough provisions to last for several days, Gosten and a substantial company of men set out.

  They had not gone very far before they began to find the detritus of death and conflict; some of it new, some of it ancient. The damaged hilt of a bronze sword, several flint arrowheads in mud cut up by the galloping hooves of a chariot team, a human thighbone sticking out of the earth, a pair of broken spears lying side by side, pointing in opposite directions. One spear was broad and thick, with the top rounded but sharp-edged. The other was long, narrow, and graceful, with a very sharp point.

  Fír Bolga and Túatha Dé Danann.

  “We aren’t the first warriors to travel this ground,” Gosten remarked, adding confidently, “but we will be the last. Pick up that sword hilt and those spears and bring them along, Ruari; we can repair and reuse them.”

  They spent the better part of the day finding nothing more interesting, but Gosten was determined to press on. He could almost smell the Dananns now. They had been here; they were still here. Somewhere. Ever since that final battle, he had a sense of them that made the hair rise on the back of his neck.

  As twilight fell, the company approached a wide, shallow river. Their commander decided it would be a good place to camp for the night. They could make a fresh start in the morning. Meanwhile, the river would supply fresh water, and there were abundant trees nearby for firewood.

  Before they settled down for the night, Gosten’s company scouted the area. Ruari braced himself, determined to be bold and brave and not made to look a fool again.

  Until an enormous cloud of bats came swooping along the river course.

  The young man threw himself facedown in the shallows with his arms folded over his head.

  After being momentarily startled themselves, his companions jeered and shouted.

  The Túatha Dé Danann were alarmed. Mothers snatched up their children and took them to the very back of the caves just vacated by the bats. The darkness was all-encompassing, but no one suggested lighting a candle.

  In our cave, Melitt took care of the children while I remained with the Dagda. The commotion below did not disturb him. I almost wished it would. He was lying so still and his sockets had sunk so deep that I wondered if his eyes would ever open again.

  They have found us, Joss.

  I gave a start. No, I don’t think so. At least not yet. If they had found us, they would be up here by now.

  Go and look.

  As softly as a fall of dust, I crept to the mouth of the cave and peered down. On both sides of the river, I could see the figures of men moving about. They were clumsy in the twilight, but I was well accustomed to it. Living as we were had substantially increased my night vision.

  I was observing a large company of unwelcome strangers: the New People. None of them were looking up. By the time they arrived, there had not been enough light left to reveal the caves above them. If we stayed quiet, they might leave in the morning without ever knowing we were here.

  I needed to warn the others as quietly as possible, but only a very few were capable of silent talking. Like myself, those few routinely kept their minds closed to unwanted noise from outside. It was a skill that the Dagda had taught me and I valued highly.

  In a situation like thi
s, it could be a liability.

  That is a pity, said the voice in my head.

  Do you have any suggestions?

  You spoke of being their leader, Joss. You need to find the solution yourself.

  I would not allow myself to be angry at a dying man, but the temptation was strong.

  How, I wondered, could I travel from cave to cave in absolute silence? Only dust and smoke could do that.

  And members of the Danann nobility.

  I smiled. Gifts are passed on in the blood.

  Mongan. Changer of Shapes.

  Buried in my memory and rising to the surface now was that moment at the temple, when I realized that I had changed. Something in my flesh and bone had … altered, ever so slightly. I did not know when or how, but I felt the difference.

  Shinann knew how to change shape too; she had told me how to become like a tree. How to become a tree. I must recall her exact instructions.

  The noise continuing down by the river was an impossible distraction, so I shut it out. And emptied my mind. I did not think about emptying it, which would defeat the purpose. I simply let it go blank as if I were falling asleep.

  Smoke. The immolated spirits of trees. Soft, formless smoke. Moving through me. Weightless, bodiless, yet obedient to my own spirit for as long as I could hold my concentration.

  “Just let it happen to you,” Shinann had said. “To you, in you. Accept the tree.”

  Accept the smoke. Silently billowing, carrying an urgent message.

  In the caves above the river, there was no sound at all.

  I awoke exhausted with no sense of how much time had passed, but the bats were back, clinging to the walls of the cave.

  “The Mílesians broke camp with the sunrise,” Melitt informed me. “They never knew we were here.”

  I sat up, aching in every muscle. What I had accomplished was not only mental but terribly physical. In the aftermath, my disrupted body was expressing its displeasure. “And the Dagda,” I asked Melitt. “How is he?”