Enchanting Cold Blood

by Petya Lehmann

  She came forward, and she and the man in the grey glibbe spoke together. It was easy to see that they must be brother and sister, for their faces were strikingly alike. Presently, Hugh perceived that they were speaking of himself. He caught a word or two showing that the woman was explaining how he had come to the village, and where he was held prisoner. The man with the grey glibbe shot a glance in his direction. It was only a single glance, but so fierce and murderous, that Hugh felt as if a knife was being then and there run between his ribs. The next minute, however, the man had turned indifferently away and entered the opposite hut. Hugh could see him standing there for a minute. Then he came out again, said another word to the woman, turned and without a glance at the younger men, who stood eagerly watching every movement, strode away across the heather, disappearing in the direction whence he had come.

  Chapter V.

  Morogh Na d-Tuagh, or Morogh of the Battle-axes, was a great man, there could be no question upon that point. Not for generations back had there been such a chief of the Clan O'Flaithbertach. Had he not united under one rule the whole of Connacht, its outlying no less than its inlying portions? By craft and subtlety, however, no less than by force of arms, he had wrested the chieftain-ship from the elder Flaithbertachs of Conmhaícne Mara and had established himself in the Castle of Aughnanure, near Oughterard, upon the shores of Lough Corrib, within full view of his enemies the De Burghs, gathered upon the further bank.

  Still, all who were qualified to judge agreed that Morogh would never have done half what he had done, had it not been for his famous Ollamh, Cormac Cas. For guile and cunning, for knowledge and wisdom, for unlimited blood-shedding, if necessary, but above all for craft, there was no such Ollamh far or near as Cormac Cas. He was a real Ollamh, of the true old stamp, of which there were by this time few left. Even in his young days, he had been by no means noted as a fighter, although he had ten sons and now some forty grandsons and grand-nephews, who were the foremost fighters in Morogh Na d-Tuagh's band. He was much more formidable, however, much more admired, much more hated, much more feared than all the fighters of western Connacht put together.

  When Cormac Cas deliberately gazed at any man from under his white brows and then turning slowly away, looked up towards the sky, muttering strange incantations between his teeth, it was known to be high time for that man to order his winding-sheet. He was reputed to have the power of divination, to foretell the future; above all, to have that mysterious power, of which no one willingly spoke, by means of which certain of the greater Ollamhs have been able from the beginning of time to hold communications with the very earth herself, so that by their arts and enchantments she can be induced to withhold her gifts.

  The women were grinding at the querns, the men lounging at the doors of their huts, when a boy came rushing up breathless and perspiring to say that Cormac Cas and his son Muredagh, with a priest, had been seen crossing a slope opposite Magherameenagh and would arrive almost immediately.

  It was the third day since Hugh Gaynard's arrival in Glen Corrib. He had been fed meanwhile regularly, and fresh straw had been given him to lie upon, but he had not been allowed to leave the hut. His food had been brought to him by the dwarf Flann-na-Pus, and once the tall woman called Beara had come to the door and stood looking at him, with an odd expression in her eyes, as if he reminded her of something or someone. He thought that she was about to speak to him, but in the end, she had turned away again and left him without doing so.

  He was sitting as before with his eyes at one of the cracks, when he perceived this sadden excitement which ran through the whole encampment. The women left their work and collected in the centre of the glen, the men started up, snatching their spears, and ran out to meet their chief. Peering through his crack, Hugh presently saw them returning with him.

  The great Ollamh was a wizened little old man, so feeble that he had to keep his son Muredagh beside him to carry him over the bad bits of the hills, and so small that he looked a mere pygmy beside his shaggy sons and grandsons. His eyes were of a pale turquoise blue and lively still amongst the puckers that surrounded them; his beard was a good half-yard long, of a beautiful yellowish white, sweeping in the softest curves to his waist. He looked venerable and even mild at the first glance, but not at the second. Cold, glittering, snake-like were those blue eyes behind their wrinkles, and Hugh shivered as he caught them turned accidentally in the direction of the hut he was in.

  The dead men had meanwhile been brought out and laid in a row upon the heather. Each had on his upper garment and, because they were warriors, the leathern coverings, which further protected the knees and thighs. Cormac Cas stood and looked at them for a while. Two of them were his grandsons, one was his grand-nephew, but his eyelids never quivered nor did a muscle of his lips move. Muredagh, too, stood behind him, indifferent seemingly. The priest who had come up with them from Oughterard had meanwhile got into his vestments; very dilapidated vestments they were, having been carried up hill and down dale, through brake and dyke, and across briar-infested forest — in fact, all over Ireland — in his own ghostly hands. A pale, sickly-looking shaveling, scared to death amongst these big and bearded sons of slaughter. No O'Flaherty he, not even a Connacht man by birth, only a runaway priest escaped from the Pale, who had taken refuge for a while under the formidable shelter of Morogh Na d-Tuagh.

  When he was ready, the three corpses were taken up and laid on stretchers, with two bearers to each. The women struck up a funeral wail, the men fell into their places behind, two by two, Cormac Cas himself last of all, and after a little shifting and stumbling, the procession set forth.

  Hugh soon lost sight of them, though the wail of the women rang in his ears for another half-hour. Then silence followed, and he realised that he was completely alone in the glen, the very babies having apparently all been carried away by their mothers. Not a goat bleated, nor a cow lowed, only now and then he caught the sudden trill of a lark, far off and lost almost to the ear in some remote abyss of blue. He did not know where they had gone, but guessed that it must be to some churchyard, hidden away in a fold of the hills. For more than an hour, the silence lasted. It grew to be so oppressive at last, that he began to wonder whether he should ever hear any sounds again in his life. Then far off he heard the wild wail beginning. Nearer, nearer, nearer it came, sweeping up the valley, broken by all the impediments which lay between him and it, so that at times it seemed quite far off and then again the next moment to be thrilling into his very ears.

  By the time the procession had once more reached the glen, the priest had fallen quite into the rear of the crowd. His part was over, but the funeral rites were not yet over. Indeed, the more important part of them was still to come. Close around the base of Cloch* Corril, as Hugh had already observed, a row of big water-worn stones stood ranged. Upon the first of these stones, Cormac Cas now seated himself deliberately, each of the full-grown warriors of the tribe following in turn, Muredagh nearest to his father, until all were seated. This done, the women and children squatted together helter-skelter upon the bare ground just beyond the row of stones, the oldest innermost, the younger women outside in a ring, the boys and children finding places for themselves as best they could, till every spot of space about the foot of the great boulder was occupied.

  (* Stone.)

  Then another pause ensued. Evidently, something important was about to take place, for all present turned their eyes full upon the Ollamh. Cormac Cas, however, took no heed of all those questioning eyes, merely fixed his own intently upon the line of white hieroglyphics above his head. It seemed as if he were engaged in reading what was there inscribed and too completely absorbed in this exercise to allow himself to be distracted from it by anyone.

  Suddenly a panting noise, like the noise made by a broken-winded horse, was heard outside the enclosed space, and through the ranks of the women, the dwarf Flann-na-Pus appeared, his short legs having hindered him from keeping pace with the rest of the mourners. He advanced
now with an air of importance, thrusting those about him to right and left as he did so and turning out his feet at every step like a dancing master. Arrived at the base of Cloch Corril, he stood still and struck an attitude. Every seat was filled, and no one stirred to give him room. Gazing round with an air of prodigious displeasure, he stamped twice upon the ground and advancing to his master, stood before him, ducking his frog-like head and in a loud croaking voice, pouring out his complaints.

  Cormac Cas never deigned to look at him. With eyes still concentrated upon the characters above his head, he seemed to be unaware that anyone had even approached him. Flann-na-Pus suddenly collapsed. He glanced irresolutely once or twice around him, then again at the Ollamh. Finally, with a piteous squeak, his voice dropped, his air lost its importance, and with a croaking gurgle, he shrank back, creeping amongst the ranks of the women, squatted down like a toad upon the ground, his eyes fixed in terror upon his master.

  Meanwhile, a harp had been placed at Cormac Cas' elbow, and the whole encampment waited in breathless silence. Suddenly, the Ollamh started, as if awakening from a trance, and the rest of the camp started too, like one man. Then he stretched out his hand and taking up the harp, ran his fingers across it, bringing out a few vague sounds. Then he looked slowly round one by one at the expectant circle, some of the members of which might have been seen to grow pale as his eyes momentarily rested on them. Next, he once more fixed his glance upon the mighty boulder, Cloch Corril, and then he began to chant.

  The long-drawn guttural sounds rolled out one after the other, at first almost inaudibly, then louder and louder, rising and swelling with greater and greater emphasis, until the whole glen rang with them. Not one word, however, could Hugh understand. It was not intended to be understood. It was one of the many wiles of the Ollamh thus to defeat expectation. He waited for the right moment. If it did not come, he never expended his strength in vain efforts.

  After this mysterious invocation had lasted perhaps half an hour, the whole camp sitting the while in respectful attention, it ended as suddenly as it began. Cormac Cas dropped his harp and became absorbed once more in his study of the hieroglyphics over his head. Another pause followed. Then his daughter Beara got up and made a signal to some of the women nearest to her. She had no harp, for women were not allowed to use that peculiarly masculine instrument. Their song, as Hugh afterwards found, was a very old one, dating as far back as the first years of the English invasion, composed, it was said, by the Ollamh of Mortoch O'Flaherty, Prince of Connacht, when he and his tribe were driven by William FitzAdelm de Burgh, first Irishman of that name, out of the plains of Maigh Seóla to the east of Galway and obliged to take refuge beyond the waters of Lough Orbsen.

  “We are stripped, we are torn, and our sons lie dead amongst the stones. Ours was a wild land and a poor one, yet we loved it well. Our souls ding hard to its barren breast, even as a babe to its mother's after she is dead.”

  This time the women's voices were not loud or piercing. On the contrary, they were low, even dreamy, rising and falling with a melancholy sing-song cadence. It was less like a song than like a wail, less like a wail than like a mere inarticulate moaning. That, mild as it seemed, it could stir the pulses of the listeners, was evident enough. The row of men's faces about Cloch Corril grew perceptibly grimmer, perceptibly more ferocious as they listened. Their eyes glanced from under their black or grizzled glibbes, and their hands reached out and felt for the skeans at their sides. An air of curiously alert attention, a sort of mesmeric desire to do something, it was not quite clear what. Never had they so closely resembled a company of wolves, such a company as one might imagine resting for a moment in the shadow of some wood, before sweeping on to tear down everything it met with on its path, leaving only a few red and mumbled fragments to tell the tale.

  Cormac Cas perceived his opportunity. Stretching out his arm with a sudden dramatic gesture, he caught up his harp again and flung his hands across it with a sweep which brought out a crashing chord. This time the words were intelligible enough.

  “Arise! Awake! Let them be torn even as the waves are torn, and let them be smitten even as the woods are smitten when the great winds awake at night time. Let them cry aloud for help, and let no help come. Let them lament that ever in their folly they set foot on the land of Erin. For their faces were fair, and their words smooth, but their hearts full of blood and guile.”

  A yell followed. The men with one accord sprang from their seats, every man brandishing his arms and yelling like a maniac. Even the women caught the contagion and shouted, the mothers holding their babies high over their heads like so many flags in a battle-field. It was at this juncture that a new and better opportunity for distinguishing himself occurred to Flann-na-Pus. Getting up from his seat at the back of the crowd and thrusting those to right and left of him aside, he hobbled through the circle up to his chief, where he stooped and whispered a few words into his ear.

  Cormac Cas started. A gleam of pleasure came into his snaky eyes, and a faint smile to the lips that were hidden under his soft cream-coloured beard. “A Sassenach! Alive in Glen Corril? Bring him out,” he said.

  Chapter VI.

  And Hugh was brought out. The woman Beara, who had been standing a little apart, made a step forward, as if she would have interfered, but if so it was too late. A couple of the younger warriors had rushed into the hut, flung the basket-work door open and clutching Hugh by whatever portion of him came handiest, pulled him across the intervening space and flung him in a bundle upon the grass at the feet of Cormac Cas.

  The sun was now setting. Three long shafts of reddish light which escaped from three sides of a low cloud-bank fell precisely across the small enclosed valley. One of these shafts shone full upon the red weather marks which crossed the face of the great boulder, so that they seemed to be written in fire. The old Ollamh sat impassively upon his stone; his cream-coloured beard sharing in the illumination and gleaming redly in the sunlight, his pale blue eyes twinkling slowly as he fixed them upon the living heap at his feet.

  Hugh was brave enough as lads go. He had not over-much imagination, which is a fertile source of causeless panic. He was cool-headed by temperament, prudent, practical. But panic had struck its claws deep into the marrow of his bones. The fear of death held him as in a vice. No imaginative, phantom-conjuring Celt could have pictured the events of the next half-hour with a more vivid, bone-penetrating horror than he did. His heart seemed to stop beating; his feet and hands to grow cold as ice; his very soul to quiver like jelly, as his eyes met those of that terrible little old man. His courage revived a little when the woman Beara, advancing a few steps, began, in a voice which sounded like an echo of the song she had just been singing, to address her father, evidently on his behalf. Her voice was too low for him to catch the words, but when she had finished speaking, Cormac Cas' voice fell clearly upon his ear.

  “Is the prisoner a De Burgh?” It was like the clicking of two stones together, so hollow, so cold, so indifferent.

  “No,” she answered hastily; “no; he is not a De Burgh.”

  “If he is a De Burgh,” the old man went on unheedingly, “then let a cord be brought and let it be tied about his loins, and let him be hung head downwards from the top of Cloch Corril; and let him hang there night and day until he die of hunger and of thirst and of the slow tooth of pain. Let no one make his end shorter by an hour; let the rain eat into his bones and the wind of the mountains of western Connacht fret his skin by night, and the wild beasts that live amongst the rocks hunger for his carcase. And let him taste death by inches before he dies, because he is one of that accursed race who have no pity upon the sons of the O'Flaithbertach, and for whom no pity shall be shown.”

  Hugh shivered. The younger men, who had now drawn round him in a circle, were keeping a little way off, but only waiting evidently for a signal to fall upon him and carry out their chief's orders, whatever they might be.

  But the woman Beara still stood between him a
nd his fate.

  “He is no De Burgh,” she said positively; “were he of that race, do you think that I, Beara, the daughter of Cormac Cas, would not know it? Would not my flesh have risen up when he came nigh, and would not my spirit have sickened when his breath crossed my lips? Should I not have had him hewn in pieces and given his flesh to our dogs to eat? When have I failed, or my senses been false, that you should mistrust me? Is it befitting the greatness of the O'Flaithbertach to soil their hands with the blood of a boy?”

  Cormac Cas turned his head slowly towards his daughter. It was like the movements of a snake, the slow, deliberate wrinkles of the neck, the puckers round the chin, where the skin rose in thin brown lines over the surface. Hugh watched these movements with a sort of fascination and sickened to the very bottom of his soul. Twice he opened his mouth to plead his own cause, to declare that he was no De Burgh, but a sworn foe of that hated race. His utterance seemed to freeze in his mouth, so that his voice died away to an incoherent choke, and in the end he said nothing.

  It was quite dusk now, and the whole landscape below them was full of faint floating shadows. It seemed like some forgotten sea-floor, or some cloud country which we visit for an instant in a dream, rather than ordinary bog and rock. From the shadows about the great boulder, the old man's voice rose again, thin and penetrating, as the whistle of a solitary snipe.