by Tom O'Neill
‘I came to look for Dreoilín.’
‘And there I was thinking you were here to accept a welcome in my house,’ she laughed.
‘I’ll go into any good house where I’m welcome, but there is a restlessness on me and I can’t stay as long as the welcome lasts. That might not suit you.’
‘You’re assuming your welcome would last longer than it might,’ she said dangerously.
‘Besides,’ said Matha, ‘I wouldn’t want Mac Cumhaill to hear I was intruding on the work of his finest protégé.’
She laughed again. She always took it as a great joke that people whispered about there being more to things with her and Mac Cumhaill than met the eye.
She sent a one-legged woman to bring food and drink for herself and the traveller. They sat down together to eat. There were no more pleasantries. Liath was impatient. Quickly and with only moderate politeness, she found out from him exactly why he was there and what he wanted. Only then did she reveal anything. ‘Dreoilín is not here at all. Neither is Mac Cumhaill. Off walking along the sea shores somewhere in the west. They’ve taken a sudden unexplained interest in trying to calm stormy waves. And the King too is away. Er ... visiting relatives. Indeed the “Great Chief Brehon” Ó Rahille is away too.’
Matha could hear from her tone that she wasn’t the fondest admirer of the last-named person, a man he had never before heard of.
Nine months before, Ó Rahille had arrived. He appeared in the middle of a field in Sogain in the far west and broke a loose stone wall with fright when a harmless ram that was in the field came up to inspect him. He caused a bit of a stir when he arrived in at the nearest cabin. There lived three very well-thought of and light-hearted old people. Two brothers and a sister. Ó Rahille was dressed in colourful tight garments the likes of which had not been seen. He spoke a language that was very different but still somehow understandable. They put their best face out and gave him a great welcome.
He claimed he had come from a different world. But aside from the multi-coloured cape he had put on himself, for some reason thinking it would be suitable attire when visiting wary rain-soaked people, he didn’t look all that different than any other old gooch. He had a red face, greying hair, wide ear flaps, a soft belly and an eye that often landed on the niece whenever she visited. After the novelty of his appearance wore off, he didn’t amuse the people or their neighbours one bit.
For a man who claimed to be in search of wisdom, he rarely listened to anyone other than himself. He would sit in the best seat by the fire and stay there all day long, never offering a hand with any work. He would only stir out to the table when food was on the go. He was a master at consuming eggs, milk and meat, on the rare occasion they had a bit. But he was not much good at turnips or oats.
He would talk away then about how he had seen through all the beliefs of his own world; how shallow and selfish it all was; how he had realised what great wisdom lay in this world. He talked about shamans and druidic ceremonies and the fineness of brehon law, while the people just looked at him in bewilderment. He had found a way to travel here, where he felt he really belonged; to come to celebrate this wondrous way of life and to be a part of it.
The good people of the west had enough troubles keeping themselves alive from one end of the week to the other and his admiration of their wisdom was very little use to them. They knew their bellies could not be usefully filled with hot air. They weren’t long about seeing the need to get rid of this Ó Rahille. Nor were they long figuring out what would get him to go.
‘The place you rightly belong is Tara,’ said one of the old boys to him one day, ‘because I fear that such fine words as yours are wasted on ignorant ears such as ours.’
‘Oh now, that’s not true,’ said Ó Rahille. ‘Er ... Even the most ignorant have a right to hear fine words. Though I do think Tara would be a more fitting place for me.’
The old girl had a mouldy lump of sheep’s cheese ready for him to take as a gift to Cormac. They provided him with the services of a nephew who was to escort him as far as the Shannon. When he was leaving he never put his hand into his bag to give them any kind of gift or token of appreciation. Although they had noted that it was a heavy bag and had had many the discussion about what might be inside it. Ó Rahille was so pleased at being on the way to Tara that he barely said goodbye, seeming to be of the opinion that the honour of his visit had been mostly theirs.
‘You will get closer to the centre of wisdom over there,’ the oldest of the three people of the house said after him, ‘and you are more likely to meet your own kind.’
Ó Rahille recounted this to everyone he met, thinking it was a great thing. He didn’t notice the smiles it drew on listeners’ faces.
On his arrival at Tara he again caused a stir because of his unusual appearance and language. He was eventually brought through to Cormac’s main hall where he was introduced. Mac Cumhaill was there with Diarmuid and Conán. Dreoilín had been there, but disappeared.
He wasn’t long settled before a big meal when he started again with his praise of the wise ways of the people and times.
‘Well now, well now,’ Cormac said, ‘it’s always good to learn how others see us. There are some who think old Cormac is making a mess of things, just muddling along.’ He paused to look around. Commendation for the state of things in his kingdom was a naturally pleasing thing for any king to hear. ‘So now. It’ll do the begrudgers good to hear that people from sophisticated other lands can see a bit of sense in the way we do things.’
The others said nothing. From the start, Ó Rahille’s entire focus was on the King and he barely acknowledged the presence of anyone else.
‘Your majesty,’ he said, ‘I have brought you humble gifts from my world.’
The gifts that had stayed in the shut bag when he was eating the winter store of butter of the old people in the west now appeared. He took out a delicate silver spoon that Cormac’s daughter added to her collection. And a grey box that played a kind of screechy music. Fortunately it only worked for a little while and he couldn’t get it working again. There was a piece of iron that fired small lumps of metal loud and fast into a tree stump. Ó Rahille said that should be kept for enemies. But Cormac wanted to test it. After only a few minutes, it too ran out – the tree stump hardly affected.
Mac Cumhaill was happy enough to leave them at it. If it kept Cormac amused, that did not seem such a bad thing.
The next time Mac Cumhaill was in Tara was two months later and Cormac was away. The people had been told he was visiting a cousin who was a king in a country to the east. But in truth, Cormac had no cousins out in that direction and no interest in visiting beautiful palaces. In fact, Mac Cumhaill had escorted him secretly to a desolate island off the north west coast. The King was travelling with Báirinn, his fairy woman. There was a wedding in her clan and Cormac didn’t need his arm twisted when he got invited to such events. The little people knew how to mark an occasion. Their sprees of merriment and abandon were more to Cormac’s taste than the decorum and ceremony of politely representing his country in foreign capitals.
The reason Cormac wanted his whereabouts kept secret was that not everyone in the population at large approved of the King’s associations with the other people. Especially not his wife. So he always thought it best not to injure them with too much information.
The festivities were only to have lasted two days. But after Mac Cumhaill had left him, a terrible storm had risen up. Any boat venturing out on such water would certainly be escorted by a giant wave to be eternally bonded with the floor of the ocean. The seas had not taken a rest for going on two months. People were starting to ask about why Cormac was so long away.
Mac Cumhaill had been pacing the coast all this time, waiting for Cormac. But then, to his fury, a messenger arrived with the following summons: The Ó Rahille decrees that you are to meet him in Tara. Mac Cumhaill did return to Tara, but only to set Ó Rahille straight about a few things. The fellow didn’
t even have the authority to address Mac Cumhaill, let alone to command him. Mac Cumhaill found himself in the company of Dreoilín, Diarmuid and Goll, all grumbling for the same reason.
‘At least he didn’t summon Conán,’ said Diarmuid, after some time spent trying to find a positive or calming thing to say. ‘So maybe there is a bottom to his folly. Maybe he realised that Conán might have torn the head straight off him while at least we all will listen. Will we not?’
In the High King’s great Gathering Hall sat Ó Rahille in a very large cushioned seat that he had placed right next to the Cormac’s empty chair. He was wearing a tunic that looked very much like the shiny green one that Cormac was supposed to wear at certain ceremonies. He was talking to the woman who was washing his toes, and did not look up. He was saying to her, ‘We must celebrate the nobility of our people. We must acknowledge and affirm.’ After leaving them standing for some minutes, he finally raised his head. ‘Now my fine fellows,’ he said. ‘I cannot tell you how proud I am to sit here before you.’
Goll was scratching his empty eye socket in confusion.
‘I believe that up to my arrival the people may not have been fully awake to the greatness of the era they – we – live in,’ said Ó Rahille. ‘What we have here is great indeed and will be the envy of wise people from many other worlds into the distant future. Believe me.’
Mac Cumhaill went about leaving, mumbling that he had a sick hound to attend to.
‘No wait, good man, my famous hero,’ said Ó Rahille. ‘We have brought you here for a reason.’
The bristles stood up on Mac Cumhaill’s neck. But he bit his lip. The man was still a guest and allowance had to be made for his confusion about how things worked here.
‘We think the people may need from time to time to be reminded of how great and fair is the system of government they live under,’ continued Ó Rahille. ‘A gathering, that is what is called for! A coming together of the most enlightened, the druids and the brehons and of course yourselves. And I have a vision of us all going out to travel among the people, going from village to village in a great celebration of our age of enlightenment and of the greatness of our tuatha.’
‘You are more than welcome to be with us in our place and time,’ Dreoilín spoke quietly, turning away. ‘And the hospitality that Cormac extended to you in our presence, we are not going to question in his absence. I am also glad for you that you find the good that is in our land. And I can only wish that you continue to be spared from experiences of a sort that might cause you to go away with a more mixed impression.’
A chill ran through the assembly. Dreoilín’s words were coldly chosen. But Ó Rahille was oblivious. The chill turned to foreboding when Ó Rahille said, ‘You should not turn away from me. Your strength lies here. On your own you are just a little man.’
‘Why would I take offence?’ said Dreoilín with icy calmness. ‘You are old. You’ll be dead soon.’
The others left with Dreoilín.
‘Look, I didn’t want to pull this out,’ Ó Rahille shouted after them. ‘I had hoped we could work cooperatively. But I have to tell you now. Before his departure, Cormac gave me the title of Chief Brehon. As such I command you to stay.’
‘What is that?’ Diarmuid asked Mac Cumhaill, as they walked away from Tara. ‘Does that mean we have to obey him?’
‘Don’t mind him,’ said Mac Cumhaill. ‘There’s no such thing as a Chief Brehon. It was just Cormac amusing himself.’
Mac Cumhaill decided to leave things be. Cormac could sort things out when he came back, having made the mess in the first place. Besides, Ó Rahille appeared more likely to harm himself than anyone else.
But Ó Rahille was more determined than they had given him credit for. After they walked out on him he declared that the senior military people could only think in straight lines and so, in fact, it was for the best that they had deserted. Their proper place was outside the gates of Tara defending it, not inside, advising. He interrogated the working staff for the names of poets, other druids, and brehons. He sent messengers to them. This time, maybe learning something, he did not instruct them to come to Tara. He told them he was forming a Circle of Ancient Wisdom and that they were cordially invited to be part of it.
No poets attended. They were not in the habit of responding positively to requests from any person. Neither did druids attend. They dared not step under the dangerous cloud that was Dreoilín’s displeasure.
But a scattering of brehons came, as did an assortment of other people who were very surprised at being included on the list. The staff had amused themselves by supplying Ó Rahille with the names of certain individuals who had never in their lives before been accused of wisdom.
‘When his Royal Highness returns he will be pleased that we have not been idle,’ said Ó Rahille to the gathered men. ‘He will be pleased that we have reformed Tara into a place of great thinking. This is the end of an era of domination by soldiers and farmers. He will instead be supported by men who carry the collective wisdom of the ancestors in their very bones. His own Circle of Ancient Wisdom. And this period shall be remembered as a time of great enlightenment in Éirinn.’
Mac Cumhaill received reports from some of those in attendance. The more he heard, the less easy he felt. He decided that it would be wise to drag Cormac back from his merriments immediately rather than sobering this new Chief Brehon by causing him some injuries. He went back to the coast. But the storms still didn’t ease as he impatiently strode between the fishing villages trying to find one boatman ready to brave the waves with him.
Sure enough, Ó Rahille was not satisfied with his achievements so far. He asked his circle to take a journey. They were going to visit settlements all around the country, explaining to the people about how this collection of wise men was going to be helping the King to make every decision. How the government of the country was going to be more learned and wise than ever before.
They headed a little south of Tara. The first place they got to was Baile Théig. Ó Rahille asked that the chief of the clan gather his people. The Chief welcomed the visitors warmly. The people of that clan were not fond of planning or work. Even though they happened to be on the best land in the country, most years their food stores ran empty and they had to go out looking to borrow food from neighbouring clans even before the worst of winter started. They were happy about the visit from Tara because such occasions were always marked with rest and drink. They didn’t care that Cormac or Mac Cumhaill weren’t there. But they were completely unnerved when they discovered the visitors had brought no mead or barley wine. They were amused by the funny accent of Ó Rahille and listened to him for a few minutes. But then they wandered off, leaving only one person listening – an old man who sat on the ground, looking up steadily at Ó Rahille.
The Chief Brehon got over his disappointment. He decided that even if only one person listened, it was a start and word would spread. Ó Rahille lectured the little man for hours about shamans, white witches, just laws and great learning. Not even the little circle of wise men he had with him had a clue what he was on about or when he was going to shut up. When it came to nightfall and Ó Rahille had finally tired of talking, they thanked the old man and asked him his name. He didn’t answer. Only when they asked him again did they realise he was completely deaf and hadn’t realised there was going to be no food nor drink.
It was about this time that Matha had arrived into Liath’s company. When he heard how things were, he thought that maybe he could do worse than follow the travelling show. Surely there was some wisdom he could gain from someone from another world, even if the stranger was not well-liked.
He caught up with them easily as they were slowed by the treacle of conversation. They were a day out of Baile Théig on their way further south. As was his cautious habit now, Matha decided to make his own track through the trees at the side of the path rather than introduce himself. There were twenty of them including the bald-headed man in the mad green tunic.
The talk was of next going to Baile Dróna.
Matha was surprised to hear the wise men advising Ó Rahille. Though he was young and didn’t like to think disrespectful things about such esteemed elders, he could not help feeling that they showed no signs of wisdom. He had travelled through these areas and knew some things. He was shocked to hear one of the wise men tell Ó Rahille that the reason the Théig had stopped listening was because they were industrious people who couldn’t be away from their fields for long.
He was even more surprised to hear the advice that the next audience, the Dróna, were thoughtful, peaceful people. The advisers had obviously never met either clan before and knew as little as Ó Rahille, who at least had the excuse of having arrived in this world recently.
Matha’s experience of the Dróna was in fact of suspicious harsh people who regarded thieving from and lying to other clans as honourable. He had passed through their territory fairly quickly, not receiving any offers of hospitality other than from people who thought he might have something they could take from him in his sleep.
As he walked further, he was even more worried to hear Ó Rahille’s plan for keeping the attention of the Gathering this time, where he had lost it last time. He said to the others, ‘Now this thing that I’m about to tell you is a secret that I didn’t even reveal to His Majesty.’
There was a great hush on the huddle of harmless fellows.
‘I have in my bag some powders for making great bangs and flashes of light. Things I took the precaution of bringing from my world. These will surely impress the people of our wisdom and get the attention of the “Drawna”.’
Given the temperament of the Dróna, Matha began to form the opinion that this clan meeting might be one that Mac Cumhaill would like to attend. Just as he was deciding to head off in search of Mac Cumhaill, he saw a woman approaching. He could see she wasn’t a farmer or a soldier. She was tall and soft skinned. She wasn’t very old or very young either. Her head and shoulders were draped in a black mourning cloak and she walked with a kind of limp, looking at the ground and whispering as she proceeded. She didn’t acknowledge the men on the track until she was right up to them. She eyed them quickly and silently, weighing them up. Matha would have been very wary of such a person. But Ó Rahille seemed to lack any basic sense of the kinds of people there are in the world. The woman cast an assessing eye up and down him and Matha could see a fleeting smile as she looked at the green tunic. Then all of a sudden she fell down at Ó Rahille’s feet and she started bawling and wailing and ologóning. He was horrified and tried to get away from her. But she just grabbed onto his legs.