by Tom O'Neill
Fleatharta stopped and stared at Matha in disbelief. ‘You have a good deal to learn I see,’ he said. ‘First, you are right. Cormac is a good king. Though some of the earliest verses about his rise to power are not so glorious, sometimes behind the greatest hand of good is bad trying to unspeak itself. And you wrong me to say I mock him for his infatuation with written words. His wish for that skill angers me merely because he himself provides the best argument against it. Our High King, my boy, may pretend not to know the answer when he asks a question. And he may look wistfully at the scrap of skin he took from a foreign land. But that is all camouflage and play acting. The same man knows more than any ollamh I have met of the laws, of the boundaries, of protection of sacred trees, of duties, of correct payments for punishments for crimes and of the poetry of olden times, also of plans for new kinds of farming – none of it stored on vellum but in his head.’
Matha did not know whether to believe Fleatharta, but he was inclined to. They continued the journey in silence. He still did not ask why this man had been sent with him. He was sure he would find out soon.
Matha was determined this time that nothing would deflect him. He led the way south west through Osraighe with this thought in his mind and with his teeth clenched in determination.
They had most of the journey behind them when they met a slight man with sandy hair and a face that looked boyish. He seemed to be in some distress. He walked in a half run, with his head rolling from side to side, mumbling. Matha stopped to greet the man but was determined not to take pity. Fleatharta took Matha by the arm and whispered that he must ignore the man. They had more important things to do than tending to fools.
The unfortunate man took longer than most people to communicate even his name: Saor. He had an impediment in his speech and Matha wasn’t sure whether the hold-up was in his mouth or further back in the head. He was getting in a knot trying to tell Matha something. The King must be urgently informed of something or other. He gripped Matha’s arm bruisingly tight.
Matha was curious but then Fleatharta reminded him that nearly every disturbed person in the roads thought they had a message that the King needed to hear. The sun had risen every day before Matha took to the roads and it would still work without him.
As Matha pulled himself free of the man’s grip he saw a look of terrible disappointment. He felt angry. Why should he be the one that people latched on to? What was it in his face that made this annoying slow man think he was the one to share troubles with? Surely Matha had earned an untroubled return home.
He ignored the man’s continued pleading. Before he resumed his journey, he pointed north east saying, ‘Just go. Tara is that way.’
Matha came over the top of the Sliabh Daragh hills, as he had done so many times that the track through the bracken belonged to him as much as it did to the sheep. On this occasion though, he was not merely vaguely hoping. He was fully expecting it to be back to normal. As indeed, there it was!
The man gripped Matha’s arm bruisingly tight.
Even though he had been sure of it, when he saw it, he was overcome by delight: the valley of his fine, his people, with the weak chief’s wooden hut at the far end. It didn’t look as grand as it had done when he was younger. The places of his neighbours and cousins, the borders and arrangement of which had all made so much sense, now seemed randomly strewn along the brow of the hill. Smoke was coming from some chimneys. There was none from his mother’s bothán at the near end.
He walked more lightly down the hills than he had walked in years, leaving Fleatharta trailing far behind him. When he got to the cabin he found nobody inside. His mother must still be working for the chief, although it was Samhain and was supposed to be a day for everyone to be in their own homes. When Fleatharta caught up with him, he raised his eyebrows in disapproval but mercifully said nothing.
Matha went out the back to the bit of bog that had been left to them.
He was confused. The patch of bog looked much smaller even than he remembered it. But there was his cousin, down for his daily visit to the pony, crouched over the black creature, and strangely he didn’t look a bit bigger. Matha had been trying to picture how tall and big and possibly hairy he would have grown in the years. The boy looked up and then stood up and said, ‘Welcome travellers, welcome. I’m afraid there is not much to offer you in this house but if you come with me to my father’s cabin you will be well received.’
Matha was shocked. ‘Caoimh, it’s me, Matha.’
For a while, Caoimhín refused to believe him and thought it was some kind of trickery.
Eventually, when Matha named every member of their families and recounted how they used to go netting plovers together, Caoimhín said, ‘But how could you have changed so much?’
‘What? I expected you to have changed more. Going on seven years and seven days today.’
Caoimh looked even more puzzled and Matha did not want to offend him so he changed the subject. ‘You are a solid person to have minded my poor horse all that long. I promise you I tried every way I could to come back sooner.’
‘What are you raving about?’ said Caoimhín. ‘Our Matha left here only seven days ago. I would know because I have had to listen to the crying of his heartbroken mother every morning since.’
Matha stood, looking in silence. He looked at Fleatharta for support, but the brehon was staring into the distance with his lips moving silently, no doubt reciting some of his complicated memory rhymes. Some way behind Fleatharta he noticed that the deranged man Saor had followed. He stood shifting feet and grinning uselessly. Matha waved him away angrily.
Indeed Matha saw that the sticks he used for rabbit snares were exactly where he’d left them. The weeds were only a few days bigger in the cabbage rows. It was good that he had learned so well how to take note of things without expecting to understand them all. Wherever the truth of the passing of time lay, it could be sorted out later. Matha had a more immediate task now. He came over to the horse, which looked even smaller than he had remembered it. He certainly wouldn’t be able to think about climbing on the back of such a short animal anymore, as his legs would touch the ground. He looked down into the pony’s eyes. She was a little worse but still breathing and apparently still eating as much as Caoimh could find to bring her.
He reached into the folds of his cape for the parcel that had been long and carefully packed there. He took it out and started unfolding the layers of sheep wool that had been protecting it. He also took a sharp blade from another part of his cape. Caoimhín stepped back. He looked like he was afraid now. Matha had no time to explain. Caoimhín said, ‘Wait, I’ll go and call your mother. Just wait.’
Matha made the mistake of waiting. His mother wasn’t long coming but others must have also heard that there was a stranger in the valley claiming to be Matha. His mother arrived and he went to hug her. ‘Do you also not know me, mother?’ he asked.
She burst into tears and said, ‘A man? I don’t understand, as I do not understand anything that has happened in the past days. But I know my own son, I most certainly do.’
In the time that they were embracing each other, he didn’t notice a cloud descending.
He said, ‘Eithne, there’s a job I have to do here before we go inside. Then I will tell you everything.’
He went over towards the pony with the bowl and blade in his hand. He didn’t like to hurt the animal so he did it fast without taking time to think about it. He whispered in the pony’s ear, ‘Stay with us, friend’. He then put a slit in the soft flesh over her shoulder. Blood started gushing. He went to catch some of it in the bowl where he knew it had to be rubbed. But as he brought the bowl close, the cloud swooped. The sky was black with crows – rooks and greys. They came squalling and jabbing at him with long wicked beaks. Caoimhín was throwing stones and his mother was flapping her shawl at them but they paid no attention to that. Matha knew well enough that the crow is a cold-hearted gentleman. There was no point in trying to be friends wit
h him. But it was also wise to avoid making an enemy of him. He put his hands up trying to protect himself, hoping that this was not personal; that they had merely been directed to send a message to him. They kept delivering their message even as the bowl slipped from his flailing hands. It dropped in the granite quern which his mother used for crushing small grains. Even as it lay broken there the crows continued. They only stopped when a small hand grabbed a piece of the bowl. It was Saor, and Matha had to admit that he was glad that the callous crows now turned on him as he ran off, finally convinced to go home and mind his own business – or so Matha hoped. Saor disappeared over the hill with the black cloud following him.
Matha looked at the remainder of the bowl, his heart broken with it.
Caoimhín came over, obviously now appreciating that the bowl had contained some solution to the problems. He said, ‘Why did you put your hands up for them to get at the bowl?’
‘Well, do you not think that his eyes might have some importance to him?’ Matha’s mother snapped at Caoimhín with the dangerous defensiveness of every mother in her voice. ‘Otherwise he’d be wandering around this bog blind forever. And what good would that be?’
The blood was still spurting from the dying horse. Matha desperately picked up a bit of the bowl and rubbed the blood in it. He noticed the horse seemed to kick a little. Maybe a kick of death. Then he tried without any part of the bowl, rubbing the blood between his own fingers. He felt heat in his fingers and a numb power radiated from his hands. The horse stopped bleeding and was soon standing up and shaking her mane. The more Matha rubbed his fingers, the stronger the horse became until it was back to the finest and fattest it had ever been.
His mother stood back, speechless. Even Fleatharta looked at him with some trepidation. Caoimhín turned and ran away.
Matha took his mother inside and lit the fire. Soon, neighbours began to gather in. They greeted him with some reservation. He noticed that each comer went first to the urn at the entrance and sprinkled some of the water from it on their faces. It was just the water from the spring at the bottom of the cabbage ridge and nobody had ever thought it held any special blessings before.
From his sack, Matha produced salted boar, dried damsons, bread and sweet cake that his friends in Tara had given them for the journey. There was absolute silence around the fire as he talked – even though he told only the barest outline of his travels. As the evening went on, only one of the neighbours was not there to celebrate with Matha and his mother.
A man who lived on the other side of the valley said that he had seen Cerball climbing onto the roof of his cabin going mad and yelling at crows, since getting the news of Matha’s return.
The neighbours talked cautiously to Matha like he was the one who might do them harm. He heard Miley Ceoin, a deaf man who didn’t know how loud his voice was, whispering to Aoife Talamh, ‘So it’s clear the lad came back to put a spell on Cerball.’
‘Well, I don’t know and that’s the truth. But seven days away, and he comes back a man with no fear of those who wronged him,’ she responded, too quietly for Ceoin but not for Matha. ‘You’d have to admit, that is not a very usual go on.’
‘Came back just to drive Cerball mad,’ continued Ceoin. ‘Never forgave him for taking the land. And why would he. But wait now till we see what medicine he has in store for Flaith Eoghan, the chief. That’ll be a bit of sport for those that wait up to see it.’
The chief of Matha’s fine had sat himself at the warmest seat next to the hearth as though he was a regular caller. Shameless, he said, ‘Isn’t it great to see a young fellow from our own area getting on so well, getting to know the High King and Fionn Mac Cumhaill and dear knows who else. You’ll put in a good word for me of course!’
Matha looked at the small pathetic man and couldn’t believe such a person had wielded such weight over his mind; had caused him to lie awake so many nights filled with anxiety, imagining in vain that one day he might realise how unfair he had been. But Matha didn’t feel anger towards the chief. He had since met a hundred like him. He was an adept political man who just wanted to be liked by most people and whom nobody really disliked even though he did nothing good for them. His only skill was in talking nice to everyone and in always eyeing out a good corner for himself.
‘Ahem,’ came a voice that was used to being listened to, clearing a path for its words. Only then did Matha remember that Fleatharta was there. He had not even told anyone that Fleatharta had been sent by the High King. Even sitting hunched on a stool far back from the hearth, the authority of his tone imposed silence to the room. Cormac’s gift was to be revealed.
‘This young man here is now an esteemed adviser of Cormac Mac Airt, High King of all Ireland, and a free man in the clan lands of Mac Cumhaill,’ said Fleatharta. Then he stood up and directly addressed the chief. ‘What I have seen here confirms that a serious wrong has been done to him and his mother by you, Flaith. Cormac has sent me to give your people here a reminder about certain sections of our laws and customs that appear to have slipped your mind. And to ensure that the wrong is corrected and that justice is set right.’
‘Slipped his mind eh?’ Ceoin mumbled aloud. ‘I’m afraid that on the mind of Peigín’s Eoghan, there is very little to slip.’
‘Oh, yes your honour,’ said the chief, ignoring the giggles and standing to go. ‘Will you come with me to my humble home so we can discuss these fine points of law in peace and quiet?’
Fleatharta ignored the chief and started to give a lecture on the rights and obligations of a flaith. In the middle of his lengthy and sombre recital, he stopped and began to speak in terms so clear and simple that even the children present were in no doubt as to his meaning. He said that Eithne Ní Dúlaing, Matha’s mother, was full and free céile with rights established before time itself. She had paid her tributes to the clan and to the poor while others had failed. A flaith who thought he could take her property just because she was a woman was at best a fool. But more likely a thief. Since the wise woman Brígh Ambui had justly interpreted our customs as they apply to women, nobody but a fool or a thief could have referred to law as an excuse for removing the livelihood of someone in Eithne’s position. The offence was made worse by the fact that the person taking advantage in this way was an elected flaith of his fine, the very person who was supposed to ensure her safety and protect her rights.
Fleatharta stopped for a couple of minutes in which there was only the sound of a baby coughing. Then he continued in a different, pronouncing tone, ‘It is my judgement and that of Cormac Mac Airt, that Flaith Eoghan has disgraced himself and his position.’
Matha was as silent as everyone else. He had not known that Cormac was aware of anything about him, let alone that he knew of his mother’s ground being taken or of what kind of man was Peigín’s Eoghan.
The murmurs of approval started among the gathering. But they quietened down when Fleatharta looked around and asked why the other sixteen people of the council had not prevented this breach of justice.
Everyone was very contrite and Matha began to feel sorry for them. When the flaith offered no defence, Fleatharta began to recite old cases that gave an indication of the kind of ciss or compensation Matha and his mother were entitled to. That included restoring to double the extent Matha’s mother’s lands; demanding a senior place on the council; instructing the council to elect a new chief; putting Peigín’s Eoghan to labour on Eithne’s land for a period of at least five years; giving five of his cows and ten of his bee hives to Matha and the rest of his property to the poor; and putting the stranger to the road. There was a hush as people examined the floor.
‘Oh, and I almost forgot,’ added Fleatharta, ‘Matha, of course, has the right to cut the hair and beard of Peigín’s Eoghan.’
The chief stroked his long white beard at once distressed but not protesting. He knew how it went and he was at Matha’s mercy.
Matha’s mother said she just wanted the family land and her cows back
. And no more. Matha consulted with her and then told Fleatharta that he greatly appreciated his learned words. He hoped in time that he would learn even a fraction of the ancient wisdoms that he had at his disposal. He promised him that he would never rely on calf skin and would store all he learned safely inside his head. His respect for the brehons had been restored more than amply. And he wanted most of all that Fleatharta would go back to Cormac to relay the appreciation of himself, his mother, and of Flaith Peigín Eoghan for having helped them to clarify matters in their valley. But they would not be looking for any punishment for the flaith. Nor would he request a place on the council. They should only replace the flaith in time and in the natural course of events.
Peigín’s Eoghan went white-faced with relief and got on his knees, still holding his beard, to thank Matha most profusely.
‘You and Eithne are entitled to extend that mercy to Peigín’s Eoghan,’ said Fleatharta. ‘I would advise him to value it. And I thank you for your respectful words about my profession. You would be welcome to study with me any time. But I saw what you did yesterday with a pony’s blood. It is not me you will be studying with, but the wren man.’
‘My main study from now on will be of this ground,’ said Matha. ‘And of course our chief will show due respect for my mother from now on.’
A muffled laugh went around the cabin. People seemed to think that Matha’s words were laced with a threat. But none was intended. Matha now knew this flaith better than any of them did. Any implication of menace or put-down that others might have heard in his words, rolled off the chief like water off a duck’s back. Matha was just talking to the chief in the only sort of language he could understand – the language of traded favours. And Peigín’s Eoghan responded without falter, ‘By Daghda, and no better woman there is in the land, than your mother. I’ve often thought it. A lovely little woman. And a very tidy farmer. In fact in my opinion she should have more land. I had been meaning to say that to her before you went away. I have always had my doubts about that foreign chancer. I’ll sort this out, rest assured, sir. No better man than myself to sort this out. No better man than Peigín’s Eoghan to take care of his people. You can rely on me to make sure she is well taken care of.’