Then, where the shore would be, the ghostly presence turned and stopped. And now, as Deirdre stared, she could have sworn it was a graceful deer. But after a pause, it disappeared into the mist only to emerge once more, as if it could change its shape at will, floating very slowly, still and grey, like a standing stone, towards her little island.
She glanced round, hoping to see her father’s boat coming past the headland. But instead she saw Conall, standing behind her, looking grave.
“It is Larine,” he said.
“He seemed to change shape as he came.”
“He is a druid,” he remarked. “He could probably make himself disappear if he wanted to.” And now she saw that it was Larine, in a small curragh, being rowed towards them by his charioteer.
“Come Conall,” he said quietly, as he stepped ashore, “we must talk.” And as Deirdre turned anxiously to Conall, she was surprised to see that he looked relieved.
They were a long time together, at some distance from her, like two shadows hovering in the wreaths of mist that swirled along the water’s edge; and the sun had just broken above the horizon when they returned to her, and she saw that Conall’s face had become transformed. All his unhappiness had disappeared and with a gentle smile he took her hand.
“All is well. My uncle and I are reconciled.”
III
Samhain: ancient Hallowe’en, when the spirits of the dead walk for one night amongst the living. Samhain, the turning point, the entrance to the dark half of the year. Samhain, when the beasts are slaughtered, Samhain the sinister. Yet in the western island with its gentle climate, the month that led to Samhain was usually a pleasant season.
Deirdre always found it so. Sometimes the days were soft and misty, sometimes the clear blue sky seemed so hard you could touch it. She loved the autumnal woods, the oak leaves brown on the trees or crisp underfoot. And when there was a chill in the air, she felt a tingling in the blood.
Larine had remained with them on their island for three days. He had brought herbs to cure Conall. The two men would spend hours together in conversation and prayer; and even if she felt excluded, Deirdre could see that Conall was being healed in body and spirit. After this time, Larine departed, but before he left he explained to her kindly, “It will be a little time, Deirdre, before Conall is entirely well. Rest here, or at your father’s. No one will trouble you. The High King wishes to be reconciled at the festival of Samhain, so you will come to him then.” And, guessing her thoughts, he added with a smile, “You need not fear the queen anymore, Deirdre. She will not hurt you now.”
The next day, her father brought them home.
The month they spent at Dubh Linn was a happy time. If she had any misgivings about whether Conall would tolerate her family, they were soon set at rest. He listened to her father’s ancestry every evening without the slightest sign of boredom; he played hurling with her brothers and indulged in mock swordplay without killing them. He even persuaded Fergus to replace the broken planks at the Ford of Hurdles and helped him do it. She noticed that his wounds had not only healed but that one could scarcely see where they had been. As he lay down beside her at night, it seemed to her that his pale naked body was, once again, as perfect as before. As for herself, she could feel the child growing within her, and growing strong.
“He will come at midwinter,” she said happily, “like the promise of spring.”
“You say ‘he,’ ” Conall remarked.
“It will be a boy, Conall,” she replied. “I can feel it.”
They would walk together along the Liffey where the willows trailed their branches, or into the groves of oak and beech. Each day they would also visit one of the three little sacred springs and Conall would gently anoint her swelling belly with water, running his hand over its roundness. There were days of mist and days of sunshine, but the breezes were very light that month, so that only a sprinkling of leaves had fallen from the trees still heavy and thick with the rich gold and bronze of mellow autumn. Only the gathering of the migratory birds foretold that the inevitable coming of winter was close.
It was two days before Samhain, when crowds of starlings were wheeling around the trees at Dubh Linn, that the three chariots arrived.
Deirdre could see her father was pleased; he had never travelled like this before. The three chariots, each with a charioteer, were splendid indeed. He and his two sons were carried in one, Deirdre in the second; the third chariot, the finest of all, was Conall’s own with its two swift horses harnessed to the shaft.
The day was fine. The sun glinted on the Liffey’s wide shallows as they crossed the ford. Their path lay north-west. All afternoon they made swift and easy progress past rolling grasslands and wooded slopes. In the early evening they found a pleasant place to camp in an oak grove. The next morning the weather had changed. It was dry, but the sky was overcast. The light was leaden and grey; the slanting shafts of sunshine that sometimes broke through the clouds seemed to Deirdre to be vaguely sinister and threatening. But the rest of the party were in good spirits as they continued north-west towards the valley of the River Boyne.
“We shall be there by afternoon,” her charioteer remarked. “We shall be at royal Tara.”
And just afterwards, her father called out cheerfully, “Do you remember, Deirdre? Do you remember Tara?”
Of course she did. How could she forget? It had been years ago, when her younger brother was eight, that Fergus had taken them all, one summer’s day, on the road to Tara. It had been a happy time. The great ceremonial centre had a magnificent site—a large, broad hill with gentle slopes that rose above the valley of the Boyne half a day’s journey upstream from the ancient tomb with its midwinter passage where the Dagda dwelt.
Except for a guardian, the huge site had been deserted at that summer season, for apart from their inauguration, the High Kings usually only came to Tara for the festival of Samhain. Fergus had led his little family up as proudly as if he owned the place, and shown them its principal features—the big earthwork circles in which the shrines and banqueting hall would be erected for the festival. He had also shown them some of the magical aspects of the site.
“This is where the druids choose the new High King,” he explained at one small earthwork. “One of them drinks bull’s blood and then the gods send him a vision.” Showing them a pair of stones set close together: “The new king has to pass between these in his chariot. If he gets stuck, then he’s not the rightful king.” But the most impressive feature to Deirdre had been the ancient standing stone near the top of the hill, the Stone of Fal. “When the true king’s chariot comes and touches the Stone of Fal,” he explained solemnly, “the druids hear it cry out.”
“And after that,” one of her brothers had demanded, “doesn’t he have to mate with a white mare?”
“He does indeed,” said Fergus proudly.
But if these details of the king’s inauguration had fascinated her brothers, the magic of Tara for Deirdre had been its situation. It was not only the magnificent views in every direction during the day, but at sunrise and sunset, when the mists lay over the valleys all round, and the Hill of Tara seemed like a floating island in the world of the gods.
She should therefore have been happy as they drew towards it.
Midday was past when they came in sight of Tara. As the three chariots sped along the broad track, the charioteers drew into a triangular formation with Conall in front, her chariot behind his left wheel, and her father’s behind his right. Though the sky was still a dull, metallic grey, with only silvery glints of sunlight, the day was not cold. Ahead of them, lining the route, she noticed a scattering of people, many of them with baskets. Seeing them, Conall suddenly cast off his cloak so that now, with his pale body stripped, he looked like a warrior going into battle. In their arrowhead formation, the three chariots raced forward and as they drew level with them, the welcoming people reached into their baskets and threw handfuls of wild autumn flowers into Conall’s chariot. An
d although Conall was the High King’s nephew, Deirdre was surprised that he should receive such a hero’s welcome.
The hill was looming above them now. She could see crowds of people on the long earthwork wall that enclosed the summit. In the middle of the wall stood a line of priests, holding long bronze trumpets and the great bull horns that were the sign of kingship. Behind them were the wicker-walled structures that had been erected for the festival. There were a few fires sending thin trails of smoke into the air. They reached a patch of flat, grassy ground, dotted with trees at the base of the hill, the track up the long slope just ahead of it. The priests were raising their trumpets. From these now came a huge, deep-throated, darkly pulsating blast that grew into a terrifying roar.
And then the black mist arose.
It was so sudden and so violent that she screamed. The starlings rose up in front of them with a huge whirr that was almost a roar. Starlings, thousands of them, enveloped the chariots in a swirling black cloud. They wheeled round them as though both they and the travellers were caught in the strange, dark vortex of a whirlwind. Turning and turning, their myriad flapping was so loud that Deirdre could not even hear her own screams. In front of them, all round, behind, the dark cloud rose, fell, rose again and then, just as suddenly veered away with a great rush to descend in a swoop on the nearby trees.
Deirdre looked across. Her father and brothers were laughing. Conall’s face she could not see. But glancing at the crowds on the earthwork walls above, she realised, with a new, foreboding horror what they had witnessed.
Conall had just passed through a black mist, as he came to Tara.
The geissi were complete.
There was no time to think of that now as they raced up the slope and into the huge enclosure of Tara. There were burning torches lining the route which led to the crest of the hill. As they reached the final stretch, two of the chariots halted, leaving Conall to proceed alone up the short ceremonial avenue with its earthwork walls at the head of which, flanked by his chiefs, the High King was standing.
Deirdre saw Conall step down from his chariot and go to the king. She saw the king bare his breast for his nephew to kiss and then return the gesture of reconciliation. Next Conall kneeled before his uncle, who placed his hands on the younger man’s head in a blessing. Though she might have been glad of these signs of love and forgiveness, she was still so shaken by the swarming birds that she felt only a sense of unease. It seemed to her, now, too good to be true. And why, after they had finished their greeting, did the High King and his men step to one side, as though honouring Conall, as he walked through their midst towards the group of druids who, she saw, had been waiting behind the royal party? Why was Conall, the runaway prince, suddenly a hero?
“You are to come with me now.” She looked down and was surprised to see Larine smiling beside her chariot. “A place has been prepared for you to rest. You will be in good hands.” Seeing her look at him doubtfully he added, “You carry Conall’s child. You will be greatly honoured. Follow me.” And leading the way, he took her towards a small lodging. Just before they reached it she noticed Goibniu the Smith. He was standing alone, watching her. She did not acknowledge him, nor did he make any attempt to greet her. He just watched her. She didn’t know why. As they reached the lodge she asked, “Where is Conall?”
“I shall bring him to you shortly,” Larine promised.
There was a slave girl there who gave her refreshments. Her father and brothers, she supposed, were being given lodgings elsewhere. where. There were plenty of people moving about in the huge encampment, but nobody came over to her when she stood in her doorway. She had the sensation they were politely ignoring her, as if she had been set apart.
Then, at last, Conall came. He came with Larine, who lingered a few paces away.
How at peace Conall seemed. Grave, but at peace. She supposed it was relief at having been reconciled with his uncle. How kindly and lovingly he looked down at her.
“I have been with the druids, Deirdre,” he said gently. “There were things to be done.” He paused. “They are going to do me a great honour.”
“That is good, Conall,” she said, without understanding.
“I am to go on a journey, Deirdre, that only a prince can make. And if it is pleasing to the gods, it will bring better harvests.” He paused, gazing at her thoughtfully. “If it were necessary for me to travel across the sea to the blessed isles in order to speak with the gods, would you try to prevent my departure?”
“I should await your return. But the blessed isles,” she added nervously, “are far away, Conall, in the western sea.”
“That is true. And if I were shipwrecked, you would mourn me, but you would be proud, would you not? You would tell my son to be proud of his father?”
“How could your son not be proud of his father?”
“My father died in battle, with honour. So my mother and I did not grieve for him, because we knew he was with the gods.”
“What is this to me, Conall?” she asked, confused.
Now Conall was beckoning Larine to draw close.
“Deirdre,” he said, “you know that you alone are the love of my life and that you carry my son. If you love me as I love you, do not grieve if I depart upon a journey. And if you love me, remember this. Finbarr, whom I killed, was my dearest friend. But Larine here is an even better friend. I must leave you now because it is the will of the gods. But let Larine be your friend and counsellor always and you will never come to harm.” With that, he lovingly kissed her; then he turned and strode away, leaving her with the druid.
And then Larine told her what was going to happen.
Dawn was approaching. Was he afraid? He did not think so.
When Conall was a child, the eve of Samhain had seemed a magical but a dangerous time. People left food for the visiting spirits, but they put out their fires to make sure the dangerous visitors did not linger there. His mother would always make him sleep close to her that night when he was a little boy. After the long night, would come the culling of the animals—the cattle, pigs, and sheep selected for winter slaughter. There was always something melancholy to Conall in the lowing of the cattle as they were led towards the pen where the cattlemen were waiting with their knives. The other little boys always used to think it a great joke when the pigs were seized and the ropes tied round their trotters while they squealed. After the men had hauled them by their hind legs up a tree would come the throat slitting, with more squealing and red blood flooding out and splattering everywhere. Conall had never enjoyed the butchery, however necessary, and took his comfort from the druid blessing the scene.
On Samhain eve, when he was somewhat older, he used to slip out and sit by himself outside. All through the night he would watch for the vague shadows, and listen for soft footfalls as the spirits came to visit, sliding into wicker huts or brushing against the autumn trees. One in particular he had waited for. Surely, he had thought as a little boy, his heroic father would come to visit him. Again and again he would conjure pictures of his father in his mind—the tall figure his mother had told him about, with flashing blue eyes and flowing moustaches. Wouldn’t his father come? Yet he never had. Once, on the Samhain eve when he was fourteen, he had experienced something: a strange sense of warmth, a presence near him. And because he had longed and ached for it to be so, he believed it was his father.
But this last night had been different. He had been glad of Larine for company. He had asked that Larine should take him through the ordeal and the request had been granted. They had sat together, talked and prayed a little, recited from the sacred sayings. Then, towards the middle of the night, Larine had left him alone for a while.
So hard had he been concentrating on the ordeal ahead that he had even forgotten that the spirits were abroad that night. Sitting alone in the darkness of the druid’s house, he was not sure whether he had fallen asleep or whether he was awake; but it was sometime in the deepest part of the night that he saw the figu
re enter. He was as plainly visible as Larine, which was strange perhaps, as there was no light; and he knew at once who it was. His father stood just in front of him, with a grave but kindly smile.
“I have waited so long for you, Father,” he said.
“We shall be together soon, Conall,” his father replied. “We shall be together always, in the lands of the bright morning. I have many things to show you.” Then he went out again, and Conall felt a sense of great peace, knowing that he was going to his father with the blessing of the gods.
It had been a long time since they had sacrificed a man at Tara. Not for three generations at least. That made the ceremony all the more solemn and important. If anything could lift the curse that had seemingly fallen upon the High King and the whole land, surely it must be this. If he hoped to purge his own sense of grief and guilt after his elopement with Deirdre and the killing of Finbarr, such a sacrifice would atone. Yet his overwhelming sense, as he prepared to pass through the portals into the next world, was not one of personal sacrifice. It was hardly even one of sorrow or joy. Sorrow was needless, joy not enough. What Conall felt now was a sense of destiny. It was not just that the three geissi and the prophecy about Finbarr had all been fulfilled, but rather that, in this act, all that he was—prince, warrior, druid—found their perfect expression. It was the noblest death, the finest. It was what he had been born for. To be at one with the gods: it was his homecoming. He remained at peace until, just as the first hint of dawn appeared in the east, Larine returned.
They fed him a little burnt cake and crushed hazelnuts, for the hazel tree was sacred. He took three sips of water and, when he was finished, stripped. Then, after washing him carefully, they painted his naked body red with dye. This took a little time to dry. When it had, Larine tied an armlet of fox fur round Conall’s left arm. After that, he had to wait, but only for a little time. For already it was growing light outside the door. And soon enough, with a smile, Larine said to him, “Come.”
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