by Pat O'Shea
Reaching a short wooden jetty, the dark man stopped and waited for them to catch up. He motioned them towards a small boat with sails. Holding hands, the children climbed on board.
After untying the mooring rope, the man too climbed aboard. He stood tall and proud in the stern and pointed to seats in the bow, and the children immediately scrambled forward and sat down. Then the man simply pointed with great authority towards the lake and the boat began to move of its own accord. The canvas filled out and the boat sped forward, up the river towards the lake.
The sky was dark now and full of menace. Lightning like whips of fire appeared in the sky, lashing and cracking and belting the clouds which scattered like sheep from dogs. Then it hit the earth on either side of the river with savage, venomous spits.
The sails cracked loudly as the wind caught at them and the boat moved at an unbelievable speed. Still the man pointed and the boat moved forward tight on its course, as if the boat and the wind were linked in obedience to the man’s wishes.
They were passing the Dyke already. To think I only cycled up there the day before yesterday, without any idea in the world of what was to happen, Pidge said to himself, marvelling. He was holding Brigit tightly. He thought that she must be too terrified to talk.
The lightning stopped and a terrible blackness came, through which they could see nothing at all. Brigit clutched at him and he held her as hard as he could, to comfort her. Rain poured down and drenched the sails.
‘Darkness and Light are old companions, two sides of one thing. They are part of the great natural balance. One wouldn’t even have a name if the other didn’t exist. Do not fear Darkness,’ the man said very plainly and matter-of-factly. The tone he used made it clear that he thought little or nothing of this strange, impenetrable blackness.
But it persisted for some time and was dense and horrid and very hard to bear. It was eerie being out in a small boat and not knowing where they were going. If only it were possible to see something, even the surface of the water!
The lightning began again and, against all reason, it seemed preferable because it took away the sense of being smothered and enclosed. They were now approachng the Friar’s Cut—a narrow channel cut through to the lake as a quicker way than following the river.
This means we’ve passed Menlo Castle already, Pidge knew.
They were within yards of the Cut, when lightning struck like a snake, at the banks on either side and at once, two walls of flame roared on both sides of the channel. Pidge dragged Brigit down onto the floor of the boat and shielded her with his body.
The dark man continued to point and the little boat obeyed and sailed through the walls of flame. After what seemed to be ages and ages, the boat emerged with sails not only dried, but scorched; and they now sailed out on to the lake.
The lightning kept on beating at the sky and the earth, and in its light the children saw that the tall, dark man had a face that looked noble and handsome, and that he was dressed in flowing robes and had long hair under a strange head-dress. In his hand he held a staff of oak with some leaves still growing on it and mistletoe twined all around it and, beneath his belt, there was a golden sickle.
‘Why! You’re a Druid!’ cried Pidge.
Chapter 3
THE wind snatched the words from his mouth and took them away ahead of them to the side of a quiet river in County Mayo, where an angler, who had a poor opinion of himself in everything, stood hopefully.
‘Why! You’re a Druid,’ the wind said into his ear and at that second he hooked the biggest salmon ever, onto his line.
‘Why! I am! I am! I must be!’ he cried, and took a different view of himself from then onward. And was the better for it.
The tall, dark man in the boat heard the words quicker than the wind taking them away.
‘I am Cathbad,’ he said and Pidge now knew for sure. He had read of Cathbad, the wisest of the Druids.
The bottom of the little boat scraped on shingle and Cathbad, by a sign with his hand, showed them that this was where they should land.
They climbed out and on to the dry earth, both of them amazed that everything, including themselves, was not wet through after such rain and wondering where exactly they had landed.
They were now on the west side of Lough Corrib, but it was so big a lake and with so much shore-line, they could be anywhere.
There was heavy cloud and the sky was still dark with unspent storm. Rain was still falling in the distance and as he looked about, he fancied he saw the shapes of mountains to the right of him through the haze. If that’s north, they should be the Maamturks and we’ve come ashore below them. If I can see other mountains in the west, they’ll be the Twelve Pins, he surmised.
He tried to pierce the rainhaze by focusing his eyes in a narrow stare. If he could just see the shapes of the Twelve Pins on the skyline he was sure that he would recognize them and get a bearing. But it was no use.
He turned to ask Cathbad but the Druid had gone, and all that was to be seen was the speck of white of the sail, where his boat was a dot far away on the expanse of the water. It was small enough to be only a seabird.
‘What do we do now?’ he said.
There was another flash of lightning.
‘There’s no hounds; run for shelter,’ Brigit said and they ran.
As they ran, the blackness came down again like a thick quilt of sorrow and the thunder exploded across the sky and sounded as if it were overthrowing temples and ethics and crashing them down like sixpenny plates. Lightning darted and streaked in long, crooked daggers of white fire; a knife-throwing act of some mad and wicked God.
That’s what it is, Pidge was thinking. So it’s magic and there’s no realness in it and if it hits us—it would probably be no more dangerous than a blow from a bubble.
But, just in case, he still ran with Brigit.
The blackness was even more solid and they had to rely on the light from the flashes to see ahead and know where to run when the light had gone. They saw before them the low wall of a field and ran to climb over. Just as they reached the wall, the blackness came down again and they could barely make out the stones, but their hands were on them, so feeling their way, they climbed in.
And then, the singing began.
The thunder stopped and they were in the field and running.
The singing was the singing of men; a choir of men’s voices; and they sang a song of bravery and courage and it was very powerful.
The very last flashes of lightning came and they spat at the walls of the field.
There was no sign of the singers: all that could be seen was that the field was a bit uneven and bumpy, and that there was a natural shelter of trees grown tall, with their high branches arching and meshing together like a blueprint for a Cathedral roof, dense enough to obscure the sky.
Knowing full well that to be under trees in a storm is to be utterly mad and foolish, still Pidge ran with Brigit for the sake of feeling covered and protected; and, for all that he thought it was magic and not true lightning, he was afraid.
Thankfully they crawled into an opening like a little nest in the undergrowth and sat down on the sweet, dry earth.
‘I wonder where we are?’ Pidge ventured.
‘In the Field Of The Seven and safe from danger,’ said a voice.
‘That’s good news,’ said Brigit.
Is it though? Pidge wondered silently.
There was a long pause and a small slit of light appeared in the sky; and in a little while it widened and brightness spread and streamed; the darkness moved away and small, brave birds reclaimed their own place, singing.
And then the voices began to speak, as though making conversation:
‘There is nothing like having a head,’ said one; ‘it is a bag full of treasure.’
‘A head is like the earth,’ said another; ‘the more you put in—the more you get out.’
‘Every head is a secret,’ said a third; ‘and everyone wants to know a s
ecret.’
‘Every head has a sweetness curling up inside it somewhere,’ said a fourth; ‘and who is there who wouldn’t like to taste it?’
‘Every head has a cunning hiding in its little caves,’ said a fifth; ‘and who would not like to find it?’
‘A head holds its mysteries like a periwinkle,’ said a sixth; ‘but you can’t get them out with a pin.’
‘Every head is the head of an artist,’ said the seventh and last voice; ‘because it can see and hold beauty if it’s only once in its life.’
Pidge and Brigit had listened to this with amazed interest. Brigit was especially fascinated.
‘I didn’t know all that about heads,’ she said. ‘I thought it was just the way we got finished off at the top, the way we get finished off at the bottom with feet. Heads are really interesting.’
The voices spoke again and recited a list:
‘The harp came out of the human head.’
‘The pointed tip of a casting-spear and the sharpness of the sword-blade with three edges, came out of the human head.’
‘The proper teaching of wolfhounds and young warriors, came out of the human head.’
‘The elegance of coloured dress, the use of threads and the twisting of ornaments in gold and silver, came out of the human head.’
‘The making, remembering and chanting of songs and genealogies and the words for each little thing, came out of the human head.’
‘The love of the dawn and the sunset, came out of the human head.’
‘The art of roasting meat and the knowledge of good herbs, came out of the human head.’
Brigit was dying to have her say and, when she was sure that everyone who was going to speak had spoken—she announced proudly:
‘The steam-engine came out of the human head! Rock cakes came out of the human head and so did sausages and bicycles.’
She stood up and walked out of the sheltering trees and looked around to see if she could see the speakers. Quickly Pidge followed her, to try to protect her if there was any danger.
They looked everywhere.
It was quite a bumpy field, all right.
Small bumps.
Seven of them in a straight line.
‘Knives and forks came out of the human head,’ she said encouragingly, ‘and so did toothbrushes and hellercopters and chocolate biscuits.’
‘How sweetly she talks,’ one voice remarked in a sweet sound of its own.
‘Where are you?’ Pidge asked with some caution.
‘Here,’ said another voice.
‘Aw come on, do,’ said Brigit in her most coaxing way, ‘let us see you—don’t be shy.’
And the reply came:
‘Tell us your names and where you go, to know if you are the right ones.’
‘I’m Pidge and this is my sister Brigit, and we go on a journey for The Dagda,’ Pidge said shyly; it felt odd to say grand things about The Dagda and themselves.
‘Ah! These are the ones!’ the voice told the others.
‘Good,’ Brigit said briskly. ‘Now, come out ’till we see you.’
‘First you must consult your sighting-glass and see how your enemies fare.’
Pidge felt very embarrassed that he hadn’t thought of this himself, though really there hadn’t been time. How stupid of me not to realize that I could do this whenever I wanted to, he said to himself.
He got out the little glass ball and gave it a shake. Brigit was excited and jumped up and down in eagerness. This time, when the snowflakes had cleared, they saw the great stones at Shancreg and the hounds still running this way and that, as they searched for a way in. They were no longer disguised as people. Pidge felt the most enormous sense of relief surging through him, even though he was by now unafraid. It was good to know that they were well ahead. In a few seconds, the alpine scene was back as before.
‘It’s all right,’ he said happily.
‘And now, Brigit must play her pipe for us,’ one of the voices instructed.
‘Is it me?’ Brigit said, with the beginning of a horrible smirk on her face.
‘You, indeed.’
‘I haven’t got a pipe,’ she said, her face falling.
‘Yes you have,’ Pidge said, opening the schoolbag and taking out the penny whistle. He handed it to her.
‘I’ve never learned to play it but I’ll give you a blast, anyway,’ she said confidently.
She put the whistle to her lips and covered the holes as well as she could with her small fingers. She drew in a breath and blew.
A little tune that nobody ever heard before came out of the whistle; a tune that was a musical crinkle, there were so many notes in it.
And then something happened to the seven bumps on the ground and in their places were seven heads; men, all young, all with long hair and bright eyes, and each one wore a necklet of twisted gold, a little dulled.
Brigit dropped down to her knees and said:
‘Hello!’
Pidge knelt down too and asked:
‘Who are you?’
‘I am Maine Mingor, the Gently Dutiful,’ said the first one.
‘And I am Maine Morgor, the Very Dutiful,’ said the second.
‘I am Maine Andoe, The Quick.’
‘I am Maine Mo-Epert, The Talker.’
‘I am Maine Mathremail, like my mother.’
‘I am Maine Athremail, like my father.’
‘And I am Maine Milscothach, the Honey-Worded,’ said the last.
‘And we are the Seven Sons of Maeve and Ailill,’ concluded the one named The Talker.
‘Oh! I’ve heard of Queen Maeve!’ Pidge said with delight.
‘So have I!’ Brigit said quickly.
‘She was our fierce, wild, courageous, boastful, proud, laughing, loving mother, and we loved her and she loved us.’
‘Sometimes, she was a bit mad,’ said Maine Athremail—reminding them.
‘I won’t deny it,’ said Maine Mathremail, ‘but she smelled lovely.’
Brigit was looking at them critically.
‘You’ve all got dirty faces and your hair is all in tangles,’ she said.
All the faces looked at each other and smiled.
‘She sounds just like our Mammy, the Queen. Many a time she hammered us when we were small for the same fault, and said not to be walking around as if we were minding pigs and disgracing her; but to try and look like the sons of a Queen, or she’d skin us,’ said Maine Mingor, the Gently Dutiful.
‘And other times, she said that we were her own lovely boys and she loved us for personal reasons, so she did,’ said Maine Milscothach, the Honey-Worded, and his voice was indeed as sweet as honey.
‘Would you like me to wash you and comb your hair?’ Brigit asked.
‘That would be the right thing to do, plain enough,’ said Maine Andoe, The Quick.
‘Where’s the nearest water?’ she asked.
‘Not the lake,’ Pidge butted in quickly. ‘Not as far as the lake.’
‘Over in that corner, to the right of you, there is a spring; we hear its soft chanting night and day.’
Brigit went over and wet her hankie; Pidge searched his pockets for a comb.
‘Now,’ Brigit said, kneeling by Maine Mingor, ‘hold up!’
Maine Mingor held his head up, delightedly.
‘Shut your eyes!’
‘Just like our Mammy when we were no higher than a heifer’s knee and plump as bolsters,’ he said, and turned and beamed at his brothers, who all beamed back at him as they remembered Queen Maeve, fondly.
‘Keep still!’ Brigit commanded, turning his face back square in front of her and rubbing vigorously.
‘Not too hard,’ Maine Mingor said.
‘Don’t be a baby!’ she replied sternly, and all the other Maines whooped with joy.
‘Shut your eyes.’
Maine Mingor was gently dutiful, as he closed his eyes obediently.
‘This bit is a bit hard—it won’t come off,’ she s
aid and spat on her finger and rubbed harder.
‘How often our Mammy spat on her finger in just that manner and struggled in the same way with a defiant bit of dirt!’ said Maine Morgor, the Very Dutiful, his voice gentle and the look on his face, very loving.
‘There now—you’ll pass. I’ll comb your hair.’
Pidge had the comb ready.
‘No! No! Let your brother do the combing and you do the washing. And you must say everything to us that you said to Maine Mingor—to be fair,’ Maine Mo-Epert, The Talker said.
‘And you must spit on the finger for us and everything,’ said Maine Milscothach, the Honey-Worded, ‘and not leave anything out at all.’
So, Brigit moved on and Pidge combed Maine Mingor’s hair, being very careful not to drag the tangles. Some of the hair came out, trapped in the teeth of the comb.
‘Don’t throw any of the hair away; you’d never know the hour when it might come in useful. I say this thing most seriously for there is marvellous power in our hair,’ Maine Mingor said gravely.
And soon they were all washed and combed and handsome, and Brigit gave all the gold necklets a bit of a shine, and told them that she had once got one in a Lucky Bag; quite sure that hers was gold too. They smiled and wished they could see a marvel called a Lucky Bag. Pidge carefully gathered all the hair in a soft, glinting ball. He rolled it small between his palms and put it inside the leather bag with the other things.
‘Now,’ said Mo-Epert, The Talker, ‘there is one other thing you must do. In each of our mouths there is a little seed. We will bring them out so that you may gather them off our lips. Keep these with great care, as well.’
And then there was a wheat seed waiting to be taken from each of the Maines.
‘It is time for you to ask us a question,’ said Mo-Epert.
Pidge thought hard. There were too many questions. After a time he said:
‘I’ll just ask—do you know which way we should go?’