In the Land of the Everliving

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  ‘I think that is Lough Tass,’ mused Fergal. ‘And look over there’—he pointed to a smudge of smoke rising above the trees on the western side of the lake—‘a settlement, maybe?’

  ‘A fishing camp, more like,’ replied Donal.

  ‘More likely than a ráth?’ wondered Fergal. ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘It seems plain enough to me.’

  ‘Not to me.’

  Conor gave an impatient snort and said, ‘Listen to the both of you. Why stand here squabbling when we can go there and end all dispute?’

  Quitting the shelter of the trees, the three rode on, skirting the lakeshore and arriving at the smallholding a short time later—a rough little steading consisting of nothing more than a cluster of round, reed-thatched huts and outbuildings huddled around a single large round house; there was a small pen for animals, of which they saw only a few goats and sheep, and a long, raised wooden walkway leading to the lough. The holding was surrounded by a simple palisade of ashwood stakes held together by woven willow branches. Although the travellers saw smoke from a fire drifting up through the roof of what they took to be the main house, there seemed to be no one about.

  The three stood off a short distance, shielded by the low brush that lined the banks of the lough, to observe and see what they might learn of the place. ‘If that is Lough Tass,’ mused Donal after a time, ‘then we are in Ulaid lands, I think.’

  ‘Who is king there now?’ wondered Fergal. ‘Lord Tamlaigh? Is that his name?’

  ‘Dalaigh, I think.’

  ‘Nay, brother, I’m sure it is Tamlaigh.’

  ‘Does it matter?’ snipped Conor. ‘Ask instead if they have food and shelter for travellers.’

  Fergal and Donal exchanged a look of concern, but said nothing. They continued to watch awhile longer and, seeing nothing to alert or alarm, proceeded to the holding where they were met by two old men and three old women who greeted them warily, explaining that they were maintaining the place for use by the tribe’s fishermen and hunters. ‘I commend your diligence,’ Fergal told them. ‘May I be so bold as to ask if you have a roof and a meal to spare for hungry wayfarers?’

  ‘We do,’ replied the stout white-haired man who seemed to be the spokesman of the group. ‘And, since we are being bold, perhaps you have a little gold or silver to spare for some poor caretakers on a damp and lonely lough?’

  The travellers stared at the audacity of the fellow—asking for payment in exchange for food and shelter. Fergal, ready to chasten the lout for his rudeness, glanced at Conor who only shook his head slowly. Before either of them could reply, one of the women pushed forward. ‘Get away with you, Obhar!’ she cried, shoving the man aside. ‘That is no comely way to treat with strangers—and right noble lords, too, by the look of them. Get you off and make up the fire.’ The old man shuffled away, muttering. Turning to Fergal, the woman said, ‘We do not see many visitors here, lord. But we will do our best by you, never fear. What we have we will gladly share, and welcome to you.’

  The old woman and her two companions hurried off to begin preparing the meal, leaving the visitors in the care of the remaining old man. ‘Noblemen, is it?’ he said, casting a watery eye over their obviously rare and expensive clothing.

  ‘Warriors,’ corrected Conor, ‘from Lord Ardan’s warband—all three of us.’

  ‘Wayfaring, eh? You’re not so very far from Darini lands,’ he observed. ‘But I expect you know that.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Donal, ‘we’ve just come from Dúnaird. We’re heading south.’

  ‘Well, you best come along in, then.’ He turned and, motioning the visitors to follow, led them into the little circle of dwellings and outbuildings that formed the holding. They were shown to one of the huts used by the hunters. ‘You can sleep there,’ he told them. ‘It’ll be tight enough. And there is a barn just behind for the horses—fine animals that they are. You can put them up in there and I’ll fetch a bit of fodder in time.’ He glanced around the hut as if to satisfy himself that all was as it should be, then took his leave, saying, ‘Rest yourselves here the while. Calla will bring you some embers to start the fire.’ He nodded. ‘I’ll come back when I’ve opened the barrel and poured the ale. I’m Dalaigh, so you know.’

  ‘Like your king.’

  ‘Aye, just like.’ He grinned, showing a smile with two missing teeth. ‘Shout for me if you need anything more just now.’ He pushed open the door, paused, and added over his shoulder, ‘Pay no heed to Obhar, now. Greed gets hold of him from time to time, but he means no ill.’

  Donal thanked the man for his care, and told him they would enjoy speaking to him more about recent events in the region over their cups.

  ‘Good man,’ observed Donal as the door closed leaving them alone.

  ‘For an Ulaid, you mean,’ added Fergal.

  ‘For anyone at all.’ Donal looked around the room and, seeing four sleeping pallets piled with furs, sat down on the nearest one. ‘This will do.’

  ‘Let’s see to the horses,’ Conor said. Stepping out the door, he disappeared into the yard outside.

  Fergal watched the door close, then said, ‘Conor is hurting. Should we be worried?’

  ‘The wound to his pride is still fresh,’ Donal pointed out. ‘Allow him a little time to heal.’

  That night in the round house the visitors were treated to a simple meal of stewed hare flavoured with fennel and mustard greens, fresh bread and salted butter, and sweet brown ale served in cedar cups. They sat cross-legged on the floor or reclined on rolled-up fleeces and ate while the women fluttered around, serving them dishes and filling cups and bowls. Ferga, licking his fingers, commented on the savoury dish. ‘Three cooks at the hearth,’ observed Dalaigh sagely. ‘Always delicious.’

  ‘And never dull,’ added Obhar, drawing the ire of Calla, who was just then ladling stew into his bowl.

  ‘Ach! And if I hear another word like that, you miserable man, you will be cooking your thin gruel all on your own.’

  Old Obhar hunched his shoulders at the rebuke, but glanced up as she moved on. ‘So it is,’ he whispered.

  ‘A man of my own heart!’ Fergal laughed and, lifting his cup, declared, ‘I drink to you, Obhar the Forbearing. May your endless vat of patience never run dry.’

  Conor and Donal raised their cups to the grumpy old fellow, shouting, ‘Obhar Foditiu!’ The epithet made him smile; Dalaigh roared with laughter, and all the women tittered behind their hands. Conor invited the women to join them, with mannerly protests over the impropriety, they happily settled in among their cordial guests.

  The simple meal became a revel then. Conor roused himself from his lethargy and gloom and, when the ale had sufficiently loosened everyone’s tongue, he began to enquire into what they knew about the Scálda attack that had taken King Brecan’s life. ‘You heard about that, have you?’

  ‘Ach, well,’ Dalaigh made a sour face, ‘nasty doings—that’s what we heard. The Scálda are always making trouble. Know you, they mean to kill us all—those dog-eating…’ His mouth worked into a curse, but words failed him. ‘Nasty doings.’

  ‘Too true,’ said Obhar, swirling the ale in his cup. ‘It was that—ambushed on his way home from a hunt. And on his own lands as well!’

  ‘You weren’t there!’ Calla pointed out tartly.

  ‘I was not,’ Obhar agreed. ‘And glad of that, I should be.’ He turned a woeful face to his guests. ‘Beastly thing it was, too, from what I hear—’

  ‘Which is little enough,’ one of the women said.

  ‘Enough to know that it was a right roguish and hateful affair,’ he maintained.

  ‘So it was, too,’ confirmed Dalaigh. He took a long draught of his cup and the refilled it, emptying the jar. He handed the empty vessel to Calla who rose and went to refill it. ‘Obhar is right. They are saying that the Scálda attacked the hunt—swooping out of the wood. Killed the king and his champion with him.’

  ‘Anything about being betrayed by on
e of his own warriors?’ asked Conor. Fergal and Donal leaned forward to hear the answer.

  ‘Ach, now,’ said Obhar, ‘now that you mention it, there may have been something like that. Aye, I think so.’ He nodded sagely and sucked his teeth.

  ‘We had it that poor Brecan was taken in a raid while out hunting,’ confirmed Dalaigh. ‘If there was more to it than that, I never heard it.’

  ‘And I the same,’ said Calla. ‘We all heard the same.’

  ‘Do you stay here all the time?’ wondered Donal. ‘All of you?’

  ‘I mostly stay here,’ said Obhar. ‘Me and Binne mostly.’ He nodded to the grey-haired woman next to Conor. ‘Someone has to keep the place together for when the fishers and hunters come. The others stay or go as they will, bringing supplies and that.’

  ‘Not the winter, though,’ the woman called Binne replied. ‘Nay, nay, not the winter. We’ll abide here a moon or two longer then go back to the ráth.’

  ‘Is your ráth far?’ wondered Fergal.

  ‘Half a day to the west,’ Dalaigh told him. ‘That and no more. Are you thinking of going there?’

  ‘We are going to Dún Cruach to speak to Lord Cahir,’ said Fergal. At Dalaigh and Obhar’s uncomprehending gaze, he added, ‘Cahir of the Coriondi.’

  ‘Ach, that is some days from here,’ said Dalaigh helpfully. ‘The Coriondi we know.’

  ‘I’d have thought you were going to the Brigantes,’ said Calla. ‘They are without a king for all that and you being noblemen. All spears welcome—that is what they are saying now. For men like you, I’d have thought that made sense.’

  ‘What do you know about it, woman?’ muttered Obhar.

  ‘I heard what you heard,’ she replied crisply. ‘Word for word—same as you. So, do not come all puffed up and proudy with me, Obhar Foditiu!’ Everybody laughed again, including Obhar.

  ‘I expect they’ll be about choosing a new high king,’ said one of the women. ‘All the lords, that is.’

  ‘Lord Brecan was not the high king,’ said Fergal after another drink.

  ‘Was he not?’ said Dalaigh in mild surprise.

  ‘He was not,’ Fergal told him firmly. ‘As much as he wanted folk to think he wore the golden torc, he had in no way earned that honour.’

  ‘You say the kings are to be summoned to decide what should be done about Brecan’s death?’ said Conor, steering the conversation back on course. ‘When is that gathering to take place?’

  The question drew vacant looks all around the table. ‘I don’t think we ever heard that at all,’ offered Calla at last. ‘If anyone said as much, we didn’t hear it.’

  ‘Soon I expect,’ remarked Obhar. ‘What with the dog-eaters pressing everyone so hard. We need a new high king to drive them out.’

  ‘Exactly what we need in these dark days,’ agreed Dalaigh, and Obhar nodded sagely. ‘A right worthy high king.’

  He raised the jar and offered it to Conor. ‘Your cup is dry, friend. Fill it and let us drink to better days to come.’

  ‘A grand idea,’ said Conor, lifting his cup to be filled. ‘Let us all drink to better days.’

  10

  The three travellers left the lough-side holding the next morning with the best regards of their elderly hosts who saw them on their way with supplies of dried bósaill—the strips of salty, sun-dried beef favoured by warriors—flat, fragrant stacks of smoked trout, a couple rounds of hard cheese, and black bread in fist-sized loaves, twice-baked for eating on the trail. ‘Sprinkle a little water on them and they’ll soften, so they will,’ Calla told them as she handed the bundle to Donal. The provisions were wrapped in grass cloth, packed into the fine kidskin travelling bags the faéry had given them, and strapped to the horses.

  Fergal pledged to remember the kindness shown them and to repay it one day. ‘Just drive out that Balor Evil Eye,’ Dalaigh replied. ‘That is all the reward anyone could ask.’

  ‘That is the sole aim of my life,’ Fergal told him. ‘Aye, and that day cannot come soon enough.’

  The three resumed their journey and the sun had scarce quartered the sky when they came to a crossing of the ways: one track led to the west, the other wound down a long range of hills to lower land in the south. Here, Conor halted. Fergal riding a few lengths behind, saw him stop. ‘What—have you heard something?’

  ‘Brother, I have just been thinking.’

  Fergal called to Donal who was a short distance in the lead. ‘Hold up!’ he called. ‘Conor here has had a thought.’ To Conor, he said, ‘Dangerous occupation, thinking—at least when you attempt it.’

  ‘You say that only because you are so much out of practice,’ Conor told him, a flash of his former humour returning. The short time spent with the simple fisher folk had salved the pain in his heart. ‘But with a little effort, you might soon acquire the skill.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Donal, joining them just then. ‘What are you thinking, Conor?’

  ‘I am thinking that it is to Aintrén we should be going, not Dún Cruach.’

  ‘To the Brigantes?’ said Donal. ‘Not Lord Cahir?’

  Fergal glanced at Donal and frowned. ‘It is as I feared,’ he said. To Conor he said, ‘Why ever would we want to go among the puffed-up Brigantes—especially now when their king is dead and their warband ruined?’

  ‘But this is the best time of all to go to them,’ answered Conor, his voice taking on confidence as he spoke. ‘Remember what the fishwife told us back there?’ He gestured vaguely in the direction of the holding behind them.

  ‘All spears welcome,’ replied Donal, a slow smile spreading across his broad face. ‘They are needing warriors, and we are needing a warband.’

  ‘That is as may be,’ allowed Fergal mildly. ‘But how is it to look when, after all that has passed, you show up hale and whole when the last time anyone saw you was with Brecan on the night he was murdered? How is that to look?’

  Conor stared at him. ‘You mean that they will think I was the one who betrayed Brecan? Go ahead and say it, brother. That’s what you are thinking.’

  ‘I am that,’ Fergal said, nodding. ‘But never mind me. What if that is what the Brigantes are thinking? That is the lie they are telling everyone. A friendly welcome is the last thing they will be giving you. A blade through the ribs, more like.’ He let that sink in a moment then added, ‘Better by far that we should be going to Dún Cruach—and maybe Lord Cahir could be convinced to intercede for us with Liam.’

  ‘As you know, that was my first thought, too,’ Conor allowed. ‘But I have been asking myself if I can live at Liam’s beck and call until I grow too old to lift a blade?’ He shook his head. ‘For all the gold in Eirlandia—and love of the world into the bargain—I cannot bring myself to spend a single day under his rule.’

  Fergal glanced at Donal for help in this debate, but Donal only shrugged.

  ‘Ach, but with the Brigantes now,’ Conor continued, his face brightening as he spoke, ‘we have a chance at something much greater.’ Fergal opened his mouth to object, but Conor cut him off, saying, ‘Hear me out. The Brigantes lost a king, but they also lost their champion and chief of battle—that heavy-handed brute Cethern—and with him Mog Ruith, the king’s chief advisor.’

  ‘I remember this Cethern,’ Fergal mused. ‘And that grim old disagreeable druid, too.’ He regarded Conor with a shrewd expression. ‘And is it your plan to worm your way into the battlechief’s empty place at the king’s board?’

  ‘That very thing, brother.’

  Fergal frowned, but Donal nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Even if they allow you inside the gates in one living piece, what makes you think anyone at Aintrén would let you sit in the battlechief’s place?’

  ‘Because, my doubtful friend, I bested their best in a single contest when I first joined Brecan’s host. That was the test the king set before me, and I won through. Because of that, the warriors know me and there are those among them even now who would support
me.’

  ‘If, by some wild leap, what you say is true,’ allowed Fergal, ‘it does not change the fact that the new king—whoever he may be—is sure to have other ideas. He will name his own man to lead the Brigantes warhost.’

  Conor’s smile grew into a grin. ‘That is where you’re wrong, brother. There will be no new king—at least, not for a season or two, I expect. The Brigantes have a queen. And,’ he added, with a guilty glance at his friends, ‘that queen has a certain fondness for me.’

  ‘Ha!’ cried Fergal. ‘You think every female in a girdle and shawl has a certain fondness for you.’

  ‘Ach, well, perhaps not every female. But I do know this one well enough,’ Conor assured him. ‘Lady Sceana did think warmly of me, and gave me reason to believe it—whether you believe me or not.’

  Fergal, shaking his head, replied, ‘At last I begin to see the shape of your delusion, Conor mac Ardan. You imagine that this besotted queen will throw open the doors to the hall and make you her champion and battlechief, and we will be embraced to the Brigantes bosom as long-lost kinsmen come home.’

  ‘Who better?’ said Conor. ‘I tell you they trust me. And there are those among the Brigantes who know I am no traitor. On the other hand, who knows what Cahir and the Coriondi have heard or believe?’

  The horses, having grown impatient with all the talk, snorted and chafed the damp ground, eager to be moving again. ‘There! You see?’ said Conor. ‘Even Búrach agrees with me.’

  ‘That settles the question, then. We’ll let the horses decide.’

  ‘We could do worse,’ suggested Conor. He reached out and patted his mount on the broad forehead. ‘Wise Búrach knows a thing or two about the ways of the world.’

  ‘Which is more than can be said for his rider,’ sighed Fergal.