Book of Kells

by R. A. MacAvoy

  John Thorbeorn groaned. In his weariness he swayed toward the paper, which was redolent of a familiar, not very pleasant smell. “Oh shit! Damn that idiot cop! And I think the tracing’s finally going too. It stinks.”

  He backed up a step. “Whistle the right tune for me, Derval.”

  “I can’t,” she admitted. “But I can do it pibrochaid, in voice alone. Start…now!”

  After ten seconds John stopped tracing. “That’s ‘The Coast of Newfoundland’ again.”

  Derval choked on her singing. “Is it? Christ, you’re right. They’re so alike, the one has driven the other from my head. Ailesh, you try.”

  The girl was willing, for she had no desire to push others into her private battle. A small three-holed cuislean was fetched for her, and John began again. This time he was almost through with the tracing before he recognized that the tune had slipped from the pipe air to the chantey, and he continued anyway. At the end of it, his hand was dripping with the inexplicable blood that soaked the paper.

  There was a creaking and a distant shushing noise, broken by the bleak, thin cry of a bird. A splotch of color appeared before John Thornburn, only to fade again immediately. John sniffed. “There it is again. The smell. I think the gate is rotten.”

  Derval put her hand out, but the brief apparition was over. “Not…rotten, I don’t think. But we certainly got it wrong this time.”

  “Perhaps you are not meant to get it right,” growled Blathmac, but then Father Conoran brushed by him, eyes alight. “I saw something, Eochaid. I did. In front of the bleeding cross. I saw a bird, all in white, and it spoke to me.”

  Eochaid lifted his black eyebrows. “What did it say?” But Conoran merely shook his head and sat down again.

  John stumbled outside. The fresh air hit him, and for a moment he could almost put a name on the stink that came out of the misopened gate. “Damn the idiot garda who played with my stereo. Now I can’t remember the real tune.”

  “What idiot garda?” Derval, with Ailesh by the hand, caught up with him. She laughed when he explained. “Ah well, Johnnie. Tunes are like that. Don’t worry. There’s still tomorrow.”

  He gave her a sick, hurt look in reply.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “And what was it that sustained your life so,” Patrick asked. Caeilte answered, “Truth was in our hearts, strength in our bodies and what we promised, that we did.”

  The Colloquy of the Ancients,

  from the Book of Lismore

  At the cold hour, just before the eastern stars went muddy, the abbey entered in upon its day’s worship, just as though everyone had slept. John sat bundled in a brat on one of the low benches that surrounded the church, watching MacCullen be washed all over with bitter-cold water. It seemed odd, surely the worst thing one could do when preparing to give a speech was to court laryngitis. But the poet scrubbed himself—even his hair—with a gusto John found repellent.

  So that’s what can turn Dr. O’Keane’s head around, he thought to himself. (He found it easier now to refer to her as Dr. O’Keane.) Well, she was welcome to it.

  There was something about this morning’s bustle that was very like a funeral, he considered. He didn’t mean the obvious, that it was their own large funeral to commence with the sun’s rising, but rather that it was like that of John’s grandfather. Bleakness, lack of sleep, and a great deal to do for everyone. Everyone except John. He turned his hat around and around under his hands, feeling the band his grandfather had knotted for him so long ago.

  Despite all the traditional hatred between the Church and the College of Poets, MacCullen was being given all the blessings and deference possible under the circumstances. Mass was said by the priest from Kerry, and though he had only seen a Catholic service once before, John could tell that a lot had changed in the last thousand years. A lighted menorah was held up as the Epistle was read on the left-hand side of the altar. Then the Bible was carried across to the right hand, where the Gospel was read, and the menorah was extinguished immediately thereafter. John was struck by the Jewishness of the Mass. He no longer wondered why they called the unbaptized the Gentiles.

  The knowledge that he would die today did not bother him at all, for he did not think about it. Not thinking about things was John’s specialty. But he did feel very bad about forgetting the magic tune that might have got everyone to safety. Hell, they might have just filed into his hallway and then gone out again to Ard na Bhfuinseoge—nothing even to upset Derval (Dr. O’Keane). Or the garda. He also resented somewhat that she, who was supposed to be so damn musical, let his mistake twist her own memory. What a bitch of a turn.

  Having filled a vessel with mead from the kitchen, Snorri Finnbogison prowled about until he found a secluded place where no priests would interrupt him. He had had his Mass and Communion like the good Christian he was, but now—Christ was good, but so was Thor. Snorri lifted the wooden bowl up to the stars. Muttering, he spilled out some of the drink. He sipped it, then lifted it, and finally spilled the whole lot of it out onto the grass. “Never have you failed me, Thor, true friend of brave men. Accept this ale. If I survive this battle, I will give a feast in your honor. I will sacrifice a bull, a stallion, and a goat. Hail Thor the Mighty!” He raised both his hands. Then quietly he turned back to the church, feeling he had done all that he could do.

  Derval rubbed Tinker’s legs with energy, talking to him as she did so. “I know you’re tired, baby horse. I know you did good, with that sack of potatoes bouncing on your back and sending you over a wall where there was no place to come down. You showed good heart, Tinker. Good bottom.

  “But now you’ve got to do more, even more for Ma. This morning we’re going to play Spanish Riding School, and I know we haven’t done that in a long time, but you just search your endless equine memory for the cues and we’ll be just fine. There’s nothing like you in this whole world, darling. Nothing at all like you.” She rubbed a speck of mash from the huge gray’s nose and adjusted the blanket—her blanket—more securely on his steaming back. Tinker rested his chin on the windowledge of the calving shed where he had been stalled, and gave out a long, sweet-smelling sigh.

  Ailesh watched John as he sat, lost in his meditations. She had brought him to this—she, Ailesh Goban’s Daughter. Bridget had given her grace such as no Irishwoman knew, outside of story, saving her life and bestowing upon her protectors from far away. Not mortal men. But no—in that Ailesh could only delude herself, for she had looked into Derval’s face and seen one prepared for death. But not ordinary men.

  Did not the old gods sometimes die? Bridget had said she’d lost a son. She had lost a foster son, too, if the histories were right, for the Son of Mary died. Eoin could—would—die.

  If I had not shocked him so, saying I would not go to safety with him, then he might not have forgotten the magic. Immediately as this thought arrived, Ailesh chided herself for conceit. Eoin did not think so much of her. Derval was his heart’s love, and she had left him this night for another. For MacCullen, who in all his show and arrogance could no more compare with gentle Eoin than a frog compete against birdsong.

  Tears stung her eyes and chilled her face. She put her hand over the cold iron head of the hammer in her belt, thinking if her heart did not let her be, she would be useless in the fight.

  Turning away from the sight of bundled Eoin, she ran smack into Snorri Finnbogison’s chest. The big man was already clothed in his black mail shirt, with his grand sword at his back. He grinned at her. As she apologized a voice—Eoin’s Voice—spoke from close behind her.

  “Snorri says a hammer is a good weapon to use from a horse, because if you miss you can keep on going. I—er—he thinks you should ride behind him. Only you have to be careful where you swing the thing, eh?”

  Ailesh looked from one man to the other, and the wetness on her face became tears of cold and wind.

  “Of course you could also ride behind Derval—she’d be glad to have you. But with what she’s pla
nning to do with Tinker, you’d probably get seasick, even if you didn’t fall off.”

  “But you, Eoin. Since you have a hammer also, what horse will you ride into battle?”

  A look of great pain crossed Eoin’s face, and Ailesh was suddenly shy. “I…I have ridden enough for one day,” he answered her. “I don’t think my legs will go that far apart again.”

  Ailesh found herself grinning like the Norseman, who seemed to understand at least part of what Eoin said. “It is true what the scholar says, then. The cow is your true mount.”

  Even John smiled to that, though it was an awkward smile. “No. A boat. You should see me ride a boat, Ailesh. Haven’t fallen out of a boat since I was a boy.”

  The three were laughing when Holvar Hjor winded his horn.

  Dressed in a priest’s vestment of red with an undergown of embroidered white linen, Labres MacCullen stepped into the chariot. Two ponies were hitched before it, one with black mane and tail and one with staring blue eyes. Delbeth, his driver, took up the lines and sent the ponies through the open gate.

  At the edge of the trampled earth around the enclosure the Norsemen stood ranked, their swords and spears upon the ground before them. MacCullen glanced from face to face, and though the light was still dim, many of those faces he remembered from Ard na Bhfuinseoge. He took a breath, feeling the openwork of the léinne oddly rough against his shoulders.

  Out from the line stepped a short man, dressed in boiled leather and black iron rings like any of his fellows. It was Holvar Hjor, and he carried a banner blazoned with a black crow. He strode forward but did not approach the chariot closely, lest he have to look up at the poet. He spoke.

  “Ere steel-spangled combat

  The sun-rivaling bloodstars ply

  To word-war.

  I challenge you, poet-brother,

  To wit-sharp dueling.”

  MacCullen savored the elegance of the couplets, then smiled slowly. He shook his head a little, like a spirited horse, then he looked into Holvar’s eyes—into the blue fire burning in there.

  Extemporaneous composition was of course the most difficult of all: the poetry of heroes. All the more so when made at the point of a sword. Death hung heavily over both of them, despite the flimsy ritual truce.

  But MacCullen had no time to be afraid. In heart and eye, the two had already begun the battle.

  “Yes, utterances of learned beauty

  The twisting wiles of wordcraft speak

  No hesitation

  For he who stumbles now

  The web goes wry.”

  MacCullen’s answer matched the challenge so perfectly in meter that it would have seemed to anyone unaware of the circumstances that they were reciting verses of a poem well-known to both of them. There were grunts of appreciation from the spectators. Holvar grinned with fierce pleasure. MacCullen was a true man, he decided. A worthy opponent. Like a pair of rutting stallions they energized each other.

  Holvar raised his right arm in an elegant gesture.

  “Rushing headlong into rhyme

  I call the rune master. Ropt,

  The masked one

  Upon the living world-tree struggling

  Against your coward Christ.”

  MacCullen answered him immediately (though a little clumsily, he thought).

  “Matchless is the Son of Mary

  The loving one

  Against the cunning of the world

  Returning good for evil.”

  Holvar closed his eyes. He seemed to shake himself, or maybe he trembled—MacCullen couldn’t tell. The godi drew his sword, raised his arms over his head, and, with one eye wide open and the other shut tight, began to chant:

  “The carrion crows

  That westward fly

  Scan well the earth

  With watchful eye

  By now the news

  Of battle here

  Has reached exalted

  Odin’s ear.

  Soon shall the first of warriors come

  The guardian of earth and sun

  Across the void

  The eight-hoofed steed

  Bears close the lord

  To mark our deed

  To hear the praise

  I heap on him

  Giver of victor

  Dearer than kin…”

  Holvar’s voice caught. Stumbled.

  “Dearer than kin.

  While in the forest wolves awake

  Their cries of joyous worship make.

  Upon the branches

  Of tall pines

  The hawk his prey

  At noon divines.

  The noble bird

  Shall take his kill

  It is the great

  All-father’s will.

  From death and fear come life and meat

  Unto the strong the hunt is sweet.

  Within the bed

  The virgin cries

  As virile man

  First with her lies

  Yet from her blood

  A child will spring

  From father’s seed

  And mother’s pain.

  To Froeya’s lover now I pray

  To potent Odin, conqueror of Froey.

  Magic spell

  And poet’s skill

  The healer’s art

  Are his to fill.

  So vain are they

  Who for their part

  Try to outrun

  His fatal dart.

  One day the honor come to me

  Of spear and noose and holy tree.”

  He cut open his forearm. Blood dripped from the blade as he raised his arms over his head.

  “Brother of iron

  Bitter tongue of steel

  Release the blood

  From sword-arm spill.

  And this red ale

  Unto him bear

  God of the slain

  Accept all here.”

  Holvar shouted the last two lines, in which he offered everyone present to Odin. Then, with eyes bugged out in parody of madness, with bared teeth he hissed:

  “Tonight the cold-eyed maidens choose

  The bravest dead, who win or lose.”

  Holvar ceased, swaying. The trance faded into exhaustion, and horrified, he became aware that he had offered himself—himself—as sacrifice to Odin.

  MacCullen watched his enemy’s gyrations with a distant pity, a distant contempt. He is trying to force his god to him, MacCullen thought. But I don’t believe he came, the crow-god. I don’t believe he came.

  And then the Ollave took one step forward. He felt the warmth of a Presence by his side.

  “Odin one-eye, old in oath-breaking,

  Fearful equally in foe-wrath or friendship.

  Kindling killing alike among stranger and kinsman

  Cold comfort ken I, in all your rune cunning.

  Vileness, I name you, and short-sighted victory your vassal.

  Troll-biter of bleeding breasts upon the boughs of slaughter.

  Sweet unto you, the slave’s sad lamentation.

  And dearer still, the maddened swordsman’s laughter.

  But force is not freedom, nor a gibbet, justice.

  No courage can cleanse the cruel slayer of bloodstain.

  Your valor is vain, then, Odin black-tongue,

  When matched against that of Thor, whom thralls pray to.

  Loving not war, nor unseemly land-strife

  Not livid light that leaps off wielded weapon.

  But those fair words of truthful telling

  Deeds faith of friendship all fullfilling

  And unto you I will spill out my ale-gift

  Best in battle, great in gentleness and goodness

  Thor, lightning lifter, my choice champion

  Larger in worth than all the world’s weak wickedness!

  And all I would ask, ere the ending

  Is to stand in the shield wall beside you till stricken.

  Nor would he, the Christ Lord, be
grudge it to me.

  Nor would she, the Lady who bore them. So be it.”

  There was silence, and the Vikings stared at MacCullen with the same rapt attention as did the Gaels behind the abbey wall. Then came a shriek, and the Norseman standing closest to the poet lifted his spear and flung it at MacCullen.

  The poet did not move, but his driver did. Delbeth flung himself between the flying weapon and MacCullen, and with his hands attempted to ward the thing off. His hands did not stop the spear, but his breast did. Delbeth MacChatháin fell back against the poet as he crumpled from the cart. The horses spooked and the little chariot rattled into the Viking lines.

  Holvar Hjor stared wonderingly from the scene before him to Skully the duelist, who stood panting from his long cast. With his face still filled with wonder, Holvar strode over to Skully. His hand moved, and Skully’s head bounced twice on the pounded earth. The rest of him took a strangely long time falling.

  MacCullen bent to Delbeth’s body, which lay arched over the spearhead protruding from the boy’s back. Delbeth was far beyond hearing what MacCullen whispered to him as he pushed the shaft of the weapon through the gory wound. Then, using only his two hands, MacCullen broke the spear in two and pulled the pieces free. He stood and regarded the Norsemen, his face frozen. He threw the broken spear at Holvar’s feet and walked away, back through the wicker gate.

  Holvar wiped his sword. He heard a rattling and looked up to find Ospack leading the little chariot into the trees behind their camp. “First spoil,” Ospack said to his chief, as he had so often before. But there was no triumph in his words and Ospack’s face looked gray and old.

  In sudden dismay Holvar looked down the line of men. He met the eyes of a dozen men, and in no pair of them did he find the growing madness of possession. They are as abandoned as I am, he thought. Shamed and abandoned at the beginning of battle.