To the Waters and the Wild

by S C McGrath

  Nuala regarded Keelin less sternly. “True. You have been most reticent about your gifts, which I believe is remarkable, given your nature. I must say that when you were very young I paid little attention to you. Your fits of temper and lack of intellectual curiosity did not endear you to me. That all changed after the day of the boar attack, and I must admit I have chided myself often for my early assumptions about you. I was too quick in my judgment.” Nuala unfastened the brooch at the neck of her cloak. “Telling you of the Romhanach would have served no purpose until Déaglán’s return. Only his news of the threat would hold credence with Eire’s chieftains. Only then could we of The Dagda act.”

  “Why would the chieftains listen to my uncle and not The Dagda? You speak for the gods. What more powerful voice can there be?”

  “We could share only vague auguries and visions. Our chieftains may honor the gods but do not necessarily pay them much heed unless it furthers their ambitions,” responded Nuala with cynicism. “The chieftains hold your uncle in high regard and prefer his word to our omens.”

  “Yet you knew all and more of what my uncle reported before his return. How is that so and why share only vague auguries?” asked Keelin.

  “We of The Dagda must protect our secrets and share nothing more than omens, lest our detailed knowledge of foreign lands cause undue interest in how we obtained it. Our powers are great but only if our possession of them is not known or fully understood. We are too few in number and are but flesh and blood, easily destroyed by those with ambition or evil intent.”

  “I am no threat and yet you said nothing to me. What powers have you kept hidden?” Keelin surreptitiously eyed the priestess absently touch the large ruby pendant that hung from an exquisitely woven gold chain around her neck. It was a gesture Keelin knew well, one that almost always meant the Priestess had decided to share something of import.

  Nuala calmly dropped her right hand and the fingers that had traced the pendant lay perfectly still at her side. She turned and looked down at Keelin, her gray eyes intense. “I, as do some of my fellow priests and priestesses, possess the ability to pierce the veil of another world.”

  An unearthly chill swept through Keelin and she shivered. “Do you speak of the . . . Otherworld?”

  The Otherworld was the sacred realm of the gods that afforded the souls of the dead passage to their next lives. Many imagined it as a dark and chaotic netherworld of unspeakable ordeals through which the souls of the dead must journey to reach their new lives. Keelin was sure they were wrong. She had always imagined it a place of verdant beauty and serenity, free from the hardships of life, where pain and suffering were assuaged and life was renewed. She had seen too much suffering in her young life. The gods could not be so cruel as to prolong that in death.

  “Perhaps. We of The Dagda call it that. Although not the home of the gods, it is most certainly the world in which our souls travel from one life to another.”

  Nuala’s expression softened and her eyes lost their zealotry. She smiled with something close to compassion and said, “It is neither frightful nor serene. It is merely a passage or, for our purposes, a window through which to view our world and the next. It is a realm where time and our bodily form have no meaning or consequence. You will travel there soon, once you are of The Dagda. You are only sixteen, too young to become a priestess, even too young to be ordained a novice in training. However, an exception has been made in your case because of the peril Eire faces. You will be seventeen next month, will you not?”

  Before Keelin could answer, Nuala nodded and continued. “You will be formally ordained a novice at the festival of Samhain in two months’ time. Because you are entering The Dagda before your eighteenth birthday, we must test your affinity for the Otherworld before your ordination. I have little doubt that you will be one with that world. In the meantime, Deirdre will help you develop your powers of the mind. We have little time to waste.”

  Keelin was hardly listening. She wondered if the Otherworld was as Nuala described it. The priestess was not above deception if it achieved the desired end. And Keelin knew full well that Nuala’s plans for her led unwaveringly to The Dagda. More from her natural perversity than with any real conviction, she looked up at Nuala and said, “Whether or not I pledge my life to The Dagda is my decision, not yours.”

  Nuala eyed Keelin only briefly. “Circumstances and Eire’s peril have made the decision for you. Whether you wish it or not, your fate is sealed. You will be ordained a novice.”

  Keelin felt as if she were suffocating. Indeed, duty and honor held her captive. She stood mute, watching the cascading water, knowing its journey would take it to the ocean and beyond the shores of this small island.

  “Do not despair, Keelin. You have long wished to escape Eire and its confining boundaries. The Otherworld will allow you to do just that. You must trust the gods and their wisdom. They chose you for a reason.” Nuala turned from the creek and motioned for Keelin to follow. “Now let us return to the cottage, for I believe that Deirdre will arrive shortly.”

  

  As Keelin and Nuala approached the cottage, a young woman opened the door and stepped outside. When she saw the two, she waved and walked briskly toward them.

  “I wondered where you had gone. Nuala, I hope you do not mind but I started a pot of stew and have some bread rising. I have also brought with me the most wonderful fruit to sweeten our palates after dinner.” She smiled and turned to Keelin. “I am so glad to finally meet you, Keelin. Nuala has told me so much about you over the years but has jealously kept you all to herself.” At that Deirdre laughed and hugged Keelin with genuine affection, the delicate scent of her perfume drifting through the air.

  “So you are already preparing a meal. Can you think of nothing better to do with your time?” asked Nuala.

  “Yes, occasionally.” And then, with a conspiratorial look at Keelin, Deirdre said, “Nuala believes me frivolous for relishing the corporeal pleasures of life when spiritual rewards should suffice. Perhaps her opinion has merit. I would find a mere existence of duty and self-sacrifice exceedingly dismal.”

  Keelin glanced quickly at Nuala, expecting her eyes to be filled with censorial rebuke. Instead, the priestess smiled indulgently, with even a hint of mirth in her eyes. Keelin could not believe it. Somehow this young priestess had managed to charm even the dour Nuala. How could one such as Deirdre be of The Dagda?

  “Keelin, I see something of the look of your Uncle Déaglán in you,” said Deirdre. “Of course, you both have those marvelously beautiful eyes. Déaglán is such a fine-looking man. And I do believe he is one of the bravest men I have ever known.”

  Uncle Déaglán fine-looking, thought Keelin in astonishment. Her uncle was not in the least good looking and far too old for someone as young and vibrant as Deirdre.

  “I would not forget, Deirdre, that Déaglán is still in love with his dead wife, Maeve,” said Nuala.

  “I have no illusions about Déaglán and his love for Maeve, but you underestimate the capacity of his heart if you believe there is no room left in it for me. Besides, he is a very sensual man and no doubt misses the comforts of a warm and loving woman,” replied Deirdre with satisfaction.

  “With you a priestess and him a seafarer, I see little hope or time for a romance,” said Nuala.

  “Quite the contrary! What better lover could either of us have? He is gone for months on his voyages and I am always occupied with my duties as a priestess. We can each look forward to those days and weeks when we can be together with neither one of us the sad and lonely lover who is left behind to pine.”

  “Has Uncle Déaglán made his feelings for you known?” asked Keelin.

  “No, and I doubt he ever will,” said Nuala. “Déaglán is content with his solitary life.” The priestess’s haughty conviction annoyed Keelin.

  Deirdre laughed at Nuala’s remark. “Well, the poor man has known little else for many years. He is wary of love and who can blame him. However, I h
ave no doubt that before long I shall be preparing him sumptuous meals and he shall be sharing my—”

  “That is quite enough, Deirdre,” Nuala interrupted sternly. “We have serious work to do and Keelin should hear no more of your shocking words.”

  “My sense is that it takes much to shock Keelin,” Deirdre offered, completely unintimidated by Nuala’s rebuke. “But you are correct, Nuala, there is evil afoot and we must concentrate all our efforts to defeat the Romhanach. We can begin our work tonight. Keelin, will you be staying for dinner?”

  “No, my mother is expecting me,” replied Keelin with regret.

  “Well, then, tomorrow is soon enough. It is a pity that you are not yet a novice but I suppose it cannot be helped. There is still much we can accomplish.” Then, with a satisfied smile she added, “The three of us will wreak havoc on the minds of the Romhanach.”

  

  CHAPTER seven

  

  he encampment surrounding the hill of Tara was teeming with men, horses, and dogs. Scores of makeshift hide tents and campfires dotted the landscape and a temporary forge had been erected and was billowing smoke, the smell of molten iron filling the air. Loose dogs were everywhere, their incessant barking and howling halted only momentarily by harsh commands from their masters. Raucous laughter, angry shouts, and the beating of drums added to the vigorous menace of the encampment. Horses were tethered in corrals fashioned with thick rope strung taut between huge oaks, the shrill cries of enraged stallions occasionally heard above the furious cacophony that enveloped this meeting of confident, deadly men.

  Above it all was the hill of Tara and its ringed buildings of wood and stone, framed by concentric ditches that encircled the hilltop. From the outermost ditch rose a massive colonnade, its towering oak pillars joined by crossbars that reached to the heavens. From the north was the processional avenue, lined by another, less massive colonnade adorned with elaborate and beautifully carved pillars. The avenue led to Dumha na nGiall, the sacred passage tomb, guarded by the gods and venerated by all since the time of the ancient dark ones. The priests and priestesses of The Dagda held all their conclaves at Tara, often extending invitations to Eire’s finest poets, musicians, and historians. All ordinations and ceremonial worship to the gods took place on this hallowed site, and the beautiful, pure notes of the harp and pipes accompanied the services. On the holy day of Samhain, marking the end of one year and the beginning of the next, the entrance to the sacred passage tomb was illuminated by the rising sun, drawing in the souls of all those who have died during the year and granting them passage to their next life, reincarnated with a new body and existence.

  It did not strike the chieftains or the priests and priestesses of The Dagda as incongruous that very corporeal warriors were assembled to discuss deadly combat at the base of Tara. The assembly and its location mirrored the complex nature of the people of Eire. Eloquent and savage, their love of art, music, and lyrical poetry was ever at odds with their fierce passions, fueled by defiant independence and a combative, martial spirit.

  

  “The chieftains of the northeastern clans have arrived none too soon,” said Conall to Déaglán and Fionn as they watched two young warriors joust with pugil sticks. Loud taunts and fierce oaths were being shouted by a boisterous and drunkenly riotous crowd of men as they cheered the fighters on. What had started as friendly contests of skill and prowess had quickly degenerated into boastful and brutal challenges of superiority. Most of the chieftains had brought with them a retinue of clan members that included their seconds, as well as two or three of their finest warriors. With such a gathering of hard young men born and reared for warfare, it was only the men’s respect for the sanctity of Tara and the power of The Dagda that deterred mortal combat.

  “Yes,” agreed Fionn, “the men are growing restless. Curse Diarmuid and Niall for delaying the assembly. They are not to be trusted.”

  “Both chieftains had a great distance to travel,” replied Conall, “though I suspect their late arrival was but haughty insolence.”

  “The swine!” exclaimed Fionn. “It was their purpose to keep us all waiting. They have even shown contempt for The Dagda by not immediately responding to the summons. Those two chieftains will be trouble. Mark my word.”

  “I have no doubt they will be. Diarmuid’s high opinion of himself is exceeded only by his belligerence. Niall is far more dangerous. He has a keen mind and an indomitable will. He is contemptuous of all but the northern clans and rarely pays tribute at Tara. Niall will make a powerful ally if we can win him over. If not, he could spell our doom. Certainly, Diarmuid’s stubborn resistance will be of little consequence if Niall joins our ranks.”

  “Let us rid ourselves of Diarmuid now,” said Fionn with a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “He is nothing but a pig that should be slaughtered. I will challenge him to combat and smite him. It would give me great pleasure to cleave him in two and see him lying in the mud and offal where he belongs.”

  Conall nodded grimly in agreement. “Indeed, Diarmuid needs to die, but do not dull your sword on him today.”

  “No, today would not be wise, but Diarmuid’s demise would ease my mind as well as warm my heart,” replied Fionn.

  Déaglán listened to the men’s bloodthirsty words and said nothing. He would watch Diarmuid and Niall for any signs of treachery. Agricola’s spies may already be in Eire, perhaps even here at Tara. He was confident at least one of the chieftains or someone amongst the chieftains’ retinues would betray Eire. It was his purpose to find the traitors. He smiled to himself. No one was better at finding and flushing out a scoundrel than he.

  The three men were sitting on the trunk of a fallen oak that lay halfway up a hill overlooking the large arena where the young warriors were joisting. Déaglán’s reverie was broken by a loud roar from the crowd as a massively built young warrior knocked another challenger to the ground. Even for a people known for their tall stature and intimidating presence, this young man was impressive. His giant frame was thickly muscled and his legs were built like tree trunks. He had red hair, a ruddy complexion, and a pugnacious face with thick features and a prominent jaw.

  “Is not the big lad one of yours?” asked Conall, as the young man raised his fist in victory.

  “Yes, that is Ruaidhrí, one of my most promising young warriors. As you can see, he is as big and strong as a bull. Unfortunately, he attacks much like a bull with little forethought,” replied Fionn, shaking his head in regret.

  Conall nodded. “Yes, he charges his opponents and foolishly exposes himself. He could also increase the force of his blows if he learned to move more effectively, better using those powerful legs.”

  “I agree. Unfortunately, he has bested all of the young warriors and many of the more seasoned men under my command and will not listen to my admonitions. His devastating strength has overwhelmed all of his opponents.”

  “Have you thought of challenging him yourself or have your second, Éamon, fight him?” questioned Conall.

  “I have but would prefer to wait and see if there might be a younger man who can best him. That is why I had him accompany me here. He must realize that his lack of discipline will result in a loss when faced with a strong young warrior with exceptional skill. He is not one to take the measure of his opponent but rather is ruled by his fierce emotions. And, although not of vast intelligence, he is no dullard. Ruaidhrí could be a warrior of legendary might if he could but learn that battle is not only of the heart but also of the mind.”

  At that moment, cheers erupted from a crowd of men on the far side of the arena as a young warrior stepped out from amongst them and walked toward Ruaidhrí. Although perhaps a half head shorter than Ruaidhrí, he was nonetheless a tall man with a large, leanly muscled frame. He had wavy, chestnut-colored hair that fell to his shoulders and moved with leonine confidence and grace. He raised his right arm in challenge as he strode to the center of the arena, the spectators wildly shouting their approval.


  “From the reaction of the men, it would seem Ruaidhrí may have met his match,” commented Conall. “Is that young Seán? I have not seen him since he was a boy but he has the look of his father.”

  “Yes, that is Murchadh’s younger son,” replied Déaglán.

  Murchadh was a strong chieftain of one of the western clans. He and Déaglán became friends when they were young, drawn together by their mutual love of the sea. Murchadh had recently been stricken with a wasting disease and many believed he would be dead before the year was out. He had chosen his eldest son, Ailín, to succeed him when the time came. Déaglán had been somewhat surprised by his friend’s decision. Seán seemed the more likely choice to be chieftain with his superior mind and physical prowess.

  “I have heard other chieftains praise Seán’s strength and warrior skills. His look and presence seem only to confirm the accolades. This should be a grand fight,” Fionn remarked with relish.

  The two young men met in the center of the arena, standing several feet apart. Holding their pugil sticks in both hands, the men reached forward and knocked their sticks together, signaling the start of the contest. Then they stepped back, ready to begin the battle.

  They circled, facing each other, Seán alert and tensely careful, Ruaidhrí fierce, his teeth clenched and his brows knitted against the sun’s glare. It was Ruaidhrí who made the first move, rushing in to strike Seán with a blow to the head. Seán blocked the strike with equal force, easily fending off the attack. Ruaidhrí then attempted a body blow with a powerful swing of his stick. Seán deflected the blow and eluded his opponent’s fury with quicksilver motion. Again and again, the clash of the pugil sticks reverberated through the air, though neither man was able to inflict serious damage. It was a match of brute strength and passion against superior skill and intellect, each man possessing heart and courage in abundance. The young men battled on with Seán feinting and slipping away from the most serious blows and Ruaidhrí, ever the aggressor, rushing and striking with deadly intent. Both men’s bodies were dripping with sweat and there appeared to be no end in sight when Ruaidhrí, frustrated, made a fatal mistake.