To the Waters and the Wild

by S C McGrath

  “I could say the same about the two of you. You left Tara shortly after the chieftains’ vote. Have you not yet told Brian he is to join the Fianna? Your mission was to return with him posthaste to begin training with Fionn.”

  “Do not fret, Déaglán. We have the long winter and much of the spring for training. Moreover, did you not also task us with an important, though apparently secretive mission?” Seán looked pointedly at Déaglán and then at the horses he and Ruaidhrí were leading.

  “Indeed, I did.” Déaglán eyed the two geldings appraisingly. They were sleek and long-legged. Although slightly different in type, each horse’s confirmation was impeccable. He was pleased. After rigorous training, these bay geldings might very well be capable of jumping the Romhanach’s repel barrier.

  “We found more than a dozen likely beasts on our travels. Most have already been taken to Tara by their owners, and we will fetch the rest on our return trip. These two we bought for a tidy sum from a farmer who seemed reluctant to part with them. We paid the man his price and quickly departed.” Ruaidhrí regarded with pleasure the geldings standing quietly on loose leads.

  “They are, indeed, fine-looking animals,” agreed Déaglán. He had asked Seán and Ruaidhrí to look for horses but did not think they would spend so much time doing so. Hoping to learn of the whereabouts of the spy, he had made several detours during his travels and left Tara a fortnight ago. Seán and Ruaidhrí had been wandering the countryside for nearly a full cycle of the moon. Déaglán’s inquiries had been, with one exception, fruitless. He had spoken to a traveling merchant who had, perhaps, seen something of significance. The man claimed to have seen a stranger riding away from an abandoned cottage just before dark. The merchant described the rider as a “tall, broad-shouldered man, almost certainly a warrior, and riding a big bay horse with a white off-hind leg.” The stranger’s cloak covered his head and shoulders, making it impossible for the merchant to comment on the stranger’s attire or the color of his hair. When the merchant reached the cottage, he was certain he heard another rider trotting away to the south but could see nothing in the waning light.

  “We are headed for Conall’s training fields,” said Seán, shortening his horse’s reins in preparation to depart. “We would be honored to have you ride with us.”

  “I am headed to my sister’s farm but will ride with you until then,” said Déaglán, his eyes sweeping over the horses Seán and Ruaidhrí were riding. Seán was astride a dark brown mare with no white markings whatsoever. Ruaidhrí’s bay had a wide white blaze on its face and an off-hind white leg. Of course, thought Déaglán, many bays have off-hind white legs. He reined his horse alongside Ruaidhrí’s and the three men headed down the road.

  

  Déaglán rode into the farm’s yard and almost immediately saw his sister. Saraid was in her garden, bending over the remnants of what had once been thriving herbs and vegetables. Even as a girl, Saraid had tended her flower and vegetable gardens with something akin to maternal devotion. Déaglán used to tease his younger sister, saying she enjoyed working in her garden more than anything else. She always smiled dismissively and shook her head, though the look in her eyes gave him pause. Today she was inspecting a particularly forlorn cabbage when Déaglán called out a greeting to her.

  “Déaglán,” she cried, her face lighting up with joy and relief. She straightened up and approached him. Déaglán jumped from his horse and grasped Saraid’s shoulders in his hands, gently kissing her pale cheek.

  Saraid, in turn, kissed Déaglán’s bearded cheek, searching her brother’s face.

  “Is all well at Tara? You must tell me everything that has happened. I long to hear of Conall.”

  “Conall is well and as irascible as ever.” Déaglán noted with concern the lines of anxiety etched on his sister’s brow, the blue-gray shadows under her eyes, and the colorless hue of her beautifully formed lips.

  “Are you ill, Saraid?” Déaglán questioned with alarm, unaccustomed to seeing his sister tremulous and vulnerable.

  “Don’t be silly. I am very well, though perhaps a little tired. I am only impatient for more news from Tara. You must tell all you know at dinner tonight. Brian can hardly contain himself, knowing he is to be a Fian and waiting for the arrival of Fionn’s warriors. They have most certainly been delayed by the heavy rains.”

  “Brian knows, then, that he will join the Fianna?”

  Saraid nodded. “He is impatient for battle and the chance to prove his worth.” Almost to herself, she whispered, “Young and foolish.”

  “Yes, perhaps, though Eire needs warriors such as Brian. Without them we will all surely perish.” Déaglán was not surprised Brian had heard he would fight with the Fianna. Nuala would have found a way to relay the news from Tara to Conall’s family and clan. He glanced again at Saraid, sensing her distress, but the beautiful face revealed nothing more of her concern.

  “Yes,” she said, acknowledging the truth of his words. “Now take your horse to the barn and wash up. We will eat soon.” Saraid gave Déaglán another kiss on the cheek and then turned and walked toward the cottage.

  

  Dinner was a lively affair, with Déaglán relating much of what had occurred at Tara before he left. The mighty Fionn had been elected supreme commander of Eire’s warriors, with Niall enlisted to command the northern clans and Conall the midlands and southern. Each chieftain was challenged with assessing the strength of his clan’s warriors and what, if any, special skills they possessed. This assessment proved contentious with many chieftains making false claims, reluctant to share such intelligence with enemy chieftains. It was only through the influence of the high priest Fearghus and after threats by Fionn that reasonably accurate assessments were made.

  “Most likely,” said Déaglán, “Agricola will field only one legion and employ a very straightforward formation, believing our forces inferior and our tactics and strategy nonexistent. Still, he is careful and will undoubtedly position formidable reserves behind his assault forces to counter any flanking threat our warriors may pose.

  “We will flank and slaughter them nonetheless,” responded Liam with a deadly gleam in his eyes.

  “Perhaps, but only if we can devise a strategy that surprises Agricola. We must draw him in, bolster his confidence. He must commit his legion before he learns of our strength.”

  “This damnable rain and the approaching winter will hinder our training and readiness,” said Brian. “And what of the spies? How can we surprise Agricola and draw him in, with his spies still wandering around somewhere in Eire, learning our secrets?”

  “Do not begrudge the winter. It is all that stands between us and Agricola’s invasion. He must wait to cross the channel until late spring or early summer when the seas are less hostile. The winter buys us time to plan and, yes, train.” Déaglán did not mention it was possible a dispatch had already been sent to Agricola, informing him of the chieftains’ vote to unite. Nor did he speak of the spy Diarmuid had killed. He noted his sister’s pallor and steered the conversation away from war. He would speak to Brian and Keelin tomorrow about the spy who had eluded them near Loich’s Gap.

  Turning to Saraid, Déaglán said, “I expect Conall to arrive any day. He plans to remain here until just after Samhain, when all the chieftains will again assemble at Tara.”

  As Déaglán expected, his mention of Samhain turned the conversation to the festival, and the mood in the room lightened considerably. The communal feasts, the lighting of the bonfires, the games of sport, including the most prestigious horse race of the year, were discussed. Although he added an opinion or answered a query occasionally, Déaglán was free to study those in the room. He consciously avoided looking too often at Deirdre, for she invariably roused strong and unwanted emotions. Instead he focused much of his attention on Brian, whom Conall had spoken of so highly at Tara.

  It had been many years since Déaglán had last seen Brian while visiting Saraid. The tall, sturdy boy Déaglán reme
mbered had grown into an imposing young man, bearing a striking resemblance to Cormac, his father. Cormac had been an imposing man, with wavy black hair, broad shoulders, and a deep, resonant voice. He had always seemed larger than life: handsome, wealthy, charming, and not one to be visited by tragedy, surely not a victim of a premature death. Nonetheless, Cormac had collapsed and died suddenly when Brian was near five years old, leaving his young wife bereft and the boy fatherless.

  Déaglán had heard of Brian’s struggles over the years, first battling a brutish stepfather who was jealous of him and then enduring the grief of Eirnín’s death. Not surprisingly, Brian grew up angry and had a penchant for violence. Of course, thought Déaglán, anger in a warrior was a powerful weapon, provided it could be harnessed and directed at the enemy. He sensed Brian would be lethal on the battlefield, an instinctive leader, inherently bold and courageous. Déaglán was no less impressed with Brian’s keen mind and understood why Conall had recommended him for the Fianna. Tonight, Déaglán also noted Brian’s restlessness and agitation, his pent-up aggression. The young man is ready to explode, thought Déaglán, wondering at the cause. Perhaps it was only Brian’s impatience for battle. Déaglán ventured a stealthy glance at Deirdre, who was knitting what appeared to be a shawl made of fine silken yarn, lavender in color, gossamer in weight and texture. Perhaps Deirdre knows what plagues Brian, reflected Déaglán.

  Invariably, the conversation soon focused solely on the famous Samhain horse race, and Déaglán was drawn into a debate on which horse was likely to win it this year. There were some fine young stallions who were entered but none seemed likely to outrun Rua, Conall’s magnificent red stallion.

  Turning to Keelin, Déaglán asked, “Will you ride him this year?”

  “No, not this year. I wish . . .” Keelin’s voice trailed off and she shook her head, looking quite miserable.

  Deirdre came to Keelin’s rescue. “I plan to place a tidy sum on Rua to win the big race, even without Keelin riding him.” Standing up, she announced, “Now we must have some music and dancing. I hear Liam has completed the harp he plans to present to The Dagda at Samhain and I can no longer wait to play it. If truth be told, I have thought of little else all evening.” She glanced around the group. “Saraid, you look tired. Don’t get up. Brian, go fetch the harp while Déaglán and Liam move the table so there is room for dancing. Keelin, you and I can move the chairs and get the other instruments.”

  The men sprang enthusiastically to their feet. Brian hurried off to Liam’s workshop to get the harp and Déaglán and Liam moved the heavy oak table from the center of the room. Deirdre had a way of making people want to do her bidding, thought Déaglán, wondering if she had cast a spell on him years ago.

  

  CHAPTER eighteen

  

  eirdre’s fingers moved lightly over the strings of the exquisite harp, testing its sound, playing wisps of melodies, varying her touch, and delighting in the pure notes and resonance. Déaglán held a drum at the ready, Liam a fine set of pipes. Once Deirdre had acquainted herself with the harp, she played a lilting melody, with Déaglán punctuating the chord changes, keeping time with muted beats of the drum. When the song ended, Deirdre smiled radiantly, running her fingers over the beautiful wood carvings on the neck of the harp.

  “Liam, never have I played such a harp. You are a genius! I shall love you always for creating this treasure.”

  Liam turned red, more from embarrassment than pleasure at Deirdre’s words. As affable and ebullient as Liam was around his friends and family, he had always been painfully shy and awkward with women, at least those he found attractive. Liam was a confirmed bachelor, very happily burying himself in his art and never missing the mysterious aspects of women and their strange ways.

  “I . . . had some trouble with the harp’s design but was able to correct its flaws. I am . . . pleased with its sound,” Liam stammered. “Perhaps you would accompany Brian so he may sing a song.”

  “Of course,” responded Deirdre and turned to Brian. “What would you like to sing?”

  Brian chose an ancient ballad chronicling a great boar hunt, the music rousing and strong, the lyrics lauding the skill and bravery of the hunters and the power and ferocity of the boar.

  Those in the room listened to Brian sing, captivated by the poetic beauty of the words, even as they told the tale of a brutal hunt. Brian’s voice had great range and his high, clear tenor notes were beautiful. When the song ended, Déaglán, with sincere appreciation said, “Brian, if your prowess on the battlefield even approaches the beauty and power with which you sing, the Fianna will be lucky to have you.”

  Brian nodded. “Thank you, Déaglán.”

  “Deirdre, Keelin, it is time for some dancing,” said Saraid. She picked up her flute and began playing. Déaglán enthusiastically accompanied her on the drum, beckoning Deirdre and Keelin onto the dance floor with a sweep of his arm. When Deirdre laughingly protested, the men shouted words of encouragement, cajoling her to join Keelin, who never needed any encouragement to dance. She pulled Deirdre out of her chair and into the middle of the room.

  The two young women could not have painted more strikingly different pictures as they danced to the lively tune—its tempo ebbing and flowing, quickening and slowing. Deirdre danced with exquisite skill, her movements poised, her steps light, following the rhythm and beat of the music with effortless grace. Keelin, far less skilled, yet every bit as captivating, moved with complete abandon, surrendering all conscious thought to the atavistic response the music awakened in her. She swayed with wildly exaggerated movements, her body and arms undulating in intoxicating waves as she spun around the room. Whereas Deirdre’s leaps and pirouettes were airy perfection, Keelin sprang into the air with feral energy, her tiny feet outstretched, her toes pointed, her thick auburn hair flying about her. With each leap it was as if Keelin were about to shed the bonds of her small human form and be transformed, shape-shifting into some enchanted, bewitching creature.

  When the tune ended, Déaglán immediately resumed the beating of the drum, signaling a new jig. Liam followed the drum’s lead with the pipes, his foot tapping the floor, his fingers moving expertly over the stops. Deirdre laughed and, feigning exhaustion, pulled Brian to his feet and toward Keelin who had already begun to dance to the new tune.

  Brian was at first reluctant, but Deirdre was undeterred. “I am exhausted and Keelin still wishes to dance. We will see if she can dance you into the ground as well.”

  Brian glanced skeptically at Keelin who welcomed him, her lips curved into something very close to a smile. Her cheeks were flushed and her violet eyes sparkled. Brian needed no further prompting and took the hand Keelin offered. The two danced, Keelin spinning around Brian as his feet tapped a martial cadence, forceful and strong. Stepping high on her toes, Keelin twirled and weaved to within inches of Brian, only to retreat as he took her hand, pirouetting within the arc of his outstretched arm. Then, facing each other, they stepped in unison as they circled the room, Keelin springing high into the air, Brian tapping, clicking his feet with amazing speed and dexterity, matching Keelin’s animation and exuberance.

  When the music finally stopped, Brian’s back was to those in the room, hiding Keelin from view. Keelin laughed and impulsively hugged Brian. She then stepped back, her eyes brilliant, tiny beads of perspiration glistening along the line of her temples and upper lip, her hair hanging in silken tangles down her back. Brian searched her face and then settled fixedly on her mouth. Tentatively, he lightly touched the bow of her lips with the tip of his forefinger.

  Liam suddenly shouted his approval at the pair's inspired dancing and Déaglán punctuated Liam’s whoop with a drumroll finale. Brian snatched his hand away as if he had been shocked, and Keelin, also jolted back to reality, lowered her eyes in embarrassment.

  Though he had not seen Brian’s gesture, Déaglán noticed Keelin’s uncharacteristic reticence when she returned to her chair, as quiet now as she had been
wild just moments before. Puzzled, he glanced at Brian but Deirdre distracted him. “Your touch on the drum is commendable if not brilliant. You must have few occasions to play so your mastery is even more impressive.”

  “I have played the drum since I was very young and, once learned, it is a skill that has stayed with me. But you are correct. I rarely play, especially when I am here,” said Déaglán with a wry laugh. Saraid and Liam joined in the laughter.

  “What amusing secret am I not a party to?” questioned Deirdre.

  “When Conall is home,” explained Liam, “he always insists on playing the drum, much to the distress of the other musicians present. For a man with such subtlety of mind and eloquence of speech, he is an oafish bull on the drum, pounding indiscriminately and drowning out all other instruments, let alone the voice of any singer. He possesses no musical talent whatsoever, yet still plays with enthusiastic abandon, completely enjoying himself and making true musicians miserable.”

  Saraid smiled but protested. “Conall’s playing is not that dreadful, though I must admit his approach is unorthodox. Liam exaggerates for effect.”

  Liam scoffed, warming to the subject. “If you wish only to hear the drum pounded on with maniacal fervor, likely conjuring up all the evil fairies and witches of Eire, then Conall’s manner of playing will appeal to you. Surely it is terrifying to witness Conall beating the drum and Keelin dancing, both behaving as if possessed by demons. Many a time I have thought that Keelin, in the midst of one of her wild leaps, would screech like a banshee while Conall ushered in some dreadful augur with his frightful pounding.”

  “I love Keelin’s dancing. It is beautiful,” said Saraid, coming to her daughter’s defense when Keelin remained silent. “She feels the music completely, never allowing artistic convention to interfere with her emotional response.”

  “Well, I for one am glad Conall was not here tonight accompanying Deirdre. The harp’s sound and Deirdre’s playing were perfection,” remarked Déaglán, smiling at Deirdre.