The Greener Shore (17 page)

In the solemn splendor of dawn on Imbolc, the first day of Arragh, Briga left our lodge. Impelled by the insatiable curiosity of a druid, I followed her. She knew I was there but never said anything. When we were out of sight of human habitation Briga began walking in a large spiral that took her ever outward. A murmuration of starlings descended from the sky and trooped along behind her on the ground.

Starlings are drawn to magic.

From time to time Briga stopped as a hound stops when it picks up the scent. “Here,” she commented aloud. But not to me. And again, “Here.”

In this manner she discovered not one but three hitherto unknown springs. She stood silently by each in turn, her brow furrowed in thought. At last she looked up. “It’s here, Ainvar,” she said softly. “The Source is as strong here as it ever was in Gaul. Stronger, even. Oh, my husband, we are truly home!”

Briga circled each spring nine times in a sunwise direction, absorbing the power inherent in the water. When she came back to me her face was radiant.

Druid, I thought. But did not say.

By the next change of the moon the women of Fíachu’s clan were making pilgrimages to the sacred springs themselves. They also began keeping watch over their fires in the same way Briga did. Small rituals, transplanted. Putting down roots. Growing strong.

Among the tribes of Gaul, female druids had held the same rank as male. Otherwise a woman’s rank had depended upon her father or husband. This was even more true of the Slea Leathan. The lodge was the only territory in which their women had any status at all. Until we arrived.

As Briga reached out to the Source, Fíachu’s clanswomen stepped out of the shadows. Timidly at first, then with increasing enthusiasm, they joined her, finding within themselves a new devotion. Battle was not everything.

Life was.

The Source is.

We are.

In Hibernia, as in other Celtic lands, the end of summer was marked by a festival. On the grassy Plain of Broad Spears the people depended on cattle for their livelihood. They did not share the preoccupations of those who lived by the harvest, and so a cattle fair was the extent of their celebration.

But that was before we planted our grain.

From Fíachu’s stores we had taken oats, barley, and a dense, dark grain that resembled Gaulish wheat but was subtly different. “This is the most highly prized of all cereals,” we were told, “the food of kings and princes.” Ground into flour, the Hibernian wheat produced a moist, chewy bread we learned to savor. I never did find out what Cohern’s people used to make the gritty mess they called bread, but it was not the same.

My Briga took charge of planting of the grain. Adapting our old rituals to this new land, she and her women summoned an unprecedented fertility from the soil. Our first crop exceeded any we had grown in Gaul. In fact it was so abundant we had to enlist help with the harvest. Fíachu was astonished by the mountain of grain we produced. “In a hard winter,” he said with a laugh, “I could feed all of the Broad Spears with this.”

“Fortunately there are no hard winters in this land,” I said.

Fíachu swallowed his laughter. “Oh, but there are, Ainvar. If a bitter wind blows on the thirtieth day of Gevray, the winter will be bitter.”

“We’ve seen nothing like that since we’ve been here.”

“You will,” he promised.

“If that’s true, Fíachu, I’m astonished the Laigin don’t grow more grain. They could put aside enough to keep their herds fat until the sun returns.”

Fíachu went away, looking thoughtful. The next morning he sent runners to summon the other chieftains of the Laigin to his clanland—with the exception of the two or three whom he considered his rivals for the kingship. For the first time we were to meet the wider family to which we now belonged.

Like many tributaries flowing into one river, cattle lords and their families began flowing onto the Plain of Broad Spears. Tall, strong Gaelic men and comely Gaelic women. Most were as fair and ruddy as Fíachu and his clan, though a sprinkling had darker hair, which might harken back to Iberia. Or even Scythia.

There were a few whom I surmised to be of Fír Bolg descent; low-built and swarthy, with surly dispositions. If I was right in my conclusions there was an explanation for their bad temper. Having endured misery in a prior life, they carried unforgotten anger like a bag full of stones.

I occasionally glimpsed others not shaped in the Gaelic mold. But I only saw them out of the corner of my eye. When I turned to look squarely at one, he was gone.

The first time this happened I told myself it was a trick of the light. Then it happened again. I had a fleeting impression of individuals shorter than the Fír Bolg, more fair than the Gael, so slim the wind might blow them away. Their skin was as luminous as moonlight.

When I mentioned them to the Goban Saor he said, “I think I’ve seen them too, but I’m not sure. The chieftains brought their own brews with them and I’ve been doing some sampling. By now I couldn’t tell you what’s real and what isn’t.”

I laughed. I was doing a bit of sampling myself.

When he was satisfied that everyone had arrived, Fíachu stood upon a boulder to address them. He was wearing all his gold and accompanied by six spear carriers and the chief druid. He began by saying, “I am ever mindful of the needs of the Laigin, not only my own tribe but all others, even the subject tribes.”

The assembled chieftains exchanged glances. In their experience, altruism was not a feature of Gaelic kingship.

Fíachu ordered his men to bring forward the grain we had produced, bag after bag after bag of it, until the weary porters tottered under the strain. The grain sacks were piled into a huge pyramid. Fíachu again addressed the crowd. “This was grown in one summer, on the earth where you now stand. There is enough to feed us all if anything happened to our cattle. It is important to have a shield as well as a sword, and this could be our shield in the event of disaster. Next spring my tribe will plant as Ainvar’s people have done. I suggest you do the same.”

One chieftain began, “But we don’t know how to—”

“That’s why I’ve summoned you,” said Fíachu, contriving to look benevolent. “Ainvar can tell you what to do.”

He had not bothered to discuss this with me in advance, but I understood his intention. The demonstration was meant to gain the admiration and support of the other tribes, assuring Fíachu the kingship of the Laigin when the current king finally died.

Politics is the same everywhere. Among great chieftains and inside one’s own lodge.

“There are some things women can do better than men,” I told the crowd. “Men attack the Mother Earth, but women know how to coax her. My senior wife can explain far better than I can.” I looked hopefully toward Briga.

She pressed her lips together and shook her head; she was no more prepared for this than I had been. I was asking a lot of her, but I knew Briga would never fail me. I gave her an encouraging smile. Keeping her eyes fixed on mine, she slowly came to stand at my side.

When she cleared her throat and raised her soft little, hoarse little voice, the crowd listened attentively. They could hardly do otherwise with Fíachu standing there, his arms folded across his chest and stern command etched in every line of his face.

“The Mother Earth must not be forced,” Briga said. “She must not be raped.”

There was a sharp intake of breath at her words.

“But if we ask with reverence, if we give as well as take, the mother will work with us and produce for us. Our task together begins on Imbolc, the first day of spring….”

She went on to describe every step of the process. The gentle sacrifices of water and wine—mead, in Hibernia—to be made by the women; the solemn first breaking of the soil; the planting—done by the women again; the gifts to be given to the soil to help feed the seeds; the prayers to the Great Fire to ensure enough sun; and finally the harvest, followed by rituals of thanksgiving. Conducted by the women.

“As women assist one another in childbirth,” Briga explained, “so they can assist the Mother Earth to give birth to a good harvest.”

The tribal leaders were listening spellbound, as Dara had listened to Seanchán. Briga possessed more than one druid gift.

Perhaps she had them all.

When she finished speaking the men looked at their wives with new respect. The women gazed back. Behind their eyes they were thinking new thoughts.

At sunset my Briga lit a huge fire on the nearest mountaintop, where the children had picked bilberries only the day before. As my wife held a torch to the pile of wood, she turned her head and met my eyes. “This is for Lugh,” she said softly, calling the name of the avatar of the sun whom we had worshipped in Gaul. I was deeply touched. She had not abandoned her roots, then; merely grafted new life onto them.

The people nearest to us heard what she said. “Lughnasa!” a woman shouted, throwing up her arms. “Lughnasa!” the others echoed.

The bonfire roared into life. In answer, the setting sun blazed crimson. Fire on the mountain and fire in the sky.

“Lughnasa!” The cry rang across the Plain of Broad Spears. “Lughnasa!”

The end of summer was commemorated with splendor that year. At my suggestion a runner was sent to Cohern to invite him to share in the festivities. He arrived with some trepidation, but stayed to the end and would have stayed longer with encouragement.

Nothing in my experience compared with the unrestrained joy of the exuberant Gael. Chieftains who, like Fíachu, owned horses, raced their mounts and wagered lavish amounts of gold on the outcome. Other men competed in contests of individual strength, or formed themselves into teams to play games that were as close to war as you could get without killing someone.

Caman was the most popular game. More familiarly known as a hurling match, caman was almost identical to a stick-and-ball sport I had enjoyed in Gaul. According to legend the early Celts had encased human skulls in wickerwork and hit them with tree branches. By the time I played the game it was less primitive; less reminiscent of our savage forebears. Skulls were no longer part of the equipment, but great stamina had been required. We had competed at the run with no pause for rest.

That was how the game was played in Hibernia, too.

The Gael had developed the hurling match into a test of skill bordering on an art form. Two teams, composed of a dozen or more to a side, met on a level playing field. Every man carried a “hurley,” a long stick carved from ash wood with an outward bend near one end. The ball, or “sliotar,” was about the size of a small woman’s fist, and made of leather tied tightly around a wooden core. Goals were scored either by kicking the sliotar or striking it through the air. The most thrilling moments in the game occurred when a man raced down the field with the sliotar delicately, incredibly, balanced on his outthrust hurley, the other side in hot pursuit. At the ultimate moment the sliotar was literally hurled into the air by the stick, then hit with a mighty whack. A good player could send the sliotar through the goal from midfield.

While their menfolk played match after match, the women cooked and wove garlands and chased after the children, who busied themselves getting into all the mischief they could find. Meanwhile singers sang, drummers drummed, pipers played a sweet, wild music like the wail of the wind and the plaintive cry of the dying swan. Music filled the air like sunshine.

When the sun sank low in the sky the descendants of the Milesians came together to re-create ancient dances from faraway Iberia, their bodies weaving patterns that told age-old stories of love and loss and victory. I recognized the drums and the pipes; the patterns were not unlike those we had danced in Gaul.

The Goban Saor, whom I had never seen dance before, took a fair-haired partner from one of the other Laigin tribes and danced with her long after the rest of us were exhausted.

Over three nights and three days massive quantities of roast meat and blood pudding and summer cheeses were consumed. Cups overflowed with drink, children shouted with laughter, men and women nodded secretly to each other when no one was looking. People fell asleep on the ground where they had been dancing moments before, and awoke with the dawn to begin again.

By the third day Cormiac Ru was as adept at caman as any Gael. Glas had obtained several lengths of ash wood and was carving hurleys for my clan. Labraid was almost as good as the Red Wolf. Even my chubby Eoin showed some promise. He could not run fast enough to keep up with the action but when he had the opportunity to hit the sliotar he put plenty of power behind his blow.

Grown men willingly stepped aside to allow the little ones their chance to learn. Children were important to the Gael.

Meanwhile the flaming face of Lugh continued to beam down upon us. Not a drop of rain fell. Not a tear was shed. For once even Onuava could find nothing to complain about.

A highlight of the festival was a contest of bards. Most clans boasted a storyteller who called himself a bard. Each in turn delivered his best performance. His audience sat or sprawled on the ground around him, listening attentively. Many of the recitations were accompanied by grotesque expressions and frequent changes of voice to indicate different characters speaking. Some were highly amusing; others constituted biting satire. My head observed that while the assembled chieftains roared with laughter at humorous stories, they sat very tensely when a satirist began. Each man relaxed only when he realized the satire was not about him—this time.

Bards had some power in Hibernia after all.

When the speaker told of battles fought and won by the Laigin, battles in which every hero’s name was remembered and every deed exaggerated, my clan cheered the Laigin’s victories as enthusiastically as everyone else did.

An extraordinary shapechange was taking place. We, the dispossessed, were now an accepted part of a tribe far richer than the one we left behind. We were nascent Gael. And it was all my doing.

I drank quantities of mead and congratulated myself.

Indulging in what the Greeks call “hubris” is always a mistake. I should have known better.