The Greener Shore (26 page)

Lakutu promptly brought it to me. “Fasten this around me, please.”

I did.

chapter
XVI

W
HEN WE FIRST CAME TO HIBERNIA I HAD THOUGHT MYSELF A
failure. A man can bear many things, but a sense of failure is not one of them. Discovering that I loved teaching raised my spirits. The Pattern had brought me where I never thought to be, but that is the magic of the Pattern. I was content.

Contentment is more to be desired than happiness. It can last longer.

All people want security and respect. Unfortunately there are men who believe they acquire these things by taking them away from others. Something is very wrong with a head that thinks such thoughts.

I was not taking anything away from Duach Dalta. By introducing an expanded concept of druidry I was enriching his tribe. He would have his moment of personal glory when the time came to inaugurate Fíachu as king of the Laigin. Contentment is more desirable than glory, in my opinion. But then, I am not a warrior.

On a night of stars, Onuava gave birth to a son.

The child’s father returned to the Plain of Broad Spears with all the glory any warrior could want. Fíachu had won a number of battles and taken many cattle from the Ulaid, as well as valuable plunder and several healthy young women. The plunder included a Ulidian chariot. When I saw it I could not help thinking of Cormiac Ru, who as a small boy had aspired to ride in a chariot.

Once Gaulish chieftains went to battle in chariots, but that practice had largely died out by the time of the Roman invasion. Vercingetorix had ridden a splendid black stallion with a great fall of mane that extended almost to its knees, and a tail that touched the earth. Rix loved that horse more than he loved any of his women. Caesar—may his teeth rot and fill his mouth with pus—had murdered the black horse as he murdered Vercingetorix.

Romans have no respect for nobility, human or animal. But the Source brings all things into balance. Sooner or later, the Romans will be crushed beneath the heel of those they call barbarians.

A Gaulish chariot, or battle cart, was made of timber with four large wooden wheels. It had to be large enough to carry the warlord and his weaponry, his personal shield-bearer, and a driver to manage the horses. A slow, clumsy vehicle, the chariot was merely a means of transport, allowing a chieftain to save his strength for his enemies. Once he reached the battlefield he fought on foot.

The chariot Fíachu had captured from a chief of the Ulaid was neither slow nor clumsy. The body was skillfully woven of wickerwork and mounted over a single axle between two wheels. The flexible wicker absorbed most of the jolting that had made Gaulish carts so uncomfortable. There was only room for one warrior and—if the man were thin enough—a charioteer. Extremely light in weight, the chariot traveled as fast as its team of horses could gallop.

With typical Gaelic fondness for decoration, the Ulidians had covered the outer surface of the chariot with gorgeous plumes and painted the hubs of the wheels in brilliant colors. The wheels were inset with bands of iron and copper. Iron for strength, copper for gleam.

Fíachu gleamed, too. Standing in the chariot he looked taller than ever, and broader, filling the cart until there was no room for a charioteer. He held the reins himself, driving a pair of horses who matched each other stride for stride, galloping with astonishing speed. The feathered chariot skimmed over the earth like a swallow. Behind it ran the warriors of the Slea Leathan, drunk with victory.

My head was pleased to observe that Fíachu, who had never been in a chariot before, was open to new ideas. I remarked on this but Briga just looked at me. When my senior wife looks at me in a certain way without saying anything, I feel uneasy.

Following Fíachu’s return an immense feast was held at his stronghold. Every member of the Slea Leathan who could run, walk, or crawl made an effort to attend. The ostensible reason was to celebrate the chieftain’s newborn son, but the real reason was to be present when he divided up the loot from the north.

It was to be expected that Fíachu’s favorites would be given the best cattle and their choice of the women. A woman taken in battle became a bondwoman. Thus the daughter of a chieftain might find herself a servant in her captor’s household.

The Source brings all things into balance.

No matter what their original rank in society, however, those in bondage were treated with dignity. They might be servants but they were not slaves; not like the slaves of the Romans. Their captor numbered them among his possessions but never abused or humiliated them. Such actions would bring dishonor upon himself.

Even in defeat, bondmen and -women were counted among the Gael, and the Gael were a free people.
A free people.
You could see it in their faces, in the way they walked and talked and stood.

I had not known a genuinely free person in a long time. The last, I suppose, was Vercingetorix. Now my entire clan was free. We had joined the Gael.

Dressed in their best, my clan made its way to Fíachu’s celebratory feast. My three wives walked with me. Briga at my side; Lakutu and Onuava, with her tiny son in her arms, a step behind. As we passed through the gate of the fort, Onuava strove forward to walk on my other side. Had she not been carrying Fíachu’s child I would have sent her back where she belonged. The ranking of wives must be strictly observed or marriage breaks down in a welter of resentment.

“Perhaps Fíachu will give us a few more cattle,” I said to Briga.

“I suppose a lot depends on how well Dara performs.”

“What has Dara to do with it?”

“Oh, Ainvar, don’t you ever pay attention? Our son’s going to recite at the feast. He mentioned it just this morning, weren’t you listening?”

My well-trained ears hear everything. But they only report on the things that claim my interest. These are not necessarily the same ones that Briga notices.

We caught sight of Dara in a crowd of young men near Fíachu’s lodge. Our son was wearing a new tunic that I had assumed Briga was making for me. Before I could ask her about it, she turned aside to speak to some of the women. Onuava and Lakutu joined her and I found myself alone.

The head is always alone.

I worked my way through the crowd to Dara’s side. “Congratulations!” I said. “It’s rare for an apprentice bard to help entertain the chief of the tribe. Seanchán must be very pleased with you.”

“Seanchán didn’t invite me. Fíachu did.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Yesterday I was standing right where you are now, admiring the new chariot, when Fíachu walked by and asked if I could compose a praise-poem about his victory and recite it tonight.”

“But you’ve had no time to compose a poem!”

Dara smiled. “Ah, but I have. I’ve been working on it since the day Fíachu and his army set out for Ulidia.”

There could be no doubt that Dara was druid. His head worked on many levels.

“What about the harp? I know the Goban Saor finished making one for you, but have you had time to familiarize yourself with it?”

He shook his head. “The harp is wonderful but I can’t do everything I want to with it, not yet. And I must not hurry. Tonight I’ll rely upon the composition alone.”

I left him with his friends and went looking for his mother, so she and I could bask in the glow of our son’s success. For a parent there is no happier fire. Briga’s reaction was not what I expected. She gave me one of her looks; the one meaning “I know more than you do.”

My excitement seeped away. “What’s wrong?”

“Dara and Seanchán, you and Duach Dalta. I’m not a seer, Ainvar, but even I can see trouble brewing. We’re newcomers here and newcomers are always suspect, no matter how warmly they are welcomed. You and Dara are slipping into the shoes of men long-established and they’re sure to resent it. Duach Dalta’s already given you a warning. Will Dara be next?”

“You can’t expect us to go on tiptoe for the rest of our lives for fear of offending. We’re part of this tribe now, Briga, and we have a right to seek our own level. You’ve made a place for yourself; would you deny that right to your husband and son?”

“Just be careful, Ainvar. That’s all I’m asking.”

I gave her the reassuring smile women like to receive from their men. But her apprehension worried me. At the feast my eyes and ears must be vigilant.

At first it seemed we had nothing to worry about. Seanchán and Duach Dalta were both present; they were among the select guests who would join the chieftain in his lodge while the rest of us celebrated outside. Duach Dalta saw me before he entered and gave a nod by way of greeting. I nodded back as if we were the best of friends.

Then we followed our noses to the feast.

Two great firepits had been dug in the center of the fort and lined with stones. Whole bullocks were roasting on iron spits. As melting fat dripped from the meat, the flames snapped and crackled. My stomach gurgled approval. One of Fíachu’s women circulated through the crowd, handing out cups. She was followed by other women, carrying pitchers of mead.

By now I could drink as much honey wine as any Gael. Since I had not been raised on the stuff this feat did not come naturally to me. After several unfortunate experiences and a miserable day after, I had been forced to resort to a little magic.

Magic begins in the head.

I had told my head that the liquid in my cup was the purest, sweetest spring water. With every swallow I repeated this message. When the cup was empty I spent time reflecting upon how delicious the water had been, and recalling my exact feelings on other occasions when I had quenched my thirst with water.

Mead went into my mouth. But it was water that entered my belly.

Therefore my head was clear when Dara was summoned to the chieftain’s lodge to recite. He held out his hand to me. “Come with me, Father.”

“I wasn’t invited.”

“I invite you,” said my son.

The eyes of the crowd followed me until I entered Fíachu’s lodge. Inside I was met by the eyes of his guests, including those of Seanchán and Duach Dalta.

Fíachu greeted me as warmly as if he had invited me himself, and gestured me to one of the benches. This necessitated some crowding over on the part of those already seated. I offered a placating smile. After a moment, the man nearest me smiled back.

I whispered, “My son’s reciting a composition of his own tonight. It’s the first time he’s been asked to entertain publicly.” Then I settled myself to bask in Dara’s success—if success it was to be.

I need not have worried.

The highest level of bardic poetry strives to express that which is beyond expression, striking responsive chords in the unplumbed depths of the spirit. True bardic recitation does not follow the everyday rhythms of sowing and reaping and breathing. Alternately fluid and fiery, it adapts to the dreams of the listeners.

No sooner had Dara begun to speak than his gift became apparent. He recounted the old tales of the Milesians in a grand saga that was fresh and new. On the surface the tale glittered like a sunlit river; in its depths lurked dark mysteries. The darkness yielded to the magic of the bard as Dara gathered up his listeners and swept them irresistibly along from one crest of excitement to the next.

Dara was better than Seanchán. He was better than any bard I ever heard. I wished Briga could be with me to share this moment, but the only women allowed inside the chieftain’s lodge were his wives.

Perhaps in time that custom could be changed.

When my son stopped speaking Fíachu leaped to his feet. “Did you not hear the roar of the ocean and the rhythm of the oarsmen? Did you not see this land rising out of the mist? Did you not feel the clash of battle and the joy of victory? This young man has brought our ancestors back to life before our very eyes!”

Holding his cup in one hand, the chieftain wrapped his other arm around Dara’s shoulders. “Drink, all of you,” he cried, “to the new bard of the Slea Leathan! Abu Dara!” Dara Forever!

As we drained our cups I sneaked a glance at Seanchán. He was staring fixedly at my son. When a person tries too hard to keep his expression impassive, strong emotion forced to the surface by inward pressure can seep through the cracks and crevices.

Seanchán was rancid with bitterness.

Yet the old tree must fall in order for sunlight to reach the young tree.

Fíachu had not finished speaking. Turning toward me, he said, “As for the man called Ainvar, he brought his clan to us with little more than the clothes they wore. One might think it was a mistake to take in such impoverished people. But no. Looking back, I can see a change in our fortunes from that very moment. Ainvar’s people have enriched our lives with their skills and craftsmanship. They have taught us how to plant and harvest enough grain to protect ourselves from hunger no matter what the weather brings. This in turn has greatly raised my esteem among the tribes of the Laigin.”