The Greener Shore (46 page)

T
HE RED WOLF WOULD NEVER NEED BRIGA’S VIRILITY POTION. HE
produced a veritable litter of sons. They called the firstborn Cas; the second was named Eoin. Ongus was the third son, then Cathal, Anluan, and a pair of twins called Mahon and Lorcán. Next came Cormiac Óg—young Cormiac—and finally another Bran. Following the tradition of the Gael, each boy would be expected to pass his name on to the next generation.

Cormiac Ru was putting his stamp on Hibernia.

As for me, the seasons were passing more quickly than they should. I would be willing to swear there were fewer days in each cycle of the moon, and winter came earlier and earlier.

I rarely traveled far from our clanhold anymore. One day, however, I felt an urge to wander. Without saying anything to anyone—Briga would have fussed at me—I took my warmest cloak from its peg, picked up my staff, and went outside. Frost silvered the grass. As I walked away from our lodge my footprints were briefly etched in time.

There was nothing in particular to do, no place I had to be. Sulis was conducting the class in the glade that morning. There were even several young ones who were training to become teachers when the older generation was gone.

My feet chose a path for me, ambling toward the mountains. Once or twice I turned around to enjoy the sight of my footprints leaving an unmistakable pattern behind me.

A pattern…

The third time I looked back, there was a second set of prints on the frosted grass.

I gave a violent start.

Not far away from me stood the silver wolf. By my reckoning he had to be very old indeed; it was astonishing he had survived for so long.

Neither of us moved.

He was alone. I could feel his absolute aloneness. Whether in his old age he had become an outcast from the pack I do not know, because it was a matter of indifference to him. He accepted without regret whatever nature brought.

All are truly alone when their time comes to die. I do not know if that was my thought, or came from the wolf.

For a timeless time we stood looking at each other in mutual understanding. Then he turned and went his way and I went mine.

AINVAR’S BODY WAS TRULY OLD. WHEN I PUT SOMETHING DOWN I HAD
to remind my eyes to watch closely and my head to remember exactly where I put the object; otherwise I might never find it again.

The house of my spirit was falling down around me. Becoming too dilapidated to live in.

The morning came when I awoke with the certain knowledge that it would be my last morning in Thislife. Perversely, I felt stronger than I had in a long time. It was a gift, and I used it well. First I gave Lakutu a fond hug. “Egypt,” I whispered.

She pulled back and looked at me. Her eyes were sunken with age and cobwebbed by time. “Why do you call me that, Ainvar?”

“Because you are everything that is rare and exotic. I may never have mentioned it before, but that’s how I’ve always thought of you.”

Briga had gone to the spring to fetch water. Walking slowly, for walking had become difficult, I came up behind her. “Magic,” I said.

She turned around. “I didn’t know you were there, Ainvar. What did you just say?”

“Magic. You practice magic every day, you know.”

Her nose wrinkled with a laugh. “I do know, you old fool. Did you think I didn’t?”

For one splendid, fiery moment I glimpsed the Absolute.

Then it was time to go.

THE FUNERAL WAS ONE OF THE LARGEST EVER HELD ON THE PLAIN OF
Broad Spears. Everything was done as the dead man would have wished, a perfect balance of Gaul and Hibernia.

When the last stone had been placed on the cairn Briga addressed the assemblage. “So passes Ainvar of the Carnutes,” she intoned, adding with pardonable pride, “the greatest of all druids.”

Placing her hand on the cairn, she whispered, “We will meet again, dear spirit. Some other time, some other place.”

Caressing the strings of his harp, Dara, bard of the Slea Leathan, recited a lament for Ainvar. Then exactly as father and son had planned together, the lament shapechanged. Sorrow melted into beauty. In a voice of purest gold the bard sang of the magical island of Hibernia, of sweet water and green grass, of red deer and silver wolves and immortal spirits.

And most particularly of Eriu.

Remember us.

about the author

Novelist M
ORGAN
L
LYWELYN
was born in New York City of Irish and Welsh ancestry. Shortlisted in
1976
for the United States Olympic Team in Dressage, she then turned her energies to exploring her family history in Ireland and Wales. Her first novel,
The Wind from Hastings,
was a selection of the Doubleday Book Club. With her second novel,
Lion of Ireland: The Legend of Brian Boru,
Llywelyn made the
New York Times
bestseller list and captured an international audience she has enjoyed ever since. After the death of her husband, Charles, in
1985,
she moved to Ireland, the source of her inspiration. An Irish citizen, she lives in the countryside north of Dublin.

Since
1978,
Llywelyn has created a substantial body of work chronicling Ireland and the Celts. Although her novels primarily are mainstream historical fiction, many of them include a depiction of the druidic culture that was central to Celtic and early Irish society.
Druids,
originally published in
1991
, won her many new readers for its combination of meticulous historical research with breathtaking magic.

Llywelyn has won numerous literary awards. She was named Exceptional Celtic Woman of the Year; is a founding member of the Irish Writers’ Centre and past chairman of the Irish Writers’ Union; a director of the Irish Copyright Licensing Agency; and has served as a member of the judging panel for the highly prestigious International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award.

A
LSO BY
M
ORGAN
L
LYWELYN

Published by Ballantine Books

DRUIDS

RED BRANCH

The Greener Shore
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright ©
2006
by Morgan Llywelyn

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

D
EL
R
EY
is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

eISBN-13: 978-0-345-49342-2

eISBN-10: 0-345-49342-7

www.delreybooks.com

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