Before Fergal could reply, he dived again to free the trapped corpse. The druid’s long cloak was snagged on a spar of splintered timber and, try as he might, Conor could not work him free. Once more, he was forced to return to the surface. Clinging to the half-submerged raft of decking, he drew air deep into his lungs and dived once more. This time, instead of tugging at the body, he went for the cloak and, taking hold of the splinter, broke it off. The cloak came away and the body floated free. Taking Mádoc’s arm, Conor swam for the surface, pulling the dead druid with him. He quickly untied the line around his waist and attached it to Mádoc’s corpse. ‘Pull!’ he shouted, yanking on the rope. ‘Pull hard, Fergal! Haul him in!’
He had to repeat the message twice more before the body began to move. Once Mádoc was free of the debris, Conor renewed his efforts—searching among the flotsam for little Huw. He dived once and again, trying to see through the murk for the pale shape of a body. Each time he ran out of breath and had to resurface, he dived again, more determined than before, and each time was forced to the surface without so much as a glimpse of the boy.
But he did not stop. He swam farther out, and closer to the ship, which was breaking up, shedding more timber and junk into the cove. He dived again—deeper, longer, and more desperate. He felt his own strength, already low, ebbing away, but he refused to give up. From the beach, he heard Fergal calling to him, but ignored the shouts and dived again, and yet again.
When he came up, it was all he could do to snatch a breath of air and, as he sank back, he felt someone seize his arm. Fergal pulled him up. ‘Enough!’ he cried. ‘It is over. Come back. You help no one by drowning yourself.’
Conor gave in and allowed Fergal to haul him back to the pebbled strand, where he lay on his back panting and gasping. Gradually, as strength returned, he rolled over and heaved himself up onto his feet. Still breathing hard, he staggered to where Fergal now stood over the body of Mádoc. He had pulled the drowned druid from the water and carried him up onto dry land, and arranged the corpse in an attitude of dignified repose. His hands were folded over his chest, his legs were straightened, his ankles placed together, and his eyes were closed. If not for his wet clothes, he might have been simply napping after the events of a trying day. ‘That was well done,’ Conor told him, then moved on up the beach to where Rhiannon knelt beside Donal.
Conor sank down on the shingle next to her.
‘I am sorry about the boy,’ Rhiannon said in a voice shaded by sadness.
‘His name was Huw,’ Conor told her.
‘I am sorry.’
Conor nodded and swallowed hard. He put the back of his hand to Donal’s cheek; the flesh was cold and, save for the slow stirring of his chest, there was no response. The trauma of the shipwreck and plunge into the sea had reopened the wound in his side; blood seeped through the cloth of his siarc, staining a patch the size of a fist deep crimson.
‘We cannot stay here,’ said Fergal as he joined them. He cast a look back at the ruined ship, now all but submerged in the mouth of the cáel. The Scálda had succeeded in disentangling themselves from the wreck and were no longer to be seen. ‘It is you they want, my lady,’ he said, ‘and they will not stop until they get you back. We have to go.’
‘What about Mádoc?’
Fergal shook his head.
‘We take him with us,’ said Conor.
‘We cannot—’
‘We take him with us,’ insisted Conor. ‘He was a friend, and we do not leave him behind.’
Fergal accepted this and brought Ossin to where Mádoc lay; together he and Conor hefted the body up onto Ossin’s back and secured it with a bit of rope so it would not slide off. They covered him with his cloak and then, with Rhiannon mounted on Búrach, they carefully lifted Donal onto the horse, cradling their stricken brother in the faéry’s arms. They set off then, Fergal leading Ossin with Mádoc’s body, and Conor walking beside Búrach with one hand steadying Donal; they left the beach and entered the wood at the head of the cáel. With a last glance at the all but sunken ship, Conor turned his eyes to the trail ahead.
Rhiannon
Mother’s first children, the fairest of Creation, we are the true monarchs of the earth—yet, our time as sovereigns of this worlds-realm is waning. Soon, perhaps very soon, we will withdraw behind the veil of the Otherworld, the better to live out our days in peace and plenty. This, our sages tell us, is for the best. That may be true. Who am I to say?
Still, I do most bitterly despise it.
The mortals are such fragile, fallible creatures. That they should be the chosen inheritors of the land and all its treasures, wealth, and bounty is a continual wonder to me. That the All Mother should allow this calamity to prevail fills me with sadness and, if truth be told, envy. Great the lament! For, while the lesser beings multiply and flourish, spreading their dominance over every order of creation, we slowly diminish. Our numbers fail.
Once, we were mighty; once, we were very gods. It is true that the mortals think us gods and goddesses still. If they only knew how far we have fallen from that exalted height. We gloried in our strength and the Mother’s radiance was all our own. But that was a very long time ago. The world will belong to the mortals and their ever-increasing clans and tribes. The human kind will rule in the end. So be it.
The Scálda are not human. They are demons, surely. What manner of demons they may be is a thing too revolting to contemplate. But they are as the pestilence that breeds in the slime and cesspits of the underworld whence they have sprung. Voracious in appetite, full of spite and malice, their small, dark minds—hard and crusted as burned cinders—conceive no virtue, nurture no truth, hold no higher belief than the iron they dig for their hideous weapons. Recognising only hate and fear, they turn every transaction to one or the other. No light of love or beauty penetrates their unfeeling souls.
If we must leave this worlds-realm, then at least we will no longer be forced to look upon the evils they perform. Alas for fair Danu’s race! They must live—or just as likely die—in a world tainted by presence of the Scálda and their abhorrent gods of iron and bone.
We of the first children have a choice, but the poor mortal Dé Danann possess no such benefit. If there were but one gift I could bequeath them, it would be to rid Eirlandia of the odious Scálda that they might remember us with the affection of true friendship when we have gone.
25
The four survivors followed a well-worn path inland, little caring where they went just so long as it was away from the cove of the wreck. The sun had scarce quartered the sky when, weary and almost delirious with fatigue, Conor felt Rhiannon’s hand on his arm. He shook himself fully awake and looked around. They had passed from the light stands of birch and beech bordering the coast into an older heavier wood of ancient oak and ash and yew. Fergal had stopped a short distance ahead. ‘I’ve found something,’ he called, and gestured Conor forward.
Conor glanced at Rhiannon, handed her the reins of his horse, and said, ‘Stay here.’
He joined Fergal and found him stopped before an obstruction in the middle of the path. ‘What do you make of that?’ asked Fergal as Conor came to stand beside him. He pointed to a pillar stone: a tall, thin column of grey rock about the height of a man, the right half of which was painted red, and the left adorned with human handprints in blue. Atop the stone was placed the skull of a wild boar, scoured by the wind and rain and bleached white by the sun, with great curving tusks and ragged teeth; the empty eye sockets had been stuffed with earth from which the curled green tendrils of fern plants emanated.
‘Druids?’ said Feral.
‘Who else?’ replied Conor.
The pillar stone marked the the entrance to a small, circular sunlit glade at the far side of which stood a small stone bothy, little more than a hut with a reed-thatched roof; before it, a good-sized fire ring had been established with an iron tripod and large cauldron. Beside the hut stood another, very much smaller round structure made of stone and
shaped like an overlarge beehive. The rest of the clearing was given to grass, which grew long and lush. All appeared silent and deserted.
‘I don’t think there’s anyone here,’ said Fergal. ‘We can rest a while and graze the horses at least.’
Conor agreed and, stepping past the boar’s head pillar, they entered the glade. Four more standing stones marked out the perimeter, and each of these was topped by a capstone shaped like an upside-down bowl and painted red. Crossing the grassy expanse, they proceeded to the hut and looked in. The single square room had a floor of beaten earth and bare walls; there were no wind holes or any furniture save for a shelf from which hung a chunk of flint and a tang of iron affixed to either end of a leather strap. The small beehive-shaped building had a small, round wooden door just big enough to admit a man if he entered on hands and knees. Fergal pulled open the door and peered inside. He gave a sniff and then crawled in and, a moment later, backed out again with half a smoked mackerel. ‘It’s a smokehouse,’ he said. ‘Someone’s been curing fish—there’s a rack of them inside.’
Conor pushed past him and looked in. The place reeked of heavy smoke and the rough walls were black with layered soot. Through chinks in the stonework he could see a wooden rack containing a dozen or so flat-splayed mackerel stained orange by the smoke. There was a fire ring in the centre of the house and Conor placed his hand on one of the stones—both it and the ashes within the ring were cold.
‘We won’t starve, at least,’ he said upon backing out again. Fergal handed him a piece of smoked fish and Conor devoured it in two bites, then licked his fingers and said, ‘Let’s set up camp in the bothy and get a fire going.’
He and Fergal returned to the woodland path where Rhiannon was waiting. They led the horses into the clearing and to the door of the shelter, and then eased Donal down from the stallion, carried him inside, and laid him on the floor. They untied the body of Mádoc and put him at the opposite end of the hut and covered his body with his cloak. ‘It is damp in here,’ Conor observed.
‘Dried bracken would make a fair bed,’ Rhiannon told him. ‘And a fire would soon warm this place. I will gather the bracken.’
‘I’ll help,’ said Fergal, ‘after I see to the horses.’
‘I’ll get some firewood,’ Conor said.
While Fergal tethered Ossin and Búrach with the rope they had used to bind Mádoc’s body, Conor went back along the forest path to collect dried windfall wood for kindling. He quickly gathered an armload and had returned to the edge of the clearing when there came a thrashing of branches, of something moving fast through the undergrowth and not caring how much noise it made as it came.
Instinctively, Conor dropped the wood and took up one of the larger pieces to use as a club. He squared off as out from the trail tumbled a short, squat druid. Little more than a mere scrap of a man with an overlarge head, wide mouth, and protruding ears, he was dressed in a green robe with brócs laced high on his bare legs; his druid tonsure was bristly black stubble and in sore need of renewing; the faded blue cloak folded on his shoulder all but trailed behind him on the ground. Red-faced from chasing down the trail, he took one look at the travellers, turned, and shouted, his voice loud and echoing through the trees, ‘They’re here! I found them!’
The little man took a long look around the glade and said, ‘The people with you—one of them was injured, I think. Is he—?’
‘He lives, but the wound is deep,’ Conor replied, staring at the newcomer. ‘Who are you?’
The diminutive druid pushed past him to the boar’s head pillar stone at the entrance to the clearing, noting the horses and Fergal who was tending them. ‘Your friends—I thought there were more of you. Where are the others?’
‘Who are you?’ Conor asked again. ‘How is it you are here?’
‘I am Tuán,’ said the man. He made a little bow of courtesy, then started off across the clearing. Conor gathered up the wood he had dropped and hurried after, catching up with him at the door of the bothy. Tuán ducked inside and, kneeling down beside Donal, placed the palm of his hand to the stricken warrior’s face and asked, ‘Was it the shipwreck?’
‘It was a spear wound,’ Conor said, dumping the wood by the door, ‘from before the wreck.’
The druid nodded and stood. ‘You are fortunate to have survived.’
‘Some of us didn’t,’ Conor told him. He indicated Mádoc’s body beneath its improvised shroud. With a curious, hopping gait, the druid moved to the body. Stooping low, he lifted the edge of Mádoc’s cloak, then glanced up. ‘One of the Learned Brotherhood, I see. Who was he?’
‘His name was Mádoc,’ Fergal said, joining them. ‘He was helping us.’
There came a call from outside and the three stepped out of the hut. ‘Ah!’ said Tuán. He held out a hand to the newcomers. ‘Here are my companions.’
Three druids, one of them a woman, advanced across the clearing. Like Tuán, they wore green; the men were dressed in breecs laced up to the knee, with siarcs and short cloaks folded on their shoulders. The woman had a hooded green robe over a mantle of the same colour, gathered in a girdle of pale yellow. All displayed silver torcs, but the foremost bard’s torc was larger and made of three twisted strands—one end of which was a bear and the other a stag—marking him as a high-caste druid. Slung over his shoulder was a red-and-yellow-checked cloak. He strode to where Conor stood, raised a hand, and, in a voice like golden mist over a deep calm sea, announced, ‘I am Eádoin, Ollamh of Carn Dubh. I give you good greeting. May you find peace and rest from your travails while you are here.’
Conor offered his thanks, and the chief druid continued, ‘Tuán you have met and this is Dáithi, our esteemed filidh.’ The second druid made a sign of respect and, indicating the woman, the high druid said, ‘And this is Gráinne, Banfaíth of Dairefidh, a druid of highest repute and the most accomplished healer among us. She will attend your wounded friend.’
At this the banfaíth lowered her hood to reveal dark hair streaked with white and large, dark eyes that held a look at once gentle and commanding. She stepped close and, placing her hand on Conor’s arm, said, ‘You are safe within this wood. No harm will come to you here. Trust that I will do all that can be done for your friend.’ She looked around. ‘Where is he?’
‘Just inside,’ replied Conor, and stepped away from the door. ‘His name is Donal mac Donogh,’ Conor told her. ‘For his sake, I thank you.’
Gráinne moved past him and went in to examine the wounded man, and Eádoin turned to the warriors and said, ‘Your courage is to be commended. Not many would have attempted what you did—’
‘And fewer would have survived the attempt,’ put in Tuán.
‘What is your name, friend?’ asked Eádoin.
‘I am Conor mac Ardan of the Darini.’ He put out a hand to Fergal, adding, ‘And this is my swordbrother Fergal mac Caen.’
‘Ardan mac Orsi?’ asked the filidh named Dáithi. ‘Him I have heard of. And you are his son, perhaps?’
‘One of them,’ Conor replied. ‘He has three.’
Before he could say more, the banfaíth emerged from the hut just then, and said, ‘I am sorry about the old one, but your friend Donal still clings to life. I will not lead you falsely—his injury is grievous, but trust that I will do all that can be done to save him.’
Both Conor and Fergal thanked her, and Eádoin said, ‘I was told there were three of you on the beach,’ He looked around. ‘Where is the third?’
At this Rhiannon stepped out from her hiding place behind the bothy. Holding a bundle of dry bracken under her arm, she came to stand beside Conor.
One look at her elegant stature, her pale skin and flawless features, and the druids fell back in amazement. ‘A faéry!’ gasped Dáithi, visibly impressed. Tuán only stared, and Eádoin opened his mouth to speak, but could find no words. Gráinne, however, moved quickly to Rhiannon’s side and said, ‘We are honoured, lady. May peace attend your sojourn here among us.’
Rhiannon accepted this with simple grace, and replied, ‘I am Rhiannon of the Tylwyth Teg, and any kindness shown to me or my people will be remembered and rewarded.’ With a nod to Conor and Fergal, she said, ‘These men have rescued me from the Scálda to their great cost. I owe them my life.’
Turning to Conor, the high druid asked, ‘How is it that you came to pilot a Scálda ship into the bay? That is a tale I long to hear.’
‘And here am I thinking you know all about it,’ replied Conor; the faces of the druids swam before him and he stifled a yawn.
Gráinne saw it and put her hand on his shoulder. ‘You are tired and need your rest. Sleep a little, and leave all else in our care.’ With a gesture, she sent Dáithi and Tuán rushing off to prepare rough beds of bracken beneath the oaks behind the bothy.
‘What about Donal and Mádoc?’ asked Fergal.
‘I will attend Donal,’ she told him, ‘and, if you allow it, we will prepare the body of Mádoc for his funeral.’
‘I will have supplies and fodder brought from Carn Dubh,’ Eádoin added, waving a hand in the direction of a low rise just beyond the trees to the north. ‘Worry for nothing.’
Conor thanked them both, and he and Fergal allowed themselves to be led to their rest. ‘It appears we were closer to Carn Dubh than we knew,’ sighed Fergal.
‘Aye,’ agreed Conor, ‘Mádoc would be pleased.’
They stumbled to the place beneath the boughs of a great oak giant where the druids had spread their cloaks over mounded piles of bracken. A brook trickled from somewhere nearby, its waters making a pleasant music. Conor sank down, closed his eyes, and the world drifted away on the gentle sound of the water as he succumbed, at last, to the peaceful oblivion of slumber.
26
‘Donal!’
The shout brought Conor from a heavy sleep. Battling through a wall of fatigue as through a mud-filled bog, he opened his eyes to find himself in a darkling wood, covered by someone else’s cloak. For a moment, Conor could not remember where he was or how he had come to be there; he knew only that he was ravenously hungry and that his bladder was dangerously full.
In the Region of the Summer Stars Page 23
