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To the Next Generation
Beginning with
Kit and Gwen
Aoife
I will remember this day and treasure it always. It began when four young women rushed into the bower we had raised on Tara Hill. In those earliest of days, the hall was only a timber skeleton marked out on the ground and the women’s house was still to be planned, much less begun; so I was sleeping in one of the aspen bowers the men had erected for unmarried women and those with infants and small children. In truth, there were so many bowers for so many different folk and families the hilltop looked more like a woodsman’s camp than a settlement of any kind.
Still, for all that, it was to me a bright and happy place. I was with my beloved and we were to be married—at long last we were to be married, and this was the day. We had chosen Lughnasadh, at summer’s end and autumn’s beginning, a time of change and opportunity. Conor’s brother, a druid of high rank, had agreed to perform the rite during the celebrations. Unusual, I know, but Rónán was always so kindly toward me. Not so, Liam. To be sure, I always knew Conor’s younger brother indulged the hope that I would one day look upon him with more loving eyes. Vexed thing that it was, he kept that poor, sad hope alive and, once he had made certain Conor could never return to Dúnaird and the embrace of his people, he began his assault on my affections. I will forever be in Rónán and Eamon’s debt for coming to my rescue when I had fled Dúnaird and Liam’s oafish attempt to marry me.
Lughnasadh is much my time of the year—a time-between-times of a sort—for summer has gone and winter has not yet arrived, and the crops are full and ready for the harvest. Among our elders, I have often heard it said that before the Black Ships came, Eirlandia’s tribes would gather at Tara for three days of feasting, games, dancing, and music leading to a great fire on Tara Hill on Lughnasadh night. Aye, and there were match-makings and weddings and then, too. Many a maid found her mate, with pledges made and redeemed. My own mother met my father during a Lughnasadh feast. She was dancing in performance of one of the rites and my father, a young warrior of the Menapi tribe, happened to see her. He sought her, wooed her, and wed her the next year. In those far-off, happier times it was common for many tribes to come together for the games and festivities of all kinds.
All this, like so much else, has fallen away in recent years. People hardly dare venture beyond their strong fortress walls, and such festivities as are to be had are poor, thin, shrivelled things indeed.
Ach, but Conor is lord now and he is determined that here at Tara our Lughnasadh would be celebrated with as much of the old flavour as we could command from our mean circumstances. ‘We may not be able to make a full return to the old ways all at once,’ he said, ‘but we can make a start.’
‘Will you invite the tribes?’ I wondered.
‘Some, I think, aye—the Coriondi at least, and maybe one or two others. I would invite the Darini, but Liam would only spurn the invitation and scorn me for it. I will spare him, and myself, that particular humiliation.’
The thought cast him into a gloomy mood, so I said, ‘At least Rónán will be here to perform the wedding rite. You can take pleasure in that.’
Conor slipped his arm around my waist and pulled me to him. ‘I, for one, mean to take as much pleasure as possible.’ He gave me a quick kiss and started away. ‘But there is much to be done if we are to feast tomorrow. It won’t do to promise an ox and supply a goat.’
‘Not if you wish to remain a lord at peace with your people,’ I told him as he disappeared. I saw him only fleetingly through the day—now talking to builders and carpenters, now ordering preparations for the feast, now in council with Fergal or Donal about the fianna or some such.
The next morning, I had scarce risen from sleep when the maidens came for me. Four of them, as I say, smirking and giggling and pulling me from my bed. They threw my cloak around me, and led me from the ráth and down to the washing stream—the place where the women bathe themselves and clean their clothes and little ones. Though the sun was new-risen, there were already some of the elder women at the washing stones. They smiled as their younger sisters came twittering down to the water, for they knew well enough what was happening.
The maidens removed my clothes and led me into the cold stream, where I stood shivering while they washed me with soap scented with honeysuckle and meadowsweet. They washed my hair as well, and then drew me from the water to dry me in soft cloths. They bundled me into a clean new cloak, then combed and braided my hair—all the while fluttering around like birds. They plucked flowers from the riverbank and wove them into the elaborate plaits they created.
When my hair was ready, they removed the cloak and dressed me in my wedding mantle—a simple long siarc, but dyed with madder and sewn with tiny shells and pearls and stars made of gold thread. They brought out a fine new green and yellow girdle, and put low-cut, soft leather brócs on my feet.
Then they all stood back and chirped away happily, pleased with their efforts. Each and every one hailed me as a queen of regal aspect, and each one kissed me on the cheek—the last time that familiarity would be permitted them, as I reckon they knew—and then they hugged me and pressed my hands in homage to the friend they had known.
Of course, I knew that it was not merely for myself that they clothed and pampered me so. Nay, it was for themselves and the brides they hoped one day to be that they practiced the age-old preparation rituals of our race. Today, I was all they desired for themselves. Truly, in the deepest part of my heart, I wished them no less.
When I was ready, they led me back up to the ráth, where a simple meal was prepared—the first of several to be served throughout the day. Though it was a festival day, our ráth was so newly begun and so much was yet to be done that the work of the place would continue until later in the day when the invited guests arrived and the festivities began.
And this is the way of the Lughnasadh:
The games are much as you might expect, though very much enjoyed for that. They might vary somewhat one place to another, or so I hear, and change from one year to the next depending on the whim of those taking part. Even so, where a stronghold contains warriors—show me a stronghold that does not, and I will show you a ruin—there will be spear throwing and wrestling and sword skill, and tests of strength of all kinds including the throwing of heavy stones and, sometimes, timber beams. There will sometimes be cammán, though since the games do often descend into brawls and broken heads, many tribes ban them on the day.
There will be racing—b
oth horses and men—and jumping for both. There will be singing contests and dancing for both men and women and Rónán will tell stories—especially about Lugh Samildánach, the Many-Gifted. Indeed, all the arts fostered and bequeathed by Lugh to the Dé Danann will be indulged and celebrated—or at least as many as can be found among us.
All this will be observed by the lord, who is surrounded by his people. Ordinarily, Conor would take part in the games, but not today and likely not ever again. As lord, it is his place to reward and praise those whose skill or chance grants them victory and it is unseemly for any lord to laud himself in this way.
Then, when all the games and contests are finished and the sun has drifted low, thoughts will turn to the feast, and the oxen, sheep, or pigs that have been roasting all day will be served—along with breads of various kinds and sweet stews of apples and berries. The vats will be brought out and the cups filled with the first fruits of the tuns and the ale poured out. Aye, very much ale. The Dé Danann cannot celebrate anything without a cup or three, to be sure.
The feasting will continue through the evening and into the night until, when the druid has determined that the moon has stretched its full height above the land, he will summon everyone to the meeting place—for some tribes it is a stone circle if there is one nearby, or it might be a cairn, or tomb of a mighty ancestor—and there, his strong voice lifted to the heights, he will tell the old stories and perform the ageless, changeless rites of Danu’s proud children.
At a certain time during this ritual, when the moon is heavy and bright with promise, the wedding rite will be performed. Sometimes, only one or two couples might come forward to be married, sometimes more. Once, when I was a little girl, I saw twelve brides married on Lughnasadh night. Tonight, it would be my turn to remove the maiden girdle and exchange it for that of a married woman.
The druid will summon those to be married and will speak the words to bind us in marriage for our time in this worlds-realm. He will ask and we will answer before kin and clan and friends so all will know our hearts and that we are of one mind. When the words have been spoken, the young men of Conor’s fianna will bear the groom away. They will pour mead into a jar and they will all share the cup and they will bear him—carrying him bodily, as is usually the custom—to the bridal chamber. For us, this is to be in our little bower made of cloths and cloaks and such stretched on a frame of rough timber and thatched with reeds to make for us a sort of lodge.
Once in the bridal chamber, wherever it may be, the young men will share another cup and they will take their leave of him, first taking his brócs or his cloak, or some other item of clothing—the laces of his siarc, perhaps. This, so they say, in preparation for a more complete disrobing later—making such jokes and jibes as young men do. Or, so I’m told.
The friends will leave the groom then and return to the celebration. Meanwhile, the young women will have taken the bride to the women’s house where they will remove her fine mantle and dress her in a gown of new linen. They will anoint her with water scented with herbs and flowers, and they will unbraid her hair and comb out the tresses and, maybe, tie it back in a ribbon if there is one. They will put her soft shoes on her feet and recite a little rune for fertility and the children yet to be born—we all know it for we have heard it often enough. Then, when all is ready, the young women will lead the bride to the bridal chamber to meet her groom. They will pour mead from the jar into the cup and share it with her one last time as one of their own, and this for the last time as a sister.
Then, smirking and giggling, they will leave the lovers to enjoy their honey mead and, duty done, return to the feast—hoping, perhaps, to catch the eye of one of the groom’s men whose thoughts have been bent toward marriage by the rites so observed. It happens more often than you might think!
Conor came to me, looking slightly anxious and flustered by all the preparations. Even with Dearg and Donal’s help, there was yet that much to do. ‘I have heard that long ago a fella might fetch his bride upon his horse and the two ride away to a woodland bower to begin their marriage,’ he told me, bursting into my chamber and throwing himself onto my bed. ‘That seems to me a right worthy and sensible plan.’
‘Ach, poor Conor—so sore beset,’ I said. Bending low, I gave him a kiss, then pulled him up by the hand. ‘But everything is nearly ready and you’ll not be pinching my wedding from me with a sad tale of hardship and woe. I’ve waited too long for this day.’
I pushed him toward the cloth-hung doorway, where he paused and regarded me with a slightly lopsided grin. ‘Did you think this day would ever come?’
I moved to him and he took me in his strong arms. ‘I never doubted,’ I told him, gazing into his clear, hazel eyes. ‘Did you?’
‘More than once—if truth be told,’ he replied.
‘More than once! How many more than the once?’
‘A hundred times a day at least,’ he said blithely. ‘Every time I saw you carrying your milk bucket to the cookhouse,’ he kissed me lightly on the lips, ‘or making butter,’ he kissed me again, ‘or tending one of your newborn calves,’ another kiss, ‘or playing your harp in my father’s hall.’ He kissed me one last time and let it linger. ‘My heart, if you only knew how I yearned for this day since I was old enough to desire such a thing.’
Happy tears came to my eyes then and I stood holding him as he brushed them away with this fingertips. ‘I love you, Conor mac Ardan. And I will be a good wife to you, you’ll see.’
‘Now that,’ he said, his grin growing wide and handsome, ‘I never doubted at all.’
‘Ach, you’ll be having me in tears again,’ I said. He kissed me again and I pushed him gently toward the door. ‘Take yourself away and do something useful. Rónán will be calling us soon enough.’
To be sure, it is customary for the bride and her beloved to remain aloof from one another before the wedding rite at the stone circle. I do not know where this practice began, or why we hold to it still. My mother always said it was for luck and prosperity, though how this can be, I cannot say. But something in Conor’s words recalled a time when a ráth did not always look to its defence in case of attack at every moment of the day and night, a time when, on that solitary day if no other, the couple might take their ease and enjoy the festive rites and share their happiness with their clan and kin. The thought made me a little melancholy—or, perhaps, envious for that time, now long past, when a bride and her beloved could spend the day entire luxuriating in the enjoyment of their wedding.
Then again, maybe those far-off golden times never existed at all.
However it may be, I was determined that my wedding would not be marred by any gloom or shadow of some imagined loss or deprivation. My dear mother, long since in her grave, would have gloried in the match, for she dearly loved Conor, she surely did. And though it chafed me that she would not see her sole surviving daughter wed, I vowed I would enjoy everything the day held for me. And so I did.
After all, when it was over, I was the wife of the Lord of Tara and no other woman alive could say that.
1
Halfway across the wide green oval of the yard, Conor paused to consider the building work on the ráth. He wondered if any of the other lords in Eirlandia had a moment’s peace from the relentless beseeching, pleading, and wheedling. He supposed not.
He stood with the sun warm on his back, and drew a deep breath—as if trying to take in all the commotion before him. The air smelled of sawdust and horses, and rang with the sound of axes and hammers. The carpenters and their many helpers were in full cry; their shouts and clamour could be heard from one end of Tara Hill to the other.
In the year and four months since his Lughnasadh wedding, great strides had been made in the work of establishing Tara ráth and settlement. The first of the permanent structures to be erected, the hall, now flaunted its imposing roof above the lesser buildings; the women’s house was well begun, and the large stable and pen for the fianna’s horses was almost finishe
d—along with two of the four new storehouses. But the first of two planned warriors’ houses was still merely wooden stakes pounded into the dirt. A makeshift smith’s forge had been set up behind the ancient burial mound a little distance away, and the two existing storehouses on the hilltop had been converted into workshops for the craftsmen.
Constructing an entire ráth from the ground up was an enterprise that would have challenged even the wealthiest and most well-supplied tribe. Having to do everything at once, and having to do it with whatever materials came to hand, made that challenge a veritable ordeal. Even so, the zeal of all those who daily faced that trial somehow made it bearable and, sometimes, even enjoyable. Conor continually marvelled at the fortitude and resilience of his adopted people, and their undimmed determination to make of Tara’s fabled hill a genuine home.
He lingered, enjoying the warmth of summer and admiring the work of the thatchers as they hoisted bundles of river reed up onto the steeply pitched roof. This hall, his hall, would become the strong beating heart of his realm, and the sight of its fine high roof glowing like gold in the day’s early light swelled his heart with unaccustomed pride. Once, Tara Hill had been the crown of Eirlandia’s sovereignty—the residence of mighty men, lords of legend and renown, high kings all. It would be so again—at least, it would be if Conor had anything to do with it.
‘I am sorry to intrude on your thoughts, lord,’ said a voice behind him. He glanced around to see Dearg, his master of the hearth, and two other men striding purposefully toward him. ‘Conla, here, would speak to you.’
Conor greeted the men and wished them well, then said, ‘What is your pleasure, friends?’
Conla, a short-limbed fellow with a square head bald as a stone hammer, was Lord Cahir’s master builder and presently on extended loan from the Coriondi king. Cahir and Conor’s father, Lord Ardan, had long been close friends and allies; Conor had inherited that friendship, and now leaned heavily on it. The master builder, along with his two assistants, was overseeing the raising of the ráth. Ordinarily, Conor had only to tell them what he wanted and they worked out how best to go about it. They rarely sought his opinion or advice but, when they did, it usually meant they had encountered some new and seemingly intractable difficulty.
In the Kingdom of All Tomorrows--Eirlandia, Book Three Page 1
