“You have wandered far from us, Mile Easpain,” one cried. “You are more Greek or Roman than Galaeci. They are the wanderers of the world. We are the clans of Galicia and here we shall remain.”
My father looked stunned, never mind that he had never served in either Greece or Rome. He had just discovered the sad truth that he was a stranger among his own people. My heart moved in sympathy.
Now my mother stood and moved into the firelight. She made an imposing figure with her sturdy little body clad in warrior leathers, her long black hair cascading down past her waist, her eyes ringed for the occasion with the precious kohl of Egypt. I wondered if she knew how strange her little darkness seemed among her husband’s huge clansmen or if she felt that she had truly become one of them. She answered my questions immediately.
“I am none of your clan!” she cried. “I am daughter of pharaoh of Egypt, king of Persia. Yet all of my life with my warrior husband, I have heard of the great deeds of the Galaeci, of your fearless, nomadic spirit. I have journeyed far in your wagons to reach you here, and I have chosen to become one of you for the journey. Where is your wandering spirit now?”
“The wife of Mil speaks well,” cried one of the clan mothers. “I and my clan will journey!”
“Nay,” cried another. “You will divide the clans; how shall we stay related when the sea separates our children one from the other?”
It seemed to me that all of the arguments made sense. Though I was poet by training and knew that my words would hold weight, I kept silent, knowing myself also for young. Perhaps too there was some selfishness in me, for here in the firelight with Skena and Bile, I had no wish to test the whims of the great heaving sea beyond Breogam’s Tower. For the first time in my life, I was full of belonging and needed no journey to explore what was here within my grasp.
Into the void around the fire came An Scail, the Shadow. She wore her long white robes, embroidered with gold and silver, enhanced with little bells at hem and cuff. At her neck was a lunula of hammered gold in the shape of the crescent moon. Her long white hair cascaded behind her, at one with her robe. Though she was most ancient, I had the fleeting thought that it was obvious to me why my uncle Ith had loved her alone through all the years of his exile.
An Scail circled the fire once, those odd silver eyes catching the firelight, mesmerizing the company. Silence fell down upon us like the sea fog.
When only the crackling of the logs could be heard, she spoke, so softly that all the company leaned in to hear her.
“My brothers and sisters. Hear me well, for my wisdom is old. Here at the edge of the sea we have dwelled for more than a hundred years. Here did our ancestor Breogam build the great stone lighthouse and command that it cleave the night’s darkness with fire. Here did we first hear the tales of Inisfail.
“Who among you has not climbed those stony stairs and looked out to the north? Who among you has not whispered, ‘Inisfail, I will come to you, Isle of Destiny’?”
The crowd shifted and murmured, for surely it was ritual among them.
“In Mile Easpain, that ancient journey is more than ritual. It is an imperative.”
I knew what she meant. For my father, this journey was his polestar, the fixed constant of his wandering life, the final place of his journey.
“Still,” she continued, “the best journeyer is the wise journeyer. And we of the Galaeci would be wise before we send our children to the sea.”
Again, nods and murmurs.
“So we of the Druii offer to you our services as emissaries. From among us Ith, brother of Mil, will take to the sea with two of our own druii. Together, they will petition the Greeks for passage. They will journey to Inisfail and return to us with the wisdom of the place.
“Mile Easpain, will you allow us to choose from among the company three warriors who will best serve us on the journey?”
I do not know if my father had been aware of their plan. If he had not, none of the company could have known it from his response, for he stood among the druids as if the idea had been known to him all along.
“I salute my brother and his companions, bravest of our wisdom keepers. I will abide by the knowledge they return. To them the choice of fellow journeyers from among my sons and the clans of the Galaeci.”
I knew him well enough to see the look of hope upon his face, his wish to journey to Inisfail, but I knew with certainty that it was me my uncle Ith would choose. The impending separation from Skena and Bile sat in my stomach like a stone. Had she not said to me only yesterday when she was cradled in my arms that I would be called upon to travel. She turned toward me now, her face pale in the firelight, her eyes large.
Ith came forward with two young druids by his side. He embraced my father, clapping him on both shoulders, clasping arms from elbow to hand.
“I shall be the faithful ears and eyes for our people,” Uncle Ith cried. “The safety of our journey shall be my sacred trust. I shall return to you the knowledge of my going and my coming home. I choose as my warrior companion”—here I drew myself up and let out a long, ragged breath—“Airioch Feabhruadh, son of Mile Easpain.”
The shock on my father’s face was mirrored only by the shock in my own heart. I barely heard as the second druid chose his own brother, a man of the clans that I did not know, and the third my own elder brother Eber Donn.
10
“Why not me? Why not my father? Not Airioch! Uncle Ith, I plead with you to change your mind.”
In the low conical hut amid the towering pines, Uncle Ith was packing his hide bag for the journey. Behind him I saw An Scail wrap a long crescent of wood incised with markings in a tanned and waterproof hide. She slipped it into his bag.
She saw me watching and smiled. “We are the Oak People,” she said. “It bears our sacred name.”
“How could you let him do this?” I asked, my anger making my respect for her slip.
“Let? One does not let fate, Amergin. Fate is; to be his brother’s eyes and ears has been Ith’s fate for all his life. Your father is an impetuous man, a strong warrior who acts first and thinks second. Your uncle is his wisdom; they are two halves of one being. I do not ‘let,’ I accept.”
“But why Airioch?” I turned back to Ith. “He will not serve you. Airioch serves himself. This you know.”
“It will serve my purpose to have him with me.”
“What purpose could that be?”
“The purpose is you, boy,” said An Scail. Her voiced sounded frayed, irritable.
“Me?”
“Can you see nothing?” Her silver eyes challenged me from across the dwelling.
Uncle Ith sighed. “Sweeting,” he said softly. “Did we not agree?”
“We did,” she answered. But her voice broke on the saying.
Uncle Ith smiled. “All life is duality, Amergin. Learn this well. Action is followed by reflection. Journey is followed by remembrance. Learning is followed by teaching. You have a new family; Bile needs your strong arms, and Skena your love and protection.”
“My own selfishness has told me this. But you will need me on the journey. I can protect you. I can sing the truth of what we see.”
“This I know to be true, but I need other things from you. You are a poet in training. That position will bear much responsibility to the clan; a poet must be well schooled and wise. I will not live forever, lad. You must follow me. I do have a mission to ask of you, and I ask that you perform it well.”
“Ask anything of me and I will give it. This you know.”
He looked at me long then, and his eyes filled with unshed water.
“I know it well,” he said softly. “You are the son of my heart. In our journeys together, I have taught you all that I know. But there is one whose knowledge is deeper and older than mine. I would have you learn from her before this journey begins.”
I knew he spoke of An Scail; I am ashamed to say that the knowledge made my stomach curl with fear.
“While I am gone, I
wish you to study with her. You must learn the deep knowledge, the workings of the universe. You must study every day. Will you promise me that?”
For my uncle I swallowed my fear for him and my pride. I spoke humbly to An Scail. “If you will have me, Wise Teacher, I will prove an apt pupil.”
Her face registered surprise.
“Do you see?” asked Ith. “There is wisdom here beyond his years.”
“I do see,” she said softly. “I thought that he would argue.”
“Then let me argue Airioch,” I said. “Any other of my brothers would be a wiser choice.”
“Which is why our apprentice has chosen Eber Donn,” said An Scail. “He is your father’s twin, an impulsive warrior, but loyal as the trees.”
I saw then that they had planned it carefully: my warrior brother and two men not of our clan, all but Airioch loyal to Uncle Ith.
“O you gods. You take him away because you fear what trouble he might cause. For my father. For me. For Skena and Bile.”
Ith acknowledged the truth of my words with a single nod. “But also, a man like Airioch has a singular eye. Because he sees what will benefit him, he sees what will benefit the tribe. You will have much to do here, Amergin. Your father must prepare all of his clan for this great journey, their goods and their gear. You must prepare their spirits.”
“I will do as you have asked,” I said.
“This I have known from the first,” said Uncle Ith. He exchanged a long look with An Scail, full of unspoken sorrow for their impending separation.
CEOLAS SINGS OF CHANGE
Even the wind sings change.
The very seasons
wear it as a cloak.
All souls journey into the West
and all return.
Do not fear change, my kinsmen.
Stand strong before it.
For it will come upon us
whether we will it, or no.
We came down to the sea, to the inlet where the Greeks had anchored the bireme that would take our scouting party north. I clasped Uncle Ith hard by his arms and did all that I could not to weep like a stripling child. Bile did weep, the “Ah, ah” sounds ripping me to the heart.
“Return to us safely,” I whispered.
He put me back at arm’s length. “I am never gone from you, lad. Never. Learn well from An Scail.”
My father approached, and he and Ith bent heads together in whispered conversation as I had seen them do since childhood, then clasped each to the other. I realized suddenly and for perhaps the first time that my father loved Ith as I did.
I clasped arms with Airioch in the soldier’s way. “Care for him,” I urged him. “He is old and more frail than he seems.” I would not release him until he answered.
“Why, what else would I do for our uncle?” Airioch replied lightly. “And you care well for her.” He pointed at Skena. “Ride once or twice for me; I should have liked it well.” He grinned his most wolfish grin and bounded toward the ship. “Come, Uncle,” he cried. “The sea waits for no man, druid or no!”
I saw Uncle Ith place his hand against An Scail’s cheek. I saw her tip the silvery eyes toward his own. I do not know what words passed between them, but I saw her nod once.
And then they were gone, the square sail of the bireme dipping and rising as it led them out to sea, away to the north. To Inisfail.
11
The full moon crested the horizon, luminous and orange, its resident rabbit tilted forward toward the bowl of the sea. I made my way through the forest softly, rolling inward from the sides of my feet, making no sound at all, just as An Scail had taught me to do.
My heart hammered like a bodhran as I shifted through the dark trees.
Samhain.
Tonight I would stand among the druids as they ushered out the old year and chanted in the new. There in the sacred oak grove, I would stand in the Sacred White Circle for the first time. More than six months had passed since my uncle and my brothers departed on the sea. Tonight we would know what message Ith had sent us from across the sea.
Had I known what studying with An Scail would entail, I might not have agreed so readily to Uncle Ith’s request to be her student. Hours of standing first on one leg, then the other, my arms encircled, in a move that An Scail called An Corr, the Heron, were followed by the study of star charts drawn on the forest floor, each with its own story.
“We believe,” An Scail said softly, “that there are Star People out there, for would the Creator waste so vast a sky as this?”
Each morning there was warrior study. The druids of the martial arts taught me to run in the forest in absolute silence, even to still my breathing to the breath of the leaves. I could throw a spear and hit the smallest target, leap into the air and twist down, stabbing sword in hand.
I memorized hundreds of poems and songs, the entire history of the Galaeci and of the greater Keltoi who wandered across the world. I learned the cycles of the earth and the cycles of the people, we whose souls go across the water and then return again and yet again. I learned that the Creator of the world is a maker of superfluous abundance.
“We must acknowledge that abundance with both solemnity and joy,” An Scail taught me. “It is a gift worthy of the gratitude of the Galaeci.”
And then at last, after many months, the Dreaming—three days of fasting without food or water, alone in the far forest on a high cliff overlooking the sea.
But no vision came.
On the third night the moon had been full and white, a knowing eye in a sky spangled with stars. I was seated in the Sacred Circle, staring out at the sea. I felt drowsy and cold, almost empty, a vessel awaiting water. I looked out at the geese-wing path the moonlight made on the water. At the apex of the V was an island, a small stone outcropping that the Galaeci knew to be deserted but for cormorants and water seals.
Suddenly I saw a white light followed by a strange blue ovoid. Moments later, a flame flared up at its crest, sending red sparks toward the night sky.
I did not dream it. I know well enough that to deprive the body of food and water is to open the door to vision. We Keltoi have practiced such rituals for centuries. This was fire, real and red and warm, like the hill-to-hill signal fires of Samhain Eve. It was followed soon after by a flash in the sky, a sudden whiteness followed by blue light, something shimmering, viscous like a waterfall, through which I could see the attenuated stars. Then darkness. The fire had been extinguished. The night sky was as it had been: moon and pinprick stars.
I remember that I tried to rise but my body, folded so long into its waiting position, would not come up with me. My legs had fallen asleep. I crawled from the circle and threw myself on my back, massaging the blood back into the limbs. When at last they stopped tingling, I rose and ran through the midnight forest all the way to the hut of An Scail.
“Coracle or curragh, it does not matter. If I have to swim, I will go. Someone was on that island. Something is there!”
An Scail held up her hand.
“I believe you, Amergin. This is the strength of vision, that the veil between this world and the next separates, and we see what is there. You have had a powerful vision, a parting of the veil. You are most fortunate.”
“No. Honored Teacher, there is a quality of vision that was not present at that moment. No vision came to me in the Dreaming. I sat hungry and tired, my legs asleep, and nothing came. And then I saw fire on the Isle of Seals. Real fire.”
She tipped her head, and the strange silvery blue eyes regarded me. At last she spoke. “We will need the largest of the curraghs and several men to row. The water between here and the stone is rough.”
“We?”
“Do you think that a good teacher would let her pupil go alone?”
And so we went, the ancient woman, her student, the rowers who would not venture from the boat, who turned it beetle-backed upon the rocky shore and made the sign against the evil while we scrabbled our way to the crest of the treeless roc
k, at the last, me dragging and pulling a weary An Scail up the stony scree.
We were not disappointed. There at the crest, wrapped carefully in its waterproof hide, was Uncle Ith’s curved oaken stick. Between us, An Scail and I turned it all ways, face up and face down, toward the light and toward the shadow. She ran her hands over it delicately again and again. It was precisely the stick that he had taken with him. It said exactly what it had said when Uncle Ith departed—“The Oak People”—carefully incised in ogham letters on its face. It was alone, wrapped in hide, at the top of a hill on a deserted island. And that was all. Nothing more.
For a long time we sat there at the crest of the hill, amazement rendering us silent. At last I ventured what we both were thinking.
“How did it come here? And why? And if it says what last we saw, what message more?” I also feared for Uncle Ith’s safety, though I did not say so to my teacher.
“Ith is well,” she said simply, having read the question in my mien or perhaps in my heart of hearts. I no longer questioned the well of her knowledge, which was ancient and most deep.
“And of the message?”
“I try to think as Ith thinks. Samhain approaches. He will know that we are strongest then, that the druii in the Sacred Circle speak directly to the gods themselves. It is then that he will speak to us. He must want you among us, boy, to have sent the message at this very time.” She nodded. “You will stand with us in the Sacred Circle. We must prepare your lunula and your robes.”
And so the orange moon rising into white by slow degrees, my heart beating beneath the soft wool of my new robes, the small golden circlets of the male druii clicking at the hem of my robe as I nervously shifted side to side. While other druids had been sent to the village to perform the Samhain rituals there, this was the circle of High Druids, the most ancient and wisest among the priesthood. I felt humbled and more than a little afraid to be among them, and my legs trembled. Each druid was flanked by two tall oaks so that we formed a perfect forest circle, the dark oaks, the druii in their white cloaks tinted orange, awaiting full moonrise.
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