Song of Ireland

by Juilene Osborne-McKnight

  “We will live only as long as the humans do?” asked Banba in alarm. “They have to them only some forty of their years.”

  “No. No. Never so short as that. You are Braided; your biology is engineered for longevity. But shorter than now, yes.”

  “So …” Eriu moved one of the paper petals further out of alignment. “To protect our people, could we shift the timespread wider, move further out of alignment with the humans here? They would not see us or know us.”

  Airmid inclined her head. “Had we the knowledge, yes. We could do just that. But what we have here is the limit of what we know. We can shift in and out of times that are closely aligned. We cannot move time itself. And even then, even if we pulled the petals further out of alignment, we would be at risk at the doorways. If the invaders ever found their way through the doorways, they would find us still.”

  “So what you are saying is …” Eriu pondered for a moment. “To avoid them completely, we must close the doorways.”

  “Not just close, seal. Not just seal, destroy.”

  “And if we do, we will live all alone on this petal of time, while the humans live on theirs. There will be no contact between any of us and any of them again. Ever.” Eriu’s voice broke.

  Airmid inclined her head. “It would be a terrible price,” she said softly. “Just as there was a terrible price for the arm.”

  “For the Silver Arms?” asked Banba. “Where are they now? Have you hidden them?”

  But Airmid’s eyes had filled with tears. “Enough!” she said. She held up her hand. Then, with slow dignity, she simply left the chamber.

  17

  The Fir Bolg village in morning light looked worse than it had by torchlight and fire. The conical dwellings with their thatched roofs were small and squat; smoke drifted skyward through their central holes.

  As the oldest Hybrid in their little group, Illyn spoke sharply to her companions. “Speak to them only in Fir Bolg! They will fear you if you address them in Danu. Do you hear me?”

  The children nodded, their eyes wide.

  “Do not speak of the cities or of the Danu. Do not tell them of our clothing or our food or our dwellings. All would frighten them. We are here to tell them that Invaders come from the southern sea. Reassure them that the Invaders are not Fomorians.”

  The children who had been allowed to make the journey were all close upon Illyn’s age. The Danu had judged that children younger than nine years would not know what to say and what to keep. In truth, these children should be dead, or, if they had been kept, they would be the broken of the tribe, those who could not see or hear or speak or reason, those who had been left in the cold hills to die.

  Illyn well knew that her people would perceive her as a changeling child. In truth, she was. Neither Fir Bolg nor Danu, neither human nor Braid. The Danu had been rescuing the Fir Bolg children for generations, long ago stealing healthy children away from the slave-hungry Fomorians, later rescuing the imperfect of the tribe.

  In the beginning, the Fomor captives had simply returned to their tribes with fanciful tales of rescue by a race of golden-haired Fair Folk. But the Hybrids could never return. Some dwelled forever among the Danu. Others formed their own strange tribes on the Green Island, different by degrees from any humankind, and so considered strange. Illyn wondered briefly what choice she would make.

  Beside her, her Danu companions untidied their hair, spread dirt on their faces and feet. They had chosen for Metaphor to look as much like the Fir Bolg as possible so as not to frighten them. Now they were attempting to look as if they had made a long overland journey, though they had simply stepped from a portal a half hour before dawn.

  Illyn smiled. They were kind and careful to a fault, these Danu. She did not wish to disappoint them with the knowledge that their nuances of disguise would be lost on her people. She sighed. Sometimes she felt so lonely. A creature of no one and nowhere. An old, old mind in a young and ill-fitting body.

  The village began to bustle.

  “Come,” said Illyn. “And remember your lessons.”

  They moved in among the villagers. The Fir Bolg were slow to react to the strangers among them. Then suddenly, buffeted by a wind of gutturals and shouts, the Danu were surrounded by Fir Bolg men, their heavy spears in hand. The men tilted their heads, assessing the group, trying to recognize those they could never recognize.

  Illyn spoke.

  “I am Keeper of Illyn, daughter of Degna. Call her to me.” This she said in a voice that was at once commanding and kind.

  Degna arrived between two warriors, her legs trembling with fear. She swallowed and nodded. “This is she; she keeps my Illyn safe inside her.”

  The warriors lowered the spears. “Why do you return to us?”

  “These children are also keepers.” Illyn gestured around her. “We live far south of here; it may be that we cannot return for a time; these … keepers would like to see their parents.”

  “Why will you not return?” Degna asked.

  “We have seen raiders approaching from the sea.”

  A collective gasp arose from the Fir Bolg; they began to chatter in tones of fear.

  “They are not Fomor,” said Illyn, but her child’s voice was lost in the deeper noise of the tribe. One of the Danu struck his spear on the ground. A spark of blue lightning shot from its point. The tribe stilled, moved back from the visitors and away.

  “They are not Fomorians,” said Illyn quietly.

  “This you know?” asked Degna. She seemed to have gathered the courage to function as the speaker for the tribe. Illyn felt a little surge of pride.

  “This we know.”

  “These that you dwell with.” Degna gestured at the disguised Danu. Evidently she was not fooled by their Metaphor. “They are knowers of many things?”

  “They know more things than you and I have ever known,” said Illyn softly.

  Degna nodded her head. “Long ago, they say, we went to war with them; they were Fair Folk. The stories say that they came among us from doorways in the stones.”

  Illyn said nothing at all.

  “It is also said that long ago there was a great war with the Fomor. It is said that these folk defeated the Fomor and drove them to the northern sea. Is this true?”

  One of the Danu spoke up. “It is true, woman of the Fir Bolg.”

  Degna cleared her throat. “Then we are in your debt not only for these keepers but for driving the dark ones from our shores. We will trust that you will do the same with these newcomers.”

  Degna looked around at her tribesmen as if making up her mind about something. Then she stepped forward. Gently, timorously, she drew Illyn into her embrace. A little gasp arose from the gathered Fir Bolg. While Illyn was in her embrace, Degna whispered in her ear. “That is why I left you there, between the stones wrapped in the warm pelts of wolves. I knew that they would find you there; I wished for them to take you among them. I could not bear it if you had been taken by the Fomor.”

  Illyn felt her eyes fill with tears. “For that I thank you … Maither,” she whispered back.

  “You will keep my Illyn safe?” Degna asked.

  “Here, inside me.” Illyn gestured at her heart.

  “She was not … right,” said Degna. “But she was mine. I did not want to give her away. She was not right.”

  “I know,” said Illyn softly. “But she is now.”

  18

  CEOLAS MOURNS

  I am the sea for drowning

  I am the dark night

  I am a wave of sorrow

  I am the cold, dark water

  I weep more salt tears than the sea

  I shall never cease weeping.

  Astrong wind moved across the headland and the full moon was threaded with clouds. The threesome stared out to sea, unencumbered by Metaphor. The moon slipped from behind its scarf; it made a silvery path along the water.

  “I love this beautiful isle,” Eriu sighed.

  “Listen w
here they sing again,” said Fodla softly.

  “Some sorrow moves them,” Eriu said thoughtfully. “Twice now we have heard their songs, and both were sad.”

  “Sorrow is what they deserve,” said Banba. “They should have stayed in their homeplace.”

  “Banba! I do not wish ill on them; I wish only that change will not come. Though it always does.”

  “Sister, do not abandon hope. They may not be as the Fomor were,” said Fodla.

  “Or perhaps they will turn around and go back,” said Banba. “Perhaps some sorrow has befallen them on the journey.”

  “Well then, let us look,” said Eriu.

  Eriu held her arms before her, formed her fingers: Journey, Children of the Braid, the Braid itself. She raised her hands, felt Banba and Fodla close hands around her own. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, opened them. She gazed out over the water in silence. Behind her Fodla and Banba chanted the deep sounds of vision.

  The ships were within a day of landing. Eriu sped among them, searching for Ith. Under the moonlight on the deck of the last ship she found Amergin. He plucked at the strings of his harp. His face seemed hollowed out, empty. Dark bruised circles outlined his eyes. As before, he seemed to sense her once again. He looked up.

  “Skena?” he whispered.

  Eriu felt his pain wash over her. What tragedy had befallen these voyagers? This was not the Amergin of just a few days ago. Eriu filled with pity. She sighed aloud.

  “You have seen them again?” asked Fodla.

  “I have. Something terrible has befallen them.”

  “And still they progress toward us?”

  Eriu nodded. “Unless they go down in the sea, they will make landfall within the next day or so,” she said softly.

  “And we are still unprepared,” said Fodla.

  “Well, we shall hope they go down in the sea,” said Banba.

  “Banba!” This time Eriu and Fodla spoke at once.

  Banba waved her hand. “You know that we are all thinking it. Will they be warlike? What will they wish of us? Fear moves through the Danu like this light moves across the water. And to think that we invited them.”

  “We did not invite,” said Fodla. “We sent the message that Ith asked us to send. We greeted them as we had greeted Greeks and Romans, Egyptians and Persians, with a message of peace and warning.”

  “Ith said that they would not come,” said Eriu. “I took him to be a man of his word. And I can find him nowhere on the ships.”

  Banba shrugged. “He is an elder. Perhaps he is seasick below.”

  “Or perhaps there are warriors among them who overrode his word,” said Banba softly.

  “Then we, too, should be more warlike. Be fierce against them.” The voice came from behind them, nasal and smoky.

  The Sisters turned as one. Morrigu stood behind them, the three sisters cloaked in black, their gowns shifting and swaying in the sea wind, their huge black eyes reflecting the silver moonlight.

  “Banbh, Nemhain, Macha.” Eriu addressed them separately with a formal nod. “We of the Council Triad are willing to listen to your wisdom.”

  “Wisdom, is it?” said Macha. She smiled, her lips folding up into a rictus that looked almost painful. “When have any of the Danu considered us wise?”

  Eriu resisted swallowing. She looked at them each in turn. Panic rose in her throat when she met the eyes of Nemhain, but she fought it back. Panic is what Nemhain engendered. Everywhere she went, she seemed able to draw upon any creature’s worst fear, bring it to the surface, strengthen it until the poor victim gibbered in terror, made terrible decisions based upon that panic.

  Panic was not what Eriu felt when she regarded Banbh; rather, she felt revulsion. It was rumored among her people that Banbh’s favorite use of Metaphor was as carrion feeders, ravens and vultures, birds of darkness who fed on the blood of the fallen.

  And then there was Macha, their primary sister. She was beautiful, although she in no way resembled the People of the Danu or the Penitents. She was taller even than her sisters. Her long black hair floated and shifted in the breeze, and her dark almond-shaped eyes gave away nothing, reflected everything. Eriu could see herself in them now, small and pale, her cap of cloudy curls ruffling in the wind, her eyes wide and startled.

  Macha was the mistress of Metaphor. Even now, Eriu did not know if she looked upon the real creature or some image Macha wished her to see. Eriu herself had seen Macha disappear into the shapes of wolves or eagles and then lope away into the forest or soar above the earth. All in Metaphor, perfectly sustained.

  “You can think of nothing else to say?” Macha asked, the smoky voice pouring from her. “Perhaps that is because you wonder what the Makers called into existence when they created us, when the Raveners emerged from the Braid.”

  Eriu decided that honesty would serve her best with this trio. She nodded. “I have wondered it often, Morrigu, what the Makers called from the Braid when they called forth the Raveners, for you are as unlike the Danu as are Fomor or Fir Bolg.”

  Morrigu shrugged as one. “We are what we are,” said Macha. “But I do find your honesty … fearless and appealing, Eriu. Perhaps they called to some darkness in themselves. Some … hunger. For we are always hungry.” She smiled. “Surely they amplified some fierceness in themselves, for the Raveners are fierce, and the Danu … well.” She shrugged again, pitying them their weakness, Eriu supposed. She decided again on directness.

  “So how would you deal with these Invaders?”

  “Bring the Silver Arms from hiding. Confuse them while they are still at sea. Destroy the Invaders before they reach the shore. Or if they come to shore, destroy them all. Leave the cleanup to the Morrigu.” She grinned her wolfish grin. “We have the preservation of the Danu to think of; all others must perish before that need.”

  “You have not destroyed the Fir Bolg.”

  She shrugged. “Well, they are like cats or dogs, are they not? Simple but domesticated. We enjoy dallying with them sometimes”—here Nemhain snickered—“but we do not harm them because there would be no point. Of these newcomers we know not. They could be like Fomorians.”

  “We remember the final battle with the Fomor,” said Banbh. Her voice was harsh, deep, almost masculine. She actually licked her lips; the dark almond eyes flared suddenly, as if a fire had been lit deep within them.

  “Hush!” Macha commanded. “You go too far as always.”

  Eriu was startled. It was the first time she had ever realized that Macha was keeping the sisters in check, holding them like the reins on a pair of horses. Something like pity arose in her.

  Macha must have sensed it, must have felt it wafting toward her. She stepped toward Eriu.

  “Take my hands,” she whispered, softly, gently. Eriu put her hands into the long hands of the Macha. “Ravener and Danu,” she whispered. “At last! This is how it should have been from the first, our two races linked in the Braid, no separation between us. See what we know.”

  Suddenly it all came pouring into Eriu’s mind, the BraidRising, the smoking weapons, the maimed and the dead, the screams of both Danu and Makers, the long journey, the weeping of the Ancients at their exile, the tumble of the Danu into the sea when the volcano erupted, the Fir Bolg war, the agony of Nuada’s severed arm.

  She staggered back from the weight of it, held her hands up in the moonlight. They bore the marks of burning.

  “This is what we contain,” said Macha softly, her voice pitched low.

  “It is a terrible burden,” said Eriu. She stepped forward suddenly, compelled. She placed her long, slender hand against Macha’s cheek. “I am sorry that you bear it.”

  The Morrigu gasped aloud.

  “We revel in it,” said Nemhain.

  “It feeds us,” said Banbh in her strange, masculine voice.

  Only Macha said nothing, her eyes fixed on Eriu.

  “You are the fulcrum,” Eriu whispered. It was so suddenly clear that she wondered that sh
e had never understood it before. Macha kept the other two in balance. She contained the dark; she repelled the dark. She caused sorrow; she kept sorrow at bay. She engendered evil; she kept evil at bay.

  Macha blinked, nodded once. “We will assist you with these Invaders,” Macha said.

  “You will not destroy them.”

  “Until the time comes that you require their destruction. We will assist.”

  “Do you know where the arms are hidden?”

  Macha made no reply. She touched the triangle at her neck with its spiraled vines. Wolf, eagle, darkness, light, void. Gone.

  Eriu dropped to the ground.

  “By the Danu!” Fodla rushed to her side.

  “What was that? What just happened?” Banba kept batting at the air where they had been, as though she did not understand how they had vanished, had not been vanishing in just that way all of her life.

  “That was one of the results our ancient Makers had not counted on. They called upon the Braid; they used its secrets. They did not know that to call upon the Braid is to also call the Antithesis into being.”

  “Terrifying. And they live among us.”

  “Usually silently and secretively. How often do you see them?”

  “Almost never. Few Councils. No ceremonies or healings. I was shocked to see them at the Great Council.”

  Eriu nodded. “They are the Shadow.”

  “Of what?” asked Fodla.

  “Of sorrow. Of war. Of darkness and evil. Of our ancestors. Of us. Of our own internal darkness.”

  “And now they propose to assist us?”

  “They propose, I think, that we will need to bring battle against these Invaders. They will be there to simplify that process.”

  “To provide the darkness,” said Fodla.

  “And will we?”

  “Will we what?”

  “Call up darkness against the Invaders?”

  “I do not know. Our ancestors surely were forced to war with the Fomor.”

  “Then we need to know how and why,” said Fodla.

  “And we need to check on Illyn’s journey,” said Eriu. The very mention of Illyn’s name made her feel better, as though she were grounded in something simple and good.