Song of Ireland

by Juilene Osborne-McKnight

  “And did you tell him that you were alive when that happened? That you were a babe on that isle off the coast of Greece?” Banba’s tone was caustic.

  “No. Here, give me the baby.”

  Eriu lifted little nine-month-old Skena from Banba’s arms and dandled her against her knee, bouncing her up and down. Skena giggled aloud and threw her chubby hands into the air.

  “And did you tell him,” asked Banba, “that you care for his nine-month-old daughter that he believes to be dead and gone?” Her voice was slow and soft, as though she spoke to a lunatic or an idiot.

  “No.”

  “And do you remain in Metaphor all the while, or are you Danu and just so he thinks you beautiful, with your vast eyes and your fluted, feathered ears, your many long fingers twined in his, in your true form with a thousand years upon you?”

  “Enough, Banba,” said Fodla. “She talks with him; she does not Braid him or bond with him.”

  “Thank you, Fodla,” said Eriu.

  “Not yet,” said Banba.

  “It is just that you do not talk to him honestly,” said Fodla.

  “Sisters! Will you allow me no peace, no moment of joy in my existence? I do my duty by the Danu as I always have.”

  “No one faults your duty,” said Fodla quietly. “We worry for your heart.”

  “My heart is fine.”

  “At least in those ‘moments of joy’ with Amergin,” said Banba.

  “Perhaps I should not say joy. Perhaps I should say pleasantry,” said Eriu. She twirled little Skena around and laughed aloud as the baby giggled.

  “Have you noticed how pleasantly this baby looks like its mother?” said Banba, her voice caustic.

  Eriu dropped down onto a curved chair. She held the baby on her lap. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Oh, Sisters, what should I do? We cannot keep this child from him forever; he is so lonely. Nor can we forever hide our true selves from the Milesians.”

  “We must do both,” said Fodla.

  “Precisely,” said Banba. “We have no choice. What good would it do him to know of his child? He cannot come into our world to see her; she cannot go into his. The knowledge would lodge in him like a seed; it would grow and give fruit to a bitter and frustrated tree. It would make his loneliness worse, and you would be its cause. His heart would turn against you and then against the Danu, and our tribe would be in danger. We have seen how quick these Milesians are to go to war.”

  “And as for our appearance,” said Fodla. “We have seen that the Milesians are quick to act and slow to think. Already, there are rumors about us from the night of the Battle of Mag Tuiread. They call us ‘little people’ and ‘shape-shifters,’ and whisper about our eyes. Were they to see us as we are … I believe that they would kill us all simply from the fear of it.”

  “It would be better,” said Banba, “if you did not see him anymore, unless we two are with you.”

  “But I—”

  Banba held up her hand. “We speak from our love of you. You know this. But more, we speak from our love of the Danu. From our duty to our people.”

  The tears spilled freely from Eriu’s eyes then. Banba lifted the baby from her. Fodla enfolded Eriu, holding, hushing. At last her weeping subsided. Eriu sighed, a great gusting of wind. Suddenly she looked old in her tiny body, a vessel for centuries of sorrow. She nodded.

  “I have heard you, Sisters, and I know that you are right. I will do as you have said.”

  He was standing at the portal, on his face a look of anticipation, when the blue light snapped and all three sisters stepped into view.

  “Banba,” he said courteously, “Fodla. I am glad to see you again.” But his eyes did not leave Eriu’s face. “Eriu, I have been waiting. I feared that you might not come today. It is almost time for Airmid and An Scail to return with Bile.”

  “Amergin,” she began. “My sisters and I …”

  “Wait,” he said, holding up his hand, his face all smiles. “It is good that you are all here! Today I bring an invitation. The festival of Lughnasa approaches, the feast of samhradh, the warm months. We will celebrate our first planting season here on the Green Isle. There will be a feast and dancing, Banba, just for you, and music and song, poetry, horse races. We will hold a naming ceremony for the Green Isle. We would like for the people of the Danu to be our guests. All who wish to come!”

  Eriu stood quietly between her sisters. She shook her head.

  Banba tilted her head sideways, regarding him. “Is this the Amergin that once we knew?”

  He laughed aloud and shrugged. “I have reason for joy,” he said softly, his eyes on Eriu.

  “Human beings have a great capacity for change, Banba,” said Eriu. She smiled at Amergin sadly. “But I am sorry to say that—”

  “Hello, children!”

  From the forest Airmid and An Scail came wandering along the path, deep in conversation. Behind them Bile walked side by side with a girl of his own age. Their two dark heads were bent together. The girl was chattering to him of something, and Bile nodded solemnly and then broke into a huge smile. He seemed unaware that anyone else moved in the forest at all. They joined the little group by the dolmen.

  “How lovely,” said Airmid, “for all of us to be together.”

  “Who is this?” asked Amergin, gesturing at the young woman.

  “This is my … foster daughter, Illyn,” said Eriu. “She was born of the Fir Bolg.” She turned toward Banba and Fodla. “Sisters, did you know of this?”

  Banba and Fodla shook their heads, eyes wide.

  Illyn came forward and held out both of her hands to Amergin. Amergin extended his to her almost automatically.

  “You are Amergin!” she said with delight. “I would know you anywhere. Bile speaks of you constantly.”

  “He … speaks … of me?”

  “Oh yes,” she said. She turned to Bile and in his finger language said rapidly, “He is very handsome, your brother the bard.”

  “And you are quite the charmer,” said Amergin.

  “Oh my,” said Illyn. “I forgot that you also spoke the finger language.”

  “Of course you did,” said Amergin, but he grinned nonetheless. “She has had some training from you, Banba, I see.”

  Banba laughed aloud, her tone surprised. Amergin turned to An Scail and Airmid.

  “Ancients”—Amergin inclined his head—“I was just asking the Sisters to the Lughnasa Feis,” said Amergin. “And all of the people of the Danu who wish to come.”

  “Of course we will come,” said Airmid.

  “Ancient,” Banba began. “We of the Council Triad—”

  “We will be there,” said Airmid. “Give notice to the Danu.”

  “You come to me without your sisters, Eriu; you must be troubled.”

  Airmid was bent above her instruments, incising notes on leaves of silver.

  “I am … I do not know … oh, Ancient, help me,” she said. Tears began to stream from Eriu’s eyes.

  Airmid stood and regarded her quietly. “I will assume that this sudden shower has to do with Amergin.”

  “Only that we care for his child and cannot tell him.”

  “Only that? Then do not worry. Care for the child with all your love and let me worry. If that is all, I will return to work.”

  But she did not return to work and stood watching Eriu, her head tilted to the side.

  “And he thinks me a tall Greek woman with copper hair.”

  “Why should it matter if he thinks you that? The Milesians seem to think our aspect pleasant enough.”

  “What does An Scail think of you? In your chosen Metaphor you look so much like her.”

  “An Scail has seen me as I am; she does not fear it. She came to know me when I was but a voice and she was sightless; she trusted that person in any aspect.”

  Eriu regarded the Ancient in stunned silence. “You have let her see you?”

  “We have worked hard with Bile these past months. First medical
work, then therapeutic work. There came a day when Metaphor slipped.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “She said, ‘I knew there could not be two in the world who looked as much alike as we.’”

  “And that was all?”

  “No. She said, ‘Choose carefully among the Galaeci those who see you truly.’”

  “Wise advice surely. Would you choose Amergin?”

  “Ah, so we come to the heart of the matter. It does not matter if I would choose Amergin.”

  “My sisters say that I must not see him unless they accompany me.”

  “And what do you say?”

  “I am one of the Council Triad.”

  “What does Eriu say?”

  “Ancient, my hours with Amergin at the portal … they fill me with … joy. And when I am not there beside him, I anticipate the next time that I will be there. And yet, how could he feel that way for me? He knows me not at all. He sees a Greek woman; it is his visits with her that he anticipates.”

  “And you want him to anticipate his hours with Eriu?”

  Eriu nodded. “But I fear that once he sees me as I am, he will not anticipate. He will feel … revulsion, fear. He will cease to come to the portal. And I fear that I will put the Danu in danger if he knows. Perhaps my sisters are right; perhaps I should not see him at all.”

  Airmid nodded. “You think through it well, Daughter. All of these things are possible. But something else is possible too.”

  “What have I overlooked?”

  “It is possible that Amergin loves the soul of Eriu, that his soul is braided to her soul. And that spirit would be the same in any body, would it not?”

  “O Danu,” Eriu whispered. “I am afraid.”

  They attended Lughnasa Feis by the hundreds, the Danu garbed in their finest Greek raiment, their diadems and armlets. Banba wore deep red, Fodla soft gold, Eriu a shifted gown of beautiful emerald green, the color of the Green Isle.

  For the Children of Mil, the Danu brought gifts, hammered gold torques for the men, spiraling armlets for the women. The Galaeci, who loved fine raiment, put their gifts on with delight and exclaimed their thanks again and again.

  Eber Finn had returned from the north with his wife and his clan, Eremon from his rath, and the Milesians were joyful with reunion.

  The feasting tables were prepared and spread with abundance; fish steamed in seaweed, deer and boar roasted in deep pits in the ground. For the occasion, a cow had been slaughtered and beef roasted over a turning spit. Honey cakes and loaves of bread, mead and precious wine still remaining from the journey burdened the trestles. While the people were preparing the food, the Galaeci raced horses up and down the beach. The Danu looked on in admiration.

  “Come, Banba,” cried Airioch. “Try it once again. We all saw you ride before; you were … most natural at the horses.”

  Banba laughed aloud. “Do not taunt me, Airioch Feabhruadh; as I recall I nearly wore you out with dancing!”

  She approached a beautiful white horse with trepidation. She walked from one side to the other and stroked his neck gently. At last she placed her hands on either side of his face and blew gently into his nostrils.

  She turned. “He has agreed to take me,” she said. “But I will need a lift.”

  The Milesians burst into laughter and Airioch rushed forward to assist her onto his back.

  “Use your legs,” he whispered softly as he was boosting her up. “He will understand your directions that way.”

  Banba looked at him. “You do not toy with me?”

  “You are far too beautiful for injury,” said Airioch, and he grinned. “Now go!” and he smacked the rump of the horse.

  At first Banba wobbled from side to side, clinging hard to the horse’s mane.

  “Hold on!” cried Fodla. “Oh, Eriu, I fear she will be injured!”

  “She is Banba,” said Eriu. “Watch her.”

  Halfway down the beach, suddenly Banba shifted position. She sat up straight and then released her arms from the mane. Then, in a single, graceful gesture, she lifted her arms up and out and backward, like the wings of a bird. Her red dress floated out behind her and her black hair streamed backward in the wind. She and the horse seemed to drift gently together, as the sea itself, as wind.

  “Ohhhhh,” said the people of the Galaeci and the Danu on one great sigh of admiration.

  Before Banba had returned to them, Danu were standing in line for their turn to ride, and the Spear Carriers were already bargaining for breeding stock.

  “How will we get those great beasts through the portals?” Fodla whispered to Eriu.

  “I know not,” Eriu replied, “but we will have to think of something. I doubt that the Danu will ever be without such creatures again.”

  “Call to feast!” shouted Amergin, and there was a rush to the tables followed by silence as the entire company fell to eating. When the tables had been cleared, Amergin stood before the company. He tuned Ceolas and began to sing. Colpa came to one side of him with his little bone whistle; the haunting notes floated out across the company; they were matched by Bile, humming the accompaniment, as always. Amergin drew a deep breath, looked toward Eriu where she sat between her sisters.

  “This is our gift to the Danu,” he called aloud. “You have let us share your Green Isle; we name her for one of your own: I invoke the land of Eriu,” he sang.

  “Much traveled the abundant sea,

  Eire of the wild fruited mountains

  Eire of the tumbling waterfalls,

  I invoke the land of Eriu.”

  On and on he sang, weaving in the rivers and the green forests, the great trees and the fish who swam the waters, returning again and again to his verse, “I invoke the land of Eriu.” On the fourth time that he sang the verse, he heard a voice accompany him, male, clear, though the words were slurred and slightly round.

  “I … voke the wand of Airuu.”

  He turned. Over his shoulder Bile was singing, his eyes closed, his head tipped back, the speech childlike, but nonetheless speech.

  Amergin stopped playing. He stared. Bile opened his eyes and smiled full into the eyes of his brother.

  “I um ‘ere, Broher,” he whispered, “no diffent than fore, but now my voi can sing my ’eart.”

  Amergin handed Ceolas to Colpa. He stepped to Bile. He pressed his fingers against his brother’s lips. He turned toward where An Scail and Airmid were sitting; suddenly he came at them at a run, dropping to his knees before them. Gently he lifted first one ancient hand and then the other, and pressed his lips to the withered fingers.

  “This day,” he whispered, “in Tir Nan Og, Skena herself is singing.”

  38

  Why joy cannot remain joy always I do not know. Surely it is one of the most sorrowful mysteries.

  Our feast was a moment of joy; it was a joy that was not to last.

  Bile was the first to see them; he was walking by the sea with his enchanting Illyn when he pointed up toward the headland. I almost expected to hear him vocalize again, his “Ah, ah” sounds puncturing the evening, so unaccustomed was I to his speech.

  “Bro‘her,” he cried. “’Ere dey come!”

  I looked up at the headland. Macha stood silhouetted in the torchlight, his handsome warrior face angry. He was flanked by his two dark warrior companions. Behind them was a company of some two dozen or so. They descended the headland in procession and chaos began again.

  Our warriors ran for their weapons, swearing aloud as they strapped on broadswords and bucklers. Eriu and her sisters stood quietly and formed themselves into a triangle, facing the approaching Morrigu. That threesome stopped and did the same.

  “We see that there has been a feast among the Danu and the Milesians and we were not invited. We and our companions are deeply offended.”

  Suddenly, among the Milesians, women began to scream and run for their children. One or two ran into the sea, their infants in their arms.

  “Nemhain!” Eri
u shouted. “Cease, or this day we will contend, Danu to Morrigu.”

  “Nemhain,” said Macha quietly. “Now is not the time.”

  The screaming stopped. Women who stood in the sea looked around them, surprised to find themselves there, their babes in their arms.

  “What is happening?” I asked softly.

  “Her sister curses your women with fear; she has ceased now.”

  In the triad of Morrigu, one of the threesome turned his head to me and smiled. He tipped his head in a gentle, female gesture and put a slender finger to his lips.

  “It was not the intention of the Children of Mil to offend you,” I said to the threesome. “We have not seen you in more than a year; we did not know how to find you to invite you.”

  “Your attentions are for naught now. The feasting is over and my little company is hungry. How shall they feed?” Macha made a little sweeping motion with her arm.

  She waved her hand, and those who had accompanied Macha and her sisters straggled into the firelight. They were as terrifying a lot of creatures as ever I have seen in all my travels. Some were ancient stick-men with long, bony arms and huge eyes, their mouths a round and toothless O. Others looked as though they had cobbled themselves of parts, horns of beasts and hooves of goats, their dark eyes flickering with firelight. Women with long, eerie faces of alabaster white were dressed in unrelenting black from their hair to their sweeping gowns.

  Our warriors flanked me on all sides now, weapons at the ready, all of them making signs against the evil. My own hand itched to come up and do the same.

  “People of the Galaeci, hear me,” Eriu called into the darkness. “What you see is not the true appearance of these creatures. They … bewitch … your minds to see what is not there.”

  “Yes,” said Macha softly. “Eriu knows well how we … bewitch … your minds.”

  Airmid stepped forward. “This will cease. You bait them with your repertoire. You delight in their fear. I command you to cease.”

  Macha tipped her head. “Very well, Ancient,” she said. “We shall obey.” She tapped the triangle at her neck; her company followed suit.