Song of Ireland

by Juilene Osborne-McKnight

  “Think, love,” she whispered. “Please. I know that you will understand.”

  He gathered himself to his feet and launched toward her with a roar, his face a mask of rage. She pressed her triangle into the portal. In a flash of blue light, she was gone.

  42

  Iran. Away from the portal. Away from the hut in the forest where I had loved her. Away from the village of our people. I ran like a man possessed by demons. It seemed to me that I ran forever. At last I came to the shores of a small lake, and there I collapsed onto the shore. I wept for a while, like a child. Then, for a time, I raged, heaving rocks into the water, screaming my rage at the sky.

  When I had exhausted myself at last, I leaned against some boulders there by the water and closed my eyes. I must have slept. When I awoke, a soft dusk was beginning to fall over the water. I saw a woman walking toward me along the shore of the lake.

  She was a woman of the Galaeci, tall with dark auburn hair, her plaid cloak undulating with her as she walked. She moved closer and I was able to see her clearly.

  It was Skena.

  I stood, unthinking, and ran to her, drew her into my embrace.

  I ran my hands through the thickness of her hair, lifted her face to mine. She returned my ardor, lifted on tiptoe and pressed her lips against mine.

  “Oh, love,” I whispered. “Oh, how I have missed you.”

  I unpinned the cloak and watched it drop to the beach. Underneath she wore her finest silk tunic, and I watched as she shrugged it from her and stood before me. Her belly was flat and white. I ran my hand over it.

  “They took our child,” I whispered. “They took her from us.”

  She said nothing at all, just lifted her arms around my shoulders and pressed into me, her long white nakedness gleaming in the evening light. She smiled. “Come,” she said softly, seductively. “Remove your cloak.”

  I tilted my head sideways. It was not Skena’s voice. Not the voice that I remembered.

  “How is it that you have come to me?” I said.

  “That was easy, love. Now come to me.” The voice was throaty, deep, seductive.

  “Macha!” I pushed her from me. “What have you done? Where is my Skena?”

  Macha laughed aloud; she folded down into the male warrior form that I knew best, stood before me naked on the beach.

  “Your Skena is dead, of course.”

  “This is cruel.”

  She shrugged, nodded. “Well, cruel, I suppose, from your point of view. From mine, it is a game.”

  She shifted again. Before me on the beach was a black wolf with gleaming yellow eyes. It bared its fangs at me and growled.

  I arched my head backward and exposed my neck.

  “Here,” I said, “I offer it to you.”

  She folded back up again, a tiny gray Danu with dark ovoid eyes.

  “You do not find it cruel that the great poet of the Galaeci would be found dead by the shores of a lake, his throat torn out by a wolf, all his golden words ripped away from him?”

  “More ironic than cruel, Macha.”

  She burst into laughter. “Very good, Poet. This parsing of the language, the subtle shades of meaning.”

  I shrugged. “Is this what you did to my brother?”

  “Eber Finn? There was almost no challenge there. It wasn’t quite as easy as terrifying the Fir Bolg in the forest, but it came close.” She shifted again, a beautiful woman with large breasts and long hair. She lifted the breasts in her hands, ran her tongue over her lips. “As easy as this. Eber Finn was captivated by human breasts and a human tongue. His wife was captivated by her own rage; my sisters and I do no more than feed what is there.”

  “What did you hope to feed in me?”

  “Betrayal. Betrayal is always a good doorway,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Why do we do it?”

  I nodded.

  “It is … what we do. What we are. Always. Many forms. Many worlds.” She smiled, shifted again as Skena. “Some find us … comforting.”

  “I do not,” I said. “Skena was real and I loved her. We had a child.”

  She shifted, the tall woman with dark flowing hair. “Well, that is a child that you will never see.”

  “No,” I said softly.

  “But I can help you there,” she said softly. She reached behind her neck and withdrew the triangular pendant. She put it into my hand. “Now go and get her,” she said softly. “Just press the triangle into the recess in the portal. Go and get her and bring her back into your world where she belongs, among your people.”

  I looked down at the pendant in my hand. “Why would you do this for me?” I asked softly.

  “She is your child. You deserve to have her. The Sisters should never have kept her from you.” She pointed at the far side of the lake. “Do you see the dolmen?”

  I nodded.

  “It is a doorway, just as the portals are. You may enter there.”

  I turned toward the dolmen, the triangle in my hand. I thought of my child., Skena’s and mine. Something that Eriu had said stopped me in my tracks. I turned back toward the Macha.

  “And if I find my child and I bring her among our people … she will die. Of course. That is why you have offered me this key. My child will die. She has lived among the Danu for many years.”

  “Not right away,” said Macha with a shrug. “For a time she would look like this.” She folded back into her metaphor of Skena again. “That would be a comfort to you, would it not?”

  “Yes,” I said softly.

  “Well, there you are.” She pointed again at the dolmen. “Go and get her.”

  “But my comfort would cost her life. Oh, Eriu. Oh, love. Now I see. My comfort would cost my child her life.”

  I looked up at Macha, where she stood before me. “Dark one,” I said. “You have helped me to see Light.”

  “I have?” She looked nonplussed, angry. She folded out of Skena and into the form of a Ravener, the dark-eyed Danu.

  “Skena would be very proud of you,” I said. “And Eriu.”

  I held the pendant with its triangle out to her.

  “Keep it!” she snapped. “I do not enjoy you, Amergin. I do not like the way you play the game.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I am gratified to hear it.”

  CEOLAS SINGS OF SACRIFICE

  I will keep you safe,

  Child of my heart,

  Child of my first love,

  As Eriu has kept you safe

  Within the walls of Tara.

  Now do I see clearly;

  More worlds than ours,

  More loves than one,

  More sacrifice asked of us

  that love must give.

  I knelt before An Scail and put the pendant gently into her hand. “Airmid is dying,” I said softly. “This pendant will take you to her. But if you use it, know that you will not be able to return to us. To return would be death.”

  “Why do you give me this?”

  “Airmid is your friend. And they have my child among them.”

  “Eriu bore you a child?” She shook her head, confused.

  “Skena bore me a child. They have kept that child alive. She dwells among the Danu. She cannot come into this world or she will die. I cannot go into that world, for if I do I can never return.”

  “And yet you give me this knowing that I would have to remain with them or return and die.”

  “All of our life you have given to our tribe. You endured years of separation from Ith and came here with us when I knew that you would rather have remained among the Wise Ones in Galaeci. You trained me in the druid ways and now you train Colpa. Yet I know well enough that Airmid is your sister in spirit. The choice should be yours.”

  “And why do you not use the triangle to go among them? Bile is there and Eriu and now your child.”

  “I am Poet of the tribe; I cannot leave the tribe.”

  She regarded me for a long time, then placed an ancie
nt hand against my face. “I love you my sweet, sad boy.”

  I nodded my head. I could say nothing.

  “Take me to the portal,” she said softly.

  At the doorway, I raised my hand to her.

  “Live well among them, Ancient,” I said.

  She smiled. “I have lived well, Amergin. I have lived well indeed.” And then she was gone.

  I do not know how long I sat in that forest. Day passed into night and then into day again. Eriu did not come to the portal. I knew that she would never come again. I had seen to that with my anger and my lack of understanding. Beyond that door were those I loved. Eriu and Bile. An Scail and my child, unknown to me. And I would never see them again. And I would never be able to go among them.

  At last I stood and dusted off my braichs. I turned back toward our village. I had moved only a few steps toward the path when I heard the distinctive crack of the portal. I turned, expecting to see Eriu, hope rising in my heart. An Scail stood in the doorway.

  “No!” I screamed. “No! Why did you return?”

  I could see that she was folding down into herself; her ancient face looked withered, her body frail and brittle. I rushed to the portal and gathered her into my arms.

  “Why, An Scail? Why?”

  She smiled softly. “Airmid has passed,” she said. “Wake us together; that is our wish.” She pressed the pendant with its shimmering triangle into my hand.

  “Oh, why?” I said. The tears streamed down my face.

  “Because the choice should also be yours,” she said softly.

  43

  The door slid back on its silent track and Illyn entered. It was clear she had been weeping. Eriu held out her arms.

  “Do not weep for the Ancient, sweeting. She goes into the West.” Illyn nodded, gulping. “An Scail returned through the portal.”

  Eriu jumped to her feet. “Why? O Danu, she went to her death.”

  “For Amergin,” Illyn said softly. “She and Airmid … They wish to be woken together. In the world of the Galaeci.”

  At dusk the Danu emerged from their doorways, shimmer after shimmer of blue light. Down to the sea they moved, hundreds of them, devoid of Metaphor, the small bodies and long limbs like so many wide-eyed children on the sea paths.

  Airmid was borne on a bier of light, moving through the air with a soft humming sound. At her head and feet and at her sides, the bearers were chanting, the sound like whalesong, asking and answering, calling the name of the Braid again and yet again.

  At the shore, the Galaeci were ranged up around the bier of An Scail with its attendant fire. The Danu moved beside them.

  When they came among the Galaeci of Inver Skena, the people did not shy away. They simply bowed to the Danu.

  “They knew!” whispered Eriu to Banba.

  “Maybe it’s just that we are so much an improvement over Morrigu,” Banba whispered back.

  Together they placed the two Ancients side by side facing away over the water.

  “By the wish of Airmid,” Eriu called, “Illyn, Hybrid of the Braid, is called to the foot of the bier.”

  Illyn moved into place.

  Amergin stepped forward. “At the wish of An Scail, Bile, Hybrid of the Braid, is called to the foot of the bier.”

  Bile stepped to the foot.

  Eriu and Amergin each moved to the head of the bier. Amergin turned his head toward Eriu, but she looked far out over the sea and did not meet his eyes.

  Now Banba and Fodla and the Spear Bearers of the Danu moved to each of the platforms. Into the sand, they staked spiraling, twisting, braided poles of light in blue and gold, streaming arcs of electricity around them in winding spirals that looked like strips of sparkling cloth.

  In ancient Danaan Eriu chanted, “Comes our beloved to the shore; oh, bear her into the West.”

  In Gaeilge, Amergin followed suit: “Comes our beloved to the shore; oh, bear her into the West.”

  The Danu and the Galaeci ranged around the biers, still chanting, Danaan in counterpoint to Gaeilge.

  The tall Galaeci in their plaid cloaks flanked the tiny Danu, their iridescent garments blowing and shifting in the sea wind, their collective presence giving off such a nimbus of blue and gold light that the beach seemed to contain its own crescent moon.

  From within the bier of Airmid, Eriu lifted a long braided rope of diaphanous fabric. In its depths tiny lights sparked and glittered. Carefully, she placed Airmid’s arms together before her and then gently tied one end of the rope around Airmid’s wrists in a braided knot. She passed the rope to Banba, who looped it around one of her wrists and turned to Airioch, who wound the braided rope around his own right wrist.

  Danu by Milesian, Milesian by Danu, the braided rope made its way among the people, knotting and twisting, weaving itself throughout all of the company.

  At last it made its way back to Eriu. She looped it around the wrists of An Scail and wove it into a gentle, braided knot.

  She returned to the base of the bier and nodded at Illyn and Bile. Together they reached for the torches that stood at either end of the bier. Together they locked them together high above the reclining figures of Airmid and An Scail so that they were overarched by a braid of pulsing, streaming knotwork.

  “Lift our sisters into the Braid,” called Eriu. “Oh, bear them into the West, Danu, Weaver of Worlds.”

  As one the people of the Danu and the people of the Galaeci lifted their braided arms. The looped and braided fabric that moved among them began to pulse and spin, to discharge streams of light into the air.

  The Danu began to sing and the song was wondrous with joy. It wove itself again and again into the night sky, a canticle of joy, arcing out over the waves and up toward the stars.

  Suddenly Banba gave out a cry. “See where they come, the messengers of the Danu!”

  From far to the west in the water, lights began to stream toward shore, triangular phalanxes of light in blue and gold that broke above the Danu and the Galaeci and showered down upon them, raining light over the braidwork on the beach.

  Now Eriu called aloud in prayer. “Danu, our mother, Weaver of Worlds, we return to you two of your children. The Children of the Braid and the sons of Mil have borne them to you with joy. We thank you for sharing them with us. We will embrace them again in the Braid.”

  Amergin lifted Ceolas. He began to sing.

  “I am the wind on the Water

  I am the wave of the Sea

  I am the light of the Sun

  I am the hawk on the Cliff

  I am the fire in the Mind

  I am the salmon of Wisdom

  I am the hill of the Poem

  I am the noise of the Wind

  I am the wave of the Sea.

  Who sets fire to the Mind?

  Who throws light onto the Mountain?

  Who sings the ages of the Moon?

  Who teaches the pathway of the Sun?

  Who carves the pathways on the Sea?

  It is I.

  It is I.”

  Silence and darkness fell over the beach.

  The people began to disperse, to return to the village for the Feast of Waking. Eriu turned toward Amergin, her eyes full of sorrow.

  “I am sorry that An Scail came back through the portal,” she said softly. She turned to go.

  “This is why she came,” he said to her retreating back.

  She turned. He had lifted the triangular pendant from beneath his tunic. It glistened against the rough wool of his cloak.

  Eriu’s eyes grew wide.

  “You understand? Why we have kept her from you?”

  “I understand. Forgive me, love. Is she beautiful?”

  “Beautiful and good and kind. As her mother must have been. As her father is.” Eriu held out her hand. “Give me the pendant. You must not come among us. You would never be able to return.”

  “An Scail said that the choice should be mine.”

  Eriu shook her head. “You belong to your peopl
e.”

  “Are you not now my people as well? For among you are those I love—Eriu of the Danu; Bile, Hybrid of the Braid; and my child, whom I love sight unseen.”

  Eriu shook her head. “You must think upon this carefully, for what is done cannot be undone.”

  She turned and walked into the darkness, Bile and Illyn beside her.

  He sat for a long time on the beach, watching the stars throw their gauzy veil across the sky, watching the sky lighten toward dawn.

  Airioch appeared suddenly beside him, Colpa by his side.

  “Why did you not come to the feast?” Airioch asked. He saw the triangle at Amergin’s neck. His eyes widened. “She returned to give you this?”

  Amergin nodded.

  “You will go among them then?”

  Amergin smiled sadly. “Skena’s child lives. My child. My little girl. There among the Danu.”

  Tears welled up in Airioch’s eyes. “She lives? And you cannot see her?”

  “Do not weep for me, Brother,” said Amergin.

  “I do not weep for you,” Airioch said softly. “As always, I weep for myself. I shall miss you. Remember always, Amergin, that I am a man because of you. Because you remained my brother. Because you knew what to do that I would become a true son of Mil.”

  “I have not said that I would go.”

  “Your heart has said so. Your child has said so. You have given your life to the clan. Now go to them. Be joyful.”

  “What of my duties to the tribe?”

  Gently, Airioch lifted Ceolas from Amergin’s lap; gently he placed it in Colpa’s hands. Colpa strummed the strings softly.

  “I invoke the land of Eire,” he sang,

  “Much traveled the abundant sea.”

  Amergin laughed aloud. “You know them?”

  Colpa nodded. “All of them, Brother. I will sing them just as you wrote them. I will pass them down from bard to bard.”

  Dawn light was pearling up in the sky.

  “Come,” said Airioch. “We will walk you to the portal.”