The Greener Shore

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Phonetic Glossary

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  Chapter XXXIII

  About the Author

  Also by Morgan Llywelyn

  Copyright Page

  for Sonia

  PHONETIC GLOSSARY

  Ainvar: AYN-var

  Aislinn: ASH-lin

  Anicius Bellator: An-ICK-ee-us Bell-AYT-or

  Anluan: AN-luah

  Bean Sídhe: Ban-SHEE

  Briga: BREE-ga

  Cairbre: KAR-breh

  Caman: Cam-AWN

  Carnutes: Kar-NOO-tays

  Cas: Kosh

  Cathal: KA-hul

  Cohern: KO-ern

  Cormiac Ru: KOR-mick Roo

  Damona: DAH-mona

  Dara: DAH-ra

  Deisi: DAY-sha

  Dian Cet: DEEN Ket

  Eoin: OH-in

  Eriu: AYR-yoo

  Fíachu: FEE-ah-koo

  Filidh: Fil-EEE

  Fír Bolg: Feer Bohlg

  Glas: GLAHS

  Goban Saor: GO-bawn Sear

  Gobnat: GOB-nit

  Goulvan: GOOL-van

  Grannus: GRAN-us

  Éber Finn: EEB-ar Fin

  Éremon: EE-re-mon

  Keryth: KER-ith

  Labraid Loingseach: LOW-ree LOYNG-sha

  Lakutu: La-KOO-too

  Lorcán: LOR-kawn

  Mac Coille: Mok-KIL-eh

  Maia: MY-uh

  Mahon: MAH-hun

  Morand: MUR-an

  Niav: NEE-uhv

  Ongus: AHNG-us

  Onuava: On-you-AY-vah

  Probus Seggo: PRO-bus SEGG-oh

  Rígan: REE-gawn

  Seanchán: SIN-chawn

  Senta: SIN-tuh

  Slea Leathan: Slay LOWuhn

  Sulis: SOO-liss

  Tarvos: TAHR-vos

  Teyrnon: TEAR-nun

  Túatha Dé Danann: TOO-ah deh DAN-uhn

  Vercingetorix: Ver-kin-GET-o-rix

  PROLOGUE

  EVERYTHING IS LOST.

  The sea is so wide. There is no end to it and no beginning. Strange gods rule the waves. From time to time Ainvar thinks he hears their voices, but they speak a language he does not know. He cannot impress them with magic, he cannot placate them with sacrifice. He can do nothing but wait.

  ONCE AINVAR’S EXTENDED FAMILY HAD NUMBERED IN THE HUNDREDS, yet theirs had been but one clan among many in the tribe of the Carnutes. The Carnutes of Gaul were part of the vast Celtic world that stretched from the river Danube to the edge of the Great Cold Sea. The far-flung tribes spoke many versions of their mother tongue and practiced a variety of customs, but all had two things in common. Every tribe was ruled by a warrior aristocracy led by a chieftain. And every tribe treasured its druids.

  From his seat in the stern of the boat, Ainvar the druid frequently turns to look back. Every time he does this his heart breaks anew, but he cannot help it. The land he loved is far behind him now. He sees only an endless army of waves rolling on, rank after rank.

  Like the Romans. The relentless, remorseless, rapacious Romans, against whom the power of the druids had proved insufficient.

  DRUIDS COMPRISED THE INTELLECTUAL CLASS OF THE CELTIC PEOPLE. Although some came from humble origins, in tribal society the druids were equal in rank with the nobility.

  In every generation a few boys and girls were born with special talents. These gifts usually revealed themselves early in life. At that point the chief druid of the tribe began training the youngsters in the disciplines necessary for acceptance into the Order of the Wise. Neophytes were apprenticed to other druids whose gifts were similar to their own. After being fully trained, a druid was supported by the tribe in return for the free gift of his or her abilities.

  Druids served in a number of capacities. Their principal obligation was to maintain the harmony between the visible and invisible worlds. They also kept the laws of their race and were the only members of a tribe exempt from battle.

  AINVAR HAD FOUGHT CAESAR WITH HIS HEAD, NOT HIS SWORD. HIS was a long and noble head packed with the wisdom of centuries, accrued since before the before and added to in every generation.

  But the sword had won. A lust to dominate and a thirst for power had won.

  Where was the justice in that?

  TRIBAL WARFARE HAD BEEN THE CELTIC WAY OF LIFE FOR UNTOLD generations. As with stags in a forest, success in battle was the way in which leaders proved themselves. Chieftains competed for the best land or access to the most profitable trade routes. When the women joined their men in battle, they were reputed to be fiercer than the males.

  The Carnutes had proudly styled themselves “The Sons of War and Thunder.” Their territory was considered to be the very heart of Gaul.

  They have all but ceased to exist.

  ONLY A SCORE OF AINVAR’S CLAN SURVIVE; A HUDDLE OF REFUGEES IN two open boats, lashed by the indifferent waves, at the mercy of forces beyond the control of druids. The sacred land that nurtured their mortal bodies and their immortal spirits has been conquered by a man to whom nothing is sacred. Julius Caesar slaughtered the people who worshipped the land—but not because he hated them. He did not even know them. They were simply in his way.

  THE VESSEL’S SQUARE SAIL FILLS WITH A RISING WIND. THE SAIL IS emblazoned with the emblem of the Order of the Wise, but it means nothing to Ainvar anymore. The potent symbols he trusted all his life have failed him.

  He feels as if his body has been torn open and his entrails ripped out.

  Druids read the future in entrails. The odious Caesar was only interested in spilling entrails for personal gain. He left the bloody ruin of an entire nation strewn across the lovely face of Gaul.

  FROM HER PLACE IN THE PROW BRIGA KEEPS AN EYE ON AINVAR. HER heart aches for the tall, gaunt figure crouching in his cloak as if it were a cave. The others assume he still mourns the slaughtered tribes, but Briga knows that her husband’s unremitting melancholy has a more specific source. The chief druid of the Carnutes cannot forgive himself for failing to save Vercingetorix, chieftain of the Arverni.

  Vercingetorix is a wound that will not heal.

  The spirit housed in Briga’s body is much brighter. The moment she stepped into the boat, she tidied away regret like domestic debris and turned her face toward the horizon. It was part of Briga’s nature to open herself to possibilities.

  When she suggested that Ainvar do the same, he made a bitter shape of his mouth. “Let the past go? How can I let go of something that’s entangled with my spirit like mistletoe on an oak tree?”

  Since then Briga has kept her own counsel. Patience with their men is one of the many gifts of women.

  AINVAR STRUGGLES TO KEEP FROM LOOKING BACK. HE IS SO FILLED with pain that to add one drop to the total might cause it to overflow. To distract
himself he tries to think of something else, yet within a few heartbeats he is mentally running through the names of the loved and lost. Until he comes to Vercingetorix.

  There he stops. With the loss of Vercingetorix, everything stopped.

  THE BOAT LEAPS WITH THE LIFT OF THE WAVES. IT RIDES UPWARD, upward toward the distant sun as if offering its passengers as a sacrifice, hangs suspended for a timeless moment, then swoops sickeningly downward into a deep dark trough of sea.

  The boat always comes up again.

  Nature, instructor in all things, is making a point.

  chapter I

  THE SUN IS THE SYMBOL OF THE GREAT FIRE OF LIFE, CREATED BY the Source of All Being. I remind myself of this whenever the glare of the sun makes me squint.

  I, Ainvar, salute the Source of All Being.

  The Source of All Troubles is Caesar the Reprehensible. I should have recognized that from the beginning. I keep going over and over events as if by tumbling them in my hands like pebbles I can change their shape. I cannot. Even a chief druid cannot redraw the Pattern.

  But I can see it. Oh yes. Looking back, I can see it so clearly. At some crucial point the tribes of Gaul must have disrupted the harmony of the Pattern, thus precipitating catastrophe. Which means that at some crucial point the druids failed.

  I failed.

  At first the Gauls had welcomed traders from the tribes of Latium as they had welcomed the Hellenes before them. The Latin language was not beautiful to the Celtic ear, being hard and abrupt rather than musical, but we shared the vocabulary of trade: a nod, a grunt, a slap of hands. In this manner arrangements were concluded and goods exchanged. Gaul offered salt and iron and grain; the speakers of Latin brought wine and olive oil and luxury goods from the Mid-Earth Sea. Traders from each side were able to provide enough to satisfy the other side. Everyone benefited. For a while.

  Then one tribe, the Romans, proved they did not understand the concept of Enough; they wanted More. Their traders brought warriors to stand at their shoulders while they made unreasonable demands. The Gauls swatted the more importunate traders away as one swats a fly. The Romans kept coming. Tendrils of a poisonous weed, they extended their reach until at last we realized their true and deadly intent. Led by someone called Gaius Julius Caesar—a figure of walking excrement that needs three names to make it feel like a man—the Romans meant to steal everything from us, even the land on which we lived. Our sacred Mother Earth.

  If I close my eyes I can still see the glorious victories we won; the desperate battles we lost. And then the final battle. And the subsequent destruction of all we held dear.

  The destruction of the Great Grove of the Carnutes blew us away like chaff on the wind.

  I chew on my memories as if they were food, but receive no nourishment from them. When I dream, I dream of the lost skies of Gaul.

  Free Gaul, which bled to death to fatten Caesar’s purse.

  MY WIVES REFUSE TO TALK ABOUT THE PAST. FOLLOWING BRIGA’S lead, the other two keep their faces turned to the west and their eyes on the future.

  Onuava is a tall, strong woman, with a lion’s mane of fair hair. Her first husband was Vercingetorix, chief of the Arverni. His name meant “King of the World.” Such a man is not born once in ten generations. The tribes of Gaul made him their leader when they needed him most, and lost him to merciless Caesar when they needed him even more. Onuava was carrying his first son in her womb when they dragged Vercingetorix away.

  After Keryth the prognosticator foresaw the death of Vercingetorix at the hands of his captors, I made Onuava my third wife. Although we were as different as fire and water, Rix and I were, are, and always shall be, soul friends. I was obligated to offer my fullest protection to his family. Since then I have even learned to love Onuava, at least as much as her proud and prickly nature will allow.

  My second wife is Onuava’s opposite. Lakutu is small and dark, docile by nature and Egyptian by birth. She was already past her prime when I first saw her. Lakutu is old now, yet from time to time a mischievous child peeks out of her black eyes.

  There are intriguing rumors concerning certain mysterious rites practiced in her homeland. Although Lakutu has learned our language, she conveniently forgets it whenever I question her about those rites. Egypt’s child keeps Egypt’s secrets. In her head my second wife holds knowledge to which I cannot gain access, and that is her power over me. Druids love a mystery.

  Briga is the youngest of my three wives in age, but senior to them in rank. The daughter of a prince of the Sequani tribe, she was the first woman with whom I celebrated the marriage ritual. According to our custom Briga had to give permission for me to marry Lakutu, and then she and Lakutu had to give permission for me to marry Onuava. Such permissions usually are granted, because each additional wife serves the wife who is senior to her.

  In practice, Onuava serves no one, but that was to be expected.

  My Briga is a small, sturdy person with hair like dark flax. Her most interesting feature is her voice, as soft and hoarse as the purring of a cat. Her speech still bears the musical lilt of her native tribe. The Sequani are Gaulish Celts like ourselves but they speak a different dialect, one that they share with remnants of our race who have never left the Blue Mountains. I love the sound of it on Briga’s lips; the exotic echo of an older time.

  Many women are more beautiful, yet from the beginning Briga drew me like no other. I did not know the body but I recognized the spirit within. It spoke to me through her blue eyes, as clear as those of a child. Her spirit was a member of the tender network that surrounds me through all my lives. Each of us has such a network, stretching from the distant past into the far future, making us Part of the Whole.

  Briga knows me better than I know myself. And loves me anyway.

  The first time I lay with her I knew what the Source of All Being experienced at the moment of creation.

  Because Celtic law allows a man of high rank to have more than one wife, the Romans called us savages. Yet who is the savage? A chieftain—or a druid—can offer the status and protection of marriage to as many women as he can support. I have traveled in the land of the Romans and seen how they live. The depraved men of Rome have only one wife at a time, but use any number of concubines and prostitutes. These poor creatures must suffer whatever indignities are heaped upon them. When their sexual attraction fades, they are discarded.

  By purchasing Lakutu I had saved her from such a fate. When Vercingetorix and I came upon her, quite by accident, in a Roman slave market, she was already well-used goods. After another year or two the Romans would have had her cleaning out latrines. They would have thrown away a truly exceptional spirit.

  All my women are exceptional.

  While she was married to Vercingetorix, Onuava and I had worked powerful sex magic together. To assure her husband’s election as commander-in-chief of the united armies of Gaul she had opened her body to mine. The power of the ancient ritual pleaded for Rix in the Otherworld and enabled him to fulfill his Pattern.

  No other man in Gaul could have formed the Arverni, Bituriges, Ruteni, Nitiobriges, Gabali, Senones, Sequani, Parisii, and Carnutes into a confederacy to defeat Caesar. And he almost succeeded. That knowledge torments my dreams and miseries my days. With the splendid and shining Vercingetorix leading the united tribes of Free Gaul, we defied the despicable Caesar and his army of clanking dwarfs and very nearly won.

  Clanking dwarfs. A perfect description that illustrates one of the differences between Celts and Romans. Our warriors were taller than the invaders by the length of a man’s forearm. In battle they did not hinder their bodies with armor or imprison their heads in iron. Free and unencumbered, the warriors of Gaul faced whatever the day brought. They were celebrated for their courage, which resulted from the teaching of their druids.

  No person who understands that an immortal spirit inhabits the mortal body need fear death.

  In my youth Menua, our chief druid, who had been trained in the greatest of all dr
uid schools, told me, “Dying means only a change of direction in a long life, Ainvar. Death is not the last thing but the least thing, a cobweb we brush through.”

  Death brings us back to the dawn of life so we may start afresh without the burden of memory. Examples of this may be observed in nature, where nothing is wasted. Living spirits, sparks of the Great Fire of Life, move from one existence to another as butterflies burst from the husks of dead caterpillars. The butterfly does not remember its life crawling on the ground. It knows only the freedom of the air.

  The warped Romans do not study nature; only the works of men. This leads them to make the incredible assumption that when a human body ceases to breathe, life ceases to exist. What arrogance!

  Vercingetorix and I sometimes spoke of these things, when the rest of the camp was asleep and we were lying on our backs staring up into the sky. Rix loved the night sky more than anyone I ever knew. Together we wandered the pathless stars and explored the womb of worlds.

  Rix contained a warrior spirit, and warriors are not inclined to philosophy—the word the Greeks use to describe the speculations of druids. But he also possessed a degree of curiosity not often found in fighting men. Warriors need to follow orders without asking questions. Thinking is for druids. Thinking, and curiosity.

  As a small child I had asked my grandmother, who was the wisest person I knew, “Why do we fall down and not up?”

  “No one knows,” she replied. “It’s magic.”

  That was the first time I heard of magic.

  When Rix asked questions I did my best to answer them, and prayed to That Which Watches that I might always give him good advice. For the most part, I did.

  Except, except…Briga says I dwell too much on the past. Perhaps she is right, though I shall never tell her so. A man who has three wives learns what not to admit.

  On the day we stepped off the edge of the world and into this boat, Briga laughed. The sound shocked me, I had not heard it for so long.

  Not since Alesia.

  Shortly after that disastrous defeat we had heard rumors that Caesar, not content with waging war for Gaul, also had sent his troops to the land of the Britons, wherever that was. I trembled for them.