As my bones were humming. As the wolf was humming. Singing the music of the great circle of power that flowed through the three of us.
Three is the number of fate.
Never had I felt more attuned to all that is life and living. Earth and animal and human, parts of one whole. How pure and simple, yet more complex than even a druid could understand.
Time did not stop; it did not even slow. It simply ceased to exist. We are. The Source is.
I bowed my head in worship.
When it was over I took the wolf back to the mountains. He was like a different animal, cheerful and revitalized, his tail awag with confidence. I should have liked to keep him with me. What druid would not be proud of such a companion? But I would no more enslave his wild spirit than I would chain a king and drag him behind my chariot as Caesar had done to Vercingetorix.
So we set out together, he and I, to take him home. Halfway there I slipped the collar off his neck. He continued to trot along beside me and I found myself talking aloud to him as to an equal. Looking up at me, he wagged his tail harder.
“You’ve done me a great service,” I told him. “Through you Keryth touched the spirit of the Red Wolf and found it still encased in living flesh. I’m convinced he will come back to us someday. What do you think?” I asked this question as seriously as I would have asked another man.
The old wolf gazed at me as if he understood. No, that is not correct. He gazed at me. He understood. Not through spoken language, but through the deeper levels of communication that exist in the animal kingdom. Did we once possess them, too?
As we walked on I continued to talk to him and he continued to listen. I told him things I had never told a living human being. He took them into himself and eased my burden.
We had a long distance to go and I was not as young as I used to be. Neither was the wolf. We stopped several times and sat down, me upon a boulder or a fallen tree, he upon his haunches. When we stood up again we were both a little stiff. Once, when I winced, he gave me a look of sympathy.
I had never thought to see a wolf express sympathy for a man. The truth is, I had never thought. The arrogance of humans had made me blind. My eyes were open now.
As we approached his home territory my companion’s subservient demeanor returned. He lowered his head and appeared to shrink within himself. I could not see the pack but he knew exactly where they were. He knew exactly what the future held for him.
“You don’t have to stay here,” I told him. “If you want, you can come with me. I promise you no man will raise his hand to you. You can sleep outside my lodge and my women will keep you fed, and when winter arrives you can come in and sit by the fire.”
He lifted his head and looked at me. There was no fear in his yellow eyes, only calm resignation. He was at peace with himself. Wiser than man, the wolf did not argue with nature.
I longed to pat him good-bye but that would be cruel. He was practically an outcast already; it would only make matters worse if he approached the pack freshly reeking of human scent. I contented myself with one last look.
See him, eyes, I commanded. Take your time. See and appreciate all of him.
His unique self. His pale golden eyes, the ruff of tan fur at his neck, the long forelegs and slender, delicate toes, as lovely as a woman’s. A magnificent creature perfectly designed for the life he led.
“I salute you as a free person,” I said to the wolf. And turned and walked away. I could feel his eyes upon me but he did not follow.
I had not expected him to.
chapter XV
I TRIED TO TELL BRIGA ABOUT MY EXPERIENCE WITH THE WOLVES, but she, who could work a very high order of magic herself, paid little attention. She had no hesitation about using her extraordinary gifts to benefit anyone who needed them, yet steadfastly refused to acknowledge the magical. In all our time together I had not managed to convince her otherwise.
To Briga, the Source of All Being was a tangible entity. Its works were tangible, too: the shining of the sun, the falling of the rain, the upthrust of the mountain. I knew that what we called magic was also a manifestation of the Source but I could never convince my senior wife.
Lakutu was different. When I told her about the wolves she was fascinated. “In Egypt we consider animals the equal of humans,” she said. “The earth is meant for man and beast to share equally. We worship the hawk, the snake, the crocodile, and most particularly the cat as gods.”
“Why?”
Her dark eyes were opaque. “Why? Because they are.”
After meeting the silver wolf I was fully willing to accept that there were animals who possessed extraordinary powers. I longed to know specific details about the beliefs of the Egyptians, but Lakutu’s unquestioning assertion offered me only a blank wall. She had a simple, straightforward mind. She believed what she believed and that was that.
When I told Onuava I was convinced that Cormiac was still alive, which meant that Labraid might well be alive too, she was pitifully eager to believe me. Even the hardest tree has a soft heart. Her credulity did not come from faith in the druids, for when Gaul fell Onuava lost all faith in the powers of druidry. But there is something beyond faith: a certainty that seeps into the bones.
I knew that Cormiac was alive. Through me, so did Onuava.
Her expression softened. “Perhaps I’ve been too harsh with you, Ainvar. You were very ill; I suppose you had no way of knowing what Labraid and Cormiac would do.”
“I would have prevented them if I could.”
“I’m sure you would, Ainvar.”
“Does this mean you don’t hate me anymore?”
She gave a little laugh. “I never hated you, not really.”
“Oh yes, you did. Women can hate and love and hate again in a single breath.”
“There’s some truth in that,” she agreed. “Men are more sluggish. Their emotions take a bit of time to rise and fall. Rather like their lances of flesh,” she added with a wicked sparkle in her eyes.
I was not accustomed to having such a conversation with my third wife. I had always thought of her as a gorgeous animal, rather than the possessor of a thinking head.
But lately l had been rethinking my opinion of animals.
Perhaps this was the right time to ask Onuava an important question. “When I was waking up after my illness, I overheard you tell Briga that she shouldn’t have done what she did. You told her she should have let me die. Just what did Briga do?”
Onuava turned her head so I could not see her eyes. “That’s all in the past. Let’s speak of something else, Ainvar. Is your health fully returned? Your color is quite good.”
Onuava had many skills, but subtlety was not one of them. “What did Briga do?” I repeated in a firmer tone.
Still not looking at me, she began pleating the fabric of her gown with nervous fingers. “Perhaps I was mistaken.”
I recalled an earlier, even more mysterious incident: the day Briga pulled Labraid out of the sea. Onuava had been a witness to that, too. She had told a story to which I had paid little attention at the time. Now my head saw a connection. “When Briga rescued Labraid,” I said, “Lakutu claimed that the water parted and let Briga pass through. Exactly what did you see that day, Onuava? I demand to know.”
“Thinking about it still gives me a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach, Ainvar. Are you certain you want to hear?”
“I’m certain.”
She took a deep breath and met my eyes. “Briga walked to the edge of the sea and kept walking until the crest of a wave broke over her head. I was sure she was going to be drowned, but a ridge of sand rose out of the sea in front of her. It formed a narrow causeway between her and Labraid. When she ran toward him she left footprints in the damp sand.” There was no mistaking the awe in Onuava’s voice.
“Briga bent down and lifted my son in her arms—and he bigger than herself!—then turned and started back toward us. Even as she walked, the water flowed over her footprints and
washed them away. By the time she stepped back onto the beach the ridge of sand had disappeared entirely. There was only the empty sea.”
I tried to envision the scene. Bizarre though it was, I found I could clearly picture it in my mind.
Menua once told me that anything a man could picture in his head was possible. Not necessarily probable, but possible. The head contains the mind which contains the spirit which is a spark of the Great Fire which is the Source of All Being.
“Very well, Onuava. Now tell me what Briga did when she thought I was dying.”
The normally florid roses in my third wife’s cheeks faded away. “She went after you like she went after Labraid. There was no sea and no sand. Just you, lying on the bed, and Briga and me sitting on a bench beside you. Lakutu was exhausted, she’d fallen asleep on the floor at your feet.
“Your breathing had been ghastly for a long time, Ainvar. At last it stopped. We waited and waited but there was nothing more, no sound, not the slightest movement of your chest. I admit, I was glad for your sake. You had been suffering so much it hurt me to watch. It hurt me to see your pale dead face too, so I stood up, meaning to pull the blanket over it.
“Just then, the candles in the lodge…dimmed…and smoked…and the smoke formed itself into a sort of wreath around you. I couldn’t even see you anymore, Ainvar. But I saw the light from the candles shine out of Briga’s eyes.”
Onuava fell silent, staring at me from a shadowed place where candles dimmed and smoke formed a wreath.
“Go on,” I whispered.
“Without a moment’s hesitation Briga stretched her arms into the smoke. I heard her say, ‘He’s almost gone but I think I can still reach him.’ Her arms vanished in the smoke up to the elbow. Just vanished. I was very frightened, I can tell you. But then they vanished almost to the shoulder, and she flexed her back and groaned like someone lifting a great weight. She fell back onto the bench and sat there panting, with her head hanging down. I was too scared to move. She stood up and reached into the smoke again. And again. And…”
“And?”
“And at last she backed out of the smoke holding you. And you were breathing.”
This time I believed Onuava. Believed her completely.
Druids recognize the truth when they hear it.
When I returned to my lodge I did not mention my conversation with Onuava. If Briga wanted me to know what happened she would have told me herself.
The private territory in one’s head should not be invaded.
My own head was fully occupied. In fact, there were too many thoughts demanding attention. To help clear the clutter, I resumed teaching.
Following the lead of Aislinn, more members of Fíachu’s clan joined my original band of students. Aislinn herself was silent and downcast, a girl in mourning, yet she missed very few lessons in the forest glade. Neither did the others. Perhaps their interest went to my head. Perhaps my head let its guard down, just a little.
In spite of what Briga thought, from the beginning I had restricted our lessons to subjects that were appropriate to Hibernia. But with so many eager faces looking up at me I began to wander farther afield. It was hard not to make a fleeting reference, and then a more detailed excursion, into the realms of Gaulish lore. When I outlined the druid hierarchy as it had existed in Gaul, my listeners were fascinated. They wanted to know about the various specialties: how the gift was discovered, how it was developed, and how it was practiced. Each young one began looking into himself to discover what hidden treasures might lie there. They were eager and excited; how could I deny them?
Inevitably, one of my students mentioned the content of our lessons to the chief druid.
One morning Duach Dalta appeared at the door of my lodge. He was swathed from head to foot in a cloak dyed the color of blood and painted with Celtic designs. I must remember to tell my students that druids in Gaul shunned ostentation, I thought to myself as I ushered my visitor inside.
Dara was there, waiting to go to the forest with me. When the chief druid entered, my son gave him a respectful nod and surrendered his place by the hearth. The older man sat down, hawked, spat, and looked around for something to drink.
Briga offered him water.
“Is this what you give a guest, Ainvar?” he asked icily. “Your wife is badly trained in the art of hospitality.”
Duach Dalta might be a venerable member of Fíachu’s clan, but I would allow no one to say such things about Briga. Particularly not in her own home.
“My senior wife pleases me very well as she is,” I said.
The chief druid’s expression was turning more sour with every heartbeat. “I should have expected no better. You are strangers here who have taken it upon yourselves to mislead our youngsters. That must cease. Your ways are not our ways. I insist that—”
“We were born in another land,” I interrupted, “but now we belong to the Slea Leathan tribe. We’ve adopted your customs, we’re even acquiring your accent.”
“Speaking like a Milesian will not make you one, Ainvar.”
“Admittedly, I’m not of the Milesian race. I understand that Milesios claimed to have Scythian blood, however?”
Duach Dalta gave a reluctant nod. “What of it?”
“The Celts of Gaul,” I replied, “are descended from the Celts of the Blue Mountains, whom the Scythians taught to ride horses and take the heads of their enemies. Inevitably the blood of Celt and Scyth was mingled. I’m not as far removed from you as you think.”
His nostrils flared. “How dare you presume—”
Dara’s voice cut in. “As for being descended from Milesios,” he drawled, “I have memorized the complete lineage of Éremon and your name is not included, Duach Dalta. Your father’s fathers were among the servants the Milesians brought with them.”
For a moment I feared the chief druid was having a fit. His long nose twitched violently; his eyes bulged from his head. He rose to his feet with a clenched fist and advanced on my son as if to hit him.
Dara held his ground. He was no warrior, but he had knowledge on his side and knowledge can make a man brave.
Before it could come to blows between them, I said, “Are you so afraid of the truth, Duach Dalta? Real druids never fear the truth.”
It was a calculated insult, but my own temper was dangerously close to being out of control.
He whirled toward me. “I knew you were trouble from the very first night,” he hissed, “when you asked all those questions. Fíachu never should have taken you in.”
“Did you tell him so?”
“If you were really one of us, you would know that chieftains don’t take advice from druids.”
I fought to remain calm. “Things were very different in Gaul,” I said. “Druids there had stature. The great Vercingetorix himself, who was called ‘King of the World,’ took advice from me.”
Duach Dalta curled his lip in contempt. “That’s a transparent lie. Why would any king listen to you, Ainvar?”
“Because I’ve spent my life training my head to think.”
“I can think!”
“How do you do it?” I asked.
“What do you mean, ‘how’? I…that is…thoughts come to me, of course.”
“On their own?”
“Certainly.”
“Do you mean they flit through your head uninvited, like deer running through a forest?”
Duach Dalta blinked. “I suppose so.”
“Then you’re not really thinking,” I told him. “A well-trained head continually examines the information provided by eyes and ears and nose and skin. At the same time it reflects on past experiences and considers future possibilities. All of this requires deliberate thought. A thorough knowledge of one’s current situation is imperative. So is a keen understanding of human nature, without which one cannot anticipate future behavior. Intuition plays no small part. And of course one must always consider the Otherworld. In the act of thinking, all of these elements are deliberately b
rought together, sorted through, and consulted. That is how my head functions, Duach Dalta. What about yours?”
“I…” A thread of spittle formed on his lips; thin, withered lips that refuted the evidence of his youthful body. His mouth trembled with an old man’s confusion. “I mean…”
Before he could decide just what he did mean I glimpsed a movement at the open doorway. Several youngsters peered in at us. When I was not waiting for my students at the accustomed place, they had come looking for me.
I would not humiliate the chief druid in front of them.
“It was kind of you to pay a visit to us, Duach Dalta,” I said with all the warmth I could muster. “I have enjoyed our discussion. Perhaps we may continue it another day? I am expected elsewhere now. Briga, will you give our guest some mead and make sure he is comfortable for as long as he wishes to stay?”
I took my cloak from its peg by the door and hurried outside. Dara trotted along in my wake, chuckling to himself like a stream running over stones.
“It isn’t funny,” I said, pitching my voice low so the others would not hear. “A person can’t be blamed for what they don’t know.”
“Unless they refuse to learn. That old man won’t learn anything from you, he despises you. I think he’s jealous of you.”
“He has no reason to be jealous of me, Dara.” The boy was correct, though, and I knew it. I had begun to trespass on the chief druid’s territory. Worse than that, I had made him aware of his shortcomings.
People will forgive you for many things. But not for being right.
Trusting Briga to smooth Duach Dalta’s ruffled feathers, I began the day’s lessons in the glade. On one level my head was thinking about my students, while on a deeper level I reexamined the conversation with the chief druid. I began to regret flaunting my cleverness.
But I am allowed to have pride. I too had been a chief druid.
Returning from the glade that evening, I surprised a red deer on the path. An immense stag with a spectacular, wide-branching rack of antlers. He halted, facing me, with one foreleg delicately raised. There were only a couple of strides between us, yet his huge liquid eyes surveyed me from a vast distance, as a mighty chieftain might look at the lowest of the low. Was he hiding his fear out of a sense of pride? Or was his confidence in his strength and speed so great that he could afford to give in to a momentary curiosity?
The Greener Shore Page 17
