Fíachu gave his only son a massive gold ring as big as the baby’s fist.
A great mound of soft soil had been piled nearby. Following my lead, all of those present, down to the smallest knee-child, took a double handful to drop into the grave. This continued until the yawning mouth in the earth was filled.
As the last clods fell, the women of the Gael unexpectedly uttered the most hair-raising cry I had ever heard in my life. Somewhere between a shriek and a wail, it was filled with despair. The nearest thing to it was the sound of a man being disemboweled on the battlefield.
“What in the name of all the stars is that?” I gasped.
“Keening,” said a man standing near me. “Our women always keen the dead; it’s a sign of respect.”
I doubt if Onuava had ever been so respected in life.
The keening was horrific, yet there was a curious rightness about it. The men had spent their burden of emotion in games; this lamentation belonged to the women. It was purely Gaelic.
The keening continued while we raised a cairn of stones over the grave. Somewhere beyond our vision Onuava and her child were moving farther and farther away from us. In the privacy of my head, I bade them farewell.
The day was to conclude with a funeral feast. Before we ate, and at Fíachu’s request, Dara repeated his lament for Onuava. Everyone applauded except for Seanchán, who kept his arms folded.
During the feast Fíachu’s senior wife proclaimed in a loud voice, “When I die I want the sort of funeral Onuava had.”
Bit by bit, our influence was seeping into the Gael. Shapechanging them as they were shapechanging us.
The following evening, my clan gathered to remember Onuava among ourselves. “For her sake I hope she did not see her baby die,” Sulis remarked.
Keep quiet, I warned Keryth with my eyes. Don’t tell us all you know.
Ignorance can be kinder than knowledge.
Briga gave a sad smile. “Those who die as small children never grow up. I still dream of little Maia as I saw her last. I actually feel her in my arms; her warmth, her weight. She comes to comfort me.”
“When I was a boy,” said Dian Cet, “the chief druid of the Carnutes was my father’s mother. She too was called Maia.”
I straightened in surprise. “What? I never heard that before.”
The old brehon turned toward me. “Do you not recall my suggesting her name for your daughter?”
“I don’t remember,” I said honestly. Yet within me was a vibration like the plucking of a single harp string; the recognition of another element of the Pattern.
As soon as possible, I must tell my students about the Pattern.
In the following days I noticed a disturbing change in Fíachu’s attitude toward me. At first there was half a heartbeat before the smile on his lips reached his eyes. Then there was not even a smile on the lips. I had never deluded myself that we were friends, but if he had turned against me my clan could suffer.
The more I thought about the matter, the more certain I became. Druid intuition.
During our last years in Gaul all I had to worry about was survival. How clear and simple that seemed to me now, when I went from one worry to the next without respite.
At night when I longed for rest my head trudged on relentlessly, asking questions, formulating possibilities, turning over rocks to see what lay beneath. Beside me Briga slept untroubled. I wondered where she went in her dreams.
As if the change in Fíachu was not problem enough, Cormiac and Labraid were much on my mind. I had not the slightest hope that they could find Maia, but if they searched for her long enough they were bound to encounter the Romans. Under torture—and Caesar’s agents were skilled at torture—I was confident that Cormiac would never reveal anything about us. Labraid might.
It was the policy of Gaius Julius Caesar to pursue his enemies and eliminate them to the last man. Even after all this time, Caesar would consider the chief advisor of Vercingetorix a trophy worth hunting down, no matter how far he had to go.
Once again I was confronted with the Two-Faced One. One face expressed joy because I was convinced that Cormiac Ru survived. The other face was horrified because if he was alive, the mission he had undertaken could lead the Romans to us after all.
AFTER NINE DAYS’ MOURNING FOR ONUAVA, I RESUMED TEACHING IN the forest glade. Aislinn, Fíachu’s daughter, attended with the others. Apparently her father’s feelings had not turned her against me.
I wondered how often she thought of Labraid.
I began the new lessons by explaining what lay at the heart of druidry. “The Source of All Being does not work at random, though to our eyes it may appear so. Always remember: There are no coincidences, just unexpected glimpses of a hidden Pattern.
“To begin to understand about the Pattern, you must learn to see with more than your eyes.” Stooping, I scraped up a little soil and let it trickle through my fingers. “Observe,” I said.
I stretched up to pluck a leaf from a tree and displayed it to them. “Observe,” I repeated. “The Earth is the leaf is you is me. What do I mean? It is my way of telling you that an unvarying building block forms the mote of dust and the tallest mountain. Both conform to the same Pattern. The Source resonates equally through all creation.
“The Pattern affects us, too. Our mortal bodies conform because they have no choice, but our spirits, as sparks of the Great Fire of Life, have more freedom. A spirit that ignores the Pattern can suffer dire consequences. The study of druidry will help you recognize the Pattern. Only by following it as it applies to each separate one of you can you live in harmony with Thisworld.”
Senta asked, “How can the Pattern be the same for everybody?”
“As it applies to each separate one of you,” I reiterated sternly. “Senta, you were daydreaming again. Pay attention. As I was about to say, all elements of the Pattern are linked. Stars and stones, humans and animals—”
“I can see where they meet!” Aislinn cried. Everyone turned to look at her.
“What do you mean?” I asked the girl, trying to ignore my excitement at her words.
“My father’s favorite mare likes to rub her head against me. When you mentioned animals I thought about her and then…she was touching me again, Ainvar. I can’t describe it, but the horse and I melted into each other. As if she was a line drawn on the ground and I was another line on the ground and the two lines came together. I could see them as plainly as I see you.”
Her eyes pleaded with me to understand.
I did. “Aislinn, you have just seen one of the invisible threads that connect all creation.”
And as simply as that, we had found our next druid.
chapter XIX
MY SENIOR WIFE NOTICED THE SPECULATIVE LOOKS I WAS SLANTING in her direction. “What is it, Ainvar?”
“Nothing.”
“I know you too well; you’re absolutely unable to think of nothing. Some can, but not you. Tell me what you’re thinking about.”
“You might not like it.”
“All the more reason to tell me, then.” She put her little fists on her hips and stood waiting. She would stand like that until I answered, no matter how long it took.
“I was just wondering. Both Dara and Gobnat have revealed unexpected gifts since we came to Hibernia. If we had been able to stay in Gaul, would you have become the wise woman you are today?”
“I always was a wise woman.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so.”
She was instantly suspicious. “Are you still trying to persuade me to join the Order of the Wise?”
I could reply in all honesty, “There is no Order of the Wise in Hibernia.”
On the previous day I had discussed this very subject with Sulis, Keryth, and Dian Cet. We had decided to replace “the Order of the Wise” with a Gaelic term. After much discussion we chose filídh, meaning “poets”: repositories of wisdom.
By admitting to being a wise woman—in other words, a repository
of wisdom—Briga unwittingly became one of the filídh. Out of consideration for her feelings I might never tell her, but the rightness of it pleased me. As did my own cleverness.
“Why are you smiling, Ainvar?”
“I, ah…you were right, as usual.”
“Of course I was,” she happily agreed. “What about?”
“The resentments we’ve incurred. I have to repair the damage if I can.”
“How?”
“I’ll begin with Fíachu. We can’t afford to lose his support.”
“What makes you think we have?”
“A lot of little things, Briga, but mostly druid intuition. Like me, Fíachu tends to trace a situation backward, step by step, to its beginning. He’s concluded that the loss of his nephew can be traced to my arrival here.”
“That’s ridiculous. It’s not your fault that Bal Derg attacked Onuava.”
“No, but the murders were the last link in a chain of circumstance that does lead back to me. If I had never brought my people here, Fíachu reasons that his nephew would still be alive.”
“Bal Derg would have gone mad anyway, Ainvar. His head was unhealthy.”
“At least Fíachu could not blame me.”
“Why would he want to?”
“Because chieftains take credit for themselves and apportion blame to others. It’s one of the ways they hold on to power.”
“Power.” Briga looked through me and past me. “The only real power comes from the Source.”
Recently there had been times when I felt I was losing her. She shared her body with me, but her spirit was moving into a different realm. Had it begun when she brought me back from the Otherworld? Or even earlier, when she rescued Labraid from the sea?
She laid a gentle hand on my arm. “Stop brooding about Bal Derg, Ainvar, you’ll make yourself ill again. You can’t change the past.”
Wives are quick to tell a man what he cannot do.
“No, but perhaps I can change the future if I give Fíachu what he desires.”
“Another son? Keryth claims he will have no more sons.”
“Onuava had more than one son,” I said.
“Not sired by Fíachu.”
I had spent most of the night preparing the proposition I was about to put to Briga. “If a man lies with a woman, is there not a connection between him and the children of her body? They’ve shared the same intimate passageway.”
Her nose crinkled with laughter. “Now you’re the one who’s being ridiculous.”
“I don’t think so. Fíachu will accept any line of reasoning that gives him what he wants most. The king of the Laigin is an old man who’s expected to die soon, and there’s little doubt that Fíachu will be chosen as the new king. Remember what he said about appointing his successor as chief of the tribe? That will be doubly important to him once he’s the king. If Bal Derg were still alive the honor would go to him, but—”
Briga clapped her hands in delight. “You propose to suggest Cairbre! Or Senta. Onuava would be so pleased.”
“Neither of them carries the blood of a chieftain,” I reminded her. “The tribes would never accept a man of lesser rank as king.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re talking about Labraid!”
“He fullfils the requirements.”
“But he’s dead.”
“No,” I said, hoping I spoke the truth. “I don’t believe he is.”
At twilight I found Keryth in the forest. Throughout the day a chill wind had been blowing from the north, and the seer was swathed in a heavy fur cloak. In unguarded moments her posture revealed her true age. Stooped shoulders and a shuffling gait were reminders that every mortal life must come to an end. The old making way for the new.
“Keryth?”
She made a conscious effort to straighten her back before turning in my direction. “Were you looking for me, Ainvar? Or did you come here to be alone?”
“I need something from you. Can you call Labraid and Cormiac Ru back to us?”
“I’m a seer, Ainvar, but I can’t affect what I see, nor can I be heard. My role is strictly that of observer. Besides, I don’t even know if Labraid is alive. I didn’t see him.”
“He has to be,” I said through gritted teeth. “I need him.”
She squinted at me in the dusk. “More than the Red Wolf? I thought he was the object of your concern.”
“Things have changed. I still want Cormiac to come back, but it’s imperative that he bring Labraid with him. Are you sure you can’t contact them?”
“You of all people should know the limitations of the various branches of the Order, Ainvar.” She sounded slightly exasperated. “The only way to reach Labraid or Cormiac would be through the Otherworld, and for that we require a sacrificer. We have none.”
Through the Otherworld! I had been overlooking the obvious. Had the passage of time changed me so much, then? Must we inevitably lose part of ourselves to gain something else?
Druid speculations. For which I had no time.
I gave Keryth an apologetic smile. “I would like to be alone, if you don’t mind. Alone with the trees.”
“As you wish.” Keryth gathered her cloak more snugly about her body and walked away. With every step she took her shoulders drooped more. Dear Keryth. A human life is like a summer day; we do not fully appreciate it until the chill winds of winter begin to blow.
I waited until the invisible turbulence created by another person’s presence ceased. Then I waited some more. The wind died with the sun. As night closed in the cold intensified. Nearby, a stand of birch saplings still glimmered with the pale promise of youth. The oaks, invisible in the darkness, sighed with the burden of their longevity. Some of those oaks were growing here when the first ships carrying the Milesians arrived. What had they not seen during their long reign as chieftains of the forest?
As I was tucking my hands into my armpits to keep them warm, a faint stirring in the air caught my attention.
“Eriu?” I said tentatively.
The trees were very quiet. Watching.
“Eriu.”
Silence. Waiting.
With the massive effort of gathering myself into myself, I called for a third time, “Eriu!”
My ears heard no answer yet it came. The atmosphere enveloping me was as articulate as a voice. Eriu was there. Always. There for me.
With that knowledge I experienced the rarest of all sensations: the blessed inner silence that eludes humans throughout their lives. In that silence I slowly raised my hands, palm upward, until they were as high as my shoulders.
Power flowed outward from my body. Power that came of being totally one with the natural world and able to bend its components to my will.
The sound rose from the ground, following my hands. A muted roar like the distant ocean.
Saplings began to sway without any wind. The night air shimmered with a strange luminosity.
“I am here,” said a voice.
All that lives is connected. Eriu was alive. I could feel her as surely as I could feel Briga when she lay beside me in our bed.
“We remember you,” I said in a voice thick with awe. “Our young bard tells your story again and again.”
“Does he say we were beautiful?”
“He does not know what you looked like.”
“We were small and slender and as pale as the moon. We did not walk, we danced. No willow was more graceful. No flower more fair. We danced and sang and laughed. Oh, how we laughed!”
Her words were the chime of distant bells.
The bells faded away.
The shimmer in the air faded away.
In a tone as flat as dried blood, Eriu said, “We were different so they killed us. We were small and they were tall so they killed us. We were gentle and they were aggressive so they killed us.”
She laughed a laugh that was not human. The coldest north wind was warmer than that laugh. “Now they are afraid of us,” said Eriu.
At that moment, s
o was I. “Do you ever harm them?”
“There is no need. They harm themselves.”
“They believe you control the weather.”
“Is that what you believe?”
“I believe you are able to do things beyond mortal ability.”
“That much is true, Ainvar of the Carnutes.”
“Ainvar of the Gaels,” I corrected.
“Oh yes. I forgot.”
She had not forgotten. It was a test of my honesty, my honor. I was beginning to know Eriu. What a remarkable woman she must have been in Thisworld.
How thankful I was for the immortality of the spirit.
Eriu said, “You want something of me.”
“I do.”
“Is there any reason why I should give it to you?”
“None at all.”
The forest was quiet again. Anyone would have thought I was alone. I was not. I was less lonely than I had ever been in my life. She was in me and through me and all around me, an intense, aching sweetness.
“Tell me what you want, Ainvar of the Gaels.”
“First I must ask a question. Are there boundaries in the Otherworld, or can you go where you will?”
“Movement is limited only by the strength of one’s spirit.”
I had no doubts as to the strength of Eriu’s spirit. “The first time you spoke to me,” I said, “I was in a mountain pass with two young men.”
“I was aware of them.”
“Are you aware of them now?”
“Do you want me to be?”
My heart began to pound uncontrollably. “Can you?”
“Of course.”
“They left this island more than a year ago, in the late autumn.”
“Time means nothing here.” To my alarm her voice began to fade, drifting away like smoke across the hills.
“Please, Eriu!” I beseeched before she was gone entirely. “Please find them and bring them home!”
The Greener Shore Page 21
