When she spoke again it sounded as if her lips were beside my ear. I could feel her breath on my cheek. “Home to me?”
“Yes!” I cried.
In an eyeblink she was gone.
But I was warm.
Afterward—and why is it that we think of such things when it is too late?—I realized that if Eriu could find Labraid and Cormiac Ru, she could find Maia. Yet I had not asked. I had buried Maia in my heart long ago. When I ceased to believe my daughter was alive, had something vital been irretrievably destroyed?
Menua, I thought to myself, would have handled this better. Within the capacious head of my teacher and mentor had been more knowledge than I ever attempted to mine. It is always so. We do not want to follow in our elders’ footprints but insist on breaking new trails—often to our cost.
I did not tell anyone of my encounter in the forest. What transpired between Eriu and me was too precious to be shared.
“Eriu,” I whispered to the wind from time to time. “Eriu.”
And the wheel of the seasons turned.
With one eye on Aislinn, my oldest son began composing poems of love and singing them to his harp. Aislinn had Labraid in both her eyes and never noticed Dara.
I longed to be able to tell the girl that Labraid would come home again. How hard it is to keep good news to oneself. I silently nurtured it within my bosom as a bird nurtures her egg, knowing that magic must ripen in its own time.
At the change of the moon I had an unpleasant encounter with Duach Dalta. He found me skinning a hare behind my lodge. Grannus spurned such small game, but my wives had a taste for the meat and my son Ongus was adept at setting snares.
“How appropriate,” sneered a voice behind me, “to find Ainvar up to his wrists in blood.”
I whirled around to meet Duach Dalta’s flinty-eyed gaze. “Why are you creeping up on me?” I asked as I got to my feet.
“In the territory of the Slea Leathan I can go anywhere I want.”
I endeavored to remain polite. “This holding belongs to my clan, and we did not invite you here today.”
“Have your pompous judge explain the Gaelic laws concerning land to you, Ainvar. Tribeland belongs to all of the tribe in common. A holding is an allotment, not sole ownership. You’re only here on sufferance and we want you to leave. Leave the Plain of Broad Spears for good!” Taking a step toward me, Duach Dalta shook his fist in the air.
He thought to intimidate me with his fiery outburst, but water can extinguish fire. I concentrated on water; calm and cool. I became water. A spring, a river, a whole sea of water that no fire could harm.
Allowing the chief druid to simmer, I crouched down and thoroughly wiped the blade of my skinning knife on the grass. Deliberately ripped up more grass to clean the blood from my arms. Carefully spread the hare’s skin over the meat to keep it from drying out.
Then I stood up. “Fíachu hasn’t said anything to me about our leaving, Duach Dalta.”
“He feels as I do.”
“Let him tell me himself.”
“Don’t you believe me? I’m the chief druid!”
I waited for three heartbeats before replying, “I’ve been a chief druid for most of my adult life. Would you care to pit your magic against mine?”
“Magic.” There were no snakes in Hibernia, yet Duach Dalta invested that single word with enough venom to kill a score of men. “Your foreign magic has no power here.”
Making assumptions is a serious mistake. I would teach Duach Dalta that valuable lesson; I would perform an act of magic perfectly suited to Hibernia. With my most disingenuous smile, I said, “If I’m powerless, why object to a contest between us?”
“I have no objection, Ainvar, provided you go first. You’re the one who issued the challenge.”
“Name the time and the place, then.”
“Right here,” said Duach Dalta. “Right now.”
The well-trampled area behind my lodge was not the ideal setting for magic, but at least we were alone. What I intended to do was private.
Standing very straight, I filled my lungs with the breath of the distant trees. Perhaps I inhaled too deeply; perhaps my chest had been permanently damaged by my illness. I was seized with a fit of coughing and had to begin again.
Duach Dalta watched with a cynical expression. You’ll change that expression soon enough, I thought to myself.
The body of the hare lay on the ground near my feet. With my bare toes I touched the small corpse to indicate that the creature was being offered as a sacrifice to Eriu. Invoking her name, I raised my hands, palm upward, in perfect confidence that the roar would follow them up from the earth.
Nothing happened.
The ground, which was littered with domestic debris, did not roar. Nor did the saplings sway. There were no saplings. We were surrounded by lodges.
“Eriu!” I called again in a louder voice.
There was no response.
Lowering my arms to my sides, I took another deep breath. Be steady now, I told myself. You can do this; you have done this.
Once more I lifted my arms. Concentrated on Eriu with a fierce intensity, envisioning her as she must have been in life; in human form. Small and slim and beautiful, a girl who danced instead of walking. A silvery slip of a girl who wore flowers in her hair. A girl whom I loved with a passion unlike any I had felt before. She was not a woman for mating. She was a dream for cherishing.
Eriu! I pleaded silently. Come to me now. Show this unbeliever what true magic is.
“Eriu!”
She did not come.
There were only the two of us. Me with my hands in the air, and Duach Dalta, beginning to laugh at me.
“So that’s your idea of magic, Ainvar? I can do it too, watch me.” He flapped his arms like a fledgling vulture attempting to fly. “Ayr yoo,” he called. “Oh, Ayr yoo!”
Never in my life had I been mocked.
Still laughing, Duach Dalta sauntered away. He paused once, though, to look back at me. “Oh yes, Ainvar; about your leaving us? The sooner the better. Take your relatives with you. They’re a burden on the tribe.”
When Duach Dalta was out of sight I fled to the trees. Menua had taught me many things, but never how to deal with humiliation. Like a gravely injured animal, I chose the solitude of the forest in which to lick my wounds.
I was a broken man when we came to Hibernia. Since then my confidence had been restored. The broken man was whole again. More than whole; I had achieved a shining triumph that outweighed all my failures. I had been in direct, personal contact with a being from the Otherworld. My gift had proven itself more extravagantly than I ever dreamed.
So why had it failed me now?
Running, panting, stumbling over exposed roots and dodging branches, I went farther and farther into the forest until a terrible stitch in my side forced me to stop. I stood for a while with my head down, listening to the ragged sound of my own breathing. When at last I raised my head, nothing I saw was familiar.
Every tree has its own individual character, expressed in its outward appearance and as unique to that tree as a man’s face is to him. There were trees all around me, hundreds of them stretching into the green gloom of infinity, yet not a single one was an old friend.
But at least they were trees. Sanctuary.
Duach Dalta had watched me and laughed. The trees watched me uncritically. To a tree, simply being alive constitutes success. A dying leaf returns to the earth to feed future generations and continue its life through them. Shame and ridicule mean nothing to trees.
Slumping against a sturdy tree trunk, I tried to come to terms with my abruptly changed situation.
Think, head.
Druid ability is a rare gift, and a gift can be taken away. There was no chance it would be granted to me twice.
If the manipulation of natural forces now was beyond me I could no longer pretend, even to myself, that I was a chief druid. Druids were supported by their people in return for the use of t
heir unique abilities. I was not entitled to eat my clan’s food or share their shelter if I had nothing to offer in return. I could not be a seer, or a tribal historian, or a…Thoughts were running around inside my head like trapped mice. Then one stopped running. Stood alone for me to examine.
A sacrificer.
That was a gift I could give. I could sacrifice myself for my clan.
I could lie down on the ground and command my spirit to slip away. My will was still strong enough for that. By the time my body was discovered everything would be over. My family would grieve for me; Briga and Lakutu might even keen. But more important, Fíachu, who was a good man in many ways, would take pity on my people and let them remain with his. By dying I could give my clan the security I had jeopardized. A newly dead person is forgiven everything.
Yet if I were dead, who would organize my funeral ritual?
There were certain things I would want done that were not done for Onuava. No one knew of these plans; they were inside my head. Besides, a chief druid, even a discredited one, deserved the perquisites of his rank. The only person who could conduct the funeral was another chief druid, and we could expect no cooperation from Duach Dalta.
I had better live.
Yet how could I? Once, mine was the vast dark sky and the spaces between the stars; once, mine was the promise of magic.
No more.
With a groan, I lay down upon the ground, turned on one side for comfort’s sake, and closed my eyes. Tightly. Concentrate on the gates of the Otherworld, I told my head.
Heads are not always obedient. My nose sniffed the dusty aroma of the dead leaves around me. My ears listened to rustlings in the undergrowth. My skin developed a maddening itch in the center of my back, out of reach.
The gates of the Otherworld were being obscured by the Here and Now.
I wanted no part of the Here and Now. Telling Briga of my humiliation would be unbearable. Escape to the Otherworld was the only solution. I gathered my will and tried again. But I still could not concentrate.
Near my head, something was breathing.
I opened my eyes.
Two round, black, exceedingly brilliant eyes looked back at me. They were set in a triangular face with conspicuous ears. The little animal had an elongated body and short legs and resembled a weasel, but its tail was bushy. A creamy patch on the throat contrasted with glossy brown fur elsewhere.
The Gael called these usually shy creatures pine martens. They were hunted for their fur, though one skin furnished only enough to make an arm ring. I had never seen a living pine marten up close before.
Dying could wait for a while longer.
Without moving his feet, the impudent little creature stretched his sinuous body forward until his nose was almost touching my face. I held very still. He took half a dozen short breaths in rapid succession. His bristly black whiskers vibrated with excitement. His eyes, almost all pupil, were those of a nocturnal animal, yet here he was in the daylight, daring to investigate a being that could easily kill him.
My visitor was not anticipating his mortality. He was living fully in the Here and Now.
Nature, instructor in all things, was making a point.
There was a sound in the forest like a dead branch falling, and with a whisk of his luxurious tail, the pine marten vanished. But he did not go far. Within moments he peeped out of a fringe of ferns and twitched his whiskers at me.
Step by cautious step, he returned. I breathed as shallowly as I could while he circumnavigated my body. His whiskers tickled my bare ankles. He sniffed up my spine to the nape of my neck. His small feet pattered around my head in a veritable dance of inquiry. Once again he stared into my face. I wondered if he could see my spirit in my eyes, as I could see his: bright little spark of the Great Fire of Life.
For that brief moment, our concentration on each other was total.
Magic.
When the pine marten had seen all he wanted to see of Ainvar, he bounded away in search of other adventures.
How, I asked myself, could I contemplate fleeing to the Otherworld when Thisworld had such wonders to offer?
Stiffly, I got to my feet. Brushed off my clothes. Squinted at the sunlight slanting through the trees to determine the direction of home.
Do your best, Duach Dalta. The pine marten and I are not afraid of the likes of you.
chapter XX
I MUST HAVE BEEN SMILING WHEN I ENTERED THE LODGE, BECAUSE Briga remarked, “You’re in a good mood for someone who ran off and left his wife to finish dressing the hare for the pot.”
“I didn’t run off. I was called away.”
“By whom?”
“Life,” I replied cryptically. “Is the hare cooked yet?”
“Cooked and eaten, no thanks to you. Lakutu helped me with both.”
My senior wife has an independent streak, which has become more pronounced since we came to Hibernia.
Lakutu, who was sitting by my hearth while digesting my hare, did not move over to make room for me. I fear my formerly docile second wife is now emulating my first. While the women chatted about women’s interests I sat in the shadows and brooded. They paid no attention to me. They had each other.
Three wives could be too many, I told myself, but two were not enough. My nature craved a unique companion: one who could illuminate the darkest caves within me.
No one but me had heard Eriu’s voice. I had never mentioned her to anyone else. She had been my selfishly hoarded treasure; proof that I was a chief druid even after the debacle in Gaul. And now she had failed me.
Or I had failed.
Either way, how dare I go on pretending to be the leader of my clan? Briga knew of my lost powers and had never said anything to the others, but that was only because she loved me. Sooner or later—particularly if Fíachu threw us out of the tribe—they would all know the awful truth.
Who would lead them in my place? The only man I considered capable was Cormiac Ru. And he was gone.
How much can a man lose and remain a man?
My feet took me out under the sky. Although the sky was lit with a rose-and-gold sunset, a bank of dark cloud was looming in the north. The evening was cold, and as empty as the hollow under my breastbone. The hollow where I had cherished the secret of Eriu.
I went back into the lodge.
Menua used to say, “It is foolish to bleed before the knife cuts.” I decided not to tell my wives about the threat of expulsion hanging over us. They could do nothing about it anyway. As for leadership of the clan…I had no strength left. All I could do was wait for the Pattern to work itself out, as I knew it would.
Sometimes that is all any of us can do.
When I woke up in the morning my first thought was: Will Fíachu come today? My last thought before I fell asleep at night was: Will Fíachu come tomorrow?
How long would it take for Duach Dalta to persuade the chieftain to send us away? And where would we go? Ulidia? Or perhaps the kingdom of the Deisi? Would Cohern be willing to take us in again, or would that jeopardize his truce with the Laigin? Was there some small corner of Hibernia where no tribe held sway and we might burrow in and be forgotten?
In my head I imagined a dozen fresh starts. Exhausted myself with futile mental excursions. Dreamed wild dreams that offered impossible solutions that faded with the coming of the light.
Briga began asking, “What’s wrong, Ainvar? What are you thinking about?” Women always do that. If we wanted them to know we would tell them.
Eventually I lost my temper and snapped at her, which only confirmed her fears that something was amiss. When I refused to confide in her she looked hurt. “I don’t understand, Ainvar. You always tell me everything.”
“Where did you get that idea?” As soon as the words were out of my mouth I regretted them, but it was too late.
“You mean you don’t tell me everything you think?”
No matter how honest a man wants to be, marriage forces him to lie. “Of course I tell you ev
erything that’s important, Briga. But ten thousand thoughts flit through my head in a single day like a giant cloud of gnats. Do you want to hear every one of them? Or perhaps…just those that involve you?”
Placing the tip of my little finger on the center of her chin, I slowly traced along the curve of her jawbone until I was stroking the soft flesh just behind her earlobe. This was an old signal between us.
Against her will, Briga’s eyes grew misty. She wanted to go on arguing but the rose between her thighs had begun to bloom. The language of the body is older than the spoken word.
I took my wife in my arms. While waiting for the worst to happen, I made the most of Here and Now.
On the day following the full moon Fíachu’s clan challenged another clan to a hurling match. Caman was serious business; war in miniature. The match would be played on Fíachu’s racecourse. The pillar stones inscribed with Onuava’s name would serve as goalposts.
A rousing game was just the distraction I craved. Although many summers had passed since I took an active part in sport, I still enjoyed watching. In my head I would again run with the young men; in my head I would strike the winning goal.
The lives we live in our heads can be the most vivid of all.
If Fíachu was going to banish me I felt confident he would not do it publicly; he was stern but not cruel. To be safe, however, I embedded myself deep among the spectators on the far side of the field.
It was an exceptionally hard-fought match. The action swept up and down the field without the slightest pause. Most of the players were young men who had survived no more than twenty winters. A few were older: the cunning ones, the heads who plotted every move in advance. Caman had few rules but strategy was all-important.
As I watched, my legs remembered how good it felt to run with an excited team. My feet remembered the sensation of skimming over the earth with wings on my heels.
Before I fully realized what I was doing, I had seized a stick from the spare hurleys stacked at the end of the field. Heedless of the fact that my presence would make the sides uneven, I ran out onto the field of play.
Another spectator quickly redressed the balance. Duach Dalta came running toward me from the opposite side. For a fleeting instant I thought he intended to beat me to death with his hurley, but that was only my imagination. He threw himself into the game as I had done, revealing an exceptional speed and agility for a man of his years.
The Greener Shore Page 22
