The Roman was a match for him. “I am Probus Seggo, son of Justinius, magistrate of Genova, and formerly an officer in the legion of…”
I left them to it and entered my lodge.
Lakutu was waiting for me with her face scrubbed and shining, and the belt Glas had made for her firmly fastened around her waist.
I spent the rest of the day happily crowded into my lodge with both of my wives, all of our children, and Cormiac Ru. Briga put the Red Wolf to bed almost at once. I had thought I wanted nothing so much as to lie down on my own bed and rest, but I was wrong. Time may be fluid, but on rare occasions you can trap it in your heart and extract every drop of pleasure. One should never sleep through those moments.
Shortly before sunset Probus appeared at our door. He entered almost shyly; accepted the basin of water for washing; greeted us each in turn. Niav last.
He could not seem to look at her.
Briga whispered to me from behind her hand, “The Roman was smitten with Lakutu’s daughter the moment he saw her.”
I had not noticed, but if Briga and I always made identical observations there would be no need for two of us.
My wives pressed hospitality upon Probus. He was given a loaf of bread for his right hand and a hunk of cheese for his left, and a pitcher of mead was set beside him. To my surprise, he began to devour the food like a starving man.
“Didn’t Fíachu prepare a feast for you?”
“He did, Ainvar,” Probus replied around a mouthful of cheese. “Labraid is probably still enjoying it, but I lost my appetite. Fíachu threw some of his cousins out of their lodge in order to give it to Labraid until a new lodge can be built for him. The dispossessed family is very unhappy, and I am not comfortable with the arrangement myself.”
“You’re welcome to stay with us for as long as you like,” my senior wife assured him.
“That is most kind, but you appear to be very crowded here already.” Probus swept the room with his eyes—looking at everyone but Niav.
She, on the other hand, kept her eyes fixed on him.
A gentle dew formed on the Roman’s forehead.
Niav smiled the tiny smile of a woman with a delicious new secret.
I told Probus, “Normally there are not so many people in this lodge. There are several other lodges in the clanhold as well; I’m sure we can make you comfortable. We owe you a great debt and are eager to repay it any way we can.”
“There is one way….” He hesitated.
“Tell me.”
“Work magic for me, Ainvar.”
Only once before had I heard the request so baldly put. On that occasion I had been unable to oblige Duach Dalta. There was no reason to believe my gift had returned since then, and the last thing I wanted was to be humiliated in front of my family. “You already saw magic on Mona, Probus; greater magic than anything I might show you.”
“I know what I thought I saw, but I need to be convinced it was possible.”
“If your mind is closed, nothing can convince you,” I told him. As I spoke, my gaze accidentally fell on Briga. Her eyes widened at my words.
“Please, Ainvar,” Probus urged. “Work magic for me. I trust you.”
A Roman trusted me, and I liked him. The world is rarely what we expect.
Taking Probus by the hand, I led him over to Niav. “Let’s begin by having the two of you get to know each other. Sit down here, Probus, and talk with my daughter for a while.”
Probus obediently seated himself next to Niav, who blushed furiously and smiled that tiny, delicious smile. The Roman forgot his cheese and bread; even his cup of mead. He forgot everything but the huge dark eyes of Lakutu’s daughter.
There is more than one kind of magic.
The following day I told Keryth about the strange stars in the Black Pool.
“Have you ever seen anything like that before, Ainvar?”
I rummaged among my memories. “When the Great Grove of the Carnutes was burning…it’s hard to describe this adequately…I saw the blazing oaks turn into pillars of stone. Above them rose a spire like the tallest pine tree in the world.”
“Aaahh.” The parchment-thin skin on Keryth’s face folded into pleats, so that for a heartbeat she looked her age. “I believe you’ve seen a vision of the future, my friend. In fact, you have twice glimpsed the future.”
“I’m no seer.”
“The future is not the sole possession of prognosticators, any more than only the bards can compose poems or only the healers can heal. We simply have a more highly developed gift.”
“But what I saw doesn’t make any sense, Keryth.”
“That’s because the future is beyond current comprehension. We won’t understand it until we’re there.”
I prefer mysteries I can solve in Thislife. One all-important mystery remained for me. In time I intended to learn the answer.
chapter XXXII
CORMIAC HAD SURVIVED THE JOURNEY IN BETTER SHAPE THAN anyone expected. Ensconced in comfort in my lodge, with both of my wives to fuss over him, he gained strength rapidly. By Lughnasa, Briga assured me, he would be whole again except for his scars.
We all have scars of one sort or another.
Mine were deep inside.
Just as I had made a conscious decision to stop hating Caesar—at which I succeeded sporadically—my head informed me I should stop agonizing over the loss of my gift. Knowing what one should do and being able to do it are not the same thing, however. The more I tried not to think about magic the more the subject haunted me.
Although I never shared these thoughts with her, my Briga knew. She—who had never acknowledged druid magic—selected a branch from an ash tree and took it to the Goban Saor. At her instruction he fashioned a staff perfectly suited to my height. On one side she had him carve a most singular face: ageless, mysterious, wise. When Briga presented the staff to me I looked at it twice before recognizing the visage as my own.
At the next change of the moon Fíachu announced the creation of a new title for Labraid. The Speaker Who Sails the Seas—a title he no longer used, to my amusement—was to be known in future as the tanaiste, the chief-in-waiting.
Dian Cet and Morand devised an elaborate ceremony of conferring for the new tanaiste; one almost but not quite the equal of a chieftain’s inauguration. Before the ceremony began the tribe was served a splendid feast. After gorging themselves on Fíachu’s food and drink the Slea Leathan could hardly refuse to accept his chosen successor.
SOMETIMES I THOUGHT ABOUT KERYTH’S PREDICTION OF A PEOPLE starved for time and space. I hoped that this once Keryth was wrong.
AT BEALTAINE, NIAV AND PROBUS WERE MARRIED IN OUR CLANHOLD. Afterward we danced around their fertility pole, but they did not remain with us for long. On the day they departed, I told Probus, “I salute you as a free person.”
It was better than being a citizen of Rome.
Probus took my daughter to Dubh Linn and settled on the north shore of the great bay. There he established a trading post, doing business with anyone who made the journey across the sea from Albion or even beyond. From the beginning the venture was a success. Probus was, as he said himself, uniquely qualified.
IN THE CLANHOLD OUR LIVES SETTLED BACK INTO A COMFORTABLE routine. It was heartening to see how much my people were contributing to the larger tribe. The marriage laws that had begun with Dian Cet and Morand were enlarged as other wise heads joined the ranks of the brehons. Among them they determined that a sixth-degree marriage resulted when a woman is abducted and prevented from returning to her people. The seventh degree was a soldier’s marriage, the casual union between a man away from his clanhold and a woman he meets along the way. An eighth-degree marriage took place when one partner deceived the other in order to gain sexual access. Forcible rape constituted the ninth degree of marriage, and the tenth occurred when there was sex involving persons whose heads are not capable of understanding what they do.
The last pronouncement of Dian Cet forbade the bu
ilding of any settlement “in the shape of the towns of Caesar.”
“After this,” the old brehon announced, “I shall leave the making of law to younger men and women.”
I protested. “But you are as wise as ever; probably wiser.”
“My head is filling up with cobwebs, Ainvar,” Dian Cet replied, with no indication of regret. “I have devoted my life to my people. Now I want to sit back and enjoy the last of it for myself.”
When I shared his words with Briga, she said, “He’s earned his rest. The wheel of the seasons turns only one way, but that’s as it should be. Change is life. You are still growing, Ainvar; growing inside, where it counts.” She added with a self-deprecating chuckle, “On the other hand, I am growing old.”
“That’s not true. Young is who you are, not what you are. My Briga is forever young.”
“Oh, you.” She gave me a playful shove, but her cheeks were pink with pleasure.
We marked the turning of the wheel with four great feasts: Imbolc, Bealtaine, Lughnasa, and Samhain. During every season new faces appeared while old ones faded into memory. Labraid married Aislinn. They were still enjoying their time of honey-feasting when the old king of the Laigin died.
At the funeral feast Seanchán recited a lengthy lament for the dead man. Dara leaped to his feet to lead the applause. I thought Briga gave him a nudge in the ribs with her elbow first, but I could not be certain.
Later my eyes observed the two bards walking side by side. Their heads were close together; they were lost in an animated discussion about the composition of poetry. Both men were enjoying it.
When Fíachu was elected as the new king of the Laigin, Duach Dalta conducted the inauguration ceremony.
Sometimes we teach our children, and sometimes they teach us. After the inauguration I made a point of telling Duach Dalta, “You have a splendid sense of ritual, the best I’ve ever encountered. The kingdom of the Laigin is fortunate in you.”
He looked surprised but could not fail to recognize my sincerity. “Speaking of praise, Ainvar—I was thinking of asking your son Dara to compose a praise poem in honor of the new king. Do you approve?”
Briga had said, “Change is life.” And it is.
AS SOON AS HE WAS FULLY HEALED, CORMIAC BEGAN TO ROAM. HE went farther and farther afield and stayed away for longer and longer. I kept meaning to ask the question that had haunted me ever since Dubh Linn, but whenever he returned to us I forgot. There was so much else to keep me occupied. My life was filled to the brim with family and students and those riches that cannot be bartered but glow in the heart.
My children were seeking mates for themselves and there was excitement in the air. Furtive visits to Fíachu’s stronghold; longer journeys to other clan-lands; a shimmer of shy glances; a secret touching of hands. Of lips.
Before long I would have grandchildren to tug at my cloak.
THEN, WHEN I THOUGHT HER LONG PAST CHILDBEARING, MY BRIGA worked the greatest magic of all. She presented me with a new son. We called him Bran, for her brother, whom the druids had sacrificed.
Almost as soon as Bran could talk he was asking questions. And such questions! One day I found him crouching beside a pool in which a golden ball was floating.
“What’s that?” the child asked, pointing in fascination.
“A reflection of the sun.”
He looked up at me with innocent eyes. Briga’s eyes. “What’s the sun?”
“A symbol of the Great Fire of Life.”
Bran cocked his head to one side. “Why is life?”
Why is life. Children are both the question and the answer.
“Nature is our teacher in all things,” I told the little boy. “Just as water reflects light, the purpose of life is to reflect the Source.”
And it is.
THE NEXT TIME CORMIAC RU RETURNED TO OUR CLANHOLD HE WAS accompanied by a princess of the Deisi; the daughter of Cas the Curly-Haired. She was a fair-haired girl with a soft hoarse voice like the purring of a cat. They told us they planned to be married.
“We’ll have a new lodge built for you and—”
“I think not, Ainvar,” Cormiac said. “I’ve found a place that fits me like my skin and I intend to raise my family there.”
“On the Plain of Broad Spears?”
“No, in the kingdom of the Deisi. I have permission to take up a clanhold in the mountains there.”
The last thing I expected was that Cormiac would leave us permanently. Briga was as shocked as I was; she looked so heartbroken that I reminded him, “You once promised you would never be far from me and mine.”
“I won’t.”
“But I don’t see how—”
“I always keep my promises, Ainvar. Always.”
And that was that. The Red Wolf had to be taken on faith.
Shortly before he left us for his new home I took him aside. “There is something I must ask you about. When Briga and I came to Dubh Linn, you told us that Maia was dead.”
“She is.”
“How could you be so certain? It’s bothered me ever since.”
“The woman told me. Showed me, in fact.”
“What woman? Who are you talking about?”
“She came to me in my dreams.” A faraway look crept into Cormiac’s eyes. “Night after night she transported my sleeping self for a great distance. Night after night I saw Crom Dubh running with little Maia in his arms. Night after night I watched everything that happened, until at last I was forced to accept that I was seeing the truth. Your daughter never went through the slave market, Ainvar. She sickened and died on the bank of a river in Gaul. Crom buried her where the water sings.”
My heart was thundering. “What woman showed you this?”
The colorless eyes met mine. “She was small and slender and pale. Her feet never touched the ground, yet she danced. When she spoke I could hear silver bells.”
chapter XXXIII
THE RED WOLF WOULD NEVER NEED BRIGA’S VIRILITY POTION. HE produced a veritable litter of sons. They called the firstborn Cas; the second was named Eoin. Ongus was the third son, then Cathal, Anluan, and a pair of twins called Mahon and Lorcán. Next came Cormiac Óg—young Cormiac—and finally another Bran. Following the tradition of the Gael, each boy would be expected to pass his name on to the next generation.
Cormiac Ru was putting his stamp on Hibernia.
As for me, the seasons were passing more quickly than they should. I would be willing to swear there were fewer days in each cycle of the moon, and winter came earlier and earlier.
I rarely traveled far from our clanhold anymore. One day, however, I felt an urge to wander. Without saying anything to anyone—Briga would have fussed at me—I took my warmest cloak from its peg, picked up my staff, and went outside. Frost silvered the grass. As I walked away from our lodge my footprints were briefly etched in time.
There was nothing in particular to do, no place I had to be. Sulis was conducting the class in the glade that morning. There were even several young ones who were training to become teachers when the older generation was gone.
My feet chose a path for me, ambling toward the mountains. Once or twice I turned around to enjoy the sight of my footprints leaving an unmistakable pattern behind me.
A pattern…
The third time I looked back, there was a second set of prints on the frosted grass.
I gave a violent start.
Not far away from me stood the silver wolf. By my reckoning he had to be very old indeed; it was astonishing he had survived for so long.
Neither of us moved.
He was alone. I could feel his absolute aloneness. Whether in his old age he had become an outcast from the pack I do not know, because it was a matter of indifference to him. He accepted without regret whatever nature brought.
All are truly alone when their time comes to die. I do not know if that was my thought, or came from the wolf.
For a timeless time we stood looking at each other in mutual under
standing. Then he turned and went his way and I went mine.
AINVAR’S BODY WAS TRULY OLD. WHEN I PUT SOMETHING DOWN I HAD to remind my eyes to watch closely and my head to remember exactly where I put the object; otherwise I might never find it again.
The house of my spirit was falling down around me. Becoming too dilapidated to live in.
The morning came when I awoke with the certain knowledge that it would be my last morning in Thislife. Perversely, I felt stronger than I had in a long time. It was a gift, and I used it well. First I gave Lakutu a fond hug. “Egypt,” I whispered.
She pulled back and looked at me. Her eyes were sunken with age and cobwebbed by time. “Why do you call me that, Ainvar?”
“Because you are everything that is rare and exotic. I may never have mentioned it before, but that’s how I’ve always thought of you.”
Briga had gone to the spring to fetch water. Walking slowly, for walking had become difficult, I came up behind her. “Magic,” I said.
She turned around. “I didn’t know you were there, Ainvar. What did you just say?”
“Magic. You practice magic every day, you know.”
Her nose wrinkled with a laugh. “I do know, you old fool. Did you think I didn’t?”
For one splendid, fiery moment I glimpsed the Absolute.
Then it was time to go.
THE FUNERAL WAS ONE OF THE LARGEST EVER HELD ON THE PLAIN OF Broad Spears. Everything was done as the dead man would have wished, a perfect balance of Gaul and Hibernia.
When the last stone had been placed on the cairn Briga addressed the assemblage. “So passes Ainvar of the Carnutes,” she intoned, adding with pardonable pride, “the greatest of all druids.”
Placing her hand on the cairn, she whispered, “We will meet again, dear spirit. Some other time, some other place.”
Caressing the strings of his harp, Dara, bard of the Slea Leathan, recited a lament for Ainvar. Then exactly as father and son had planned together, the lament shapechanged. Sorrow melted into beauty. In a voice of purest gold the bard sang of the magical island of Hibernia, of sweet water and green grass, of red deer and silver wolves and immortal spirits.
The Greener Shore Page 32
