“No! Wait!” the steward cried, causing heads all over the hall to turn. Lowering his voice, he said, “That won’t be necessary, will it? I mean, can’t you understand that I’m just very busy right now? I promise that you will see Mannath, if you’ll just have a little patience.”
“How long?” Cricket asked.
“One hour, no more.”
Cricket nodded, but continued to tune Linnaia. “I will play nothing offensive for one hour, but at one hour and one minute, I will turn it into the satire I promised.”
Asaph grimaced, but bowed and said, “Thank you, bard. I will hurry.”
Cricket watched the steward run off, dodging children and tables, and felt a little remorse at having brow beaten the man. But the geis pounded inside, demanding action, resolution, fulfillment, and Cricket had to heed its cries. So he played, trying to hold himself still, and using the opportunity to examine the caer.
The building felt ancient, from the cook fires in long pits right in the hall, to the roof beams sagging with age and soot. Everything bore the impression of having weathered many storms and battles, however wearily. The people also seemed weighed down, but with aggravation and impatience. Only one person smiled at him, a red headed serving girl with a face full of freckles.
Cricket smiled back at her, and sent her a little jig that made her laugh. He noticed the uncomprehending looks on the faces around her, and wondered what manner of people he had fallen in with; the geis said that he had to serve the Prince of the Dead, but he hadn’t realized that he would have to deal with all of the ghosts as well.
A short man with a coarse moustache planted himself in front of the bard with his hands on his hips. “So,” he said, “My chief steward said there was a bard here, and I could barely believe it. What do you want?”
“Lord Dyfed,” Cricket said with a bow, “I would serve you to the best of my abilities.”
“Why?”
“Because I am a bard, and that is what we do.”
Mannath barked out a laugh. “Don’t play games with me, bard. We haven’t seen as much as a cerddorion in years, and you want to join my household? I want to know why. The real reason.”
Cricket shrugged. “I am under geis to serve you.”
“Why?”
“My last master wanted me to leave and never return.”
“It’s fitting, somehow,” Mannath grunted. “I’ll tell you now that this land is well and truly cursed, and has been for ages. There hasn’t been a bard teulu in this hall in three generations, and it took a geis to get one. I can offer you nothing but a place to sleep, food in your belly, and that’s about it. Just tell me this: are you any good?”
“Not bad,” Cricket replied.
“Well, music of any sort would be an improvement.”
“There is one thing... I have a dog.”
Mannath crossed his arms. “A huge one, I suppose?”
“He has been mistaken for a pony, yes.”
The nobleman threw his arms in the air. “Fine. Fine! But if food gets tight, he eats last.”
“He’s pretty resourceful; I think we’ll be okay.”
“We’ll see,” Mannath said. “This cantref has broken many resourceful people. What’s your name?”
“Cricket, my lord.”
“Strange name, but why should I expect normalcy anymore? Asaph!”
The thin steward hurried up. “Yes, lord?”
“Meet Cricket, our new bard teulu. I know, you’ve never had to deal with one before, but neither have I, so just get over it.”
“But I have so much to do, my lord...”
“I know,” Mannath sighed. “Just find him a place to sleep, and I’m sure he can handle things from there.”
Cricket tried not to shake his head at the exchange; he had certainly never seen a cantref lord act like Mannath, but then again, he had never seen a cantref like Dyfed. Then he realized that the geis had released its hold on him, and he smiled at the anticipation of a good night’s rest.
Cricket slept for four hours that afternoon in a small room in the rear of the caer, with wicker walls separating it from the adjoining rooms. But it had a brazier full of glowing peat bricks, and enough space for both bard and hound, so Cricket was happy.
He went back to the hall for the evening meal, finding a seat near Mannath’s table. The people of the caer watched him furtively, not quite trusting their senses as he tuned Linnaia. When he strummed the first notes of “The Distant Kinsman”, a great sigh went up and lifted the mood of the room. Lord Dyfed was not so easily soothed. He glanced at Cricket often with a furrow between his brows.
After three songs, a serving girl brought Cricket a plate of mutton and bread, and he recognized her from that afternoon by her smile. “You seem to be the only happy one here,” he said.
She shrugged. “You make the best of what you have. For me, this is better than the croft where I grew up, so why not be happy?”
Cricket shook his head. “Some of us aren’t here by choice.”
“Everyone has a choice,” she said. “It’s just that sometimes neither alternative is very appealing. So again I say make the best of what you have.”
“Essa!” called a man from across the room. “I need a fresh cup!”
The serving girl waved at him and told Cricket, “Well, I’ve been summoned.”
“Perhaps we’ll talk more later?”
She gave him a wink. “I’ll be here.”
Cricket ate quickly, wiping his greasy fingers on his trousers. He began playing again, but his eyes watched Essa as she danced across the room, and he wondered at her attitude.
When the food ran out and the dishes had been cleared, Mannath stood and introduced Cricket to the caer. The bard bowed, then looked at his lord expectantly. “What would you like to hear?”
“Excuse me?” Mannath said.
“It is traditional for the lord to request a song or a story after the meal.”
The people of the caer leaned forward expectantly, but the furrow on Mannath’s brow deepened. “It would seem that I have much to learn about having a bard teulu. What would you recommend?”
“Since it is my first night here, I would sing you the history of Dyfed.”
Mannath barked a laugh. “You would depress us so?”
“Dyfed has known glory in the past, my lord.”
“In the distant past, perhaps. For as long as I know of, this has been a slowly dying land. In Cairnecht, Glamorgan is known for its iron and silver, Powys for its gold and tin, Gwent for its horses, Clwyd for its pigs, and Gwynedd for everything, especially its bards. Even Mona has its fish and its priests. But Dyfed? We are known for sheep, and not even for good sheep. That’s all we have left, besides some goats. The only glory I know of is that of our neighbors.”
“I will not insult you by praising another,” Cricket said. “Maybe I should sing of the Cymry instead. It’s a bit tragic, but appropriate.”
“You know the story of our ancestors?”
“I am a bard, my lord.”
Mannath shook his head in wonder. “I thought that the rest of Glencairck had forgotten.” His brow had cleared, and a longing had appeared in his eyes. “Sing it well, Cricket, and make us proud.”
“Aye, my lord.” Cricket stood and bowed, first to Mannath, then to the hall. “From western worlds across the waves came the Cymry across the sea,” he began, chanting more than singing. He played Linnaia as a background rhythm for his words, as he spun the tale of the people who had come to Glencairck before its current inhabitants.
They had landed on the shores of Airu from a forgotten land, burning their ships in symbolism of their intentions. The small dark race they found thought they were gods, and tried to worship them, but instead the Cymry took them and taught them the religion of the Creator.
The Cymry prospered in their new home, spreading across the face of Glencairck. They built mighty fortresses and temples, tilled the land and domesticated the cattle. But their so
ciety splintered after a hundred years, when their high king died leaving two sons, both of whom claimed the crown. The people, always proud and opinionated, soon went to war, reducing their numbers by half in first year alone.
The country split in two, each ruled by one of the sons. They remained constantly at war for three generations, destroying much of what they had accomplished, and this was how the sons of Myl found them.
Coming from the distant east, the sons of Myl landed on the shores of Leinath and met with the representatives from the Cymry. Their spokesman, a poet by the name of Amrig, called for combat or surrender. The Cymry quickly settled their differences, and chose Lugh the Long Handed to lead their forces, because surrender was unthinkable.
The two armies met on the plain of Mag Turied, with pipes and horns vying against the war cries of the armies. For six days they postured and posed, and several heros fought inconclusive duels. On the seventh day they rested, as the Creator had commanded, and the next day the battle was joined.
The Cymry put up a spirited defense, but the suspicions that had kept them separate for so long kept them from making the most of their resources: the cauldron that never emptied, the spear that fought by itself, and the sword whose merest touch was fatal. Their forces began to fall apart, and the sons of Myl quickly beat them into submission. The conquerors were kind and gave the Cymry half of the country: the half below ground.
The Cymry accepted, however reluctantly, and with their magic arts they raised the first faerie mounds, retreating into a world that was near but not the same as the natural world. Stories grew around them, and they became figures of grandeur and mystery.
But not all of them were happy in their new home, and one man, Owen Glendower, led a small group of them back to the surface world. He met with the high king, Baloch, and asked for a province for his people. Baloch said no.
So Owen took over a neglected corner of Cairnecht anyway, and fought with the sons of Myl for twenty years, a bitter war of raids and counter raids. Owen never strayed far beyond the borders he had claimed, and the Cymry entrenched themselves in the land.
In the end, a traitor killed Owen, an archer who shot him in the back. With the death of their leader, the army he had put together began to fall apart, and King Baloch pursued them mercilessly.
Then they just disappeared. Baloch searched for them, scouring the countryside, but Owen’s warriors seemed to have returned back to their faerie mounds. The high king, satisfied that his kingdom was secure, returned to Taris and died peacefully in his sleep.
But somehow the Cymry survived, spreading their language, customs, and knowledge throughout the quarter. As a result, Cairnecht became known as the second country, and Cairnechtmen, when they left their borders, acted as though they had entered a slightly hostile country.
Cricket finished his tale, and Mannath sighed. “We still remember,” he said. “And you sang it very well.”
“Thank you, my lord. I just wish it was a happier tale.”
“Happy or sad, it is our heritage, and we love it.”
Although Asaph was constantly busy trying to run the caer and the cantref with meager resources, Cricket soon discovered that Essa truly ran things. She had no authority, and received no credit, but if something needed doing, she either did it or organized the others so that it got done. And through it all she maintained a smile.
She also talked to him more than anyone else. He asked her about it one afternoon while he helped her peel potatoes.
“It’s not surprising that no one has much to say to you,” she said. “After all, you’re not from Dyfed.”
“Are the people here so proud then?”
“We are proud, but not like what you’re thinking.” She tossed the potato in her hand into the caldron of water sitting nearby and picked up a new one. “What we are is suspicious of anyone that isn’t from Dyfed. I think it goes back to the when Pryderi’s pigs were stolen by Gwydion.”
“Not Gwydion the bard?” Cricket asked.
“No, Pryderi lived several hundred years before that, remember? But the Gwydion you know is named after him. The original Gwydion was another bard from Gwynedd, but also a rogue. When Pryderi became lord after his father, Arawn sent him the first pigs ever seen in Cairnecht; Gwydion, jealous perhaps of Dyfed’s position at that time as the leading cantref in Cairnecht, began plotting to steal them. It took trickery and illusion, but eventually he succeeded, and he managed to kill Pryderi at the same time. The fortunes of Dyfed have been in decline ever since.”
“But I’m not that kind of bard.”
“Nobody said you were.”
Cricket peeled in silence for a moment. “Is there any way to convince everyone that I’m a good person?”
“Are you a good person?” she said with a sly grin.
“I like to think so.”
“Well, you’ll never convince them with words, that’s certain. Have a little patience, be the best bard teulu you can be, and the others will start coming around. It just may take the rest of your life, that’s all.”
Cricket shrugged. “I don’t mind too much, I suppose, if the only person that talks to me is the most beautiful woman in the cantref.”
She blushed and said, “Dyfedians trust flattering foreigners less than any other type.”
“Then it’s a good thing that I’m simply honest. But tell me, why are you so different? Why do you talk to me?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps it’s because you look so pathetic, like a little lost puppy.”
“Thanks, that makes me feel better.”
“If you don’t want to know, then you shouldn’t ask.”
Chapter 21: Dyfed
“T
here’s a company at the gate, my lord.”
Mannath did not even look up from his papers. “What kind of company, Asaph?”
The steward glanced at Cricket, who played soft tunes next to a peat fire that warded off the early spring chill. “A bardic company.”
The music stopped suddenly. Mannath looked at his bard and then at his steward. “Very well, I will meet them in the hall in a few minutes. Meanwhile, bid them welcome and give them something to drink.” He waited until Asaph had left before saying, “Is this a problem for you, Cricket?”
“It could be.”
“Will you tell me why?”
Cricket began putting Linnaia away. “Another time, my lord. I promise. But for now, I would request your permission to tour the cantref for a while.”
Mannath narrowed his eyes. “You will return?”
“I must. I am sworn to serve you.”
“If it were anyone but you, I might not believe that. Even as it is I am reluctant to let you go.”
“Please, lord. I have my reasons.”
“And I want to hear them when you return. In the meantime, go, and bring my greetings to my lairds and my chieftains.”
Cricket bowed low. “Thank you.”
He went to his room and gathered a pack together quickly. CuChulainn jumped around him, sensing an adventure, and Cricket said, “Be quiet, boy! This is not the time to act like a puppy.”
The hound settled somewhat, though he still wagged his tail enthusiastically. Cricket rolled his eyes and opened the door. “Let’s go.”
Essa met them in the hall with a pack of food and a sheepskin coat. “Mannath said you might need these.”
“What I need is another way out of the caer,” Cricket said, shrugging the jacket on under his cloak. “I especially want to avoid the hall.”
Essa looked at him curiously, but simply said, “Follow me.”
She led him into an older part of the caer, and he found himself watching the swing of her hips as they went. He wondered at his own distraction, and tried to concentrate on where she was leading him instead of how.
At the head of a worn stone stairway, she took a torch from its sconce and led him down into a cellar that smelled of dirt and mildew. Piles of potatoes and carrots laid about in no particul
ar order, but Essa wove her way through them with confidence. Near the rear of the cellar she stopped and looked around, her hand on her hip. “It’s around here somewhere,” she muttered.
“What is?” Cricket asked.
“Your way out, of course. But I always forget... Ah here it is.” She knelt and pushed on a stone near the floor, and a section of the wall opened with a groan. “Our secret escape route,” she said with pride.
“Every caer should have one,” Cricket said, lighting a torch he took from just inside the secret door. He surprised himself by kissing Essa on the cheek as he passed her. “Thank you for helping me.”
She blushed and said, “Go on with you. Just follow the passage for about a mile, and it will lead you out into a cavern behind a waterfall. And Cricket...?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know what you’re running from, but stay safe.”
“I will.”
The wall closed under protest, and Cricket sat down with relief and confusion. CuChulainn had his nose to the ground, exploring his new environment, and Cricket wished he could accept sudden changes with such ease. But he feared discovery by people he had once counted as friends, and he didn’t know if he had made the right choice by leaving so suddenly. And then there was the matter of a little kiss... He sighed loudly, which brought CuChulainn bounding back to him.
“I know boy, I know,” Cricket said, scratching the big dog behind the ears. “You love this. Ogmah knows I wish I did.”
The passage twisted and turned so much that Cricket lost his sense of direction, but it stayed wide enough for two or three men to walk side by side. The darkness made it impossible for Cricket to judge the time, although his stomach insisted that it was time to eat. He ignored it as much as possible, but when he felt cool damp air and heard the faint rumble of water, he stopped and opened the pack that Essa had given him.
A cold joint, three loaves of bread, cheese, and smoked fish, plus a full water skin were tucked inside. Cricket threw the joint to CuChulainn and cut the bread and cheese for himself, alternating bites with sips of the smoky-flavored water. It all tasted wonderful, and he smiled when he thought of the woman who had put it together for him. After his meal, Cricket stood and stretched, then wandered around the corner to look at the mouth of the passage.
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