The Spider's Web

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘Fidelma, I have seen your diligence with the law. I realise, perhaps belatedly, that you will be equally diligent in discovering the truth behind my father’s death. I just wish …’ It was the nearest that she came to an apology for her behaviour. She hesitated and then continued: ‘I would like you to know that I will do all I can to help in your inquiry.’

  Fidelma raised an eyebrow in query.

  ‘Is there something more that you think I should know now?’

  For a moment, she thought she saw a look of anxiety cross the pale eyes of the tanist of Araglin.

  ‘Something more? I do not think so. I speak merely because I acted too proudly when you came here. Courtesy should be freely given for it costs nothing.’

  ‘If you bear that in mind, then you will become a just chieftain of your people in Araglin,’ Fidelma replied gravely. ‘And that is more important than a cloak of office.’

  Crón looked self-conscious and fingered the golden brooch which fastened her cloak to her shoulder.

  ‘It is the custom, here in Araglin, that all the chieftains and their ladies wear the parti-coloured cloak and gloves as their badge of office.’ She smiled briefly.

  ‘It is a great responsibility to be elevated into such a position,’ Fidelma observed. ‘Sometimes it takes time to adjust to a change in life.’

  ‘It is still no excuse for arrogance. This mention of Gadra reminds me of one teaching he gave when he was staying in the rath when I was a little girl. I was small but I remember his words well. He said that the proud place themselves at a distance from others and observing others across that distance they believe that they are little and insignificant. Yet the same distance makes them also appear equally small and insignificant to others.’

  Fidelma smiled appreciatively.

  ‘Then Gadra is a man of wisdom. Truly, if you do not raise your eyes you will always believe that you stand on the highest point. Come, Dubán, let us go in search of this sage.’

  ‘If he still lives,’ added Dubán pessimistically.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dubán and Fidelma led the way along the narrow track that wound through the great oaks of the forest which spilled through the mountain passes. Brother Eadulf rode behind them. His eyes were watchful. With all this talk of raiding brigands, it occurred to him that whole warbands could hide in such gloomy places and not be noticed by wayfarers who might pass their concealment within yards and not even notice them, so dense and impenetrable were the rich woodlands that spread across the mountains which surrounded Araglin. So close together did the trees grow that they shut out all sight of the blue canopy of the sky and the warm spring sunshine. The air felt chill and Eadulf observed that few spring flowers were blooming but there were plenty of dark evergreens and plants that liked the cold dark musty atmosphere of the woodlands.

  Eadulf rode with watchful eyes but his body was at ease, letting his mount match the leisurely walking pace of the lead horses.

  The quiet was almost oppressive. Now and then something rustled through the underbrush and Eadulf had noticed that few bird songs trilled through the woodland.

  ‘A bleak, black place to dwell,’ Eadulf called, breaking the silence in which they had ridden since first entering this part of the woodlands.

  Dubán half turned with a brief smile.

  ‘It is the nature of hermits to dwell in places that others are not attracted to, Saxon,’ he replied.

  ‘I have known healthier places,’ Eadulf responded. ‘What is the point of dwelling as a hermit if it costs you your health?’

  ‘A good argument, Saxon,’ the warrior chuckled. ‘Yet they say that Gadra has lived over four score years. And, if he continues to live, I shall be surprised.’

  ‘So you keep telling us,’ intervened Fidelma wearily. ‘Tell us some more of your knowledge of Gadra. We know he is a hermit and we know that he appears to be a man of wisdom. What else do you know of him?’

  ‘Little to tell. Gadra is Gadra. He has always been the same age to me.’

  ‘Is anything known of his origin?’ pressed Fidelma.

  Dubán shrugged.

  ‘They say that he was a religious of the pagan times.’

  ‘A Druid?’ demanded Fidelma. It was true that here and there among the five kingdoms were still to be found followers of the old gods. Fidelma herself had encountered such members of the recluse; those who still clung to the old ways, the old beliefs. Even Fidelma found herself admiring many of their philosophies. The new Faith of Christ had not been long enough established in the land for the old ways to be anachronistic.

  ‘I suppose one would call him so. We were told stories of old Gadra when I was a boy. He has always been old to us. We were warned to stay away from him because the priest said he performed human sacrifices to ancient gods in these fierce oak forests.’

  Fidelma sniffed deprecatingly.

  ‘There is always talk of human sacrifice when one does not understand the truth of a religious cult. The founder of my own house at Kildare, Brigid of blessed name, was a Druidess and the daughter of a Druid. There is nothing to fear from such as they. But tell me more about this Gadra. Is it known when he came to this place?’

  ‘Not in Eber’s time, that’s for sure,’ replied Dubán. ‘I think he came when Eber’s father was a little boy. He had the gift of healing and of wisdom.’

  ‘How could he have a gift of healing unless he believed in the True Faith?’ interrupted Eadulf a little indignantly.

  Fidelma grinned at her companion.

  ‘One cannot argue with such logic,’ she replied mischievously.

  Eadulf was not sure whether she was making fun of him.

  ‘Does he perform his healing in the name of the Christ Saviour?’ he demanded.

  ‘He simply heals those who go to him with affliction. He does so in the name of no one,’ replied Dubán. ‘Of course, Father Gormán used to denounce any he found who had sought a cure from Gadra. But I have not heard of Gadra for some years now. I say he is dead and we waste time on this journey.’

  Eadulf was about to speak further when Dubán suddenly raised a hand to bid them draw rein on their horses.

  ‘I see a clearing ahead. I think we are close to the glade where he once dwelt.’

  Fidelma peered forward eagerly.

  ‘Is this the spot where Gadra lives?’

  Dubán nodded.

  ‘Stay here. Let me go first,’ he said softly, ‘for if he still lives, I think he will recognise me.’

  He manoeuvred his horse in front of her and began to walk it carefully along the track towards the bright area of the clearing before them.

  Fidelma saw that the clearing was only a small glade and she could hear, in the silence of the forest, the gushing and gurgling of a stream. Fidelma thought she saw a wooden building ahead through the trees.

  Suddenly Dubán’s voice echoed loudly back.

  ‘Gadra! Gadra! It is Dubán of Araglin! Do you still live?’

  There was silence for a while.

  Then they heard a voice reply. It was a voice of age, yet deep and resonant.

  ‘If I do not, Dubán of Araglin, then it is surely a wraith who answers you.’

  Dubán’s voice came again, lower in tone. Neither Fidelma nor Eadulf could hear what was being said. After a while, Dubán’s voice called loudly upon them to come forward into the glade.

  On a level piece of land by a surging, tumbling mountain stream, stood a wooden cabin, well built and thatched. The glade showed signs of cultivation. A small garden of herbs and vegetables and some fruit trees surrounded it. Dubán had dismounted and tied his horse to a nearby bush and was standing a few feet from another figure. He was a short, elderly figure, with a shock of white hair, leaning on a staff of polished blackthorn. He looked, at first sight, frail. But Fidelma realised that the frailness was misleading. He was thin but sinewy. He wore loose robes dyed with saffron and round his neck was a golden circlet bearing ancient symbols the like of which Fide
lma had not seen before.

  Fidelma swung from her horse and handed the reins to Eadulf and moved forward towards the elderly figure. She halted a few paces away.

  ‘Blessings on you, Gadra,’ she greeted, inclining her head slightly.

  She found herself looking into a kindly face, whose nut-brown, weather-tanned skin was highlighted by piercing bright eyes. They seemed grey rather than blue. The cascade of snow-white hair surrounded the face. It was shoulder length from the head and merged indivisibly into a silken-like beard that was cut short so that the circlet showed where it hung on his chest. That Gadra was old was not in dispute but it was impossible to estimate his age for his face was still youthful and unlined and only the rounded shoulders gave an impression of the passing years.

  She found the face regarding her with good humour.

  ‘You are well come to this place, Fidelma, daughter of Failbe Flann.’

  Fidelma started a little.

  ‘How did … ?’

  She saw the man laughing and she caught herself and smiled sheepishly and shrugged.

  ‘What else did Dubán tell you?’

  Gadra nodded approvingly.

  ‘You have a quick mind, Fidelma.’ He glanced across her shoulder to where Eadulf was tying the horses to a bush. ‘Come forward, Brother Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham. Come forward and let us sit ourselves down and speak for a while.’

  Fidelma, as she used to do when she was a young pupil of Morann of Tara, sank cross-legged on the grass before the old man, like a novice before a master. Gadra smiled approvingly. Brother Eadulf, more awkwardly, preferred to prop himself up on a nearby rounded boulder, using it as an uncomfortable seat. Dubán similarly seemed to think his dignity would be affronted to be seated on the ground and found another boulder. Gadra, as if he were still youthful, squatted down on the grass before Fidelma.

  ‘Before we talk,’ Gadra began, at the same time raising his hand to finger the golden crescent which hung around his neck, ‘does this bother you?’

  Fidelma glanced at the emblem.

  ‘Why should it bother me?’

  Gadra pointed to her own crucifix.

  ‘Is it not at odds with that?’

  Fidelma slowly shook her head.

  ‘Your crescent stood as a symbol of light and knowledge among our people for countless centuries. I have no need to fear it. Why should it offend me?’

  ‘Yet it offends many who embrace the New Faith.’

  Eadulf stirred uncomfortably for he found it distracting to be in the company of someone wearing a symbol of a pagan faith.

  ‘You have not embraced the Faith of Christ?’ he demanded.

  Gadra looked up at him and smiled softly.

  ‘I am an old man, brother Saxon. In me, the ancient gods and goddesses of our people take a long time a dying. Yet I do not grudge you your new ways, your new thoughts and your new hopes. It is in the nature of things that the old should die and the new should live. It is also the danger of this world as well as its blessing. That is the nature of the children of Danu, the Mother Goddess. Life dies and is reborn. Life is reborn and it dies. It is a never ending cycle. The old gods die, the new are born. The time will come when they will also die and new gods will arise.’

  Fidelma heard Eadulf’s splutter of indignation but she said hastily: ‘We are all the prisoners of our times.’

  Gadra chuckled approvingly.

  ‘You have perception, Fidelma. Or is it merely sensitivity? Can you tell me what is swifter than the wind?’

  ‘Thought,’ replied Fidelma at once, knowing immediately the game that the old man was playing.

  ‘Ah. Then what is whiter than snow?’

  ‘Truth,’ she replied sharply.

  ‘What, then, is sharper than a sword?’

  ‘Understanding.’

  ‘Then we understand one another well, Fidelma. I am the repository of the old and much will be lost when I am gone. But that is the way of it. And that is why I have come to the forests to die.’

  Fidelma was silent a moment.

  ‘Has Dubán told you the news from Araglin?’

  ‘He has told me who you are. That and no more. That you have come to seek something from me is obvious.’

  ‘Eber, the chieftain of Araglin, has been murdered.’

  Gadra did not appear surprised.

  ‘In my time we would celebrate the death of a soul in this world for it meant that a soul was reborn in the Otherworld. It was the custom to mourn birth, for it meant a soul had died in the Otherworld.’

  ‘The death of Eber is of more concern to me, Gadra, for I am an advocate of the courts of the five kingdoms.’

  ‘Forgive me if I spoke as a philosopher. Of course, the manner of his going to the Otherworld is of concern. I presume that Muadnat is chieftain of Araglin now?’

  Fidelma stared in surprise.

  ‘Crón is tanist and will be chieftain when the derbfhine of her family confirm her as such.’

  Gadra gave her a curious sideways glance but made no further reference to Muadnat.

  ‘So Eber is dead? Murdered? And you, child, are a dálaigh, an advocate of the courts come to investigate?’

  For once Fidelma did not mind being called ‘child’ by this elderly mystic.

  ‘This is so.’

  ‘What would you have of me?’

  ‘Móen was found by Eber’s body with a bloody knife in his hand.’

  For the first time, the calm humour of the old man’s face was creased by an expression of amazement. But it was quickly gone. He had tremendous control.

  ‘Are you telling me that Móen is supposed to have murdered Eber?’ His voice was still composed.

  ‘He stands accused of that murder,’ Fidelma confirmed.

  ‘If I had not lived a long life and seen many things, I would say that the boy was not capable of taking life.’

  Fidelma frowned, leaning forward.

  ‘I am not sure that I follow. Do you accept that he committed the murder?’

  ‘In special circumstances even the most docile of human beings will turn to kill. Móen is the most docile of human beings.’

  Fidelma made a wry face.

  ‘Docile is not a word that others would use.’

  Gadra sighed softly.

  ‘Believe me, the boy is sensitive and of a calm nature. I know for I have watched him grow from a baby. Teafa and I taught him all he knows.’

  Fidelma regarded the old man for a few minutes.

  ‘You taught him?’ she prompted with emphasis.

  ‘I have said so. What does the boy say about this charge? What does Teafa say?’

  ‘Móen is one who is deaf, dumb and blind. How can he tell us anything?’

  Gadra snorted impatiently.

  ‘Through Teafa, of course. He communicates through Teafa. What has she to say?’

  ‘Ah …’ Fidelma let her breath expel slowly, regretting that she had not explained fully.

  Gadra was looking at her curiously.

  ‘Something has happened to Teafa? I can read that much in your expression.’

  ‘Yes. Teafa is dead.’

  Gadra sat very still and upright.

  ‘I will say a prayer for a good rebirth in the Otherworld,’ he said softly. ‘She was a good woman and possessed of a great soul. How did she die? Was she killed by Eber? Was that when the boy struck back, in defence of Teafa?’

  Fidelma shook her head, trying to stop her tumbling thoughts reacting to what the old man had said.

  ‘Móen also stands accused of having killed Teafa, stabbing her with a knife, and then going to Eber’s chambers and stabbing him.’

  ‘Can this be true?’

  Gadra, in spite of his years of self-discipline, at controlling his emotions, was clearly distressed.

  ‘The accusation is true. But I have come to ascertain the facts.’

  ‘These facts you state must be in error then,’ Gadra replied decisively. ‘While I can concede that Móen could, i
f sufficiently provoked, turn on Eber, he would never strike at Teafa. Teafa has been his mother.’

  ‘Sons have killed their mothers before now,’ Eadulf intervened.

  Gadra ignored him.

  ‘Has anyone been able to communicate with Móen since Teafa’s death?’

  Fidelma shook her head.

  ‘I was told that only Teafa could communicate with Móen. No one else knew how. He cannot hear, he cannot see and he cannot speak.’

  Gadra was sorrowful.

  ‘There are other forms of communication. The boy can touch, he can smell, he can feel vibration. If the fates deny us some of our senses, then we can develop others. So no one has communicated with him since this terrible thing happened?’

  ‘I have been unable. That is why I am here. I have heard that you might understand how this method of communication is accomplished.’

  ‘It is so. As I said, I taught the boy with Teafa. I must come back with you to the rath of Araglin at once and speak with him,’ said the old man decisively.

  Fidelma was surprised. She had been hoping for some advice but never dared to consider that the old man would insist on coming to the rath himself.

  ‘If you can accomplish this thing then I will believe in all the miracles without reservation.’

  ‘It can be so,’ Gadra assured her grimly. ‘Poor Móen. Can you imagine what it must be like for someone imprisoned in such a body unable to know or communicate with those around him? He must be frightened and desperate for he will not know what has happened.’

  Eadulf leaned forward again.

  ‘If he is innocent of the accusations then he is going through a terrifying ordeal,’ he conceded. ‘But someone else at the rath must have known how Móen was able to communicate apart from Teafa?’

  Gadra glanced across to Eadulf with a shake of his head.

  ‘You are practical, Saxon. The answer to your question is that only Teafa had the patience to learn the skill from me. She might have tried to pass it on. But I do not think she did. I think she felt it better that it was kept a secret.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That answer has doubtless died with her.’

  Gadra rose to his feet and Fidelma followed his example.

  ‘I have no horse,’ the old man said, ‘so it may take me a while to reach the rath of Araglin.’