This arrangement, agreeable though it was, lasted a few weeks and then began to sour. Despite my repeated offers, Datho never accompanied me to the ráth as I hoped he would; therefore the subject of my freedom still had not been put before the king. Sionan, for her part, began to speak as if our arrangements should be formalized. Mindful of Cormac’s warning, I resisted such a notion—but it did not take a druid to see that, should we continue, Sionan’s cruel disappointment loomed like a storm-troubled mountain before us.
And then Cormac suddenly appeared one day to say that he was leaving Éire. I happened to be in the ráth when he arrived, and I went to with Sionan to greet him. “Meabh is taking me to Britain to learn from an ollamh there named Cethrwm,” he told us. “It is a very great honor.”
“Where will you go?” asked Sionan.
“It is a druid house in the north,” he said, “not far from Cend Rigmonaid on the eastern coast. Do you know it?”
“No,” I said. The name meant nothing to me.
“How long will you be away?” asked Sionan.
“Oh, a season or two,” replied Cormac lightly. “A year at the most.”
“A whole year?”
“What of that? Before you remember I’ve gone, I’ll be back. And when I return, I will be an ollamh.”
I complimented him on his swift advancement and wished him well. Although Sionan declared herself delighted with her brother’s good fortune, it was all she could do to force a wistful smile.
“Now,” he said, “I must go and beg the king’s leave, but I will return with beer and bread, and we will drink a celebration to my safe journey and swift return.”
When he had gone, I turned to Sionan. “Why so sad? We’ve seen him little enough this summer. A season or two more will make no difference.”
She frowned and turned away. “It’s not that.”
“What then?”
“If he goes, he will never return.”
“Of course he will return,” I insisted.
Reaching out, I touched her shoulder; I could feel her trembling.
“Sionan, what is wrong?” She made no answer. “Tell me.”
She turned her face to mine. Tears filled her eyes. “No one who goes to Britain ever returns.”
“They do!” I assured her.
“No.” She shook her head firmly. “They do not.”
“Of course, they do!” I insisted. I forced a chuckle at the absurdity of her claim, all the while cringing inside with the knowledge that I, too, would hie away to Britain as soon as I could and never return. “It is only a day’s sailing from here, after all.”
She grew petulant. “Now you are mocking me,” she said, pulling away.
“Listen,” I reasoned, “people come and go to Britain all the time—as I should know. Cormac will go and study for a while, and when he is finished, he will come back. You’ll see.”
Though Sionan said no more about it, I could see she was far from convinced. I wondered what had put such a notion into her head; I might have pursued it further, but Cormac appeared with the food and beer, and we all sat down to eat and drink in celebration of his good fortune.
We walked back to the druid house that night so Cormac might bid farewell to Datho and Iollan, and we arrived to find that while we were at the ráth, Buinne had also returned.
In all the time he had been away, I had not held a single thought about the contemptible bard. I had forgotten precisely how unpleasant he could be. Before the night was through, however, he more than reminded me.
“You have wasted no time, I see,” he said the first moment he got me alone.
“Good to see you, too, Buinne. What happened? Did they grow weary of your creeping around and throw you out?”
“Busy, busy.” His smile was thin and icy. “But your schemes will come to nothing. I will see to that.”
I glared at him with dull loathing. “Let us make a pact, you and I. Stay away from me, and I promise I will stay far away from you.”
“And let you cloud Datho’s good judgment with your tricks and lies?” He shook his head slowly. “No. That I will not do.”
“Then it will be on your head.”
He ignored me, his lips writhed with distaste. “You vile, insignificant worm. You sicken me.”
“I warn you, Buinne, stay away from me.”
I could feel the cold flame of his hatred on my back as I turned and walked off.
I did my best to avoid him over the next few days. I sensed he was watching me, waiting for me to make some gross mistake he could use as a wedge to drive between Datho and myself. I remained on my best behavior, determined not to allow Buinne the slightest opportunity to attack me for any reason. After all, summer was going, and I still wore my slave collar.
I worked hard at my studies, acquiring not only knowledge but a little judgment along the way. I delved into the many secrets of the earth and its subtle energies as Datho introduced me to the manipulation of elements, which simple folk consider magic. I even gained my first staff: the druid’s rod of power, without which the filidh can do but little. It was merely a willow wand, but I prized it nonetheless.
“It appears you may surpass even my lofty hopes for you, Corthirthiac,” wise Datho told me when presenting me with this token of my achievement.
“I trust you will never have cause to regret your decision, Ollamh.”
“What decision, my son?”
“To allow me to become a bard. You saved my life.”
He raised his hands in gentle reproof. “You honor me too highly. The All-Wise has gifted you with everything you require to thrive. If I have done anything, it was merely to open the way to you.”
“More than that, Ollamh, far more.” The time had come, I decided, and I plunged ahead. “It is because of your unstinting generosity that I hesitate to ask anything more of you.”
“Ask me anything. If it is in my power, I will grant it gladly.”
“If I hesitate,” I began, “it is only for fear of offending you—and that I would never wish to do.”
“I am your ollamh,” Datho replied with benign patience. “How can anything you ask offend me?”
“It is just that…well, some months ago you said you would ask the king to grant my freedom.” I touched the cold iron at my throat. “Yet the collar remains, and I am still a slave.”
“Is that all?” he said, his voice ringing with good humor. “You have no cause for concern, my son. Lughnasadh is soon upon us. This is a most propitious time for making such requests. It has long been in my mind to ask the king then. I thought I told you.”
“I never heard it.”
“Well, it makes no difference. You have worked hard and achieved much. I am proud of you, my son.” Placing his hands on my shoulders, he raised his eyes to the leafy canopy of oak branches above. “A wonderful destiny stretches before you. I have seen it. I have seen you standing among the brightest stars of the heavenly firmament commanding a mighty army. You will be a prince among bards, and men yet unborn will bless your name.”
I knew the proper response for a blessing of this magnitude, and I was happy to perform it. Taking his hands into my own, I kissed them, whereupon he embraced me like a son.
Datho must have mentioned it to the others, for a short while later Iollan complimented me on my impending freedom. “Losing your slave collar,” he said. “Well and good—and not before time.”
“Thank you, brother,” I said. He went away smiling and nodding, soon lost in the inexplicable thoughts that filled his days.
This, I think, is how Buinne also came to hear of it—or, more probably, he overheard us talking and decided to make his move.
“So here sits the smug slave,” he hissed, sidling up to me as I sat beneath the oak. I was writing an epigram in the ogham Datho had set for me that day, and I had stopped for a moment to think, resting my head against the tree trunk. “Exhausted from all your scheming?”
“Did I hear a rat vomit in the wood
?” I opened my eyes. “No, it is only Buinne.”
“You have overreached yourself, slave boy.”
“I warned you to stay away from me.”
“Something will have to be done.”
He stood over me with such malevolent mirth that I wanted nothing more than to strike the odious smirk from his impudent face. Tossing aside the wax tablet, I took up my willow wand and rose, ready for whatever he had in mind. “Do your worst, Buinne. Go to it—I am not afraid.”
“You will be, slave boy,” he said, backing away, his grin widening to a deathlike grimace. “You will be.”
I said nothing of this to anyone, of course, and returned to my lessons as if nothing had happened. But the world changed that day, and I was too blind with conceit and arrogance to see it.
TWENTY-SEVEN
THE PAST IS seen with a clarity wholly lacking in the present. Memory is an illusion formed of equal parts recognition and regret. Nothing is ever what it seems.
Of all men alive beneath wide heaven’s ever-circling sun, I know this to be true. For, wrapped in false security, I continued as if nothing had happened. Yet already the world and my place in it were tumbling like a fragile greenwood bower in the first fierce gale of winter.
I saw nothing of this. Blissful in my ignorance, I strode boldly forth, believing the path stretching before me into the future was solid under foot. Poor, blind idiot that I was—there was no path, no destination, no future. I was sinking in a morass and did not know it.
The days remained fair and full, the cattle grew fat and sleek, the crops stood tall in the fields, and the tuath enjoyed an uncommon prosperity. I saw Sionan whenever I could; we talked of my freedom, and I continued deceiving her with easy words about how it would be when we were free to marry. In truth I intended escape, and the entanglements of marriage were the last thing I wanted.
I eagerly counted the days until Lughnasadh and the Festival of First Fruits. Datho and Iollan occupied themselves with plans for the Comoradh, the gathering of bards; Buinne was nearly always away collecting various herbs and plants to make his concoctions, and so it fell to me to prepare for the festival. I examined the cattle and chose those acceptable for the sacrifice, and I saw that the wagon, maiden loaf, and scythe were prepared to Datho’s exacting instructions.
The first hint that anything was amiss came the day before the celebration. I returned from the ráth, where I had made the final inspection to see that all was ready, and went to make my report to Datho. I could not find him, and there was no response to my call. I made a quick search, however, and eventually found him in the nearby wood. He was sitting on a rock in a clearing; the sun was on his head, but he was fast asleep.
“Ollamh?” I said, creeping near.
At the sound of my voice, he started. His eyes flickered open, and he started up, his expression wild and fearful. The look passed in an instant. He saw me and came to himself at once. “Oh! You startled me, Succat. I grew tired….”
I noticed he did not use my bardic name. “I have been looking for you, Ollamh.”
“Well, here I am.” He rose and quickly turned to glance behind him, as if expecting to catch someone—lurking in the shadows. “Where have you been?”
“You sent me to the ráth—for Lughnasadh. I was to make the arrangements, remember?”
“Ah, yes. Then come, tell me, is everything in order?”
He started off toward the druid house and then turned again. “My staff!”
“Here it is, Ollamh,” I said, stooping to retrieve his good oak staff from beside the rock where it lay.
We walked back to the house—he striding ahead, myself behind with a puzzled frown over his curious behavior. But the lapse was soon forgotten as we busied ourselves with making ready for the Comoradh. That night we ate a simple meal; Heber and Tadhg cooked and served it and, while we ate, recited their day’s lesson for us. Quiet, well-mannered boys, they stood straight and tall and chanted a portion of “Fionn and the Salmon of Wisdom,” a splendid tale, one of the first learned by young bards.
“…then Fionn lay down on the grassy banks of the stream,” the boys chanted, their high, reedy voices ringing clear, “and he began to sing. While he sang, he let his hand fall gently into the water, dangling his fingers in the clear, glassy pool, where he knew the ancient salmon was to be found….”
We all sat listening: Iollan, eyes half closed, tapping his fingers lightly on the table as the boys recited the age-old song; Buinne, staring beneath hooded eyes, brooding and bored; Datho distractedly fingering his mustache and glancing around anxiously.
“There in the cool, shadowed depths of the pool, the wise old salmon heard Fionn’s fine, melodious voice and awoke. He said to himself, ‘What manner of man is it who sings so sweetly and so well?’ So saying, the venerable fish bestirred himself to swim up and—”
Suddenly Datho leaped to his feet. “Enough!” His voice was tight, his eyes wild, as he rushed from the table.
“Ollamh!” I started after him but had run only a few paces when he turned on me.
“Stay back!”
“Have you seen something, Ollamh?”
He stared at me, and recognition came flooding back to him; his eyes lost their wild appearance, and he flushed with embarrassment. “Oh, Succat…” He looked back at the others, who were now gazing at him with concern.
“Are you well, Ollamh?” I moved to help him.
“Go back,” he said. “Go back to the table.” A sickly smile appeared on his face. “Let them finish the tale.” He turned and strode from the house. “I am sorry…I cannot…stay….”
Later that night I was lying on my pallet, awake, and heard Datho come up the stairs to the sleeping room. He lay down with a groan and was soon heavily asleep. I slept, too, and woke early the next morning. I gathered my things and went outside to wash and then dressed in my new gray robe, for I was to take part in the Lughnasadh ceremony.
One by one the others rose and began making themselves ready. I quickly finished my preparations and then, eager to be off to the ráth, where Sionan waited, went to help the young ones. “Where is Datho?” I asked Heber as he tied the thin corded belt around his slender waist.
“He has not come down, master.” He glanced over to Tadhg, who shrugged. “Do you want me to rouse him?”
“No,” I replied, “I will do it. Finish dressing. We will leave as soon as Datho is ready.”
I went up to find the ollamh lying on his pallet, sound asleep. Kneeling beside him, I touched his shoulder and said his name. This brought no response, so I shook him gently. “Ollamh,” I said, “all is ready. It is time to rise.” I shook him again. “Datho?”
It was then I noticed the pale foam on his lips and at the corners of his mouth.
I shook him harder this time and called his name aloud, my heart sinking into the pit of my stomach. When he did not respond, I ran to the stairs and called Iollan to come help me. “Hurry!” I shouted. “I cannot waken Datho!”
As Iollan hurried up the stairs, I returned to the pallet and lightly placed my hand to the druid’s neck, but felt no surge of life there, and his flesh was cold to the touch.
“Here!” said Iollan, joining me. “Datho! Datho! Wake up!” The filidh took his old friend by the shoulder and began shaking him violently.
“No, brother,” I said, pulling his hands away. “He is not sleeping. He is dead.”
The old druid regarded me with a pale, bewildered expression. “Dead, you say? Ah, no, no…dead?”
“He must have died in his sleep.”
Iollan turned his eyes to the body and at last comprehended my meaning. He sat back on his heels, resting his hands on his thighs. “Ah, poor Datho,” he sighed; his hands began to tremble.
Buinne came running up the stairs. “What’s happened? What have you done?”
“Poor Datho,” said Iollan again. Raising sorrowful eyes, he said, “He is dead, Buinne. Our ollamh and master is dead.”
Bui
nne stared at the body for a moment. He drew a deep breath, as if trying to calm himself. “How?”
“I cannot say,” I answered. “I came just now to rouse him and found him as you see him.”
“We must send to the king; he must be told at once,” said Iollan.
“What about the Lughnasadh celebration?” I asked.
“Oh, we cannot possibly lead the rites now,” Iollan said. “We must make preparations for his burial.”
Buinne frowned. “No, the celebration will take place as planned.”
“It is not possible,” Iollan objected. “When an ollamh dies, there is much to be done—ceremonies to perform, services to render. The Learned Brotherhood must be informed. We must begin at once to—”
“And I say it can wait!” snapped Buinne with a ferocity that rocked doddering Iollan back on his haunches. The young druid started away. “Leave him. We will go to the ráth now.”
“But we cannot just leave him,” protested Iollan weakly.
Buinne rounded on the elder bard. “Get moving!” He snatched Iollan by the arm and yanked him to his feet. “We are going to lead the Lughnasadh ceremonies,” he said, his voice a snarl of pent rage. “And then we will attend the gathering.” He put his face close to the old man’s, his eyes hard and unfeeling. “Everything will take place as planned.”
There was a purpose at work in Buinne’s determination, and I knew better than to disagree. What he suggested was, after all, for the best; the celebration would have to go ahead as planned. In any case a clash with him would avail nothing, so I decided to bide my time and stood looking on without a word. Buinne whipped his head around to glare at me. “Understood?” he shouted.
“Perfectly,” I answered softly.
I turned to leave but instead watched as Buinne drew Datho’s cloak over the dead man’s face. It may have been my imagination, but it seemed to me that he took inordinate satisfaction in performing that simple service. He had never been able to disguise his thoughts—whatever he was thinking appeared on his face for all to see—and in that instant I saw a man who exulted in his elder’s death: an untimely death about which I suspected even then that Buinne knew more than he was saying.
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