Only the Stones Survive: A Novel

by Morgan Llywelyn

  As the five of us walked across the countryside, my mother chatted with Melitt and the Dagda, discussing old friends in common and days gone by, topics in which I had no interest. Fortunately, I was not expected to take part in their conversation. My father was busy preparing me for the event to come.

  “The Being Together is the perfect occasion for making and renewing friendships,” Mongan explained, “giving us the opportunity to exchange ideas, tell of our joys and share our sorrows. With singing and dancing we express our pleasure in living, and we reward the generous earth for supporting us with gifts of thanksgiving. But there is another purpose for the great gathering. An annual meeting of the clans is essential because we are so few in number.

  “As you will see demonstrated if the need arises, Joss, when the Túatha Dé Danann unite in common purpose, we can achieve more than any single individual can do alone. Within our combined power is the summoning of wind, the distribution of clouds, the taming of storms, the redirection of rivers, the enrichment of soil, the raising of hills, the opening or sealing of caves, the purifying of pools, the ritual of healing, and more besides. Almost any deed you can imagine can be accomplished by our acting together.”

  We … my people … could do all those things! How thrilling!

  The adults were walking with the sedate, gliding gait that characterized our race, but I began to skip uncontrollably. Prompted by something the Dagda recently said to me—“Live your life in the expectation of sudden joy, Joss”—I turned handsprings; I laughed aloud. No butterfly dancing on the air could be more giddy.

  My people cherished childhood and usually made no effort to curtail it. Why should they, when we lived so long? A Danann childhood could last for more than twenty sunseasons, followed by the responsibilities of adulthood for another eighty sunseasons. Only then could one become an elder, a person whose acquired wisdom was counted as part of the tribe’s treasure.

  Unfortunately, my childish behavior on the morning of the Being Together brought a stern rebuke from my father. “Calm yourself, Joss! When we reach the Gathering Place you must be sedate and well-behaved. Listen instead of talking. Be mindful that you have nothing to contribute yet; it is enough for you to be there.”

  I promised; I would have promised anything on that bright morning. The future was a splendid Unknown, and I was eager for it.

  I would approach it differently now.

  At high sun we came to a pathway beaten by the passage of countless feet over countless seasons. The grass on either side of the path was so thick it tempted my bare feet to stray. The air was a heady perfume. We were immersed in life: leafy woodlands and lush grasslands and fern-fringed pools where predator and prey drank together.

  Before us lay a meadow thickly starred with flowers. At home my mother could fashion almost anything from stems and leaves and blossoms. A flick of her fingers could create a wreath for the brow or a platter to hold bread.

  I was stooping to pluck an armful of color and fragrance when she stayed my hand. “You must take nothing away from this place, Joss. Not ever.” Her rebuke was gentler than my father’s, but it went deeper.

  The Dagda added, “Do no damage here, young man. Anyone who does is destined to die roaring in pain.”

  I swallowed hard and kept my hands at my sides.

  The green land rolled before us in waves like the sea that embraced our island. I had not yet been taken to the coast to see the white-crested waves that were the manes of Manannan Mac Lir’s horses, but someday I would. I would see and do many, many wonderful things. It was part of my heritage.

  I was Danann.

  The path we were following began to slope toward a distant hill. Our small group soon was enlarged by a trickle, then a stream, then a river of people dressed, as we were, in their brightest clothes, with more flowers in their hair. Cheerful strangers surrounded and enfolded us. Kinfolk I had never met called out my names, my many impressive names, and told me theirs.

  My parents were congratulated on the simple fact of my being.

  I thought myself a very fine fellow indeed.

  When we reached the hill it did not appear very high; it was a long, grassy ridge crowned with timber columns, outlining halls. The halls were roofed with thatch but open on all sides to light and air. Instead of climbing up to them, the Dagda led us around to the sunrise slope, where we sat down on springy grass and warm earth. A vast crowd—or what looked like a crowd to me, who had never seen one before—was spreading out along the flank of the ridge.

  All were careful to sit down without crushing the flowers.

  So was I.

  While we waited for the ceremony to begin, the Dananns sang. Mindful of my father’s admonition, I stayed quiet and listened. It was just as well; I did not recognize any of the words. Rippling, floating words like a trill of birdsong or a stream burbling over pebbles. My mother leaned over to murmur in my ear, “We are singing in the old language, Joss. This is a song of welcome.”

  I didn’t even know we had an old language. Yet when I listened closely, I observed that every unfamiliar word found its allotted place in the music. One could not be separated from the other.

  Like the Dananns from their land.

  Was that an adult thought? I must ask my father.

  The singing ended abruptly, rising into one pure note of aching sweetness that took me by surprise.

  How did they all know to stop at the same time? I must ask him about that too.

  Before I could voice my questions, several splendidly attired men and women stood up in front of the crowd and began to make speeches of welcome. My father whispered their names to me, identifying them as members of the ruling family—who were related to our own clan. The audience warmly applauded each one in turn. “They are much loved,” my mother said proudly.

  At that moment I began to love them too. My kinship to these radiant beings did not have to be explained; I could feel it welling up in me. As if responding to a silent command, the assembled Dananns broke into song again. The music celebrated what we were all feeling—even me, who didn’t know the words. I wanted to stay there and feel that way forever.

  The joyous atmosphere was short-lived. It faded when one of the princes—a man whom my mother identified as her uncle Aengus—made a sobering announcement. “I regret to say that the tribes which our ancestors subdued are no longer content with the peace imposed upon them.”

  I had only the vaguest idea what he meant. I knew that great battles had been won by our race long ago, led by a hero called Nuada of the Silver Hand, but I had never paid much attention when the Dagda was relating the details of history. The stories were not about me.

  “Men of the Iverni recently tried to assault a child on the brink of adulthood,” Aengus continued, “the girl who is called Shinann.” This provoked expressions of shock from some of his listeners and angry muttering from others. Shinann herself was not present, but many of her kin were. Aengus raised a hand for silence. “She is unharmed, I assure you, but it was not the only such incident. One of our craftsmen seeking copper ore in the mountains was threatened by a party of the Velabri. He tells us they were carrying weapons that were not shaped for hunting animals. To make matters worse, the dark-spirited Fír Bolga are now openly skirmishing with our shepherds in the borderlands.”

  When he finished speaking, the elders took turns addressing the issue, then invited comments. Most people agreed that while none of these incidents posed a serious threat by itself, taken as a whole they were disquieting.

  The Dagda pointed out that any unusual disturbance, such as a vortex in a normally quiet pool or a sudden leaping of birds into windless air, could be a dark portent. “This behavior among the formerly pacified tribes might signal the first twitch of rebellion,” he warned. “Their numbers are greatly diminished, but their primitive instincts remain.”

  A rebellion! In a vague way I knew what that meant: a chance for real excitement. I had been quiet for long enough this morning. Youth
and sun and strength were coursing through me. I was eager for action.

  Sitting cross-legged beside me, my father placed his hand on top of my head as if to hold me down. “Stop fidgeting, Joss. We are not playing games now.”

  But my mother gave me a tiny wink. Lerys was younger than my father; she and I often were confederates in small acts of naughtiness.

  I winked back at her.

  The discussion was becoming heated. One of the younger men jumped to his feet and shouted, “Unbury the Earthkillers!” Another promptly cried, “We need the Sword of Light and the Invincible Spear! They will remind the savage Fír Bolga where the real power lies!” A third added, “We must strike before they attack us and try to seize our treasures.”

  Earthkillers? Sword of Light? What were those? I had never heard of them before, but the very names made my heart race.

  My father lifted his hand from my head and stood up. “You all know me,” he announced in a ringing voice unlike any he used at home. “I am Mongan na Manannan Mac Lir, heir to the wisdom of my forebears. Their experience as leaders—and yes, as warriors too—is part of me. Therefore I warn you: the treasures we possess were not acquired through war, but war could destroy them.”

  “Impossible!” shouted a voice from the crowd.

  Others hotly contradicted him. The argument grew more passionate. Every person present seemed to have an opinion about the Earthkillers—whatever they were—and was determined to express it without listening to anyone else. Tempers flared. Men and women who had been laughing and singing together only moments before shouted furiously at each other.

  I sat small between my parents, hardly daring to breathe. An event that had begun as a celebration had turned into … what?

  Something dangerous had been set loose in the Gathering Place.

  THREE

  AT LAST THE GREAT QUEEN, whose eyes were old when the world was young, stood up. Everyone’s attention went to her; she had that power. When Eriu spoke the crowd fell silent. No bird could rival the music of her voice. “How can you accuse the Fír Bolga of being savage in one breath,” she asked in a reasonable tone, “then want to turn the Earthkillers against them in the next? Is that not the ultimate savagery? As you well know, we have ample means at our disposal to discourage violence without committing it ourselves. We can repeat the techniques we have used before to call upon the resources of the sacred island.”

  In support of her sister, the queen called Fodla the Wise counseled, “Beware how you cry for war, my people. When there is keening on the night wind in the halls of the Iverni and the Velabri, there will be wailing likewise in our own halls.”

  Dos na Trialen na Barinth, Prince of the Lakes, was next to speak. “What Eriu suggests may be the obvious solution,” he told the Dananns, “yet I warn you there are drawbacks. Such a response might require little effort, yet we cannot be sure of the results. Our powers are broad but not precise, and one mistake could erupt into war very quickly.

  “Let us consider some alternatives. I propose we visit the disaffected tribes in person and seek to resolve their problems through negotiation. For example, they should be amenable to an offer of additional grain. The elders have predicted the weather will be unusually harsh during the next darkseason.”

  Greine, titled MacGreine, the Son of the Sun—and also husband of Eriu—stood up next. There could be no doubt of his right to kingship; his face and form exemplified Danann nobility. He spoke slowly, leaving space between his phrases so his listeners had time to think about them. “Discouragement is practical. Negotiation is wise. But if there is a revolt anyway … and I’m only saying if … we must be able to defend ourselves. It might be prudent to consider our weaponry in case anything untoward does happen.”

  Greine’s two half-brothers, MacCuill, the Son of the Wood, and MacCet, the Son of the Ancient One, were nodding in agreement. But Banba the Brave, youngest of the three queens of the Túatha Dé Danann, drew the sunlight into herself until it burnished her coppery hair. “Let us forget this talk of Earthkillers and put our trust in the bronze swords and spears forged by our ancestors!” she cried in a clarion voice. “Every one of you must have some stored away in honor of the past. Those strong old weapons will serve us well with no risk to the land.”

  A man halfway between youth and age leaped to his feet. “I agree with Banba! I propose that we can form companies and begin weapons practice at once. Sippar, Rodarch, Agnonis and Ladra, you can join me.”

  His enthusiasm took hold like fire in dry grass, scattering sparks. The men who were eager to fight became more eager; the ones who wanted negotiation grew more determined. Those who supported Eriu’s way were mostly the elders, whose voices were not strong enough to outshout anyone else.

  Greine waited. From time to time he exchanged a look with Eriu. I had seen my parents exchange that look; it said more than words ever could.

  I turned to see what the Dagda thought of all this. The old man was sitting as he had been from the beginning, with an impassive face and his arms folded across his chest. He had passed the rule of Ierne to a newer generation and would not interfere.

  Was he right or wrong? I still do not know, though I have asked myself that question many times.

  Even the Dagda could not see the future.

  Finally, Greine raised his arm. In his fist he held a staff carved of white ash, the symbol of regal authority. When he spoke he did not shout, yet his voice went everywhere. “The responsibilities of a king are heavy,” he intoned. “None is heavier than that of making a decision when his people cannot agree among themselves. My wife has laid out a straight path, but when alternatives were suggested that path seems to have lost support. We now come to a fork in the road. We are in danger of losing our direction. Therefore, this is my pronouncement.”

  The listening Dananns held their collective breath.

  “I decree that the Earthkillers remain in the ground as Eriu wishes,” Greine soberly intoned. “I shall not order their use. Our ancestors brought the gifts from the stars when they came here, but the time for using them has long passed. We have become a wiser people. The Túatha Dé Danann will enforce peace on this island with simple swords and axes. The other tribes are primitive but not stupid; the sight of so much weaponry in our hands should discourage them from further violence.”

  I expected someone to argue with him, which would have been exciting, but nobody spoke up. The air was filled with his words and his words alone.

  When the last echo died, Greine announced, “Now we must invoke the Stone of Destiny to seal the agreement.” He reached out to take the hand of Eriu, and they began climbing the ridge. The entire crowd followed them, a moving blaze of color. It was steeper than I thought. From where we were sitting, the ridge had appeared to be a low hill, but when we reached the top I saw to my amazement that the land was spread out below us from mountaintop to mountaintop.

  A king’s view.

  At the crown of the ridge was a grass-covered mound like a burial cairn, together with a single pillar of gray stone sunk into the earth. The exposed part of the monolith was taller than a man and rounded on top. I thought I saw tiny flashes of color peeping from its rough surface.

  The stone was watching me.

  A shiver danced across my shoulders.

  Greine went to one side of the pillar, Eriu to the other, while the Dananns formed a circle around them, spilling back along the ridge and blocking my view. The sun was warm, but a cool breeze was blowing across the hill. The sweet, damp air smelled of life, of green and growing things. A corncrake uttered its grating cry from its nest among the grasses. Far overhead, an eagle circled.

  The Stone of Destiny stood at the center of the Túatha Dé Danann.

  Throwing back his head, Greine lifted both his arms and brandished the ash wood staff. “Lord of wind and flame!” he exhorted. “Lord of the boundless curve! You alone know my people’s destiny. If we have chosen wisely, support us. If we have chosen wrongly, protect us.
This I ask for the Tribe of Danu, the Children of Light.”

  Then he waited.

  When nothing happened, I tugged at my father’s arm. “Is the stone supposed to do something?”

  Mongan looked down at me. “Not now. We do the doing. The Stone does the knowing.”

  This made no sense to me. Was this not an ordinary piece of rock? “Where did it come from?”

  “We brought it with us, Joss. Before the Before.”

  Greine backed six paces from the Stone, then turned and walked away down the ridge. Every person he passed saluted him by saying, “Elgolai.”

  “Is that the old language?” I asked my father.

  “It is,” he confirmed. “Elgolai means, ‘He goes out,’ which is a term of the highest respect. Life is extended by the going, not by the staying. Greine is a direct descendant of those who had enough courage to go out Before the Before.”

  I had thought myself capable of thinking adult thoughts. Apparently I still had a long way to go.

  Later in the sunseason, an unfamiliar fleet appeared off our southern coast. The clans that lived along the shore assumed they were traders. The Sea People were known to sail great distances in order to buy and sell copper and tin and olive oil, silk and amber and rare perfumes. As restless as fleas, they were always going somewhere else. One of their trade routes passed between our island and the rising sun.

  We too had come from somewhere else. Before the Before.

  The lures of the Sea People did not attract the Túatha Dé Danann. We had what we needed. What we did not have we did not want. Preferring the steady glow of serenity to the destructive tarnish of commerce, whereby everything was bought and sold and nothing was ever enough, we had long since developed ways of avoiding traders.

  Unfortunately, the fleet from the south penetrated our usual defenses. This had happened before; my people were not alarmed. They habitually greeted any unwelcome visitors with courtesy and sent them on their way with confused impressions designed to discourage further contact.