Only the Stones Survive: A Novel

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “Use the Earthkillers!” someone screamed.

  Another shouted, “Let’s die fighting!”

  The noise in my head was building again. I clapped my hands over my ears, but it did no good, no good at all.

  The group divided into factions. One segment argued for rearming and making one more effort to expel the invaders, even if it meant using the Earthkillers. Another said we should leave the island altogether and take our chances on the open sea. A few thought it might be better to surrender and plead for mercy, but they were shouted down: “We are a free people! We must always be a free people!”

  The Dagda caught and held my eyes. This is not the best place for you, Joss. Go to the temple, where you can think clearly.

  I stared at him.

  Go now, he commanded. Seek the silence and what you may discover. Stay there and do not return until I summon you.

  Before the buzzing in my head completely overwhelmed me, I stood up and slipped away. To the timeless silence of the temple on the ridge.

  Where the Guardian Stone was waiting.

  TWELVE

  AMERGIN HAD LONG PONDERED the mystery of the tattooed savages who had stood aside for a bard. They must be Celtic people, he concluded. Not unlike us in spite of their garish appearance. But how did they come to be here? And for how many generations have they occupied Ierne?

  Should we slaughter our own?

  There were other mysteries on his mind as well. Time was one. Ever since the fleet was lost in the fog, he had been aware that time was different in this place. The duration of day and night were undefined, and their passage uncertain. How long had the Mílesians been here? Sometimes it seemed as if they had marched across the island already and won a score of battles; the memory of them resonated at the edges of his mind. On other days, everything looked new, seen for the first time, and the future was still ahead.

  Was it possible that the past and the future were interchangeable on Ierne? Was he remembering the future? Did he have yet to experience the past?

  Could either of them be changed?

  When Amergin mentioned this curious notion to the tribe’s diviner, the druid Corisios, the other man confirmed his impression. “I’ve been trying to read the omens and portents ever since we got here,” he told Amergin, “but every time I throw the bones or examine the droppings of birds, the answers come up different.”

  “Doesn’t that worry you?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” the diviner admitted. “I’ve reported my findings to Donn and Éremón, and they don’t seem too concerned. Éber Finn even laughed. ‘It will sort itself out when we get used to the place,’ he assured me. But then, Éber’s no druid.”

  “How about Colptha?”

  “Ah.” Corisios tugged at his lower lip. “He offers his sacrifices and comes to his conclusions, but he doesn’t share them with me.”

  The diviner’s revelation worried Amergin. Until they came to Ierne, the druids had worked in unison as representatives of the spirit world. If Colptha was using it as an opportunity to satisfy a selfish need of his own, there could be serious repercussions.

  The spirits were always watching.

  When the weather was dry, Amergin took Clarsah from her case and cradled her against his chest so she could observe the land through which they passed. The harp was a being of remarkable sensitivity, deeply affected by the kiss of the wind and the caress of the light. In spite of her mysteries—or perhaps because of them—Ierne’s beauty was inspiring.

  Amergin was not so arrogant as to believe Clarsah’s music sprang from him.

  The Mílesians and their followers might appear to be a cohesive army, but in reality they were riven by dissension. In the vacuum left by Donn’s emotional withdrawal, Éremón and Éber Finn increasingly contested for the leadership. At first their rivalry had been limited to making sarcastic remarks about each other, but it had degenerated into criticism severe enough to drive a wedge between their respective admirers. Heroes always had admirers.

  Colptha observed with keen interest the heated arguments between his brothers. The sacrificer overheard many things not intended for him; he had a habit of insinuating himself into the surroundings without drawing attention.

  Their most recent encampment was on the edge of an extensive bogland. The chief advantage of the bog was that it provided an unobstructed view in all directions; the chief disadvantage was that it might swallow any person reckless enough to venture across it. In many areas the surface looked deceptively stable. Luring unwitting sacrifices.

  Colptha liked bog. There was none in the homeland of the Mílesians, but from the first he had appreciated its qualities. Bog was indomitable. Bogs in low-lying areas overcame oak, pine, yew, and hazel to create a rich mix of slowly rotting vegetation that supported a stunning variety of life. Mountain bogs clothed hills and even mountaintops, waging war on the ubiquitous heather and often moving of their own volition.

  Armies of bog. Bog that kept its secrets.

  Colptha liked bog.

  He had been gathering bog moss and deer’s-hair grass for a druidical concoction when he observed Éremón and Éber Finn mired in a furious quarrel. Fists were shaken, spittle flew. The sacrificer drifted in a wide arc that took him downwind until he could hear their every word clearly.

  When they finally noticed him, Éremón gave a start. This made Colptha smile his fanged smile. “Ierne is in the grip of a strange sorcery,” he informed his brothers with unshakeable certainty. “I’ve been aware of it ever since we were lost in that evil mist before we landed. The light shifts continually; the patterns of the clouds are abnormal; the wind comes from every direction and none. Nothing here is natural or ordinary. Had you not noticed?”

  Both men shook their heads. Their response elicited another fanged smile from the sacrificer. “Of course you hadn’t; such things are beyond the understanding of warriors. That’s why you will need the help of a great sorcerer if you are going to conquer Ierne. If one of you is going to conquer,” he added almost under his breath. Just loud enough for them both to hear. Just loud enough to sow a seed.

  Éremón said, “I suppose you refer to yourself, Colptha. Are you offering to be on my side, or Éber’s?”

  “Now wait here…” Éber Finn began, but the sacrificer interrupted.

  “I’m offering to give you both the benefit of my talents,” Colptha blandly replied. “Let me call your attention to the proliferation of stone structures in this land; cairns, tombs, call them what you will. The natives don’t live in them; their huts are made of more perishable material. Sticks and leaves and suchlike. Druids’ intuition tells me that a more powerful race once inhabited this land. Their magic lingers here, but I can fight it for you.”

  “We can do our own fighting,” Éremón said through tight lips. “We are warriors.”

  “And Amergin is a gifted druid,” added Éber Finn, “so if we require one we have him.”

  Colptha was well aware that his brothers did not like him. None of the Mílesians liked him, which was as it should be. Respect, he believed, was engendered by fear and not fondness. “Amergin spends his days fingering a harp and staring off into space. You need a more substantial ally.”

  “I need an armorer who can put a better edge on my sword,” growled Éremón.

  Like a tidal wave, the invading army was sweeping across the hills, through the forests and along the watercourses, searching for any of the Túatha Dé Danann who might have eluded them so far and intent on killing every person they met.

  The battle trumpets screamed for slaughter, and the Gaels obeyed.

  It was easiest to swing the sword and thrust the spear and think about nothing else at all. Let the red rage bubble through you and think about nothing else at all. Keep going until you were so exhausted you fell asleep on your feet; eat what was put in front of you; collapse into a roiling cauldron of senseless images and monstrous noise; awake and start over.

  If you were lucky, you g
ot killed before you had to think about any of it.

  Some warriors had other reactions. Donn was almost indifferent to warfare, although he acquitted himself well enough in battle. He had been trained for it since childhood. He could fight with one part of his mind while another part swore at the gravel in his boot or tried to remember a phrase from one of the bard’s songs.

  Sakkar’s childhood had prepared him for a different sort of struggle, giving him the cunning of a rat in an alley. The Gaelic combination of manic bravado and agile artistry baffled him. Besides, he could not help thinking about the woman with gray eyes.

  Sakkar had yet to blood his sword. He knew he could never strike Her.

  Armed with belligerence and bronze, the warriors of the Fír Bolga ambushed the Gaels whenever the foreigners came close enough. In retaliation, Éremón attacked a Fír Bolga settlement while they were asleep, which was not considered honorable. The suggestion came from Colptha. Startled awake, the natives fought with tooth and toenail but were overcome. To crown his triumph, Éremón took the elderly chief of the Fír Bolga as his prisoner. Colptha wanted him for a sacrifice to ensure future successes, but Éremón refused, claiming he was going to keep the old man as a pet.

  During the night someone had cut the chieftain’s ropes and let him go.

  Éremón accused his brother. Éber Finn angrily denied it. The split between the two of them was widening.

  When Amergin urged Éremón to a reconciliation, he was told, “Éber’s jealous of my authority. He’s always trying to get back at me, one way or another.”

  “Are you sure he was to blame? I’ve never known Éber to be petty.”

  “Then you don’t know him at all,” Éremón retorted. “He’s been that way for years. Colptha can tell you.”

  It was Colptha who had freed the Fír Bolga chieftain; Colptha who had planted suspicion of Éber Finn in Éremón’s head. Power for its own sake was a highly addictive drug, and the campaign in Ierne was providing the sacrificer with a number of opportunities to feed his addiction.

  On a morning of rainbows and uncertain weather, the army of conquest approached a rolling meadow below a hill draped with clouds. The mist obscured the top of the hill, but the warriors following the chariots were not curious. Scenery was just scenery. A few men were dreaming of their next meal. The rest were watching the back of the person in front of them and trying not to tread on his heels.

  Amergin and Clarsah stopped to observe a rainbow. They saw at least one rainbow every day on Ierne, and the bard was captivated every time. When the last band of color faded from view, he wiped the harp with a square of white silk before tucking her into her case. The air was damp, and Clarsah needed protection.

  Yet Amergin’s mind was elsewhere, distracted by the strange thoughts of a druid. Rainbows. A promise of beauty too lovely to last. On Ierne, the dreams of his childhood and the desires of his manhood were assuming fresh vitality. The blood was pounding more hotly in his veins. Why? Could rainbows be captured here? Were the tales about everlasting life true?

  He felt more at home on Ierne than he ever did in the land where he was born. Was it because his mother was entombed here now? Was he feeling the influence of her spirit, perhaps?

  He was about to sling the harp case over his shoulder and trot after the others when he was engulfed by an overwhelming sense of Scotta’s presence.

  Here. Now.

  “Mother,” he whispered, closing his eyes.

  Light ran through him like blood.

  When he opened his eyes again, he was not alone.

  THIRTEEN

  THE GUARDIAN STONE had been waiting for me in front of the temple.

  A long oval in shape, the rough gray boulder lay on its side. Both ends were rounded; the surface facing outward was covered with bold carvings. A deeply incised vertical line ran partway down the middle of the design. To one side of the line was an immense triple spiral, twin to the smaller one in the temple.

  The figure held my gaze. Demanding that I come closer.

  Look and see.

  The flowing curves of the three connected spirals embodied the essence of motion. Movement forever captured, never stilled. Like rivers flowing beneath ice. Like stars in their ceaseless courses.

  A shock of recognition took my breath away.

  I had no name for what they represented, but those spirals were part of me. I was part of them. If I watched for one heartbeat longer, they might begin to swirl, draw me into themselves, into their center, into …

  My entire body tingled painfully, the way your foot does when it goes to sleep. The scene around me grew blurry; the air had the metallic scent common before a storm.

  I could not move. Yet I felt more incredibly alive than I ever had.

  Time was not.

  But I was.

  Always had been. Always would be.

  Here. Now.

  Unable to do anything else, I stared at the stone until the tingling faded.

  It seemed to take an immeasurable time.

  At last my vision widened to include the gleaming bulk of the temple, the grassy slope down toward the river. The earth solid beneath my feet and white clouds scudding overhead. Nothing had changed.

  Yet I had changed.

  Something in my flesh and bone had … been altered, ever so slightly.

  I did not know when or how, but I could feel the difference. In this place, I could feel the difference.

  I looked at the Guardian Stone again. An inert boulder ornamented in the distant past by hands long dead, conveying images whose meaning was forgotten.

  But it was not that simple. The stone remembered the meaning.

  Recalling the triple spiral in the recess at the rear of the central chamber, I wondered if it was meant to be an echo of the larger figure.

  Or a link?

  I painstakingly examined the rest of the carvings on the Guardian Stone. Smaller spirals on the other side of the vertical line were supported by wavy shapes that curved along the bottom of the design to flow into the base of the triple spiral. This arrangement reinforced the impression of constant movement.

  Near both ends of the stone were irregular squares. Straight lines and sharp angles suggested solidity and permanence.

  My nostrils detected the unmistakable scent of ancient stone dust.

  To my surprise, I discovered remnants of brilliant blue pigment in the carvings. Although aged and weathered, the color was still vivid. At one time the designs would have stood out in sharp relief, describing a dynamic pattern in rigid rock.

  Except for the symbols they carved, the artists had left no trace of their identity. There were no discernible marks of the chisel. The figures had been picked out, patiently, meticulously, with an unknown tool in hands dissolved by time.

  Raising my eyes from the great stone, I made another discovery: above the entrance to the passageway was a large rectangular opening plugged with blocks of quartz. There was no clue as to the purpose this roof box might serve, but obviously it was a carefully planned feature of the temple.

  Behind the Guardian Stone was the heavy stone door that the Dagda had moved aside so we could enter. Too heavy for a man alone to shift, it was closed now. I did not recall anyone closing it when we left. While one person might edge his way around the Guardian Stone, a band of invaders would have to clamber over the monolith to shift the door.

  So many questions and no answers.

  The ever-present wind blew across the ridge. Birds sang in trees at the foot of the slope. Forever flowed on, like the curves of the spiral.

  Here, I thought. If I ask the right questions, the answers are here.

  Tranquility encircled me like a gentle hand cupping a frightened bird. Somewhere out there my people were arguing and trouble roiled, but I was insulated from it. Where I stood was elsewhen and otherwise.

  Was this reality, and the rest just passing noise?

  Does noise matter if we refuse to listen to it?

  More h
uge stones were embedded in the base of the mound. I walked all the way around, counting them as I went. Recalling numbers as the Dagda had taught them to me, information I had thought forgotten.

  The most elaborately inscribed stones were the Guardian Stone at the entrance and one directly opposite at the rear of the mound. Some of the others were carved and some were not—or if they were, the carving must be on the side facing the earth.

  Communicating with the earth?

  The temple was not alone on its hill. The surrounding area was studded with smaller mounds, variously shaped stone circles, and standing stones. There was even a cobbled pathway that might have been a ritual processional. When I looked closely, I could see the remnants of postholes in the soil. Timber structures as well as stone had once been part of this … whatever this was.

  I returned to the Guardian Stone. Perhaps it was a map. The large triple spiral might be this very temple, and the small spirals other temples. The squares could indicate houses and the wavy lines the river. Or rivers. Or even the sea.

  That much made sense, or could be forced to make sense, but what of the vertical line in the center? Was it directing the viewer into the temple?

  Was it a pathway pointing down to the river?

  Or up to the sky?

  I stepped back and refocused my eyes on the great stone, seeking stars. Before I could find what I was looking for, the surface of the boulder lost definition. The sun was dropping toward the hills on the other side of the river. Its gilded rays touched the white quartz pebbles on the mound and set them ablaze.

  Sacred fire, sacred ground.

  Time spiraled back on itself, past and future flowing together.

  In this place.

  FOURTEEN

  WHEN I LEFT the Guardian Stone, I made my way down the long slope to the river, eager to return to the forest beyond. Night would fall soon, and I did not want to be alone in the dark. After the storm of war, no Danann wanted to be alone.