SIXTEEN
WHILE THE BATTLE was at its height, many friends had come to our aid. The Children of Light held all life to be sacred, and the life of Ierne had responded in full measure. The birds whom we fed when the frost and ice of darkseason depleted their food had flown to the farthest reaches of the land, summoning the few Túatha Dé Danann who did not already know about our peril so they might hurry to help us.
Allies nearer to the battlefield had joined in the struggle too. The swift and clever deer had come out of hiding and appeared at the edge of the fighting in order to distract the foreigners, the hunters. Some of our enemies had left the battle in order to pursue and murder them. Calling it sport.
On the battleground, brave badgers and ferocious stoats had emerged from setts and tunnels in the earth to bite the trampling feet of the Mílesians. Hares and foxes and even graceful little pine martens, who were among the shyest animals on the island, had scampered across the field long enough to draw the attention of the foreigners, then raced away again with a baying crowd in pursuit.
Meanwhile, clouds had gathered themselves into mountain peaks, turned dark, turned black, conspired with sunbeams to create shifting patterns of uncertain light to confuse the New People. Mist had risen from the ground and swirled and roiled with a life of its own. Howling wind had constantly changed direction in order to disconcert the invaders still more.
But there had been too many of them. And in spite of our loyal allies, too few of us.
As the battle abated, the Dananns who had not been slain sought hiding places. The forests beyond the battleground had welcomed them. Sheltered them. Enfolded them. A fortunate few of the Túatha Dé Danann became one with the trees, and their enemies never recognized them.
I should have fought in that final battle. But I was not allowed. For reasons I could not understand—or forgive—I was saved. Perhaps at my father’s command, though more likely it was the Dagda who had made the decision, exiling me to the temple on the ridge while all our futures were being decided.
The shapeless time of Ierne was stretched to the breaking point while I communed with the Guardian Stone.
When the summons of the Dagda rang through my head, I could not tell if he sounded triumphant or grief-stricken. I ran with all the speed I possessed until I neared the oak forest where I had seen him last. Suddenly aware of the length of my strides, I stopped in my tracks. Felt again that peculiar sense of being changed. Extended one arm and gazed down at it. My forearm looked longer than it should. The muscles were strong and well-developed, and the hand at the end was larger than I remembered. A man’s hand with veins and sinews. It could be a trick of the light, but I did not think so.
When I closed my fingers and made a fist, it was a man’s fist.
I took a deep breath and started to run again.
The Dagda was waiting for me in the glade. His face glistened with sweat, and he was breathing hard, as if he had been running too, although I never knew the Dagda to run. “You were gone a long time,” he panted as I came up to him.
“You once told me that time is an illusion with a purpose.”
“So I did, Joss. Do you understand what that means?”
“Not yet, but I’m beginning to.”
He peered at me in the gathering dusk. “You will. And soon, I think, from the looks of you. You are no longer a child.”
His words were an affirmation. “I am no longer a child,” I agreed.
I hoped he would say something further about the change in me, but he did not. The Dagda preferred to dispense information in pebbles rather than boulders.
Sadly, there were facts that required no words at all. His face told me everything I did not want to hear.
“Where are the others?” I asked, fighting to keep my voice under control. “Surely some have survived.”
“They are caring for our dead,” the Dagda replied. “We could not leave them on the battlefield for the enemy to find. If I had realized that you were…”
“That I was what?”
He would not be drawn, the old fox. “That you are so strong,” he said. “You could have been a big help.”
“I still can.”
“Yes, but not in that work. Come with me now; you will have other opportunities.”
Éremón had decided to be magnanimous in victory, to make certain everyone knew it was a victory. After collecting the Gaelic casualties, he had instructed his warriors to gather the dead Dananns, claim battle trophies if they chose, and present the bodies with full honors to the remaining representatives of their tribe.
The warriors had returned to report that there were no dead Dananns on the battlefield. The Mílesians were shocked. “The entire whole tribe fought and died there!” Éber Finn protested. “There were not enough left alive to carry off any bodies! So where are they?”
No one knew.
Red-faced and sputtering with frustration, Éremón ordered his men to search every meadow and woodland, every beach and bogland, and bring back enough of the living Túatha Dé Danann to offer a formal surrender to him.
Without that, no conquest would be recognized under Gaelic law.
The searchers found only the deserted timber halls of the Gathering Place and the silent scrutiny of the Stone of Destiny.
But we were still here. A few of us.
Within a single change of the moon, our sacred island was transformed. Leaves still clung to trees and grass remained green in the meadows; sometimes the fading sun shone, but shadows gathered in dark pools where no shadows had been before. The night wind sobbed like a woman. The land we loved was tainted with sorrow.
The customary funeral rituals were not performed for my mother, nor for any Dananns slain in the final battle. We gave them monuments that refuted mortality. Stone cairns appeared at dawn on the mountaintops and songs of grief were sung in the glens. Melancholy paeans blended into one voice composed of wind and sea, leaves dancing and grasses rustling, rivers running and streams laughing and raindrops kissing the earth. The unique voice of the Túatha Dé Danann who could not, would not die.
The haunting beauty of the music imparted comfort, but I could not join in the singing. My head seemed to fill with the clamor of minds in battle.
When held to the ear, some shells give back the remembered roar of the sea.
Our diminished tribe became one body, one clan, constantly moving from place to place to avoid detection. We knew the island as the foreigners never could. Knew the secret places of Ierne’s body and hid ourselves there.
But the New People were relentless. Thwarted of the formal surrender they wanted, they hunted us as if we were game animals, using spears and dogs. The baying of their great shaggy hounds terrified our children.
Children and old people now comprised the majority of the Túatha Dé Danann. There were few living men of fighting age aside from my father, and fewer women.
Prince Cynos died in spite of all we could do. Died bravely, with clenched teeth but a smile on his lips. The Dagda worked over him tirelessly yet could not heal his wounds. I was disappointed in the old man who once had seemed to epitomize all knowledge. He must have heard it in my thoughts.
“No one person has all the answers, Joss,” he said to me. “Imagine a pottery bowl that has been smashed. If you gather up the pieces, you may be able to reconstruct the bowl, but if even one piece is missing, it will no longer hold water.”
“You’re referring to the Being Together?”
“Just so.”
“And some of the pieces are missing?”
“Just so. Too many essential abilities—gifts, if you like—are not available for the healing ritual. The ones we still have are…” He paused, seeking a word he did not want to use. “Insufficient. Insufficient for the purpose at hand.” He forced a smile. “But the tribe is not impoverished, Joss. Gifts are passed on in the blood, and we know that at least one of your mother’s has come to you.”
“What about my father? What is his�
�”
The Dagda raised a hand to silence me. “Discover the answer for yourself; that is the only way to learn. I have taught you to ask questions. You must teach yourself to find answers.”
Silently, I vowed that if I ever became a teacher, I would answer every question put to me.
I tried to identify the special gifts in people I knew, but only a few were obvious. Most were too subtle; my father’s eluded me altogether. I could not ask him outright because it was too personal. He kept his pain hidden, yet anything might touch on an open wound.
The sweet song of a blackbird could make Mongan flinch as if he had been struck by a fist.
My mother’s death had affected him in a number of ways. Even when he was physically present, he could be inwardly absent. To lure him back, I called attention to myself as often as I could. Once, when we were drawing water from a well in the forest, I claimed—with a shameless lack of honesty—“I’m not afraid of the New People, you know.”
“Mmmm.” Mongan hefted the heavy wooden bucket over the lip of the well and poured its contents into two pottery jars, which I would carry. Then he lowered the bucket for more water.
“Do you think the New People hate us?”
He flicked a disinterested glance in my direction. “Does it make any difference?”
“If anyone hates me enough to try to kill me, I’d like to know why.”
He made an effort to rouse himself. “Hate is a festering illness of the spirit born of fear, Joss. Those who hate are so consumed by fear that they may kill for the sake of killing—as if by taking another creature’s life they could add the stolen span to their own. This is an element of character that we do not possess, I am glad to say.”
I had to ask: “Don’t you hate the man who killed my mother?”
Mongan fixed his eyes on me. Looked at me, then through me and beyond me to some distant point. Without another word, he finished drawing the water and beckoned me to help carry it back to the others.
I understood there were questions I must never ask my father for fear of …
For fear of what? Hurting him more than he was hurt already?
With each day that passed, my father spoke less and less. I began to wonder if he even saw me. He never commented on how much I had grown, although I was now taller than he was. There was stubble on my jaw and hair in my groin; in another season I would be a man, while my cousins were still small children.
My father never noticed.
In order to avoid the New People, we shunned the light of day. When I recalled how much my mother had loved to dance in the sun, I was almost glad she was not with us.
Mongan said she could see us, though. He was barely talking to anyone else, but I heard him in the night, endlessly talking to her.
In spite of his personal pain, my father fulfilled his responsibilities as a leader. Because growing and harvesting grain required staying in one place—and therefore being vulnerable—we could no longer make bread, so Mongan directed us to collect the acorns that lay in abundance under the oak trees. Pounded into a paste, they could be baked and eaten like bread. Melitt sweetened them with wild fruits and honey and cooked them on hot rocks in the sun. I thought they tasted better than ever.
Or perhaps it was because I was very hungry.
In our new situation, there was no allotting one task to men and another to women. Obtaining food was important to us all. We scoured the countryside at night, looking for things we could eat. Knowing which leaves and roots and nuts and mushrooms were safe and then collecting enough to fill hungry bellies required a group effort.
Ierne produced more than enough to feed her children lavishly—if we made the most of the bounty she provided.
Unlike the New People with their long-shafted spears and their baying hounds, we did not hunt the stag and the boar. The Túatha Dé Danann did not eat fellow animals. We fished, but were careful to put back the gravid females. Piriome’s mother had the gift of recognizing them and taught the rest of us.
We had much to learn.
Something we did not know, but feared we would learn the hard way, concerned the Fír Bolga. When they discovered we had been defeated by the Mílesians, would they take the opportunity to attack us themselves? How could we possibly resist them with our depleted numbers?
To protect ourselves, Mongan insisted we must all remain together. A young woman called Shinann was a particular worry to him; I could see that from the anxiety in his eyes whenever he looked at her. Once or twice, I heard her referred to as “the first born of a new generation.” Knowing what I now knew about gifts and abilities, I concluded she must be exceptional.
Shinann was exceptionally reckless, that much was certain. Ignoring my father’s injunction, she wandered wherever she liked and returned whenever she chose.
She had been born to one of the clans in the west, at the edge of the Cold Sea, and was the only member of her immediate family to have survived the Day of Catastrophe. It is hard to know how she survived. People had seen her on the battlefield; she would have been an easy target for the invaders. Yet alive and unharmed, Shinann wandered through the forests and along the valleys in broad daylight while other Dananns stayed captive to their fears.
Mongan did not ask me to keep watch over her. I did that of my own accord, keeping her within my sight but not letting her see me. It was like a game children might play. I followed her at a distance, scurrying into hiding if I thought she might turn my way. But Shinann was always turning. Forever changing her direction, dancing and flowing and hurrying from one spot to another as if nothing could hold her longer than the blink of an eye.
She was one of those who ignored the bonds of time.
Every day, she went somewhere different. A dark pine forest softly carpeted with needles, a brilliant lake where sky and water were twins, a high mountain valley hoarding a pocket full of snow, a fetid marsh brilliant with butterflies.
A road trampled into the innocent earth, scored with the marks of horses’ hooves and chariot wheels.
SEVENTEEN
EVERY MORNING, Éremón dressed in full battle regalia, including leather body armor and crested helmet and a sword in his belt with traces of blood rusting the iron blade, like a badge of honor. The failure to gain a formal surrender rankled him, but he was not about to let it spoil his enjoyment.
In their encampment, the Gaels were preparing for a festival to mark the change of the seasons. Éremón wanted to include a special feast to celebrate his victory over the Túatha Dé Danann. He would hold it near the river mouth, where they had come ashore, where so many had drowned.
His way of defying fate.
Meanwhile, he accompanied some of the freemen to the edge of the battlefield with instructions to mark the outline for a project he had in mind. Éremón planned to construct a stronghold for himself in keeping with his new status. His fortress would consist of a huge earthen embankment, roughly circular, with a deep trench outside it, the whole enclosing an area large enough to contain the structures and domestic livestock required for a victorious chieftain’s household.
A massive, solid structure, firmly planted in the earth, announcing to all that Éremón ruled here!
There was to be a richly appointed dwelling for Éremón and Taya, including a great stone hearth where they could roast an entire wild boar. The house would be built of timber with broad oak beams to support the thatched roof. Nearby would be an area for not one but several stone ovens, living quarters for Éremón’s personal guards and attendants, pens for his horses and a shed for his chariots, outbuildings for storing grain and making beer—and a modest hut for Odba. Éremón’s first wife would have had a fine big house for herself if she had not refused him.
Let her sit outside her door and see how well the more compliant Taya was treated!
In the mind of Éremón, the project grew faster than grain sprouted. He also decided to build strongholds for his sons on land of their own, beginning with Moomneh. And even better h
ouses for the boys Taya was going to bear him; boys who would be as strong as their father and as handsome as their mother. The heirs of Éremón would be able to claim the most desirable women for their wives. His grandchildren and their grandchildren would be born on fertile earth he had claimed through his own efforts. His loyal followers would receive …
“And what’s all this in aid of?” inquired a surly voice. Éremón turned to find Éber Finn pointing toward the men who were measuring the site.
“My family, of course. I’m going to build a fort and give the surrounding territory to my sons.”
Éber Finn’s eyebrows wriggled toward his hairline like a pair of ginger-colored caterpillars. “You intend to claim all that land for yourself? I don’t think so.”
Éremón dropped one hand to the hilt of his sword. “I won it on the battlefield,” he said through clenched teeth.
“We won it on the battlefield,” Éber Finn corrected, raising his voice to an angry bellow. “Myself and the rest of the Gael fought just as hard as you did, and we deserve our share of the spoils!”
Immediately, several clan chiefs rushed forward to make demands on behalf of their kin.
Éremón was genuinely surprised. From his point of view, he not only had led the expedition and commanded the warriors, he had taken all the risks. The battle was his to win, as other battles had been for his father before him, and therefore the richest prizes should be his and go to his sons after him.
When he tried to make this point to Éber Finn, his brother had the temerity to laugh out loud. “You’re the last-born, Éremón, your claim of inheritance comes last, not first.”
Soorgeh, one of the Gaelician chieftains, added, “You’re also the man who let the enemy escape. Why are you entitled to anything?”
“I didn’t let them escape! They were all dead, don’t you remember? But when we came back…”
“They were gone,” Éber Finn interrupted. “I remember that well enough. They tricked you, brother. Colptha warned you they were sorcerers, but you wouldn’t listen. Why didn’t you post a guard on the battlefield?”
Only the Stones Survive: A Novel Page 13
