Silent except for the omnipresent voice of the wind, invisible except for whatever occupied the standing stone, Tara was occupied by an elemental force. Amergin could feel it. Time, which had little importance on Ierne anyway, was suspended on the hill. An afternoon could pass in the blink of an eye. Or take half a lifetime.
Tara.
Before he climbed the hill, Amergin had removed his soft leather boots. Gazing out from the crown of the ridge, he had tried to envision the whole island. None of his people had explored its limits yet or even knew its shape. Ierne was a mystery shrouded in mist. Yet as he stood on Tara, Amergin knew.
He returned to the Mílesian encampment—now split into two parts—and waited until the day’s principle meal was over. When men’s bellies were too full for fighting and their eyelids began to droop, he summoned his brothers to a quiet meeting between the three of them.
“This island will be shared,” Amergin declared with a traditional authority that even his brothers could not question. The official pronouncements of bards were sacrosanct. Their capacious memories contained the complete genealogies of the tribes; without them, there could be no inheritance.
“Ierne will be occupied in equal portions,” Amergin continued, “by the followers of Éremón and those of Éber Finn. Éremón will take the north and east, since he has already claimed the Danann hill as a gift for his wife. Éber Finn will have the south and west, with a gentler climate for his wives.”
The two brothers exchanged glances. At first, each thought he had received the better deal and felt triumphant.
But Éremón was thinking faster. “I claim the bard to come with me as ranking druid,” he said before his brother could have the same idea. Amergin was not Éremón’s favorite person at the moment, but it was a way of adding more prestige to his holdings.
Although Amergin would have preferred to go with Éber Finn, he agreed. Éremón was the more difficult of the two, and it was necessary to pacify him if possible.
Besides, Tara was the last place where Amergin had seen Shinann.
On the following day, the Mílesians began to make permanent plans. There was great excitement throughout the entire tribe of the Gael at the prospect of having land allotted and acquiring individual clan holdings.
Éber Finn’s followers would have the most distance to travel, so they asked for a larger share of the communal food supply to take with them. They also wanted the few cattle and sheep who had survived the Green Wave. “In my territory, we’ll have better grazing for livestock,” Éber Finn stressed.
Éremón refused outright. “My people need those animals more than yours do. It may be colder in the north; we will need adequate hides and plenty of warm wool and…”
For once, Sakkar could not help himself. “This is only an island,” he interrupted. “Surely you can trade with each other for whatever you need.”
The two brothers responded with a single voice. “I won’t do any trade with him!”
Under his breath, Amergin said, “I warned you, Sakkar.”
The negotiations took an unconscionable time. From the beginning, every single detail, no matter how trivial, was dragged out and argued over. When Amergin could bear it no longer, he took Clarsah and went off by himself for a while.
Sakkar soon followed him. He found the bard sitting under a tree, frowning down at the strings of the harp. “Will Éremón and Éber Finn be able to work things out between them?” Sakkar asked.
Amergin sighed and put Clarsah back into her case. “You said it yourself, Sakkar; this is an island. My brothers know they both have to live on it. I only hope they are intelligent enough to realize they must cooperate sooner or later.”
Sakkar sat down beside the bard, stood up to remove a troublesome pebble from the ground, and sat down again. Stretched out his legs. Scratched his itchy jaw. He had decided to let his beard grow out again—or shave it off. He was not certain which.
“Your brothers may be intelligent,” he said, “but there is no doubt about their being obstinate. In the land I come from, obstinate men hold onto their views until war breaks out or their children’s grandchildren die of old age. This island may not be big enough for Éremón and Éber Finn, but at least there is plenty of timber here. We could build more boats, Amergin.”
“And sail where? We were exceedingly fortunate to arrive here alive and make landfall. Besides, who would build the boats? I don’t like to say this, but you are not a young man, and time is not on your side.”
Sakkar shrugged both of his shoulders. “Time is different here.”
Amergin raised an eyebrow. “You’ve noticed that too? Sometimes you surprise me, Sakkar. You may be right about time being different here, but I don’t know how we can use it to our advantage. The best thing for you and me, my friend, is to shape the lives we have left so they are worth the effort we made to come here.”
My friend. Sakkar felt a quiet glow inside. The bard calls me his friend. Whatever happens, my life will have been worth the effort.
The two men continued to sit beneath the tree with Clarsah in her case propped between them. There was no more conversation, only a companionable silence, until the petulant tug of necessity dragged them to their feet and back to the Gaelic encampment.
The shape that future lives would take was very much in question. The division of the island would prove to be less troublesome than dealing with divided loyalties. Hard choices had to be made not only by the Mílesians but also by the Gaelician clan chiefs, because neither Éremón nor Éber Finn possessed their total loyalty. Every chieftain had to weigh the potential advantages—or disadvantages—of going with one brother or the other. A man must peer into the murky future and try to guess what it held for him and his clan.
In the privacy of their blankets on the damp ground, intense discussions took place between husbands and wives. The women of the Gael did not always agree with their menfolk. Under brehon law, they had rights of their own. More than one chieftain set out in the morning to assure Éremón that he stood with him, only to return later to report a change of mind. Éber Finn had the women’s vote.
Within the family of Mílesios it was agreed—after a lot of arguing—that the widow and children of Ír would go with Éremón. The remainder of Donn’s family would accompany Éber Finn. But that was only the beginning.
Over a period of several days, the entire tribe of the Gael—including children, grandchildren, cousins, adherents of nominal kinship and freemen—had to be similarly apportioned. Amergin’s presence was required again and again to persuade someone of the necessity of agreement.
Sometimes he succeeded. Sometimes not.
Inevitably, the perceived self interest of every individual was involved. Those who accepted Éremón as leader of the tribe were determined to stay with him because they believed he would be more prosperous and his wealth would benefit them.
Those who doubted Éremón’s self-proclaimed right to rule wanted to follow Éber Finn not only because they preferred him personally but also because they wanted to protest his brother’s usurpation of power.
In some families, there were quarrels that would not be forgiven for generations. If ever. The Gael knew how to carry a grudge.
Éremón and Éber Finn also had to agree on the distribution of communal property and of the livestock, except for their own horses. The brothers quarreled over each individual cow and sheep. Every cracked water jar and sickly hound puppy became an item of inestimable value whose acquisition was imperative for both sides. Insults were hurled and fists were shaken, but there was no actual fighting between them.
The most important question already had been decided.
While irrevocable choices were being made, Sakkar considered his own fate. My friend. That relationship must be weighed against all the others.
At the end of a long, fraught day, when the livestock finally had been separated, Sakkar sought out the bard. He found him sitting on the wrong side of a cooking fire, oblivio
us to the smoke blowing into his eyes. Sakkar startled Amergin out of his reverie by saying, “You’re downwind here, why don’t we go around to the other side?”
“A friend who looks after me,” the bard said. “I’m a lucky man.”
As they waited for the deer roasting on the spit, Sakkar remarked, “Everything seems different now, doesn’t it? Even the people. I miss the way Éremón used to laugh at himself; he doesn’t do that anymore.”
“He doesn’t laugh at much of anything now,” Amergin agreed. “Éber Finn has become the sunnier man. It happens that way sometimes; the gentlest calf in a herd can develop into a nasty-tempered bull.”
Sakkar said, “I’ve been giving a lot of thought to what you said about shaping our lives. If I only had myself to consider, I think I would rather follow Éber Finn. But you and Soorgeh will be with Éremón, and Soorgeh has a red-haired daughter called Sive…”
Amergin smiled. “You have come a long way, little shipwright.”
“I have; a very long way. From Tyre on the Middle Sea to Ierne on the edge of the world. Now I want to build a family. My own family!” Sakkar abruptly flung his two arms wide.
Amergin had never liked Sakkar as much as he did in that moment, when the essence of the Celtic spirit shone from a swarthy little man born on a very different shore.
“You have my blessing,” the bard told him. “Build yourself a stronghold and sire a lot of children on that handsome big daughter of Soorgeh’s.”
“I intend to,” Sakkar replied, deciding in that moment to let his beard grow. “We will need many children if we want to people this island with Gaels.”
The riddle of time as experienced on Ierne continued to intrigue Amergin. The Gael, whose tribal ancestors were Celts from the cold forests of the north, had always been an energetic people. Eager and naturally impatient, they ran more than they walked. Their every movement was brisk, and their voices were often strident.
Yet something was happening to the Gaelic branch on Ierne. Perhaps only a druid would have noticed that Éremón’s people—Éremón’s new tribe—were almost languid as they went about their daily tasks, frequently stopping to talk to one another at great length about trivial matters. Éber Finn’s people—Éber Finn’s new tribe—slowed the rhythm of their speech and lowered their voices to a musical lilt. They too engaged in rambling conversations, as if the day would never end and they had nothing else to do.
Yet not so long ago these same men and women would have been bustling with energy as they contemplated their next adventure.
Not so long ago? How long ago?
When Taya strolled by, carrying a basket half filled with nuts she had gathered for Éremón, Amergin called out to her. She turned toward him with the brightest of smiles. “So the great bard remembers my name,” she teased. “I am flattered.”
He did not feel playful. “How long have we been here, Taya?”
“Since before the great battle. Why?”
“That isn’t what I meant. How long have we been on Ierne?”
She set the basket down on one of the wooden benches that Éremón had constructed so he could sit and watch his fort going up. Surreptitiously smoothing her gown, she said, “I don’t understand what you’re asking, Amergin. Is this another of your druid riddles?”
“I just want to know how long: how many days, how many changes of the moon?”
“I don’t count them. I don’t count anything but strands on a loom or eggs in a nest. Why should I? That’s all I need to know. The seasons here are very mild, and one is much like another, so I cannot tell how many have passed.”
“We need to be more precise than that, Taya. We shall be ploughing and planting grain, lambs and calves will be born, fruit will ripen and must be found and picked at the right time … We have to tend to everything in its own season.”
Exasperated, she said, “Is that what you want? To be in charge of the seasons? I never did understand you, Amergin.”
“No,” he replied sadly. “You never did.”
The day of Éber Finn’s departure arrived. His followers said good-bye to family and friends on Éremón’s side as if they never expected to see them again. They knew they would be separated by more than distance. A shadow that only a druid could see was standing in their way. Like splitting a mighty oak log, a wedge had been driven into the heart of the tribe and was pushing the two halves apart.
Colptha, Amergin thought bitterly. I should have stopped him sooner. But he was my brother.
The justification gave the bard no comfort. The solidity of time might be uncertain, but as far as he knew it only ran one way; there was no going back.
Events had their own momentum now.
TWENTY-ONE
ONE MORNING Mongan awoke with a smile on his face. Even in the permanent dusk of the bats’ cave, I could see it. My father had not smiled since the Day of Catastrophe, not even when little Drithla’s first tooth appeared. But when he spoke today, his voice was bright and cheerful. “I am going to the cairn today,” he announced, “and I’m not going to wait for sundown to do it. Would you like to accompany me, Joss?”
I need not ask which cairn; there was only one for my father. Yet since it was completed, he had never visited the burial mound of our clan. Neither of us did. Lerys was not there; she was dancing in the meadow with the butterflies.
When we told the Dagda where we were going, he urged us to change our minds. “Let her peace be undisturbed, Mongan, it was hard won.”
“Peace?!” my father burst out. “Do you think she is at peace now, when I need her so much—do you think my Lerys is lying in the dark with her eyes closed and her hands folded and a dimple in her chin? Then you know nothing about her, old man!”
His irreverence startled me. My father had never showed the Dagda anything but respect. Deeply embarrassed, I snatched up my cloak and followed my father as he left the cave. I could not imagine what I would say when we next faced the Dagda.
Mongan set out quickly, gathering speed with every stride. My legs had grown long enough to allow me to keep up with him, which was just as well, since he never looked around to see if I was there. The pace cannot have been easy for him; he had never fully recovered from the injuries he suffered on that fateful day. Yet he ran with the gliding gait that only the Túatha Dé Danann know … and I ran with him. Ran until distance ceased to matter. Ran until the cairn rose before us, looming through a silver mist.
Mongan stood still.
I halted beside him. He reached up and put his hand on my head just for a moment, ruffling my hair. “Remember, Joss?”
“I always do.”
“That’s good.” The lines and wrinkles that grief had carved in his face were fading away. My father looked young, almost boyish. “Stay here and watch,” he said, “so you will know.”
“Know what?”
Instead of answering, he began to climb up the jagged surface of the cairn. The stones had been skilfully placed to discourage anyone from attempting them, and I feared the effort was beyond his current capabilities. The slightest misstep would result in a nasty fall.
I prepared myself to go to his rescue.
The mist swirled around me. Touched my cheek. Bathed my eyes, blurred my vision. I could taste it on my lips; the taste of an ancient sea.
When my eyes cleared, I saw that Mongan had made it to the top unaided. The mound must have been higher than I thought; he looked very far away. He was standing as straight as a blade of grass in leaf-spring, fresh and young and new. Slowly, one step at a time, he began to turn, sweeping the land with his gaze.
When his eyes reached me, he lifted one hand in a cheerful wave, and …
… was not there anymore.
I thought he had fallen down the other side. I ran all the way around the great cairn looking for him. Calling his name. Trying to calm the fierce pounding of my heart.
I never saw Mongan again.
Yet sometimes I still feel his hand resting on my head.
Just for a moment. Ruffling my hair.
It was nightfall by the time I returned to the cave. Going in, I met the bats coming out and had to duck low to allow their passage. Exhaustive searching had failed to find my father or any trace of him, nor had I seen anyone else who might know what happened to him. I reported this to the Dagda and Melitt in a low voice; the children did not need to be alarmed just yet. I would leave it to the Dagda to explain to them in his own way and his own time, as teachers do.
He listened to me without comment, then turned to his wife. “So here we are,” he said.
Melitt took his gnarled old hand and pressed it against her cheek. “You expected…”
“Of course, though I doubt if Joss did. No child can be ready to see a parent go, and Mongan did not prepare him adequately. It’s understandable. His heart and mind were still with Lerys and…”
“To see a parent go where?” I interrupted. “Where has my father gone, and when will he come back? If you know, you must tell me!”
I thought my earnest pleading would force an answer, a straight answer. Now, so very much later, I can see that it did.
“Mongan won’t be coming back,” the Dagda told me. “They almost never do. And who can blame them?”
He went to stand in the entrance of the cave and gazed down at the river. The shape of his back and shoulders silhouetted against the light told me I would get no further answers from the Dagda.
Melitt pitied me, I think, but she knew this was something I had to face alone. She busied herself with a woman’s tasks, and I envied her their protection.
Thinking about myself again, at first I did not appreciate the difference Mongan’s loss would make to anyone else. When the Dananns learned he had gone and was not coming back, they were stunned.
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