“No. I’m like a hound born without a tail. Fortunately for me, there is a place in life for those who won’t fight; druids have other talents to contribute.”
“Stay here and contribute them to me.” Shinann of the Túatha Dé Danann ran one tiny hand across the slight swelling of her belly.
“I’ll come back,” the Mílesian promised. “I give my word.”
After putting Clarsah into her protective satchel, he harnessed his chariot team. He drove them hard, harder than he liked, for he was gentle with his animals. But the druid in him was aware of disaster.
Yet could not prevent it.
By the time he reached the Hill of the Oxen, the ground was trampled and bloodied, testament to a battle fought without mercy. Man and ox and chariot horse had been struck down in a frenzy. The longer the war was postponed, the more rage had built up, until it exploded like a thunderclap.
Amergin was heartsick. There was no visible difference between what had happened here and what had been done to the Túatha Dé Danann.
He found Éber Finn lying on his shield with his empty eyes staring at the sky. Seeing nothing. Ever again.
Amergin leaped from his chariot and gathered his dead brother into his arms.
There were no words for what he was feeling. In the beginning, Ierne had been a dream for him, the embodiment of a fantasy that had lurked in the depths of his heart for as long as he could remember. When he found Shinann—or she found him—the dream had acquired flesh and blood and a future.
Then flesh and blood had littered the earth and his brothers were dead—with the exception of Éremón, who was responsible for this latest war, this unforgiveable crime.
The best and the worst had happened, and Amergin was caught between them.
Still holding Éber Finn’s lifeless body, he called out to a blood-smeared warrior who was gathering up weapons. “Who did this?”
The man would not meet his eyes. “Éremón, with his own hands.”
Amergin wished he could return to his chariot and drive away at top speed, but he had no choice. His druid obligations were a gift of his birth. He laid Éber Finn back on the trampled earth so he could remove Clarsah from her satchel. Then he began to sing his brother’s eulogy. He needed no time to compose it; the words came from his heart. He sang of the cheerful boy and the energetic youth; the bold adventurer and the tender father. All the parts that went together to form a complete man. An irreplaceable man.
The other Mílesians—Éremón’s Mílesians, since Éber Finn’s had fled when their chieftain was killed—gathered around the bard to listen. Many of them had tears in their eyes. But there was no sign of Éremón himself.
When Amergin finished the eulogy, he gave orders that Éber Finn’s body be treated with dignity and returned to his wives and children as soon as possible. Then he searched among the other dead, seeking and mourning friends. He found Gosten. And Soorgeh. And a small swarthy man who was lying facedown in the mud.
Amergin felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. He crouched beside the body and turned it over. Wiped the face clean.
In death, the features of Sakkar the Phoenician might have been mistaken for those of a Gael.
Amergin pressed his lips to the familiar forehead. “I will care for your family like my own,” he whispered. “I promise they will want for nothing, my friend.”
My friend.
Before he returned to Shinann, Amergin went to see Éremón in his stronghold. It was where the bard had expected to find him, typically ignoring the consequences of his actions. Leaving others to bury the dead and raise the orphans.
Éremón welcomed Amergin enthusiastically without noticing the expression on his brother’s face. To Éremón, the arrival of the bard was simply the perfect opportunity to boast of his battlefield prowess and relate his plans for further dividing Ierne. His loyal followers were entitled to receive additional rewards.
All of this must go into the praise-poem that Amergin would compose in his honor. Éremón made a great point of stressing his generosity; he was going to give part of the southern portion to Éber Finn’s sons. Only a part, but it must be commemorated. A victor did not have to surrender any of his winnings to his defeated opponent. Éremón wanted future generations to admire his magnanimous gesture.
Amergin listened to this recital with folded arms but made no comment. Nor did he eat any of the food Éremón offered him. Or drink any of the honey wine.
When Éremón started talking about the territory he intended to give to the future sons of Amergin, the bard could no longer contain himself.
He denounced his brother in a voice like thunder. “You have no right to carve up this island with your bloody sword! I tell you this, Éremón; the poets I sire will never stand with hands outstretched for your favors. My children will celebrate life instead of death, and one day all Ierne will be theirs. Bard land. Bard land!”
Amergin turned on his heel and strode from the hall with his red cloak billowing behind him.
Éremón’s followers gathered around their chieftain, wringing their hands and asking if the bard would come back. One declared, “If we have lost the chief bard, we are truly cursed!” No druid diviner was needed to interpret the portents. The atmosphere in Éremón’s fort went from celebratory to funereal.
The singing wheels of Amergin’s chariot whirled him away down a road Éremón would never find, and Clarsah rode on his shoulder.
Shinann knew the Dananns must be looking for her; when she opened her mind, she heard a familiar voice calling her name. But she had found what she was seeking and wanted time to savor it. She did not intend to break with her tribe forever, although Amergin had broken with his.
For a while, it was enough for them just to be together.
Their isolation ended when Amergin brought another woman home. “Sive was married to my friend who died in battle,” the bard explained, “and I vowed to take care of his family. As you can see, she is with child. Children,” he amended with a nod to the red-haired woman’s swollen belly. “Sive is carrying twins.”
Shinann chortled with glee and touched her own stomach.
Amergin smiled too. “Now we have the seeds of our clan.”
They knew their little wickerwork dwelling would not be adequate for an expanding family, but they could build a larger one. Or consider other options.
When Shinann made the suggestion Amergin started to reject it—then thought again. The Mílesians had come to Ierne seeking a new beginning. What new beginning could be more propitious than the one she proposed?
“Do you think your people would accept us?” he asked Shinann. “We were the enemy. Not me myself, and not Sive either, but our tribe. The Túatha Dé Danann must hate us.”
“Hate destroys,” she said flatly. “There has been too much destruction already. Only a few of my tribe are left, and we never have enough children. Adding three at one time would be a cause for great celebration.”
Amergin raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
THIRTY-TWO
WHILE I WAS WAITING in the dark of the temple for the coming of the light, something wonderful had happened to me. I had become Aware.
Wisdom dwells in the sacred places of the earth.
As surely as if I had seen it with my own eyes, I knew that at the moment of creation, the Great Fire of Life had blazed across the abyss. Suns and stars had been born of dust; living sparks had seeded empty space. Life in its myriad forms had been granted immortality.
In the end, we are perfectly safe. All things are one and part of the same Word.
The ritual we had performed in the temple was an echo from Before the Before. When the narrow bar of light penetrated the womb of the earth, it had replicated the union of male and female, flesh and spirit. By harmonizing opposing forces—keeping everything in balance—existence was assured. Our celebration had summoned our yesterdays and carried them into the future.
For the Túatha Dé Danann, the midwint
er sunrise had been a Being Together.
By the time we left the ridge above the river, darkseason was receding. Minimally at first, but surely. Life would return day by day, warming the earth. We would need to be cautious on our way west, but we felt much stronger than when we arrived, and more confident. Revitalized.
I could sense excitement running through the other Dananns like sap in leaf-spring. As we traveled westward through the forests, I recalled how it felt to be a tree. Shinann had the gift, but so did I. When no one was looking, I stepped away from the others and concealed myself behind a majestic oak crowned with mistletoe.
A few moments of intense concentration and … it came easier this time. The weight and power of the massive trunk, the incredible grip of the roots sinking into the earth. The magical tingle of the mistletoe with its healing properties …
“Where are you?” an anxious voice called.
I had not meant to worry them. My little experiment had been selfish, and a leader should not be selfish. There was a brief flurry of branches and bark while I restored myself, then another flurry while the Dananns crowded around me, wanting an explanation. Most of them had never seen shapechanging before.
“My father had the gift,” I told them, “and I inherited it from him.”
“Show us!” “Teach us to do it, too!”
We were halfway home by then, in an area settled by the New People. It was not the place to stop and attempt new magic. “When we reach the caves I shall try,” I said, but I was careful to add, “if you possess the gift.” They were so eager that I wanted them to succeed, but how could they? The ones who desired it the most might have the least ability.
The Dagda stirred in my mind like a gentle shadow. He had taught me many things that I did not believe I could learn.
The ability to teach might be a greater gift than silent talking.
We hurried westward until we came to a lonely farmstead at the edge of a dark lake. Soon the sun would drop below the hills. A small herd of black cows was penned near the lake, waiting to be turned out to graze during the night.
The prospect of warm, foaming milk was irresistible.
Leaving the others hidden in the woods, three of us went to fetch the cattle. They were not upset by our approach. They knew the Túatha Dé Danann were no threat to animals. Three placid cows allowed us to lead them away.
We warmed our hands in our armpits before we began milking.
No meal ever tasted better than that hot milk. We had drunk our fill and were taking the cows back to their pen when someone emerged from the farmhouse nearby: a woman carrying two wooden buckets. I could see her clearly in the light of the setting sun.
The shape of her head identified her as a Mílesian. A cluster of ringlets clung to her temples and fell into blue-black waves that rippled over her shoulders. Her skin was fair, but her eyes were as dark and bright as those of a raven.
If the ages of the Mílesians had corresponded with those of the Túatha Dé Danann, she would have been a little younger than I was, a girl just ripening into womanhood.
We stared at each other. I don’t know what she saw, but her eyes grew very wide.
Her body was neatly made and high-breasted, with a lovely curve to the hips. Apart from that, there was nothing to captivate a man, yet I looked and looked and could not look away.
She could feel my eyes caressing her. Smiling, she said, “What do you want of me?”
Not smiling, I said, “Everything.”
Her name, she told me, was Alana. Her parents had died of an illness that the Dananns could have cured, but it baffled the Mílesians. She was left to raise two little brothers by herself on more land than she could ever work. One of her neighbors would take over the land whenever he liked. “Perhaps tomorrow,” she said sadly. “Or the next change of the moon, at the latest. I shall become his servant, and if I’m very lucky he might let me keep one of the cows so I can feed my brothers.”
When she asked my name, I was surprised to hear myself say the last thing the Dagda had said to me. “Elgolai.”
“What does that mean—Elgolai?” Alana tasted the unfamiliar word with her lips and tongue.
“It means ‘He goes out,’” I replied. “As in, ‘he goes out looking for a wife.’”
She looked at me from under her eyelashes. “And are you? Looking for a wife?”
“Not now,” I said. “I had to go out to find one, though.” As the Dagda had known I must.
The night was cold, and Alana insisted I bring my companions into the house. It consisted of one room built of timber and caulked with mud, with a fire pit in the middle of the earthen floor and a sleeping loft above.
My company of Dananns filled the little house to overflowing. Yet there was enough room for all of us.
I brought in some wood from a stack outside the house and helped Alana set it alight. The smoke could only escape from the open doorway; the Mílesians did not understand the necessity of a smoke hole in the ceiling.
But the fire was warm and merry, and Alana’s eyes were merry and warm.
Her little brothers watched from the loft while she fed us dark bread—not as good as Melitt’s—and golden honey sweeter than I had ever tasted.
When we left in the morning, we took Alana and her brothers with us.
I, who remember everything, do not recall asking her if she would come. Perhaps it was not necessary.
Hand to hand and heart to heart, we married in the way of my race. The Dananns witnessed our vows to each other. When they sang the song of wedding for us, it sounded like summer wind.
As we neared the western caves, I tried to prepare Alana for the life she would live with me. “My people are not like yours,” I began—but she laughed.
“I know it already, Elgolai. None of us have pointed ears.”
That distinction was the last thing I would have noticed.
The tribe waiting in the caves must have been astonished to see me arrive with a young woman and two little boys.
They were no more astonished than I was a few days later, when Shinann joined us bringing a very tall dark-haired man called Amergin, whom she introduced as the chief bard of the Mílesians. They were accompanied by a member of his tribe called Sive, a widow who expected to bear twins very soon. “In fact,” Shinann said laughingly, “I’m surprised we made it this far.”
Darkseason was over. The light had returned in full measure. Our tribe was growing.
On his first night with us, Amergin played the harp. The golden voice of Clarsah rang through the caves of crystal like music from the stars. We watched spellbound as the bard’s fingers caressed the brass strings of his instrument. How could I ever have thought the Mílesians were clumsy?
The following morning, Amergin began collecting the stories of our race. They would come back to us as poetry to be remembered for generations.
I began to understand why a bard of the Gael was the equal of a prince.
My Alana had something in common with the Dagda’s wife, Melitt. Not only did she bake bread—Melitt taught her to add fruit and other secret ingredients—but she also adjusted well to changed circumstances. Life in a cave with total strangers was not what Alana had expected when she and her family came to Ierne, but soon she was pointing out the advantages of cave living to me and teaching the Túatha Dé Danann the exuberant dances of Iberia.
Sive gave birth to healthy twins, a boy and a girl. The boy had black hair and almond-shaped eyes that she said were shaped like his father’s. The girl entered the world with a bright cap of red curls. There had been no twins born to the Túatha Dé Danann in living memory, but we were quick to claim this pair. In the caves above the deep valley, two very different races had come together like two rivers flowing into one lake.
Our children would belong to one tribe.
On the day our daughter Cara was born, Alana and I wept tears of joy. Her ears were only slightly pointed—you would not notice unless you were looking for it—but her e
yes were enormous.
The Túatha Dé Danann had been defeated in battle and almost obliterated, but the infusion of Mílesian blood would make a substantial difference to our race. The sons of the Míl were fighters; the spark of life they carried was very strong. They would always seek the far horizon.
We had thought the western caves would be the last refuge of our tribe, but we were mistaken. Within a generation, the Dananns were spreading across Ierne again. They became a vivid but unseen presence in lonely glens and on the tops of mountains. Or in the fragrant countryside, where their music drifted over the nearest settlement and haunted the dreams of the Gael.
Or they went into the sea and shapechanged into the most magical of Manannan’s creatures, the seals.
Amergin composed poetry about them too.
More Dananns took mates among the Gael. Instead of producing just one child, or two at the most, the marriage of the two races resulted in larger families. Their offspring rarely inherited the long life spans of the Túatha Dé Danann, but other valuable gifts came to them through blood and bone, so a balance was struck. These children of the new generation were never ordinary. They carried dreams in their eyes.
They loved music and loved words that made music. A glimpse of beauty could stop them in their tracks. Intrigued by overgrown pathways and unsolved mysteries, they walked in the rain and talked to the trees and stared at the stars. The hard-and-fast parameters of time could not hold them; they adapted time to their requirements and made it flexible. If the truth was unpalatable, they embroidered it to shape a better reality.
Gradually, they repopulated the sacred island.
Even today, you might meet some of them in Ierne. Or anywhere else in the world.
You may be one yourself.
The Túatha Dé Danann called me their chieftain, and I did my best to supply the leadership they needed, but I was not a chieftain; I was a teacher. It is the nobler title.
I instructed my people in the art of shapechanging so they would be able to camouflage themselves if necessary. As I had anticipated, some learned more readily than others. A few found it addictive. Little Piriome gave herself to a willow tree so totally she never came back.
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