Winter deepened. From time to time people would come up from the ráth to bring us provisions; occasionally they would take back a sheep to slaughter, but we did not go down into the valley again until the festival of midwinter which is called Alban Arthuan. It came about like this:
One evening, I found Madog standing before the entrance to the sheepfold gazing intently at the flock. I imagined he was counting them and had discovered one missing. But when I asked, he said, “No, it is for the fobairt. I must choose the one which is to be given.”
“Fobairt?”
“It is…,” he squinted one eye and stuck out his lip with the effort of his thought—“when a thing is burned for the good of the ráth.”
“A sacrifice,” I suggested. “The sheep is killed for the people.”
He nodded. “It is that,” he said, and went on to describe the event as a very great feast in which the entire tribe came together to observe the rite and celebrate.
“Celebrate what?”
Madog thought for a moment, then shook his head. He could not say.
He chose a young male from the flock and around its neck tied a length of braided rope, the other end of which he tied to a post in one corner of the enclosure. The next morning he led the sacrificial sheep out from the others, fed and watered it, and then we descended the trail to the valley, leading the young sheep by a bit of rope, with the rest of the flock following as they would.
It had snowed a day or so before, making the narrow track slippery in places. The Vale of Braghad stretched out below: a wide expanse of glistening white extending all the way to the sea. By the time we reached the valley floor, the sun had broken through the clouds; the sky cleared, revealing patches of astonishing blue which grew larger as the day progressed.
Tribesmen from the other settlement joined us on the trail leading to the ráth; among the usual barbarians were men I had never seen before. In appearance they were wholly unlike any of the others. There were six of them, walking in pairs, a young man together with an elder. The younger men wore gray robes and cloaks of the same color, the older men cloaks and robes of various colors: one green, one blue, one yellow. They kept to themselves, neither talking to nor joining in with the others on the trail. The elder men carried long staffs or rods; the younger held branches cut from yew trees.
“Who are they?” I asked when they had passed.
“They are,” Madog answered, his voice dropping to a whisper, “…the filidh.”
I could make little of the word—and Madog could tell me nothing more—so I waited to see what I could learn.
Upon reaching the ráth the others on the road stepped aside to allow these men to enter first, and then the rest of us followed. The six went directly to the king’s house, where they entered at once. Madog and I took the sheep to the far side of the settlement, where a special enclosure had been set up; in it were a young bull and a red pig. One of the valley herdsmen was keeping watch over the animals, so we left the sheep in his care.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“There will be food,” Madog replied. He looked away and added, “But they do not let me have any.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged.
If they were going to deny me a portion of the feast, I would need a better reason than that. “Show me where it is.”
He led me to a place behind the king’s hall where a pit had been dug in the ground and filled with burning embers. Over the pit, timber beams supported an enormous spit on which an entire ox was roasting. A long iron trough lay across the coals to catch the melting fat, and the aroma of that roasting meat filled the wintry air.
Across from the cooking fire a large wooden vat rested on a tripod of tree stumps. People thronged the vat as cups and bowls of beer were poured and distributed. Nearby, another fire was burning beneath an iron tripod from which was suspended a great black caldron in which a thick stew of beans, salt pork, and turnips was cooking.
“Stay there by the fire,” I told Madog, indicating the pit where the ox was roasting. “I will soon return,” I said, and waded into the crowd around the beer vat. Intent on their own cups, no one paid any attention to me; I stuck out my hands and soon came away with two big wooden bowls of foaming beer.
I returned to where Madog was waiting, gave him a bowl, and said, “Salve, frater!”
The first bowl went down quickly, so I fetched a second, and we stood drinking and warming ourselves by the fire, watching the men turn the ox on the spit. The beer was cold and good, and the fire pleasantly hot on my face and hands. I was enjoying the sensation when I felt something sharp jab me in the back, high up between my shoulder blades.
I turned and saw a young warrior standing behind me, a short spear in his hand. It was, I recognized, the one who had accosted me at the gate the night I entered the king’s house.
“The fleá is not for slaves,” he said. Despite the cold he wore neither cloak nor tunic but went about bare-chested. His face was red, and I guessed he had been standing too near the vat for some time.
“If the king sends me away, I will go,” I told him. “Until then I will stay.”
“I say you will go now.” He advanced on me and, holding the spear crosswise, shoved me with it. I lost my balance and fell, sending the cup and contents flying. He stood over me laughing.
As it happened, this deed did not go unnoticed. I heard a voice call out and looked around to see Forgall and two other warriors approaching. They said something to the young warrior, who pointed to me and made a slurred reply; the words ‘filthy Briton’ were the only ones I understood.
I rolled onto my feet and stood to face him. Forgall called the youth, beckoning him away. “It seems you are the one who is to go,” I told him.
I turned from him and walked to retrieve my cup. I bent to pick it up, and as I straightened, felt another sharp jab in my back, harder this time. I let out a cry and whirled around. He leveled the spear, ready to plunge the blade into my stomach.
Forgall shouted. “Ercol, stop!”
The youth hesitated. I saw his eyes slide away. Seizing my chance, I took hold of the shaft of the spear and yanked it forward and down. Ercol’s grip was strong; he did not release the weapon but followed it. His face met the wooden bowl in my hand as he went down. He fell on hands and knees, blood streaming from his nose. I picked up the spear and stood over him.
“Enough,” said Forgall, putting out his hand. “It is an offense to fret this day with bloodshed. Ercol was wrong. He has been punished. That is the end of it.”
“Let it be as you say,” I replied. Taking the spear, I turned and tossed it into the flaming pit beneath the ox.
There came a growl from behind and Ercol threw himself at me. His arms went around my legs, and before I knew it, I was on the ground and he was on top of me. He grabbed a handful of my hair and began banging my head against the dirt. I swung out with my fist and caught him on the neck, but he did not let go. I swung again and again—to no avail. I could not loosen his hold.
Ercol gave my head a last hard slam and released me. I rolled onto my knees, and he was there before me with a knife in his hand and a wicked grin on his bloody face.
I climbed slowly to my feet. He took a cautious step forward, and I edged back—only to find myself hard up against the cooking pit. Heat from the flaming coals lashed my legs and back.
I made to move aside and away from the pit, but he lunged and closed off my retreat. I could tell from the sickly look on his face that he meant to either gut me or shove me into the fiery coals. I glanced to the warriors for help, but they stood looking on, content to let the fight take its course. Others had gathered, too; they ringed the pit, jeering, and shouting advice to one or the other of us. I could not see Madog; he must have fled when the trouble started.
Ercol swung out with the knife. I dodged. My foot caught the edge of the pit and went in. I fell forward onto my hands, dragging my foot up out of the hot coals. Ercol saw his cha
nce and swung again. I hurled myself to the side and felt the blade slice through the sleeve of my shirt.
A thin, cold sting nipped the flesh of my upper arm. I tried to roll away before he could strike again, but he was there, standing before me, the knife making lazy circles in front of my face. The next thrust would cut deep, and there was nothing I could do about it.
I saw his face tense. His arm drew back. I braced myself to take the blow, clinging to the desperate hope that I might yet evade it somehow.
He drew a breath, and I saw his hand start forward.
In the same instant I heard a shout: very loud, very clear, and with a force that seemed to shake the earth. The cry was a single word, which I did not know, but which halted the headstrong warrior’s hand in midstroke.
In the uncanny silence that followed the shout, I stared at the knife, expecting it to slash forward at any moment as Ercol’s hate overcame the shouted command. One moment passed and then another, and still the knife hung before my face. And then it began to quiver—as if all Ercol’s strength were bent on pushing that slender blade forward but he could not. I looked up and saw that indeed his face was pinched in pain with the effort, but something restrained him. Although he struggled against it, some greater strength stayed his hand. The point of the knife began to shake and then to dip toward the earth. Still Ercol resisted. I stared in amazement at the strange sight of a man striving with all his strength against an invisible opponent.
This astounding contest lasted only a moment longer. Ercol, the veins bulging from his forehead and neck, gave out a strangled cry and then collapsed; the knife went spinning to the ground, and he fell back, panting like a beaten dog, exhausted.
I tried to stand, but my legs were unsteady, and I fell forward onto my hands and knees. I became aware that someone was there with me, kneeling beside me. I turned my head to see a young man dressed all in blue—one of those I had seen entering the king’s house.
I tried to get up again, but he said, “Rest a little. Catch your breath.”
I gulped down some air, and my head cleared. The man bending over me was but a few years older than myself. His clothes were plain but well made; his belt was cloth and of the same stuff as his robe and cloak. He wore neither brooch nor pin, bands nor rings, his only ornament the thick silver torc around his neck. Although no taller than myself, he was stout-bodied, with big hands and a large, square, close-shorn head of thick dark hair, giving the appearance of a much larger man.
“You are a bold one,” he said amiably, “taking on a warrior like that.”
“I am not feeling so bold now,” I said.
“Perhaps it was a mistake to throw Ercol’s spear into the fire.”
“No doubt you are right.” I made to stand and felt a strong hand take me under the arm and lift me to my feet.
He plucked at the cut in my sleeve and looked at the gash on my arm. “No great harm done,” he concluded. “Wash the wound and keep it clean.”
With that he inclined his head and walked away.
“I thank you—whoever you may be,” I called after him.
“I am Cormac Miach,” he replied, looking back over his shoulder. “Farewell, slave boy.”
Forgall directed the warriors to haul Ercol away. They picked him up, set him on his feet, and led him off toward the beer vat. Madog came puffing up, shaking with excitement. “He did it. He saved you,” he said, brushing ineffectually at my clothes. “I knew he would.”
“I suppose he did,” I allowed. “But what did he do?”
“He used the briamon. Did you not hear it?”
“I heard. What is it?”
“The druid folk have many powers. They can do wonders.”
I stared at him. “Druids?”
Madog paused. “They are druids, yes. That is what they are called in Prydain.”
“I know that,” I told him bluntly. “I thought you said they were called filidh.”
“Filidh…druid—it is the same.”
Before I could question him further, there came a blaring sound like the bellow of a bull elk. “Hurry!” said Madog, pulling me away. We joined the crowd as it assembled outside the king’s house, where a large stone had been set up in the center of the yard. The throng formed a wide circle around the stone. It was crowded, but Madog and I found places in the front rank, so that my view was unobstructed and I could see all that took place.
When the gathering was complete, the carynx—a large, circular horn of worked bronze—sounded again, and the filidh emerged from the king’s house, led by the young men in gray, each of whom held a yew branch. Their elder brethren followed, each with a different implement or instrument: One carried a strange curved knife with a golden blade, another a small harp, and the last a flat silver pan. They proceeded to the stone and took their places beside it. King Miliucc, his brown-haired lady Queen Grania and several members of his house came to stand a little apart while the warrior with the carynx moved slowly around the outer rim of the circle, pausing at each of the four points—north, east, south, west—to sound the long, low, belly-shivering note.
As that note faded into silence, the fellow in the green robe wielding the curved knife stepped forward. “That is the ollamh,” Madog informed me. “He is their chieftain.”
The ollamh gestured to the one with the harp, who came forth and took his place before the standing stone. This stone was buff-colored, almost as tall as a man, domed at the top, and shaped along its length so that it was nearly round. He stood a few paces from the stone, facing it and cradling the harp against his chest. At his behest the three gray-robed druids approached and, using their yew branches, began to brush the stone all over from top to bottom, slowly revolving around the stone as they brushed. Then, still circling slowly, they swept the ground around the stone.
Striking a chord with his hand on the strings of the harp, the druid sang out in a loud, chanting voice, “Dearc!” he cried, “Behold! Kinsmen, brothers, sisters, behold: the Lia Óráid!”
I puzzled over this for a moment before the meaning came clear. Lia Óráid…Stone of Speech.
“Alban Arthuan is at hand! Behold, the tomb of every hope!”
At this, the gray druids carefully placed the yew branches to form a triangle at the base of the yellow stone, whereupon they retired to the perimeter to watch as one by one the animals were led to the sacrifice.
The ritual slaughter itself was quickly and skillfully performed. The first to come forward was a young bull; the beast was led to the stone and placed so to stand over one of the yew branches. Then, after moving three times around the stone while the ollamh strummed the harp, the two remaining druids proceeded to where it stood. While one held the silver pan beneath its neck, the other stepped close, spoke softly into the animal’s ear and, with a swift motion, drew the golden knife beneath its neck. The blood spurted hot and red, and in a moment the bull collapsed.
There was no terror, no struggle; the beast simply relaxed into death. The blood of the animal was collected in the silver pan and poured onto the stone. The sheep and the red pig were likewise dispatched, and their blood mingled with that of the bull.
I had heard of such barbarities—many times, to be sure. My grandfather had fulminated against them at every opportunity. He used to condemn druids and their pagan practices, which he called vile superstition of the most insidious kind. “They eat children, Succat,” he once told me, “and worship demons. The light of the Lord’s salvation shines not for them.”
But as I stood there, a member of Miliucc’s tribe, the curious ritual did not produce in me the revulsion I should have felt. Instead I found myself strangely moved by the well-meaning seriousness of the druids and the quiet respect afforded the sacrifice by the people themselves. There was nothing lurid or obscene about it, however misguided.
As the last animal died and its blood was poured onto the stone, the ollamh began playing the harp and singing. I could not understand much of the song—a few words here an
d there, but not enough to produce any meaning for me. When he finished, he cried, “Behold!” again, and pointed to the eastern sky, where the moon was just rising over the hills to pour a pale light into the Vale of Braghad. “Alban Arthuan,” he called, “the tomb of every hope, my people, for death is the gateway of all hope. Hear and remember!”
It was, I had to admit, very well done. The sacrifices were completed and the new season marked at the precise moment at which the sun set in the west and the moon rose in the east—a most auspicious time, Madog informed me with a knowing wink.
There was more singing then, and the sacrificial animals were taken away to be cleaned and cooked; their flesh would be shared out among the people of the tribe the next day. Ceremony completed, the feast resumed. There was singing and piping—odd, bag-shaped bladders with shrill, screechy pipes attached: an instrument to wake the dead—and a curious sort of jerky dancing. But with coming of night, the meat and ale made men belligerent. Both Madog and myself grew increasingly wary and fearful as it soon became apparent our presence was not warmly embraced by one and all. So after a little more to eat and drink, we crept away to a quiet corner to sleep beneath the eaves of one of the houses while the revel wore on.
At dawn, when the celebration was just ending, we gathered the flock and departed the ráth to make our slow way up the mountain. It would be many days before I saw either sun or moon again, but the quaint ritual of Alban Arthuan did somehow rekindle my hopes.
And if it is true that death is the gateway, old Madog’s foot was already on the threshold.
TWELVE
DESPITE THE SACRIFICE and celebration, winter, the old tyrant, remained firmly enthroned. Day succeeded day, bringing fog and freezing mist, rain and sleet, and nights of cold, raging wind. One morning I awakened to the sound of Madog coughing. We rose and went about our duties, and decided to take the sheep to graze. Madog reckoned that the snow had melted enough on the more distant south-facing slopes to make it worthwhile taking the sheep all that way. As the day seemed good, we packed some victuals and set off.
Patrick: Son of Ireland Page 11
