I stared at him. “What do you know of the Christian God?”
“I know what is to be known,” he answered. The druid-kind, I was learning, rarely answered a thing straight when they could evade it somehow.
Before I could protest that this was no answer at all, he said, “Iosa the Mighty, son of the Goodly Wise, has long been known to us.”
It was such rank nonsense I could think of no apt reply, so I said, “Who is this ‘us’ you speak of? You and your fellow idol worshippers?”
My nasty remark cut him; he did not expect it, and it stung. He winced, and fire came up in his eyes, but he held his tongue. In a moment, his expression softened. “You should not mock what lies beyond your grasp.”
He stood.
“I am sorry, Cormac. You are right. It was a stupid thing to say. Please, forget I said it.”
“Three things cannot be called back: the arrow when it speeds from the bow, the milk when the churn is upturned, the word when it leaps from the tongue.”
The color crept to my cheeks, and my ears burned under his gentle rebuke. “I am sorry, Cormac.”
He drew himself up. “Words are worth little when the heart refuses to hear. Therefore, judge us by our works.”
The offended druid turned and stumped away. I tried to call him back, to no avail. I was left alone with my regretful thoughts for the night.
Sionan arrived late the next day with supplies. “Never fear,” she said when I told her what had happened. “He cannot remain angry for long. Cormac is the mildest of men; when next you see him, he will have forgotten all about it.”
“You seem to know him very well,”
“How not?” she asked. “He is my brother.”
“Then I’m even more sorry than before. You and Cormac have been nothing but kindness itself. I had no right to speak to him as I did.”
“And I tell you he has already forgiven you.” She regarded me with an expression I could not read, then said, “But if you wish to make amends—”
“I do.”
“Then take off your filthy clothes and let me wash them.”
“But I—”
“Tch!” she said, raising a smooth eyebrow. “You should be happy someone is offering.”
“Sionan, I cannot move as it is,” I complained, “and anyway, I have nothing else to wear.”
“All you have to do is lie there beneath the fleeces until they’re dry.” She lowered the bag of provisions to the ground and stepped nearer. “Here, now, I will help you get them off.”
“Sionan, please, can we not let it wait?”
“I think it has waited too long already,” she said crisply.
“Off with them, now.”
I began removing my tunic, every movement a trial of stiffness and pain. I got it raised to my shoulders and could go no further. Sionan had to help me get it over my head, but as she tried to draw it over my splinted arm, I heard a rip as the well-worn fabric gave way.
“Not to worry,” she said, tossing my tunic aside. “Now your bríste.”
This was more difficult; I could do little more than lie back as, having loosened my trousers, she slid them down over my unbending legs. I pulled the fleeces over me once again, and looked at my once-fine clothes—now merely filth-crusted rags. “I fear they will not survive the washing,” I told her.
“Well,” she said doubtfully, holding up the threadbare trousers, “I will see what can be done.” Then she cast a critical eye over me. “And how long since you were bathed and washed?”
“I bathe,” I replied.
“When?”
“You cannot expect me to wash like this.” I held up my splinted arm.
“When?” she demanded.
“Not since the last beating.”
“And not before either,” she said.
“We have no soap,” I offered by way of explanation. “No one ever brings us any.”
“Well, I have soap,” she said. “I was going to use it for washing your clothes. You can have that.” She looked around. “Now, then…” She saw the stone basin outside the bothy. “There!”
“Sionan, have a heart,” I pleaded. “I cannot bathe in that. I am too big. Besides, what would we drink?”
“Come.” She moved quickly to me. “Get up on your feet. I will put some water aside for drinking, and then you can stand in the stoup.”
“Even if I could move, I would not do it,” I told her vehemently.
But she was no longer listening. She filled the bowls and waterskin and, taking some heated rocks from the fire, put them in the stoup to warm the water. And then, with no thought or care for my dignity, she pulled away the fleece and began pulling and prodding me to my feet. I shuffled on her arm to the basin and carefully stepped in, holding to the side of the bothy with my good hand. Even with the heated stones, the water was still icy cold, and I had to cling to the rough timber of the bothy to remain standing as Sionan doused me until I was drenched, and then she began to wash me.
The soap was hard and strong, and she was vigorous and unrelenting in her scouring of my poor, battered hide. Aching, shaking, humiliated, I stood to her ministrations. She talked while she worked, but I paid no attention; every movement brought a wince or a twinge of pain, and it took all my strength and concentration to keep from crying out.
Finally the ordeal was over. She emptied a few more bowls of water to rinse away the soap and then pronounced her victim clean. “Here, take my fallaing,” she said, draping her cloak over my shoulders. “There,” she cooed, “is that not better now?”
“It is,” I lied.
She helped to dry me and then stood a little apart, her head held to one side. “Human again,” she declared at last, and, with a quick, calculating glance at my long, unkempt hair, added, “nearly.”
She led me to Madog’s stone beside the fire ring and made me sit down. She fetched from the bag a bone comb and a pair of shears, small and finely made. “What is this?” I asked.
“Every sheep needs a good shearing now and then,” she replied, “and likewise every shepherd. Not so?”
With some difficulty she began dragging the comb through the wet, massed tangles of my hair, clucking her tongue at the wretched condition I had allowed myself to get into. There was still a large bump on my head where the spear shaft had cracked me, and I cried out whenever she passed over it. “Be quiet,” she ordered. “You could be making it easier, you know.”
“You could just let the warriors have at me again,” I whined. “I am certain they’d happily finish the job.”
“No one is ever going to beat you again,” she told me, her voice taking on an edge.
The quiet confidence of that bald declaration astonished me. I wanted to ask her how this miracle would come about, but dared not, for fear of proving her false. I held my tongue, and let the assertion go unchallenged.
Sionan worked over my bruised head and with quick, skillful snips reduced the untidy crop of hair to a more acceptable length. When she finished, she ran her fingers lightly over the short stubble of my lumpy pate and admired her handiwork.
“Better?” I asked.
“Not so bad. Next time will be better still.” She stepped before me and frowned. “When I come up next time, I will bring a razor.”
I rubbed my palm over my fuzzy jaw. “Do you not like a man with a beard?”
“Only savages wear beards,” she informed me blithely. Once more she regarded me with that look I still could not decipher.
“Savages,” I muttered, thinking it was because of the savages that I looked the way I did.
“Savages, aye, and men who have no women to keep them shorn.”
“And the clothes—you’ll find me some clothes, yes? I cannot be wearing your fallaing forever.”
“No?” She smiled wickedly. “Well, I like it. Maybe I will keep you in it.”
“Sionan, please. It is cold.”
She relented. “Very well. I will see what I can find and bring them next time I come.”<
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She helped me back to my bed, then busied herself with making up the fire. I lay there and felt a warming peace come over me. In truth, I felt better without my rags, but it was more than that. For the first time since coming to Sliabh Mis, I was content. Despite my infirmity I was happy.
I lay on my bed of pine branches and watched a golden dusk descend upon the mountains. As the shadows deepened in the valley, turning the river at its bottom into a gilt thread winding its way toward the distant silver sea, Sionan set about making a supper for us of salt pork and beans.
I watched her going about her chores, deft in her movements, her features composed and radiant in the firelight. My heart moved toward her with such strength that I was glad she was not paying the slightest attention to me.
When she finished and sat down to wait for the stew to cook, she looked out across the blue-misted valley and sighed. “I like it up here.”
“It is not so bad,” I replied. I would have agreed to anything just then.
“Are you lonely?” She did not look at me but gazed out across the wide vale toward the sea.
“Sometimes,” I said. “But at least it is not so noisy as the ráth. All those dogs—how does anyone sleep?”
“I would not be lonely.”
The way she said it—a soft, almost reverent defiance—made me think she was making a vow, or a wish.
“There are the sheep,” I said. “They are always to be watched.”
“Better sheep,” she said, “than warriors.”
I ate well that night, slept soundly, and awakened feeling better than I had for many days. Around midday Cormac returned with his staff and bag. He strode to where I lay, took one look at me, and said, “Well, now, there is a man I would not mind getting to know.”
“Salve, Cormac,” I replied, “come and sit. Tell me the news of the wide world.”
“Salve?” he wondered.
“It is Latin,” I explained, “a greeting of respect and welcome.”
“Ah, now, that is a fine thing.” He stood beaming down on me, and it was as Sionan had said: he had forgotten all about my poor behavior. “How are you, Succat?”
“I may live yet,” I said.
“I am pleased to hear it,” he said, his smile spreading across his wide, good-natured face, “for there is something I want to ask you.”
“Ask and consider it answered.” I glanced at Sionan, standing beside him. “I have no secrets anymore.”
“When you are on your feet and able again, how would you like to come and serve in the druid house?”
The question caught me unawares. I gaped at him, unable to credit what I had heard. Sionan held her head to one side, studying me for my reaction.
“Of course,” he continued, “if you would rather tend sheep…”
“No! Not at all. The sheep can tend themselves for all I care. But tell me, how will this come about? Lord Miliucc will never agree.”
“I tell you the king has agreed already.”
I still could not believe my good fortune. “Are you certain?”
“As certain as sunrise,” he said. “No king would dare refuse a druid anything he asked, so long as it was in his power to provide.”
“You asked for me?”
“I did, yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you are far too intelligent to be wasted on the sheep,” he replied lightly. “And unless something is done about it very soon, I fear you will die here alone on this mountain.”
“Help me up.” I raised my good arm to him. “I want to thank you properly.” The big druid reached down and pulled me to my feet with a single strong tug. “Thank you, Cormac,” I said, gripping his arm tightly, “for befriending me and helping me.”
Turning to Sionan, I took her hand and raised it to my lips as I had seen visiting dignitaries do with my mother. “And thank you, Sionan, for saving me.” I kissed her hand.
“You have thanked me already,” she replied, but her eyes shone with delight all the same.
“And I will go on thanking you both for as long as I live,” I said. “Truly, I owe you nothing less than my life.”
“Then it is settled,” Cormac concluded. “You will stay here and rest until you are well enough to take up your new duties.”
“I am ready now,” I boasted. In my exuberance I stretched too far, causing my broken ribs to shift; a sharp pain pierced my chest, and I winced. My eyes teared up, and I swayed on my feet so that Cormac and Sionan had to help me back to my bed.
“Well, perhaps another day or two would do no harm,” I allowed. Cormac lowered me back to my place, and we talked the day away, discussing my new position in the druid house and what would be expected of me there. As the sun began to set, he and Sionan prepared a celebratory meal of smoked fish stewed with black bread, fresh greens, and the last of the old year’s crop of turnips. Cormac had brought more mead with him, so while waiting for the food to cook, we drank and watched the day end and a fine twilight begin.
That night, as the stars spun slowly through the wide heavens, Cormac sang. The wonder of his song is with me still, for it was the first time I glimpsed something of the power of a True Bard.
PART II
CORTHIRTHIAC
NINETEEN
NOW COMMENCED THE slow torture of waiting. I writhed in an agony of anticipation, impatience, and fear: anticipation for the glorious day when I could leave the sheepfold behind forever, impatience for that day’s arrival, and fear that I would yet be denied. I itched and groaned for leaving. However, the healing of my body would not be hurried. My head and ribs remained sore and tender to the touch, my broken arm still throbbed when I moved it, and the splint was heavy and made my shoulder ache.
Sionan continued her daily visits and insisted she could tell I was getting better, though I was far from certain. True, I no longer needed help to walk, but I grew breathless if I went too far or too fast. Sometimes, when I tried to do too much, my head began to ache and dark spots swam before my eyes so that I had to lie down and rest until they went away.
Each night I went to sleep thinking that the next day my healing would be complete, only to awaken the next morning to find that nothing had changed. Summer was passing, and I felt a sense of rank futility growing in me—as if the good thing promised would never come to be or that it would be withdrawn before I reached it.
“Why worry so?” Sionan asked one day. “The word of a filidh is stronger than a forest oak. Cormac will not forsake you.”
“But if I can’t carry out my duties, he will find someone else,” I complained. Raising my useless arm, I said, “Look! It’s hopeless. It refuses to heal, and I grow weary carrying it around like a dead stump.”
“There was a time,” she reminded me, “and not too long ago, when you could not raise that arm at all. See? Rest and take your ease. The day will come soon enough when you will wish you had lingered here a little longer.”
“Why?” I asked, suspicion quickening. “You know something. What is it?”
“I only meant—”
“If you know something, you must tell me, Sionan. What is it?”
“Succat, hush. I meant only that those who go to the druid house are kept very busy all the time. From what Cormac tells me, there is no end of work needing done.”
This, of course, only increased my worries. What if they found I was not suitable for their purposes? What, in fact, were their purposes? What if they changed their minds about me? How long would they wait? I desperately wanted a chance to prove myself. Not because I cared a fart for druids. No. I had instead conceived a new plan for escape. This time, however, I would not run away. Lord Miliucc threatened to kill me if I ran away again, and I had no doubt he would do it. Never again would I allow myself to be caught and beaten like that.
When I left Ireland, it would be as a free man. Cormac had given me the inspiration. No king would dare refuse a druid anything he asked, he had said. They had asked for me, and their request had
been granted. Very well, I would so ingratiate myself to the druids that one day they would ask the king to grant me my freedom, and, like it or not, Miliucc would obey.
Oh, it was freedom I was after, make no mistake—but I would bide my time; I would wait as long as it took. All the same, if I could not escape Éire tomorrow, then I would at least leave Sliabh Mis and the daily drudgery of the flock. The thought—nay, the fear—that something might yet prevent me filled my every waking moment and not a few of my dreams as well.
Thus I waited, fizzing with fidgety anticipation—until one day…
“See here, Succat,” Cormac said as he finished his latest examination, “the day after tomorrow is Danu Feis—the Feast of Danu. The filidh will be leading the observance at the ráth. Come down and attend. When the celebration is finished, we will return to the druid house, and you can come with us.”
I rose slowly, and looked him in the eye. “Thank you, Cormac.” I embraced him, which sent a sting of pain through my arm and side. “I thought this day would never come.”
Sionan stood a little apart, her brow creased in contemplation. She said nothing.
The big druid accepted my thanks and we talked of the feast, whereupon he took his leave, saying he had many things to do in preparation for the festival. “I will look for you tomorrow,” he said as he departed.
I stood at the top of the trail and watched until I could see him no more, and then I returned to the fire ring to find Sionan with her chin in her hand, her face drawn and weary.
“Ah, tomorrow!” I said. “This is wonderful, is it not?”
To my astonishment she did not appear as delighted with the prospect as I might have thought. She smiled wanly and said it was a fine thing and that she was happy for me.
“Yet you wear disappointment like a crown, Sionan,” I told her. “See here. After weeks of waiting, the day has finally come when I can leave this miserable mountain forever. You of all people should be glad, because you won’t have to lug food and supplies up here every other day in the rain and mud.”
She looked at me glumly, then turned her face away. “I thought you welcomed this as much as I did,” I said, “but here you sit looking like you just swallowed a putrid egg. Why is this?”
Patrick: Son of Ireland Page 18
