Emerald Magic

by Andrew M. Greeley

  All this was done as she wished. While the men of Máel Dúin drew their mighty curragh ashore and my Lady watched, we labored outside the walls of the dún. There, where the spring bubbles from amid the moss-covered rocks, we built the fires to warm the big hanging kettle.We filled it with pure water from the spring, before it spills over the rocks into the little brook.

  It took three times to fill the bronze tub within the bothy, and when it was done, she came back. She gave her horse over to Eithne, who led it to the stable.We eased the richly embroidered robes from our Lady’s white shoulders, and she went straightaway into the bothy to bathe.

  That is when I saw that the men had followed her.

  They had hung back on the sloping hill, gathered and watching. All of them with their mouths agape, except for two. And we maidens watched back, all with our mouths agape, for we had seen few men since the Lady’s consort died, and that was some years ago, when most of us were but children.

  One whose mouth was closed upon his thoughts was Máel Dúin.

  By the way he stood, and the other men regarded him, it was clear he was their leader. And it was at him that the other maidens stared, for even though he was tossed and draggled by his sea voyage, he stood straight and tall, hale of limb and proud of sinew. His shoulders were broad and strong. Although his beard was like a wild man’s, and his hair was tangled with wind and salt, it shone bright as gold in the sunlight, and there was a fierceness in his face as he stared at the door of the bothy where the Lady had gone.

  But I looked at the other man, who saw me looking and smiled.

  “Cébha.”

  It was my Lady’s voice. I went inside the bothy, where it was warm with steam. She sat in the bronze tub, pouring water from a dipper over her white skin.

  “Go forth on my behalf and make them welcome in the dún,” she said to me. “Their leader is named Máel Dúin.”

  So I was the one who went to give them greeting, picking up my skirts and making my way up the slope, while my sister-maidens watched in envy. Although I was not afraid when I began, my heart beat quicker as I drew near. If they were reavers, they would have fallen upon us at once; still, they were men. I breathed slowly, that my voice should not tremble.

  “My Lady gives greeting to you and your men, Máel Dúin,” I said to him. “Do you come with me, we will make you welcome.”

  His eyes were pale blue, ringed in black like a falcon’s. Although he was young, a man with such eyes might gaze at the sun until he saw visions. There was wariness in them, but no fear. “Who is your lady that she knows my name?” he asked me, and although his accent was strange and harsh, and there were words that sounded wrong to my ears, he spoke the tongue of Ériu. “What is this place? Does she rule here?”

  I gave him the only answer I knew. “She is the Lady of this isle. It is her place.”

  “I am seeking the sea raider who killed my father, Ailill, who was called Ailill Edge-of-Battle.” The pale falcon’s eyes did not blink. “Does your Queen know where he is to be found?”

  I shook my head. “I do not know, Máel Dúin, what the Lady knows and does not.Will you accept her hospitality?”

  He turned to the man beside him. “What think you, Diurán?”

  It was the man who had smiled, and he smiled at me again. My ears went hot, and my tongue felt thick and clumsy in my mouth. He was dark where Máel Dúin was fair, with hair as brown as oak leaves and watchful dark eyes. They were eyes that might see visions, too; not in brightness, but in quiet, still places, where other men would not have the patience to wait.

  “Máel Dúin, it is not in my heart to refuse the grace of the Lady of this place,” Diurán said, and I knew by his words and the music in his voice that he was one of the filidh, who had studied among bards, and not like the others, who were warriors first and foremost. “How could I bring myself to tell the tale if we failed to accept it?”

  “Spoken like a poet!” Máel Dúin clapped a hand upon his shoulder, and I saw that there was much affection between them.As for the other men, they eyed the distant maidens and made approving sounds, nudging one another and trying in vain to comb their tangled beards with their fingers. “Lead on, girl.”

  I led them to the dún and saw from the corner of my eye that my sisters were going on ahead to draw water from the well of the dún and heat it within the walls. Also, I saw the Lady emerge and a glimpse of her fair skin, rosy from the bath, then two maidens slipping the robe over her. And I saw that Máel Dúin looked, too, and a strange smile touched his lips.

  Inside the dún, Máel Dúin’s men marveled at the strong stone walls and the arching doorways, and I could see it had been many days since they had dwelled out of the elements.

  “Come,” I said to them. “You will want to bathe before the Lady receives you.”

  They went without complaining, and some of them exclaimed at the sight of so many steaming tubs. Máel Dúin said nothing. Only Diurán spoke, touching my wrist with two fingers. “So we do not bathe where the Lady bathes?”

  “No.” I whispered the word. “That place is sacred.”

  He nodded and let me go. The pulse in my wrist throbbed.

  We made ready for them while they bathed. There were things that had been brought by the isle folk and left for us; brown bread, cheese, and apples, strong ale and a slaughtered pig ready for the spit. I do not know how they knew to do such things, save that the Lady had told them, for she went forth among them every day to hear their concerns and make such judgments as were needed. Such was her duty, and such were her mysteries.

  There were great splashes and shouts of laughter from behind the closed door where Máel Dúin’s men bathed; we maidens glanced at one another and nodded and smiled, as if to say, yes, that is how men behave, though we knew little of such things.

  Then the Lady came among us in raiment fit for a Queen. Her robes were of the purest blue, adorned on the hems and the edges of the sleeves with gold embroidery three handspans deep. Her hair, that was a deep auburn in hue, hung down her back in a gleaming mass of autumn splendor. Two lengths of it had been braided and bound with gold cord, and these were woven into a coronet about her head. Around her throat was a great collar of gold set with blue gems, and gold sandals peeked beneath the hem of her robe.

  We all paused in awe to see her in such finery, with such a brightness upon her. Eithne, who was boldest among us, spoke first. “Will you take Máel Dúin as your consort, then, Lady?”

  “I will.” She smiled, and in my heart I sighed with gladness that it was not Diurán she had chosen. “This night, we shall celebrate it.My daughters, follow your own desires and make such choices as you will; or none at all as it please you.”

  There was much excited whispering, then, as we laid out the bowls of warm water, soft linen towels and the shears. It did not seem there was anyone among us unwilling to make a choice. I did not take part in it, afraid that if I voiced my desires, some other might voice the same.

  “Cébha.” The Lady touched my wrist, exactly as Diurán had done. I lifted my head to gaze at her lovely face. There was a shadow of sorrow in it; or of knowing. “Do not give away your heart too fast, little bird. Those who see the most may be the most dangerous to love.”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it. I had no words.

  “Ah, Danu!” She smiled once more, although the shadow had not passed, and patted my cheek. “You are young, and the heart will do as it will. Come and help me welcome our guests.”

  She stood straight and tall among us as the doors to the great hall were opened, and lamplight played over her hair to make of it a second flame, subtle and muted. Máel Dúin stood at the forefront of his men, looking at her with his falcon’s eyes, and I saw desire hit him like a fist.What she felt, I could not say, but everything went quiet as they gazed at one another, those two. Then he looked past her and saw the chairs, the towels, and the shears laid out.

  “My lady Queen.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “What is thi
s?”

  “Why, Máel Dúin!” She smiled at him, and there was a lilt in her voice such as none of us had heard. “You and your men are as hairy as eremites after your long voyage. Will you not let us make you comely?”

  He stared at her a moment, then flung back his head with a laugh. It had been a long time since the rafters of that hall had echoed with a man’s laughter. Striding across the rush-laid floor, Máel Dúin sat in the biggest chair. He planted his legs and put his hands upon his knees, tilting his chin.

  “Will you shear me like a lamb,my Queen?” he challenged her.

  “No, Máel Dúin.” Bending over him with tenderness, my Lady laid a linen towel across his chest. She took up the keen-edged shears, and they gleamed silver in the lamplight. “Only as a woman does a man whose face she wishes to behold.”

  “All right, then. Come, lads!” He grinned as the shears snipped and a tangled clump of golden beard fell upon the linen. “Who’s next for the shearing?”

  After that there was much milling in the hall. Some of the men were bold, and some of the maidens, too; others blushed and stammered, shuffling on uncertain feet. I stood in one place and shook my head when a man I did not desire approached me. With so many bodies milling, I lost sight of Diurán.

  And then he was there, alone, smiling at me. “What is your name?”

  “Cébha,” I whispered.

  “Cébha, little songbird, with lips as red as rowan berries, your bright eyes pierce me to the heart.” He brushed a curling lock of my hair with his fingertips. “Little bird in a blackthorn thicket, do you have a gentle touch?”

  A hot blush rose along the column of my throat, reddening my cheeks. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, let us find out together.” He took a seat in the nearest chair and offered his throat. I had to lean over him to spread the linen towel. A clean scent rose from his warm, freshly scrubbed skin. “Little songbird, would you know the name of the man who puts himself in your hands this night?” he asked me. “I am Diurán.”

  “I know.” My hands trembled as I took up the shears. “I know your name.”

  “Here.” Diurán’s fingers encircled my wrist, steadying me. They were strong and callused from many a turn at the oar, but finely made. There was no mockery in his dark eyes, only gentleness. Here was a man who understood there was something more at work here. “I will help you, Cébha.”

  It seemed to me, then, that everything else went away. I concen- trated on clipping the tangled locks, dipping a towel in warm water and wiping loose hair from his chin. As I trimmed his beard short, the shape of his face came clear, younger than I had thought. His lips were firm and ruddy. I could hear his soft breathing and see the pulse beat steadily in the hollow of his throat, and I did not dare meet his eyes lest he see my thoughts.

  So I cut his beard until his handsome face showed, and I cut the knots from his long hair until I could pull a wooden comb through it, and his hair lay on his shoulders, fine and shining, like a cape of oak leaves.

  And then solemn-faced Brigit was there, the youngest among us, holding a withy basket. Inside lay the hair of Máel Dúin’s men, red and black and brown all mixed together, and locks of bright gold that were Máel Dúin’s. I gathered the linen towel that held Diurán’s brown hair.

  “Wait.” He caught my arm. His dark brows were drawn together in a frown. “What is it you do here, little songbird?”

  I made myself meet his eyes. “Would you have us throw it upon the fire? What a stink it would make, all this hair!” I teased him, hearing a lilt come into my voice. “I did not think you were a man to fear making a small offering in this place, Diurán.”

  Diurán’s lips smiled, but his eyes, intent on mine, did not. “And what will you offer, little songbird, little Cébha?”

  I swallowed. “What would you have me offer?”

  “Your own hair, Cébha, spread in black ringlets over my pillow. Your rowan-berry lips, for mine to feast upon.” At the expression on my face, his smile reached his eyes, and his grip upon my arm softened to a caress. “Your white throat, arched like a swan and your white breasts, a pair of nestling doves cooing in my hands. All of that, sweet Cébha, and more.”

  I blushed this time to the roots of my hair.

  Diurán laughed and released me. “Take it,” he said to Brigit, still holding the basket and watching wide-eyed. “Surely, I will grow more.”

  So it was done and the shorn locks of his oak-brown hair were piled atop the others. Brigit went away with the basket and we cleared away the towels and shears and bowls of warm water. In exchange we brought platters of food, so heavy the weight made us stagger. The men dragged their chairs to the long trestle table and began to pile their trenchers high with meat and bread, pouring foaming tankards of ale from the jugs we set on the table. Once it was done, we joined them.

  The Lady sat in the center and presided over our meal, and Máel Dúin sat beside her. With his beard neatly trimmed and his hair combed smooth, he looked less like a fierce warrior, and more like a young King at her side. There was that air about him that drew the eye.

  What had transpired between them, I cannot say, though I may guess well enough. They exchanged glances and touches throughout the meal. Outside the walls of the dún, night was falling. I think they would have hastened its coming if they could.

  His men ate with a goodwill, trying not to rush in their hunger; still, hands and faces were soon smeared with grease. I swabbed a piece of brown bread in the juices of the meat and nibbled at it, for I had little appetite. Beside me, Diurán cut his meat into small pieces with his belt knife, eating slowly and with relish. He caught me watching him from the corner of my eye.

  “You do not rush like the others,” I said to him.

  “No.” He wiped his knife on a linen napkin. “I am accustomed to fasting.”

  “You are one of the filidh, are you not?” I asked it quietly.

  “I am.”Diurán lay down his knife. “It is no secret, little songbird. I am only of the third caste. Half a poet, no more.” He smiled at me. “Máel Dúin sails at the behest of a monk of Duncloone to avenge his father. But it was my master, who is a druid, who told him to build his curragh.We have no secrets from one another.”

  He told me, then, of the voyage they had undertaken.

  It was a terrible and wondrous tale. Their journey was fated from the outset. The druid, Diurán’s master, told Máel Dúin only seventeen men might undertake the voyage; but his three foster brothers followed and swam after them. Lest the brothers drown, Máel Dúin had pulled them aboard the curragh.

  After, they were blown off course and had been seeking the island where the reaver who had killed Máel Dúin’s father lived ever since.

  Although they had not found it, they had seen many marvels. Diurán told me of an island with ants the size of horses, and another with birds the size of cattle. On the island of the empty fortresses, one of Máel Dúin’s foster brothers sought to steal a collar of gold, and there a little white cat leapt at him like a fiery arrow and passed through him, and he was dead.Another of his foster brothers was lost on a strange island, where the folk wept and lamented without cease; when they tried to rescue him, he wept and covered his face and would not come.

  Strange to tell, the third foster brother met a fate much the same, on an island where a company of men laughed and played without cease, and would speak to no one unless he join them. Máel Dúin had to sail without him, and that was the last of his foster brothers, though his fate happier than the others.

  When Diurán finished speaking there was silence, for all around the table had fallen to listening to his poet’s voice, and Máel Dúin’s men mourned their lost comrades, filling their cups and toasting to their valor.

  “Such is the price of vengeance,” the Lady said softly, laying her white hand on Máel Dúin’s. “Perhaps that is the lesson the druid meant to teach you, for surely he knew your foster brothers would follow.”

  Máel Dúin did no
t answer for a long time. “My Queen, I do not know,” he said when he did. “But I am weary to the bone, and glad enough to tarry here with you.”

  At that his men laid aside their grieving for a fearsome jollity, for such is the nature of warriors, who cannot afford to dwell upon the slain. They began to bang their cups upon the table, praising the solace of women and calling upon my Lady and Máel Dúin to make the nuptial toast as surely his foster brothers would have wanted, they said; for those lost comrades were no fools when it came to women’s beauty and grace, even if they were fools in the matter of obeying druids.

  On it went until the Lady laughed and ordered a cask of good red wine to be breached and the two-handled loving cup to be brought forth. This was done, and wine poured into it until it foamed pink. Each grasping a handle, they drank; first her and then him.

  Afterward her gaze was tender and bright upon him, and something in his falcon’s stare had eased into softness. His men shouted and cheered, and we cheered, too. I marked how Diurán raised his cup with the others and offered a toast, but when the Lady and Máel Dúin rose to leave the hall, he gazed after them, and his brow was furrowed.

  Then he turned to me and smiled, and the smile smoothed his brow. “What do you say, Cébha my songbird? Shall we stay and make merry? Or shall we go forth and conclude the offering?”

  The heat of his smile warmed me in unfamiliar places, and I blushed and nodded, unable to make an answer. He took my hand in all gentleness, and some of my sister-maidens gazed on me with envy, having heard his poet’s voice. I paid them no heed, and Diurán let me lead him forth from the hall, down the winding corridors of the dún to my own chamber.

  It was a small room, but I shared it with no one. There was a narrow window that let in slanting rays of light from the rising moon. I stood in it as Diurán removed my clothes with his gentle hands, and moonlight silvered my skin.

  “Little bird, my Cébha,” he whispered, his breath soft and warm on my neck. “Sea lily, pale as frost. Your side is as smooth as the swell of a wave, shining like foam in the starlight. Your sweet breasts are proud as mountains, tipped with dawn’s rosy glow. Come to me, hold me in your rounded white arms.”