I did, and he kissed me until my head swam. And then he laid me down upon my pallet and unlaced his shirt and his breeches. Naked in the moonlight, he looked like a vision, a man risen out of an enchanted pool. I reached out my arms and the pallet dipped under his weight.
“Sweet Cébha,” he murmured, and I shivered to feel him pressed the length of me, his skin so warm. “Love me well,my songbird.”
So it was that first night Máel Dúin and his men arrived, and I did not heed my Lady’s advice but gave away my heart to Diurán the poet as though it had no more value than a speckled pebble I had found beside the brook.
I did not know it, then. Love sets its barbs like a hook; it does not hurt until the line is tugged. I knew only that his words made my heart sing like the songbird he named me, and his touch made my blood sing. Such were the mysteries we uncovered together that night, the simple mysteries of a man and a woman together, and I was glad to know them at last.
The next day, the Lady went forth on her grey mare as she did every morning, riding inland to hear the isle folks’ concerns. Máel Dúin was content to wait in the great hall, and his men were content, too, playing at knucklebones and such games as men invent who have spent much time together.When she returned, she greeted Máel Dúin with a kiss. He caught her arm and begged her to stay, but she shook her head and smiled.
“Would you have me be idle?” she teased him. “You have earned your rest, but I have work to do.”
She went then to her day chamber, and I went with her.
It was a formidable job to card and comb all that we had gathered. On my own, I would have lacked the patience for it, and so would my sister-maidens, but our Lady spoke gently to us. Bit by bit, we eased the tangles from the matted fibers, and the pile in the basket grew smaller.
Our Lady began to spin.
That night there was another feast, and revelry filled the hall. Diurán had found a lap harp, and he played and sang love songs for us. Listening to his rich voice, I felt as though I were floating, and I wished the moment might never end.
“Is this not better sport than vengeance, Máel Dúin?” the Lady asked him.
He smiled. “Truly,my Queen.”
So it was that night and the next, and when Diurán laid down his harp, I led him back to my chamber and lay down upon my pallet with him, holding him in my arms. After love, we sank into sleep and though his head was heavy on my shoulder, I welcomed its weight. Those moments, too, I wished would never end.
For many days, it was much the same. In the morning, the Lady went about her duties and we went about our chores. During the afternoon, we retired to her day chamber. Day by day, the basket dwindled toward empty; day by day, the length of silken-fine thread increased upon the wheel.
One day, as we worked, we heard footsteps in the corridor outside. They halted at the door to the Lady’s chamber. A strange hand tried the door and found it locked.
The other maidens and I glanced at once another. Any one of us would have knocked.We looked to the Lady, whose hands had gone still upon the wheel.
“Let them pass,” she said quietly. “It is of no concern.”
We sat quietly, and soon there were footsteps, going away.
That night in the hall, Diurán played the harp he had found, but he sang no love songs. Instead he sang a lament for the foster brothers of Máel Dúin, who had died on their voyage. And Máel Dúin’s men wept as they listened, but in Máel Dúin’s eyes there were no tears. He looked only at the Lady, taking pleasure in the sight of her.
When they had gone, and Diurán laid down his harp, I stood.
“No, Cébha.” There was sorrow in his voice. He gazed at my outstretched hand and shook his head gently. “We have tarried too long in this place. I will not be going with you tonight.”
“Why?” I whispered.
“Your Lady knows the reason,” he said. “If you do not, ask her.”
I fled the hall, weeping.
On the day that followed, Máel Dúin’s men were restless and muttered to one another, no longer content to idle in the dún playing games as they had done. Instead they tended to the curragh, dragging it farther up the shore and overturning it. A fire was built and the pitch pot set to heating until it smoked, so they might apply a fresh coating to the hide seams of the curragh.
When it was done, the curragh was sea-ready; but Máel Dúin had no interest in leaving, preferring to wait in the dún until the Lady returned to join him in the evening. And that night, Diurán did not sing love songs, but the song of their voyage. He sang of further wonders they had seen; of an island divided in twain by a brazen palisade, with white sheep on one side and black sheep on the other; of an island where golden apples grew and were eaten by swine with eyes of fire, where the ground was so hot it burned their feet; of an island with a miraculous fountain that yielded water and milk.
Máel Dúin’s men listened to his songs and said among themselves, yes, so it was. And they told the stories to each other; yes, here are the marks of scorching upon the sole of my shoe, yes, that was the isle where Máel Dúin flung a peeled white birch wand on the black side of the fence, and it turned black and we fled.
But such talk had no interest for Máel Dúin, who wished only to gaze at the Lady. And when I saw this, I remembered how she had made ready to receive him and how he had stared after the bothy where she had gone to bathe, and I understood that an enchantment had been laid upon him.
Once more, I slept alone and wept.
I listened the next morning as Máel Dúin’s men spoke to him of leaving. Their voices grew loud and angry, for they were afraid for their leader and loath to leave without him. As Máel Dúin listened, his brows drew together, and something of the falcon’s stare came back into his eyes, as if he were emerging from a fog. Then he caught sight of me lurking and smiled, and his features eased once more.
“What, lads?” he asked. “Have you grown tired so quickly of a life of plenty, and fair maidens to attend you?”
In the corner was Diurán, who had said nothing. He said nothing now, but only met my gaze. I left to await the Lady in her day chamber.
The thread she had been spinning came to an end and was finished that day.With no carding and combing to do, the other maidens were gossiping and idle, speaking of the men’s restlessness. I sat quiet and watched as the Lady removed the thread from the wheel and wound it into a little ball, her white hands working deftly. It was a mottled thing when it was done, brown and black and red, with bits of gold glinting here and there.
“Lady,” I said when she was done, “why do you keep Máel Dúin here against his will?”
After I spoke the chamber went very quiet, for the others were shocked at my boldness, but the Lady smiled and shook her head to show she was not angry.
“I do nothing against his will, little bird,” she said to me. “A warrior’s pride is a fearsome burden. I have given him leave to lay it down.”
And with that I had to be content, for the Lady said no more, but tucked the ball of thread in the bodice of her robe and went forth to greet Máel Dúin in the great hall, and we went with her.
That night, Diurán played the harp and sang of Máel Dúin’s father, Ailill, who was called Ailill Edge-of-Battle. And it came that Máel Dúin had never known his father. He had been fostered as a Queen’s son and raised in ignorance of his true parents, for Ailill had gotten him upon a nun in a convent who had taken vows against such things. But when a jealous rival taunted Máel Dúin with his lack of knowledge, he went to the Queen, and she brought him to his mother in the convent, who told him where to find his father’s people. And that was Duncloone, where Máel Dúin learned how his father Ailill had died, defending a church from reavers who came raiding. But he was slain, and reavers burned the church around him.
There it was that the monk had showed him the burnt and blackened bones of his father and charged him to set forth to find the reaver who had slain him.
And when Diurán laid
down his harp, all the men were silent, and I saw there were tears in Máel Dúin’s eyes. When the Lady led him from the hall, his steps were slow, and twice he turned to look back at his men.
“Cébha.”Diurán held out his hand to me. “Will you have me this night?”
It was in my thoughts to say no, for he had set himself against my Lady’s will, but his eyes were dark and sad, and I knew he took no joy in it. So it was that my heart answered, and I said yes.
There were words he whispered into my ear that night, but they were for me and me alone, and not for others to hear. Though it grieved me, I knew it was in his heart to say farewell, and that was why he had come to share my pallet. In the morning, when dawn cast a rosy glow in the narrow window of my chamber, I watched him rise and don his clothing.
“Why must you attempt this thing, Diurán?” I asked him. “You know there is no harm in this place, nor in the Lady.”
In the act of settling his belt, he paused, and his hands went still. “It would not be ill done if Máel Dúin were to lay aside vengeance,” he said slowly.“But he must come to it in his own way.”Diurán leaned down and kissed me. “Good-bye, little songbird.”
He left, then, and after he had gone, I rose and donned my clothing. I knew the rhythms of the dún, and I knew the mind of Diurán. They would wait until the Lady had left upon her daily duty to hear the concerns of the isle folk and give them counsel.
When it was time, I climbed to the ramparts.
I watched them push the curragh to the shore, seventeen strong men straining, the curragh leaving a deep track in the coarse sand. There where the long green waves surged and broke into curls of foam, they launched their mighty vessel. I watched as the men splashed in the water and tumbled inside the curragh, scrambling to reach the oars. I could count their heads, brown and red and black, and Máel Dúin’s like a helmet of gold. And then they were afloat and the oars came out, beating in a steady stroke, driving them away from our shore. An expanse of water opened as they rowed, growing ever wider.
In my heart, I felt empty.
Then I saw the Lady, riding along the shore on her grey mare. I saw her reach into her bodice, and the white gleam of her arm beneath her sleeve as she threw the ball of thread.
It flew in an arc through the air, unspooling as it went. And one end she held in her hand, and the other came loose at the end, flutter ing down over the curragh. There was the flash of sunlight upon Máel Dúin’s golden hair as he stood and reached out to catch the thread.
Once he had caught it, he could not let it go.
Winding the thread into a ball, the Lady drew it taut. The curragh turned its nose for our shore, and Máel Dúin stood like a statue in the prow as the Lady wound and wound, the silken thread taut above the waves, drawing them ashore. Then she took the end from Máel Dúin’s hand and tucked the ball of thread into her bodice.
I do not know what words were spoken between them, only that the Lady turned her grey mare and rode to the dún, and Máel Dúin and his men followed behind her. So it was that they returned, and though my heart was full, I did not know whether I was happy or saddened.
All of us knew what had passed that day, but we did not speak of it, nor did we speak of it that night. Máel Dúin sat at the Lady’s side, and he seemed content to be there, like a man who had won a reprieve. And Diurán played the harp and sang love songs as though he had never sung anything else and words of grief and vengeance and war had never passed his lips.
But he would not meet my eyes, and I knew they would try again.
In the morning, I went to the stable where my Lady was making ready to ride forth on her grey mare, and I touched the hem of her robe.
“Lady,” I said to her, “perhaps you should not go.”
The Lady smiled at me. “What, Cébha? Would you have me be idle? I have a duty to the folk of the isle.”
And so she went forth and inside the dún Máel Dúin shook off his torpor like a dog shaking water from its coat and led his men to the beached curragh, and I watched them from the ramparts once more. So I was watching as they drew away from the shore and the green swell of the waves widened between us; but then the Lady came riding, and I knew she had not been fooled. Once more she drew the ball of thread from her bodice and threw it, and Máel Dúin caught the end, and it stuck fast to his hand. And this time, his men drew their swords and hacked at the thread, but it did not break, no matter how sharp their blades. So it was that the Lady drew the curragh ashore.
When it was done, she turned her grey mare and rode slowly back to the dún, and Máel Dúin and his men followed.
That night in the hall, Máel Dúin’s men grumbled and said among themselves that there was no enchantment upon the thread and that Máel Dúin clung fast to it on purpose, for he did not wish to leave the Lady’s side. But Diurán did not join them in their complaints, only sang and played his harp, and this night I felt his gaze upon me.When the Lady and Máel Dúin left the hall, he laid down the harp.
“Cébha,” he said to me, “little songbird, I do not think you did me a kindness when you cut my hair. It was a greater offering than you made claim.”
At that I was ashamed, and did not answer.
Diurán heaved a sigh, and it was such a sigh as held a world of sorrow. “Cébha,my Cébha! For your sloe eyes and sweet lips, I would be content to stay. And you know me, lass, I am one who would be content to honor your Lady. But the world beyond your shores is changing, and Máel Dúin is not hers to keep.”
“Do you serve your master the druid or the monks of Duncloone in this?” I asked him bitterly.
“I serve Máel Dúin,” he said and his voice was grave. “Tell me true, sweet Cébha.Will the Lady’s thread stick fast to the hand of any man among us?”
And I thought of the fibers we had carded and combed with such care, straightening and smoothing each matted tangle. I thought of how the Lady had spun them, brown and black, red and gold, into a single thread. And it was in my heart to lie, but Diurán gazed at me with his dark poet’s eyes, and my lips spoke the truth.
“Yes,” I said to him. “It will.”
He nodded, and I went away, for I did not want to know what he would do with such knowledge. Once only I glanced behind me, and Diurán was plucking rushes from the floor of the hall, smoothing them on his lap. Then I saw no more.
In the morning, I did not go to warn my Lady. Whether or not there would have been merit in it, I do not know, but I was sick at heart and had no wish for her to read the betrayal in my face. So I went to the ramparts and watched.
For the third time, Máel Dúin’s men pushed the curragh to the shore and it left its deep track in the sand like the mark of some vast beast. For the third time, they launched their mighty vessel, and it rode proud atop the green swells, surging with each stroke of the oars. Once more I counted their heads, black and red and brown, and Máel Dúin’s among them.
I saw him stand when the Lady came riding, and the sunlight gleamed gold upon his hair. Already, as her hand reached into her bodice and drew forth the ball of thread, he was gazing toward the shore. I wondered what look he had in his pale eyes. Was it the falcon’s fierce stare or the tender gaze of the lover?
There, the Lady’s arm moved, her skin white as foam. There, the mottled ball in a soaring arc, thread spinning out behind it, crossing the waves. There was the end, fine as silk, settling over the curragh and Máel Dúin’s hand reaching for it.
I do not know which of his men leapt to catch it instead. He had a name, too, but I do not know it. It was too far, and there was nothing about him I knew at such a distance. I know only what I may guess.When Diurán held the rushes concealed in his hand and Máel Dúin’s men drew lots, he was the one who drew the broken reed.
The end of the thread stuck fast to his hand. The Lady began to wind the thread into a ball, drawing the line taut, and the curragh’s prow turned toward the shore.
And there was Diurán, and him I knew by the angle of his shou
lders and the movement of his limbs, by his hair as brown as oak leaves in autumn, and everything about him. I knew there was sorrow in his dark poet’s eyes; sorrow, and a warrior’s resolve. The sunlight was bright on the steel blade of his sword as he swung it, severing the man’s hand at the wrist.
So it was that the man’s severed hand fell into the green sea, and with it fell the end of the thread that the Lady had spun, hour upon slow hour. And Máel Dúin and his men sailed away and Diurán was among them, and my Lady was left on the shore, bereft and weeping.
In the stories told by men, they say only what further adventures befell Máel Dúin and his men. In the end, he found his father’s slayer, and forgave him. It was a monk, a holy hermit, who bid him to do so. When the tale made its way to our shores, the Lady heard it and smiled, though there was sadness in it. I do not know, in the end, if I served her purpose or hindered it. Although she bore me no ill will for what I had done, I did not dare to ask. Such boldness as I once had, I lost that day. I knew only that I was no longer worthy of speaking her name.
Of me, the tales do not speak. Perhaps it is as well.
My name was Cébha.
The Cat with No Name
BY MORGAN LLYWELYN
The cat was Nuala’s friend. The cat was the only living creature who was always happy to be with her. The cat had no name because Nuala had not given it one. To name the cat would mean it was important to her, and someone might have noticed.
When the weather allowed, Nuala played with the cat in the back garden. The area they liked best was a scrap of neglected lawn behind the sagging timber garage. A row of overgrown cedars ran from the corner of the garage to the wall, out of sight from any windows in the house. It was important to stay out of sight of the house, as Nuala explained to the cat. Close to the ground, where some of the cedar hedge had died back, a little hollow had been formed. The place was almost like a grotto; hidden behind a spiky bush with yellow blossoms.
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