Patrick (11 page)

“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 and 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.

D
ESPITE 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.

By the time we reached the grazing land, however, a fierce, biting wind had blown up out of the west. We had not thought to bring the flint and steel, and could not make a fire. It was too far back to the bothy to fetch it, so we huddled down behind some rocks, and I spent the day shivering and listening to the old shepherd snuffling and sniveling until, at last, he rose and declared it time to gather the flock.

Madog's cough worsened that night, and the next morning I asked him, “Are you feeling well, Madog?” His face was as gray as gruel, his eyes red-rimmed and rheumy.

“Well enough,” he replied, rubbing his watery eyes. “I will make some stout broth, and that will put me right.”

He tried to stand, and I saw how he shook and shivered. “No,” I told him, jumping up quickly, “you sit by the fire. I will make the broth.”

“You should go. The sheep are waiting,” he complained, struggling up once more.

“Let them,” I said, easing him down. “We spend whole days waiting for them. They can wait for us a little while.”

He seemed satisfied with this and hunkered down beside the fire while I filled the caldron and gathered a few ingredients. He fell asleep again while waiting for the broth to boil—something I had never seen him do before. I roused him when it was ready, and we ate. He told me it was the best broth he had ever tasted, and then climbed shakily to his feet. “Well, we have kept the sheep waiting long enough,” he said, which brought on a fit of coughing that doubled him over.

“You are sick, Madog,” I told him. “Stay here by the fire and keep warm. I will watch the sheep today.”

But he would not. “The broth will see me right.” He picked up his crook and stumped off. We did not go to the south slope; the wind was still gusty and cold, the clouds thick and low, the day unsettled. Once it started pelting down sleet on our wet heads, and I went to Madog, “Look, even the sheep are miserable. Let us go back to the bothy and get warm.”

Shivering, shaking, sick as he was, he refused; so we stood out in the icy sleet and waited for dusk. Only when the dark mist had begun to claim the lowlands did the stubborn old shepherd allow me to lead the sheep back to the fold. On our return, I built up the fire hot and high and cooked some of the salted mutton into a thick stew, using our last turnip, most of the barley, and two onions—which Madog said was a sorry waste. “I will go down to the ráth and get more tomorrow,” I told him, throwing in the rest of the barley and another onion for good measure.

He sat watching me cook, hugging his knees and dabbing at his nose while the snot streamed over his blue, quivering lips. Despite the heat of the flames, he did not begin to warm until he had some of the hot stew inside him.

“The bothy will be cold,” I said when we finished eating. “Why not let me make up our beds beside the fire. I will tend the flames and keep us warm all night.”

He rebuffed the suggestion at first, but I saw that he lacked the strength and will for an argument, so I coaxed him along, saying, “The sleet has stopped, and the stars are coming out. The moon will be bright—a good night to sleep by the fire.”

“Let it be as you say,” he muttered, sinking deeper into himself.

I made him a bed as near the fire as I dared and fetched enough wood to keep the flames high until morning, then settled back to doze, rousing myself from time to time to add more fuel to the flames. Madog slept fitfully; his cough had become a ragged, brutal thing that shook him with increasing violence. When he slept, he slept with his mouth lolling open and his breath shallow.

We passed a fretful night, and as soon as it was light enough to see the trail, I rose and made ready to depart. “Listen, Magod,” I said, bending low to his ear, “I am going down to the ráth to get some more food. Understand?”

He turned his rheumy eyes toward me and nodded.

“Good. Now, I have put some wood close to hand so you can feed the fire until I return. There is stew in the pot when you get hungry. I will go and hurry back as quickly as I can, but you stay here and keep warm.”

“The sheep…” he protested weakly.

“Do not worry about the sheep. One day in the fold will not harm them. I will feed and water them when I get back. Rest now, and stay close to the fire.”

He muttered something and lay down. He was asleep again as I took up his crook and departed.

The morning was misty and cold; a freezing fog lay over the valley. Lit by the rising sun, it looked like a sea of pearly water, and the ráth on its hump of rock an island surrounded by the milky waves washing around its lonely shores. I gazed upon this sight as I picked my way down the mountain trail, and it produced in me a most powerful yearning, for it seemed to me that
I
was that fortress, lost in a cold and obscure sea.

By the time I reached the valley, the sun had burned off much of the fog. I crossed the river at the ford and hurried up to the ráth, pausing before the king's house to think how best to say what I wanted. As I was standing there, another thought came to me. I turned and ran to the hut of the serving maid instead. She had helped me once, I thought; she might help me again.

Not knowing what else to do, I pounded on the lintel of the door with the flat of my hand. When nothing happened, I pounded again and was about to turn away when I heard a movement inside. “Is anyone there?” I called.

The door opened, and a man thrust out his head. He had been asleep, and I had awakened him. He stared blearily at me, and his stare hardened into a glare. “You,” he grunted.

I recognized him then. It was Cernach, the warrior who had climbed the cliff to cut off my escape. I took a step backward, unable to think what to say. A hand snaked out, snagged me by the arm, and held me. “What do you want here?” he said, jerking me toward him.

I gaped at him, trying to make the words, but in my dismay my mouth and tongue would not obey.

A quick left hand caught me on the side of the face. The resounding smack stung like the lash of a whip and made my eyes water. He moved to strike again. I found my voice. “Please, no. I mean no harm. I am sorry….”

His hand flicked out. I ducked the blow, and he hit the back of my head. I tried to pull away. He seized me with both hands and held on. “Please!” I cried, “I mean no harm.”

A voice called out from inside the hut. “Cernach, what is it?”

In the doorway behind the big warrior's shoulder, a pale, round face appeared. It was the young servingwoman. She stepped lightly around him. “Stay back,” he warned.

“Cernach, stop.” She put her hands on his and tried to remove them from my arm. “You are hurting him.”

“Please,” I said, “I need help.”

“Here is help for you, boy,” Cernach sneered, drawing back his hand.

“Let him go!” the serving maid shouted.

“Sionan, get back!” he growled. “Do as I say!” He tried to move her aside with a nudge of his elbow, but she lost her balance and fell. His eyes turned to where she lay sprawled on the muddy ground. Cernach's lips curled in a gloating sneer and a sheet-flame of anger flashed through me.

The instant his eyes slid away, I swung my fist and struck him with all my strength. I aimed for his neck, but missed and hit him on his thick-muscled shoulder instead. “Leave her alone!” I shouted.

The big brute turned his gaze on me once more. “I do what I please,” he snarled. With that he kicked out at the sprawling girl. She tried to roll aside, but his foot caught her in the stomach.

“No!” I cried and swung on him again. “I said to leave her alone!”

Cernach easily fended off my punch; he snatched me by the arm and yanked me close. “It's none of your business, slave,” he said, his foul breath hot in my face. He hit me hard with the flat of his hand; my head snapped back, and I tasted blood in my mouth.

“Cernach!” shouted the young woman, climbing to her feet once more. She flew at him, and began striking him with her fists. “Let him go.” When this appeal failed to produce the desired result, she added, “I will tell Cormac about this.”

A greasy smile appeared on the warrior's face. “I am not afraid of Cormac.”

“I
will
tell him this time,” she said sternly. “And he will denounce you before the king. Now let him go.”

The warrior regarded me, his mouth writhing with disgust and rage. “Save your breath, woman,” he muttered. “The filth is not worth it.”

With that he gave me a shove that sent me flying backwards. I landed on my side in the mud. “Don't ever come here again,” he told me, then disappeared back into the hut.

The young woman was beside me the instant he had gone. “You defended me,” she said, her voice soft with awe.

“He should not have hit you.” I replied, working my jaw from side to side.

“I thank you, but it was a foolish thing to do. He might have killed you.”

“Sionan—is that your name?”

“You cannot come here anymore,” she said, helping me to my feet. “I am married now.”

“I meant no harm,” I told her. “But Madog is sick. He needs help. I didn't know what to do. I thought you could tell me.”

She frowned. “You must go.”

“But, Madog—”

“Hush,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Go to the king's house and wait. I will come there as soon as I can. Now go.”

I did as she told me and moved off to the king's house. The ráth was stirring now as people began going about their various chores and duties. None of them paid any attention to me as I took up my place outside the door of the king's hall. From time to time a warrior or two would come out, and several of them carried weapons. I watched as they proceeded to practice among themselves, perfecting their skill at arms.

I was immersed in the clack and clatter of the warriors' games when I saw Sionan darting across the yard. She glanced at me as she came near, and I started toward her, but she warned me off with a stern glance that gave me to know I was not to speak to her. I stepped aside, and she entered the hall. A few moments later a man emerged. “You there,” he said, “shepherd.”

I stood and turned as he addressed me.

“I am told the old one has fallen sick.”

“In truth,” I said. “Can someone come and help?”

He pursed his lips. “Is it bad, then?”

“It is that,” I told him, “or I would not have come.”

He nodded. “Return to the flock. I will send for the filidh.”

This made no sense to me. “What can they do?”

“You may go.” He turned and opened the door.

“We need food, too,” I said. He paused. “We have had nothing from the ráth since the fleá.”

He cast a dismissive glance over his shoulder.

“Please,” I said, “we are hungry.”

“Wait here,” he commanded, and went back inside the king's hall. In a little while the door opened again, and a young boy came out lugging a leather bag.

“This is for you,” the boy said, laying the bag at my feet.

When he had gone, I stooped to the bag and opened it. There were loaves of bread, a haunch of pork, a stoppered jar of beer, and some other fragments left over from last night's supper. Closing the bag, I slung it over my shoulder and proceeded to make my way up the mountain to the bothy. Before leaving the ráth, I paused to look back, hoping Sionan might appear. When she did not, I shifted the bag onto my other shoulder and departed.

Madog was still asleep when I reached the bothy. The fire had burned down, allowing the chill air to settle on him. I built it back up and set about making a meal for us from the food in the bag.

The smell of roasting pork wakened the old shepherd. “Geriandol?” he said, sitting up. “What is this?”

He looked around our little camp, his expression at once frightened and confused.

“All is well,” I told him. “It is only myself, Succat—returned from the ráth.”

“Succat?” he said, shaking his head. Recognition came over him, and his fright turned to disappointment.

“Look, I brought good meat, bread, and beer from the king's house. We shall eat like kings today.”

He peered at the haunch warming near the flames and licked his lips. I broke a small loaf of bread and offered him half. “Here,” I said, “try this. It is still fresh.”

He accepted the loaf but sat there holding it loosely in his hand. “You should eat something,” I coaxed. “You might feel better.”

The old man gazed at the loaf for a moment, and then, as if remembering what it was, he pinched off a bit and put it in his mouth. When that was gone, he tried another, eating slowly, forcing himself to make the proper motions to bite, chew, and swallow.

“Geriandol,” I said. “Who is that?”

At my use of the name, his gaze quickened. “Where did you hear that?”

“You said it to me when you woke just now. Was it someone you knew?”

His head fell. “She was my wife,” he murmured.

“You never told me you were married.”

“She was to be my wife,” he amended.

I did not know what to say to this, so I held my tongue lest I trespass on a tender memory. I ate my bread in silence, then fetched the bowls and poured some beer. As Madog lifted the bowl to his lips, a shudder passed through him which set him coughing—a deep, rattling, hack that amazed and worried me with its severity. When it finished, I offered him the beer again and then tried to get him to eat a little of the meat. He pulled off a morsel and chewed slackly.