Patrick (20 page)

I listened to everything they said, spending as much time with them as my never-ending duties allowed. One night, as they sat at their supper, I stood a little apart and listened to them discuss one of the many uses for a druid's staff. “This is why,” Cormac said, “the staff must be chosen very carefully.”

“It is the power of the filidh that works through the staff, is it not?” said Buinne.

“Of course,” granted Cormac.

“If that is so,” continued Buinne, “then any tree or indeed any object fashioned of wood may serve for a staff, since one length of timber is much like any other.”

“So it would seem,” agreed Iollan. He smiled wanly, paused, and then drew a weary breath. “But have you considered what is told of the
clidh
?”

Cormac and Buinne glanced at one another and winced. Datho only smiled, nodding to himself.

“The clidh, like the filidh, partakes of the nature of his staff, which is strong and straight. It elevates and is elevated; it protects and is protected. Thus it is with the poet himself: His art is powerful, protecting, elevating, and his judgment straight and strong. The staff of a True Bard must be likewise.”

Cormac accepted the assertion with a bow of deference to the elder's wisdom, but Buinne pounced. “Forgive me, brother,” he said. “It seems to me you speak of mere similitude only. Certainly a slight rhetorical semblance cannot imbue power or potency.”

Iollan nodded in acceptance of this view, and Buinne in triumph looked to his brothers for approval of his mastery.

But Iollan was not finished. “And yet,” he said, “I recall what the great Oengus said in this regard: ‘To what shall the filidh be compared if not to the staff by which they are known? For they shall be exalted in their resemblance to the Sacred Tree.'”

“Well said, brother,” Datho replied.

Buinne was not willing to acknowledge defeat so easily. “Again I must ask your indulgence, for I do not understand. In what way do the filidh find their exaltation in the likeness of a tree?”

“What else can it mean,” said Datho, “but that the filidh and the Sacred Tree are united by the likeness of their common attributes? As it is said: Under the oak shall the poet acquire his art.”

This was not the first I had heard of the Sacred Tree. Grandfather Potitus used to fulminate against the heathens who bowed the knee in secret groves, as he said, and worshipped forest shrubs rather than Almighty God. What he might have said had he known that his grandson would be serving tree worshippers at that very moment, I could scarcely imagine.

Still, for all their interest in trees, they did not appear to worship them but merely to hold them in high regard. When the discussion ended and the others prepared to go their sep
arate ways, I approached Datho and said, “Forgive my presumption, Ollamh, but I am curious. Of all the things which inhabit the earth, why should trees be held sacred?”

He regarded me for a moment, and then said, “Why do you ask?”

“Because it seems to me that trees live, grow, and die like any other living thing. Also, a tree can be cut down and burned, and it is no more. Would it not be better to worship a thing which cannot be so easily destroyed?”

Datho gazed at me for a long moment, and I thought I had earned the chief bard's reproach for my impertinent observation, but suddenly his tight-lipped mouth opened in a wide grin. Extending his right hand over my head, he cried aloud,

This unnerved me more than if he had slapped my face for impudence. He lowered his hand onto the top of my head and let it rest there for a moment while he gazed into my eyes, as if to confirm his unlikely prophecy.

I grew even more uncomfortable under such close scrutiny, but I stood to the examination. After a time he removed his hand and said, “Your question is well considered. If you would know the answer, hear then. This is the way of it: Trees live out of themselves; they neither kill to eat—like the creatures of land and sea—nor do they toil for their food, but the All-Wise nourishes them in season, and their span outlasts all other living things in creation. Their wisdom runs deep as their roots in the earth, even as their branches reach toward heaven in exaltation of their Creator.

“Yes, they may be cut down, and when they fall, they die. But whether they are burned in the fire or used for building, their lives are given for those they serve—either for warmth in the cold or to support the roof above”—he lifted a hand to
the stout roof beams over our heads—“so that even in death these giants of the land serve those who depend upon them. In this they are the emblem of the druid-kind, who seek to emulate these noble qualities in all our ways.

“Although trees such as the oak and hazel are much revered by the filidh, we no longer worship them as of old. Worship of the creature is blind folly, but worship of the living Creator is the beginning of wisdom.”

I thanked the ollamh for his thoughtful reply. His answer raised many more questions, but I resisted asking and let him go his way. As he walked off, I heard a sound behind me and turned to see Buinne disappearing into the shadows. He had seen and heard what had passed between us, and I wondered what he made of it. Nor did I have long to wonder, for later, as I was smooring the hearth fire for the night, Buinne approached the hearth and stood watching me.

I finished with the embers and ashes and made to greet him. He moved quickly to my side, his face hard as the glint in his eyes. “I know what you are doing, slave boy,” he sneered, “and you will not succeed. I warn you, I will not suffer an upstart to usurp my place.”

“Usurp your place?” I said. “But I could never—”

Raising a cautionary finger, he leaned close, his breath hot in my face. “You have been warned.”

A
FEW DAYS LATER,
Sionan came to Cnoc an Dair. It was fair day in high summer, warm and dry, the sky flecked with pale clouds. Looking out from the hilltop, I could easily imagine it was Morgannwg shining green and lush beneath the summer sun. Longing flooded over me, and I wished I were home again in Britain. On such a day my mother would be fussing about the heat, and my father would be complaining about his taxes, and I would be guzzling down beer at the Old Black Wolf with Julian, Scipio, and Rufus. No doubt they would all be doing those very things right now—but doing them without me…
if
, that is, they had survived the raid.

In truth I did not know whether my friends and family walked among the living still or were long dead in their graves—and that thought made it even worse somehow, as it was not for myself alone that I felt sorry, but for those whose fate I could not guess.

These thoughts plunged me into a forlorn melancholy which left me as bleak and bereft as any new orphan. I spent the morning adrift on a sea of sorrow for my misfortunes, real and imagined.

Then Sionan appeared. Cormac had gone to the ráth the evening before and returned with his sister. As soon as I saw them on the path, I shook myself from my mirthless meditations and walked down to meet them. Even from a distance, I could see she had come dressed in her best clothes.

Sionan smiled as I drew near. Her black hair glistened in the sun beneath the glint of golden combs; her eyes, shaded by long lashes, reminded me of the light on the high meadow when the deep green glows with warmth. Desire flashed through me. In that moment I wanted nothing more than to take her away to some secluded place and make love to her, but I contented myself with a modest kiss on the cheek instead. “Hello, Sionan.”

“You are much improved since last I saw you.” She brushed her fingers along my chest, feeling the fine cloth of my new robe. She let her hand linger.

“They treat me well,” I replied.

“I am glad to hear it,” she said. Her smile grew sly. “Do you not miss your sheep, then?” she asked. “Not even a little?”

“There is only one thing I miss about the mountain,” I told her, “and it isn't the sheep.”

Cormac, standing nearby with a bemused look on his face, stirred himself then and said, “Here now, the day flies before us. Sionan has come to teach you to bake bread, and bread you shall bake.”

Once in the kitchen she became purposeful and efficient. I listened to all she said and followed her every move: mixing, kneeding, setting, baking—everything just as she instructed. Nevertheless it was all my soul was worth to keep my mind on the task before me. I kept stealing glances at her and thinking how good it would be to lie with her once more.

The chance came when, as the bread was baking, we went out to the well to wash the flour and bits of drying dough from our hands. As she bent to retrieve the leather bucket, I stepped behind her and pressed myself against her. She straightened at once and turned; I put my arms around her and pulled her to me. “I've missed you,” I said.

“I can tell,” she said, sliding her hand down between my legs.

I stole a kiss; her lips were warm and tasted of the honey
she had used in making the bread. “Come with me,” I said. “I know a place we can be alone.”

“Mmmm,” she said, pulling away. “I would like nothing better, but the bread will be done soon.”

“Leave it.” I pulled her close and kissed her again. “We can always make more.”

“Succat,” she said, pushing me away, “you've made a good start. It would be a shame to ruin it now.”

“Then after. As soon as the bread is finished.”

“When it is finished, I have to go.”

“So soon? I thought you would spend the night at least.” She shook her head. “Stay,” I insisted, “and we can be together.”

“Another time,” she said firmly, then smiled. “But it is good to see you have not forgotten me.”

“Sionan, how could I ever forget you?”

We went back into the house and waited until the bread was finished. At Sionan's direction I removed the loaves from the small hearthside oven, and we each pulled off a little. Sionan chewed for a moment and pronounced the loaf edible. “You've done well,” she said, “for the first time. Just remember all I've told you and you can't go far wrong. And now,” she concluded briskly, “I must go.”

She put a hand to my cheek. “But we will see each other again.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

I walked with her down the hill and across the valley as far as the stream, then bade her farewell and returned to Cnoc na Daire scheming how I might contrive a visit to the ráth. Seeing Sionan again roused a potent craving, and I felt slightly ill treated that she had not stayed just a little longer.

The shadows lay deep in the wood by the time I slipped back into the house. I hastened to the storeroom and began selecting items with which to make supper. I carried them to the hearth and set about building up the fire so it would be ready when the time came to cook. I was about this task
when I heard a soft step behind me and turned to see Buinne watching me. “I saw what you did,” he said thickly.

I could not think what he meant. “Have I done something, Buinne?”

“Do not try to lie your way out of it. I saw, and I will tell Datho. Now he will send you back to the sheep where you belong.”

“What did I do?”

“You know.” He took a menacing step forward. “I saw you—you and that girl.”

“It is nothing to do with you,” I said stiffly. “Anyway, ‘that girl' is Cormac's sister, and her name is Sionan.”

“Sionan,” he hissed, his eyes narrowed with lewd spite. “She is a slut—as everyone knows.”

I felt the heat of anger rising in me. Without a flicker of hesitation, I reached into the hearth, snatched a piece of wood from the flames, and swung out at the weasel-faced sneak. He loosed a startled cry and stumbled back—but too slowly. The flaming brand struck him on the side of the head. Had he not been so inept, he would have taken the blow harmlessly on the shoulder; as it was, the fire seared the side of his face and set his hair alight. He screamed and danced, batting at the flames with his hands, scattering sparks, and filling the room with the acrid stink of burning hair.

I caught him by the sleeve, reached down, and pulled the back of his robe up over his head, smothering the flames in an instant. He fell to the floor and lay there cringing and whimpering, the left side of his face an angry red and the stubble of hair above his ear still smoldering.

I took up the water jug and poured the contents over him. He spluttered and whined, glaring at me like a beaten dog but saying nothing. I let him cower before me for a moment, then tossed the burning brand back onto the hearth and, in a voice hard and sharp as struck flint, said, “For Sionan's sake, no less than for your own, I will not tell Cormac what you said.”

Reaching down, I took him by the arm and pulled him upright. “Get up on your feet,” I told him. “Go see to yourself. And if you ever so much as breathe Sionan's name again, a few burned hairs will be the least of your worries.”

He shook himself free of my grasp and retreated a few steps. Into his dull, hateful glance stole a small quiver of doubt. “You cannot frighten me. I know the ways of the Dark Speech. I could—”

I moved toward him, narrowing the distance between us by half. “You keep talking when you should be leaving. Why is that?”

He sucked air as if he would spit me from his mouth. Whatever was in his mind, he thought better of it, however, for he turned on his heel and started away. When he reached the safety of the shadows, I heard him snarl, “You will pay for this, slave boy. And it will cost you dear.”

The next day Buinne appeared with his head completely shaved. He gave out that he had been bothered by lice. About the puffy red splotch on the side of his face he said nothing, and no one, to my knowledge, asked what had happened. He did not so much as look in my direction the whole day, and I made a point to stay away from him. I considered the incident resolved, but in this I was more than mistaken.

After the evening meal Cormac informed me that we were to attend the Comoradh as Filidh—the Gathering of Druids—and I would accompany them as cook and fire keeper. Gatherings of one sort or another were common enough, but this one was particularly important. “Every third year after Lughnasadh,” he said, “the filidh gather to hold trials of skill and feats of recitation. It lasts seven days, and druids from every part of Éire take part.”

“Lughnasadh?”

“It is the Festival of First Fruits,” he explained. “Have you never heard of it?”

“Never.” I told him that my father and grandfather would rather have had their tongues torn out than be seen creeping off to the forest to offer sacrifices to a heathen idol.

“Well, you need have no fear for your tongue. There will be no pagan sacrifices at the gathering.”

“I makes no difference to me,” I replied. “I am done with all that mumbling in the dark.”

He gave me that look of his he used whenever I said something he considered outlandish—a peculiar blend of interested yet abashed astonishment. “Would it surprise you to learn that there are but few pagans among the Learned Brotherhood?”

“Perhaps,” I replied, unimpressed by this revelation. “Truly, Cormac, I could not care less.”

“Keep your eyes open, Succat. You will see wonders to charm and amaze you.”

The next days were given to preparations for Lughnasadh, which the filidh would celebrate at the ráth with King Miliucc. As this did not involve me greatly, my chores continued much as before. I practiced making bread so that I would not forget all that Sionan had taught me. I enjoyed baking, because I thought of her while I worked the dough and tried thinking of ways by which I might sneak away with her.

“Prepare whatever provisions you think we will need,” instructed Datho. “It is a fair distance, remember, and we will require supplies for seven days once we arrive.”

“Of course, Ollamh,” I said. “But if I take that much, how are we to carry it?”

“The king will give us a horse or two if I ask.”

This echoed what Cormac had told me, but I wanted to be certain. “Ollamh,” I asked, “is it true that a king is bound to grant a druid's request?”

“True?” he mused. “In what way do you mean?”

Trust a druid to turn a simple question into a philosophical inquisition. “Cormac told me that no king would refuse a druid anything he asked, so long as it was in the king's power to grant. Is this the way of it, or have I misunderstood?”

“Kings receive their sovereignty through the authority of the filidh,” Datho explained. “Thus, for a king to refuse the
request of a druid would be to renounce his own kingship. No king could do that and remain king; it would be an offense against nature. The realm and the tuatha would bear great suffering.”

As with much of what the filidh said, I did not understand the close-pared logic of his assertion. I accepted that it was so, however, and thanked him for enlightening me on this matter. Confirmed in my plan, I renewed my resolve to increase the druids' indebtedness to me, so that when I asked Datho to request my freedom from the king, the chief druid would be more than happy to comply.

That night I made a fine supper for them, and the next day I helped Cormac and Iollan prepare for the Lughnasadh festival, which was, I learned, only the first of the two-part harvest observance. The second part took place at the conclusion of the harvest season and was called Alban Elved.

Of the two, Lughnasadh was much the more elaborate. There were sacred fires to be kindled, cattle to be blessed, ceremonies of earth and sky to be enacted; there was also dancing, feasting, drinking, and games of strength, cunning, and endurance. For many it was the most keenly anticipated festival of the year. For many, I say, but not for all.

“It is of course an important
feis
,” Cormac confided. He wrapped the special fire-making utensils in a piece of soft deerskin. “But there are those among the Learned who have come to despise the festival and think it should be abandoned.”

The way he said it made me ask, “Are
you
one of them?”

He considered his reply for a moment. “No,” he answered at last, “I do not despise it.” He tied a strap of thin leather around the bundle he had made. “But I think our people abuse a very ancient and holy rite and in their ignorance pervert what is good.”

My grandfather, never one to suppress his disapproval of the more popular pagan rites, might easily have said exactly the same thing. “If you think it perverse,” I suggested, “why not change it?”

Cormac frowned and straightened. “This is what some of the Brotherhood have been saying—that the rites have grown into a mockery and should be changed. I agree, but it is not so easy.”

“How not?” I asked. “You are the ones who control the festival.”

“No.” He shook his head. “We have no such authority. As always, the power of these rites derives from the belief of the people. If the filidh wish to change even the smallest feature of the observance, we must first change the hearts and minds of the people to accept a new way.”

“Then do that,” I said. The thing was perfectly simple after all.

Cormac shook his head again and chuckled. “And do you not think that is the very thing we are doing?”

“Well?”

“Only the most shallow-rooted weeds grow up overnight, Succat. You must know that. We are not about planting a weed which is here today and gone tomorrow. We are about growing a mighty yew under whose spreading limbs the land will shelter for all time.”

I heard in his voice something I had never heard before. Pride was there, certainly, and defiance, too—but also a quality I could not readily identify. For, despite hints and insinuations, great and small, which he had dropped from the very moment I first met him, he had never put a name to this mysterious group to which he obviously belonged. I sensed he was very close to doing this now, so I said, “You make it sound like the work of many hands, Cormac. Is anyone to help you with this great tree-planting work?”