Patrick (22 page)

I decided to ask Cormac what he thought. “Could
I
become a filidh, do you think?”

His expression took on a curiosity bordering on suspicion. “Why do you ask?”

I told him then what Datho had said about me: a bard who had not chanted yet. Cormac considered this for a moment, “Well, then, it must be that our wise ollamh has seen something in you which has called forth this prophecy. In any case it is not for me to say one way or the other. We must ask Datho.”

The ollamh was occupied with discussions far into the night, so it was the next day before the opportunity arose for us to seek Datho's opinion on whether I might be allowed to become a bard. Cormac asked the question, while I stood waiting patiently to one side. The ollamh pursed his lips and looked at the sky and then at me. He looked at the sky again and finally said, “Well, why not?” He smiled. “If that is what he wants, why not?”

“Succat is well past the age when one must begin the training,” Cormac pointed out.

The chief druid shrugged. “What of that? The desire of a true heart can overcome much.” Turning to me, he said, “Tell me, Succat, is it in your heart to join the Learned Brotherhood?”

“It is that, ollamh,” I replied. Then, having bent the truth as far as it would go, I added, “I waited all night to ask you, and while I waited, the desire grew in me. Indeed, I feel a burning in my heart which I have never known before.” I did not tell him, of course, that this burning was for freedom; it was not wisdom I so desperately wanted, but escape. “You said that I was a bard who had not chanted yet,” I reminded him. “How will I become a bard unless I am allowed the chance to learn?”

“How indeed?” He motioned me to him and placed his hands on my shoulders. “You have shown yourself a willing and able servant. Your curiosity is genuine, and your mind is quick. Therefore let us strike a bargain, you and I: Serve us well for the next year, prove yourself worthy, and let the desire ripen in your heart—do this, and when we come again to the council, I will oversee your initiation.” He gazed at me solemnly. “This is the bargain I propose.”

“We are here now, ollamh,” I pointed out. “Could I not begin at once? As Cormac has said, I am already older than the others. To wait another year…”

The chief druid shook his head. “This is my decision.”

I glanced at Cormac but received no encouragement there. To begin by arguing with my benefactor did not augur well for any future progress, so I swallowed my disappointment. “No doubt it is for the best,” I conceded. “I accept your gracious offer, ollamh, and I will abide.”

“Good,” replied Datho, nodding with satisfaction. “I understand your impatience, but the year will pass quickly. There is much to be done.” He turned to Cormac, who regarded me dubiously. “Cormac will aid you in this. From today he is responsible for your preparation.”

“If you think it best, ollamh,” replied Cormac. Although he tacitly agreed, his disapproval was obvious.

“I have spoken.”

Cormac accepted his superior's judgment with a low bow. When Datho had gone, I asked Cormac why he doubted my suitability. “Is it because you find me unacceptable in some way?” I said.

“I do,” he admitted. “You possess a most formidable will, Succat. That is your strength and your great weakness. In the days to come, you must relinquish your will a thousand times over. Can you do that?”

“I can do that.”

“I wonder.”

“Would you prevent me, Cormac?”

“The ollamh has spoken, and I will obey.” He paused.

“Whether you succeed or fail, however, will be determined by your own abilities.”

“I ask nothing more than that.”

The thought of having to wait another year chafed me sorely, and Cormac's distinct lack of enthusiasm irritated me more than I would have imagined. That night, as I set about making supper for my druids, I thought about what Datho and Cormac had said. When we left Cathair Bán two days later, I was determined to make the best of my year's preparation.

A
S
D
ATHO PREDICTED,
the year passed swiftly for me. I performed every duty with utmost care and attention. All they asked of me, and more, I did. Never so much as a sigh of complaint passed my lips—even when Buinne ordered me about on silly errands. Oh, he had not forgotten the beating I had given him; if anything, his spite had only grown—not that I paid much attention to him one way or another—but, needless to say, he relished every opportunity to demean me. I took his routine humiliation in my stride—as much for Sionan's sake as for my own—refusing to dignify his continual threats and insinuations so that I would not betray her love. My meek acceptance merely infuriated him all the more, however. He began to fulminate against me whenever we were alone, and when I did not answer his threats and slanders, he crowed like a cock in triumph over a bloodied rival.

I saved up his abuse, reckoning every slur and embarrassment I endured, and one night at dinner I gave him a bowl of stewed venison which contained a powerful purgative derived from the dried root of a marsh plant I had been keeping. That night he did not go to his bed but remained outside in the woods with his loose bowels.

Sionan and I continued to see one another whenever we could. Widowed and no longer a virgin, she could not serve in the king's house, but Queen Grania had taken pity on her and given her a place among her own servingwomen. On
rare occasions Sionan would contrive some excuse to come to the druid house on an errand for the queen; more often I went to the ráth. Once, during the winter, I was caught in a snowstorm and forced to stay in the ráth for two days. For two days and nights Sionan and I ate and slept and made love in a bed heaped with fleeces before the fire-bright hearth of her little house.

Thus I occupied myself while I waited. I bore my captivity with as good grace as I could, and tried not to think of Britain or of the time passing. The year slowly turned, and the time came to test whether I was well prepared for the ordeal of initiation. A few days before we were to depart for the druid gathering, Datho called me before him. He took a long time examining me—posing questions, weighing my replies. Finally he declared himself satisfied with my readiness. “Tell me, Succat, do you still wish to join the Learned Brotherhood?”

“I do, Ollamh Datho,” I replied, “more than ever.”

“That is well. Providing you successfully complete the initiation, I will undertake your instruction. In time you shall become a bard.”

As before, we celebrated Lughnasadh at the ráth, where I shared my good news with Sionan. “Tell me,” I said, “which you would rather be: the wife of a druid or the wife of a shepherd?”

“Wife now, is it?” She gave me a silky smile. “Well, if you are as poor a druid as you were a shepherd, I would not be wife to you for anything.”

“I was a wise and skillful shepherd.”

“You were a sorry shepherd.”

“But I was sincere at least.”

“Not even that.”

“Well, then,” I said, pulling her close, “I can hardly be a worse druid.”

“True,” she agreed, kissing me lightly, “but it is the chief bard for me or no one at all.”

“If that is the way of it,” I said, pulling her down onto the
soft bed of fleeces, “then I shall become the best chief bard that anyone this side of Sliabh Mis has ever seen.”

“Do that,” she replied, settling herself on top of me, “and I shall marry you after all.”

We enjoyed a sweetly satisfying night together, and the next morning I departed with the filidh to attend the Comoradh at Cathair Bán.

Anticipation grew with every step, so that by the time we reached the hill with its temple mounds, I could hardly walk. Truly, I had to keep reminding myself that I was only using the initiation as a means to gain my freedom. That, only that, and nothing more. This proved no easy task, however, for I had long since fallen under the thrall of the druids. I had seen and heard things in my year of preparation that gave me to know that the filidh were both wise and powerful and that their knowledge was far above the blather and nonsense so prized by the ignorant priests of Mithras, who still plied their disreputable trade around the garrisons of southern Britain.

The filidh, for the most part, possessed genuine skills which they employed for the good of the people. The thought that I was to join them, albeit deceitfully, filled me with an awe verging on alarm.

Upon arrival the others went up the hill to the temple mound, leaving me to make camp. A little later Datho returned to say that he had spoken with the other druid chieftains, who agreed with his recommendation to allow me to be added to the number of new initiates. “Tonight you will sleep on the hill,” he told me. “You will be given a special meal of meat and broth, and at dawn the initiation will begin.”

Accordingly, dawn found me standing with two other skinny, anxious boys—both much younger than myself—naked save for a loincloth; we were each given a fresh-cut yew branch, which we held in our hands while an ollamh examined us.

“Let the initiation begin,” said the ollamh upon completing his examination.

Three druids approached and, each holding a torch, came to stand before the trembling initiates. Datho took his place before me. “All who would join the Learned Brotherhood must die to their former lives so that they may be born anew into the life of the filidh,” he said. “If this is your desire, follow me.”

The other druids spoke likewise to their candidates, who were then led off to the turf-covered mounds a short distance away. I was taken to the great mound. Stepping over the oblong stone blocking the entrance, Datho approached the doorway, indicating that I was to stay close behind him. Crouching low, he led me into the darkness of a long, narrow corridor, the walls and roof of which were enormous slabs of stone. The floor was uneven, rising slightly the further in we went; the walls pressed tight and then, suddenly, opened into a large, roughly circular room which, revealed in the fluttering light of Datho's torch, held several smaller chambers, or niches.

Two of the smaller chambers contained great shallow stone bowls. One of these held a haunch of rotting meat and the other, rank and stagnant water. The stench made my eyes water, and I gagged. In the third chamber a thick mat of rushes covered the floor, which was itself covered by a bearskin. A rolled-up deer hide lay to one side.

Indicating the bearskin, Datho said, “Lie down, Succat.”

I did as I was told, and the chief druid, placing the torch in a crevice in the rock, stooped and folded my arms over my naked chest. Taking the yew branch from my hand, he laid it across my chest. “The yew is ever green and everlasting,” he said, “like your soul. Let your mind dwell on this.”

Taking up the deerskin, he unrolled it and drew it over my body. Then, stretching out his hands over me, he closed his eyes and chanted in a tongue I did not recognize. I listened to the rhythmic rise and fall of his voice and felt myself growing sleepy. After a time his voice seemed to fade into silence. I waited and opened my eyes in utter darkness. Datho was gone, and I was alone.

I did not know what was to come or how long I would remain in the chamber. I simply lay on the bearskin, waiting for whatever would happen next.

The air inside the niche was lifeless, neither warm nor cold; there was not the slightest breath of movement in it. Even so, it filled my nostrils with the smell of earth and stone and the faint stink of rotting meat and rank water emanating from the niches in the chamber beyond.

The silence of the chamber was complete. I could hear nothing of the world outside the great womb of earth. I imagined that the sun had risen and men in the wider world were going about their various activities—all without me. At first this produced a curious disquiet—as if, forced to endure silence and darkness, I were being made to bear a burden others did not share. Oddly, as time passed, this feeling hardened into a sense of oppression. Deprived of light and movement, I was made to suffer while those outside went blithely about their affairs without regard to my plight. I resented them for their careless freedom. I despised them for their thoughtlessness. As my discomfort increased, it was all I could do to keep from leaping up and rushing out of the mound and castigating them for their coldhearted indifference.

At length I realized that this thinking was only making me morose and angry, so I tried to think of something less irksome. At once my mind turned to Sionan, and I wondered what she might be doing. I imagined her making bread, as we had done, and instantly the musty niche seemed to fill with the sweet, warm, floury scent of her baking. I saw her face, features knit in a frown of concentration, a slight sheen of sweat on her forehead, her hands dusted with flour as she kneaded the pale dough. I beheld her willowy form as she swayed to her work, and my heart swelled with love for her. Yes! Sionan—my wife in all but name, she was dearer to me than my life.

I held my beloved's image in my mind's eye and sent good wishes winging her way, and I suddenly found myself surrounded by a solid yet gentle presence which folded all
my anxiety into itself, giving back only reassurance as fathomless as the sea. I was buoyed up and carried along, a leaf swirled upon on the broad, heaving breast of the ocean by unseen currents.

In the dark and silence of my chambered tomb, my spirit took flight. Into my mind came the image of countryside, and I saw, as if spread out far below me, the rumpled green cloak of Ireland with its hills and forests, streams and lakes, shining silver in the sun. I saw the narrow sea and, away to the east, the mainland of Britain. I saw the coast, with waves dashed white against the tumbled line of rock cliffs, towering headlands, and high promontories. I saw the fields and woods of my homeland—farmers with teams of oxen, plowing, sowing, chopping wood to clear the land. I saw soldiers on foot, marching along fine, straight roads; they moved eastward, where, looming up before them, rose great black clouds of smoke and storm.

Bodiless and unencumbered, I streaked swift as thought across the empty sky, watching the rippling land and glittering sea below me. I saw the coast of Morgannwg where I was taken and, up beyond the protecting hills, our estate, Favere Mundi, deathly still beneath the glowing sun, its courtyard empty. I had feared it destroyed, but there it was. And while I looked, I saw my mother come out into the yard with a jar in her hand; she went to the pear tree and poured out the water around the old tree's roots.

Beyond the villa I saw the road leading to little Bannavem and then the town itself set in among the fields and meadow pastures. I saw the town square and the busy market—only now it was not so busy; there were fewer people in the square, and the normally raucous mood was sharply subdued. I was taking this in when who should come striding into the square but my friend Rufus, and Scipio with him. They walked together to the well in the center of the square and perched on the stone breastwork to talk in the drowsy summer sun. I wanted to shout to them, to let them know somehow that I saw them and that I was alive and well. But
I clutched my yew branch instead, and the world rushed on beneath me.

I saw the edge of approaching night, sweeping like a shadow line across the land. It came so swiftly. The luscious golden sunshine faded; the bright, flame-tinted sky relinquished its light; and the evening stars began to shine. As night gathered strength, the land sank away beneath a weight of darkness. Here and there the quick glint of open fires burned holes in night's black robe, but for the most part the land was invisible beneath the occluding veil.

I turned my eyes to look above and saw heaven's vast canopy aglow with stars—a wide and glittering band of spangled silver, a spray of gleam, illuminating the darksome nether realms no man had ever seen. The moon shone like a great glowing wheel as it rolled up and over the sky's curved vault. I felt myself to be as small and trifling as an empty shell upon the world's enormous strand. The universe spread before me, forever, without end.

Out beyond the shining rim of stars, I saw the dark, inscrutable heart of the deep, impenetrable and unknowable. Here lay the mystery of all existence, wrapped in infinite layers of time yet unwound. Though I could not see it, I could feel the long, slow stirring of its elemental pulse in the pit of my soul. I felt the steady, rhythmic beat as an ineluctable tide force, rising and falling, drawing and sending, moving in arcing ripples through the ordered ranks of creation, setting here an entire world in motion, there a tiny heart.

I saw these things—I know not how—and felt myself lifted high and exhilarated by the vision. It seemed as if I had dipped myself in a bottomless sea of wisdom; a knowledge older than the rivers of the world, older still than the rocks beneath the mountains, as old as the ever-circling heavens above the earth, flowed all around me…divine knowledge.

The unformed presence in my cavelike chamber took on the aspect of a living being. What is more, this living pres
ence, closer than my own breath, bound me to itself, enfolded me within its all-encompassing strength. It had ever been with me, and it would remain with me henceforth and forever in whatever realms I might wander. Though I live or die, it would be with me still, enfolding me, upholding me, encircling me.

Lying there in the silent darkness of my chambered tomb, I allowed this knowledge to seep into me, into my hair and mouth and nostrils, into the pores of my skin and beneath my skin; I let it soak into my bones, into the pith and marrow of my frame—until I became saturated with it. This knowledge trickled in, filling all the hidden, hollow places within, suffusing body and soul with the invincible awareness that I need never be lost or alone again. And more, that my life had been given for a purpose yet to be fulfilled.

I lay on the fleece-covered bearskin luxuriating in this knowledge, exulting in it, rejoicing in the very great gift which had been given me.