Patrick (24 page)

The name was in my native tongue. Cadair Glân—it meant “Holy Chair.”

At this there came a fretful murmuring from many of those looking on. Old Gwyn turned his kindly face this way and that, until the grumblers had finished. “So now, brothers,” he continued, “I put the question to you: Shall the Holy Chair be established among us for the dignity and elevation of the Ceile De?”

He had scarcely got the question out when there arose shouts and cries of both affirmation and dissension. Again he waited until the commotion had subsided and then said,
“I observe that the Brotherhood is divided on the issue. Therefore we will proceed by the telling of stones.” He gestured to one of the nearby filidh, who brought forth a large leather bag and took his place beside the old druid. Gwyn raised his hand, and I saw he held a small white pebble. “White for affirmation of the question,” he said, “and black”—he now showed a dark pebble—“for rejection.” Indicating the bag, he said, “Come, brothers, render your judgment.”

There was a general surge toward the center, where the druid stood with the bag, but the jostling soon resolved itself into an orderly line of filidh who passed, briefly dipping their hands into the bag and moving on. Not everyone cast a stone into the bag; it seemed to me the privilege of the higher-ranking filidh. When the last stone had been cast, the bag was closed and, in the sight of all, handed to Ollamh Gwyn, who raised it in his hands. He carried it to Datho and declared, “I say that the cast was done properly in the sight of all present. How say you?”

“I am satisfied,” replied Datho.

Moving on, the old druid carried the bag to several other high-ranking filidh and asked them the same question. Upon receiving a positive answer from each ollamh, he returned to the center of the ring and summoned another bard, who approached holding a large wooden bowl. Gwyn once more raised the bag, untied it, and poured the contents into the bowl.

“Who will count the stones?” he asked.

From among the several volunteers, he chose Meabh. The old woman stepped forth and gazed into the bowl. “More light!” she said, and torches were brought near. She reached into the bowl and picked out a black stone, held it up, for all to see, and said, “One!”

Returning her bent hand to the bowl, she brought out four more dark pebbles in quick succession. “Two, three, four, five,” she said, and then, reaching into the bowl, declared, “That is all. The rest are white.” So saying, she picked up a
handful of white pebbles and let them fall back into the bowl.

At this the dissident bards loosed a low growl of disapproval. But the matter did not end there. As soon as the gathering had quieted once more, wise old Gwyn chose one from among the dissenters and called him forth. “Brother Senach,” he said, “I would have you count the stones.”

Frowning, the filidh proceeded to sort through the stones in the bowl. The tally was brief, and Senach declared, “I also make it five opposing and twenty sustaining.” He turned and stepped back to his place.

“Hear and know,” cried old Gwyn, “by the telling of the stones, the Cadair Glân is established!” These last words were swallowed in the shouts of approval which greeted his pronouncement. “This night the will of the Brotherhood of the Oak is declared. The Holy Chair of the Ceile De is herewith created. Those who wish to make application to this chair may do so now.”

There ensued a lengthy disputation—much of which I did not follow, but during the discussion the dissenters and their followers gathered in a group and, crying defiance on the proceedings, quit the gathering. There was much shouting on both sides, and attempts were made to persuade the rebels to stay, but they would not. They departed the Comoradh then and there.

When they had gone, I asked one of the lower-ranking brothers why the dissenters were so angry. “Oh, they resent the influence of the Christians.”

“The Christians?” I wondered. “What Christians?”

“The Ceile De,” he told me. “Do you not know this?”

“I have not been among the filidh very long,” I replied.

“Many things are still new to me.”

“The Ceile De are followers of the Christian god, Esu,” he told me. “They revere him with the same esteem as An Rúnda.”

“An Rúnda,” I repeated. “The Mysterious.”

“Indeed,” he agreed. “The Ceile De have grown in num
ber among the Learned, and their presence is seen as a threat to those who think that the brotherhood should remain forever unchanged.”

“What do the Ceile De think?”

“Ah,” he said, “they think this Esu is the completion of everything the filidh believe. Truth against the world—you have heard of this, yes?”

Unwilling to confess further ignorance, I said, “I may have heard it once or twice.”

“Well, this Esu,” he confided, “
is
the truth by which all others must be reckoned. At least,” he added with a diffident shrug, “that is what the Ceile De believe.”

“And you?” I asked. “Do you also believe this?”

“I do,” he confided, then glanced around quickly as if afraid someone might overhear. He caught himself and smiled. “What is more, from tonight there is no longer any fear or shame in discussing these things. Now that the Cadair Glân is established among us, we can all speak freely.”

That very night the new chief of the Holy Chair was chosen from among the applicants, and it was none other than Datho. Cormac, standing beside me, was elated. He sprang forward and wrapped his teacher in a jubilant embrace, lifting him off his feet. The dignified ollamh protested weakly, patting his former pupil about the head and shoulders, while the other filidh acclaimed the choice with shouts and cheers.

Several other matters were decided then, and it was after midnight when the formal gathering concluded. We stayed on two more days, however, to allow Datho to hold council with his fellow Ceile De. I think they talked about how best to establish and organize the Cadair Glân, but as I was not included in the talks, I found time to fish in the river, pick berries, and laze in the sun with Datho's two younger pupils. I stayed out of Buinne's way for the most part, seeing him only at mealtimes; where he went and how he occupied himself the rest of the time, I could not say and did not care so long as it was far away from me.

Finally the day of leaving dawned, and it was a sad day, for it meant that Cormac was going with Meabh and I would see him no more. “Of course we will see each other,” he told me. “There will be gatherings, and I will come to the ráth if I can. Anyway, the time will pass quickly.”

“You have been better than a brother to me, Cormac,” I told him. “If not for you, I would not be alive to stand before you and thank you now.”

“I did only what anyone would do.”

“Buinne would not have done it,” I replied. “He bears me ill, I know.”

“You may be right,” Cormac conceded. “But you need have no further concern for him. He will be leaving Datho soon.”

“Not soon enough for me.”

He smiled and gripped me by the shoulder. “Farewell, my friend. Work hard at your learning, and the time will pass swiftly enough. I will come and see you as soon as I can.” He paused, “Oh, yes—and tell Sionan I have advanced in rank and now sit at the feet of Meabh herself. Tell her that, will you?”

“I will.”

Still smiling, he stood before me, reluctant to leave. From the riverbank one of Meabh's servants called him away. He embraced me one last time and departed. “Farewell, Cormac!” I called after him. “Until we meet again!”

Alas, could even Gwyn the Far-Seeing have guessed how long that would be?

L
IFE IN THE
druid house resumed. I was no longer strictly a servant, although I retained some of my former duties and still wore the iron collar of a slave. The two younger boys, Heber and Tadhg, took on the more menial daily chores; I began lessons with Datho and Iollan, and the house quickly settled into a new rhythm—one that, much to my relief, did not include Buinne. In view of his advancement in rank, he was sent to house somewhere on the other side of the mountains to learn the making of elixirs, potions, unguents, and suchlike for healing. I did miss Cormac at first, but it was as he said: With the demands of learning, I soon had little time for missing anyone.

I waited a few weeks and then asked Datho if my slave collar might be removed. He regarded me with an expression of benign curiosity. “Why?”

Of all the questions I had imagined as I practiced the discussion over and over in my mind, this was one I had not anticipated. Without thought I blurted, “Because it is hateful to me!”

“Ah,” he said, accepting my evaluation, “I see.” He fingered his beard thoughtfully for a moment and then said, “You have shown yourself a trustworthy servant and a ready student. If it would please you to remove this token of your bondage, then I see no harm.”

His decision was more than gratifying. I thanked him and then respectfully inquired when he thought the deed could be accomplished.

“It must be done with the king's permission, of course,” he said. “I will ask him when next I go to the ráth.”

Sensing that I had found an opportune time, I decided to risk the greater prize. Plucking up my courage, I asked, “And do you think we might also ask Lord Miliucc to grant my freedom?”

The wise old bard considered this for a moment. He looked into the air, his lips pursed. I did not press him but waited, trying to quell the uneasy feeling in my stomach.

Finally he said, “Insofar as a king is bound to honor the request of his druid, it is best to make only the most judicious entreaties.”

“I understand,” I told him. “Perhaps it might not seem a thing of much account to some, but to one noble born it chafes me worse than this iron collar ever did.” I gave the twisted iron ring a hard yank for emphasis.

“Lord Miliucc will no doubt ask a boon in return,” said Datho. “Do you have anything to offer him?”

I had not thought of this. “I have but myself,” I answered. “Perhaps the king would look favorably on a pledge of future service as a filidh. Certainly a willing bard would be more valuable to him than an unwilling shepherd.”

“Well said,” concluded Datho. “If you are content to offer yourself as a bard in the service of the king—should he require a boon to help persuade him—then I will ask him to grant your freedom.”

“Thank you, Ollamh, you have made me very happy.”

Happy? It was all I could do to keep from leaping about the room and yelping with glee. I thanked Datho again and then, lest I betray my true intentions somehow, retreated with my victory. Soon, soon, and very soon, I would be free! In light of this joyous event, my vision and vow were all too swiftly forgotten.

In the meantime, having secured Datho's promise, I renewed my ardor for my duties. I did not wish to give the chief bard even the least cause for concern or suspicion. I threw myself into the work of the druid house, adopting the air and attitude of the perfect servant.

Datho was an exacting but not unreasonable master. His knowledge was veritably oceanic in breadth and his learning encompassed the universe, both seen and unseen, and this deep and boundless erudition he undertook to pour into my own pitiful bowl of a brain. On good days we walked out in the wood or meadow or up to the mountain. On rainy days we sat together in the druid house, where I would listen to him expound on the movements of the stars; on the lineages of kings and their kingdoms; on the various shrubs, herbs, and vegetables and their useful properties; on the habits of forest animals, the migrations of races and nations, or the correct way of healing certain diseases.

Mostly, however, I spent my time writing. Datho would recite whole movements of various songs—“The Protection of the Honey Isle,” “Finn and the Phantoms,” “The Four Pillars of Song,” “The Contention of Bards,” “Mabon and the Mysteries,” and many others—while I, struggling to keep pace, repeated the lines and wrote them on the ever-present wax tablet all bards-in-training used for their lessons. When the tablet was filled, front and back, he would send me away to commit the section to memory. When I could recite the tale perfectly without looking at the tablet, then I would melt and smooth the wax and we would begin again, adding the next section, building on what I had learned.

In his first year a fledgling filidh is expected to learn no fewer than twenty songs, or tales, and to be able to recite them beginning to end whenever asked. In addition to this, because I was not a native Irish speaker—and even my knowledge of the British tongue was not extensive—Datho instructed me in the use and meaning of words, which he said I would need if I were ever to acquire the briamon, the word of power or, as it was often called by normal folk, the “Dark Tongue,” by which the druid-kind performed many wonders.

Thus my days were filled morning to night with work and study. Curiously, the learning appealed to me. I enjoyed mastering the obscure lore—especially the songs and sto
ries—and delving deep into the peculiar wisdom of the Learned Brotherhood. Be that as it may, what little time I could steal from study or chores I spent at the ráth with Sionan. Sometimes she would walk back with me as far as the stream, where we would sit on the bank and talk, or, if it was evening, we might lie in the grass together.

More and more she was in my thoughts—along with Cormac's stern warning not to disappoint her. Sionan herself breathed no word of either frustration or hope; she seemed to accept the way things were between us and did not seek to alter them one way or another. Still I thought about her and about what she would think when, one day soon, I left.

That day seemed as far away as ever, for, despite the ollamh's promise, the days went by and Datho made no mention of going to the ráth. I began to fear he had forgotten or that he had thought better of his decision and changed his mind. All the same, I dared not ask him again in case my impatience provoked or angered him. I bore my apprehension in silence, pretending to be the dutiful student and then racing off to take my frustrations out on Sionan.

One warm day, upon approaching the ráth, I saw her, alone, by the stream; she was washing a garment in the water. I sneaked up and surprised her with a kiss and then led her down along the stream where some willow trees grew. There we stripped off our clothes, swam in the stream, and then made love in the long grass. Afterward we lay together and talked while the sun dried us.

“I asked Datho to seek my release from the king,” I told her. “He said he would do it.”

She rolled over on her stomach and looked at me with her dark eyes. “What will you do then?”

The question caught me off my guard. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” she said pointedly, and I thought she had somehow guessed my secret. But she con
tinued, saying, “Once you have your freedom, what will you do?”

“I will keep studying,” I told her firmly, “until I become a bard.” She regarded me silently, and I could not tell what she was thinking, so I added, “Datho thinks I may have to offer the king a few years' service as a filidh in exchange for my slave collar.”

“Well,” she said, “then at least you can stay in the ráth. We can be together whenever we like. We can even be married.”

That was all she said, but it cut at my heart like a knife. For despite my exuberant—and ill-advised—words on the subject, I knew I must soon forsake her.

“Of course, my love,” I told her, Cormac's stern warning echoing in my thoughts. Not caring to discuss the matter further, I reached out and pulled her to me. I kissed her mouth, and throat, and breasts, and then rolled her on top of me.

The first stars were showing through gaps in the clouds when at last I took my final lingering kiss and started back to the druid house. Sionan stood on the bank and watched until I was out of sight.

On the way I was assailed by guilt and shame for deceiving Sionan. I hated myself for doing it. Moreover, I thought she was beginning to suspect I was not telling her the truth. The only solution, I could see, was to try to move the matter along somehow. I resolved to speak to Datho again at the first good opportunity.

That night, I lay on my pallet and thought how best to do this, and quickly arrived at several appeals he could not possibly gainsay—and just as quickly discarded each as unsatisfactory in one way or another. The next morning, when it came time for my lesson, Datho took me out to one of the oaks where, in good weather, he liked to do his teaching. Heber and Tadhg were with Iollan, who was letting them practice scratching ogham lines on a scrag of rock behind the house.

Before I could ask about my slave collar, the druid said,
“Cormac told me your grandfather was a presbyter in the church of the Holy Esu.”

“He was that,” I replied, somewhat surprised that he should raise the subject.

Datho nodded and lowered himself onto a small three-legged stool he kept under the oak. He put out his hand and indicated that I should sit on the ground before him. “As chief of the Ceile De of Éire, I have decided that it shall be my work to build a bridge to Britain. What do you think of that?”

“I think it most ambitious, Ollamh,” I answered. “Perhaps a boat would be a better choice.”

He laughed, his voice resounding through the little wood like the peal of a bell. “The bridge I shall build, Corthirthiac, is made not of stone or timber but of faith and goodwill.”

When we were together as master and pupil, he always called me by my filidh name; the rest of the time I was still Succat. “Not the most durable of materials, Ollamh,” I replied.

“Perhaps not,” he allowed. “But the ties between the druid-kind of Éire and Britain are ancient and many. Those ties will be strengthened, but it is the church of your grandfather that I wish to reach with my bridge.”

Unable to think of any possible value which might be derived from this attempt, I could only stare and ask, “Why?”

“Truth against the world,” he replied in the elliptical fashion much beloved of bards.

It was the same thing the young bard had told me at the gathering. I still had no idea what he was talking about, but I held my tongue.

“This,” he continued after a moment, “is the soul of our teaching:
Truth against the world
. So it has always been, so shall it ever be.”

I was about to ask what this odd saying meant, but Datho held up his hand. “Only listen,” he said. Closing his eyes, he began nodding his head, and in a moment he started to sing. He sang:

He repeated the little verse once more. “Now you sing it with me,” he instructed, and I sang it with him several more times until I had it. “This the filidh believe,” he told me, “and it is the beginning of wisdom. So tell me: Do you think your grandfather would have agreed?”

“Without a doubt,” I replied.

“Even so,” he said. “This we have believed from the beginning. But many people—especially the Roman priests of Britain—have forgotten this. They look upon the Ceile De and see enemies where they should see brothers. Everywhere they go, they strive to uproot our traditions and plant their foreign observances instead. Yet we have been in the land far longer than they. Our traditions were not passed on to us by men but were given to us by the All-Wise himself.”

I suppose I could not disguise my skepticism any longer. Datho read the disbelief on my face and said, “I see you are the child of your grandfather.”

“How should I be otherwise?” I asked.

Datho did not reply at once. He laced his fingers beneath his chin and looked down his nose at me for a long moment. “You have never heard ‘The Tale of the Strong Upholder'?”

“No, Ollamh, you have not told me.”

“Then this,” he said, his eyes lighting with pleasure, “is a most auspicious day. Listen, and I shall tell you how it is that True Belief came to DeDanaan's children.”

Closing his eyes, he tilted his head back and, drawing a deep breath, made a sound halfway between a moan and a sigh. Rather than trailing off into silence, however, the utterance grew until it seemed to fill the wood with a low,
droning, sonorous tone. When it finished, silence reigned in the wood—as the calm and serenity that follows a storm.

“In the days before the present age,” the wise ollamh began, “when Aedh Slane was high king and Fintan mac Dara was chief bard of Éire, word went out that the high king had determined to build a great hall at Tara. This he decreed, and this he did. Gathering the best builders and finest crasftmen in all the island, he assembled them on the plain below the hill and set forth his plan, which he had drawn in gall upon a deerskin.

“One glimpse of the king's plan and the workers fell back in amazement. ‘To be sure,' said Oscar, the Master Builder of Éire, ‘this hall is the most prodigious ever seen in all this land. A whole forest will be required for the timber, and a lake of gold for its fittings. Though we labor fifty years, it will require fifty years more before it is finished.'

“Hearing this, the king puffed up his chest with pride and said, ‘Then why do you yet stand gaping? There is the plan and yonder the forest. Go to work!'