Patrick (25 page)

“So the king commanded, and so they did. The workmen had not felled many trees, however, when the lords and princes of Éire who had been deprived of builders and laborers began grumbling about the high king's new hall. They found fault with its size, which was larger than any of their own, and with its cost, which, like a flood running downhill, would eventually find its way to them.

“Now: Tuan mac Carell, filidh of vast renown, was alive in those days, abiding in the wood by himself. He heard the axes of the workmen cutting the great oaks, and he heard the grumbling of the small kings and lords. Up he gets, and off he goes. He summons the small kings and lords and addresses them, saying, ‘Why do you stand there moaning and making mouths at the high king? If you have a grievance, why not go to him, speak out your complaint, and demand satisfaction?'

“The small kings looked at each other in dismay. One of them, Lord Goiben, plucked up his quivering courage and
said, ‘If we fail to heed the wisdom of your urging, the reason, you will find, is this: King Aedh is the greatest king ever seen in this island. He will not suffer anyone to gainsay his decrees, and anyone who tries is instantly set upon by the king's warhost. That unfortunate fellow is flayed alive, and his skin is sent to his widow for a keepsake.'

“Old Tuan mac Carell blew out his cheeks. ‘Is it a man who speaks thus or an insect? Hear me then. Though he may not listen to one of you, yet he might listen to two. And though he may not listen to two of you, yet he will surely listen to three. And though he may not listen to three of you, yet I believe he will listen to four. And though he may not listen to four of you, yet I insist he will listen to five. And though he—'

“The small kings threw their hands in the air. ‘Enough!' they cried. ‘We understand. We will all go together to the high king at Tara, and he will not fail to hear our complaint.'

“The small kings and kinglets went home and gathered their bards, their wise counselors, and their learned advisors, and they all marched to Tara to confront the high king over the extravagance of his great hall. Early one day, as dawn lit the morning sky, the great company assembled on the Plain of Tara, which is below the sacred hill, and called to the king to attend them.

“High King Aedh, making a circuit of the royal ráth in the morning, looked out and saw all the lords and lordlings gathered with their bards and advisors and wise counselors, and he called Fintan to him and said, ‘Chief Bard, look out upon Magh Fál and tell me what you see.'

“Fintan, wise and good, looked down from the sacred hill.

‘O, Mighty King,' he said, ‘I see a great assembly of nobles and bards.'

“‘And what, from this, do you foretell?' inquired the king.

“‘From the frowns on their faces, I foretell contention and disputation, controversy and argument. In a word: trouble.'

“‘Can it be eluded?' wondered the king.

“‘Great King, the time for evading this contention is long past.'

“‘Well, if it cannot be avoided,' replied the king, ‘then we will go down and see what remedy they seek.'

“The high king gathered his counselors, advisors, musicians, and not a few of his finest warriors; he mounted his noble chariot with the silver wheels and, with the carynx blaring and drums booming, he drove down to the plain with this great company to see what had stirred the small kings from their nests.

“Driving his chariot into their midst, High King Aedh warmly greeted his lords and lordlings and all their retainers and retinues, and asked, ‘What event of great moment has brought you here today, my friends? Can it be you have come to pay the tribute yet owing?'

“Lord Goiben, who had been chosen to speak for them all, dismounted from his horse and approached the chariot; he stretched forth his hand to touch the king's foot. ‘Wise King,' he said, ‘Champion of Justice, Friend of the Oppressed, Generous Giver, we come to you today because we cannot rest for the torment of a question only you can answer.'

“High King Aedh looked at the great assembly and shook his head sadly. ‘Well,' he sighed, ‘since I am not to have the tribute, the least you can do is tell me the question that is causing you such torment.'

“‘The question, Great King, is this: If the king is servant of his people, is it right that he should have the greatest portion?'

“‘Now, that,' said Aedh, ‘is an excellent question. Allow me to confer with my wise counselor, and I will soon provide the answer you require.'

“The high king turned to his druid Fintan and said, ‘Evil is this day! Some cunning is behind this, believe me. For if I say the king's portion must be smaller, then they will say I cannot build the great hall. If I say the king's portion must be larger, then they will say that I am neither just nor right
eous, and they will take the kingship away from me. What wicked person put them up to this? Tell me, and I will have his skull for a drinking cup.'

“Fintan, loyal as he was wise, replied, ‘If you would keep your hall, then you must pose them another question. If they cannot answer you, then you need not answer them.'

“‘An excellent plan!' cried the high king. Then, considering all the filidh, bards, and ollamhs, he despaired, and added, ‘But what question can I possibly ask that they cannot answer?'

“Fintan leaned close; putting his lips to the king's ear, he said, ‘The question you must ask is this: Why and wherefore is Éire, most favored of islands, divided as it is?'

“High King Aedh embraced his faithful counselor and, removing a gold band from his arm, gave it to Fintan, saying, ‘Now I know you are the wisest of the wise! Who else could have thought of such a question? Tell me, what is the answer?'

“At this Fintan merely shook his head and said, ‘I do not know.'

“The high king glowered. ‘If you do not know, let us hope no one else does either. Come what may, I will ask them.' Turning to the great assembly, he raised his voice and said, ‘I will gladly answer your question. Indeed, I am anxious to do so. But first you must answer the question I shall pose.' And he asked them the question Fintan had given him.

“When the members of the assembly heard this, they quickly came together to discuss how best to answer. All the kings and their wise advisors and counselors pondered long. One after another cast, but failed to strike the answer. Finally Lord Goiben called Tuan mac Cairell to him and said, ‘You have heard the question. You are the wisest and most learned among us. What is the answer?'

“Wise Tuan shook his head. ‘That there is an answer cannot be denied. But I have never heard it—and I am the oldest human being who ever lived. Therefore I think you must accept your defeat as gracefully as you can.'

“‘Though we do many another thing,' replied Goiben,
‘that is the one thing we will not do. Back to the forest with you!'

“The kings and kinglets fell to arguing then about what should be done if no answer could be found. They were still writhing in disputation when the sun soared high overhead. Suddenly ugly black clouds boiled up to cover the sky and the sound of a mighty wind filled all the world. And though it was bright midday, the heavens grew dark as twilight after the sun has set. Not the slightest breath of wind could be felt, yet the roaring of the unseen wind grew louder. There was thunder but no lightning, and the hair stood up on the necks of men and beasts alike. Clots of hail fell out of the sky and lay in the grass smoldering as if on fire.

“All at once they heard a voice crying out to them. They turned and saw, approaching out of the west in the direction of the setting sun, a mighty champion, fair and tall—taller than any three of the tallest warriors among them and more wonderful to look upon than the most handsome man they had ever seen. His eyes were the color of the windswept sky, and his teeth were straight and white. His chin was smooth-shaven, and his brow was high and fine.

“For a cloak the magnificent stranger wore a shining veil as radiant and rainbow-hued as crystal, and for sandals, hammered bands of purest gold. His hair was pale as flax and uncut, falling in curls to the middle of his back. This mighty champion carried two stone tablets in his left hand and a silver branch with three fruits in his right, and these were the fruits which were on the branch: apples, hazelnuts, and acorns. Around his waist he wore a girdle of bronze plates, and each plate could have served as a platter for four kings. In his girdle he carried a knife with a blade made of glass that was sharper than the sharpest steel.

“Around the stranger's neck was a golden torc as thick as a baby's arm, and on the ends were jewels: a ruby on the right and a sapphire on the left. His hands were broad and strong, and when he spoke, his voice sounded like the waves upon the shore or like the rushing of many waters.

“He came to stand before the assembled kings of Éire, and he said, ‘Greetings, friends—if friends you be.'

“The princes and princelings quailed before him, but High King Aedh drove his chariot to where the stranger stood. He raised his hand in kingly greeting and said, ‘I am king here, and this is my realm. I welcome you, champion—if champion you be. What has brought you here?'

“‘I have come from the setting of the sun, and I am going to the rising. My name is Trefuilngid Treochair,' answered the stranger.

“‘A strange name,' replied the king. ‘And why has that name been given you?'

“‘Easy to say,' replied Trefuilngid, ‘because it is myself, and no one else, who upholds the sun, causing it to rise in the east and set in the west.'

“The high king regarded the towering stranger with curiosity. ‘Forgive me, friend, for asking,' he said, ‘but why are you here at the setting of the sun when it is at the rising you must be?'

“‘Easy to say,' answered the marvelous stranger, ‘but not so easy to hear, I think. For, in a land far away from here, a man was tortured today—and for that reason I am on my way to the east.'

“‘This tortured man,' inquired the king, ‘of what account was he that one such as yourself should take notice?'

“‘You cut to the heart of the matter, to be sure,' replied the stranger, ‘for the man of whom I speak was born to be the ruler of the world. He was called the Prince of Peace, Righteous Lord, and King of Kings.'

“At these words Lord Aedh and his noblemen groaned. ‘Certainly this is a grave injustice, and deeply to be lamented,' observed the king, ‘yet such things are known to happen from time to time. Even so, it does not explain why you have come among us like this.'

“‘The man I speak of was crucified and killed by the men who tortured him,' Trefuilngid explained. ‘His name was Esu, and he was the rightful High King of Heaven, Son
of the Strong Upholder, Lord of Life and Light. When he died, the sun stepped aside, and darkness has covered the face of the earth. I came forth to find out what ailed the sun, learned of this outrage, and now I am telling you.'

“The king drew himself up and said, ‘I thank you for telling us, friend. But tell us, one thing more: Where can we find the vile cowards who perpetrated this injustice? Only say the word, and rest assured we will not cease until we have punished them with the death they undoubtedly deserve.'

“‘Your wrath is noble and worthy, friend,' replied the magnificent stranger, ‘but it is misplaced. For in three days' time the same man who was crucified will break the bonds of death and rise again to walk the world of the living. Through him death itself will be conquered forever.'

“When they heard this good news, the king and all the noblemen and bards of Éire wept for joy. They demanded to know how this had come about, and the glittering stranger told them, ‘It has been ordained from the foundation of the world. But it has been revealed to you now so that you may prepare your people for the age to come.'”

Here Datho finished his recitation. Silence stretched between us as I contemplated the tale. “Now you know,” he said after a moment, “how knowledge of the Truth came to Éire and why it is that I wish to build my bridge.”

F
OR ALL
D
ATHO'S
good intentions, I was no nearer to gaining my freedom. Discouraged and dissatisfied, I determined to seize the very next opportunity to advance the matter—come what may. Events overtook me, however; like a storm at sea that hurls the poor sailor and his boat wherever it will, my plans and I were blown far off course.

It came about this way: The next day a rider appeared at Cnoc an Dair with a summons from the king. It seems a party of traders working the western coast had put in at the fishing settlement on the shore. They were Gauls with a ship full of goods obtained in Baetica, Lusitania, Aquitania, and elsewhere: glass cups, bowls, beads, steel knives, fine cloth, leather, olives, and suchlike. A few of the traders approached the ráth to invite the nobles down to the ship where they could see the goods for themselves.

The traders' dexterity with the elusive Irish tongue was crude and clumsy. Still, while they were trying to entice their prospective buyers to come and view their wares Sionan overheard one of the men speaking Latin to his fellow. She told Queen Grania that I knew this speech, and so the king sent Forgall to fetch me. “The king has need of his slave,” the warrior said, and explained his errand to Datho. “He is to come with me at once. I will return him to you when he is finished.”

“Perhaps you might accompany us as well, Ollamh,” I suggested, hoping that while we were at the ráth, I could get him to speak to the king about my release.

Datho declined, but was more than happy to send me off, so I rode to the seaside settlement with Forgall, whereupon I performed the task of translating between the Irish and the Gauls.

It was easily done. The traders were little better than thieves, and when they saw that I was not to be taken in by their extravagant boasts over the qualities of their merchandise, they assumed a businesslike demeanor and their prices became more reasonable.

In the end I made good bargains for Lord Miliucc, acquiring for him a large jug of red wine and a length of fine blue cloth for his lady at prices my own mother would not have been ashamed to accept at home. I also gained a valuable boon for myself, as the queen was mightily impressed with my ability to haggle with the traders and asked if I might teach her some of this useful speech. I suppose she thought that next time traders came, she might bargain for herself.

With Datho's permission I agreed, of course; if nothing else, it meant I could see Sionan more often. On certain days I would go to the ráth to teach rudimentary Latin to Queen Grania and some of her ladies. She preferred meeting with me late in the day, and it was almost always dark by the time we finished and therefore too late to return to the druid house. So naturally I stayed with Sionan in the hut the queen had given her. Sionan told me the gossip of Miliucc's court, and I told her what I was learning from Datho. We held each other through the night, and though I ached to leave the warmth of her bed, dawn found me flitting across the valley and toiling up the hill to the druid house.

This arrangement, agreeable though it was, lasted a few weeks and then began to sour. Despite my repeated offers, Datho never accompanied me to the ráth as I hoped he would; therefore the subject of my freedom still had not been put before the king. Sionan, for her part, began to speak as if our arrangements should be formalized. Mindful of Cormac's warning, I resisted such a notion—but it did not
take a druid to see that, should we continue, Sionan's cruel disappointment loomed like a storm-troubled mountain before us.

And then Cormac suddenly appeared one day to say that he was leaving Éire. I happened to be in the ráth when he arrived, and I went to with Sionan to greet him. “Meabh is taking me to Britain to learn from an ollamh there named Cethrwm,” he told us. “It is a very great honor.”

“Where will you go?” asked Sionan.

“It is a druid house in the north,” he said, “not far from Cend Rigmonaid on the eastern coast. Do you know it?”

“No,” I said. The name meant nothing to me.

“How long will you be away?” asked Sionan.

“Oh, a season or two,” replied Cormac lightly. “A year at the most.”

“A whole year?”

“What of that? Before you remember I've gone, I'll be back. And when I return, I will be an ollamh.”

I complimented him on his swift advancement and wished him well. Although Sionan declared herself delighted with her brother's good fortune, it was all she could do to force a wistful smile.

“Now,” he said, “I must go and beg the king's leave, but I will return with beer and bread, and we will drink a celebration to my safe journey and swift return.”

When he had gone, I turned to Sionan. “Why so sad? We've seen him little enough this summer. A season or two more will make no difference.”

She frowned and turned away. “It's not that.”

“What then?”

“If he goes, he will never return.”

“Of course he will return,” I insisted.

Reaching out, I touched her shoulder; I could feel her trembling.

“Sionan, what is wrong?” She made no answer. “Tell me.”

She turned her face to mine. Tears filled her eyes. “No one who goes to Britain ever returns.”

“They do!” I assured her.

“No.” She shook her head firmly. “They do not.”

“Of course, they do!” I insisted. I forced a chuckle at the absurdity of her claim, all the while cringing inside with the knowledge that I, too, would hie away to Britain as soon as I could and never return. “It is only a day's sailing from here, after all.”

She grew petulant. “Now you are mocking me,” she said, pulling away.

“Listen,” I reasoned, “people come and go to Britain all the time—as I should know. Cormac will go and study for a while, and when he is finished, he will come back. You'll see.”

Though Sionan said no more about it, I could see she was far from convinced. I wondered what had put such a notion into her head; I might have pursued it further, but Cormac appeared with the food and beer, and we all sat down to eat and drink in celebration of his good fortune.

We walked back to the druid house that night so Cormac might bid farewell to Datho and Iollan, and we arrived to find that while we were at the ráth, Buinne had also returned.

In all the time he had been away, I had not held a single thought about the contemptible bard. I had forgotten precisely how unpleasant he could be. Before the night was through, however, he more than reminded me.

“You have wasted no time, I see,” he said the first moment he got me alone.

“Good to see you, too, Buinne. What happened? Did they grow weary of your creeping around and throw you out?”

“Busy, busy.” His smile was thin and icy. “But your schemes will come to nothing. I will see to that.”

I glared at him with dull loathing. “Let us make a pact, you and I. Stay away from me, and I promise I will stay far away from you.”

“And let you cloud Datho's good judgment with your tricks and lies?” He shook his head slowly. “No. That I will not do.”

“Then it will be on your head.”

He ignored me, his lips writhed with distaste. “You vile, insignificant worm. You sicken me.”

“I warn you, Buinne, stay away from me.”

I could feel the cold flame of his hatred on my back as I turned and walked off.

I did my best to avoid him over the next few days. I sensed he was watching me, waiting for me to make some gross mistake he could use as a wedge to drive between Datho and myself. I remained on my best behavior, determined not to allow Buinne the slightest opportunity to attack me for any reason. After all, summer was going, and I still wore my slave collar.

I worked hard at my studies, acquiring not only knowledge but a little judgment along the way. I delved into the many secrets of the earth and its subtle energies as Datho introduced me to the manipulation of elements, which simple folk consider magic. I even gained my first staff: the druid's rod of power, without which the filidh can do but little. It was merely a willow wand, but I prized it nonetheless.

“It appears you may surpass even my lofty hopes for you, Corthirthiac,” wise Datho told me when presenting me with this token of my achievement.

“I trust you will never have cause to regret your decision, Ollamh.”

“What decision, my son?”

“To allow me to become a bard. You saved my life.”

He raised his hands in gentle reproof. “You honor me too highly. The All-Wise has gifted you with everything you require to thrive. If I have done anything, it was merely to open the way to you.”

“More than that, Ollamh, far more.” The time had come, I decided, and I plunged ahead. “It is because of your unstinting generosity that I hesitate to ask anything more of you.”

“Ask me anything. If it is in my power, I will grant it gladly.”

“If I hesitate,” I began, “it is only for fear of offending you—and that I would never wish to do.”

“I am your ollamh,” Datho replied with benign patience. “How can anything you ask offend me?”

“It is just that…well, some months ago you said you would ask the king to grant my freedom.” I touched the cold iron at my throat. “Yet the collar remains, and I am still a slave.”

“Is that all?” he said, his voice ringing with good humor. “You have no cause for concern, my son. Lughnasadh is soon upon us. This is a most propitious time for making such requests. It has long been in my mind to ask the king then. I thought I told you.”

“I never heard it.”

“Well, it makes no difference. You have worked hard and achieved much. I am proud of you, my son.” Placing his hands on my shoulders, he raised his eyes to the leafy canopy of oak branches above. “A wonderful destiny stretches before you. I have seen it. I have seen you standing among the brightest stars of the heavenly firmament commanding a mighty army. You will be a prince among bards, and men yet unborn will bless your name.”

I knew the proper response for a blessing of this magnitude, and I was happy to perform it. Taking his hands into my own, I kissed them, whereupon he embraced me like a son.

Datho must have mentioned it to the others, for a short while later Iollan complimented me on my impending freedom. “Losing your slave collar,” he said. “Well and good—and not before time.”

“Thank you, brother,” I said. He went away smiling and nodding, soon lost in the inexplicable thoughts that filled his days.

This, I think, is how Buinne also came to hear of it—or, more probably, he overheard us talking and decided to make his move.

“So here sits the smug slave,” he hissed, sidling up to me
as I sat beneath the oak. I was writing an epigram in the ogham Datho had set for me that day, and I had stopped for a moment to think, resting my head against the tree trunk. “Exhausted from all your scheming?”

“Did I hear a rat vomit in the wood?” I opened my eyes. “No, it is only Buinne.”

“You have overreached yourself, slave boy.”

“I warned you to stay away from me.”

“Something will have to be done.”

He stood over me with such malevolent mirth that I wanted nothing more than to strike the odious smirk from his impudent face. Tossing aside the wax tablet, I took up my willow wand and rose, ready for whatever he had in mind. “Do your worst, Buinne. Go to it—I am not afraid.”

“You
will
be, slave boy,” he said, backing away, his grin widening to a deathlike grimace. “You will be.”

I said nothing of this to anyone, of course, and returned to my lessons as if nothing had happened. But the world changed that day, and I was too blind with conceit and arrogance to see it.