The Greener Shore (11 page)

ONE MORNING BRIGA TOLD ME SHE NEEDED A STONE. “THERE ARE
stones everywhere,” I pointed out. “Help yourself to any of them.”

“No, Ainvar, the stone must be of a certain size and shape. It has to be rough-surfaced, flat on the bottom, and larger than a newborn infant, but not quite so large as a newborn calf. Too big for me to carry anyway. If you will bring me a stone that answers to that description, the Goban Saor can carve a hollow in it to make a quern.”

“Why do you need a quern? You told me yourself that we can’t grow our wheat in this climate.”

“No, Ainvar,” she repeated, “but other grains do grow here. If Cohern will sell us some seed corn, we’ll plant in the spring and harvest in the autumn, and make meal and flour. For that we’ll need a quern.”

I swear those wide blue eyes of hers could already see the grain standing tall in the field.

I went in search of a suitable stone.

The stones of Hibernia had unusual qualities. Some of the larger boulders hummed beneath my hands and made the hairs stand up on my forearms. Once or twice I drew back my hands as abruptly as if I had been stung by bees.

What strange force dwelt in this land? Was it benign—or malign? I still did not know, but for the sake of my people I worried. Lying beside Briga, who always slept soundly, I worried.

Night, do your simple duty, I thought. Close my eyes and extinguish the tiresome fire in my head.

COHERN’S CLAN DID HAVE A SMALL AMOUNT OF OATS AVAILABLE,
which the clan chief regarded with surprising contempt. It was evident he thought meat the only proper food for a man. Even given its scarcity, the price he set on the grain was outrageous. He demanded we promise our entire first crop of lambs. “Plus, I’m going to need more warriors as soon as your young lads are ready,” he said pointedly. “Arm them, teach them to fight. Make them practice every day.”

I returned long-faced to Briga.

She was undeterred. “Didn’t Cohern say that our valley was at the edge of his territory?”

“He did.”

“Then we can assume that another clan’s territory lies beyond those mountains. I suggest you visit them and ask if they will sell you seed corn.”

“Cohern has forbidden us to leave here, Briga. He says it’s dangerous.”

“Do you believe everything he says? Did you encounter any danger when you set out to find him?”

“No,” I admitted.

She folded her arms across her chest. “Well, then. There you are. Cohern’s a poor man with a poor clan and no control over much of anything, so he’s trying to control us. Don’t let him.”

“What if he’s right?” I asked, recalling the Armoricans’ nervousness on the beach.

“What if he’s wrong?” she countered. “That’s much more likely. No one has raised a hand to us so far. There’s no good reason why you should not take a little journey and attempt to do a little trade.”

“But I’m not a trader, I’m a—”

“You’re a man who needs seed corn.”

“I’m the chief druid of—”

“That was then and this is now,” she said bluntly. “But you do have the highest rank of any man here, which makes you chief of our clan.” She reached up—a long way up, for she is small and I am tall—and put her hands on my shoulders. “It’s your responsibility to provide for us, Ainvar.” A softer, gentler voice, but all the more powerful because of it.

I had been clinging to the old way of thinking about myself because it was comfortable, and familiar. Briga had survived the losses that unmanned me by being as stalwart as stone, as resilient as river. Which of us was the leader now?

Her blue eyes fixed on mine. “Go up the valley to the gorge, Ainvar. It’s a pass through the mountains.”

chapter
VI

T
HE SHORTNESS OF THE DAYS WARNED THAT WINTER WAS ALMOST
upon us. Yet the weather denied it. On the morning I set out in search of seed corn a gilded light slanted across meadows still vibrantly green. An exaltation of larks serenaded a cloudless azure sky. The breeze was almost as warm as fresh milk.

Having no adult warrior to be my guard of honor, I took my eldest son. It was unthinkable that I go alone. Not because I was afraid, but because of my rank. My first encounter with another tribe must demonstrate that I was a person of importance.

Dara had not yet shown any evidence of a warrior spirit. I hoped it would surface if needed. Teyrnon had given him a spear and made him promise to return the spearhead undamaged. “And don’t let it drag on the ground!” the smith admonished.

As we left our little settlement I glanced over my shoulder. A shaft of brilliant sunlight illumined the cluster of lodges, turning their thatch to gold. In front of the largest lodge stood Briga. When she saw me looking back at her, she touched her fingers to her lips.

Sometimes the biggest words are said through the smallest gestures.

As we reached the head of the valley the sunshine faded. A cool wind, scented with rain, swept down from the mountains, making me glad of the woolen cloak Briga had insisted I wear. She was the only one of my wives who worried about such things.

No sooner had we entered the gorge than we were enveloped in a thick mist. We had to make our way forward step by step. I warned Dara not to fall into the river running through the bottom of the gorge. The water chuckled like a happy child, yet was deep enough and fast enough to drown someone.

Hibernia was a crystal with a cloudy heart. A radiant jewel that could turn dark and morose, reflecting the two sides of Celtic character.

I decided that I would not ask the Goban Saor to make a new image of the Two-Faced One. Instead I would request a carving of my senior wife. Briga rejected the Two-Faced One. Her totally integrated spirit chose to see only the radiance, and moved toward it instinctively. That, I told myself, was the image we should keep with us.

Briga was right; the gorge was a pass through the mountains. At the far end of the pass the mist lifted abruptly. We gazed out over densely forested foothills that gave way to a broad plain with a river glinting in the distance.

Walking downhill was pure pleasure.

From the toes of the foothills I observed that the plain ahead was crisscrossed by cattle trails. Well and good, I told myself. A large number of cattle is a reliable sign of prosperity, and a prosperous tribe is sure to have enough seed corn to sell some to us.

Dara and I walked on, occasionally speaking of this and that; a father does not always know what to say to his son.

“Over there!” Dara cried suddenly. He pointed toward a low hill to the north, divided from a spur of the mountains by a belt of forest. I squinted to sharpen my vision. A number of objects on the hill did not appear to be natural formations.

“That might be a large clanhold,” I said. “Let’s hope they’re friendly.”

Drawing nearer, we could see that the base of the hill was encircled by an earthwork embankment. A deep ditch, formed by the removal of soil to build the embankment, provided a protective barrier. The embankment itself was surmounted by a timber palisade.

“That,” I told Dara, “is how a fort should be built. Eminently defensible, nothing like Cohern’s ramshackle affair.”

An earthwork causeway spanned the ditch, leading to a large gateway in the palisade. The gate was ajar.

“Hold your spear properly,” I said to Dara, “and try to look like a guard of honor. We want to make a good impression.”

My son fidgeted with the spear until I approved of the angle. Then we strode forward. An ambassadorial delegation of two.

The lookout’s platform above the gate was unmanned. Apparently the occupants of the stronghold did not think anyone would be foolhardy enough to threaten them. When we passed through the gateway we discovered another ditch on the inner side of the embankment. The causeway extended across this second ditch as well, and from its farther end a muddy track, deeply churned by hooves and wheels, led up the hill.

Adjacent to the trackway was a pen holding seven or eight horses. They were smaller than Gaulish horses, but finely made, with elegant heads, and muzzles so small a woman could cup one in her hand. Large, liquid eyes watched as we passed by.

A number of lodges dotted the hillside, clustering around a larger lodge at the top like chicks around a mother hen. The doors were made of heavy oak planks hung on stout iron hinges. Abstract, curvilinear shapes formed of silver and copper wire had been inset in the timber door frames. They resembled the decorative designs used in Gaul, but these people were more ostentatious. Similar designs had been painted in bright colors on every possible surface.

“Look at the giant dogs!” Dara exclaimed in a voice filled with wonder.

Several huge, coarse-coated hounds were lounging beside the nearest lodge. They raised their heads to look at us but did not bother to get to their feet. To dogs of their size we posed no threat.

Meanwhile men and women of all ages were moving about the settlement, doing those important trivial things that people do every day. They seemed as unfazed as the hounds by our appearance. And why not? They had us greatly outnumbered.

The majority were fair and ruddy, the usual coloring of Celts. Only a few had brown hair like mine. In Gaul we had called that “a touch of the Scyth,” referring to the strain of Scythian blood that ran through us.

The inhabitants of the stronghold were well nourished and better clothed than Cohern’s clan. Both sexes wore woolen tunics that extended to the knee in the case of the men, and to the ankles of the women. The garments were dyed in an array of colors: blue and green and brown, yellow and crimson and gray. Some were also speckled in a pattern unique to their clan.

The men belted their tunics with wide bands of leather held by huge bronze buckles. The waists of the women were encircled with corsets set with polished stones or plaited from the tails of young foxes. Underneath their tunics the women wore linen gowns embroidered with blue and crimson knot-work along the sleeves. Several of the older women also wore short, hooded capes made of badger skins, so skillfully sewn that it was impossible to detect the seams.

Yet everyone was barefoot.

“Stay close by me,” I muttered to Dara. “Stand tall, and no matter what happens, say nothing.”

“Even if they kill you?”

“I don’t think they’ll kill me.” Trusting that Briga was right, I headed toward the largest lodge.

As I approached, a man emerged and stood watching me. He had a big red face as ample as a full moon, and piercing blue eyes below a heavy thicket of sandy-colored eyebrows. His torc betokened his rank: a massive gold neck ring much wider and heavier than the torc Cohern wore. Gold fasteners at his shoulders secured an immense cloak of wolf fur that hung down his back almost to his ankles. His tunic was of crimson wool. Heavy gold bracelets adorned both of his muscular forearms. More gold gleamed from his earlobes in the form of twisted rings.

When the sun struck him, he blazed.

“We salute you as a free person,” I called out, trying to match the tone of my voice to the dignity of his appearance. “I am Ainvar of the Carnutes, and this is my son Dara.”

“Free person. That is a fine greeting, Ainvar of the Carnutes. I am Fíachu, chief of the Slea Leathan, the tribe of Broad Spears, and this is the kingdom of the Laigin. You have entered my stronghold without invitation, but you will observe that I bid you welcome. My clan is famed for its hospitality.” He smiled, revealing large square teeth. “I myself am a direct descendant of Éremon, and as everyone knows, Éremon was the most gracious and the most noble of all the sons of Milesios.”

That sounded familiar.

Having observed the formalities, Fíachu—whose name meant “Deerhound,” though the dogs we had observed outside were too heavy of bone to be deerhounds—ushered us into his lodge. The interior was at least three spear lengths across. In the center of the room was a hearth made of carefully placed stones in the form of a spiral. The curvilinear design of the iron fire dogs was recognizably Celtic.