The Greener Shore (22 page)

As for Onuava, every few days she came storming into my lodge to upbraid me further. I tried to defend myself by saying, “I never told either of them to undertake this madness, Onuava. If I had been in my right mind I would have stopped them.”

“You speak to me of madness? You’re the mad one, Ainvar, to think that child of yours could still be alive after all this time. Even if she were, how could they hope to find her?”

“I never asked anyone to bring Maia back. Cormiac jumped to that conclusion on his own.”

Onuava said bitterly, “He’s paid for his foolishness. You haven’t. You’ve cost Vercingetorix his son.”

If she had stabbed me through the heart she could have hurt me no worse.

The next time she came Briga tried to keep her out, but Onuava simply brushed my senior wife aside and renewed her vituperative attack on me. No amount of protestations on Briga’s part could deter her. Like Vercingetorix—or Labraid, for that matter—Onuava recognized no obstacles to her will.

Help came from an unexpected source. Of her own volition, my second wife stationed herself outside the door of my lodge. Lakutu slept curled up in a ball at night and sat on a little three-legged stool during the day, steadfastly refusing Onuava admittance. She was half the size of my third wife, yet when the Egyptian narrowed her dark eyes and hissed through her teeth, Onuava backed off.

She did not have to be present to cause trouble. Hatred becomes a ball of poison that lingers in the atmosphere, feeding on itself and constantly growing until it damages everyone in its vicinity. My clan, shaken by the violence of Onuava’s emotion, began snapping and growling at one another.

What I wanted to do was stay in bed indefinitely, while Briga stroked my forehead and little Gobnat fed me bits of honeycomb. What I did was drag myself off the bed as soon as I was strong enough, and go to see Fíachu. “You’ve heard about Cormiac and Labraid, I suppose?”

“Everyone’s heard about them, Ainvar. When she was refused admittance to you, that big handsome wife of yours came down here wailing and moaning. There’s no ignoring her. One of my own wives,” he said with a careless laugh, “has even suggested I take her into my bed to keep her quiet for a while.”

I looked surprised, but I was not. That was a mask of convenience. Damona spent much of her time in Fíachu’s fort gossiping with the older women, a pastime that I encouraged because it does no harm to have extra ears working for you. Teyrnon’s wife had already passed this tidbit on to me, and I had been mulling it over.

“Do you want to bed Onuava?” I asked Fíachu.

“Would that keep her quiet?”

“In my experience, no.” You should always be honest with someone from whom you seek a favor.

Fíachu still had no sons. Onuava had just lost the son of a king, for which she blamed me. If she had a son by the king of the Laigin, under Gaelic law the child would inherit his father’s rank and Onuava could once again boast of being a prince’s mother. Besides, Onuava was a woman of considerable appetites. Even if she forgave me, in my present condition I would not be able to satisfy those appetites for quite some time.

Selfishness serves no one. By being unselfish with Onuava I could benefit a number of people.

“You might not be able to keep Onuava quiet,” I told Fíachu, “but if you wish to take her to your bed I can promise you a most remarkable experience.”

“Are you serious? You wouldn’t mind?”

“It’s an honor to serve the king,” I replied solemnly.

Afterward Briga congratulated me on my cleverness. She was as eager to see the back of Onuava as I was, and Lakutu would be glad to spend her nights in her own lodge again.

But Cormiac Ru was gone. All my cleverness could not change that.

If I had expected Fíachu to be diplomatic about his bedding arrangements, I was mistaken. He was a chieftain. He simply took Onuava into his fort and installed her in a lodge near his own. He could not marry her because she was married to me, but he treated her at least as well as he treated his wives.

His wives were not favorably impressed. Even the one who had suggested the arrangement was disgruntled. “I meant it as a jest!” she protested. Which only demonstrates that women have a different sense of humor from men.

I did not visit the fort again during my convalescence, but members of my clan reported back to me. “Fíachu looks absolutely drained,” said the Goban Saor, sniggering. “His women are at one another’s throats and even a chieftain can’t control a situation like that.”

Rescue was at hand. By the time the meadows were drowsy and blowsy with summer, a new war—or rather, a renewal of an old war—broke out between the Laigin and the Ulaid. The king of the Laigin summoned the warriors bound to him by their tribal chieftains. Led by Fíachu, the men of the Slea Leathan rushed off to enjoy a good fight far away from home.

And Onuava had returned to us. Even the tough shell of her spirit was not proof against the barbs of Fíachu’s other wives when the chieftain was not around.

My third wife no longer stormed into my lodge to berate me. Instead she moved around our little settlement with the dreamy, abstracted expression women get when they carry new life.

“A male child,” Keryth announced after reading the omens.

Perhaps that would mollify Onuava, though it could never replace the son Vercingetorix had lost. In some future life I must face him. The Source demands that balance must be achieved in all things, no matter how long it takes. Would I be given a chance to replace Rix’s loss with something of equal value? Or would he mete out a punishment to even the scales?

We still did not know the fate of Labraid and Cormiac Ru. I even sent Dara to Cohern, with a request that he ask his tribesmen along the southern coast if any bodies had washed up on shore. None had. They were simply…gone. Swallowed up in immensity; swallowed up by the sea.

Such a death would be appropriate for Onuava’s son, who had foolishly called himself Labraid Loingseach. The Speaker Who Sails the Seas had nearly drowned once before due to his rashness. That Which Watches must have decided it was time to close the circle.

But I could find nothing in the Pattern of Cormiac Ru that would have led him to such an end. Against all the odds, I was forced to conclude the Red Wolf must still be alive.

I paid a professional visit to Keryth.

“What you suggest is not possible, Ainvar,” she told me.

“Why not? We made the voyage successfully.”

“Yes, but we had two boats and an experienced crew.”

“Cormiac may have acted impulsively, Keryth, but he knows how to take care of himself; he’s a survivor by nature. Examine the omens and see if he lives.”

She looked dubious. “If you’re right, they might even be in Latium by now. I don’t think my abilities reach that far.”

“The same stars shine over both sides of the sea,” I pointed out. “Their positions may have changed, but they’re the same stars.”

“For this divining I’ll need more than stars, Ainvar. Can you bring me a wolf? A live wolf?”

“A dead wolf is one thing, a live wolf is quite another. Wolves are strong and quick and clever. I’d need someone like Cormiac to…”

“Exactly,” said Keryth. “We need a wolf to find a wolf.”

I am no hunter; the requisite skills were more the province of Grannus. When I asked him, and explained the reason, he agreed to try. “It’s going to take more than one man to capture a wolf alive and bring him back unharmed,” he told me. “You’d better come with me, Ainvar.”

We planned to set out on the following morning.

When I awoke my nose reported damp air and cooking smells before I opened my eyes. I had slept later than was my habit. Briga had already left on some woman’s business and Lakutu was preparing a meal for me.

I stood up and stretched. Slowly, thoroughly. Another valuable lesson learned from observing nature. A man who stretches himself first thing in the morning will spend the day in a more comfortable body.

“It’s starting to rain,” I observed through the open doorway. “Again.”

Lakutu, who rarely ventured an unsolicited comment, said, “At home the sun always shines.”

“It rains a lot in Gaul. You’ve forgotten.”

She responded softly, “I was not talking about Gaul.”

When I met Grannus outside his lodge he assured me the weather was in our favor. “Rain will intensify the scent, Ainvar.”

“Not enough to enable me to smell a wolf.”

“The wolfhounds will do that. I’ve borrowed a dog and a bitch from a friend of mine in the fort. They’re right over there; have a look at them. Wolves often den up in the daytime and we might never see them, but they can’t hide from a hound’s nose.”

“I’m not certain that’s a good idea, Grannus. Those animals are trained to kill wolves, not capture them.”

“Don’t worry, I can control them.” Like most strong men, Grannus was full of confidence. “They’re wearing stout collars and I have two leashes of plaited leather. They can’t possibly get away from me.”

Yet when I looked into the eyes of the great shaggy hounds I was not so sure. They had the same eyes as the wolves we were seeking.

As we set out for the mountains the morning grew darker rather than lighter. Briga had insisted that I wear her otter fur mantle. “You were ill not so long ago,” she reminded me, “and this garment will turn rain.”

I was reluctant. Men of every tribe like to pretend they are impervious to weather. But Briga was Briga and so I left the lodge wearing my wife’s mantle—which barely reached my knees.

Over my shoulder I carried a net fashioned of twisted rope. We hoped it would be strong enough to contain a wolf. The Goban Saor had also fashioned a device consisting of a noose affixed to a long hollow pole, and attached to a leather thong that ran up through the middle of the pole. In theory, we would slip the noose over the wolf’s neck, pull it tight using the thong, and thus incapacitate him while we bundled him into the net.

In theory.

Strapped to his back Grannus carried five spears capable of bringing down a wolf if necessary. Two more were thrust through my belt.

I had invited the Goban Saor to come with us and demonstrate his contraption personally, but he declined. “Wolves are shy creatures, Ainvar. The more people you take with you the less likely you are to find any.”

“You’re right, of course,” I replied. “It would be a mistake for you to come with us, so stay here and build a pen for our wolf when we bring him back.”

“I’ll model it on the trap in the deerpits, nothing ever escapes one of those.” The Goban Saor was trying hard not to look relieved. But druids can see with more than their eyes. Our master craftsman was deathly afraid of wolves.

In Gaul, where wolves abound, it is well known that a wolf will not attack a healthy man. Such stories are used to frighten small children and make them behave, but bear no resemblance to the truth. However, lies have long legs.

Everyone is afraid of something. In his heart, which I knew better than anyone, Vercingetorix had been terrified of losing. My Briga was afraid of remembering.

And I was afraid of forgetting.

By the time Grannus and I reached the foothills the rain was hammering down. The shaggy hounds frequently paused to shake themselves, which only made Grannus wetter. Briga’s cloak gave my head and body welcome protection, while the deepening mud proved the practicality of the Gaelic custom of going barefoot. Shoes would have been an impediment. It is far easier to pull a bare foot out of mud, and if the surface is slippery, bare toes can grip almost like fingers.

Before long the hounds picked up a scent. Grannus ran with them while I trotted along behind. My illness had left me with a shortness of breath, which I tried to ignore, concentrating instead on watching the wolfhounds. The dog was the color of the clouds above us. The bitch, slightly smaller and narrower through the loins, had a white coat splotched with glossy red. The pair loped along like horses with their heads up, reading the messages the wind brought them. Clearly they knew what they were about. In a land where wolves were plentiful, they were specialists.

Our path grew steeper, taking us through a stand of pines toward a tumble of granite boulders. If the wolves of Hibernia were anything like the wolves of Gaul, they would have a den in this vicinity. The hounds agreed with me. They halted as if by mutual agreement, with the bitch slightly in the lead.

She froze. Her whole body seemed to vibrate. Both hounds visibly gathered themselves. “Hold on to them, Grannus!” I cried.

It is painful to see a man discover that he is not as strong as he thought he was. When the wolfhounds leaped forward in unison they dragged the hapless Grannus after them as if he were a child. The trio sped up the slope. Grannus was shouting commands at the dogs but they ignored him. Instinct spoke to them more strongly than any human voice. For a moment I was lost in admiration as I watched the powerful hindquarters of the hounds gathering, bunching, propelling the animals forward in huge bounds.

Then I began to run, too.

All too soon, my throat was aching and my chest hurt. I could not possibly keep up the pace—nor prevent what was sure to happen. Silently cursing my failure to anticipate this, I scrambled up the trail as best I could.

The name of Eriu crossed my mind. For no particular reason.

As silently as a cloud forms, a wolf appeared on a ledge above us. A very large wolf, silver gray in color, with black legs and mask. He stood without any sign of fear; without any obvious emotion. His calm yellow eyes took in the approaching hounds, and Grannus, and then looked straight at me.

The wolf gave me his eyes.

The world tilted around me, and I knew I was in the presence of great magic.

There is a unique feel to great magic. A sense of dislocation; an intense focus that precludes any outside awareness. This was the moment I had longed for, yet feared would never come again. This time, however, it was not I who was creating magic.

It is the wolf.

I am looking out through his eyes. I am thinking his thoughts.

I see myself below him, staring upward. Contempt floods through me.
Puny two-legged, bad-smelling male creature.