“I cannot come with you, Finbarr.”
“There is no choice, Conall.” Finbarr indicated his chariot. “You can see that I am armed.”
“Then you must kill me.” It was not a challenge. Conall just stood quietly, looking in front of him, as though waiting for the blow to fall.
For long moments, Finbarr gazed down at his friend. Then, reaching down, he took three objects and threw them at his friend’s feet. They were Conall’s spear, and his shield, and his shining sword.
“Defend yourself,” he said.
“I cannot,” replied Conall, who did not pick his weapons up.
And now Finbarr lost patience with his friend entirely.
“Is it afraid to fight you are?” he cried. “Then here’s what we’ll do. I’ll wait at the Ford of Hurdles, Conall. You can come and fight me there like a man—and if you win you can leave. Or you can run away with your woman and I’ll return to your uncle and tell him I let a coward go free. Please yourself.” And with that he wheeled his chariot away.
Then, after a long pause, and having no alternative, Conall picked up his weapons and sadly followed him.
It was on a grassy strand, with the ford across the Liffey just behind them, that Conall and Finbarr prepared for battle.
There was a ritual to be followed before a Celtic warrior fought. First, the warrior should be naked, though he might paint his face on his body with the bluish dye called woad. But more important than any outward decoration was the inward preparation. For men did not go into battle cold. Armies worked themselves up with fearsome war chants and terrifying battle cries. Druids would shout to the enemy, telling them they were doomed. As the druids cast spells and warriors hurled insults, men from the camp would sometimes throw mud or even human excrement at the faces of their opponents to discourage them. But above all, each warrior had to work himself into that heightened state where strength and skill became something more than mere bone and muscle—where he drew strength from all his ancestors, too, and even the gods. This was the warrior’s sublime inspiration, his battle rage, his “warp spasm,” as the Celtic poets called it.
To achieve this heightened state, a Celtic warrior would go through ritual movements, standing on one leg, twisting his body and contorting his face until it seemed to have been transformed into a living war mask.
Finbarr prepared in the classic manner. Drawing up his right knee, he slowly arched his body as if it were a bow. Closing his left eye, he half tilted his face so that his master eye, wide and glaring, seemed to bore into his opponent in a piercing squint. Conall, meanwhile, stood very still, but it seemed to Finbarr that he was communicating with the gods.
“It will be the worse for you, Conall,” he cried, “that you came here. I am a boar who will gouge you, Conall. A boar.”
But Conall said nothing.
Then they took up their spears and shields, and Finbarr hurled his spear with huge force straight at Conall. It was a perfect throw. Once before, with such a throw, his spear had gone clean through his opponent’s shield and pinned the man to the ground through his chest. But Conall, stepping aside so fast that Finbarr scarcely saw him move, let the spear glance off his shield. With only a moment’s pause, Conall then hurled his in return. It flew from his hand, aimed straight at Finbarr’s heart. And if some other warrior had thrown it, Finbarr would have judged it a fine cast. But he knew the incredible force of Conall’s cast when he really tried and, letting the spear crash into his shield, he inwardly cursed. Then, taking up his sword, he rushed at Conall.
There were few who could match Finbarr with the sword. He was brave, he was swift, and he was strong. As he forced Conall back, it was hard for him to tell whether his friend was deliberately giving ground or was out of practice. As iron rang on iron, the sparks flew. They reached the edge of the shallows. Still Conall was giving ground; but though Conall was soon ankle-deep in the water, Finbarr realised that neither of them had yet drawn blood.
And the more he struck, the more mysteriously Conall seemed to elude him. He shouted a war cry, rushed splashing through the water, hacked and lunged. He used every move he knew. Yet strangely his sword either struck uselessly against the defending blade or shield of Conall, or it missed entirely. Once, when Conall’s shield was lowered and his sword hung wide, Finbarr made a lightning lunge—and encountered nothing at all. It was as if, for an instant, Conall had turned into a mist. I am not fighting a warrior, Finbarr thought, I am fighting a druid.
For some time this strange contest went on, and who knew how it might have ended if, by a stroke of fate, Conall had not slipped as he stepped back onto a stone. In a flash Finbarr had struck, catching him on the arm. As Conall fell back and raised his shield, Finbarr hacked at his leg, opening a gash. In a moment Conall was up and parried the next blows, but he was limping. There was blood in the water at his feet. He gave more ground, but this time Finbarr knew it was because he was in trouble. A quick feint and he caught him again, on the shoulder. They continued, blow for blow, but skilful though Conall was, Finbarr could feel him getting weaker.
He had him. He knew it. The end was only a question of time. Long moments passed. They went back another twenty paces, Finbarr advancing through the watery shallows that were red with the other man’s blood. Conall was slipping. He seemed about to fall.
And now, close to triumph, all the frustration of the last year and, though he scarcely realised it himself, the many years of jealousy spoke for themselves when he cried out, “Do not think I shall kill you, Conall. I shall not. It’ll be tied and walking behind my chariot that you and Deirdre will come with me, this day, to the king.” And swinging his sword high, he leaped forward.
He never saw the blade. It moved so fast, he did not even feel it for a moment, in his battle fury. But it smashed through his breast and severed every tissue just above the heart, so that Finbarr frowned, first in puzzlement as he became aware that something had stopped. Then he felt a huge, red, aching pain, and found that he was choking, that his gorge and his mouth were full of blood, and that everything was running away from him like a river as he crashed into the shallow water. He felt himself being turned and saw Conall’s face looking down at him, infinitely sorrowful. Why was he so sorrowful? His face was becoming blurred.
“Oh Finbarr. I had no wish to kill you.”
Why did Conall say that? Had he killed him? Finbarr tried to say something to the blur.
“Conall …”
Then the light grew bright as his eyes opened wide.
Conall and the charioteer carried his body to the chariot, to be taken back to the king. Only now did Conall realise that Cuchulainn the hound was tied up in the chariot, waiting for his master. With a last sad look over the wide waters of the Liffey, Conall limped back towards Deirdre and the island.
Goibniu’s single eye surveyed them all: the High King, the queen, the chiefs, and the druids. He listened but said nothing.
It had been that afternoon, after two days’ hard driving, that the exhausted charioteer had arrived at the High King’s camp with Finbarr’s body. The women were preparing it for burial. And in the big hall, with its wicker walls, they were all talking.
There were at least twenty young men who wanted to go after Conall. They would, of course. Kill the hero who had killed noble Finbarr—what a chance for young men eager for glory. The druids, on the whole, seemed to think this was the best plan. Larine was there, Conall’s friend. He was looking sad, but saying nothing. The queen, however, was talking. She had never, it seemed to Goibniu, taken much interest in the hunting of Conall; but now she was adamant. Conall and Deirdre should be killed. “Let her father bury his daughter at Dubh Linn,” she cried. “And bring me the head of Conall.” She looked round the chiefs and young heroes. “The man who brings me Conall’s head shall have twelvescore cows.” One thing was clear: she did not want them back. But what interested Goibniu far more was the thought process of the king who, though he sat on his large covered bench lookin
g depressed, had still not spoken. Was he, perhaps, thinking as Goibniu thought? Did he look for deeper causes?
As so often happened when Goibniu listened to men talking, it seemed to the smith that their words were empty, signifying nothing. For what was the king’s real problem? The failure of the harvests. And what caused the bad harvests? Were they really the fault of the High King? Could they be cured by the death of Conall? Goibniu did not know, but he doubted. Nor, in his private estimation, did anyone else know. But they believed. That was what mattered: their belief. The killing of Conall would achieve revenge for the mocking of the king. But what if, after that, the next harvest failed as well? Wouldn’t the druids still blame the High King? They would. Not a doubt of it.
He noticed that the High King was looking at him now.
“Well, Goibniu,” he asked, “and what have you to say?”
Goibniu the Smith paused for a moment, considering carefully before he answered.
“It seems to me,” he said quietly, “that there is another way. May I speak with you alone?”
She had even dreamed they might go free, once or twice, during those days.
Nothing, she supposed, could be worse than that first morning, waiting on the island to see whether it was the chariot of Finbarr or Conall’s handsome form that would come along the strand to fetch her. For her waiting was ended by neither, but by the bent, bloody shape of Conall, limping like a dying animal across the sand, so that at first she scarcely knew him. And when, finally, he fell out of the curragh onto the shingle in front of her, it was all she could do to hide her revulsion at the sight of his wounds.
She tended him as best she could. He was weak, and once or twice he fainted; but he told her what had happened and how he had killed his friend. She hardly liked to ask him what they should do next. Late that afternoon her father had arrived.
“They will come for him. Finbarr’s charioteer will show them where he is. But it will take a few days, Deirdre. We can think about what to do tomorrow.” They debated whether to move Conall back to the rath at Dubh Linn, but Fergus decided: “Let him stay where he is for the moment, Deirdre. He’s as well here as he can be anywhere.” In the evening he left. And though Conall grew feverish in the night, in the morning he seemed better, and she fed him some broth and a little mead that her father had brought.
Towards midday, Fergus came again. After inspecting Conall and remarking that he would live, he addressed them both seriously.
“It’s impossible for you to remain here any longer. Whatever the risks, you have to cross the sea.” He gazed out at the water. “At least you can thank the gods the weather is fine.” He gave Conall a smile.
“In two days I’ll be back with a boat.”
“But father,” she cried, “even if you found one, how would I manage a boat all alone, with me in the state I’m in and Conall hardly strong enough to lift an oar?”
“There’ll be a crew,” said her father, and left.
The next day was anxious for Deirdre. At first she was grateful. Though almost every wave caused her to glance at the shore, expecting to see the king’s men, nobody came. Physically, Conall seemed better. He even took a turn around their little island and she was relieved that his wounds did not open again. But his mental state was another matter. She was used to his moods, and when in the late afternoon he went to sit alone on the shingle beach and stare out to sea, she did not at first attach any particular significance to it; but after a while, he looked so unusually sad that she went and stood beside him. “What are you thinking about?” she asked. For a few moments he did not reply.
“It was Finbarr I was thinking of,” he said quietly at last. “He was my friend.”
She wanted to put her arms round him but he seemed distant, so she did not dare. She touched him on the shoulder, then withdrew her hand.
“He knew the risks he took,” she said softly. “It isn’t you who’s to blame.”
He did not answer, and they fell into silence.
“He told me,” Conall said quietly, “that the druids say the bad harvests are my doing—because of my humiliation of the High King.”
“Then it would be my fault, too, Conall.”
“It would not.” He frowned. “It is mine.”
“That is foolishness.”
“Perhaps.” He was silent again while she watched him anxiously.
“You must not think it, Conall,” she said, and in return he touched her hand.
“It is not to be thought of,” he murmured. But he did not look at her. After a time, uncertain what to do, she moved away; and Conall remained there, sitting on the shingle, staring at the water until the sun went down.
Her father arrived the next morning. There was still a mist on the sea, as the boat came round the headland. It was a small vessel, with leather sides and a single square sail with which it could run, in a somewhat ungainly fashion, before the wind—hardly different from the curraghs in which her distant ancestors had first come to the western island. Her father had bought it from a fisherman at the southern end of the bay. He sailed it himself, accompanied by her two brothers. They all stepped ashore, looking pleased with themselves.
“Here is your boat,” her father said. “The wind’s from the west but it’s light; the sea is calm. You needn’t worry about making the crossing.”
“But where is the crew you promised?” she demanded.
“Why it’s your father and your brothers, Deirdre,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Put your trust in your father, Deirdre, and I’ll put mine in Manannan mac Lir. The sea god will protect you. Is that not good enough for you?”
“Perhaps with just yourself,” she suggested, looking doubtfully at her brothers. “The boat is small.”
“Would you have me leave your brothers behind,” he asked, smiling, “all alone in the world?”
And then Deirdre understood. “You mean you won’t be coming back?”
“To face the king after I helped you escape? No, Deirdre, we’ll go together. I’ve always had a mind to go on a voyage. I just left it a little late.”
“But the rath, your lands, the cattle …”
“At Dubh Linn?” He shrugged. “It’s not much of a place, I dare say. It’s too marshy. No, Deirdre, I’d say it’s time to move on.” And looking into the little boat, she saw that it was stocked with provisions, and a small sack of silver, and her father’s drinking skull. So she kissed her father and said not another word.
There was only one problem. Conall wouldn’t go.
He was very quiet about it. The depression he had exhibited the evening before seemed to have subsided into something else. He appeared sad, perhaps a little absent, but calm. And adamant. He would not go.
“By all the gods, man,” cried Fergus. “What’s the matter with you? Do you not see what we’re doing for you?” And when this did not work: “Must we carry you into the boat by force?” But a look from the prince told him that, even in Conall’s weakened state, this would not be a good idea. “Would you at least tell us why?” Fergus finally asked in despair.
For a few moments it was not clear whether Conall would answer, but in the end he said quietly, “It is not the will of the gods that I should go.”
“How would you know that?” Fergus demanded irritably.
“If I cross the sea with you, it will not bring you any luck.”
While her father cursed under his breath, Deirdre’s two brothers looked at each other anxiously. Had the gods cursed their sister’s man? Since Conall looked like a druid, it seemed to them that he would know.
“There’s no point in getting drowned, Father,” one of them said.
“Are we to take Deirdre then, and leave you behind?” Fergus almost shouted. Conall did not answer but Deirdre took her father’s arm.
“I cannot leave him, Father,” she murmured. And though he cast his eyes up at the sky with impatience, she led him to one side and continued, “Wait one more day. Per
haps he will feel differently tomorrow.” And since there seemed to be no alternative, Fergus could only shrug his shoulders and sigh. Before he left, however, he warned, “You have not much time. There’s yourself to think of Deirdre, and the child.”
For some while after her father and brothers had gone, Deirdre said nothing. There was a flock of seagulls on the shingle beach. Again and again they rose up, crying into the blue September sky, while Conall sat watching them as though in a trance. Finally they departed, and then she spoke.
“What is to become of us, Conall?”
“I do not know.”
“Why wouldn’t you leave?” He did not reply. “Was it a dream you had in the night.” He did not answer, but she suspected he had dreamed. “Is it that you have spoken with the gods? Tell me the truth, Conall. What is it you know?”
“That I am to wait here, Deirdre. That is all.”
She looked at his pale, handsome face.
“I shall stay here with you,” she said simply.
He reached out and held her hand, so that she would know he loved her; and she wondered whether, perhaps, he might change his mind before the morning.
When she awoke, the sky was clear, but there was a thin layer of mist on the ground. Looking across the water to the shore, it seemed to her that everything was still. It was surely, in any case, too soon for anyone coming from the High King to have reached them. Then something caught her eye.
At first, in the distance, the little shape that was advancing across the misty plain seemed like a flapping bird. All over the wide expanse of the Plain of Bird Flocks, the mist lay in torn veils or hovered in wisps like phantoms, and this whiteness poured over the shore and the intervening sea so that it was impossible for Deirdre to tell whether it was earth or water that lay beneath. As for the seeming bird, she could only surmise that it might be a man with a trailing cloak, borne swiftly by a chariot, unless perhaps it was one of the gods or their messengers who had taken the form of a raven or swan or some other flying thing to visit them.