“I knew nothing of this plan to steal the black bull,” Conall confessed.
“It is a secret, and you must not let them know I told you.” Larine paused. “You could get the bull, Conall, and then ask the High King to release you from your obligations. The queen would have nothing to say then.”
But Conall shook his head.
“Is that what you really believe?” He sighed. “I know them, Larine, even better than you. If I succeed in getting the bull, then sure enough, before a month is out, they’ll be asking me to do something else. There’ll be task after task. Disgrace if I fail; and if I succeed, honour—for myself, of course, but above all for my uncle the High King. There will never be an end of it, until I die.”
“It may turn out otherwise.”
“No, Larine. That is how it will be. There is only one way to make an end of it, and that is not to begin.”
“You cannot refuse to go.”
Conall brooded silently awhile.
“Perhaps I can,” he murmured.
It would be best, the druid thought, not to tell the High King about that.
Winter had nearly passed, and still he had not come. Some days, Fergus thought, Deirdre looked paler than the moon. Even her brothers noticed she was moody. It was a bad day, her father thought, that I ever took her to the Lughnasa at Carmun. A sad thing, he saw it now, that she had met Conall.
At first he had supposed Conall would come again. Deirdre was no fool; he did not think she had mistaken the young man’s interest. Conall cared for her. But time went by and there was no sign of him. The chief even made discreet enquiries about the young prince. He had discovered, and gently warned his daughter about, the druids’ geissi that governed Conall’s life. “Men who are marked by the fates like that,” he cautioned her, “do not always have easy and untroubled lives.” But it was clear that such warnings meant nothing to her.
So why hadn’t he appeared? There could be many reasons. But as he saw his daughter silently pining, one thought came into his mind again and again, and each time it came, it grew insidiously. For whose fault was it that Conall did not come? It was not the prince’s, nor Deirdre’s. The fault was his own. Why should a prince like Conall marry the daughter of Fergus? There was no reason at all. If he were a great chief, if he had riches—it might be another matter. But he had none of these.
Other men on the island, of no greater ancestry than he, had joined in the great raids across the sea or gone off fighting, winning riches and renown. But what had he done? Stayed at Dubh Linn, watched over the ford, entertained travellers at his house.
That had been part of the trouble. When travellers came to the house of Fergus, they were well entertained. Fergus would think nothing of slaughtering a pig, or even a heifer, to provide a lavish meal for a guest. The old bard, who would recite to him most evenings, was always generously paid. The families from the outlying farmsteads, who called him their chief, would always find food and welcome at his house; and if they were behind with the modest tribute of cattle or hides that they owed him, these debts were often forgiven. It was the simple repetition of these modest displays of status, so essential to his dignity as he saw it, that had led Fergus in recent years to contract a number of debts which he kept hidden from his family. He had managed to get by, because the cattle had always saved him. He had an inborn talent as a cattleman and he thanked the gods for it. But his hidden embarrassment gnawed at him, especially since his wife’s death, and now the realisation of his failure in life came to torture him.
Yet what am I? he thought. What can men say of me? There goes a man that’s proud of his daughter. There’s a girl who’ll bring her father a good price. And what have I ever done, that she should be proud of me? Little enough. That was the truth of it. And now there was his daughter in love with a man who wouldn’t marry her because of her father.
She never spoke of it. She went about her daily tasks as usual. Sometimes, before midwinter, he had seen her staring across the cold waters by the ford. Once she had walked over to the headland to look at the little island she loved so much. But by winter’s end, she no longer looked at anything but what was to hand, unless it was to stare, dully, at the cold, hard ground.
“You’re paler than a snowdrop,” he said to her one day.
“Snowdrops wilt. I shall not,” she answered. “Were you afraid,” she suddenly asked with grim humour, “I should fade away before my wedding day?” And when he shook his head: “You’d best be taking me up to my husband in Ulster.”
“No,” he said gently. “Not yet.”
“Conall is not coming.” She sounded resigned. “I should be grateful for the good man you found me.”
You should be grateful for nothing, he thought. But aloud he said, “There’s time enough yet.”
Then a few mornings later, telling them that he’d be gone several days and explaining nothing, he mounted his horse and rode away across the ford.
Finbarr listened carefully when Conall told him about the cattle raid, and his feelings about it. Then he shook his head in wonderment.
“There is the difference between us, Conall,” he said. “Here am I, a poor man. What wouldn’t I give for such a chance? And you, a prince, are dragged to glory against your own will.”
“It is you who should lead this raid, Finbarr, not I,” Conall replied. “I shall tell my uncle.”
“Do not do that,” said Finbarr. “It would only bring down trouble on my head.” And then, after a pause, he looked at Conall curiously. “Is there anything else,” he enquired gently, “that you wish to tell me?”
It had been at the start of winter that he had noticed the change in his friend’s behaviour. Of course, Conall had been moody anyway, but when he had begun to frown, and purse his lips, and stare vacantly at the horizon, Finbarr had decided that something new must be disturbing his friend’s thoughts. So now, as Conall told him about the bull, he assumed that this was the secret problem on his friend’s mind. But when he asked, “How long have you known?” and Conall replied, “Two days,” it was clear that the moods he had noticed must still have been caused by something else. “Are you sure there is nothing on your mind?” he tried again.
“Nothing at all,” said Conall.
And it was just then that a tall and unfamiliar figure strode into view.
It had taken Fergus some days to find the camp of the High King, but once he arrived, a man had directed him to Conall at once. He looked with secret admiration at the handsome prince and his good-looking companion.
“Greetings, Conall, son of Morna,” he said gravely. “I am Fergus, son of Fergus, and I have something to say to you in private.”
“There is nothing that my friend Finbarr may not hear,” said Conall calmly.
“It concerns my daughter, Deirdre,” Fergus began, “who you came to see at Dubh Linn.”
“I will hear this alone,” said Conall quickly, and so Finbarr left them. But he had noticed, with surprise, that his friend was blushing.
It did not take Fergus long to tell Conall about Deirdre. When he spoke of her love for him, he saw Conall look guilty. When he explained about the offer that Goibniu had arranged, he saw the prince go pale. He did not press the troubled young man to declare himself one way or the other, but simply stated, “She will not be given until the feast of Bealtaine. Then she must be given.” And with that he strode away.
Finbarr smiled to himself. So Conall had gone all the way down to the Liffey to see that girl he had brought to him at Lughnasa. That was what his friend had been brooding about. Not a doubt of it. For once the mysterious druid prince was behaving like a normal man. There was hope for him yet.
He hadn’t hesitated to confront his friend as soon as Fergus had left. And this time Conall gave in and told him everything.
“I think,” said Finbarr with some pleasure, “that you’ll be needing my advice.” He looked at him hard. “Do you truly want this girl?”
“Perhaps. I think so. I hard
ly know.”
Bealtaine. The start of May.
“You have only two months,” Finbarr pointed out, “to make up your mind.”
IV
Goibniu grinned. All over the landscape he could see little parties of people—some mounted or in carts, but mostly leading cattle—making their way towards the single hill that stood in the middle of the plain.
Uisnech: the centre of the island.
Actually, the island had two centres. The royal Hill of Tara, which lay only a short day’s journey to the east, was the greatest political centre. But the geographical centre of the land was here at Uisnech. From Uisnech, said the legend, the island’s twelve rivers had been formed in a mighty hailstorm. The island’s navel, some people called it: the circular hill in the middle of the land.
But Uisnech was far more than that. If Tara was the hill of kings, Uisnech was the hill of druids, the island’s religious and cosmic centre. Here lived the goddess Eriu, who had given the island her name. Here, before even the Tuatha De Danaan came, a mystical druid had kindled the first fire, whose embers had been carried to every hearth in the island. Hidden at Uisnech, in a secret cave, was the holy well which contained the knowledge of all things. At the summit of the hill stood the five-sided Stone of Divisions around which lay the sacred meeting grounds of the island’s five kingdoms. At this cosmic centre, the druids had their conclaves.
And it was at Uisnech also, each May Day, that the druids held the great assembly of Bealtaine.
Of all the festivals of the Celtic year, the two most magical were surely Samhain, the original Hallowe’en, and the May Day festival called Bealtaine. If the year was split into two halves—winter and summer, darkness and light—then these two festivals marked the junctions. At Samhain, winter began; at Bealtaine, winter ended and summer took over. The eve of each of these two festivals was an especially eerie time. For during that night the calendar entered a kind of limbo, when it was neither winter nor summer. Winter, season of death, met summer, season of life; the world below met the world above. Spirits walked abroad; the dead came to mingle with the living. They were nights of strange presences and fleeting shadows—frightening at Samhain, since they were leading you to death; but at Bealtaine, less fearsome. For the spirit world in summer was only mischievous, and sexual.
Goibniu liked Bealtaine. He might have only one eye, but he was complete in every other way, and his sexual prowess was well known. As he watched the people gathering, he felt a keen sense of anticipation. How long before he had a woman? Not long, he thought. After all, this was Bealtaine.
By evening, there were thousands gathered in the rosy light, waiting for the ascent. There was a faint, warm breeze. The sound of a piper wound its way round the base of the hill. Expectancy was in the air.
Deirdre glanced at her little family. Both her brothers were carrying sprays of green leaves. She should have been doing the same: it was the custom at Bealtaine. But she wasn’t in the mood. Her brothers were grinning foolishly. While they were getting their green sprays, an old woman had asked them if they were going to find themselves girls that night. Deirdre had said nothing. Small chance, in her view. Such things happened of course. By the end of the following night, when everyone had been dancing and drinking, there would be all kinds of illicit couplings in the shadows. Young lovers, wives who had slipped away from their husbands, men who had deserted their wives. It was always like that in the May season. Not that she would ever have done such a thing. As the unmarried daughter of a chief, she had her reputation to think of. She couldn’t behave like the farmhands or the slave girls. But what about her father? She glanced at him curiously. Since she was, she supposed, about to be leaving home to be married, her father would no longer have a housekeeper. Would he use the festival of Bealtaine to find himself a woman? There was no reason why he shouldn’t, though he had given no indication that such a thing might be in his mind. She wondered how she would feel about it.
Without her wishing it, her gaze wandered amongst the crowd. Conall was there somewhere. She hadn’t yet seen him; but she knew he must be there. He had not come to look for her. She had seen that the High King was there with a large retinue; but she had not gone to see if Conall was there. If he wanted to find her, let him do so. If not … She could wait no longer. Her bridegroom was coming, and he could not be denied.
Perhaps Conall wanted her, but only in the May Day fashion and nothing more than that. Would he approach her, offer her a night of love, and then leave her to her fate? No. He was too fine for that. But what if he did come to her, up on the hill, in the night? What if, like a phantom, he appeared at her side? Touched her? Asked her, in the dark, with his eyes? What if Conall … Would she go with him? Would she give herself to him, like a slave girl? The thought of it. She thought of it.
As the sun was going down, the whole crowd started to move up the hill. There were people climbing hills like this all over the island.
On Bealtaine eve, the whole community kept watch together to guard against the evil spirits who were abroad that magical night. The spirits were up to every kind of mischief: they’d steal the milk, give you strange dreams, bewitch you, and lead you astray. Just for their private amusement. But they liked to take you unawares. They were sly. If you were looking out for them, they usually went away. That was why, in the Celtic world, whole communities kept watch all night on the eve of May.
Deirdre sighed. It was going to be a long vigil until the dawn. Despite herself, not meaning to do it, she glanced around once again.
How strange Conall’s face seemed in the starlight. One moment, Finbarr thought, it looked as hard as the five-edged stone that stood only forty paces away at the centre of the hilltop. Yet concentrate upon it for a while, and you might think it was dissolving into the darkness. Could Conall’s face be melting? No. It was just the faint flickering glimmer of the starlight upon the dew which was forming on all their faces.
Soon they would see the first hint of dawn. Then the sunrise ritual, and after that, in the full light of day, the great ceremony of the fires of Bealtaine. But as yet it was still night. Finbarr had never seen the sky so clear. The stars blazed out of the blackness; the plain around the hill was covered in a thin shroud of ground mist to which the starlight gave a soft sheen so that the Hill of Uisnech with its standing stone seemed to be set on a cloud at the centre of the cosmos.
“I have seen her,” he said quietly, so that only Conall could hear.
“Who is that?” Conall asked.
“You know very well it’s Deirdre I mean.” Finbarr paused, but getting no reaction from Conall he went on: “She is over there.” And he pointed away to the right. Conall had turned his head so that his face was a shadow. “Will you not see her?” In the long silence that followed, the stars moved, but Conall did not answer. “You know these are the last days,” Finbarr whispered. “Her bridegroom is waiting. Are you not going to do anything?”
“No.”
“Shouldn’t you tell her?”
“No.”
“So you’re not interested.”
“It is not what I said.”
“You are too complicated for me, Conall.” Finbarr said no more, but he wondered: Was it some strange self-denial that his friend was practising, as warriors or druids sometimes did? Was it mere hesitation, the fear that most young men have when faced with commitment? Or was it something else? Why was Conall deliberately pushing this girl into the arms of another man? To Finbarr it seemed perverse. But perhaps, even now, there might be something he could do to help his friend. At least he would try.
Now half the sky was pale. The stars were fading. There was a golden glow along the horizon.
The High King watched intently. At dawnings like this, he could still feel a tingling inside him, as if he were a young man again. But despite the anticipation of the sunrise, his thoughts remained on the serious matter which had occupied them through the night. He had made up his mind some time ago. His plan was complete.
Only one piece, minor but important, was missing before he could put it into action.
Two things had to be accomplished. The first, of course, was to obtain a good harvest. He had handled the druids carefully. Gifts, flattery, respect—he had given these liberally. The priests were on his side. Not that you could trust them very far. It was the nature of priests, in his experience, to be vain. But whatever was required for ceremony or sacrifice, he had promised they should have it. They must all pray to the gods for good weather.
The second was to reassert himself. Some measures were easy. The raid to seize the black bull would be a good beginning. His wife, whatever her faults, had been right to insist upon it, and the timing was perfect. But the matter went deeper than that. When a king’s authority was eroded, the process soon became so subtle and widespread that it entered every aspect of his life. The disrespectful way his own wife had spoken to him in front of the young druid, though not important, was evidence of this. And to cure this condition he needed more than a mere demonstration of authority. A king must be respected, a High King dreaded. Like a god, he must be unknowable, deeper than his enemies. Deeper than his friends. They must discover that if they flouted his authority, he had let them do so, watched them expose their disloyalty, known their thoughts and actions all the time. Then he must reveal himself in all his power, fierce and awesome as the rising sun.