The singing hushed and fell away. Eádoin summoned the ovate with the torch; the young woman stepped forward and knelt on the strand before the high druid. ‘What do you bring, my daughter?’ asked Eádoin.
‘I bring fire—the reclaimer and refiner.’
‘For what purpose do you bring it?’
‘To reclaim the bodies of the dead for the earth,’ replied the young woman, ‘and to refine their souls for the homeward journey.’
Holding his hands outstretched above the wavering torch, Eádoin said, ‘Flame of the Sun, born of the world’s first kindling, daughter of the Beltaine blaze, we release you to your sacred work.’
Eádoin stepped aside and the ovate rose and, holding the torch with both hands, she applied it to a clutch of kindling at the base of the pyre. She then moved on to the next side of the low tower and applied the torch, and the next likewise until a small fire burned at each corner. She then turned to the gathered bards and, raising the firebrand, called out in a loud voice, ‘This is the work of the flame—to light the soul’s journey to the next world, and to purify the flesh for its return to earth. This is the work of the flame.’
She turned and thrust the torch into the centre of the pyre where it sputtered and flared and at last took hold. Wisps of smoke drifted into the still, twilight sky. Soon thin fingers of flame reached up, searching among the logs and branches for places where they might catch, slowly building as piece by piece the carefully stacked timber ignited and burned. When all was alight, Eádoin turned to the assembly and, raising his hands, cried, ‘Behold! It is the time-between-times, when the veil between this world and the next is parted. We stand here on the shore neither wholly land, nor yet sea. This is the auspicious time and this the sacred place. Here and now we send our brothers on their homeward journey to the Land of Promise.
‘My friends’—he opened his arms wide and smiled—‘we fear death as a child fears the closed door behind which unseen dangers lurk. But in death there is no danger, for with it comes the freedom of release and rest and every comfort. I ask you now, what is death that we should fear it?’
The question did not hang in the air very long before Tuán stepped forward. Holding a bunch of six twigs tied with grass, he said:
In Death is the death of Pride,
In Death is the death of Ambition,
In Death is the death of Envy,
In Death is the death of Anger, and Wrath, and Resentment,
for these are the bane of Charity and Compassion.
So saying, he tossed the twigs into the fire. No sooner had he stepped back, than Dáithi took his place before the pyre. Holding out his clutch of twigs, he said:
In Death is the death of Sickness,
In Death is the death of Misery,
In Death is the death of Infirmity,
In Death is the death of Sorrow, and Grief, and every Affliction of Sadness, for these are the bane of Health and Happiness.
Dáithi gave his fuel to the flames, and backed away. His place was taken by a young ovate, who, in a high, reedy voice sang:
In Death is the death of Hardship,
In Death is the death of Distress,
In Death is the death of Worry,
In Death is the death of Pain and Hurt and every Harm of heart and mind and spirit, for these are the bane of Hope and Joy.
The fire continued to build. The flames leapt high, hungrily devouring the carefully erected pyre, slowly transforming the timber into a golden latticework of fiery embers and the shrouded figures into luminous effigies of light. The ovate put his bunch of six small branches to the fire. The oldest druid in the gathering stepped slowly forward and with trembling hands held his outstretched bundle and, in a quavering voice, called:
In Death is the death of Conflict,
In Death is the death of Discord,
In Death is the death of Hostility,
In Death is the death of Hate and Fear and every Evil under heaven, for these are the bane of Truth and Wisdom.
As the last symbolic twigs were consigned to the flames, Eádoin, the Wise Head of Carn Dubh, once again took his place before the pyre. ‘In death all things of hindrance, of fettering, and every burden of heart and mind and spirit fall away like the binding cords of the death garment fall away in the purifying fire. The fruits of liberation and true freedom are tasted for the first time, and these, we are assured, will never end.’
Turning to the flames, he said, ‘Here, in the time-between-times, we say farewell to the bodies of our brothers, and bid their souls a swift journey to the world beyond this one. And though we may mourn their passing, we are also reminded that they only go before us on the path we all must tread. May they find peace and every comfort in the Land of Promise.’
To this came the resounding reply by the chorused bards, ‘So may it be with us all.’
Nothing more was said, or needed to be said. But all stood and watched the fire perform its refining, cleansing, liberating work. The heat of the pyre grew hotter, forcing everyone back a few steps, and still it built until at last the centre of the tower gave way and collapsed inwardly upon itself. One of the bards began a low chant—little more than a hum that rose and fell in waves—and this was picked up by another. One by one, other voices added themselves to the number until the entire cove thrummed with the uncanny sound. When the last bard had joined in, the one that had started the chant turned and began walking up the beach toward the woodland path by which they had come, passing into the night that was now full upon them. He was followed by the second bard, and so on until only Eádoin, Dáithi, Tuán, and the camp ovate Galin were left with Conor and Fergal and Rhiannon to watch the fire.
When the last bard had disappeared into the darkness, Eádoin put out his hand and indicated to the others that they, too, should depart. Lit only by the light from the pyre, they made their way back to the druid glade in silence, still dazzled by the vision of what they had seen. An end had been made, a destination reached, and a new journey begun. There was a rightness about it that satisfied and to add anything more would only be to diminish the perfection achieved. And Conor felt in himself a deep consolation that comforted and cheered him.
28
Conor’s feeling of peace and contentment lasted through the night and into the next day. Just after daybreak, Eádoin and Tuán had left the cloín and Conor and Fergal, roused by their departure, found Dáithi and Galin at the fire ring. When they asked where the others had gone, Dáithi explained that they had gone back to Carn Dubh where Ollamh Eádoin was to convene a Coinemm, which Conor thought of as a sort of Oenach of high-ranking druids from across Eirlandia for the purpose of hearing the allegations of treachery against the Brigantes king.
‘And if these high druids decide Brecan is guilty,’ said Fergal, ‘what then?’
‘Then the brehons will determine the punishment to be imposed,’ answered the filidh. ‘Lord Brecan’s plan to usurp the high kingship is a threat that must be addressed. And if Brecan has made treaty with the enemy to achieve his ambition, that is a crime that will be answered.’
‘Now you sound like Mádoc,’ Conor told him.
‘I wish I had known him,’ replied Dáithi. ‘I wish he were here to advise us.’
‘So do I,’ said Conor—and saw again the funeral pyre on the twilight beach, and felt the peace of that sending.
‘I go to help prepare for the council,’ Dáithi continued after a moment’s silence. ‘But Galin will stay here to help keep the camp. I will have more provisions sent down for you and fodder for the horses.’
‘No need for that,’ said Fergal. ‘We are leaving.’
Dáithi looked from one to the other of them. ‘When?’
‘As soon as Donal’s care can be arranged,’ Conor told him.
‘But I thought he was to be cared for by the Tylwyth Teg,’ said Dáithi.
‘Aye,’ agreed Conor, ‘if Lady Rhiannon’s father sends a boat.’
Dáithi blinked at them in conf
usion. ‘But he is sending a boat. It will arrive today.’ He glanced from one to the other of them. ‘Did you not know this?’
‘I did not,’ said Conor, ‘I didn’t know. Did you, Fergal?’
‘This is the first I heard of it.’ He looked to Conor, who shrugged.
‘But we were hoping you would wait here a little while—should Eádoin call upon you to bear witness to the council. Only a little while, mind, and then you can be on your way.’
‘How long?’ asked Conor.
The filidh gazed up at the sky as he reckoned the time needed to summon and deliberate. ‘I expect,’ he replied at length, ‘not more than five or six days—seven at most.’
‘Six days!’ spluttered Fergal, glancing at Conor, who was shaking his head in dismay. ‘We can’t be sitting here for six days waiting on this council of yours.’
Conor led Fergal a few paces apart and the two held a quick consultation. ‘Six days!’ huffed Fergal. ‘Eirlandia could sink into the sea in six days and those shave-head windbags would still be wagging their tongues over where to sit in the boat.’ He puffed out his cheeks in exasperation. ‘Your father should hear about all this. The king should be told everything that has happened so he can warn the other lords.’
‘And tell them what—that we think Brecan is a devious bastard and the Scálda are filthy scum? Everyone knows that already. Anyway, we have to take care of Donal.’
‘What then?’ asked Fergal.
‘One of us must go with him. Faéry healers or no, we can’t be sending him on his own. It isn’t right.’
‘What so?’ said Fergal.
‘You will go with him,’ Conor said. ‘I’ll go to my father and tell him all we’ve seen and what we suspect. If I hurry, I can ride to Dúnaird and back while the druids are still conferring.’
Before Conor finished speaking, Fergal was already shaking his head. ‘Nay, brother, I think you are forgetting that you are exiled from the tribe.’
‘That was but a feeble ruse of Mádoc’s as you well know—’
‘Aye, I know that, but no one in Dúnaird knows anything of the kind—nor will they until someone can explain it to them. The one for that was Mádoc, but he is no longer with us. So, now, that someone must be me—’
Conor opened his mouth to object, but Fergal remained adamant. ‘Hear me, Conor, it must be me. Though it saddens me to say it, you are still outcast, brother—on pain of death, remember? If you are caught in Darini lands, much less your father’s ráth, they are honour-bound to kill you.’
‘But they would never—’
‘It is foolish to argue. You know I am right, ’ Fergal insisted with uncommon heat. ‘Listen, the solution is simple. I will go to your father, and you will go with Donal to Lady Rhiannon’s people and see to his healing.’
Conor at last acknowledged the sense of this and, with great reluctance, agreed. The two turned to Dáithi who was waiting patiently nearby, and Fergal announced, ‘Here’s what we will do…’
After hearing the plan, Dáithi said he had no objection and urged them to proceed and return in all haste. ‘And now,’ the druid told them, ‘I must go help Eádoin prepare for the Coinemm. Farewell, both of you—until we meet again.’
‘Do you know how to get home?’ asked Conor as they watched the druid hurry away across the clóin.
‘I’ll find the way,’ Fergal said.
‘You’ll have two horses. Take Ovate Galin with you. He can help if you should lose your way.’
The two warriors occupied the rest of the day making an árach to ease Donal’s short journey to the cove. With a borrowed knife from Galin, they cut hazel and willow branches from the nearby wood and wove them into a long, narrow hurdle. Using strips of cloth torn from one of the druid’s cloaks, they made it fast. The result was a light, but fairly strong support with which they could transport Donal to the ship. The women, meanwhile, changed the dressing on Donal’s wound, fed him more broth, and prepared him to travel. Thus, the day was far spent when the travellers finally started down to the cove to await the boat sent by the faéry king.
They carried Donal on his makeshift bed down through the forest to a dry place high up on the beach and sat down with him in the shade of the rock stack to wait. Gráinne and Rhiannon moved a little apart where they sat head to head deep in conversation.
‘They have not been out of sight of one another since the banfaíth’s arrival,’ Fergal mused, smoothing his moustache with his hand. ‘I wonder what they talk about?’
‘Do you have to ask?’ Conor replied. ‘You know how women are—faéry or banfaíth they will always make a chatter about something.’
‘Men mostly, then.’
‘Aye,’ Conor agreed, ‘that would be the way of it.’ He looked at his friend. Who knew when he would see him again? ‘Take care of Búrach while I’m gone.’
‘That I will.’ A wan smile appeared beneath Fergal’s moustache. ‘And just see you don’t embarrass yourself with all those faéry women, now. You know what you’re like.’
‘My heart belongs to Aoife, brother,’ replied Conor. ‘Will you greet her for me and tell her I am well?’
‘Do you have to ask?’
They lapsed into silence then and Conor, growing restless, got up and walked down to the water’s edge. There was still a great deal of ash and charcoal where Mádoc’s funeral pyre had stood. The sea had been at work, washing the sand and pebbles, and soon all traces of the druid’s sending would be cleansed away and that would be that. The thought brought all the sadness back and Conor stared glumly at the dead cinders, kicking them over with his toe. The waste of two lives and what had any of it accomplished?
And then he saw, amidst the spent embers and soggy grey ash, a gleaming white fragment: the small slender shaft of a finger bone. He stooped and picked it up and was instantly filled with a regret so strong it took his breath away. He closed his fist around the bone and squeezed his eyes shut lest the tears start anew. ‘I am sorry, Mádoc,’ he murmured. ‘It has all been for nothing.’
‘Then do something about it!’
Conor opened his eyes and looked around. He was still alone on the strand, but the voice was Mádoc’s and he heard it as clearly as if the old ollamh had been standing behind him.
‘Aye,’ Conor muttered to himself, ‘but what is to be done, eh?’
Though he half expected a reply to that, none came. Mádoc dead and Huw with him, and Donal stricken unto death … what was to be done?
Conor stood a long time, turning the finger bone over in his hand and thinking back on all that they done since leaving the Oenach—none of it meant anything … unless … he did something about it.
He heard footsteps crunching toward him over the pebbles and turned to see Gráinne approaching. ‘The ship is coming,’ she said, with a gesture toward the narrow opening in the cáel. ‘It is time to prepare Donal to be put aboard.’
Conor looked where she had pointed and saw, as if out of nowhere, that the boat was already within hailing distance. Conor hurried back up the beach to where Fergal sat with Donal. ‘They’re here,’ Conor told him.
‘Are they?’ Fergal looked around and then stood up. ‘So they are.’
Together, the two men carried their wounded friend down to the water; Donal moaned softly when the árach swayed, but did not wake. They joined Gráinne and Rhiannon at the shore as the boat entered the cove. Larger than a fishing boat, but far smaller than the ship they had taken from the Scálda, it was a sleek and graceful craft, the lines clean and tight, the keel sharp, the stern low. The prow was high and topped by a carving of a wolf’s head, painted grey and silver and set with polished green stones for eyes. The sails were the colour of grass and glinted slightly as if sprinkled with dew. In movement, the vessel seemed more like a leaf skittering across a pond than a ship ploughing the waves.
If the faéry craft was elegant and graceful, those on board were even more so. There were five—three men and two women—and each as beautiful
as the next. Tall and handsome, slender, if a little long limbed, their features were nonetheless compelling: large, dark eyes set beneath high and noble brows; long straight hair that, for both the men and women, was gathered in an elaborate braid that hung from either the side or back of their heads; a straight nose above full lips and a mouth of perfect, even white teeth. For the beauty and symmetry of their bodies, Conor had never seen the like. ‘Truly they are a magical race,’ he murmured to Fergal beside him, but received no reply. His friend, for once at a loss for words, could but stand and stare.
‘Close your mouth, brother,’ Conor told him. ‘Pretend you’ve seen a pretty face before.’
Fergal closed his mouth, speechless.
Lady Rhiannon, eager to be reunited with her people, did not wait for the boat to touch land, but waded out into the water, her gown trailing behind her. Upon reaching the boat, she held up her arms and was pulled from the water and set upon the deck in one smooth, seemingly effortless motion. She was taken up and so warmly embraced that Conor felt a pang of jealousy quiver through him—unmistakeable as it was inexplicable. Why should this be? he wondered, even as he turned his face away. What is she to me?
Greetings were exchanged and then Rhiannon, linking her arm through that of a solemn-faced man with hair so pale it shimmered like spun silver, gestured toward Conor and Fergal, and said, ‘These are the men who saved me from the Scálda and released me from captivity.’ She introduced them to the newcomers and said, ‘I owe them my life.’
The faéry bowed regally and the solemn-faced one said, ‘On behalf of myself and my people, I thank you. Your service is greater than you can know. Believe me when I say that you will be richly rewarded.’
Conor acknowledged the praise and, putting out a hand to Donal on the litter at his feet, said, ‘Only heal our brother and send him back to us—that will be reward enough.’
Conor and Fergal picked up the hurdle bed and brought it to the side of the boat. They stood in the water and hoisted Donal into the hands of the waiting faéry, who said, ‘All that skill and art can do for him shall be done. I am Gwydion, Lord of the Tylwth Teg, King of the House of Llŷr, and I make this vow. Yet, I would ask you to remember that each life has its times and seasons, and these remain in the Great Mother’s hands to save or spend as she pleases.’