The Greener Shore by Morgan Llywelyn

had not enjoyed in years.
    “If you put it that way,” I told Fíachu, “on behalf of my people I can hardly refuse.”
    He gave me a mighty slap on the back that nearly drove me to my knees. “Sit down, sit down, Ainvar, and we’ll fill our cups again. A bargain must be sealed with good drink. And meat, no? We’ll roast an ox for you tomorrow. Two, if you like!”
    His inclination to expansive gestures boded well, I thought.
    “Is there anything else we can do for you?” he asked.
    I hesitated.
    “Yes? What?” Fíachu leaned toward me, deliberately moving into my space. Breathing my air. But I could not draw back, for fear of insulting him.
    “Well,” I said, “I would like to know more about those people you mentioned earlier. The Fír Bolg.”
    The tangled eyebrows crawled upward toward his hairline. “Why?”
    “Cohern never mentioned them, and I’m curious.”
    “Cohern doesn’t know anything about anything,” said Fíachu. “My bard can satisfy your curiosity.”
    “You have a bard?” Cohern never mentioned bards; I had supposed they were unknown in Hibernia.
    “Oh yes, there are quite a few bards among the Slea Leathan. The best is one of my cousins, a man called Seanchán, who will entertain us tonight.”
    My spirit sang at the prospect of hearing a bard again.
    In Gaul the bards were among the most highly regarded members of the Order of the Wise. They spent as much as twenty years on their studies. Some memorized the entire lineage of their clan to the thirty-third generation. Others learned the vast body of tribal history since before the before. Still others observed current events and committed them to memory so they would not be lost in the river of time. All of this was accomplished through the medium of poetry: a stern discipline. Every word and phrase had to be chanted without the slightest deviation.
    Without having access to bards, people were cut adrift from their past. We know who we are by knowing what we have done.
    Caesar the mendacious had justified genocide by inventing monstrous lies about the Gauls. Although many druids were familiar with Greek letters, we had no written account of our people with which to refute him. The Order of the Wise insisted that no matter of importance be committed to something as easily destroyed as parchment. Knowledge engraved on the brain and scrupulously passed down from generation to generation was immortal. Therefore we had stored everything within the bone vault of the skull.
    A conqueror’s most dangerous opponents are not the warriors, but the thinkers. Realizing this, Caesar had ordered his legions to hunt down the Order of the Wise and put all they found to the sword. With those murdered men and women had died much of our past.
    No bard survived to enrich our small band of refugees. Perhaps in time some child of ours would demonstrate the gift, yet who was there to teach that child the true history of the Gauls?
    My head does me no favors by asking questions I cannot answer.
    That night Fíachu introduced us to Seanchán the bard. Seanchán was a big man, tall and wide, but his mouth was as tender as a woman’s.
    The lips of one who recites poetry must be supple.
    I took for granted that Seanchán was a druid. To my surprise, he denied this. “I’m no sorcerer, Ainvar, I’m a storyteller.”
    “There is sorcery in storytelling,” I assured him. “A good bard enchants his audience.”
    Seanchán frowned.
    At that moment Fíachu caught me by the elbow. “Come with me, Ainvar. I want you to meet another of my cousins, Duach Dalta.
Our
chief druid.”
    “What are his duties here?” I asked out of professional curiosity.
    “He conducts the rites of inauguration for chieftains and kings.”
    “What else does the chief druid do?”
    Fíachu gave me a blank look. “What else is there?”
    “Well, what are the functions of your other druids?”
    “They interpret omens.”
    “Is that all?”
    “What else is there?” he