repeated.
What else indeed.
My thoughts ran back to Gaul. Druids whispering to seeds in the frozen earth so they would burst forth in the springing time. Druids lighting the fires that called back the sun from the kingdoms of ice. Druids recalling the past and foreseeing the future. Druids supervising birth and burial. Druids keeping the dead and the living in harmony with each other, with the Earth, with the Otherworld. The whole complex structure of druidry that had been so elaborately interwoven to cherish the creations of the Source.
Gone.
Duach Dalta was about my age, with the powerful body and elastic movements of a much younger man. Fíachu introduced us by saying, “Ainvar claims to have been a chief druid in his homeland.” Duach Dalta’s expression curdled like sour milk. I murmured his name, he murmured mine. His long, sharp nose twitched derisively. He quickly abandoned me to speak to someone he felt was more important.
I made my way back to Seanchán and tried to resume a conversation. “In the land where I was born,” I told him, “bards were the equal of princes.”
“Among the Gael there was a bard who was also a prince,” he replied. “He was Amergin, a son of Milesios. But that was a very long time ago. And the Slea Leathan are not his tribe.” His tone informed me that the descendants of Amergin were not allies of the descendants of Éremon.
I dropped the subject.
That night we were served a feast that put Cohern’s to shame. With my first bite I realized these people did not need to buy our salt. They seasoned their food with seaweed. Watercress provided a delightfully peppery taste. In addition to the promised roast ox we were offered boiled mutton and wild pig; trout and salmon and eel; seven different cheeses; oatcakes glistening with butter, porridge drenched in cream; wild apples simmered in honey; buttermilk and mead and malted ale. Copious quantities of ale.
I ate until my belly hurt.
After the feast Seanchán rose to speak. His listeners made themselves comfortable as he smoothed his tunic and cleared his throat. I was sitting on a padded bench, for which my bones thanked me, while Dara flopped down cross-legged at my feet. Boys have no bones.
Seanchán carried a beautifully carved harp. It consisted of a triangular wooden frame fitted with brass strings, and was small enough to be held by one hand.
In my experience, the bardic harp was used to intensify the mood by replicating the sounds of nature. A ripple of water could soothe, a roll of thunder could excite. I looked forward to hearing the voices of Hibernia that Seanchán would summon from his instrument.
He allowed an expectant hush to build, then strummed the harp strings once or twice. After that the instrument lay idle in the crook of his arm.
Obviously he preferred the sound of his own voice.
“Before the before, this land belonged to the birds and the beasts,” he began. “And the trees. This was the island of trees, with a dense forest that stretched from north to south and from east to west. Then an adventurer called Partholon arrived with a fleet of ships to establish a colony.”
I recognized Partholon as a Greek name. My mouth opened with a question but Seanchán plowed on. I should have known better anyway; bards reject interruptions. “The colonists cleared enough land to build a few settlements,” he was saying, “and planted the corn they had brought with them. They also began trading with others who were beginning to venture into these waters.
“But after several generations the Partholonians succumbed to a terrible plague. A few escaped in a single boat, living just long enough to tell their story. No more traders visited these shores.
“Then only the song of the wolf, the grunt of the boar, and the roar of the stag were heard here. Alone was the land, and content in her loneliness. She dwelt with the sea and the sky and needed nothing more.”
Now, and at last, Seanchán spoke like a true
What else indeed.
My thoughts ran back to Gaul. Druids whispering to seeds in the frozen earth so they would burst forth in the springing time. Druids lighting the fires that called back the sun from the kingdoms of ice. Druids recalling the past and foreseeing the future. Druids supervising birth and burial. Druids keeping the dead and the living in harmony with each other, with the Earth, with the Otherworld. The whole complex structure of druidry that had been so elaborately interwoven to cherish the creations of the Source.
Gone.
Duach Dalta was about my age, with the powerful body and elastic movements of a much younger man. Fíachu introduced us by saying, “Ainvar claims to have been a chief druid in his homeland.” Duach Dalta’s expression curdled like sour milk. I murmured his name, he murmured mine. His long, sharp nose twitched derisively. He quickly abandoned me to speak to someone he felt was more important.
I made my way back to Seanchán and tried to resume a conversation. “In the land where I was born,” I told him, “bards were the equal of princes.”
“Among the Gael there was a bard who was also a prince,” he replied. “He was Amergin, a son of Milesios. But that was a very long time ago. And the Slea Leathan are not his tribe.” His tone informed me that the descendants of Amergin were not allies of the descendants of Éremon.
I dropped the subject.
That night we were served a feast that put Cohern’s to shame. With my first bite I realized these people did not need to buy our salt. They seasoned their food with seaweed. Watercress provided a delightfully peppery taste. In addition to the promised roast ox we were offered boiled mutton and wild pig; trout and salmon and eel; seven different cheeses; oatcakes glistening with butter, porridge drenched in cream; wild apples simmered in honey; buttermilk and mead and malted ale. Copious quantities of ale.
I ate until my belly hurt.
After the feast Seanchán rose to speak. His listeners made themselves comfortable as he smoothed his tunic and cleared his throat. I was sitting on a padded bench, for which my bones thanked me, while Dara flopped down cross-legged at my feet. Boys have no bones.
Seanchán carried a beautifully carved harp. It consisted of a triangular wooden frame fitted with brass strings, and was small enough to be held by one hand.
In my experience, the bardic harp was used to intensify the mood by replicating the sounds of nature. A ripple of water could soothe, a roll of thunder could excite. I looked forward to hearing the voices of Hibernia that Seanchán would summon from his instrument.
He allowed an expectant hush to build, then strummed the harp strings once or twice. After that the instrument lay idle in the crook of his arm.
Obviously he preferred the sound of his own voice.
“Before the before, this land belonged to the birds and the beasts,” he began. “And the trees. This was the island of trees, with a dense forest that stretched from north to south and from east to west. Then an adventurer called Partholon arrived with a fleet of ships to establish a colony.”
I recognized Partholon as a Greek name. My mouth opened with a question but Seanchán plowed on. I should have known better anyway; bards reject interruptions. “The colonists cleared enough land to build a few settlements,” he was saying, “and planted the corn they had brought with them. They also began trading with others who were beginning to venture into these waters.
“But after several generations the Partholonians succumbed to a terrible plague. A few escaped in a single boat, living just long enough to tell their story. No more traders visited these shores.
“Then only the song of the wolf, the grunt of the boar, and the roar of the stag were heard here. Alone was the land, and content in her loneliness. She dwelt with the sea and the sky and needed nothing more.”
Now, and at last, Seanchán spoke like a true
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