bard. Young Dara sat spellbound.
The moment was too brief. Seanchán resumed his narrative in a commonplace tone. “When sufficient time had passed for the warning to be forgotten, another group of colonists arrived: surly, coarse-fibered folk who heard no music in poetry and saw no beauty in nature. They called themselves Fír Bolg, meaning men of the bag, because they were slaves whose masters forced them to carry heavy objects in leather bags.
“In spite of their low station in life the Fír Bolg possessed a certain cunning. Some of them mastered the skills of seafaring. Led by a man called Nemed, they watched for their opportunity and stole enough ships for their people to escape. When they reached these shores they thought they were safe at last. They lived on the fruits of the sea and the forest, and also established trade with Albion to obtain tin for making bronze. It is said of them that they were skilled craftsmen.
“But they were not as safe as they thought. All too soon, the Fír Bolg were being attacked by a race of marauding seafarers called the Fomorians. The Fomorians, who worshipped a terrible fire god they knew as Baal, landed here to capture sacrifices for their insatiable deity. In an attempt to repel them the Fír Bolg built great stone fortresses along the western coast.”
I had assumed Hibernia was our secret sanctuary. I was wrong. Any number of people knew about this place.
The discovery brought Caesar chillingly close. I actually shuddered.
“At last the Fír Bolg succeeded in defeating the Fomorians and held this land uncontested,” Seanchán related. “But only until another wave of invaders appeared. They called themselves the Túatha Dé Danann: the people of the goddess Danu. Although they cunningly disguised their origins, it was believed they came from the region of the Mid-Earth Sea.
“The Dananns defied understanding; wizards and sorcerers, all of them. They could fly with the birds and swim with the fish. They talked to one another without words. Their wealth was incalculable. They possessed a cauldron that was never empty and a stone that could turn a man into a king.” I longed to ask questions but Seanchán never paused for breath. “The Túatha Dé Danann loved this land, and the land loved the Dananns. Love can end in grief, however.”
To illustrate this the bard described the war that had ensued between the Fír Bolg and the Túatha Dé Danann. Curiously, he related the epic from the point of view of the defenders rather than the invaders. We were given a vivid picture of the descendants of Nemed being overwhelmed by a spectral magic they could neither understand nor counter. The Fír Bolg were commemorated as heroes, even as they went down in defeat, while the infinitely more fascinating Túatha Dé Danann were kept in the distance like figures in the clouds.
In Gaul the bards had not immortalized failures. They had concentrated on the high deeds of victors. Yet Seanchán did his best to exclude the Dananns from their own story, as if he feared his very thoughts might summon them.
Once again I thought of Caesar. Then hastily slammed the doors in my head.
The climax of the bard’s story was the arrival of the Milesians. In narrating this event Seanchán concentrated on the invaders. The Milesians had brought swords and spears of iron, as opposed to the bronze weapons of the Dananns. Cold iron had proved to be a powerful weapon against magic. Defeated, almost exterminated, the Túatha Dé Danann were forced to surrender the bountiful land they called Eriu. Some of them fled into caves under the ground. Others simply melted into the hawthorn trees and became one with them.
“Now their land is ours, and shall be ours forever!” the bard concluded triumphantly. Rediscovering his harp, he strummed it once or twice before bowing his head in acknowledgment of the enthusiastic applause.
My head contemplated the tale he had told. Was it history? Or myth, as history so
The moment was too brief. Seanchán resumed his narrative in a commonplace tone. “When sufficient time had passed for the warning to be forgotten, another group of colonists arrived: surly, coarse-fibered folk who heard no music in poetry and saw no beauty in nature. They called themselves Fír Bolg, meaning men of the bag, because they were slaves whose masters forced them to carry heavy objects in leather bags.
“In spite of their low station in life the Fír Bolg possessed a certain cunning. Some of them mastered the skills of seafaring. Led by a man called Nemed, they watched for their opportunity and stole enough ships for their people to escape. When they reached these shores they thought they were safe at last. They lived on the fruits of the sea and the forest, and also established trade with Albion to obtain tin for making bronze. It is said of them that they were skilled craftsmen.
“But they were not as safe as they thought. All too soon, the Fír Bolg were being attacked by a race of marauding seafarers called the Fomorians. The Fomorians, who worshipped a terrible fire god they knew as Baal, landed here to capture sacrifices for their insatiable deity. In an attempt to repel them the Fír Bolg built great stone fortresses along the western coast.”
I had assumed Hibernia was our secret sanctuary. I was wrong. Any number of people knew about this place.
The discovery brought Caesar chillingly close. I actually shuddered.
“At last the Fír Bolg succeeded in defeating the Fomorians and held this land uncontested,” Seanchán related. “But only until another wave of invaders appeared. They called themselves the Túatha Dé Danann: the people of the goddess Danu. Although they cunningly disguised their origins, it was believed they came from the region of the Mid-Earth Sea.
“The Dananns defied understanding; wizards and sorcerers, all of them. They could fly with the birds and swim with the fish. They talked to one another without words. Their wealth was incalculable. They possessed a cauldron that was never empty and a stone that could turn a man into a king.” I longed to ask questions but Seanchán never paused for breath. “The Túatha Dé Danann loved this land, and the land loved the Dananns. Love can end in grief, however.”
To illustrate this the bard described the war that had ensued between the Fír Bolg and the Túatha Dé Danann. Curiously, he related the epic from the point of view of the defenders rather than the invaders. We were given a vivid picture of the descendants of Nemed being overwhelmed by a spectral magic they could neither understand nor counter. The Fír Bolg were commemorated as heroes, even as they went down in defeat, while the infinitely more fascinating Túatha Dé Danann were kept in the distance like figures in the clouds.
In Gaul the bards had not immortalized failures. They had concentrated on the high deeds of victors. Yet Seanchán did his best to exclude the Dananns from their own story, as if he feared his very thoughts might summon them.
Once again I thought of Caesar. Then hastily slammed the doors in my head.
The climax of the bard’s story was the arrival of the Milesians. In narrating this event Seanchán concentrated on the invaders. The Milesians had brought swords and spears of iron, as opposed to the bronze weapons of the Dananns. Cold iron had proved to be a powerful weapon against magic. Defeated, almost exterminated, the Túatha Dé Danann were forced to surrender the bountiful land they called Eriu. Some of them fled into caves under the ground. Others simply melted into the hawthorn trees and became one with them.
“Now their land is ours, and shall be ours forever!” the bard concluded triumphantly. Rediscovering his harp, he strummed it once or twice before bowing his head in acknowledgment of the enthusiastic applause.
My head contemplated the tale he had told. Was it history? Or myth, as history so
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