She did not look at me, but kept her eyes on the smoldering ashes of the fire ring. “You have what you want. Why should anything be wrong?”
“I thought you would be glad for me.”
“And have I not already said that I am?” she snapped. Angry now; her glance grew sharp, her voice tight. “It is good for me, too. As you say, I will not have to climb this mountain anymore or sleep beside this filthy fire one night and another.” She stood up and, fists on hips, glared at me with defiance. “Best of all, I will not have to listen to you moaning and groaning about how miserable you are! I can go back to the ráth and…” Here she faltered, her anger giving way to anguish. “Anyway, what do you care? Go on with you.”
“You are annoyed because I am leaving,” I said, trying to tease it out of her.
She sniffed and turned away.
“Yes, you are,” I challenged. “You are annoyed because I am leaving and going to the druid house, and you think you won’t see me anymore.”
She turned on me with a vengeance. “Why would I want to see you anymore? I do not care where you go or what you do.”
“Yes, you do,” I told her. “You like me.”
“No, I do not like you at all.”
“Yes, you do.” I stepped closer. “That’s it isn’t it? You like me, and you are afraid now that I’m better, I won’t need you anymore.”
She regarded me from beneath lowered brows, her frown pushing out her lower lip. On impulse I leaned forward and kissed her. Sionan reared back as if struck. She glared at me and then, stepping close, took my head between her hands and returned my kiss with an eagerness that was both gratifying and breathtaking. I felt a rising hunger in the pit of my stomach and heard the sound of the sea rushing in my ears.
We stood and clung to one another for a moment and, still entangled in a tight embrace, lowered ourselves onto my bed of pine branches and fleeces. I caressed her with my good hand. Beneath the coarse-woven stuff of her mantle, her skin was soft and cool against my fingertips. I let my hand glide up her leg to the rounded smoothness of her hip and then down to the silky warmth of her thigh.
Sionan’s hands were not idle. She slid her palm down my chest and stomach and then lower, until I stirred beneath her hand, thrilling to her touch. There was nothing but Sionan and then—nothing at all in the world. I pulled her over on top of me.
We made love fiercely, two young and hungry animals feeding a physical appetite, each taking pleasure from the other, once and again. I was, alas, too easily exhausted, but Sionan appeared well satisfied as she gave out a shuddering sigh and collapsed upon my chest.
We rested in the warm sunlight, our bodies joined in a wanton embrace. “I will come and see you every day,” I told her.
“They will keep you very busy,” she said.
“Then I will come to the ráth whenever I can,” I told her. “I will sneak away if I have to.”
“You must not,” she told me. Turning in my arms to face me, she warned me solemnly, “You must not break faith with the filidh. If you leave the druid house, you will not be taken back again.”
“Then you will have to come and see me.”
“Why would I ever come to see you?” she asked.
“What, and have you forgotten so soon?” I heaved a heavy sigh. “Very well, I will just have to show you again, so you remember.”
Enfolding her in my arms, I nuzzled the hollow of her neck and kissed her. Our passions roused, we made love again, slowly this time, each motion deliberate and unhurried. She matched my passion with her own, and we moved as one beneath the sun-bright sky.
That day was surely the best of my life. I found in Sionan more than a lover; she was also a friend I knew I could trust. Something changed in me that day, and though it would be a long time before I could put a name to it, I felt the change.
Sionan and I luxuriated in our pleasure, and when twilight came, we lay before the fire—dozing, dreaming, wrapped in one another’s arms. The next morning we descended the mountain to join in the Feast of Danu, the celebration marking midsummer.
The journey was taxing to me. Perhaps I was not so strong as I imagined, or perhaps the lovemaking the day before had taken its toll. In any event I found I could not move quickly, nor without frequent stops to rest. The fleá had already begun by the time we arrived. We passed through the gates and made our way to the yard outside Lord Miliucc’s hall, where the tuath had gathered to watch the first of many observances held throughout the day—this one a recitation by the ollamh. So far as I could tell, it was all about a pact made by the god Aengus with the Tuatha DeDanaan, which ended a drought and blessed the rain in perpetuity to the people of Éire so long as they honored him on that day.
After this there were songs and dancing. As at Beltaine an ox and several pigs had been killed to provide food for the feast and the vat of beer set up to wet throats dry from singing. Sionan went to help with the cooking, and I drifted here and there, watchful and wary, uncertain what reaction my presence might provoke. I could have been a phantom for all anyone noticed. I did manage to raise a sneer from Ercol when I encountered him at the drinking vat, but even that lacked conviction.
Just when I thought the day would end without the slightest mischance, I ran into the king. He was more than a little drunk, but he had not forgotten our last encounter. “So!” he said, drawing himself up as if offended by the sight of me. “You are to go to the druid house, and I must find another shepherd.”
I did not know what to say to this, so I merely nodded.
“I do not know what the druids want with you,” he proclaimed loudly, his words slurring gently in his mouth. “I suppose that is their business.”
“Yes, lord.”
“Well, they are welcome to you,” he told me, “but try to escape again and nothing will prevent me from making good my vow.” He paused, glaring at me. “Understood?”
“I understand, lord.” I bowed low, and the king moved off without another word.
“Here, Succat! I have been looking for you.”
I turned to see Cormac striding toward me. “Hail, Cormac Miach,” I called. “I am glad to see you.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Never better,” I lied. “What is more, I am eager to begin my new duties.”
“All in good time,” said Cormac. “The ceremonies will end at dusk,” he told me, “and although the fleá will continue until dawn, we must return to the druid house.”
“I will be ready.”
In all it was a fine celebration, and it put me in mind of the harvest festivals my father hosted for the families and laborers on our estate at Favere Mundi. The Irish were noisier by far and more contentious, to be sure, but their childlike exuberance put the British to shame. When they danced, their bodies were seized and taken up by the fleeting joy of the dance—as if the moment would never come again and they must wring the utmost from it. Although I could but sit and watch, it was exhilarating just to see them.
The weather remained dry and warm; the food was good, the drink plentiful. Very few fights broke out, and there was hardly any bloodshed. I ate and drank with the rest of them, and the beer eased the dull ache of my wounds until I could almost forget I had been injured at all. Every now and then I caught a glimpse of Sionan; once she smiled when she saw me watching her. I was just on the point of suggesting we sneak away somewhere to be alone when Cormac appeared to tell me it was time to leave.
“So soon?” I said, looking quickly around. Sionan had disappeared once more.
“Was there something?” the druid asked.
“I wanted to bid Sionan farewell.”
“Oh? Well, she must have gone to the king’s hall.” He turned abruptly. “You will see her again one of these days. But now it is time to go.”
Still I hesitated. I hated leaving without telling her goodbye. Frantically I searched the crowd, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Cormac stopped and turned back. “Changed your min
d already?”
“No,” I said, hurrying to join him.
At the gate of the ráth, I paused to take a lingering look behind me, hoping for one last glimpse of Sionan, but no one appeared at the gate. So, swallowing my disappointment, I fell into step behind Cormac and went to begin my new life in the druid house.
TWENTY
THE DRUID HOUSE occupied the center of a wood atop a hill on the other side of the valley from the king’s ráth. The house was a large, round structure of ancient design; whole tree trunks had been embedded in the ground and their tops joined with stout beams. Slats of unfinished timber were attached to the upright posts, which also supported a steep, conical roof thatched with reeds. The floor was clay, smooth as polished stone, packed hard, and overlain with mats woven of dry river grass. There was but one door and no windows.
Inside, the single great room was divided into two levels, the lower of which was further divided by screens of stretched skin. The upper level was a circular platform with sleeping places that overlooked the round fire pit in the center of the room. Save for certain occasions, the fire was never allowed to go out, and the smoke rose through a large open hole high up in the roof.
“Welcome, to Cnoc an Dair,” said Cormac.
“Mound of the Oak,” I said. The huge round house, with its high sloping roof, did look like a hill made of solid oak.
“Come.” He beckoned me in. “I will show you our house.”
The other filidh had gone before us, and I thought to meet them, but the house was empty. When I asked where they were, Cormac explained, “Tonight is the summer solstice—a good night for watching the stars. We observe their movements and mark their courses. Here, now”—he led me to a wooden stairway and up to the circular platform—“our sleeping places are here.”
Although there was room for perhaps twenty or more people to rest comfortably on the platform, there were only four places prepared, each equally distant from the others. “As you can see,” said Cormac, “there are only four filidh in residence now.”
“Now?” I wondered.
“There were more. When I came, there were seven, but now there are only four of us.” The way he said it made me think that something lamentable had happened to reduce the population to an undesirably low number.
“Will I sleep here, too?” I asked.
“No,” he replied, “your bed is below.”
My sleeping place was a square reed mat on the floor beside the hearth. The mat was covered with a pile of rushes topped by a double fleece, which in turn was covered by a thick woolen batting—like a cloak in size, but much thicker and woven of undyed wool. I would sleep near the hearth so that I could tend the fire and keep it burning. “This fire,” Cormac told me, indicating the glowing flame, “is the need fire for King Miliucc and his people. It must never go out.”
Beside the bed place were a pottery jar and a small oil lamp in a stone bowl. I picked up the jar, removed the stopper, and looked inside. “Water?” I asked, thinking it must be used in some odd ritual connected with my duties.
“Do you never get thirsty in the night?” wondered Cormac.
He then led me around the ground floor and showed me how the large, circular expanse was divided for the principal activities of the filidh—most of which had to do with study and learning. Some of these were screened off from one another, but mostly the great room was open, save for a single large area hived off behind thick timber walls.
“This is the storeroom,” said Cormac, pushing open the door, “and here, as you can see, are our provisions.” The room was filled with bags, casks, bundles, and baskets containing all kinds of supplies: grain and ground flour; oil; dried peas and beans; dried, salted, and smoked meats; ropes of onions; chains of garlic and leeks; whole honeycombs; and even huge jars of wine. The storeroom was almost as well-supplied as my mother’s kitchen at Favere Mundi. There was also a caldron, two smaller pots, and an assortment of vessels of various sizes made of pottery, stone, and wood. There were spoons, flesh hooks and toasting forks, and several good sharp knives.
“This will be your realm, Succat. You will prepare and cook our food,” the druid told me, “and maintain the stocks of provisions.”
“With pleasure.” I saw one sumptuous meal after another stretching into the future. There would be no more hungry days for me and no more miserable nights trying to sleep with a gnawing emptiness in the belly because someone could not be bothered to bring provisions to the shepherds.
“You will also fetch water, fill the lamps, cut wood for the fire, and tend the garden and midden heap—all the things which make for the proper and efficient function of this house.”
“I will do my best, Cormac.”
Cnoc an Dair occupied the top of a sacred hill, site of an ancient spring which fed a pool and holy well. The pool, although considered holy, too, was where the druids bathed at least once a week. After showing me the house, Cormac led me out to the well and pool, provided me with a chunk of soap, and told me to bathe. The water was cold, and I made short work of the exercise. While I washed, Cormac took away my old clothes and brought me a new tunic, mantle, and fallaing.
Unlike most of their countrymen, the filidh did not wear trousers; they robed themselves instead in the finest tight-spun cloth. The tunic was a close-fitting garment with long sleeves, covering the body from wrists to ankles; the mantle was shorter, fuller, and had wide, slightly shorter sleeves. Both garments were woven of pale, wheat-colored linen; the cloak, for summer, was linen, too, and a fine light green.
The druids loved good leather; their shoes, belts, and satchels were the best of their kind anywhere. I was glad to get new shoes—my old ones had long since worn through—and the belt, although plain, was as thick and broad and easily as fine as any I had ever worn.
When I was dressed, Cormac pronounced me fit to begin my new duties. That night, while the filidh watched the stars, I made myself comfortable in my new bed and went to sleep full of determination to make a good beginning.
The next morning, however, I rose too late. My masters came to the table ready to break their fast, and I was still asleep. How was I to know druids rose before dawn and went out to greet the new day with a song of welcome?
I leapt from bed and set about making up the fire and preparing the first meal of the day. The filidh were accustomed to two meals: one in the morning and one in the early evening. They most often fasted from sundown to sunrise the next morning and broke fast before sitting down to their work for the day—which, I soon discovered, consisted mainly of learning.
That first day I made a simple porridge of cracked oats with a little milk and salted fish, which I served with bread and butter. After they had eaten, Cormac and Datho, master of the house, came to me. “That was well begun,” the ollamh said. “Continue likewise and you will be happy here.”
I thanked him and said, “You must tell me what food you like, and I will do my best to make it.”
“As to that,” said Datho, “I am very fond of honey bread. Do you know it?”
I confessed that I did not know how to make honey bread, nor any other kind, whereupon Cormac said, “Perhaps my sister can show you.” Turning to Datho, he said, “With your permission, Ollamh, I will ask Sionan to come here one day soon and show Succat how to make the honey bread.”
“Of course, yes. You have my permission,” said the chief druid. He turned and started away, “Come, Cormac, let us return to our labors.”
They left me then to get on with my duties, and I spent the afternoon in the pleasant knowledge that I would see Sionan again very soon. Although my injuries still pained me and the splint made movement fatiguing and awkward, I did my best to get on with my chores. I emptied the jars and refilled them with fresh water and topped up the lamps with oil; I brought in wood for the hearth, scrubbed the pot, and carried water from the well to the cistern inside the house. When I had finished all this, it was time for me to begin preparing the main meal of the day, whi
ch was taken early in the evening.
For Madog and myself it was simply a matter of boiling up or roasting whatever came to hand. For the druids, however, meals were more elaborate; also, they were more particular in their preferences, especially where seasonings were concerned. Thus my cooking responsibilities took a great deal of thought and effort, and I had little time for anything else. I marveled at how quickly the days sped past.
On the mountain I would sit on a rock or laze in the meadow with the sheep whole days at a time—swooning from the blinding tedium. In the druid house I worked as fast as I could all day and still failed to get everything done as required. The cooking, cleaning, washing, sweeping, chopping, carrying, and all the rest kept me occupied from dawn’s first gleam until I collapsed into bed at night, my injured limbs throbbing from the exertion.
I quickly came to know my masters. Foremost among them was Datho, the ollamh, or Chief Bard: he of the high-domed head, and beaklike nose. Tall and thin, possessed of an intense and penetrating gaze, he reminded me of a great heron. Like many of his rank, he shaved the hair from the front of his head, passing the razor in a line from ear to ear. This gave him a fiercely stern, almost frightening aspect—an expression belied by the glinting kindliness of his dark eyes. Forbidding in aspect, exacting in his demands, he was nevertheless a tenderhearted, thoughtful man, and I liked him.
Slightly below him in rank was Iollan, eldest of the druids in the house, with sparse gray hair—also shaved from the front of his head—and a long nose above a small, even mouth. Quiet, he rarely spoke, his thoughts so deep and impenetrable he was apt to forget where he was or what he was doing. At supper one night he reached for bread, but his hand paused halfway to his mouth and stayed there, its motion suspended until sometime later when the inner turmoil had been resolved and he could continue his meal. On another occasion I found him standing outside the house, immobile, lost in thought, oblivious to the rain pelting down on his uncovered head. I led him back inside to stand by the hearth until he dried out.