Later today father plans to speak with the two tribal elders about Patrick, the Christian missionary. For under the shrewd hand of the Breton the power of the Church grows ever stronger, endangering our ways. Patrick, with his wily tongue, instils fear and doubt into the minds of the simple. It is pitying to see how quick they rush to take his ways afraid of the burning eternity he so literally paints. For sure, it will not be long before he graces us with his presence once again. At the mere thought of another visit from him a shudder passes through me.
The day has stretched to late afternoon and dusk draws in. Maud and I sit before the kitchen hearth in quiet company as is our custom. We have done so since I was a child. Always, at this same hour, she takes the comb of bone which was a gift from my mother and passes it through my tangled locks. It is akin to heckling the flax, she tells me. It is a torture of love which I suffer gladly for she has cared for me since my mother departed to the other life. It has been upon her ample bosom my childish tears have fallen.
From my store of cures, I have taken the birch and mutton grease salve and left it by the fire to warm. When it is softened, I will oint her pained limbs with it. The salve has little effect against the ailments of encroaching old age, but I persevere with the treatment for it gives some comfort and Maud enjoys the few moments of my attention. Need be she will have them now for in the morning, I depart for the Tara.
Maud has thrice lost patience with me. From well before dawn, I have bothered her with the minutest details of caring for father. “Hush for once, child.” It is sharp she chides me. “The hour is early and my head still sleeps.” I hug her to me and we stay close for a few moments. Like mother and daughter we understand each other well. There is in truth, no need for more words.
This year will be the first time I am to attend a gathering of the Tara without father. He has always been there for all of us and in these troubled times his absence will cause great unrest. His age and his recent illnesses have left him too weak to travel. His sharp mind rebels against the advancing years, but for some things there are no remedies and in this life there is but one path along which we all shall walk. Maud, in her own way, will care for him the days I am away, but I cannot help but worry for she to totters with the years she carries upon her.
By first light we are ready. Against my wishes, Father emerges to bid us farewell. The thick sheepskin jerkin he wears flaps open and I fear the damp air will damage his health further, but he is not want to listen to me. The ponies are tethered, waiting for us, in the inner circle. Father crosses to them and runs his expert hands over their flanks. They respond to his presence, toss their heads and with low whinnying calls vie for his attention until he draws something from the stained linen bag hanging around his neck. They snuffle their soft lips in nibbling bites against his palm as he offers each one of them some small treat.
We begin to mount, the ponies shuffle and stamp their eagerness on the trampled mud underfoot. It breaks my heart to leave father standing there. He raises his hand as we ride in single file from the fort. With tears stinging at my eyes, I turn and look over my shoulder to watch as he goes back inside. Sorrow wells in me for I see the curve of age upon his shoulders and the rigidness of his step even though his back is held straight and proud.
The hrím is still lying thick and as we ride from the fortress the ponies hooves crunch through the hoarfrost. In white, vaporous clouds, their snorting breath rises into the cold air. High up in the trees of the Yew copse the birds sing their chatter of a waking chorus. It is a good omen for the journey and the sound of their song lifts my spirits above the melancholy of our departure for Dún Aengus.
The path running beside the river is nothing but a muddy mire. We dismount to lead the ponies for fear they will slip on the sodden ground. The long grass, dampened by the clinging mist rising from the river.
“Brigid,” Someone is on the bridge, calling.
“Brigitte!” Jack is on the bridge calling.
Jack had all but given up searching for her. He strode up and down the bank getting more worried as the time passed and she didn't come back. How the hell did she slip through? I really don't know.
He'd found the Ley line where he'd found her shoes, but it'd been to late and the current had changed. He couldn't get in. All he could do was wait and hope she came back out again - intact - sometime.
It was the glimpse of the bright blue of her sweater moving beneath the hanging branches of the tree which caught his eye. He sprinted off the bridge and ran along the path to meet her. “Brigitte, where the hell...” As if I need to ask.
“What have you done to my shoes?”
He had them in his hand. They were caked with mud and bits of grass. Brigitte looked down at her bare feet. They were plastered with damp brown earth. She pulled a face. Jack couldn't decide whether to be angry or relieved.
“How did you do that? Only a...” He stopped short before he'd said what he was going to say. “Only I can walk the lines. I think I better take you home and get you cleaned up. You look as though you've been doing the gardening on your hands and knees.”
“You don't look so good yourself.”
Hardly surprising. It's been a stressful few hours. There were dark smudges under his eyes and the stubble on his chin had grown to a heavy shadow specked with white. His shirt and trousers were creased. Brigitte was hungry.
“Is it time for our picnic yet, I'm famished.”
“Are you sure you wouldn't prefer breakfast? It's seven o'clock in the morning.”
“Oh, my god. Where have I been? Jack, where's Dún Aengus?”
Chapter 22
“No. And that’s the end of that.” Jack was emphatic and had been for over half an hour. Brigitte wasn’t impressed. “After your last little escapade you’re not going to Inishmore until I can go with you. which won’t be on this visit. I’ve got to go to Dublin in the morning. So that’s the end of that.”
“Please...” If it'd do any good, I'd bat my eyelids at him. But he's not having it.
“It’s out of the question.”
I can't stand being told I can't do something. It makes me want to do it even more.He paced up and down in the lounge, whiskey in hand, being, well... Jack. She was having none of it. “I’ll go on my own.”
“You will not.”
“You can’t stop me.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
Brigitte, for some unknown feminine reason, started to enjoy herself. “Jack, lots of people visit Dun Aéngus. Inishmore is a popular tourist place. What an earth could happen?”
“You’re asking me. You’ve just seen first hand what can happen and until I’ve worked out how you did it, then you're staying put.”
He's very attractive when he was all cross and masterful. There's no way, I'm giving in. “Go on, Jack. I can’t imagine when I'll be able to visit again. It’s practically impossible with the girls and I really want to see Dún Aengus. What if I don't get the chance to come back?”
“That’s what worries me,” he muttered under his breath as he refilled his glass at the cabinet.
“What?”
He ran his fingers through his hair and looked out of the window for a moment before answering her. “It’s not Inishmore that’s the problem, its Dun Aengus. The place is a mystery even to me. One wrong step and you could end up with the Fir-bolgs and never come back.”
“Brigitte Anders, the living myth of the twenty first century. It’s got quite a ring to it.”
“You’re just not taking me seriously, are you?”
“No, Jack, I’m not.” She tried her ‘sulk like a child’ face to see if it would get her anywhere.
He took one look at her and said, “On your own head be it.”
Bingo. It works every time.
“I’ll give my friend a ring. If you’re going to go you might as well go in style. I’ll see if he can whiz you over in his boat and stay with you for the day. He’ll be your guide and keep an eye on
you. “
Brigitte had visions of a private yacht. “What sort of boat’s he got?”
“One of the traditional currach’s, I’m sure you’ll enjoy a ride in that.” Brigitte wasn’t, she’d seen pictures of them on the Internet. She didn’t say anything. There was no point in pushing her luck.
Erin was waiting with the currach to ferry her across to the island.
“Taken your pills, Jack?” The ruddy face of Erin broke into a grin. When the fisherman leaned over to help her aboard, he whispered, “He gets sea-sick you know.”
“I’m not coming with you. She’s all yours. Look after her for me, Erin.” To Brigitte he just said, “Enjoy the trip.”
Brigitte took a tight grip on the oarsman’s hand. The skin of his palm rubbed, sandpaper rough, against hers. It made her wonder just how much rowing he did. She stepped down from the quay into the small boat. It bobbed about on the water like a cork while she settled herself on the thin plank and Erin cast off. He's a really strong rower. We've been in the boat a couple of minutes and we're already well away from harbour. Brigitte clutched at the side of the boat. Punting in France is a doddle compared to this. No wonder Jack had declined the adventure. She was already starting to feel queasy. Serves me right for not listening. I hope I don't embarrass myself and throw up.
Once they were out on the open water, the sea breeze blustered stronger and stronger until it tugged at her hair, loosening it from its restricting band until it flew about her head like strands of sea-kelp tossed in an underwater storm. Wild! This is really wild.
Back on the shore, a dark figure stood on the harbour wall, black cloak flapping in the breeze.
It must be Jack. There wasn't anyone else there. She waved and called out to him, but the shout was lost in the raging gusts of wind. The currach raced across the rough waves sending foam from the surf flying in a stinging spray in her face. I've changed my mind. I love it. This is wild.
Brigitte slipped her shoes off.
The sea was wild.
Chapter 23
The sea is wild. The rough waves send a stinging spray flying into my face. When wee are almost at the shore and, the hull of the boat scrapes against solid ground and we step into the foaming shallows. The surge of the tide threatens to carry me away, but Erin pulls me out and carries me onto the beach. Soaked, I gather myself while he hoists the dripping currach above his head and carries it away from the crashing waves. “It'll be safe there.” Erin says, pointing ahead . “It's far enough up, the turn of the tide won't catch it.” He sets it down and weights it with small granite boulders.
Erin leads the way and leaving the cutting shingles of the beach behind, we walk through the grassy marshland bordering the shore. Sampher grows plentiful and I cull handfuls as we walk. It will make a good addition to our spare provisions. The path begins to climb, it is steep and I struggle against the blustery gale as we climb the hillside, clutching at any clumps of grass to help pull me higher. It is a sparse covering, scorched brown and lays flattened against the boulders. As sharp as any blade, the strands cut into the palm of my hands. Others are taking the same path and walk, backs bent, in small groups, before and behind us. The weather is well against us and with it, the winds carry a fine, dampening rain which turns the path treacherous.
Higher up and where the climb levels, is a field of flat stones. They lay on the ground like globs of molten wax. In this land, protected by nature’s darker forces, Erin bids me to sit. From his pocket he takes scraps of sack cloth and ties them about our feet to stop us from slipping on the damp rocks.
When at last we reach the summit, we stop to stare at the massive fortress, outlined against the grey of the sky. It has been built, stone on stone, by the tribes over the centuries. Dún Aengus belongs to know one as it belongs to us all.
Here, in this barren land, night falls early and we light torches to place along the fortress walls. Their burning saps send thick plumes of misty-grey rising in curling tendrils to the sky. The cloy of smoke hangs, heavy and thick, from the many fires set to burn on this, the first night of the Tara.
And so it is with pride, I, Brigid, Ovate of the Western tribe and daughter of Dagda, great Brehon and Chieftain of the West, wear my cloak of position. For in father’s absence, I am to take his place of authority at the gathering.
There are many who sit huddled in family clusters. The younger eye each other with shy, timorous glances from beneath the woollen cowls pulled low over their heads. They are hoping for a match. There are so few opportunities to meet in our isolated life and at the Tara, trysts will be made and marriages arranged to be celebrated on the Beltane in the spring. I roam among them greeting the elders, passing from one to the other to bid them welcome with a reassuring gesture or a soft touch on their aged shoulders.
The soft voice comes as nothing more than a whisper in my mind, but I hear him as clear as if he calls my name aloud. I seek for him until our eyes meet across the smouldering fires. He is dark and wears the bearded, unkempt look of a wandering soothsayer. There is a calmness about him. Even from a distance it is noticeable. He wears it like a protective shroud. His presence draws me to him. We share a secret smile of knowing above the flames. He is the man who I dream with and of that, I am certain.
It is time for the speakers to begin and a tall, sun-bronzed man takes his place on the high stone podium. It is Brendan. It is a long time past since he has been present at a Tara. He travels far and his tales are favoured by the gathering for he speaks of warmer climates and strange shores the other clansmen have never seen. This year it is Brendan’s want to tell of a barren rock cast in a turbulent sea. A world of strange caves by a murmuring brook. There he tells us, in that land, the sun burns so strong it scorches the plants and turns the rocks to molten liquid. He enchants us with tales of the prophets of the cave-dwelling tribes. His voice rings out in the night as he retells the prophecies of Tibiabin and Guañameñe as they were spoken to the people at their own gathering of the Tara.
Tibian, he says, told of a future wealth that would be given to their fortunate isle;
Powerful people will come by sea, do not be afraid, and use not violence against them
Welcome them with happiness and obey them,
as they will profit the lands.
Guañameñe, Brendon says, made a ritual killing of a kid goat and read from it’s entrails a prophecy of destruction for their promised lands.
White and big birds will come by the sea
and strange footprints will cover the sand.
Everything will be ready for battle and a long arduous fight
But in the end the island will be destroyed.*
The first night of the Tara has been warmed by his tales of the far off tribes. Their words will be forever included in the history of the clans. Brendan , as is his custom when he is present, calls upon the ovates to meet him in the morning. He will have new cures he has learnt on his travels and will share with us the samples of the plants he has carried home with him. When Brendan has finished speaking and the gathering begins to disperse, the clan members start to lay claim to the cells where they have chosen to sleep the night. I rush to help the elders stand for their limbs have stiffened from the long hours seated on the cold ground.
I know he searches for me amongst the crowd, but I am afraid to meet his glance. He laughs at my shyness. The moment has come for us to meet face to face. He waits until my eyes fall upon him, and without once losing my gaze, walks toward me. We are so close we almost touch. I cannot speak. It is as if I have become transfixed and cannot move. He rests his hand upon my shoulder and bends his head to kiss my cheek. When he raises his head once more, our eyes meet and I know not where I am. For as a soft wind blows about me, the world as I know it disappears. I float, without notion of time or place, among a sea of stars. I am at peace. I know not how long I am there for time has no meaning. I remain so still, I could be stone, until Brendan’s voice breaks the strength of his spell.
/> “Brigid!” Brendan calls to me. “I have a special tincture to show you in the morning and a specimen of the plant from which it was made. It has unusual healing properties and is good for the skin. I’m sure you, of all the ovates, will be able to put it to good use.”
Our moment is broken, but it has been enough.
“Myrddin,” Brendon turns to him and so it is, I know,how he is named. “It’s well you look. I wait to hear you speak tomorrow, but for now I bid you goodnight.”
“Brigid” He murmurs my name and I awake as if from a dream.
“Your father? I don’t see him at the gathering”
“He ails and doesn’t wish to travel.”
“Then I will go to him when the Tara is finished. We must speak together. I see you fear for the worst. Perhaps my presence will help to brighten the darkening of his days.” His presence draws me to him and I long for him to take me in his arms and embrace me.
“Come,” He takes my hand. “Let us talk awhile. We will walk the pathways.”
Myrddin takes a burning torch from the wall to light our way. We leave the stone enclosure and head for the cliff tops. Once we are outside the ring-fort there is little shelter from the winds cutting edge and so we wrap our cloaks around us for protection from the biting chill. The torch flame gutters, but holds strong as we follow the curving, treacherous walkway marked on the rocks.
We walk side by side and try to talk, but the blustering gale carries our voices away. We huddle together in a nook in the rocks, it is shaded and in the lee of the wind and so we keep warm as we speak of father’s sickening and the ills of the country. We spend the night hours thus and when the morning dawns cold and grey across the cliffs, he takes me for his own and we become one, in our own private, pagan ritual.