The cold light of dawn signals we must return and take once more the mantles of our responsibilities and so it is,we hurry back towards the shelter of the ring-fort, knowing that even at this early hour the others will have risen and be about their tasks. There is always much work to be done in the short time we stay here. We walk together, hand in hand. We have nothing to hide. Our unity is aforesaid.
The stone lifters, are already afoot and labouring. The men working in twos at their arduous task of prising out the limestone rocks. They hammer long poles of Yew-wood into the crevices in the path where time has cracked and parted it. Then, together, they push their weight against the strong stakes, rocking back and forth. Patiently they work around each side until the huge stones, cut and squared by Nature’s hand, break free from their earthy bed. With muscles straining, they lift their hard-gained prize on to the tanned animal hide they will use to carry and slide it across the rugged ground. At the ring-fort the stone will be placed in position to heighten the already existing walls. This year they have also a special task to undertake. Father has instructed them to build secret cells in the fortress's great mounds in preparation for the troubled times ahead.
When we enter the fort, Brendan is already holding court in the lee of the great wall. He has many bundles scattered about him. The other ovates are standing beside him, talking amongst themselves, and a stab of guilt pricks my conscience. With a slight blush on my cheeks, I hurry to join the others. Brendan welcomes me with a knowing smile. I am eager to see what he has with him and to what ills they may be applied. The strange plants and concoctions of the distant tribes are so different to what we have at hand here in our own wet lands. He brings growing samples complete with the native earth still clinging to the roots, which we in turn nurture in the hope they will strengthen and grow. Though oft is the occasion that our climate is too strong and with the cold nips of winter they perish no matter how much care we give them. He proudly unwraps the sack cloth and displays the treasure he has brought me from so far away. He has this day an interesting addition for our collections, but I fear it will survive in the icy ambience. The leaves of the plants he shows us are already blighted, but still he demonstrates to us the manner in which to split and remove the gel-like substance from inside the green, thorn-rimmed spikes. Brendan says it is a powerful aid against ulcers of the skin and already I make plans to test its healing properties on poor Maud’s legs.
The morning passes quickly in his company and soon it is time for the women to prepare food for the men to eat when they return from the day’s tasks. I did not look for Myrddin. It is his time of preparation for the evening. He will consume the drink I have prepared for him from the fungi and then pass the the time in solitude. I have want to rest for the sleepless night has left its mark upon me.
It is full night and Myrddin moves into the great opening where the fires burn and where we, his audience wait. His face glows a strange and luminous white from the mutton fat and flour paste he has smeared upon it. The stark glowing mask, enhanced by the dancing firelight, illuminates the darkness. His eyes, emphasised by the coal black lines of charcoal he has painted beneath his eyelashes, are nothing more than piercing, blue lights which seek out the secrets from the minds of his listeners.
The men, seated around the glowing embers, are visibly tired from the day’s hard labour of carrying the stones and mending the fortress walls. The womenfolk sit close by their sides enraptured by the start of Myrddin’s act. His presence creates a special atmosphere and they soon forgot their aching limbs as they watch the greatest word-smith in the history of our tribes. I sit in the shadows, with my back pressed against the roughness of the cold stone wall for support. I want to be alone and away from the others to watch him.
His tall form seems to float amongst the seated groups. He pauses at each assembly, blessing the fires they sit around, thanking the flames for their light and warmth. With deft movements of his fine hands, he lets dried Yew pollen drop from his openly spread fingers. It is a secret well kept between the ovates, for it is our task to make the collection in preparation for this night. The fine dust falls unseen onto the burning logs, ignites in a shower of sparks and the crowd gasp as thousands of tiny burning specks spiral high, wafting into the night sky on the hot air rising from the fires.
With this one simple act, Myrddin holds his audience captive. Spellbound, a thousand eyes are fixed on him as his tall form mounts the speaking stone. He begins. His soft, lilting voice carries clear, caressing the ears of his listeners.
“Watch and you will see,” he tells us.
We will hear its screech as it soars high,
The lone bird on its lofty flight
Searching for succour from our lands
It will fly free, its lonely cry calling out to all
Haunting even our ancestral dreams
As its cold winged shadow dances
Over the newly tilled field
See upon what it swoops to feed
Its driving hunger seeks the fattest morsels
Not the worm that lies in easy reach
A flock they will form to fly united
And search out what they seek.
Together they will hunt
Sharp of eye and long of sight,
Combined in one great unity
Myrddin spreads his arms wide and mimics the gliding flight of a huge gull.
They will hunt the streams,
To find the prey they seek
And soon the great birds will
Stretch their wings in victory
While held tight in their beaks
They wrench the eyes from the sockets
Of the salmon they have caught there
Listen well.....
For the land of our ancestors will awaken soon
Rife with their squawking
The gathering is shocked by his speaking and whisper in hushed tones. Tense discussions flare between the tribal leaders. The elders pass coveted glances. The expressions of worry etched clear across their features. They know all too well of what he speaks in his eloquent poet’s manner.
Myrddin begins to move through the gathering. They grab at his arm and pull him to them, searching for answers to their many questions. It will be a long time until he can free himself from their company for there is much to be said. Some of the elders come to join me and ask after father. It pains me to tell them how truly bad his health has become. There are many promises to stop and see him as they journey home. The gathering breaks at last and I go to join Myrddin for we will accompany one another to warm the night’s cold hours. Already I am saddened, for on the morrow we must bid our first farewell. There is nothing more than I could wish for, but to lay at peace in his arms forever.
Chapter 24
Long I have waited to see Myrddin again. Many days, hour upon hour, as I am now, standing and staring out across the wilderness, impatient for the sighting of him. Then this morning, my heart thrilled when a black speck appeared in the green distance. I know it is him. Moving faster, getting closer, and growing in shape and form he races towards me across the countryside. He grows nearer and his black hair, long and unkempt makes a strong contrast against the white, streaming mane of the horse he rides. With his face pressed tight into its neck he urges it to a faster pace. His shout, carries to me on the wind and my heart sings.
Myrddin dismounts and leaves the pony in the lee of the hill and runs afoot to greet me. Standing there I pretend a virtuous picture of purity, plucking the petals from the white rose held in my hand. Like children, we laugh in our innocent happiness and hand in hand we walk into the fort to find father.
Together we enter the great hall. The smoke from the open fire hangs heavy in the air. Its fog stings at our eyes. The darkness of the room a stark contrast to the brightness outside. It dampens our spirits and subdued we make our way towards the fire-place where father is waiting.
“Myrddin ab Morfryn, welcome to my hearth.” Father speak
s without rising from his seat. “What tales do you bring to tell me to enlighten the passing of my last days?”
“Father,” It seems he never speaks of more than his encroaching death. I cross the room to kneel at his feet. “Do not speak so father,” I beg of him. “Soon you will recover from this ague and you will be well again.”
“Age, child and the ailments it brings cannot be cured by you or even by this young soothsayer. If age had not blessed me with wisdom, I might have believed otherwise, but I no longer have the ignorance of youth upon me. Come forth man,” he bade Myrddin. “Where I can see you and enthral my aching bones with a tale.”
Myrddin steps forward from the shadows. The firelight lends him an unearthly quality as it flickers upon the opaque paleness of his skin. His brute, vibrant masculinity is a sharp and unsettling contrast to the aged form of father slumped in the chair.
“Take that stool, bard and draw it close, for I cannot hear as well as before and your shadow unnerves my delicate constitution. Child, away to bed with you, these tellings are not for the ears of females. On the morn you must wake at dawn as old Maud is sick again. I am sure it is the visceresness of the missionary’s visits which leaves us, one and all, blighted within.”
My cheeks burn. “I bid you good night then, Father. May you pass the evening well and in entertaining company.” I planted a kiss on his weathered cheek and after a glance at Myrddin, leave the room. Myrddin is pulling a heavy stool closer to father’s side and places an intimate hand on his foreman. They have forgotten me so soon? They sit, heads bent close together, the flicker of the fire casting shadows upon their faces. Am I to be, like a chastised child, sent to bed early and sore that father should treat me so in Myrddin’s presence. Dispirited, I make my way to my bed-chamber. I stand in the open doorway of my humble room and it seems, if only for a moment, my heart has ceased to beat. My mouth falls open and tears prick at my eyes. I am beyond surprise. I know not how he works such mysterious magic. I go to lie amongst the white rose petals scattered across the bed.
In the morning, I am the first to rise and leave the fort. The air is fresh on my skin and the sods damp about my bare feet. I walk the greensward to the stable with the wooden milking pail bouncing, heavy, against my leg. At this early hour, it is quiet save for the soft cackle of the pecking hens searching for grubs and the low bellowing of the cow calling me to the milking.
From the gloomy shadows of the stable, soft trusting eyes turn to greet me. The cow waits, with the patience of her breed, for my attention while she breakfasts on the hay strewn across the flagstone floor. Myrddin’s pony is tethered in one corner. Her welcome is a soft snort. In response I rub my palm against the soft, wrinkled velvet of her nostrils before I take down the small stool from its hook on the wall and settle to my work.
Perched on the small stool, I reach beneath the tolerant animal to begin my chore. He is there in the shadows. Even though he has yet to show himself, I sense his presence and am want to tease him. The bodice of my dress pulls taut as I begin to stroke the full udder of the cow. and the milk bursts from her teats in a warm stream. My hair is loose and falls in soft, tumbling curls past the rise of my breasts. I finish milking the beast and slap her ungainly rump until she moves away. The animal wanders out through the open stable door to graze on the green of the courtyard. The milking has left my bones sore from sitting so long on the small stool and so I stretch idly, knowing he watches me.
“Myrddin, come to me” I call to him and rise from the stool to go and lay upon a mound of hay. He laughs as he crosses the stable to join me and falls upon me in the soft spread of straw. His weight pushes me down until I am engulfed and drowning in the dusty, green aroma. I cup my hand around his neck and draw him to my lips. He lays close with me. One hand trapped beneath my hips and the other caressing the soft mound of my breast. And so it is over the following days, we lay close in the aftermath of our passion, three times more, before he must leave me yet again.
Many weeks have passed without Myrddin’s company. I know not when he will return. This day, with nothing but dreams to occupy my time, I wander from the ring-fort to collect plants for remedies. My aimless meandering leads me to the Yew copse. There I lay amid the clumps of tall grass and spend long, stolen hours under the shady branches of the trees. I am strong and at peace with the world. The copse is a special place where the sweeping branches bow down to the floor. They surrounded me, embracing me, before rooting themselves again in the soft earth. The Yew is our tree of eternity and a pathway to the spirits. The silvery-green leaves rustle and sigh in a soft lullaby. Mother’s voice, sings to me, shushing me as if I were still in the cradle. It reassures me to know she is there, somewhere, waiting for father. It gladdens my heart, he will soon, once more, be able to find the love of the woman he lost so many years before.
Pigeons coo their throaty call from high amongst the heavy foliage. I stare up at the patches of sky, trying to read our future in the clouds as they change shape and pass across the brilliant blue. I lay there dreaming until Maud’s shrill voice summons me back to the fortress.
Crossing the inner opening of the cashel some part of me shifts. There is a stirring deep inside me like tiny bubbles rising through water. It is a fleeting sign, the first flutter of the new life which grows inside me. I press the palm of my hand to my midriff and murmur words of comfort to the child I carry. Smiling, I enter the fortress and go to find father.
Father still sickens. Has become visibly fragile. I look down and truly see for the first time how withered and wizened he has become. It is as if the life is slowly being sucked from the flesh that hangs so loose upon his bones. It has been many long weeks since he has been well enough to leave the ring-fort. He stays constantly by the fire for he is plagued by cold. I kneel beside him where he sits in his favourite chair. He hides his maladies under a thick sheepskin throw which covers the shivering of his limbs. Taking his hand in mine, I touch the papery thinness of his skin. It is now so soft and smooth, where once it was calloused from work and the rub of the pony’s reigns. I caress those once strong hands where the knuckles have become thickened and disfigured with age. I have want to lay my head to rest on his knee as I have since my childhood, but his limbs tremble and I fear to cause him pain.
The suffering etched in his expression concerns me, but he dismisses my miserable attempts to alleviate his ailments. I have tried many remedies. This day, once again I offered him a potent infusion of ash bark and willow for the pain in his bones. He would have none of it and casts aside the potions I prepare for him. It saddens me greatly to see him so. His mind still so alert, but his body failing him.
“Brigid,” Father speaks my name softly. “It is time. The ways are changing. When I am gone, other powers will come to be. Marry now with Patrick and I know you will be safe. You will learn to tolerate him. It is in his hands and in the hands of his church that our future lays. Marry him, so that I may die in peace and know you are well cared for.”
“Father!” He cannot mean such a thing or is plagued with the fever. Crouching by his side I plead with him. But he will not listen and continues insisting without hearing the horror in my voice. “I cannot.” I say and know I must tell him the truth.
“For once do as I bid child. My days grow shorter and I worry for you and the future of the tribe.”
“Father, it is impossible. I carry Myrddin’s child.” Tears of weakness begin to form in my eyes and threaten to fall.
Father makes to rise from the chair, but instead slumps, as though his final strength has escaped him and he sighs in resignation. “Why am I not surprised. I saw before my eyes what was happening, but like an old fool I did nothing to prevent it. Now it is too late.” He takes my face between his twisted hands. His rigid fingers biting hard into the soft flesh of my cheeks. “You are a woman of knowing child, bathe with the balm weed, make a concoction of the Yew, rid yourself of the bastard burden and let me die with my soul at rest.”
“No fat
her,” I hang my head. It distresses me to see him so upset. There is no choice, and even for my father, I will not be swayed from a love so great as the love I have for Myrddin.
“Not even for an old man who cares for you more than life itself?”
“I am one with Myrddin, father, and that will never be changed.” I draw myself up from the floor and bid him my leave. Myrddin’s presence is with me. His hand comes to rest upon my shoulder. He is far away, but he thinks of me often and even father’s anguish at the coming child can not take away my happiness that we are one.
Chapter 25
The tribes have gathered. Young and old sit in subdued silence around the small fires burning in the inner courtyard. Dagda, their chieftain, is dying. They have come to pass the final hours close to the great man I call father.
Women abound in that which is Maud’s own private domain. There are many here and many yet to come who will need feeding. They busy themselves preparing great quantities of food on the soot, blackened hearth. Working in hushed tones and without their usual constant, gossiping chatter aware their voices will carry across the echoing rooms to where I keep company with father.
Throughout the long hours of the early evening, I sit close by his side. It is the loneliest and most painful of vigils I have ever kept. It seems father has slept these last three days, hardly stirring in his chair. I wait, through this, his final lingering. I wait for his rasping, shallow breathing to cease, afraid to leave his side lest I miss the moment of his passing.