Patrick (33 page)

“I was studying to become a filidh, yes,” I replied.

“Your grandfather was a priest, I believe.”

“Potitus, yes. Presbyter of Bannavem. Did you know him?”

Cornelius shook his head. “I grew up in the north—near where we are going, as it happens. I was appointed to establish a bishopric at Lycanum only four years ago.”

“And before that?”

“Londinium—but I was not a bishop then.” He paused, glancing back along our train for a moment, then turned to me and said, “We must do what we can to wean you away from this ill-considered Druidism.”

“With all respect, Bishop,” I replied as mildly as I could, “I do not regard it as a condition to be eradicated. It is not a disease, after all.”

“Oh, but that is where you are wrong. It is very much a condition which must be extirpated and exterminated wherever it rears its ugly head.”

His blinkered appraisal was provocative, but I did not care
to be drawn into an argument with him, so I said, “Have you ever known any druids?”

“Thank God Almighty, no. I saw one once, as a boy. Nasty creature—all gnarled and twisted like one of the monstrous oak trees they worship.”

I accepted his opinion equably. “If I told you that the filidh did not worship trees, would that make any difference at all?”

The bishop thought for a moment. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “although I shudder to think what they worship instead.”

“The deity they hold in highest reverence is called by many names,” I explained. “One such is the High King of Heaven, but there are others—Maith Dé or, as we would say, the Good God. Also Tabharfaidh Bronntóir, which means Gifting Giver. But the name most often preferred is An Rúndiamhair, or simply An Rúnda, the Mysterious.”

“Typical pagan affinity for endowing their brutish gods with wondrous attributes, I should imagine,” mused the bishop. “Still, the more gods, the better, I suppose—if you are forever trying to appease the fearful elements.” He tut-tutted disapprovingly. “Poor benighted wretches.”

“So anyone might think,” I agreed. “Yet on closer inspection the god addressed by many names is one and the same.”

“All the same god?” wondered Cornelius.

“One and the same—and, what is more, he is the very same god
you
worship one Sabbath to the next.”

“Blasphemer!” exclaimed the bishop in mock alarm. “Tempt me with no more with your lies.”

“It is nothing less than the simple truth,” I replied evenly. “They hold their god to be the creator of heaven and earth and of all things seen and unseen. He rules the cosmos and everything in it with benevolence for his creatures. In fact, they even know about Jesu, his son, whom they also hold in highest honor. They call him Iosa or, Esu.”

“You mean to tell me that the entire Irish race expounds these religious tenets?”

“Not everyone, no. Not by any means. They have their pa
gans much as we have ours,” I conceded. “But many of the filidh, the druid-folk, believe and teach these things.”

“Ho!” he cried suddenly. “There it is! These druids of yours are beginning to sound suspiciously like the Culdee of ours.”

“You know the Ceile De?”

“Root and branch. The north is full of the vermin. The Culdee are a very bane and a curse. If I had my way, they would all have millstones hung around their roguish necks and be heaved bodily into the nearest sea.”

“Is this,” I inquired, “a conviction you have reached through long and careful investigation? Or could it be simply a prejudice formed in ignorance and bolstered by pride?”

He huffed and puffed at my presumption. But, to his credit, Bishop Cornelius contemplated the question seriously. “I must confess to the latter,” he said at last. “Although nothing I have ever seen leads me to doubt the veracity of my conviction in the least.”

“Then we must do what we can to wean you away from this ill-considered intolerance, Bishop.”

“Ho, ho!” he laughed. “Not likely, I think.” Chuckling to himself, he slapped the reins across his mount's shoulders and rode on.

We were to have several of these discussions over the course of the journey. But it was not until a few days after we reached our destination that I learned the reason for our visit and discovered that the pompous bishop had been less than forthright with me.

I
T WAS AN
estate on the wet and windblown western coast of Britain that received us. I use the word “estate,” for Candida Casa—the White House, as it was known for the pale-colored stone of its walls—was of far greater extent than anything so simple as a house or church. It was more on the order of a grand villa with residences, storehouses, a church and oratory, a refectory, and various other workshops and outbuildings set amid its own plowed and tended fields. Surrounded by forest and yet near to the sea, it enjoyed a far milder winter than its northern position warranted.

It was, I happily concede, a fine place. For me, however, the difficulty was not with the estate itself but with the inhabitants—priests of a peculiarly proud and haughty stripe who seemed to think their doctrines should be taken as holy writ by all lesser mortals—that is, the mass of humanity which did not reside within the high, protecting walls of their order. The imperious monks of Candida Casa seemed to think it their duty to harangue any hapless creature unlucky enough to wander within spitting distance; the air grew brown and turgid with their endless sermonizing. I could not endure it, so went on my way as quickly as possible, taking as many provisions as I could weasel from the kitchen monks. I also took my filidh robe and my good sharp knife.

Julian came to see me off. “You will return in a few days, I presume?”

“That depends on what I find,” I replied.

“Go, then,” he said, embracing me, “and may God speed you.”

“Farewell, Julian.” I climbed into the saddle, took up the reins, and sat looking down at him.

“Farewell,” he said. “I will have the monks pray every day for your safe return.”

I thanked him for all he had done on my behalf. I might have thanked him for the horse, too, for once I found Cormac, I had no intention of returning to Candida Casa, but instead head for Ireland and my waiting Sionan. My guilt for this omission lasted only until I was out of sight of the place.

My brown horse was a fine and spirited young animal, and we understood one another well. I made certain to find him adequate grazing and water each day, which was not difficult in the wild northern hills, and we made good speed in our search for druid strongholds. Directed by local knowledge gathered along the way, I arrived at Bras Rhaidd, a very monastery of a druid house—a rival, in its own way, to Candida Casa. I came dressed in my filidh robe, carrying a new hazel staff I had cut three days before, and, to my great relief and delight, I was greeted warmly by my bardic brothers: seven Britons and an Irishman from Dal Riada, who recognized me and received me as one of their own.

I wasted not a moment, inquiring after Cormac as soon as the first of many rituals of welcome had been observed. “My name is Corthirthiac,” I told them in Irish, “and I have come in search of a dear and close friend of mine—a filidh by the name of Cormac Miach. He is in the company of a wise and powerful ollamh named Meabh.”

“Then you have done well to direct your search here,” replied the chief bard, a short, dark-haired man named Sadwrn. “They were here. Indeed, they sojourned with us for several months.” He regarded me hopefully and added, “We were greatly blessed by their presence.”

Taking his hint, I said, “Is this a Ceile De house?”

“It is that,” he said with a smile. “If you call yourself friend to Cormac, then you are no less our friend.”

I thanked him and said, “You said they have been here. Where have they gone; can you tell me?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Sadwrn. “They were on their way to Tuaim Bán to see the chief bard, Cethrwm.”

“Yes,” I said eagerly, “the very bard he mentioned.”

“It must be three months at least since they left here.”

“I see. Is it far, this Tuaim Bán?”

“It is a fair distance, yes, for it lies some way northeast of here on the coast near Muir n'Guidan.”

Cormac had said it was on the coast. “Is it near a place called Cend Rigmonaid?” I asked.

“Oh, aye, it is that. But I would not advise you to make the journey just now. Much of the way is through mountain and forest, and the trails can be treacherous this time of year.”

“I have a horse,” I pointed out. “I can travel quickly. Indeed, if you would direct me to the place, I will set off at once.”

Sadwrn would not hear of it. “You have traveled far already, I think. Stay here and rest a little—a day or two will not matter. Then, if you are still determined, you may go.”

“There is nothing I would like better than sitting by your warm fire,” I said. “Very well, I accept. But one day only. I must find my friend.”

“Of course.” Indicating the gathering gloom, Sadwrn said, “Come inside. Let us discuss the way over supper.”

This I did, and spent an enjoyable night in their company. They sang for my benefit a song I had never heard: “Pwyll and Rhiannon,” and we traded news of our respective gatherings. Next day, after I had seen my horse fed and watered, Sadwrn told me the best way to Tuaim Bán. It was all I could do to force myself into the saddle once more. As I was taking my leave of the bards, one of them, a fellow named Tarian presented me with a chart he had made. “I know it will be of little use to you,” he said apologetically, “but winter comes quickly to the north, and even well-marked trails can become difficult to find.” He handed me the little scrap of
lambskin he had prepared. “If that should happen, this might help.”

“I thank you, brother,” I told him. “I hope we meet again one day in Ireland, and I can return your kindness.” I bade them all farewell and was genuinely sorry to leave them so soon. Their “God speed you, brother!” was still resounding in my ears as I snapped the reins and moved on.

The land to the north grew more extreme in every way. If the south had forests, in those of the north the trees were taller, the wood denser, darker, and more forbidding; if the south had hills, the north had mountains of jagged rock surrounding steep-sided valleys almost always filled with cold, black, deep water lakes. And if the south had wind and rain? Well, the north had raging tempests which drove stinging sleet through the warmest cloak and drenched a body to the bone.

The few hardy souls who lived in the region clung precariously to the sides of the hills, hunting in the forests and fishing in the lakes for their food. Mostly, however, the high, wild, craggy hills were empty, desolate, and forsaken by all save red deer and eagles.

Despite the dangers of the wood—wolves, bears, and the large spotted wildcats—I much preferred the quiet of the forest pathways to the barren hills; at least the sheltering trees kept the worst of the wind and rain and snow off me. My horse proved good company. A confident mount, he showed no fear of the dark wood, and even when we heard the occasional howl of a wolf, he did not shy but trotted on regardless. I named him Boreas in memory of another stouthearted beast, and took care to dry his coat with grass or leaves whenever we stopped.

But the days were short and growing shorter. Though we made use of every last moment of light we were granted, we did not advance so rapidly as I hoped; the rough trails and increasingly bad weather conspired to keep us moving at a crawl. Once, during a storm, Tarian's chart proved invaluable as snow wiped out the trail and I was forced to reckon by the landmarks he had painstakingly indicated.

In summer the journey might have taken eight or ten days. Instead it took all of seventeen—the last two into the teeth of a ferocious northern gale. It took all my strength of will just to keep moving. I buoyed my resolve with the thought that I would soon be with Cormac again and the world would right itself once more. This thought alone kept me going.

No one was ever so glad as I was when, gazing across a frozen stream, I saw the dark, lumpy mass Sadwrn had described—a great black rock of a hill rising across the valley—and hoped against hope that we had arrived at last. “This has to be the place,” I said, relief quickly mounting to elation. “It must be.”

I let Boreas pick his way carefully across the stream and then gave him a slap of the reins. “Hie! Hie, up!” I shouted, and we galloped the rest of the way as fast as he could run, reaching the base of the black hill breathless and exhilarated. I worked my way around the lower slopes until I found the trail leading up to the top. Twilight was upon me by the time I reached the large timber house. I called a greeting and slid from the saddle, hurrying at once to the door.

In my elation at having found the place and arrived safely, I failed to notice that no smoke issued from the smoke hole in the roof. The house and yard were quiet. I called again, lifted the latch, and pushed open the door.

The druid house was empty. One glance at the dark, cold interior showed that no one had been there for a long time. I walked to the hearth and put my hand to the ashes, hoping, I suppose, to find them still warm—even though I could see that the embers were long since dead.

As my fingers touched the lifeless ash, the heart went out of me. I closed my eyes against the tears already welling there and bent my head as a sob tore from my throat. I wanted to die. Disappointed, frustrated, exhausted, hungry, and cold, I rolled onto my side and lay there wishing I might just rest my head on the stones of the hearth and never have to rise again.

The gloom of the house was all but complete when at last I forced myself to my feet and made a desultory search of the place to see what I might discover. I found some dry goods in the storeroom: a measure of fine-milled flour in a stoneware jar and oats and barley in leather bags. There was also water in the stoup, but it was stale. I discovered a wedge of cheese—hard as rock—and a few dry white beans. There was no meat or bread, but there was some lard and a lump of salt.

I went back outside and tended to Boreas. I dried him with some pine needles and put him in one of the two small outbuildings behind the big house. There was a wooden tub, which I filled with water, and I found some dry fodder hanging in a bale from one of the roof beams. I pulled down a fair portion of the hay and left him to rest for the night.

Returning to the house in the fast-falling darkness, I brought in wood from the stack beside the door and set about building a fire in the hearth. As soon as I had a blaze going, I busied myself making supper and, exhausted from the journey, went to sleep before the fire. Sometime during the night a storm moved in, and I woke the next morning to a fresh covering of snow.

I decided to stay at Tuiam Bán for a few days to rest and think what to do next. It was possible, I told myself, that the filidh might return to the house and find me waiting. I did not hold out much hope that this would happen, however; it seemed to me that they had gone elsewhere for the winter.

I occupied myself with small chores throughout the day: fetched clean water from the well for the horse and myself, piled rush mats and fleeces beside the hearth for a bed, set a handful of beans to soak for supper, and made a batch of dry, crumbly bread. I carved the lump of salt in half and took one half out into the woods, cleared a space for it beside the trail, and left it there. Returning to the house, I cut a piece of leather strap and bound my knife to the end of a slender length of ash, then went back out to sit behind a tree within sight of the salt.

I waited long, but as the sun began to fade, my patience was rewarded by the appearance of a large, fat hare. Readying my makeshift spear while the animal tasted the salt lick, I took aim and let fly. It was not the cleanest kill; the wounded animal darted into the bush, but I quickly caught and dispatched it. I took the plump little carcass back to the house to clean and dress it, pleased to add roast hare to my meal of bean soup and bread.

There was no beer, of course, but I had filled the stoup with fresh water, and while the hare was cooking, I went to fill a bowl, taking up one from among those beside the basin. However, upon my leaning forward to dip the wooden vessel into the basin, a strange sensation came upon me—as if someone had called my name. There was no sound. I heard nothing. Even so, the sensation that I had been addressed by someone—or something—was unmistakable.

I paused, the bowl halfway to the water. “Yes?” I said aloud. The sound of my voice resounded in the empty house.

There came no answer, so I resumed my task and dipped the bowl, filled it with water, and brought it to my lips. In that instant I felt Cormac beside me: inexplicably but unequivocally Cormac. Indeed, the impression was so strong I turned my head, knowing there was no one there yet unable to stop myself from doing it anyway.

The uncanny sensation so surprised me that the bowl slipped from my fingers and fell into the stoup with a splash. The sense of his presence ceased immediately, and I was alone once more. I waited for a moment to see if the ghostly presence would return, but when it did not, I drew the bowl from the water and filled it again. The sense of Cormac's closeness returned as soon as I touched the bowl.

This, it came to me, was the
imbas forosnái
: the knowledge of enlightening—a bardic skill which Ollamh Datho had spoken of many times and had encouraged me to investigate. That it should come to me now, in this way, surprised and disconcerted me a little.
Why now?
I wondered.

Straightaway I grasped the bowl and brought its edge to
my forehead, closed my eyes, cleared my mind of thought, and tried to see if I might learn anything more from the object. Alas, aside from a very strong, almost corporeal sensation of my friend's presence, nothing else came through. Nevertheless I welcomed the knowledge as confirmation that Cormac had indeed spent time in the house.

I carried the bowl back to my place at the hearth, where I ate my solitary meal beside a fine warm fire and considered what to do next. I might, with difficulty, spend the winter at Tuaim Bán—but spring was still very far off, and the thought of staying in the house all alone through the bleak season did not sit well with me. I decided to chance the long ride back to Bras Rhaidd, where I might spend a more comfortable winter with Sadwrn and the others and resume my search for Cormac with their help in the spring.