The Greener Shore (16 page)

When a child was brought to her with an excruciating, and unremitting, headache, Briga studied the child’s head visually from every angle. Then she ran her fingers over the entire surface. Finally, she cradled the little skull in her hands and pressed gently, first on one area and then on another.

She treated an ulcerated leg by cutting her own leg and mixing some of her blood with sweet butter and the crushed flower of the cuckow weed, then spreading it on the limb. When an old woman came to my senior wife complaining of sadness and melancholy, she was given a drink made of borage, pure water, and wild honey, and a morning’s cheerful conversation.

Briga’s remedies worked. They worked every time.

With my senior wife so occupied, it fell to my other wives and Damona to provide us with clothing in the Gaelic style. I insisted that we resemble the Slea Leathan as much as possible. Lakutu did most of the weaving and sewing for my family, since Onuava considered both tasks beneath her. She did unbend enough to do a little embroidery with thread given to her by the local women. Silk, imported at great expense from the sea traders. “They call in from time to time at the mouth of the Liffey,” Onuava informed me. She used all of the silk on her own clothing. Briga did not comment; I do not think she even noticed. Lakutu seemed to think it was right and fair.

To set an example, I made another try at going barefoot. With practice it became easier.

Druids know how to ignore pain.

Meanwhile Dara continued to shadow Seanchán and drink in every word that dropped from the bard’s lips. When the Goban Saor agreed to make a harp for my son, I had a suggestion. “The yew is a tree of the first rank, and symbolizes rebirth. What wood could be more appropriate for the frame?”

So delicate an instrument could not be rushed. The wood must be carefully selected, slowly dried, and thoughtfully carved. Making the strings from brass wire and fastening them into the frame took more time. Dara’s youthful impatience was strained, but the Goban Saor told him, “Never be in a hurry. When you hurry you are rushing to your grave.”

During the long winter evenings while he waited for his harp, Dara entertained us with sagas of the sons of Milesios down the generations: the battles they broke against one another, the cattle they stole from one another, the mighty sons they sired who sired mighty sons in turn.

A man was not only named but described, such as Sirna the Beloved; or Ollum Fodla, Fierce in Valor. Every name was a story. Every story rang with high adventure. Or enduring love, or heartrending tragedy. Even small details were faithfully recalled. A person’s life did not end with death. The men and women of the Gael lived on in the remembered history of their race, as vibrant as they had ever been. Truly, they were a people who loved words.

We,
I reminded myself.
We are
a people who love words.

Following its own eternal pattern, eventually the long winter gave way to a radiant spring. My personal celebration of the new season began with throwing off my shoes. Barefoot in freedom, my feet rejoiced.

As the nights grew warmer Briga allowed the fire to burn very low on the hearth, but she never let it go out. Briga was our keeper of the flame.

One starry spring evening Fíachu came to my lodge. Mindful of the honor bestowed, I told Lakutu to offer him our best food and drink.

“I don’t need feeding,” Fíachu said. “What I need are sons. My wives give me nothing but girls.”

“Yet your fort abounds with warriors,” I pointed out.

“They’re my cousins but they’re not descended from my father; not in the direct line from Éremon, as he was. My brothers were in the direct line, but unfortunately they died in battle before they could sire children, and there must be something wrong with my sisters because they have borne only one male child between them. Your senior wife is gaining a reputation for wisdom, so I’ve come to seek her advice about siring sons.”

Briga spoke up. “You have many lovely daughters, Fíachu, is that not enough? I’m sure the women who carried them in their bellies must think so.”

“I have to have a son,” Fíachu insisted.

“Why?”

“To lead the tribe after I die,” he said bluntly. Usually he was more circumspect, but people open themselves to Briga. “Among the Gael the scramble for power begins before a chieftain draws his last breath. His tribe may fall into weaker hands and everything the dead man won for them can be lost. I’ve seen this happen time after time, but it’s not going to happen to the Slea Leathan. I want to have a strong young man of my own choosing—someone closely bound to me by family ties—trained and ready to take my place. I’ll name him while I’m still in the whole of my health, and demand on their word of honor that my people accept him.”

In my experience, chieftains did not encourage successors. They did not want the tribe to think anyone else could lead them. Fíachu had a better head than most warlords; perhaps even better, in some respects, than Vercingetorix. The thought was disloyal but honest.

Briga said, “Why does this person you seek have to be a strong young man?”

“Because only a hero can lead the tribe, of course.”

I could have warned Fíachu that his patronizing tone would annoy my wife.

Briga’s voice remained soft. Deceptively so. I knew that deadly purr; it did not bode well for Fíachu. “You know all about heroism,” she said, gazing up at him adoringly. “So tell me this. Does a man become a hero when he risks his life to kill other men?” she asked in her most innocent tone.

He nodded.

“A woman risks her life to produce new life, which, I assure you, is much more difficult than killing. Does that not make the woman heroic? According to your own way of thinking a strong woman could replace you, Fíachu.”

Before he could frame a reply, Briga flashed a meltingly sweet smile. “However, if having a son is so important to you, perhaps I can help. Lakutu, please give the chief of the tribe a cup of water. With a drop of fermented honey in it, I think. We must not fail in hospitality.”

Briga rummaged through her belongings until she found a small stone bottle wrapped in dried grass. She uncorked the bottle and sniffed the contents, then handed it to the chieftain. “This will do nicely, Fíachu. It’s a potion to enable a woman to conceive a male child.”

He squinted into the bottle. “There’s not very much here. I have two wives, you know.”

“This is intended for you.”

“But the problem’s with my wives.”

“Of course it is,” Briga agreed. “But this drink will make you even more virile than you already are. As we all know, a man who is tireless in bed begets sons.” The melting smile returned; deepened. “Even if he must take another woman to do it.”

My senior wife was a cunning and devious person.

“It was a good day’s work when I welcomed your clan,” Fíachu told me as he was leaving.

I waited until he was out of earshot before complaining, “You’ve never given me a potion to make me tireless in bed.”

Briga laughed. “You don’t need one, foolish man. It won’t have that effect on the Deerhound’s body, either; only on his mind. But if he beds enough women enough times, sooner or later one of them is bound to give birth to a boy.”

“How do you know these things?”

“How does one know anything?”

“Don’t answer me with riddles, Briga.”

“I thought druids loved riddles.” Briga could be maddening at times.

The following day Fíachu sent my senior wife a magnificent hooded mantle made of otter fur which reached almost to her bare ankles.

More and more people came to confer with her, and I grew accustomed to a lodge full of strangers. Their presence had a strange effect on Briga. When she arose from our bed at dawn each morning she looked like a young girl. By the time the day was half over and she had dealt with the problems of six or eight visitors, fine lines were gathering at the corners of her eyes. Her shoulders began to slump; she seemed shorter, thicker. Closer to the earth. By nightfall I would swear her hair was filled with gray threads and she had grown frail.

I had three wives but one of them was three women. I cannot explain this. I only know what I saw. We believe our eyes over any other authority. Why is that? I wonder.

Eyes can be deceived as easily as heads.

Cormiac Ru, who was never comfortable with crowds, spent most of his time out hunting. He loved to roam the mountains even if he found no game, but he always returned at sundown, smelling of clouds and pine trees.

I was thankful.

I did not hear them very often, the voices and the footfalls. But I still heard them.

chapter
IX

“W
HEN THE SEA WAS MOUNTAINS AND THE SKY WAS FOREST, I
was a young girl.” This evasive remark was all the answer Briga gave to visitors who asked her age. The less she revealed about herself, the more impressed they were.

“They aren’t really interested in me anyway,” she told me. “They want me to be interested in them. And I am.”

Her patience was inexhaustible, even with the most difficult individuals. When someone arrived at our lodge with an illness of the body or a cloud on mind or spirit, Briga welcomed them in and sat them down by the fire. First she gave them a cup of pure, sweet water to drink. Then she seated herself nearby and urged them to explain the problem.

Before they began to talk I usually left the lodge. But sometimes I lingered in the shadows, drawing no attention to myself. What druid could resist watching magic?

Briga was a wonderful listener. Her face mirrored the exact emotions the sufferer hoped to elicit, creating an impression of total sympathy. People told her things I doubt they would tell anyone else on earth. My senior wife had a gift for disarming others and getting them to open themselves to her. Perhaps it was her innocent blue eyes. I had once fallen into those eyes myself and never found my way out.

Sometimes just being able to talk about the problem was enough. Many ailments required more physical treatment, however. Briga would not undertake this unless she was assured that the local healer already had tried and failed. She prepared potions, or made up poultices, or suggested burning certain herbs and inhaling the smoke. Sometimes she manipulated aching muscles with her hands. In one memorable instance a man who was being driven mad by debilitating nightmares was told to put a knife under his bed to cut away bad dreams. After one cycle of the moon he returned looking ten years younger, and told Briga that the malady had disappeared completely.

On the rare occasions when she could not affect a cure, Briga would sit murmuring in a low voice to the sufferer and stroking the person’s head and neck, until a great relief came over them. They went away to die in peace.

Her fame spread rapidly. Husbands brought wives, mothers brought children. No matter what the outcome of their visit, all left feeling better than when they arrived.

In this land that was not hers, among people who were strangers, my Briga had come into her own.

Meanwhile the truce between Fíachu and Cohern was holding. When I ventured through the mountains and down our old valley, Cohern made me welcome. “Our boys are growing into men,” he said, “who will not die in battle. I may yet see my children’s children.” He sounded happier than I had ever heard him.

His clan had moved closer to the Slea Leathan by occupying our abandoned lodges. The boys who were growing into men were hunting in the mountains, where they occasionally encountered Cormiac Ru, and venturing down onto the Plain of Broad Spears to meet young women.

“It’s not a bad thing,” I remarked to Briga as she was mending a ripped seam in my best tunic. “Intermarriage could strengthen the truce.”

“If both sides accept such marriages, yes.”

“Why would they not?”

“Borders exist in the head, Ainvar. Either Fíachu or Cohern may have a border in his mind that he cannot bear to have crossed. Change can’t be forced, it must grow at its own pace. I suggest you discourage Cohern’s lads from their forays north, at least for a while.”

As easy to stop the sun in its course! Hot-blooded youths do not take advice from someone they perceive as elderly, someone who could not possibly remember how it felt to be young. They listened politely to me, then did as they wanted.

At their age I would have done the same thing.

My Briga was exceptionally sensitive to the presence of water. In the forests of Gaul she had been the one to locate hidden springs where we could safely slake our thirst. In Hibernia she again searched for springs. “Do you recall the sacred wells of Gaul, Ainvar?” she asked.

“I do, of course.”

“Hibernia must have her own sacred waters, places where the Source is very strong. If there are any near here I want to find them.”

I could understand her feelings. After all, I had the trees.

The Gael divided their year into two equal parts, which were then divided again. Arragh was their name for spring, Sowra was summer, Fowar was autumn, and Gevray was winter.