Patrick (19 page)

T
HE 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 move
ments 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, which 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.

Then there was Cormac, a big man, as I say. He and Sionan, I learned, were offspring of the former king's champion; Cormac's father had placed him in the care of the Learned Brotherhood when he was still an infant. Having never known another way of life, he was a druid heart and soul.

Buinne, last and least among the filidh, had no discernible virtues. He was a dark-haired, dough-faced youth with a lumpy chin and small, close-set, suspicious eyes set in a narrow, disapproving face, which gave him the appearance of an aggrieved weasel. He had the temperament to match. Indeed, in petulance and rancor he reminded me of the departed Cernach, lacking only the dead warrior's endearing strength of character. How Buinne ever came to be among the high-minded druids was a mystery I never solved.

In those first days and weeks, my work occupied me entirely. As I became better acquainted with my chores and more proficient at performing them, I began to find little snatches of time here and there for myself. When I had a moment to spare, I would usually go listen to the others as they engaged in learned discussion with Datho. Creeping near, I settled quietly to hear what they said.

“Consider the Wheel of the Winds,” Datho declared one day, “all-encompassing, perpetually turning, forever assailing, its manifold constituents producing both benefits and calamities.” To Buinne he said, “Tell me, brother, what is the name of the principal wind and its qualities?”

“Hear me, my brother, and judge my reply,” Buinne answered, bowing slightly from the waist as he sat cross-legged on his reed mat. “The Chief of Winds is named Solan, Champion of a Thousand Battles: salutary to all fruiting things, yet plague-fermenting.”

“Continue,” said Datho with a nod.

“Next in rank is Saron, Benefactor of Rich Harvests and also fish of wondrous size.” The ollamh gestured with his hand for the young druid to continue. “Just below Saron is Favon: Destroyer of Corn when heavy and cold, Sifter of Blossoms when light and warm.”

“Good,” said Datho. “Now tell me, if you can, what Favon signifies when it departs its true path and roars out of the west.”

“It signifies the death of a king when it comes out of the west, my brother.”

“Well said,” affirmed Datho with satisfaction. Turning to Cormac, sitting at his left hand, he said, “Recite the lineage of true poetry, if you please.”

“With pleasure, brother,” replied Cormac. Placing the palms of his hands together, he tilted back his head and, in a voice imbued with the rhythm of song, replied,

The chief bard nodded serenely and pronounced, “Well said, brother, and worthy to be remembered.”

In this way they proceeded throughout the day, and I gradually began to learn the order of their existence. Sometimes Datho held forth on subjects the others required to make their learning more complete. At other times he set them a question or a challenging task which they were to explore or undertake; they would go away to perform their explorations or undertakings, returning later to discuss what had happened and what was learned. Sometimes the filidh would question the ollamh, who would answer them by means of riddles they would have to solve in order to discover the answer.

Iollan pursued his learned activities on his own; he neither consulted much with Datho nor engaged those beneath him in the same way as the ollamh. His method—his purpose, perhaps—was to ask awkward questions. Indeed, he often posed questions so difficult that either discussion ceased or disputes broke out which could only be settled by lengthy study and investigation.