Patrick (26 page)

T
HE PAST IS
seen with a clarity wholly lacking in the present. Memory is an illusion formed of equal parts recognition and regret. Nothing is ever what it seems.

Of all men alive beneath wide heaven's ever-circling sun, I know this to be true. For, wrapped in false security, I continued as if nothing had happened. Yet already the world and my place in it were tumbling like a fragile greenwood bower in the first fierce gale of winter.

I saw nothing of this. Blissful in my ignorance, I strode boldly forth, believing the path stretching before me into the future was solid under foot. Poor, blind idiot that I was—there
was
no path, no destination, no future. I was sinking in a morass and did not know it.

 

The days remained fair and full, the cattle grew fat and sleek, the crops stood tall in the fields, and the tuath enjoyed an uncommon prosperity. I saw Sionan whenever I could; we talked of my freedom, and I continued deceiving her with easy words about how it would be when we were free to marry. In truth I intended escape, and the entanglements of marriage were the last thing I wanted.

I eagerly counted the days until Lughnasadh and the Festival of First Fruits. Datho and Iollan occupied themselves with plans for the Comoradh, the gathering of bards; Buinne was nearly always away collecting various herbs and plants to make his concoctions, and so it fell to me to prepare for
the festival. I examined the cattle and chose those acceptable for the sacrifice, and I saw that the wagon, maiden loaf, and scythe were prepared to Datho's exacting instructions.

The first hint that anything was amiss came the day before the celebration. I returned from the ráth, where I had made the final inspection to see that all was ready, and went to make my report to Datho. I could not find him, and there was no response to my call. I made a quick search, however, and eventually found him in the nearby wood. He was sitting on a rock in a clearing; the sun was on his head, but he was fast asleep.

“Ollamh?” I said, creeping near.

At the sound of my voice, he started. His eyes flickered open, and he started up, his expression wild and fearful. The look passed in an instant. He saw me and came to himself at once. “Oh! You startled me, Succat. I grew tired….”

I noticed he did not use my bardic name. “I have been looking for you, Ollamh.”

“Well, here I am.” He rose and quickly turned to glance behind him, as if expecting to catch someone—lurking in the shadows. “Where have you been?”

“You sent me to the ráth—for Lughnasadh. I was to make the arrangements, remember?”

“Ah, yes. Then come, tell me, is everything in order?”

He started off toward the druid house and then turned again. “My staff!”

“Here it is, Ollamh,” I said, stooping to retrieve his good oak staff from beside the rock where it lay.

We walked back to the house—he striding ahead, myself behind with a puzzled frown over his curious behavior. But the lapse was soon forgotten as we busied ourselves with making ready for the Comoradh. That night we ate a simple meal; Heber and Tadhg cooked and served it and, while we ate, recited their day's lesson for us. Quiet, well-mannered boys, they stood straight and tall and chanted a portion of “Fionn and the Salmon of Wisdom,” a splendid tale, one of the first learned by young bards.

“…then Fionn lay down on the grassy banks of the stream,” the boys chanted, their high, reedy voices ringing clear, “and he began to sing. While he sang, he let his hand fall gently into the water, dangling his fingers in the clear, glassy pool, where he knew the ancient salmon was to be found….”

We all sat listening: Iollan, eyes half closed, tapping his fingers lightly on the table as the boys recited the age-old song; Buinne, staring beneath hooded eyes, brooding and bored; Datho distractedly fingering his mustache and glancing around anxiously.

“There in the cool, shadowed depths of the pool, the wise old salmon heard Fionn's fine, melodious voice and awoke. He said to himself, ‘What manner of man is it who sings so sweetly and so well?' So saying, the venerable fish bestirred himself to swim up and—”

Suddenly Datho leaped to his feet. “Enough!” His voice was tight, his eyes wild, as he rushed from the table.

“Ollamh!” I started after him but had run only a few paces when he turned on me.

“Stay back!”

“Have you seen something, Ollamh?”

He stared at me, and recognition came flooding back to him; his eyes lost their wild appearance, and he flushed with embarrassment. “Oh, Succat…” He looked back at the others, who were now gazing at him with concern.

“Are you well, Ollamh?” I moved to help him.

“Go back,” he said. “Go back to the table.” A sickly smile appeared on his face. “Let them finish the tale.” He turned and strode from the house. “I am sorry…I cannot…stay….”

Later that night I was lying on my pallet, awake, and heard Datho come up the stairs to the sleeping room. He lay down with a groan and was soon heavily asleep. I slept, too, and woke early the next morning. I gathered my things and went outside to wash and then dressed in my new gray robe, for I was to take part in the Lughnasadh ceremony.

One by one the others rose and began making themselves ready. I quickly finished my preparations and then, eager to be off to the ráth, where Sionan waited, went to help the young ones. “Where is Datho?” I asked Heber as he tied the thin corded belt around his slender waist.

“He has not come down, master.” He glanced over to Tadhg, who shrugged. “Do you want me to rouse him?”

“No,” I replied, “I will do it. Finish dressing. We will leave as soon as Datho is ready.”

I went up to find the ollamh lying on his pallet, sound asleep. Kneeling beside him, I touched his shoulder and said his name. This brought no response, so I shook him gently. “Ollamh,” I said, “all is ready. It is time to rise.” I shook him again. “Datho?”

It was then I noticed the pale foam on his lips and at the corners of his mouth.

I shook him harder this time and called his name aloud, my heart sinking into the pit of my stomach. When he did not respond, I ran to the stairs and called Iollan to come help me. “Hurry!” I shouted. “I cannot waken Datho!”

As Iollan hurried up the stairs, I returned to the pallet and lightly placed my hand to the druid's neck, but felt no surge of life there, and his flesh was cold to the touch.

“Here!” said Iollan, joining me. “Datho! Datho! Wake up!” The filidh took his old friend by the shoulder and began shaking him violently.

“No, brother,” I said, pulling his hands away. “He is not sleeping. He is dead.”

The old druid regarded me with a pale, bewildered expression. “Dead, you say? Ah, no, no…dead?”

“He must have died in his sleep.”

Iollan turned his eyes to the body and at last comprehended my meaning. He sat back on his heels, resting his hands on his thighs. “Ah, poor Datho,” he sighed; his hands began to tremble.

Buinne came running up the stairs. “What's happened? What have you done?”

“Poor Datho,” said Iollan again. Raising sorrowful eyes, he said, “He is dead, Buinne. Our ollamh and master is dead.”

Buinne stared at the body for a moment. He drew a deep breath, as if trying to calm himself. “How?”

“I cannot say,” I answered. “I came just now to rouse him and found him as you see him.”

“We must send to the king; he must be told at once,” said Iollan.

“What about the Lughnasadh celebration?” I asked.

“Oh, we cannot possibly lead the rites now,” Iollan said. “We must make preparations for his burial.”

Buinne frowned. “No, the celebration will take place as planned.”

“It is not possible,” Iollan objected. “When an ollamh dies, there is much to be done—ceremonies to perform, services to render. The Learned Brotherhood must be informed. We must begin at once to—”

“And I say it can wait!” snapped Buinne with a ferocity that rocked doddering Iollan back on his haunches. The young druid started away. “Leave him. We will go to the ráth now.”

“But we cannot just leave him,” protested Iollan weakly.

Buinne rounded on the elder bard. “Get moving!” He snatched Iollan by the arm and yanked him to his feet. “We are going to lead the Lughnasadh ceremonies,” he said, his voice a snarl of pent rage. “And then we will attend the gathering.” He put his face close to the old man's, his eyes hard and unfeeling. “Everything will take place as planned.”

There was a purpose at work in Buinne's determination, and I knew better than to disagree. What he suggested was, after all, for the best; the celebration would have to go ahead as planned. In any case a clash with him would avail nothing, so I decided to bide my time and stood looking on without a word. Buinne whipped his head around to glare at me. “Understood?” he shouted.

“Perfectly,” I answered softly.

I turned to leave but instead watched as Buinne drew Datho's cloak over the dead man's face. It may have been my imagination, but it seemed to me that he took inordinate satisfaction in performing that simple service. He had never been able to disguise his thoughts—whatever he was thinking appeared on his face for all to see—and in that instant I saw a man who exulted in his elder's death: an untimely death about which I suspected even then that Buinne knew more than he was saying.

We gathered our things and proceeded to the ráth, where the people had assembled. The mood was high and bright as the sky that day and, if not for Datho's demise, it would have been a splendid celebration.

Soon after our arrival Buinne, Iollan, and myself sought out the king and informed him of our ollamh's death. “Datho dead?” said Miliucc, taken aback by the news.

“Lord and King,” replied Iollan, “we are confounded and bereft. It has overtaken us without sign or warning.”

“How did it happen?” asked Queen Grania gently.

“Who can say, my Queen?” said Iollan. “Corthirthiac went to wake him and found him dead.”

“He died peacefully,” I offered. “His end was serene and quiet. We knew nothing of it.”

“Indeed,” confirmed Iollan sadly, “we knew nothing at all.”

“It is unfortunate,” said Miliucc. Turning to Iollan, he said, “Datho was a loyal and faithful friend. I will miss his wise counsel and shrewd judgment.”

“Of course,” said Buinne, deftly interposing himself, “you will not lack the counsel and wisdom of a druid so long as I am here.”

The king regarded him dully.

“You are quick to dismiss your master and friend,” the queen observed. “But Datho's place will not be so easily or readily filled, I think.” She regarded the young druid with a look of unconcealed rancor.

Buinne, realizing his mistake, quickly became solicitous.
“Naturally we are all mindful of our loss. With your permission, lord, we will depart for the Comoradh as soon as the celebration is completed, and we will take the body with us. There are rites to be performed.”

“You have my permission,” said Miliucc. “Do as you think best.”

“Thank you, my King. I will obey.” The snake—he made it sound as if it were all the king's idea and he but the dutiful servant carrying out his lord's command.

The festivities were conducted. Owing to my having to take a larger part in the observances, it was past midday before I found a chance to speak to Sionan alone. I waited until our absence would not be noted and pulled her into the stable with me. “I have missed you,” she said, enfolding me in a passionate embrace. She kissed me hard and, taking my hands, pulled me down into the hay in one of the empty stalls.

I returned her kiss, but she sensed my lack of ardor. “Well! Have you grown tired of me already?”

“Never say it,” I answered. “I have something to tell you.”

“Tell me, then,” she said, kissing my neck. “And when you finish, make love to me.”

“Sionan, listen,” I said, taking her hands and holding them still. “Something dreadful has happened. Datho is dead.”

She stopped kissing me. “When?”

“During the night, I think, or early this morning. I found him in his bed.”

“Oh,
mo croí
, I am sorry.” She put her hand to my cheek.

“He was a good friend to you and Cormac.”

“That is not all. I think Buinne might have had something to do with it.”

“You think Buinne killed him?”

“Yes—I mean, I think so. It is merely a suspicion, but I think he poisoned Datho.”

“Have you told anyone?”

“Not yet.”

“But you must tell the king.”

“Not until I can be certain.”

“What will happen now?”

“We will take the body to the Comoradh. The other filidh will help with the—”

“No,” she interrupted, “I mean, what will happen to
us
?”

“Us?” I could not think what she was saying.

“Datho was going to ask the king for your freedom.”

The shock of Datho's death had completely driven that fact from my mind. A great surge of dismay rolled over me, and I went down beneath it. I stared at Sionan, unable to speak.

“Succat, did you not think of that?”

I fell back in the hay and lay there as despair clasped me to its cold heart and claimed me for its own. “No,” I groaned, “I did not think of that.”

“What are we to do now?” she asked, her voice taking on a shade of the woe I felt.

I heard the question but was so dismayed I could make no reply.

“Succat?”

“Well,” I said at last, “I suppose it will have to wait until I can find someone else.”

“What about Iollan?”

I considered this possibility. “I could talk him into it, I suppose. In any case he is my last hope.”