Waves in the Wind (2 page)

I waited in the stone-paved compound of the school at Dún Ailinne feeling very small, and, for the first time in my young life, all alone. It was the silence I noticed most. Breathless quiet altogether unlike the busy bustle and chatter I had grown up with in my home village.

A few students clad in the brown robes of acolytes strode among glistening white wattle and daub buildings serving as dormitories, classrooms and a dining hall. The students pursued missions I could only imagine.

Sweat trickled down my face as I stood fidgeting under the hot morning sun. My new rough woolen robe itched, and chafed my skin. In time, my name would be called to climb the tall, grass covered hill before me, the sacred Knockaulin, and at last stand before the Master.

When the sun reached its peak, my turn came and I began the long walk up the earthen pathway to the crest. My head swiveled ’round as goose bumps ran down my body. During past visits I overheard whisperings that in olden times human sacrifice was practiced here. What boy wouldn’t fear the presence of ghosts, the angry shades of the dead ones sacrificed by ancient Druids in foolish rituals?

At the mid-way point I rested and gazed down on the compound surrounded by the thatched roofs of the school. Beyond a wooded grove, and further on, partially screened by the trees, lay the small village of Kilcullen. Why did the old priest Patrick choose the village so near our sacred Dún Ailinne to build a Christian monastery?

Solitude ruled the shrine at the summit, and I recognized the grand design of it, one that reminded me of ripples created by dropping a pebble into a quiet pool—an outer, perfectly circular earthen wall and within it two deep inner trenches. Blackbirds fluttered, cackled and roosted among numerous heavy wooden posts forming the innermost circle.

I hesitated, a lump in my throat. The Master dwelt within his small stone sanctuary at the center of the shrine’s universe.

My future would begin here. Upon hearing of my acceptance at the school, King Domhnall had declared a feast of celebration, and my name was raised within all the homes throughout my village. Again, I bowed under the burden of it as I stood there, and again I felt the weight of the gold paid by my father that I might follow in his footsteps.

The polished oak door of the sanctuary loomed before me and I rapped upon it with my knuckles. There was no response. Uncertain of what do, I considered tapping again when a deep voice bade me enter. Upon opening the door, a musty aroma of ancient dust mingled with incense assaulted my nose. My eyes grew accustomed to the candle-lit dimness as I shambled forward, my new soft sandals making swishing sounds as I crossed the stone floor.

Before me a mighty, fearsome image, the Master posed in an ornate high-backed chair behind a table piled with manuscripts. A full gray beard framing his round face cascaded from his chin to spread across a considerable paunch concealed beneath a Druid’s black and white striped robe.

Here sat Tóla, his
stern, gray eyes holding me in their grasp as he leaned forward to inspect me. “And so, Ossian, your father prepared you well for our school here?”

My teeth gripped my quivering tongue as I bowed and forced myself to murmur, “My father sends his reverent greetings, Master Tóla, and asks you be the judge of it.”

“Humph, yes, of course. Your father was one of my best students, who has since matured into a fine advisor to the King at Rath Raithleann and priest to your people. As for you, we shall measure the scion against the tree.”

My heart skipped at hearing his words. I feared I would look foolish indeed in the eyes of the Master if he were to compare my poor skills against the great knowledge and boundless wisdom of my father.

He leaned back in his chair, and cocked a bushy gray eyebrow. “So tell me. The history of our land is closely held within our oral traditions. As a Druid who merits the right to be called Wise One, you shall be expected to recite Eire’s history from the time of the Great Deluge forward, year by year. Do you know why that is important?”

“My father says what has been will be again. The past offers a window into the future.”

Gray eyes seemed to bore through me as he leaned forward. “Your father says? What say you?”

It took a moment to swallow a pesky lump forming in my throat before replying. “I say my father is most wise.”

“Hmm. Yes,” he muttered, clasping his hands atop the table.

The annoying lump returned as he continued. “We still don’t know about your wisdom, do we? Complete this quotation for me if you can. It was the Age of the World, 3303…”

So, the testing of my preparation was to begin immediately. An anxious chill ran through me beneath the fullness of my robe. In the manner learned through my years spent in the Sacred Grove, I closed my eyes and calmed my mind so that a correct response might form.

It was a straightforward question, for 3303 might well be the most important year in Druidic Irish history. I began, “For thirty-seven years the Firbolgs ruled Eire. It was in this year the Tuatha De Danann arrived and gave battle to them in Connaught. During the battle King Eochaidh of the Firbolgs was slain by the sons of Neimhidh of the Tuatha De Dannans, and the Firbolgs were vanquished and slaughtered.”

“Stop!” The Master held up his hand. “It seems you have a quick mind and gifted memory. However, remember this, for it is very important. When you tell the history of this land, do not simply recite it. Your stories must bring mood and motion to the peoples of the distant past, give your listeners a sense of actually being there.”

“I begin to understand, Master, and shall strive to improve.”

“No, Ossian, you must improve.”

Remaining rigidly erect, I nodded my understanding. Sweat trickled down my spine beneath my robe.

His questioning resumed. “We realize humans descended from trees. Our Tree Calendar speaks to the thirteen phases of the moon. Tell me,
what is the significance of the seventh month?”

There was much that could be said in response to his question, but what did he truly wish to know? The wisest course seemed to remain wary, so I offered the only liturgy I knew. “The seventh month is that within which the royal tree, the Oak, rules under the hand of the god, Duir. It is said that its midsummer blooms speak to endurance, strength and triumph. It is further said that it was on the 24
th
day of the month the Oak-king was sacrificed by fire. The final seven days of the month, which are also the first seven days of the second half of the year, are dedicated to his remembrance, and each year includes a great feast in his honor. There is—”

“Enough!” The Master peered at me, eyes squinting. “You have arrived at Dún Ailinne, but I wonder if you recall the story about the girl for whom this place is named?”

“Yes, Master Tóla, I think so.” I blessed my father’s foresight to prepare me for this question. Again I closed my eyes, thought back and quoted,

Across the snow the wolfpack raced,

Wolves or men still all the same,

Within the rath the he-bear slept,

He lost his cub to the wolves that night.

In Leinster the black shroud unfurled,

Grief unchecked the kingdom wept,

King Lugaid called his voice unheard,

By one, his one and only one.

Ailinne the fair, cheeks roses kissed,

Hair the sun, her eyes the sea,

By love betrothed to Conchobhar,

Noble prince of the Dal Cormaic.

Chaste maiden amid the beasts,

Powerless, most cruelly used,

Faded away and died of shame,

Through her grave an apple tree grew.

Word spread throughout the Leinster realm,

Lugaid, mindless rent his hair,

And wailed throughout the lonely nights,

The last to hear was Conchobhar.

Anguish unquenched the stately prince,

Chose to accept the dagger’s thrust,

And from the ground an apple tree grew,

Through the grave of Conchobhar.

Among the Chieftains the Apple proffered,

Life eternal for prince and maid,

United as one, Conchobhar and Ailinne,

Forever young at Tír na nÓg.

Tóla’s eyes twinkled as he leaned back with a sigh. “Your father prepared you for that question, did he not?”

At my nod he continued. “Of course. Your father was always the clever one. But yes, that is one version of the story, and the one I prefer. It is the cruelest fate for a young girl to be captured and ravaged by brutal men, don’t you think?”

“Yes, Master,” I replied, although the girl’s fate of which he spoke was held within an old story. I had little interest in it.

“I asked you three questions. In each case your delivery was hesitant, awkward and you omitted many important details. I shall demand much improvement.”

“Of course, Master Tóla,” I replied, greatly relieved that at least for a while his questioning had ended.

“You are one of twenty students desiring to become Druids who were admitted to our school this year. Provided you have the intellect and necessary qualities to be retained, you will be with us for twelve years. Are you prepared to make such a commitment?”

Long I had looked forward to this moment, this very question, and I responded with soft assurance, “Yes, Master.”

“Good. Here, you will learn mathematics, astrology, medicine, ceremonial doctrine, alchemy, philosophy, culture, arts, nature, divination, the art of war and many more of the scholarly arts. You will learn to read and write in Greek as well as our own Irish Ogham alphabet. Beware, Ossian, few students may enter here, and fewer still succeed to at last stand alongside learned men.”

* * *

The years passed swiftly, and it was during my fourth year at Dún Ailinne, I attended a class meant for bards. The room was crowded. Learning old songs and poetry was important, for they told the rich history of our people. Still, I thought it unjust that the poor performance of those of us studying the art of Druidry was judged equally alongside talented musicians.

I knew none of the bards, for they tended to remain together and not talk with the rest of us. Unlike those of us clad in our acolyte robes, they wore whatever clothing they chose and cavorted among us like an unruly flock of colorful birds fluttering within a drab, brown sky.

A lecture on the structure of ballads was underway when Master Tóla strode through the door. He muttered to the lecturer, a noted bard himself.

The Master then turned his frowning face to the class. “Among the one hundred and four students at our school, a dozen of you study to be bards. Important business with one of you brings me here.” He pointed to a student. “Laoidheach. Come forward.”

A youthful bard wearing a radiant yellow tunic and fawn leggings rose and proceeded forward to stand, head bowed, before Master Tóla. He had been at the school only a short while, but appeared to be about my own age of sixteen years. Like me, he was tall and thin, though his shoulder-length hair was golden his features fine, almost feminine.

The Master rested a hand on the bard’s shoulder. “Young man, you have been here but a few months, and already this is the second time I must reprimand you. The first time I did so privately, but since that did you no good perhaps it will go better if I do so in front of your fellow students. You know this matter of which I speak?”

Laoidheach slumped even lower, and nodded.

“You remind me of another lad known for causing trouble who, as a prank, attempted to steal the harp of the goddess, Aibell. Surely you recall her magical harp, for any human overhearing its music will soon die. The goddess was so infuriated she transformed the troublesome youth into a toad and he was forced to survive upon flies. Fortunately, after a while he came to enjoy the flavor of flies. Do you like flies too, Laoidheach?”

Several class members laughed aloud and I hid a smile behind my hand, as Laoidheach mumbled, “No, Master…um…that is…um…I think not.”

“No?” the Master mused, as he stepped back and eyed the young man up and down. “Hmm. Perhaps another punishment is in order.” He snapped his fingers. “I have it! Beginning tonight, you alone will wash every dish and pot at the dining hall, and you will continue doing so every night for a month. If I encounter more trouble with you, I shall make the assignment permanent. Then again, who knows, Laoidheach? Perhaps you will come to enjoy washing dishes and pots.”

Laughter filled the room, including my own, as a shame-faced Laoidheach returned to his seat. Master Tóla mumbled his apologies to the instructor for disturbing the class, and strode through the door, leaving us laughing.

When the class was dismissed I was in no hurry, and by the time I reached the center of the compound, Laoidheach sat alone under a tree like a lump. The troublesome bard interested me, so I walked over to join him.

“Laoidheach, I am Ossian. May I speak with you?”

He looked up at me from where he was sitting, and shrugged. “Why not? I know you, Ossian, everyone does.”

I settled upon the ground beside him. “You know me?”

“I know who you are. Everyone here speaks of you as though you are the son of the Dagda himself.”