Authors: Maggie; Davis
Calum began to wonder why he had not killed Muireach’s child when it would have been easy, for she had soon grown beautiful and womanly. When she bent over him to serve him at meals her body brushed his; he could smell the odor of her hair and know the maddening fact of her closeness. If she had been ugly he could have killed her, but now he lay awake at night fancying he could hear the movements of her body as she slept, and grew to desire her more than he thought he could desire anything. His life became a constant plot to meet her in dark places, to surprise and maul her, helpless in his own excitement. He thought often of taking her by force and spent much time devising schemes to overpower her, all of which he eventually abandoned. He was terrified of his failure to conquer her, afraid that once he had cornered her
he would be unable to take her. It set the seal of his humiliation. He would be destroyed by her mockery. He decided to get rid of her.
In desperation he seized upon an idea. He would put her away from him, but not out of life. He would have his triumph and be able to savor her agony. The idea of her beauty in the hands of the lustful Northmen exhilarated him.
The gift of the knife, he thought, had been rather clever.
3
Doireann nighean Muireach was sitting in the Northmen’s log hall, holding the gilded Irish harp. She had sung one of the songs of the remsecela which introduce the Tain Bo Chulaigne, the account of the cattle raid of Cooley, and then, as an afterthought, one of the
lovely laments of Deirdre. She was half-crooning to herself. The day was dreary and there was nothing to be done outside in the chill rain. The Northmen had crowded into the small wooden hall and were now lying about idly, a few sleeping with their cloaks drawn over their heads to shut out the noise. The others argued restlessly among themselves or worked a little at the braiding of new lines and the mending of fishing gear. Time hung exceedingly heavy on all of them, and Doireann, searching for something to do, had unwrapped the harp she had brought from Coire and strummed it, humming softly to herself.
The dampness of the weather had put the harp out of tune. She tinkered with the screws of the frame, thinking to adjust it, and as she struggled with the thing a silence fell. The Northmen had noticed the sounds above their own clamor and turned to her, willing to be entertained. She looked up suddenly to find all their eyes on her.
She tried to slip the harp to the floor but a young warrior called Raki jumped up from his seat and came to her and took the harp from her hands. He held his head close to the frame of the instrument and plucked at the strings confidently, turning the screws until the tone was somewhat sweeter than it had been before. Then he thrust it on her, gesturing to show that she should play and sing for them.
Doireann shook her head, no, and put the harp into her lap and covered it with her arms. But Sweyn, who was seated by the chieftain’s bed, lifted a big hand and pointed at her.
“Yes,” he shouted. “Take the little harp and sing a song for us now, for it is dull enough.”
She set her mouth stubbornly while the men looked at her. If she dared she would like to take the harp and break it here in front of them to show how she despised them. Because it had been her brother Fergus’ harp, it was especially dear and comforting to her, and she balked at using it for their pleasure. But Sweyn still pointed commandingly and her courage fell away.
“That is a nice song,” Sweyn urged. “The little song you were singing before.” She opened her mouth to sing the lament again and found to her disgust
that her voice shook.
That which was all the beauty of the sky
And which was most dear to me
Thou hast destroyed. Oh, great my anguish!
I shall not be healed of it till my death!
There was a silence, and then the Norse chieftain spoke to Sweyn, asking him something. Sweyn turned to her.
“My lord Jarl wishes an explanation.” She looked back at him sullenly.
“I do not understand you.”
The finger pointed at her again.
“Now, this is no answer,” he told her. “The Jarl wishes to have the meaning of what you have sung.”
She took her time, thinking of the proper words. It was not easy. The story of Deirdre would elude them, she was sure, for it was highly colored and fanciful, and was the story of a great love. She began to speak slowly and carefully to Sweyn, and he relayed the Norse version to the Jarl. The others listened, frowning.
Deirdre had run away from the house of Conchobar, High King of
Ireland, Doireann related. She had gone with Naoise of the strong arms, her
lover, and his two brothers and had fled to Scotland. But Conchobar, lusting for Deirdre, the most beautiful of women, had tricked them through promises of safe return, and then he had killed Naoise. The poor captive Deirdre had sung her lament in the house of Conchobar as he gloated over her. “Oh, great my anguish! I shall not be healed of it till my death!”
The Northmen exchanged skeptical looks. A song was not a song unless it told of battles and great courage, so what kind of song, then, was this?
But the sick man seemed to take a great interest in it. Sweyn spent some time explaining the finer points to him.
The Norse Jarl propped himself up on his elbow and addressed himself to
Doireann carefully in the Armorican tongue.
“Now, this is a singular thing,” he said haltingly. “For it seems this woman, this Deirdre, had a wyrd which was foreordained and which she could not escape.”
She stared at him. He had used a Norse word which meant nothing to her. Sweyn explained swiftly in Gaelic.
“There is no such thing,” she declared. This seemed to annoy the giant.
“Wyrd, wyrd,” he insisted. He looked at Sweyn, who supplied the Gaelic word again. “Fate, fate.”
“I do not know this fate or wyrd, as you would call it,” she maintained stubbornly. She tried to speak slowly so that he would understand her. “Deirdre was born with great beauty, and in this she had a power over men. But she was foolish and followed her heart for love of Naoise and so she destroyed them both. If men desired her they should have paid the price of her desires. A clever woman would have well used Conchobar the king for the power that he had to protect her.”
Sweyn shifted uneasily and frowned, but his chief was already busy composing an answer in the Celtic speech.
“That is foolishness,” the Jarl said finally. “No woman can use her beauty to change her destiny. All destinies are foreordained. Was there not a prophecy when she was born that such a thing would happen? And did it not come to be? The Norns had cast the thread of her life and it could not be undone.”
“The Norns are the women who spin the thread of life,” Sweyn volunteered. “Why do you not take up your harp and play more?”
The girl glowered at them. The man on the bed lay twisting some newly braided lines about his fist, his followers spread about on the floor watching, their heads turning first to him as he spoke, and then to her as she answered. In their faces she could see the curious intentness they had for him. The Northmen were usually restless and quarrelsome, yet before their chief always
watchful, with respect in their manner. That he was weak and unable to lead them at the moment seemed unimportant. She looked again at the giant of a man with his flowing yellow hair. He was big enough and powerful enough to have a natural leadership over them. But it was something more, perhaps the eyes, that caught and held one; flat, dead-looking, they were, as if the soul wandered somewhere else, out of the living body, in the company of demons and ghosts.
Her scalp prickled and she felt chilled in the middle of the sultry room. It does not help me to lament the unfortunate Deirdre, she thought suddenly, for it is the daughter of Muireach macDumhnull who needs my anguish. When this Jarl puts his hands on me I shall come to great sorrow, for he will rip my body without caring and not even hear my screams.
The faces before her seemed suddenly to rush up like a wave, and then recede. She swallowed, her palms wet with sweat.
“The Jarl wishes an answer to his question,” Sweyn’s voice said, as if far away. “What?” she cried. They looked at her impatiently.
“He says is it not so that this Deirdre was cursed, that her fate was decided when she was born?”
“Whatever I said, this is so,” she stammered. “I never fashioned the song. It was an old song before I was born, a song from before the times of the coming of the priests.” She put her hand to her head. “If it said that Deirdre was fated, then so she was. I only said that she should have put Naoise aside for Conchobar who was powerful and could protect her. In this way she could have thwarted her fate; she would submit to Conchobar and live with him, nursing her hatred but not showing it.”
Sweyn snorted.
“One cannot change one’s fate,” the Jarl said. “This woman could never have lived with a man that she hated. A woman could never conceal her hatred so cleverly.”
“Let us sing some good songs, heh?” Sweyn said loudly. “Songs of the dragon-slayers and the good fight.”
“What is this song but words?” Doireann offered with confusion. “What is a love like Deirdre’s that we should die for it, or even fate, that we should not fight it? The priests of my country say there is no such thing as fate, only God. But it is the same thing, for then they say that a man should submit to the will of God. There is no difference. My father, who was a great man, used to say that life does not concern these arguments. He said it was only a struggle to keep the belly full and keep one’s children from the winter hunger and sickness, and to keep clear of the quarrels of others. I believe what he taught me, that life is not a matter of fate, nor of love such as Deirdre’s, nor even of God. Life is a duty and a wish to endure.”
The Jarl was leaning forward to catch her words.
“Endure!” he said quickly. “Man needs to know this: that he cannot escape his fate. That is what must be endured.”
“Now it seems to me,” Sweyn broke in, “that you are both speaking of the same thing.”
“It may be that we are,” the Jarl said.
The Northman in the horsetail headgear spoke up.
“They are an insane race, these Irish,” he said, “for I have heard them boast of the Christian priest they call Columcille setting forth on the stormy sea from Eire in a little wicker craft which is no bigger than the basket the housewife uses for her grain. So small it is that a man can scarce sit in it. With this, now, and twelve others also in their baskets, paddling, they would take to the sea!”
“Is this a true thing, Hallfreor?” Sweyn asked, surprised.
“Yes, it is a true thing,” the girl cried. “They took to the sea, traveling to
Alba, and converted the savage Picts to Christian ways. This was long ago.” The Northmen were immediately impressed with the folly of crossing the sea in baskets, as they called the coracles.
“This is not like the Norse who have great ships in which to travel the sea road,” Hallfreor boasted. “There is none better than the clinker-built craft made of sturdy oak wood, which bends with the wave. The ship of the Norse is the mighty sea-rider. In such ships may warriors venture forth to challenge the might of old Njord, the sea god. I speak not only of the famed warships such as we have brought to this place, but even of the smaller vessels, the fishing boats and the like. All are perfectly made with the Northmen’s great skill. A man is proud to put his trust in such ships.”
Sweyn nodded agreement. He began to speak in rapid Norse, reminiscing over the fishing runs off dangerous Vestfjord in the northland. Others joined him. Suddenly Sweyn turned to the girl drooping over her harp.
“In the fall of the year,” he said to her in Gaelic, “after the hard work of the land harvest is over, the men go forth to the mountains to hunt. They hunt in the cool weather for the game, only stopping when the first hard freeze comes to keep the meat. After a good store has been laid by for the winter supply, the bravest and sturdiest of the warriors of the Norse go down to the sea for the whale chase, a most dangerous sport. Often at the feast of Yule they are still at sea, dreaming of the warm fires and feasting and merrymaking which have passed them by. But they have their reward, if they are lucky, for they seek the fat right-whale and the pilot whales such as can be beached for capture and slaughter. Not often do the brave warriors pursue the sperm whale, the unruly giant of the deep, for although he is the biggest, and rich with oil, he has a vicious temper and will often attack the boats and crush them in the sea.”
Hallfreor said something in his own tongue and looked at the Jarl. The giant appeared not to listen to them, working with a length of leather braid wrapped about his fist.
“Yes, that is so,” Sweyn said, nodding, shooting a look at the blond head of the Jarl. “I have known madmen who would pursue the monsters of the sea. I knew once a chieftain, although he was not a chieftain then but a wild youth, who was fishing with some others at Lofoten, and when he sighted the slanting spout of the sperm whale which other men avoid, nothing must do but he must give pursuit in the smallboat, the men straining and puffing at the oars, following his maddened shouts, caught up in his own frenzy. Foolish one, he risked his boat and his life and his comrades, but it was a very daring deed also, for he urged them to take the boat right to the neck of the monster, and then he cast his harpoon into it; so close was he that he could touch the skin of the barnacle-covered old one. This warrior drove the iron in deeply, a true blow, and it was the death of the animal. For they are animals, you know, and suckle their young and bleed bright red blood even as we.”