Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [29]
It was an old tradition that the High King must be a perfect man. He could have no blemish. Everyone knew the story of the legendary king of the gods, Nuadu. When he had lost a hand in battle, he had resigned his kingship. Then he had been given a hand of silver, which eventually turned back into a natural hand. Only then could Nuadu of the Silver Hand be king again. So it was with the High King, supposedly. If the High King wasn’t perfect, then he would not be pleasing to the gods. The kingdom would be blighted.
To her it seemed that the handsome warrior, who, she sensed, had been reluctant to meet her at Lughnasa, had this kingly quality. His body was without blemish—she had certainly seen that. But it was his thoughtful manner, the sense of reserve, even private mystery and melancholy about him, that set him apart in her eyes. This man was special. He was not for any thoughtless, coarse-grained woman. And he had come down to Dubh Linn to see her. She was sure of that. The question was: would he return?
The next day the weather was fine. The morning passed uneventfully, as everyone went about their usual business. It was nearly midday when one of the British slaves called out that there were horsemen crossing the ford, and Deirdre went out to see. There were just two of them, in a light cart with a small train of pack-horses. One man she recognised easily. The other, a tall man, she did not know.
The smaller man was Goibniu the Smith.
Conall awoke at dawn. The evening before, after leaving Deirdre, he had crossed the high promontory at the foot of the Liffey’s broad bay and, choosing a sheltered spot by a rock, had spent the night on its southern slopes. Now, in the dawn’s early glow, he climbed up the rock and gazed southwards at the misty unveiling of the panorama below.
On his right, catching the first gleams of the sun, the gentle hills and volcanic mountains rose into a pale blue sky in which the stars were still departing; on his left, the white mist and silver sheen of the sea. Between these elemental worlds, the great sweep of open country unrolled like a green cloak down the slopes and along the coastline as far as the eye could see until the mists curtailed it. And like a border along the green cloak’s edge ran the little cliffs of the shoreline below which the sea spume spread on the distant waiting sands.
Some way down the slopes before him, he saw a fox lope across open grass and disappear into the trees. All around, the dawn chorus filled the air. Far away, by the edge of the sea, he saw the silent shadow of a heron sliding over the water. He felt the faint warmth of the rising sun on his cold cheek, and turned his face eastwards. It was as if the world had just begun.
It was at times like this, when the world seemed so perfect he wished he could open his mouth like the birds around him to give praise, that Conall would find the words of the ancient Celtic poets coming into his mind. And this morning, it was the most ancient of them all whose words came to him—Amairgen, the poet who arrived on the island with the first Celtic invaders when they took it from the divine Tuatha De Danaan. It was Amairgen, stepping ashore on a coastline like this, who uttered the words that became the foundation for all the Celtic poetry since. As well they might—for Amairgen’s poem was nothing less than an ancient Vedic mantra of the kind to be found right across the huge Indo-European diaspora from the western Celtic bardic songs to the poetry of India.
I am the Wind on the Sea
I am the Ocean Wave
I am the Roar of the Sea
So the great chant began. The poet was a bull, a vulture, a dewdrop, a flower, a salmon, a lake, a pointed weapon, a word, even a god. The poet was transformed into all things, not just by magic but because all things, atomised, were one. Man and nature, sea and land, even the gods themselves came from one primal mist, and were formed in one endless enchantment. This was the knowledge of the ancients,