Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [67]
On Samhain eve, when he was somewhat older, he used to slip out and sit by himself outside. All through the night he would watch for the vague shadows, and listen for soft footfalls as the spirits came to visit, sliding into wicker huts or brushing against the autumn trees. One in particular he had waited for. Surely, he had thought as a little boy, his heroic father would come to visit him. Again and again he would conjure pictures of his father in his mind—the tall figure his mother had told him about, with flashing blue eyes and flowing moustaches. Wouldn’t his father come? Yet he never had. Once, on the Samhain eve when he was fourteen, he had experienced something: a strange sense of warmth, a presence near him. And because he had longed and ached for it to be so, he believed it was his father.
But this last night had been different. He had been glad of Larine for company. He had asked that Larine should take him through the ordeal and the request had been granted. They had sat together, talked and prayed a little, recited from the sacred sayings. Then, towards the middle of the night, Larine had left him alone for a while.
So hard had he been concentrating on the ordeal ahead that he had even forgotten that the spirits were abroad that night. Sitting alone in the darkness of the druid’s house, he was not sure whether he had fallen asleep or whether he was awake; but it was sometime in the deepest part of the night that he saw the figure enter. He was as plainly visible as Larine, which was strange perhaps, as there was no light; and he knew at once who it was. His father stood just in front of him, with a grave but kindly smile.
“I have waited so long for you, Father,” he said.
“We shall be together soon, Conall,” his father replied. “We shall be together always, in the lands of the bright morning. I have many things to show you.” Then he went out again, and Conall felt a sense of great peace, knowing that he was going to his father with the blessing of the gods.
It had been a long time since they had sacrificed a man at Tara. Not for three generations at least. That made the ceremony all the more solemn and important. If anything could lift the curse that had seemingly fallen upon the High King and the whole land, surely it must be this. If he hoped to purge his own sense of grief and guilt after his elopement with Deirdre and the killing of Finbarr, such a sacrifice would atone. Yet his overwhelming sense, as he prepared to pass through the portals into the next world, was not one of personal sacrifice. It was hardly even one of sorrow or joy. Sorrow was needless, joy not enough. What Conall felt now was a sense of destiny. It was not just that the three geissi and the prophecy about Finbarr had all been fulfilled, but rather that, in this act, all that he was—prince, warrior, druid—found their perfect expression. It was the noblest death, the finest. It was what he had been born for. To be at one with the gods: it was his homecoming. He remained at peace until, just as the first hint of dawn appeared in the east, Larine returned.
They fed him a little burnt cake and crushed hazelnuts, for the hazel tree was sacred. He took three sips of water and, when he was finished, stripped. Then, after washing him carefully, they painted his naked body red with dye. This took a little time to dry. When it had, Larine tied an armlet of fox fur round Conall’s left arm. After that, he had to wait, but only for a little time. For already it was growing light outside the door. And soon enough, with a smile, Larine said to him, “Come.”
There must have been a thousand people watching. The circle of druids stood on the mound, where all could see them. On another mound, the High King was standing. The crowd had just fallen silent. They were bringing Conall.
The High King gazed across the crowd, thoughtfully. It had to be done. He was not sure he liked it, but the thing had to be done. He caught sight of Goibniu.