2. The Paths Home
The Paths Home
Tuathal checked the strap on the clarsach's case once more, and set out with the sun.
The days grew shorter, and he needed to be in his own people's lands by the dying of the year.
Did his uncle still head the family? He had not heard otherwise, but word did not travel so fast inland as along the sea.
He shrugged, settling the straps on his bag and the clarsach case, then turned his steps north in the soft, warm early fall morning.
The trade path wound north past the Hill of Three Ravens, so named for the birds carved on the flat standing stone beside the spring at the base of the hill.
Kai's people avoided the place, as did some others.
He'd not noticed any power himself, only watchful crows and a sense of age.
Beyond the gray-black stone, the path widened, in some places descending to knee-deep below the fields and pastures around.
Time-worn pale, squared-off stones, waist to chest high, stood here and there along the way, marking the route.
Could they be of the old ones? He knew that feet had trod this path long before his people came to the land, but were the stones that old?
If they held power, it hid by daylight, and no man traveled by night at the dark of the moon this time of year if he could help it.
What he saw of the land prospered. Forest stretched to the west, while fields and pasture dotted the land to the east. The ground rose, leaving the boggy river forests and flats near Kai's settlement behind for now.
He'd be threading through marsh and fording rivers once he crossed the hills to the north.
Birds sang in the quiet air. Tuathal walked with a steady pace, hearing one of the coast women's songs in his head.
He'd never sing it himself, but it served to pattern his steps.
The lean end of summer had passed, and food had grown more plentiful, especially wild food.
The Lady of the Land and the God of Wild Places smiled this year, for now.
All could change, all would change, so it had always been.
At midday he reached a ford and a split in the way.
A goose passed overhead, and Tuathal looked, seeking the proper path.
To the east, men gathered, men carrying sticks with ends that gleamed in the sun.
The goose, wise to hunters, turned to the west. The trail shifted back toward star north as it crossed the next hill.
Tuathal sent thanks and he too turned west. A well sat beside the path just beyond the ford.
He took off his packs and drew up water, spilling a little as a libation to the spirit of the well.
He sang under his breath, "Praise to the giver of the gift, to the giver of water sweet and clear, water shining, abode of dancing light.
" He drank, ate a handful of the old nuts he'd brought, then resumed his journey.
Back to the east, on the other side of some trees, he heard faint, angry voices and a scream.
Smoke, dark smoke, came on the eastern wind.
Kin strife? Robbers? Clanless men seeking lands?
He knew not and did not care to find out more.
Not all men respected the clarsach and holly brooch.
He should have bargained for a good staff, but had not thought to do so.
Perhaps he could trade words for wood farther on toward the north.
A sense of warning in him rose, then faded. Perhaps not.
As the goose had seen, the path turned north once more as it crossed the long sweep of the treeless hill.
A lush, green-draped burial mound, surrounded by white stones, sat east of the path and brooded over the little valley to the south.
Tuathal touched the chip of rowan in his pouch and sped his steps.
He did not fear the old ones, but he respected them, as he did the old ways.
Múinti—Master—Amlod claimed that the oldest of the songs, the ones that still held power in the land, came from the old ones.
Tuathal did not know, and this was not the place to test the saying.
Not out in the open with anger behind him.
Now the wind carried the scent of cut grass and turned earth.
No, he did not care to interrupt work by accident.
He smiled to himself. He'd cut grass for hay before.
He preferred other ways of earning his keep.
As evening drew close, he found a small side track leading through woods.
A bit of smoke rose from the trees. Tuathal turned off the path and began to sing.
A man who left the road without giving sound and sign had forfeited guest protection, as all well knew.
"Long the day and short the night as summer passes on.
Wise the man who works under the summer sun. "
A dog barked, and a young man carrying a heavy staff emerged from the late day shadows. "Greetings, traveler," he called, his accent thick and hard to understand.
"Greetings and summer's gift to the land holder," Tuathal replied, speaking slow, clear words. "I seek shelter against the night, of the householder's kindness."
A second man, older and following a large white and red dog, joined the youth. The frost-graced elder studied Tuathal. "Be that a harp of the north?" he demanded.
"Aye. I'm a song spinner and word weaver, a knitter of speech and news."
The elder nodded. "Then be ye welcome under the roof this night.
Come." He turned. The dog, as tall at the shoulder as Tuathal's hip and heavily built, studied him with bright blue eyes.
They seemed to weigh him. Tuathal inclined to the hound.
The dog turned and followed the elder, as did Tuathal.
A glimpse of red ear gave him pause, but he shrugged to himself.
The young man came behind. He walked with steps a little uneven.
Had he broken a leg or suffered other injury?
Perhaps his mother had kept her hair bound while in labor and had bound his leg. It mattered not.
"Enter and be welcome," the grey-haired man said, holding the door mats aside.
Tuathal bowed as he stepped over the threshold.
"Thanks for the welcome, and thanks for the roof.
Prosperous indeed is the house that holds a guest." He smelled the soft, heavy scent of marsh-wood, and the sharp, clean scent of sorrel.
He eased to the left, hands open and empty.
"Wise is the lady of the house who gathers summer herbs against winter's frost."
"Be ye welcome, stranger," a young woman called from beside the fire. "What shall we name you?"
He smiled and eased the clarsach's bag off his shoulder. "Word-weaver, and Tuathal Brida's son."
"Welcome twice over, then," she declared, and the fire flared a little as she added true wood to the marsh-wood. "We have sheep cheese and pottage if you hunger."
He removed his back sack as well, then sat on the floor. "I do, but I would not take food from the hungry, should any be so."
The older man sat as well, on a seat of honor beside the young woman.
"Lady of Lands be thanked, none go without here.
Eat to your strength. I am Tulchon." The young woman got up and served Tuathal with sharp, fresh sheep curd cheese and pottage made from forest grains and mushrooms. He ate slowly, but not so slow that his host grew impatient.
After he finished, the householder said, "What news carry ye? "
"That Tulchon's generosity and kindness rank high among the men of grace, and that his household is blessed by the Lady of Lands and the Lord of the Beasts.
That his young men are as the hounds of the great Fiann, and his hounds are swift and sure as the hounds of Anun.
That his women bear the grace of Nuada and the skills of the women of Eidyn.
" Tuathal moved to one of the work benches and sat there.
He removed his clarsach from the bag, tested the notes, and played one of the praise songs. Tulchon sat back, pleased.
Tuathal stilled the strings, then shifted to a slow, dark tune.
"I come from the south, below the River of Trout.
At the split in the way, black smoke arose and hard words came from a small farmstead.
What transpired and who moved I did not seek to learn.
The mist moves in the south, claiming the Burn of Mercil and all that grew in the valley of the burn. "
Tulchon scowled, one hand moving to his knife. "Ah. So had many feared, when the winter fled north with the sun. Saw you this with your own eyes?"
"Yes. My way went near to the wall, and I saw the mist where the Burn of Mercil should have been. I stood on the Hill Legar, where the Old Ones had built walls, and watched the mist flow and churn like the sea waves, like sour milk in the butter rocker. Closer I did not go."
"You are wise." Tulchon leaned forward, the smoldering firelight casting red and black shadows on his craggy face. "Know you of open pasture to the south? The land here grows crowded, and my sister's son needs sheep land."
Tuathal smiled and shifted his hands, drawing a sprightly summer melody from the strings.
"Indeed. I saw with my own eyes, and walked the sward with my own feet, a pasture enclosed in a hedge, unclaimed but watered by a white burn.
An old way runs east to west below it. The pasture held ten sheep easily, with room for more, and the hedge marked clear borders.
The closest family is content with their lands, or perhaps looks north.
They are not sure. They do not trust land bordering an old way, even with a white burn in the heart of it. "
Tulchon's eyes had grown wider and wider, as had those of the young woman. She blurted, "A pasture with a white burn, unclaimed? You speak truth, traveler?"
Tuathal held up his right hand. "May my hand wither, my tongue go numb, and my clarsach betray me if I speak untruth. Unclaimed as of four suns ago."