2. The Paths Home #3
Tuathal reached the large building just before dark. Clouds had begun to fill the sky, thin as fine linen or the tail and mane of Rhiannon's mare. He approached the gateway of the proud farmyard. "Greetings to the hall," he called.
"Who be ye?" came the reply. A stripling carrying a boar spear and a scowl blocked the gateway.
"Tuathal Brida's son, word weaver."
The young man's lip curled in a sneer. "We've one of ourn, better than all in the land. 'Lessen ye can turn yer hand to service, yer not needed here."
Tuathal inhaled to speak. Awan, word power, pushed into him before he could make a sound.
His voice chanted, "Indeed, great are the tales of Fyon the Black, greater still his hospitality.
Even the smallest of creatures receives full measure of garment and food in his hall.
No harper has been heard of the kind of that of Fyon the Black, even the crows fall silent in shame to be compared to the croaking of his voice.
Far spreads the name of Fyon the Black."
As the awan flowed through his words, Tuathal felt himself beginning to move, to turn. The stripling smiled. Once the words finished, the youth sneered, "Ye've the right of it, now be gone, ye fatherless beggar."
Tuathal turned back, snatched a rounded stone from off the small pile beside the gate, and hurled it at the brat.
It struck him full in the face, and he cried, dropping the spear to clutch his nose.
Dark blood dripped, then gushed. "Bryri Flat-Nose I name you," he called to all who might hear.
"I spend no time where no welcome awaits.
" He returned to the road, ignoring the commotion behind him.
Full dark had fallen when a quiet, small voice called, "Traveler, need ye shelter?"
Tuathal hesitated, then turned toward the words. "Perhaps, if it is offered freely."
A young woman, not comely but tidily dressed, gestured toward a tiny farm cot. "Please, be welcome. Me ma' asked that I keep watch for any who passed. She was helped in time of need, and seeks to repay the gift."
Was she gesh bound? If so, he dared not refuse. "Then I cannot but welcome such a gift from an open hand and giving heart." He followed her to the small place. Oh, it reeked of smoke and sour cheese. He swallowed his pride as he ducked into the low doorway.
A thin woman, teeth half gone, hair gray-white with the snow of age, said, "Welcome, traveler, in the name of the Lady of the Land. What we have we share."
"Most generous are you, mistress. May your work prosper in your hands, and your land wax fat in this season of harvest." Based on the thickness of the wool on her distaff and the fine thread on her spindle, she had skill to spare.
He ate a bit of coarse bread, sipped water heated with blackberries, and rested. When the awan moved in him, it drew away his strength.
After he'd eaten and drank, the old woman asked, "Know ye aught of news, Traveler?"
"The land prospers, mistress, the land I've seen. Most harvest seems to be finishing, and the grain cut. A farmstead was destroyed in kin strife and the beasts taken, although more I do not know."
The younger woman shook her head and sighed. "Cao could not forget his sister marrying out. He spoke of it every time we worked his fields or spun for him, counted it a dishonor even though her man paid a high bride price and took no land from the family."
Tuathal added her words to his own knowing and nodded.
"Honor slighted, even when the slight is only in a man's heart, is a bitter thing.
" He tuned the clarsach and began a brighter tune.
"Honor polished brings joy to all, especially to the generous and wise, as Sibhon Golden Hair proved to Fion the Bold. " The ladies spun as he sang the tale.
"Thank ye, master harper," the old woman said with a glad sigh and smile when he finished. "Your gift sped our work and brightened the night."
Come the morning, they offered more bread, the last they had.
He thanked them, but declined. He gave them his blessing, then departed before true dawn replaced the faint hint of the sun's waking.
Fyon might not be pleased to find him still on his lands, whoever Fyon was.
Wealthy and powerful, that Tuathal knew.
Wise? His men were not, and men returned the light of their masters.
Nor did he want to be near Cao if the dead man's own kin came seeking his head.
As he crossed a hill and glanced back at the road, light glinted on metal.
Helmets and spears on the road, coming from the south.
Fyon's men seeking to avenge the slights?
Others pursuing kin-justice from Cao? Tuathal wasted no time.
He hurried on before they saw him. Had Fyon truchaine and horses?
He'd not smelled horses, but he'd not gotten inside the gate, either.
It was midday before he stopped and rested.
The clouds thickened, softening the light and warning of a change.
The season of sun passed, and wet and winter approached.
He ate an apple that had fallen onto the road.
The sour milk of the women's cot had not been so sour as the fruit.
Were they bond slaves, or hired women? Not his concern.
He drank from a well after giving thanks.
The water tasted of metal, like the wells north of his mother's court, near the iron lands.
The wind whispered a warning, and he sped his steps.