5. The Dying of the Year
The Dying of the Year
"Tomorrow, we honor the Lord of the Land and the harvest," Fiachta announced two hands of days later.
Cold rain had fallen twice, not enough to stop work or raise the streams, but a warning of winter's coming.
Tuathal had counted the birds, and considered the sun against the cut in the hills.
Indeed, the ending of the year had arrived.
Soon too would the wise ones—priests of the Lord of the Land—arrive.
Brian, the master of horse, the two arms men, and others gestured agreement.
Tuathal nodded. "Cold the wind, white the land, dies the year.
Bitter the wind, green the land, dies the world," he quoted.
His mother's people still sang tales of the years when a third of all beasts and men died of hunger or illness, the years of the yellow sky and throat-stinging winds, before the mists but after the old ones lifted their claims to the land.
A late-season sea trader said that snow had already begun moving down the mountains to the north, the ones that washed their feet in the sea and wore gray hoods of cloud all the year.
"Yes, but not this year," Fiachta declared. "When comes butchering weather?"
Tuathal glanced at the sky, then opened his mouth to answer.
Instead, the awan crashed down on him as strong as an angry wave of the sea, and he heard himself chanting, "Come the spring, north the swans, south the warriors.
Strong men stay not with the weak of praise.
Come the spring, north the swans, south the ravens.
Strong walls burn bright where dark is the hall.
" The power and his own strength left together.
He dropped to his knees, breathing as fast as if he'd run with the King of the Mounds' own hunting dogs.
He heard bird song, and the distant voice of cattle herders.
A smith's hammer rang faintly from the forge outside the walls.
At last Brian spoke. "That is the spring, sir.
Time enough to prepare, if it is to come to pass.
" Tuathal heard doubt, but did not challenge the horse master.
The awan's meaning was not always so clear as the words were.
"If the stars are hard tonight, then three days to butchering weather, sir," Fiachta's steward suggested. "The cow guards saw two black geese with the gray, moving in the night."
They fled the true cold, then. Tuathal's heart had stopped racing, so he got to one knee, then to his feet. His head ached a little, as if he'd stared at the snow in bright sunlight, but not so bad as the morning after new mead and old cider.
Fiachta considered then nodded once. "Good. The bond servants have time to prepare the cauldrons and wood and water. Which beast to begin, Tiernan?"
The lean steward considered the wind, and the beasts just out of sight at the foot of the hill. "The gray cow, the black-spotted sow, and the oldest sheep. None bore healthy get this year past, and all are full-fleshed."
"Not the boar of the mountain?" one of the arms men asked, eyes wide and innocent as a lamb.
"You find and kill him, and bring the flesh home with the bristles, then we will have the great cauldron prepared.
" Tiernan glared, then walked off on legs so long and thin his family might have been born of wading birds.
The others chuckled, and even Brian smiled a little.
Tiernan had no patience for legendary beasts that were almost captured, nor for warriors who jested about serious matters such as feasting, and butchering animals for winter.
"... No, not that," Tuathal murmured to himself.
He'd withdrawn to a quiet corner of the hill-top stronghold, and the notes for one of the new songs no longer fit the words.
How could it have changed? He tested the clarsach's tune, but that remained solid, as it should.
He sang inside his head as his fingers brushed the wires.
Two turns of the melody, then— "Ah." It was not the harp out of tune, but the voices of the people around.
He released the strings and set the instrument aside, stood, and peered around the corner, as wary as a hare with hunting hounds nearby.
Four men in wool-colored cloaks of creamy gray, and a woman in green, leaned on tall staves and watched the servants and others hurrying at their tasks.
Tuathal returned to his practice, but more quietly.
The sound of the smith's hammer, and of the men and women threshing the grain, would hide the notes, but he did not care to take a chance, should Eoghan desire to continue their conflict.
The priests' presence would dim the brightest day, at least this time of the year.
When had the last great offering been made at the dying of the year?
Tuathal played the notes again, brushing the strings so lightly that he felt more than heard the sounds.
Not for a hand of years, that much he recalled clearly.
Not since the year of long rains and chilly wind, when the grain came late and light, what of it had survived the storms. His and Fiachta's father's brother's life had been given to the gods in thanks and apology, along with two fine cows and a sow in her prime.
Only when the hum of work and speech returned to the proper harmony did Tuathal venture out of concealment. He caught the eye of Aelfyn, the common harper. The man turned from his errand and drew near, then bowed. "What news know you?" Tuathal asked.
Aelfyn straightened. "That the ceremony of thanks will be as for last harvest, likewise the observance of the year's ending.
" Tuathal agreed with the relief in the man's posture and voice.
"The low king will attend and provide a life to return to the Lord of the Land—a fine cow, mead, and the first loaves. "
"As is only proper in gratitude for such bounty. My thanks for the news. May your words and songs be always in tune with the time."
The easterner bowed once more, then saluted in the fashion of the queen's court.
"You are most welcome to the news, múinti Allav.
Bright skies to your journey." At Tuathal's gesture, Aelfyn hurried off on his proper errand.
He had good reason to be glad of the great priest's departure, the same reason as Tuathal himself, perhaps more. Aelfyn lacked the shield of bardship.
Would that shield hold if the strongest of the wise ones' demands grew strong enough?
Tuathal loosened the clarsach's strings a tiny bit before putting it into its case for now.
He would not test that shield by catching Eoghan's eye.
The great priest had a long memory, as did all priests.
What filled that memory, however ... "Some remember slights better than a bard remembers songs," Tuathal sighed.
"That's nae the half of it, Master Bard," came an answering sigh. Tiernan the Steward approached, shaking his head, one hand running through hair as tousled as dune-crest grass after a storm. "Can you settle a dispute, or at least settle the two arguing?"
"Rian's the better choice if heads need a soaking in the smith's trough," he replied. "If it is words they fight with, I can try."
"Tis a question of honor, but not theirs." The steward shook his head once more. "So much to do, and they argue over grain."
A question of honor about grain? He'd not heard such yet.
Tuathal followed the steward to one of the grain huts.
Two women stood beside the entry ladder, fists on hips, glaring like cats and hissing like adders.
No wonder the steward had no care to interfere!
Should he speak, or just watch the fight?
Tuathal glanced at the ladder and saw the problem.
If they came to blows, it might endanger the jars and sacks of grain, as well as further interrupting the women grinding flour, which the pair were already doing.
Tuathal drew nearer, stopped, and folded his arms, waiting.
The older of the two servants saw, or rather noticed, him first and stopped her words mid-flow. "He will show me right," the matron declared.
"Nah, even the noon sun has not that power," the younger taunted.
He raised his eyebrows, then asked, "And what is to be shown?" Only mild curiosity, nothing more, came on his words.
"That wheat is the high king of grains, and barley only a chieftain." The older woman's jaw, already long enough a carpenter might take it for his chisel, jutted forward.
A challenge indeed. Arms still folded, Tuathal nodded to her. "Why say you that?"
"Because wheat stands tall, and makes bread of all kinds, including fine white loaves. Wheat is fair like a prince, not dark like a bond servant. The gods made wheat after barley failed its duty."
Before he could ask, the maid jumped in. "Nae, the gods made wheat a pale shade of barley. Barley is for bread and beer. Beer brings happiness, fills the heart and the belly both. Barley turns barren land and waste into riches, and grows where wheat will not."
"Aye, because wheat keeps better company!"
"Ye can live on beer and barley bread, not on wheat alone!"
Before words became blows and grain fell to the ground, Tuathal raised his hands.
The angry words stilled. He glared at each woman in turn.
"Hear me. Wheat makes fine bread, tis true.
Barley makes beer that gladdens the heart, aye.
" He lowered his hands. "Wheat ripens tall and fair, barley ripens darker and humble, bowing its head with the weight of bounty.
"But which is the hero's portion?"
"The flesh of beasts that feed on both," an arms man called. "And mead comes from honey, not grain."
"And work stopped and grain ruined by harsh words and careless hands leads to hunger for all, captive and free, noble and bonded alike." Tuathal folded his arms once more. "Move your grain, return to your work. Unless you need Tiernan or Lady Aisling to find tasks for empty hands?"