5. The Dying of the Year #2
The rush to move sacks and jars and baskets almost drowned the scraping, grinding sound of querns turning grain into flour.
He watched from out of the way, then turned.
He reclaimed the clarsach's case and went to the spring and well.
"Thanks for water, oh power of waters. Thanks for mystery, oh King of the Mounds.
" He let three drops fall to the earth, then drank of the cool, flavorless waters.
Come true winter, the water felt warm and never froze.
In summer the chill refreshed men and beasts both.
He did not look into the waters. Spring-born wells at the dying of the year ...
what they revealed he did not want to know, to see.
That night, the great hall sat quiet, dark save for the dull glow of the embers of the central fire.
Thick silence filled the darkness, broken only by the breaths of a few sleeping men.
Many of the arms men were out, as was their king, honoring the fertile union of earth and sky by sharing the night with a woman.
Tuathal crouched beside the fire, staring into the red and black, watching wood slowly transform into grey ash, white gray like sky and sea, wood reborn as fire and earth.
At last, he stood and crept out into the night.
A veil concealed half the stars. Smoke, sourness of beer gone bad, sharpness of the newly-tended dung heap, wet of waiting mist or fog all touched his nose as he walked the silent night.
A dog barked, then fell silent. The faintest howl answered, or did it?
He slipped out the hidden, guarded way, nodding to the man on watch.
The stripling nodded back but held silence, as he should.
To speak now was to draw the attention of those who moved in the darkness between the worlds.
The King of the Mounds opened his doors this night and day, the time neither one year nor the next.
Another howl came, far to the east. Tuathal shivered despite himself, and despite the rowan and ash wood in his pocket, the oak handle of his knife.
Oak, ash, thorn, hazel to lift twisting power, purple and yellow gorse blooms to ward off the Folk of the Mounds and other ill-wishers, he recited silently.
Another sound touched his ears, a woman weeping, then the splash of water and soft thumps of fabric being washed.
The keen shifted into a howl, a wolf's howl.
Tuathal released his breath. Not one of his blood, then.
Their death washer sang as a bird of summer between her wails.
Geese called, and ravens, from overhead, honks that became barks.
He made himself small and hurried down to the hedge around the base of this part of the hill.
Thorn grew in the hedge, other plants of protection as well.
He crouched, then sat on the fog damp grass, slowing heart and breathing, lest the hunters' hounds hear.
The geese called once more, fainter, as they passed to the south.
The year died, the geese fled south as had the swans before them.
Tuathal waited until all sounds faded from the night sky, faded as the mist faded the world.
He stood and made his way through the darkness, trusting memory and awan to guide him.
His steps led east, almost to the hills and the bend in the road, to a low mound and six stones.
The mound stood just more than waist high to him, the one time he'd gone close in bright daylight on a common day.
Now, the stones' sharp shapes glowed but did not, visible yet casting no light.
He carried none of his own. The end of the mound stood open, darker black against the dark green grass and scatter of small, pale rocks along the base of the mound.
He bowed but ventured no closer. Not all open doors were invitations.
After a moment's consideration he found a place at the edge of the sheep pasture and hummed, then began to sing, quietly.
On the other side of the hills, standing stones danced this night, perhaps.
No man went to watch, were he wise, unless invited or from a family with land ties from the days of the old ones.
His people were not among them. Once, far to the east, with his mother's kin, he'd watched the stones dance.
The tune, wild and cold, heavy for all its swiftness, remained with him still. He did not sing or play it here.
Instead, he sang of the old days, before the coming of his people to this land, when strange beasts left their bones in the stones and the King of the Mound claimed the under-sky land along with that under the hills.
"Great was the renown of the King of Annun, and great his giving.
None turned away empty from his hall. His cattle bore twins, and his sheep triplets.
Full ripe the corn of the King of Annun, white and heavy, heavy as barley in a year of bounty.
Great was the renown of the King of Annun. "
The air shivered. Tuathal bowed his head, acknowledging the request, and began patting his hands together.
The rhythm grew complicated, long and short, turning and bowing.
He sang without words, a dance for the dance of stone and water, water and air, wind and sea.
The mist twirled. He let his eyes rest on the distance, not looking too closely or watching too well.
Quietly he shifted the tune, slower but no less intricate, this a combination of dance and song of praise.
"Beauty walks in their steps, the women of the hidden lands.
"Fair their hair and dark their eye, quick their steps and nimble their fingers.
"Beauty walks in their steps, the women of the hidden land.
"Snow is dark against their skin, blood is far paler than the red of their lips.
"The gifts of their hands put the finest flowers to shame,
"The fineness of their spinning and weaving leaves all the world in awe.
"Beauty walks in their steps, the women of the hidden lands."
A long sigh passed, flowing around him from everywhere and nowhere together. The night fell still, and fog thickened. Tuathal ceased his singing and tapping. Eyes closed, he waited. Pressure on his shoulder twice, like a pat of praise, then the night's sounds returned. At last he opened his eyes.
The world looked as it should, save for the sharp-edged standing stones that cut the darkness.
The wind hissed through the trees on the hill to the east, sending a few leaves tumbling and skittering down, or so his ears told him.
Tuathal bowed to the mound. A loaf of bread now sat at his feet.
He gathered it with both hands. "All thanks to the giver of the feast, and to the hands that kneaded the dough, the hands that labored in the field.
Generous beyond compare is the giver of the feast, and wise is she who guards the grain and guides the bakers.
" He bowed again, then made his way to the road, not looking back.
Only when he'd returned to the safety of the thorn hedge did he break the loaf, careful not to drop any of the fine white bread as he ate.
It tasted of honey golden as the summer sun, and something else, dark and rich, something to be consumed with reverence and care, especially this night.
To eat the bread of the King of the Mounds in his domain brought great risk.
Guest duty to the ruler under the hills ...
Tuathal had many tales of that, all of them full of danger and adventure and scars.
Eating the king's bread under the sky, even this night, carried fewer dangers—especially when those under the hills gave freely, under the sky.
Just as he finished, he heard a cheer. He looked to the west. Red and yellow appeared in the middle of the air, no, on the crest of the ridge that ran between the marsh and the sea.
A much smaller flame hurried down the hill then disappeared into a twist of mist, a messenger running toward the waiting watchers.
Tuathal nodded, but remained where he was.
Avoiding the priests' attention outweighed the need for companionship or warmth.
He was a bard, an Allav, true. That meant nothing if Eoghan and the others had word from the gods that they desired the gift of a man's life as payment for harvest and the bounty of the land in addition to the cow and other gifts.
Too, Eoghan frowned on anything touched by hands from under the hills, frowned still more on those who accepted such gifts.
Tuathal remained where he was. His cloak and boots kept the chill at bay.
The sky grew lighter, the mist thicker, but the fires on the hills continued to burn.
The sun hesitated, farther south than at the day of equal light.
Yet it rose, turning the mist in the valley as red and pink as the fairest rose, soft as the finest wool of a young lamb.
Tuathal watched until the golden fire of the sky rose above the eastern hills, then made his way up the proper road to the gate of his half-brother's fortress.
To the east, a few traces of the strongholds of the old ones remained.
Once he'd spent the night in one, on a wager.
He'd awoken neither dead nor mad, nor a better poet.
Sore and wet, yes, and stiff from the dew, but no better or worse than before.
Had the old ones made use of this hill? Some said yes, pointing to the cleft in the stones and the footprint of kingship worn in the rock, larger than that of any man now living.
Tuathal waited until the man on watch beckoned before entering the half-open gate.