Untitled #2
"After the shearing comes the weaving, after the loving comes the parting," he sang, half voiced and quiet. Then the clarsach took the melody, playing the sounds of work. After two more repetitions of the melody, he sang,
"Winnowing frees the golden grain, hammering sharpens iron again,
"Washing whitens finest gown, lovers return as the year turns 'round."
"Ah," then a sigh of pleasure came from his left when he finished the last notes. He glanced that way. Aelfyn bowed low. "Praise to the allav who brings new songs and word turnings into the world."
Tuathal smiled and dipped his head, acknowledging the honor. "Wise is the one who recognizes mastery and seeks to rise." Aelfyn had harp skills aplenty, other instruments as well, but not awan or a fine voice. Nor could he see through others' eyes, or at least, he had not given signs of such.
"What tuning, Allav Tuathal?"
Tuathal beckoned so the other harper could see more easily.
"Like so, in a warmer tuning for the colors of harvest. Threshing flails," he played the low rhythm, "Smithee," the upper counter rhythm, "and the rustling of the winnowers.
Could you keep time on the low drum, flat hand, for the low rhythm? "
Aelfyn patted his hands together, frowning with concentration. "Yes, sir. Dull thumps like flails working at a distance?"
"Yes. Let us try it."
Aelfyn trotted off, returning with the leather-headed frame drum.
He stood a few steps to the left, watching Tuathal's hands.
Tuathal marked the pace he wanted, and Aelfyn began tapping the drum with the beater, one hand under the head to mute it.
Thump, thump, thump, thump, and Tuathal added the upper parts, then sang, still quietly.
Ah, very good. Aelfyn kept the pace more steadily than he could on his own.
Tuathal sang and played the entire song once more, locking it into his memory. "Thank you."
Another low bow. "You are most welcome, Allav Tuathal." The harper smiled widely. "I miss the group music we did when I studied, flute and drum and harp together."
"The next time the king offers a feast, we will play together, the new song and perhaps some others.
" He should have asked Aelfyn before, but he'd become too used to singing and playing alone in this past year and more.
He detuned the clarsach and stood, shaking out his hands and easing his shoulders and neck.
Aelfyn backed, bowed a little, and hurried off to put the drum away.
Tuathal looked to the west and breathed deeply.
The hills and sea tongue seemed farther away, and a faint gray tinged the sky at the edge of the world.
The fleecy sky sheep, the color of ashes tinged with blue, bunched just beyond the hills, waiting.
He smelled the sea and the half land under the reeds and grass.
A little wet chill came on the wind, damp like rain despite the late day sun and warmth.
Tuathal nodded. A storm from the sea hid in the west. All the more reason to finish work outside now.
The wild white horses of Manawn would be rising soon, racing the wind and leaping onto land, drawing Manawn's truchai over the top of water gray and cold.
He held no envy for those who took boats on the wave road, under the gull's wings. His kind belonged on land.
The round of days passed swiftly. Tuathal took up the duty of teaching, training the older children in the stories and the law.
Some learned best with music, others by chanting, a few by asking and answering.
They sat near a side fire in the weaving hall, a half-circle two deep around Tuathal's seat as he gave them words and they sang, chanted, or repeated them back.
Cold rain had fallen twice, and once a hard storm blew in, sending the sea close to the foot of the hill and wetting the reeds and grasses almost to the summer pastures.
Fiachta's herds had moved inland or up, away from the waters.
The sun stood halfway between the start of the year and the shortest day.
Tuathal finished with his younger students, and now listened to the older.
Two of King Tadhg's children sat among them, fostered this year with Fiachta.
Caolin, the boy frowned, fair brow furrowed like a new plowed field, as he sought for an answer.
At last he said, "The high king on the Island of the West, then the low kings by age and skill, then the priests and those of allúnach skilled in words, then warriors, smiths and others skilled of hand, then farmers and those skilled with land and beasts, then servants and bond servants and those owned of the hand. "
"That is correct." Tuathal gestured to himself.
"There are times when warriors come before bards, but not when peace is on the land.
A sword without reputation is a weapon only, no matter how finely crafted and keen.
A reputation without a sword opens doors without striking. A reputation and sword together?"
"A reputation and sword together are the marks of a king, along with open-handedness, prospering lands, wisdom in law, and strength of arm," one of the girls stated.
The boys glared at her, but said nothing. Tuathal raised his eyebrows, then said, "And what are the gifts of womanhood?"
"Silence," one of the boys hissed. Tuathal frowned at him, and the youngster stared at the floor, shamed.
A woman's voice said, "The gifts of a true woman are beauty of form, gentleness of voice, sweet words that soothe or strengthen, wisdom in speech and action, skill in all forms of needlework, and loyalty to kin, sworn men, and husband.
" Heulyn, the mistress of the weavers and spinners, came closer.
"Queen Aisling has all such gifts, and courage of heart to bind them together. "
Tuathal bent his head, acknowledging her learning. "Just so. Wisdom is knowledge held for the proper time, considered as a weaver considers her threads and her pattern before setting to work at the loom. Knowledge at the wrong time or place has as much strength as grain sown on rock."
"Or wool planted to grow sheep," Heulyn chuckled. "Or wet cloths without a fire to dry them."
He stood. The children stood as well, and bowed to him, then nodded to Heulyn. Here she held rank almost equal to his. "Then we will leave the fire to the cloths, lest work be ruined." The children had begun to rustle, a sign that their minds would hold little more. "You may go."
They rushed off, minnows in the stream darting this way and that.
Tuathal saluted the women and betook himself elsewhere, lest he be invited to help drape heavy, wet cloth and linen over the frames.
Only a fool or one who sought pain interfered with the women when they shrank wool into rain-shedding fabric for cloaks and coats, steadily pounding and squeezing it in hot water.
He liked the warm, dry garments. The work to make them? No, thank you.
Come the next day, Fiachta called for him. His senior warriors and servants waited in the great hall with Fiachta. The king nodded to Odhran, the oldest arms man and chief advisor.
"Word comes from the south," Odhran said.
Tuathal listened with the others. The mist? The high king came from the west despite the sea's storms? A marriage offer for Fiachta's daughter? Perhaps not that, given that none had yet sons of age and rank, none that he knew of, that was.
"Pyder of the Ford seeks word of the one who dared challenge his prowess and generosity."
Tuathal smiled as the others turned to him. "I did not, do not, challenge one so valiant and gift-laden. Prader of the Ford, defeated only by the third-born of the ewe, who shares as kindly as does the gray digger of the field, him I do not challenge."
Laughter greeted his words. Fiachta smiled a little, then said, "Let Pyder prove he is otherwise."
"Given that half his arms men have found other halls to serve, he should have plenty to give," Odhran replied. "It is said too that Fyon the Black's crops gave naught but chaff, those that were not burned in error by avengers of the blood."
Tuathal shivered a little. "One named Cao took hoofs and heads to redeem the honor he felt lost to a marriage out of the kin line. The outsider's kin may have sought heads in turn."
"Or to make their anger known with Cao's overlord." Fiachta stroked his mustaches and frowned. "For now, do nothing. Should strife spread to us ..."
The others all nodded. For now, the trouble remained Fyon's to resolve, and Pyder could redeem his honor on his own.
Who had burned the grain? Was Cao bound by pledge to Fyon?
Tuathal tried to recall. The spinner and her daughter said they had worked for Cao, but were they of Fyon or another's?
He had not asked, but their words had rung as true as the strings on his clarsach.
Not his to decide, or he'd make himself as scarce as Múintid, master-teacher, Amlod had when called to rule which of the high queen's maids was the fairest. All men of sense avoided that sort of judgment!
This matter ... What was the law of the western lands?
He needed to know if his memory tested true.
Not this day, but soon. As bard to Fiachta he might be called to speak the law should something happen.