10. Return and Triumph #3
Tuathal waited, still and quiet, until the soft sounds of little creatures and night birds returned to his ken.
He set the clarsach inside the hut, away from dew, and stood.
His hips and knees protested sitting so still for so long, and his rump grumbled about hard seats.
He paced once more, going to the right, west, instead of east. After a blue-white star dipped behind the western hills, he turned to see if his visitor had left any sign of its presence.
A tiny something gleamed, or glowed softly, in the night.
He crouched. A small white flower, carved from bonelike stone, lay on the hard-packed dirt.
He lifted it and tucked it into a pouch.
"Blessings on the giver," he sang. "May the road be smooth, the going swift, and skies fair.
May all harm turn away, and home come swiftly to the giver of the gift. "
Clarsach safely returned to its case, he found a place in the hut that seemed a little softer than others and rolled up in his cloak. Sleep came, sleep without dreams.
Light and song woke him. A full bladder and stiff neck encouraged haste in rising, but experience warned against impulsive movement.
He sat, then stood, as slowly as he could, letting the rest of him catch up.
A few stars lingered in the pale sky. No clouds dimmed the light as summer began, full of the calls of birds.
Below, in the valley at the north end of the ridge, he saw movement in the shadows as deer hurried to find better resting places.
Hares cropped the grass in a pasture halfway up the slope, stopping every few bites to sit up and watch the world.
A fine start to summer indeed. Heavy dew covered the grass and stones outside the shepherds' hut.
Tuathal watched the birds and beasts until his growling gut complained louder than did the long-legged little grass-trotter birds who fussed at the hares' closeness to their nests.
He slung the straps of the clarsach's case over his shoulders and closed the door of the hut.
The light of the sun had yet to touch this side of the wide valley.
He turned his steps south, walking with care across dew-slick grass and flowers.
Ahead, the king's hill rose above the bog, with pasture to the south, and woods at the feet of the hills farther on.
They brought firewood from the other side of the hills, and from the western uplands.
Closer to the fort and palace, only hook and crook gathering was permitted, and that only for trees that produced no fruit, no apple or hazel. Which reminded him ...
Tuathal left the path and hunted around in the grass.
First he saw low white flowers, then small, bright red fruit.
He feasted on the berries, tart and sweet together blooming on his tongue.
Now that summer had begun, the berries could be eaten without taking ill or courting bad fortune.
Several handfuls soothed the edge of his hunger.
The berries would grow more common as summer days lengthened.
A good sign for a plentiful season, perhaps.
Sea plants would also reach court soon, unless storms caused them to wash out into the open waters instead of onto shore.
Hunger stilled for the moment, he returned to the path.
More white and yellow flowers dotted the grass, with the red of clover standing out here and there.
The flowers reminded him ... He reached into the pouch and drew out the night's gift.
A flower, yes, white with the faintest cream, and polished smooth.
A short stem and two tiny leaves supported the carving.
Two rows of a dozen or so petals surrounded a rounded mound the size of a strawberry.
The material felt cool and smooth, polished by skilled hands and much patience.
It reminded him of sea tooth, or the bones of stone from the days when the King of the Mound and his people claimed the lands above.
Had it been one of the folk from the mounds who had left the gift, or another?
Tuathal would not ask. He tucked the stone flower back into his pouch and continued toward the hall and hill.
As he reached the end of the ridge, cattle caught his eye, and he stopped.
Men and a few women herded the beasts back into the pastures near the king's hill.
Light brown cows and their calves moved steadily, then stopped to eat and nurse.
They'd have calf-meat after tonight, once the milk cow calves grew large enough to be worth slaughtering.
Lamb came tonight, and beef, perhaps the last of the smoked fish from the fall and winter.
His mother's people caught sea-kings from the start of spring until the death of the year, taking them from the great rivers that flowed into the stormy cold sea.
Here the fish came less often, and men fished for them only in fall and early winter.
Now was the time for eggs, herbs, greens, early fruits, and milk, cheese, butter, and other good things.
Tuathal waited until a wagon finished going through the gate to the hill and hall before making his presence known.
The young warrior, still a boy, nodded and Tuathal made his way around the hedge and path, then up the slope and to the area for food.
He helped himself to some of the food in the ever-warm pot, and a bit of flat bread with butter.
Then he washed his face and joined the growing crowed back down at the base of the hill.
Fiachta stood beside his truchai, a large smile on his face. His bow and quiver rested on the floor of the light vehicle. Cathal spoke with his driver, then saluted the king. Ah. "The wager?" Tuathal asked Rian.
"Aye. The horses are rested and eager, and the queen has offered a new winter cloak to the winner, embroidered with leaping horses, in crimson and green." Rian shook his head, awe in his voice. "It pains me that Flying Black just delivered her foal, or I'd be there with them."
Tuathal patted his shoulder with sympathy, then found a place away from the crowd where he could see better. Aisling the Bold and her ladies waited as a group, and he bowed low to her, then joined them. He stood between the warriors and the women.
The drivers took their seats, feet resting on the tilted wooden pieces, knees bent so they crouched while seated.
King and arms man hung their quivers and strung bows from their belts, and stepped onto the woven leather floors of the truchaine.
Both men nodded and waited as the horses pranced where they stood.
Grinning, Darragh raised his arms, then dropped them. "Hai!"
The horses leaped into flight, racing over the flat ground swift as birds.
The king and Cathal raced, drivers low in their places between the arrow shields.
The pounding of hoofs came faster than he could play, or so it sounded to Tuathal.
A little dust rose from the grassy field as the light wood and leather carts and their horses raced.
Gold and silver gleamed on spears and horse harness.
As the truchaine reached the far turn, the two warriors drew their bows and fired at their targets. Tuathal shook his head.
"What?" Odhran demanded from beside him at the edge of the watching crowd.
"Should I try that, I'd be sitting in the dust. Or shoot a tree behind me." He smiled as he spoke. He was not so bad with bow and arrow, but he only shot when standing on solid ground.
Laughter gushed from the warriors, and Odhran grinned in turn. "Aye. Practice does much, but without a gift and a good driver?" He raised one hand palm up.
"Aye that. And I have neither." The bards on the Western Island had servants and truchai, or so he'd heard it said. The bards of the Brytheen walked or rode, or took ships.
Odhran opened his mouth, then closed it once more as the two truchaine finished the wide, sweeping turns and charged back toward them.
Fiachta had stepped around his driver and balanced on the pole, as had Cathal.
Again Tuathal shook his head in awe at both warrior and driver.
No, he had not such a gift, nor did he care to learn it.
He was a bard, an allav, a master at his own craft.
Fiachta returned to stand in his proper place.
The horses seemed scarce to touch the ground, manes flowing back, tails banners of black or red brown.
Tuathal hurried off to the side, so he could watch the line as the two warriors and their teams arrived.
So even were they that he held his breath.
Then the king's driver made himself even lower, and the horses surged, foam flying like the white of sea waves in the wind.
They crossed the line a head and shoulder ahead of Cathal's team.
Oh, the cheers from the watchers, and the scrambling to get out of the way as the drivers slowed the teams to a trot, then a walk, cooling them.
The warriors dismounted as the drivers let the horses have their heads.
The young warriors minding the targets trotted toward the gathering, each holding arrows and the targets.
One of Cathal's shots had gone wide, the other two had struck within the fist-sized soot spot on the white bark. All three of Fiachta's clustered in the soot.
"Cathal reached the targets first," Fiachta declared. "The hero's portion is his this day." Even louder cheering followed his words, and Cathal smiled as broadly as Tuathal had ever seen. Yes, Fiachta was a king men would follow, a proper prince among men.