12. Lifting the Curse #3
Something stirred at the thought. He noted and set it aside.
Instead, he walked toward the faint sound of steady splashing.
A woman's voice rose, singing a song without words, the notes rising and falling in time with the splashes.
He strolled in the dappled sunlight of the woods, then stopped.
He leaned against a smooth-barked tree, arms folded, and watched.
Five women stood in the stream, skirts kilted up to show fine, strong legs.
They walked on fresh-sheared fleeces, splashing and stepping in a ring to the wordless tune.
Four more women sat on the bank, pulling bits of this and that out of the wool.
Green and gold light made the water and hair gleam.
The song ended, and two women hefted dripping white or black wool from the clear water.
They leaned back, twisting and squeezing. The air smelled of woods and sheep.
"No wonder Ronan favors you, with hands like that," the redhead on the bank called with a grin.
The tall woman tossed a thick, light brown braid over her shoulder. "At least he can rise to the challenge. Even the women of legend couldn't get Dalda to stand."
"What makes you think Dalda's got enough to satisfy a women?" a third fleece-washer called as she lifted more wool from the water. "Even the sheep are safe when he's around."
Tuathal winced at the women's words. So much for the warriors' boasts of prowess.
He stayed where he was, mostly hidden in the shadows.
The women traded fleeces and the splashing began once more.
Once all were intent on their tasks, he slipped away.
Some things should remain among men, and others among women.
He didn't care to hear their opinion of him.
Birdsong called a challenge. Or was it a song of praise, perhaps? He had not the gift of a wise one, or hero, to understand the message in their songs. Only silence in the woods he knew the meaning of, silence that should not be.
His thoughts tumbled like water over river rocks.
He let them flow. Sun and shade, light and darkness, gifts and curses ...
The priests disagreed on the meaning of a word.
He leaned against an oak and studied the forest around him.
Gwydion had summoned the entire forest and fields to battle against the lord of Darkness, yet Gwydion had been a bard, not priest. Or so the songs claimed.
The Brytheen had men of both wisdoms. Were the King of the Mound's bards trained so? Could they read all signs and speeches?
Movement came toward him, returning him to the lands under the sun.
Tuathal straightened and unfolded his arms. A man in unfamiliar garb, pale of skin but dark of eye and tall, drew closer.
His tunic, trews, and plaid made the finest weaving of the Dunalaid look as coarse sacking. The man stopped and bowed.
"Master Bard." The words rustled as night wind over grass. "The king seeks your service."
Before he caught them, the words flowed. "How may I serve?"
"Come to the hall this night if your king permits. What troubles the lands above also troubles the lands below."
Tuathal hid his chill. "If I may, I will come to the great king's hall this night." Awan began to move, then faded. "What shall I bring?"
"Harp and wisdom, master bard. And news." The darkness and seriousness in the messenger's voice chilled him further.
"I will attend the king with harp and news. Of wisdom I can speak very little. I am a bard and traveler, not a priest."
"And that is why you are wise." The king's messenger bowed.
Tuathal looked away, lest he see what was wisest not to know. The sun held little warmth, or perhaps the shadows carried chill. When he looked once more, no sign of the messenger did he see. Oh, the sun on the open field felt as a blessing when he left the dappled shadows of the woods.
When he returned to the hall, he found the king and some of his warriors absent.
"They went to answer a call for justice," Tiernan, the steward, told him when he visited the great hall and found it empty save for two servants and the fire tender.
The servants cleaned old rushes and other things from the corners.
Two new heads rested in the place for such, Tuathal observed, their preservation now finished.
"I hope the decision is accepted by all, and rests where it should."
"Aye that! Although I'll not place a wager on it." Tiernan shook his head. "Can a man take his share of a pig that's not yet slaughtered?"
Now there was a question to perplex the wise! Tuathal considered, then shrugged. "Perhaps, if it is the great pig of legend that brought knife and flesh hook with it, and regrew during the day whatever men ate during the night."
"Should you find that pig, call for me. T'would make planning feasts far easier."
Did he joke? Perhaps, perhaps not. "If I should see it, I will call for you." And call for no more beer or mead.
Tiernan added a bit of wood to the fire. Tuathal nodded in salute to the hearth and made his way to his chamber. He removed his shoes and shirt, stretched out, and rested.