15. Into Darkness
Into Darkness
Slowly he clambered to his feet, forced himself forward, walking toward the half-light ahead of him.
How long had he lain on the stones? He stopped, leaned against the wall—was it a wall?
—against more stone and breathed, then breathed once more.
The cool, wet air soothed his throat but did nothing for his spirit or body.
Once more he gathered his strength. Honor remained, duty to repay if it could be done.
The land and peace would live, perhaps. One more step, one more ...
The passageway into the mound opened into the great hall. No praise for his skill, not now. He sensed watchers, and cold appraisal, as he bowed low.
"You return." The deep voice, cold and hollow, flowed through the hall.
Tuathal walked three paces forward, then stopped.
He swallowed and tried to speak. No sound emerged.
He stopped, coughed, tried once more. Oh, the raven sang more beautifully than the summer larks compared to the sound from his mouth.
"The sacrifice is made, oh great and generous King of the Mounds. "
He sensed rather than heard the question he feared. Where was the clarsach?
"I do not know, great king. The flames took it with my gift, nothing remains of either."
Anger rolled over him. Tuathal knelt before the King of the Mounds, seared once again, this time by the ancient, wild power. "I have naught to bring," he croaked, all the sound he could make.
The dark presence frowned, even though he could not see a face or form save of looming shadow. He must repay the loss.
"How?" The sound from his throat tore his own heart.
He would serve, not as bard, but as bond servant in the hall.
Pride flickered, and he looked up, started to refuse. Power like a whip's lash flashed out, and he lowered himself once again, weeping with body pain and heart pain both. "I serve."
A form moved from the darker shadows and beckoned. He followed it into the darkness once more, save that he could sense what surrounded him. A long hall of rough stone led to a larger room. The dark form pointed, and he began his labor.
Days and nights held no meaning in the kingdom under the mounds.
He tended red-eared hounds, feeding them what he did not want to know.
Other times he carried buckets of bitter cold or scalding hot water from wells to the kitchen or place of washing.
He ate coarse bread with bitter herbs, drank metallic water, slept on rough blankets.
The harp callouses on his fingers gave way to the cracks and scars of hard labor.
He sensed others who labored beside him, silent, unable to speak, perhaps.
He found no need for speech, he who had lived by his song and tongue.
That burned as much as the fire's kiss, or would have, save that he had nothing to say.
No songs came to his memory. Their place sat as empty as the shell of a house now tumbling back into loose stones, the wood long decayed and thatch blown to the winds and wilds.
The emptiness ached as his body ached, unending and steady.
How fared the land, Fiachta's holdings? He heard nothing, learned nothing, of the world above, the world under the sun's light.
Had proper summer and life returned as the curse burned away with his gift?
Surely that had been sufficient for the gods.
He saw again in his memory the raven and hounds, heard once more the command of the gods, felt the pain of the flames and his gesh both.
His hands remained black, black as the stones around him.
Once he heard the sound of a clarsach, his clarsach, coming from the king's great hall.
Tears burned his face as he carried wood for the fire in the kitchen.
He did not dare stop to listen. Instead he added his burden to the stack and trudged back to the heap to gather more.
Feasts brought work, not pleasure. The soft notes stung his heart.
Day and night, season and season, how long did he toil?
Had winter come, summer passed and returned?
He found a bit of twine and pulled back his hair.
It had grown past his shoulders, a woman's hair, a further disgrace.
A coarse, heavy tunic and trews replaced the fine shirt and breeches he'd once worn.
If he returned to the land above, would any know him?
Did they even live, or had age taken Fiachta, Aisling, and their kindred?
He lifted the sack of something and plodded under the heavy burden, taking it to the great storehouse.
One of the nobles stood before him and gestured.
Tuathal set down his water buckets and yoke and followed.
The man led him into the lesser hall, where the King under the Mound held court of justice, or so Tuathal had guessed.
The dark king stood, looming, and Tuathal bowed low, then went to one knee, head bent with fear. What pain now?
"Go. Your speech is needed under the sky."
What speech? He had none. Tuathal dared not ask.
He rose to his feet, bowed once more, and made his way to the long passage out of the heart of the mound.
The scent of life and growing things flowed toward him as he climbed up, from the darkness below the earth to the darkness of a moonless night. He did not look behind.
The sky and sense in the air spoke of late summer, the time for harvest. The three starry birds dove into the western sea.
An owl called from the east. He shivered despite the heat in the air.
He heard water flowing, and followed the sound through the still night to a stream.
He crouched and drank. The cold burned his throat, making it ache as it had in the fire.
He tried to speak. Pain, not words, flowed with his breath.
Where was he? The ancient road led west, so he followed it, staying on the hard-packed, rutted dirt and stones. A road of the Old Ones, the people now gone or under the mounds? It led west, that mattered more. He walked until he tired, then sat in the grass beside the way.
The world grew lighter as the stars faded into the sky.
Hills rose to the east and west, long ridges.
Pasture stretched along the valley to the south, with woods hiding what lay to the north.
Perhaps he was ... north of the royal hill of Dunath?
He could not be south, or he'd know the land and the road.
Far enough west would take him to the sea, and from there he could travel as he needed, if none stopped him and he did not die of hunger.
Tuathal plodded along the road until the sun passed the sky's roof peak.
Then he drank more water, ate some berries that grew into the roadway, and rested.
He'd passed two shepherds' huts, and heard the sound of wood being cut, even though the season for such was not yet come.
Perhaps they needed to store timber to age and dry, or the tree had died and stood for three seasons.
Not his to ask, if he could ask. Once his legs ceased shaking, he stood and continued along the road.
It had grown narrower, fading a little as it crossed two more valleys.
At last he emerged from narrow, snake-like passage between ridges as the sun's chariot drew within two hands of the edge of the world and the sea.
He heard voices, and crept along, keeping to the few shadows but still on the public way.
"This needs doin' now, 'afore more beasts get in and out," an old voice declared.
"Well, I want to finish my tasks." The younger voice snapped. "You do the rest."
Tuathal bristled at the young man's tone.
He hurried as best he could to where he could see the speakers.
An old man, a shepherd perhaps, labored to place stones back into a wall.
A younger man walked away, staff in hand, back rigid with irritation or anger.
Tuathal growled, glanced at his hands, and approached the stranger.
When the man just looked at him without speaking, Tuathal found a flat-seeming stone and brought it from the pile.
"Aye, here," the old man took it. "Need three more like 'at one."
He did as ordered, selecting and carrying the rocks as the shepherd rebuilt the wall.
"Fool of a bond servant tore it down lookin' for eggs 'n such.
Hedges have birds, not walls," the old man grumbled.
Tuathal nodded agreement and brought more stones, stacking them where the wall-builder could reach them easily.
The old man worked steadily, and by the time of the sun's plunge into the sea, he'd finished repairing the breach.
"You have a place for the night?" When Tuathal shook his head, the shepherd grunted. "Huh. Got room and food. Fair trade for help." He limped into the twilight. Tuathal followed.
They crossed two small burns, then climbed up a little rise to the bothy, the small stone hut and garden held in trade for labor and goods in kind.
Tuathal rinsed his hands and face in the second burn, then caught up with the old man.
Oh, his legs ached, arms too from the work.
Someone had taken good care of the bothy and garden, and the thatch looked new, or at least not too weathered.
"Niam, we've a guest," the old man called. "Did more t' fix t' fence than Tcheas did." he turned to Tuathal. "Come in and be welcome, stranger."
Tuathal bowed a little and followed the old man through the door.
A single table sat in the center of the room, two stools by the hearth.
A woman almost as old as the man set pieces of bread on flats of wood on the table, then scoped something onto them from a small pot.
She put the pot back beside the fire and returned to churning, rocking the small keg back and forth in the corner of the room away from heat. "Eat," the old man ordered.