16. Harvest and Home?
Harvest and Home?
"... W
e do not know," Forchel said the next day as he and Tuathal sat in the warm sun of the afternoon. The wise one had left word to be told once he woke.
Tuathal drank warm water laced with honey and herbs, easing his throat. "I saw him on the ridge," he said, voice still rough. "He called something to him with a promise of royal blood." He shivered yet again.
The wise one frowned deeply and stroked his beard.
"After the fire offering, as the land recovered and crops grew thick, he seemed ...
less like himself?" Lips pursed under the graying mustache.
"He spent more time in meditation but away from us, and spoke more of the oldest ways and how the blood of a king alone could serve the gods.
We had scattered out, tending to our tasks. We should have stopped him."
They should have. Tuathal did not say so, but held the words to himself. He drank more, then asked, "But all is now as it should be?"
"Yes. We see no signs of war or of the gods' displeasure."
"That is good."
"Very good. You will stay here?"
He looked at his right hand, the palm soot-colored still. He had little voice, no clarsach, remained cursed by breaking the gesh. "I do not know. An allav who cannot sing, recite, or play has no place in any hall."
"You know the law, carry awan still, and share the king's blood. That is not without worth, múinti allav, Tuathal of the Gifts." The wise one stood and strode away before he could reply or challenge.
He'd think on it later. For now he savored sun on his shoulders, the sound of men and women laboring, singing work songs, of birds and the wind.
Time had not passed so swiftly as he'd feared, or had it?
The mirror showed his hair now streaked with gray, his mustache paler than before but still red, skin also paler save for the ashy-black cup of his hands.
He lifted the cup and drank more. He could speak, but dared not sing.
His songs had returned with the awan, or had they come back before? Not his to ask.
He ached. He'd not walked so long since the last summer, and his legs reminded him of that now.
Carrying the stones for the cottar, well that had been not so different from moving wood and other things in the dark king's domain.
He leaned against the wall behind the bench, eyes closed, baking like a flat of bread.
That night he sat in Fiachta's hall, but off to the side, watching.
Harvest and bringing in the livestock and rents came first before all, and the arms men worked almost as hard as the farmers.
Aelfyn played softer songs, singing a few times.
He'd gained skill over the summer. The young bard kept glancing toward where Tuathal sat.
Did he seek approval, fear a frown? He'd have to speak to the harper, but not this night.
Now he rested, tired still. He ate more, slowly, savoring the meat and fruits of autumn.
Six nights passed. Sharp cold had flowed down in the night, driven on wind from the north, a warning of winter's return. Tuathal practiced the drum, eyes closed, concentrating on the feel and sound. His hands recalled the proper way, even if his head still moved slowly.
He heard murmuring, a sound of disbelief, and fast steps approaching. He opened his eyes.
"M-m-m—" The girl gulped and tried again. "M-múinti allav Tuathal, sir, please come see." She shook a little. He pulled on his heavy cloak and followed her down, to the edge of the hedge.
Rian saluted him. "This, great allav. It was not here when we," he waved to the other warriors and the servants, "when we came down to slaughter the beasts for the feast."
A clarsach case. Tuathal's breath caught.
His clarsach case sat just outside of the hedge.
He knelt and opened it. His harp, the one he'd left with the King of the Mound, sat inside.
He lifted it out, hands trembling a little, then brushed the strings.
The two worn strings had been replaced, as had one more. The notes came, sweet and familiar.
He returned it to the case, and staggered to his feet. "Thank you for calling me." How? No, he did not want to know.
In his memory he heard the deep, rich, rolling voice once more.
"The harp will return when the sacrifice is completed in full.
" But the king's harp had burned, been destroyed with Tuathal's gift in order to break the power of the curse and heal the land.
Yet awan had returned from the bog and water ...
Had the ancient harp returned to the dark king as well?
Tuathal gathered the case in his arms and made his way back up the hill to the hall.
He sat, removed the instrument from the case, and tuned it, then tried to play.
His fingers ached from not having practiced in so long.
It mattered not. Wet rolled down his face, tears of joy.
He took a long breath and began to sing.
"Great is the king who gives to the strong,
"Strong is the king beloved of his people.
"People prosper when the land blooms,
"But greatest is a king who gives to the faithful."
Oh, his voice grated, rusty from disuse, his fingertips sore without the proper calluses. The harp cared not, perhaps. As he tried a different tune, he glanced at his hands.
The palms remained black, as if he'd grasped a sooty stick, but not the fingers. A reminder of his gesh, the curse that still bound him? He bowed his head and played on. It was as it was, and he'd worry later.