Spirit of the Mist (20 page)

In a place of deep shade among a thick stand of hazel trees, a wide rectangle had been dug in the earth. It was as deep as a man was tall and nearly twice as long, and lined with rocks both large and small. A great heap of stones and a pile of earth remained a short distance away.
 

The seven warriors bearing the king stood on either side of the rectangular pit, holding the king over its dark open space. Another seven men moved to the edge and vaulted down so that they were inside.
 

Brendan and Muriel stood with Colum beside the grave. The three of them watched as each of Galvin’s three brothers moved to the end of the long dark rectangle and then handed down to the waiting men below an object he had brought. One produced a dagger, another an ax, and the third a spear, all made of iron and bone and wood from the rowan trees, all the very best work.
 

Now the rest of the men and women of Dun Bochna, those who had followed Brendan and Muriel, began to file past the end of the grave. Each handed down whatever he had brought for his king.
 

The warrior men and the druids offered beautiful objects and ornaments of lustrous gold—plates and cups, wristbands and finger rings. Then the women filed past and handed down their own offerings: leather skins filled with blackberry wine, small golden cups of honey, a basket of bread topped with butter, a gold plate with a heavy thigh of beef resting up on it.
 

The men in the grave took down the objects as they were offered and placed them all around the edge of the rectangle, leaning the weapons against the stone-covered sides and arranging the food and plates and gold jewelry all at one end of the pit. When at last all was ready, they caught the hands of the men at the surface and climbed out, then stood back as the seven warriors slowly and carefully lowered the body of the king into its final place of rest.
 

The druids unrolled two long sheets of leather and allowed them to drop into the grave, so that the king and all his possessions were now hidden from sight. The seven warriors then used wooden spades to throw the heavy, damp earth back into the grave from whence it had been taken. They worked in silence, unashamed of performing the menial task because it was in service to their king.
 

With the grave filled in, Colum stepped forward to stand beside it, facing the gathering and holding out the king’s torque. “People of Dun Bochna,” he called, “this day you have laid the body of your king to rest in the forest. You have given him the things he will need and the things he will desire in his next life, and he will reside in the Otherworld until such time as he is reborn in this one.
 

“He served us well in life. And you have served him well in his death. Now do this last service for him, and we will return home behind Brendan, his son, the chosen tanist of Dun Bochna.”
 

One by one the men and women walked to the great pile of stones nearby, took one in each hand, then walked to toss them atop the newly turned earth of Galvin’s grave as they passed. Finally, all of the stones had been moved to the grave and formed a cairn above it.
 

“King Galvin lies safe and protected,” said Colum. “Now it is for us to return to his hall and celebrate his life.” He looked to Brendan, who started on his way with Muriel beside him; but just as they started down the path Muriel heard a little gasp from behind them.
 

She turned around to see Colum stagger, half leaning on the arm of one of Dun Bochna’s warriors as though he had just stumbled. Apparently he had, for Muriel saw the heavy gold torque of kingship clatter across the rocks of the cairn and settle halfway down.
 

It was the final addition to the grave of the old king. Colum reached down to pick it up, turning pale as it caught on the heavy rocks. It seemed he would not be able to free it, but at last he lifted up the golden torque and carried it away, and the procession continued down the path which led back to the fortress.
 

That evening Muriel sat beside her husband at the feast, listening to the merry music, smiling and laughing with the others at the tales of King Galvin’s heroics. She found herself enjoying, as everyone was, the happy memories of a strong king and a life well lived.
 

Everyone, it seemed, but Brendan. He was far more subdued than Muriel had ever seen him. She rested her fingers on his arm and leaned down to catch his eye, smiling gently when at last he turned to look at her. His strange eyes were somber now, almost unreadable in the shadows of the lamps.
 

“So many fine tributes to your father,” she said. “And to see the best one of all, you have only to look at the faces of the people gathered here tonight. Each one shows peace and gratitude at having lived under the rule of Galvin.”
 

“Most have never lived under any other king,” Brendan answered, then took a long drink from his gold cup. “He was king for many more years than I have been alive. It will not be the same without him.”
 

“It will not,” Muriel agreed. “But this place will be as safe, and as happy, and as just, under the rule of King Brendan.” She held his arm a little tighter, and he set down his goblet and turned to her to take her hand. Still, his face was somber and serious.
 

“King Brendan,” he murmured, then shook his head. “Now it is my turn to tell you, my lady, that I am not a king yet. I saw the king’s torque fall from Colum’s hand and come to rest on Galvin’s cairn…and I am not ashamed to tell you that the sight of it left me cold.”
 

He laughed a little. “Before I tried to calm your fears. Now I am the one telling you that I saw a sign that has unnerved me. This time I am the one who is taking it to heart.” He tried to smile. “I am surprised that you have not.”
 

She placed her other hand atop his. “I saw what happened. And I never fail to take such things to heart, as you well know. And yet…”
 

Muriel paused, gazing out over the lamps where the people laughed and applauded the bards’ stories. “And yet I can also see what is plain and true and undisputed. The old king is gone. The tanist has been named, and you are that tanist, as loved and respected as your father was, and the people look to you with nothing but trust.”
 

She smiled and smoothed the warm skin of his fingers. “Even I, always the first to worry, can find little cause to worry now.”
 

He looked at her, and she could see the doubt that remained in his eyes; and then he shrugged and looked away. “Well… Colum never was known for his agility.”
 

Muriel tried to suppress her amusement. She put a hand to her mouth, but it was too late.
 

The two of them put their heads together and laughed out loud. “There, you see?” Muriel asked, sitting back. “Some signs are not really signs at all. Sometimes they are just a bit of clumsiness.”
 

Brendan laughed again and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “I hope you are right,” he said. “I hope you are right.” But his face soon became serious again. He lifted his cup and went on staring at nothing, paying no heed to the music and the storytelling just across the room.
 

Muriel touched his arm. “If you have no ear for the poetry tonight…would you play a game of fidchell with me?”
 

His face brightened a little. “You can play fidchell?”
 

“Of course. And it is more than a game. It can also be a divination.”
 

“So it is.” Brendan set down his cup and got to his feet, reaching down to help Muriel up. “A game of fidchell it will be, then.”
 

They sat down together on a bench, a little space apart, and a servant brought them the fidchell board. Brendan placed it between himself and Muriel and began to set it up.
 

The board itself was a flat oaken square with seven rows of seven holes. An immense wooden box held the two sets of playing pieces, which were large, heavy oak pegs capped with either gold or bronze. Muriel took out the first set, unwrapping the heavy pieces from their protective linen squares, and set them before Brendan.
 

“You take the king and his defenders. Somehow it doesn’t seem quite right for anyone else to play the king.”
 

He grinned. “I’ll take the king, and tremble in fear at the thought of you being the attacker.” Taking the king peg, which was capped with a gold sea-dragon’s head much like those on his own torque, Brendan placed it on the center square and surrounded it with defenders.
 

These other pegs were just a little smaller and capped with the gold heads of dolphins.
 

Muriel took the attackers, which were all capped with bronze hawks with outstretched wings, and arranged them along the sides. “I believe the attacker goes first. Is that how you have played?”
 

“It is. Go ahead.”
 

The game began with Muriel moving her pieces along the rows in an attempt to surround the king, and Brendan trying to get the king safely moved to one of the corner holes. They battled back and forth, arguing, laughing, playing their best, until at last Brendan seemed to have the win right in front of him.
 

“Well, my lady wife,” he said with a laugh, “you said that fidchell was a divination as well as a game. What do you make of my great victory?”
 

She laughed as well. “I should say that this game has given you a very good sign. Perhaps we should play it often.”
 

“We should. And we will. But first…” He lifted up the king by its gold sea-dragon head to make the winning play.
 

The peg dropped off of the head and clattered to the board below. Brendan was left holding the heavy head in his fingers. In shock, he let go of it, and it too fell to the board.
 

Muriel caught her breath. Quickly she reached out to grab the broken pieces. Lifting them up, she saw that the heavy gold sea-dragon head had left a deep gouge in the polished wooden board.
 

“That board has been in my father’s family for longer than anyone can remember,” Brendan whispered. He touched a finger to the damaged spot. “Look what I have done to it.”
 

“You have done nothing to it,” Muriel said. “Here—look here. The cap will fit back onto the peg. It simply needs a craftsman’s attentions. It is loose, do you see? No doubt it has been so for a very long time.”
 

She began wrapping up the pieces in the linen squares and replacing them in the boxes. “It was a great victory. And I do not often lose at this game! Come, Brendan, help me put it away, and then we will return home. I can only imagine how tired you must be after all that has happened in the last few days.”
 

“I will look for no more signs,” he said. “No more signs.” Muriel glanced up at him, but he made no move to touch the pieces or the board. “And I may never play this game again.”
 

He stood up. “Please. Leave that for the servants to put away. I want only to go with you to our home, and tomorrow I want to think of nothing but preparing for the kingmaking at Lughnasa—not signs, not messages, not magic, and certainly not games of fidchell.”
 

He glanced down at the game and its scattered pieces. “And since I am not a king yet, as I am constantly reminded, I will think only of what I can do to be a prince until I am made a king. That should be enough to keep my mind occupied until that day.”
 

Muriel tried to smile. “I will do anything I can to help you.”
 

“Just come home with me and love me, and always stay by my side,” he whispered.
 

“Done,” she whispered in return, and together they left the hall.
 

Beginning the very next day, and for many days thereafter, Brendan threw himself into the role of king. Each morning he would say the same thing to Muriel: “I cannot wait for a ritual to make me king. I cannot wait until Lughnasa. I must begin now, so that there will be no doubt in anyone’s mind what I am. Not mine—not yours—not anyone’s.”
 

Muriel could only nod and reach up to kiss him. “Everyone knows that you are a king,” she would say, then smile. “Even I am convinced. No one doubts you, Brendan.”
 

“Don’t they?” he would ask, and she would see the unsure glint that lingered in his eyes. But then he would kiss her in return and go off to do all the things that a king might be expected to do, making every effort to do them twice as well.
 

Brendan started his tour of his lands close to home. He began by walking through the dun and inspecting the great hall and the armory and the horse pens and the cattle sheds and every one of the houses, directing the craftsmen to repair the thatching on one house or add to the smooth white clay on another, or set to work making more wooden and iron buckets since some of the old ones were beginning to wear out.
 

But he quickly moved on to matters outside the everyday concerns of daily life in the dun. Muriel could see that he was anxious to range farther out in larger and larger circles, determined to see every man and woman and child and tree and rock and flower and blade of grass with his own eyes—now the eyes of a king.