Hush: An Irish Princess' Tale (4 page)

And nothing matters but the heat inside my brother. I stand, kneel, stand, swallowing my screams. Please, sweet Lord, please don’t make my silly desire to see Dublin cost my family so dearly. Please spare Nuada’s life.

After the Mass, we take off our shoes and set them in the chariot. We walk, with the chariot following. Most of
the women who were at the Mass accompany us, walking behind, barefoot as well.

We pass the cemetery, and Brigid points. “There are the burial stones you love to sit on. With that ugly script.”

“Don’t say that. All writing is holy, because Christianity brought writing to Eire.”

“You’re quoting Father again. I hate it when you do that.”

“All right, say what you want about the Roman alphabet. But those stones have ogham script. Don’t speak ill of ogham, Brigid. Please. It’s used only for sacred texts, whether Gaelic or Latin. So it must be the Lord’s way of writing.”

It even looks sacred, with all those little lines coming off long ones, like feathers. I feel like a bird when I perch on those stones. I wish I could perch there now. I wish I was free of guilt, free enough to fly away.

We walk as the sun burns the fog off the hilltops.

“It’s so far,” says a girl.

“The pebbles hurt,” says another.

“Are we there yet?”

The younger girls go on and on.

I look at Brigid. My sister walks with purpose. Not a complaint passes through her determined lips. I move close and we lock hands.

We arrive at the rocky summit of the hill where Saint Patrick is buried and fall to our knees and pray out loud. The bishop hasn’t come. This is only women’s voices, calling to our patron saint, appealing from our special, intimate relationship with him to intervene on Nuada’s behalf.

Please, Saint Patrick. I make so many mistakes that I have no right to ask for favors. But Nuada has always been so good. Oh, please, prevail on our Lord to save my dear brother.

We get into the chariot again and head back past fields of ferns, burdock, and purple thistles, toward the shore. I’m surprised. I thought we would go inland to Armagh. That’s the headquarters of Irish Christianity, after all.

I’m about to ask where we’re going when the question becomes irrelevant: The tall belfry of the monastery at Dunkeld looms ahead, with its huge, rectangular-cut stones. Oh, yes, of course, Mother is right. It would be presumptuous to go to Armagh. Going to Dunkeld shows our humility. Lord, see how humble we are, please. See how sorrow humbles us beyond anything else.

The monastery has so many dwellings built around it that it’s really a settlement. Almost a town. We are greeted and led into a small dining room, where we eat a
thin stew with monks who don’t talk to us. Their shaven heads make them look like slaves.

Mother finishes her bowl and leans toward one of the elder monks and whispers. She stands. “Go on, girls. Go walk, so we can talk in private.”

Brigid and I leave, but slowly, intent on catching the beginnings of the conversation.

“Succession,” says Mother, “is a royal matter, not an ecclesiastical one.”

I blink. Mother always gets right to the point. But I thought the point would be asking them to pray for Nuada. Instead she has come as queen of Downpatrick, to establish her rights in the choice of a successor for Father.

For an instant I’m off balance. Mother moved so quickly from the role of God’s humble supplicant to the role of haughty queen. I remember her words last night: We must be sensible now. I admire her ability to steer straight.

I pull Brigid by the arm and we wander from table to table in the scribe room. A manuscript is clearly in progress on one of them. The pages have not yet been sewn together.

“Irish illuminated texts are prized all over the world,” I say. “There are only two good things the Norsemen have
done for us. They taught us how to make better fishing boats. And Vikings have taken stolen Irish goods and sold them everywhere, as far to the east as Persia—”

“I know, I know, I know,” Brigid pushes a stool up in front of a table holding a particularly large manuscript, open to the middle. “The world comes to us to trade now. They know we have superb workmanship. Particularly in the monasteries.” She climbs up onto the stool. “Stop quoting Father and tell me a story.”

I stand beside her and look at the text. This script is in Latin, I know, so even if I could read, I wouldn’t be able to understand the words. But the pages themselves are stunning just to look at with those illustrations. I can give it a try. “All right,” I say, “pick a page

The open page has pictures of mice eating the communion host. I hope she doesn’t pick it. I have no idea what I could say about it.

Brigid carefully turns two pages. “This one.”

The illustration is of a man with a halo. Peacocks flank him, and there are chalices with vines twining around them at all four corners. The colors are marvelous: green from copper, yellow from orpiment, red from some Mediterranean insect. The Gospels in the great book at the monastery in Armagh are boring compared to this. They are nothing but brown iron ink.

The man in this illustration carries a sheaf of papers. The Gospel, I’m sure. So this could be Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John. But there’s no lion with wings and no eagle—so it’s not Mark. Ah, his feet are bare. “I think that’s Saint Luke.”

“Well?” Brigid looks at me. “Come on. Naming him isn’t a story. I want a story.”

Saint Luke is the patron saint of physicians. We want him on our side today too, not just Saint Patrick. If I tell his story well enough, maybe he’ll intercede for Nuada. Once, in Greece, a baby was born. I think it was Greece, at least. It might have been—”

“You’re not supposed to say ‘I think’ and stuff like that. Just say ‘Greece’ and get on with it. Tell it big.”

“He was a slave. The family who owned him educated him in medicine so that he could be the resident physician for the family.” I stop.

“Well?” says Brigid. “And then?”

“And then he became an apostle. And he wrote the Gospel. And he told stories none of the other Gospel writers told.” I stop again.

Brigid makes a face. “I hope he told them better than you do.”

“He loved poor people. And women.”

“All men love women.”

“Like you know anything about it,” I say.

“I heard Brogan. That’s exactly what he said.”

“Brogan is a slave.”

“So what?”

“Slaves are ignorant, Brigid.”

“You just said Saint Luke was a slave, and he became a physician.”

“He was an exception.”

“Well, then, what about Saint Patrick? Everyone knows he was a slave”

“Don’t be absurd. He was a saint. All saints are exceptions.”

“You call everyone I name an exception. That’s cheating, Mel. Slaves seem like anyone else to me. Some are ignorant and some aren’t.”

“You make me tired, Brigid.”

“I’m more tired than you. I want Nuada back. You couldn’t tell a good story to save your life.”

“We’re not trying to save my life today. Did you forget?”

Brigid’s eyes tear up. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry I said that. Listen, Nuada will be well soon, and he’ll tell us lots of stories.”

“You promise?”

I push my hair back from my temples. Last night I
sat in the sickroom and declared Nuada would be all right. But that was before the fever took him. Now I’m unsure of everything.

“It’s all right,” Brigid says softly. “I hate false promises more than I hate bad storytelling.”

We leave the library and pass a three-sided shed that exudes the stench of excrement. One monk presses filth on a calfskin. I know about this: the excrement loosens the hair. Another monk stands by a frame with a calfskin stretched on it and scrapes the last bits of hair off it with a knife that comes to a wide end rather than a point. They’re making vellum for the pages of their manuscripts. How beautiful works can start from such revolting slime is part of the mystery. Or that’s what Father says.

We go out and sit beside a large stone cross with carvings, also in Latin. We wait and wait. The sun weakens.

Finally Mother appears. She takes us each by the hand and we get into the chariot and go home. We don’t talk on the way. Soon Brigid is asleep with her head in my lap. I envy the way she can use sleep to escape. I have no refuge. Nor does Mother. She wrings her hands continually.

As we cross the bridge through Nun’s gate on the
north side of town, a servant comes running. I hold myself rigid against the news. “The fever broke.”

Mother cries. I collapse against her side.

Women’s work has prevailed.

Nuada is going to live. He’s awake now, though hardly lucid, since he’s plied with spirit drinks every moment. Nothing else can dull such severe pain. And he still cannot tell us what happened. He says he doesn’t know. An ax came down on his hand. He saw the blade. He saw his hand severed. That’s all he remembers.

Still, he is lucid enough to enjoy a party, a celebration that he will live. That’s what we’re preparing.

“On such short notice,” says Mother, “we’ll have to settle for a wandering bard.” Which, her face says, means a man of lesser skills. This is a disappointment, for poetry is the highlight of a party.

“If you please, my queen, not so,” says Strahan. “There happens to be a famous
filid,
a poet of the noble class, visiting in Armagh.”

“Indeed? Well, summon him immediately.”

“Stories,” says Brigid. “Not just poems, Mother. We need lots of stories.
Seanchais—
storytellers. Nuada loves stories much more than poems.”

“Of course.”

Brigid is jumpy all the rest of the day. I admit I am too. I may be bad at telling stories, but I love listening. From
Samhain
to
Beltain—
November 1 to May I—we welcome itinerant storytellers, who give much pleasure in return for a meal and a pallet to sleep on. They help us pass the rainy nights of winter and early spring. Oh, this will be a fine party if only the slaves can work faster. Mother and I have to nip at their heels, there are so many blankets to rinse and pots to fill. Usually banquets take days of preparation. But all we have is one.

The guests begin arriving by midmorning of the next day. By midday, a cow and a pig have been slaughtered and roasted. The aroma makes even the air tasty. Beer and wine and mead flow freely, each guest taking according to his taste.

And, now, finally, the evening entertainment begins. Horns, pipes, whistles, harps—every corner of the main hall rings with music.

The
filid
marches in and stamps the floor importantly with his wooden staff. The bells on it jingle loudly. Then he plays a sharp tune on his
feadog—
his metal whistle.

Mother stands beside Brigid and me. “In the old days,” she whispers to us, “these poets were druids, who knew secret ways for contacting other worlds.”

“What other worlds?” asks Brigid.

“Spirit worlds. The poets told the future and cast spells. Even today they can make themselves appear mysterious if their audience wants them to.”

“I want him to,” says Brigid.

Mother gives a look of mock surprise. “Really?”

The
filid
begins, plucking on his lute. His eyebrows rise, his cheeks puff, his nose wrinkles, all to emphasize his points. But alas, his first poem amounts to nothing more than genealogies. He uses the same sounds over and over, praising the history of various chiefs and kings of Ulster.

I had hoped for verse about visions and elopements and true love, especially true love gone athwart. Or, if not that, then at least cattle raids and battles and heroism. Genealogies make me fall asleep.

But our guests cheer raucously when they hear their ancestors honored. I watch Liaig cheer too, though he looks about to fall over. He’s exhausted, after caring for Nuada without stop.

Father and Mother and Brigid and I leave our contented guests with the
filid
before the first poem even draws to an end. We troop eagerly into the sickroom.

Nuada is quite tipsy, it’s obvious. He sits on the bed mat propped up on cushions. His right arm is raised.
Liaig says that will help slow any residual bleeding, and cut the pain, too.

But it can’t be cutting the pain much. Nuada’s index finger of his left hand is curled through the handle of a jug of beer, just as it was yesterday. He takes swigs frequently. Sometimes the muscles of his jaw twitch. His eyes are glassy, his cheeks flushed.

I look at my hands and wince. If one was gone …

“Are you sure you want
seanchais?”
asks Mother.

“Absolutely,” says Nuada. He spills beer on his chest. I’m not convinced he even knows what he’s answering. His eyes haven’t talked to mine since Dublin.

I take my place on the bench beside Nuada’s bed and sit on my hands. Brigid sits beside me. Mother and Father take another bench, nearer the fire.

“When …?” says Brigid.

But a
seanchai
comes in before she can finish her question. There are several in the hall, as at any royal party, but the one who enters now is my favorite. He’s as correct in tone and style as any noble
filid.

He plays the hammer dulcimer as accompaniment, like a minstrel. He begins. “Cuchulainn had a special—”

“Stop,” I say. “Please.” My ears hurt at the name Cúchulainn. I think of his purple mantle and the purple tunic of the silversmith in Dublin, hateful Dublin. I
can’t bear it. Tonight is for celebrating. Nuada will live. Tonight is a happy time. “Please tell of someone else.”

All eyes but Nuada’s are on me, wanting an explanation.

“Someone who doesn’t battle.”

Mother looks at me with surprised approval. She makes a little click of her tongue, a sign of agreement.

The storyteller begins again. “Gartnán is a rich man. A chief of a
crannóg.
Picture him. Picture this chief of his settlement in the middle of an island in a lake. Shut your eyes and picture him.

“Do you see this
crannóg
serving as a homestead for a few dozen people? Do you see them toiling hard, scraping to get by? Do you see them cold and hungry in winter? Do you see them riddled with stinging insects in summer? Always scrabbling, always suffering?