Chapter Eighteen

When he woke, Easten felt fully refreshed. There were signs of life, subdued noises from outside the tent, indicating that the camp was astir. Rolling out of his furs he remained a few moments on his knees. His conscience nagged at him, reminding him that he was, after all, a cleric who had taken minor orders as a condition of receiving his education, and he had been somewhat remiss with the observation of his daily prayers throughout the journey so far. It was surely appropriate that he should now use a quiet moment to thank the Lord for their good fortune on the journey to Erin, and to plead for a positive response from the Clan Chieftain …….

He crossed himself and made his requests, humbly and sincerely. Crossing himself once more as he finished his office and rose to his feet, he caught a glimpse of a young boy standing at the tent's entrance, who was also crossing himself.

He smiled, and stretched out a hand in an attempt to put the child at ease: he could have been no more than ten years of age, and appeared uncomfortable to be discovered in the act of crossing himself.

Easten repeated the gesture, and spoke aloud the Latin lingua franca phrase:

"In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritu Sancti. Amen"

The child copied his actions, adding in what Easten assumed was his own language:

"In ainm an Athar agus an Mhic agus an spioraid Naoimh. Amen"

Showing a handful of what Easten could clearly see was kindling, and pointing at the central firestall, the child scampered across the floor of the tent and began to lay a fire. Unnoticed, Niall had roused himself during the exchange of prayers and greetings, and was ready to leave the tent with his travel companion, leaving the child to perform his appointed task.

"You seem to encourage everyone you meet to share your skill with languages!" Niall said as they walked across the clearing to what seemed to be a communal kitchen.

Easten grinned.

"I don't exactly go around forcing myself on people – but I admit, languages fascinate me, and I enjoy any and every opportunity to learn even a few words or basic phrases from any unfamiliar language or dialect I come across!"

"It may show you in a favourable light if they realize that you have made the effort to learn a few words of their language, even though you may never actually have any need to use it!"

Easten stopped a moment and looked at Niall with an amused look in his eyes.

"Niall, my friend! I know how to kill a man with a knife: but I have never done so, and hope I am never in a position where it may become necessary for me to do so! The fact that I know how to do it is surely not the most important consideration?"

This exchange provoked loud, spontaneous laughter from Niall, who was obliged to translate for the benefit of other bystanders awaiting their breakfast around the gruel pot.

Breakfast was a short, informal affair, eaten standing around a small cookfire: a bowl of warm, nourishing porage sweetened with wild honey, followed by slices of cold meat saved from an earlier meal and served on trenchers of some sort of unleaven bread: tasty, and filling, ideal to keep a body going throughout a busy day at work or travelling.

As he stood and ate alongside the others, Easten was aware of the fact that, unlike many others in similar positions, Mulrooney moved easily amongst his men without demanding they treat him in any way differently to anyone else: he stood in line, waiting for his portion of food, and when he saw Easten and Niall approaching he immediately insisted on serving them himself.

The meal was quickly over and tidied away. No obvious signal that Easten could see had been given, but he suddenly discovered that he stood in the centre of a circle, along with Niall and Mulrooney, and a young man whose features clearly indicated that he simply had to be a close relative of the Chieftain. He was introduced to them as Padraig, sister-son to Mulrooney. His presence, however, was not immediately explained. Easten therefore thought it best politics to wait for Mulrooney's decision to introduce his cousin or not, as the case might be.

Mulrooney gazed at Niall and began to speak, slowly and clearly, with frequent pauses so that he might translate quickly and efficiently for Easten's benefit as he went along.

"My first thought is to thank you, Easten, traveller from the land my brother chose long ago as his own! Yes, I have my own ways of discovering things, but fear not! Your journey here was as discreet as you had hoped it would be: I do not always have to depend on other people (or even the swiftness of a hawk's wing) for my news! "

He paused to ensure that Niall could translate all this accurately, and continued:

"I have known of your journey, though not of its purpose, for some time. Indeed, one of my sources of information reported that though weaponless in the usual sense of the word, you were able to defend yourself against an ambush …. shall we say, by other means?"

This with a meaningful glance at Perori. With a start, Easten thought of the ambush they had survived early on the road out of Dubh Lihn, and the surviving attacker who had fled. Mulrooney seemed to read his thoughts. His face darkened with a degree of anger as he continued:
"I gave them instructions to learn what they could of your intent, but I did not authorize any use of force! That was something they decided upon themselves, and I gather it cost the one of them his life. The other delivered his report, and has been suitably …. recompensed. But he is forbidden to re-enter the kingdom of Tara, under pain of death!"

"What news, then, of my brother Hywel? For I take it you bear a message, or messages, from him?"

Easten blinked. Mulrooney an MacDairmada's forthright question had caught him unawares, though he had been pondering for several minutes about the most tactful manner of broaching the main purpose of his journey. Recovering swiftly, he replied:

"Sire, I have the honour of naming your brother Hywel my liege lord. As you have divined, it is on his account I have made the long trek from Cymru to Tara. For he is hard pressed, on several sides, by forces he cannot hold against forever ………. "

As the poet in him described the hardships being suffered by Hywel in the months prior to his departure, Easten found it easier to express himself in a rhythmic ballad: and it was no real surprise when he was suddenly aware of the fact that he had started to accompany his storytelling with a simple melody picked out on the strings of Perori. The sun rose above the treeline, and continued to climb towards its zenith, and the day's shadows had shrunk almost to their minimum as midday approached before Easten had told the tale of Hywel's predicament in full. The final chords from Perori chimed softly and seemed to pulse with a life of their own for a moment, a minor sequence which begged for an answering counterpoint melody rather than the final cadence which would normally complete a song.

When the last, faint vibrations from the final chord died away completely, there followed several impossibly long seconds of total, absolute silence. Not a bird sang, nor a breath drawn by any of those present until, suddenly and (it seemed) simultaneously, everyone found their tongues at the same time, and there was a murmur of aborted conversational openings as each turned to his neighbour and uttered similar if not identical phrases:

"Did you …..?"

     "Was I …..?"

          "Did you unders………?"

                "How …….?"

Belatedly it occurred to Easten that he had recounted the message which had been entrusted to him to the Clan without requiring Niall as intermediary translator…….!!" How could that be?! There was one explanation, of course: it could have been achieved through the magic of Perori's music.

"I know not how you achieved this ……..!" Mulrooney began, then stopped. The look of total incomprehension on Easten's face was unmistakable, a clear indication that the Gift of Tongues reputed to have been granted Jesus' disciples had not been granted once more.

With evident chagrin, Mulrooney turned to Niall.

"It seems I must needs continue to beg your services as translator! But at least I have understood my brother's urgent needs, and far more quickly than would have been the case. Now, relate to your friend that his mission here has not been in vain, that I fully intend to march at the head of the force I am duty bound to supply. My brother has asked me for help: I would be a craven churl if I declined to lead by example!"

A great shout of approval was raised as an MacDairmada declared his intentions and pledged the full might of arms which the Clan might bring to bear. Several warriors rose to their feet immediately, as if anxious to collect their weapons and begin the march across Tara and all the way to Dubh Lihn at once. At a swift signal from Mulrooney, however, they seated themselves again and waited patiently for the war declaration which was now merely a formality. Still, they hungered to hear it from their leader's lips, and were not disappointed.

"We march from here to Carrick MacDermot, where we will leave a token force – mostly our elders, and a few young bloods to assist them with the tasks which will require muscles! And let none think, even for a moment, that there is any shame attached to being left here to defend our women and young children, for they are our future!"

"There is no time for stealth in our movements. And naught to be gained by any attempt to conceal our intent! On the other hand, our enemy on this occasion is to be found across the Eastern Sea: we have no quarrel with Meath, or Dubh Lihn, or anyone else who may be found between ourselves and the coast!"
"I, Mulrooney, as an MacDairmada say this! That we will ride double, two men to a beast and as many as may be running behind. We ride with all our horses, which we will sell at the markets in Dubh Lihn and purchase extra weapons, while we await the arrival of those who complete the journey on foot. There are many in the Pale who owe favours to an MacDairmada: they can cleanse their slates by placing a fleet at my disposal and transporting us all to Cymru!"
More ragged cheers broke out, but this time they were stilled by a high, unnatural keening which sent a shiver of horror through Easten's mind. It sounded like someone who was terrified by something, frightened to within an inch of his life. He looked around to identify the source. As he turned, Perori struck faintly against something or other solid: for the first time he could recall, the resultant sound was a jarring discord.

The wailing came from Mulroney's sister-son, Padraig, who knelt with the blind harpist (whose name Easten belatedly realized he had forgotten to ask) across his knee. The latter was in some distress: white foam bubbled around his lips.

"A vision! Turlough has had a vision!" Padraig cried, ineffectually trying to wipe the spittle and mucus from the harpist's mouth to ease his breathing. An older, more experienced warrior relieved Padraig, who stood close by in case he could be of further assistance.

"Tine! Tine agur toít! Tine agur toít!" the harpist moaned, repeating the single phrase in a monotone which suggested that he was neither conscious nor coherent. But the phrase had to mean something, Easten thought desperately, or he would not sound so desperate.

"What is he saying?" he demanded of anyone who would listen. Fortunately, Niall was close at hand, close enough to hear the question and translate:

"He speaks of Fire, my friend: Fire and Smoke, he says! But I cannot get through to him, to ask if it is Carrick MacDermott he sees engulfed in flame, or your lord Hywel's castle…!"

Perori chimed once more, a doleful, grating discord in the lowest reaches of her register.

Here ends Volume 1 of Easten.

Volume 2, Easten Rising, will tell of his return to Cymru

Paul McDermott, January 2007