Tuathal considers songs and his gesh.
“Short the days, long the nights
“Bitter the wind on the waters so gray.
“Short the happiness, long the sorrow
“Cold lies my love on the sand this day.”
Tuathal finished the tale of Eabha and the Red Warrior of Darradh and let his hands and voice rest. Three nights to the dying of the year, the time between times, three nights. One year ago he had sung, a master bard in his prime newly returned to his half-brother’s hall after a year and a half of wandering. Now gray warred with red-brown in his hair, another mark of the fire and his time in the lands under the mounds. How long had he served the shadow king, repaying his debt? Years? It had felt to be years, yet in the lands above only a handful of months had passed, spring turned to autumn.
He stroked one of the new strings on the clarsach, not drawing sound. Had they been worn so badly? Or had the dark king’s harper been too rough and snapped the wire? If he had trained on gut, he may well have. Wire sang more brightly and lasted longer, but required a lighter touch, played with nails more than fingertips. Too, gut could be replaced more easily. He smiled a little. Master Amlod, his teacher, had once suggested that the fabled lands to the west boasted harp wires like vines that twined around the pie-bearing trees.
Tuathal released some of the tension on the wires and put the harp into its case. Left too long taut, the strings would pull the harp apart, twisting it into pieces. Left too long simmering, anger and slights twisted apart men, even slights only imagined. He stood, shook out his hands, and fetched the blue and brown cloak from his bed space. Meren had returned it to him. What had she done with the gold and silver he’d given her? One ring she’d kept, he knew that. She’d not bought her freedom, but perhaps that of kindred or a child? It mattered not to him save as a curiosity. Not all tales were his for the telling.
However, one question he did seek to have answered. The inner push had grown stronger, perhaps awanmoving. He made his way down the royal hill, through the gateway of stone shaped in the times before the coming of his father’s people to this land. Had the old ones, or those now under the mound, cut the passage through the rocks? Had it been made so by the gods? Those were tales no men knew, and the stones did not speak. Once on the wagon way, he moved aside as four oxen plodded past, their wagon’s axles moaning and creaking a song of complaint. He had heard worse. The stripling at the lower gate nodded as he passed but did not speak. That was good and proper. He turned his steps south, walking toward the fast-emptying grain fields. Soon cattle and sheep would take the place of grain and straw, then be eaten or given to the gods.
Tan oak leaves hissed and rustled above him. Soft thumps as a few acorns dropped to the ground, dropped like the hazel nuts that had fed the salmon of knowledge when it swam in Cerredwin’s well. He’d eaten an acorn, once, on a wager. The bitterness had warned against trying again, although some soaked them for days, then ground them into flour. Hazel nuts he preferred more, when they came to his hand.
He stopped at the gateway to the wise one’s territory. It stood open, but he was not one of the learned to enter without escort and permission. Indeed, he had barely begun to wait when a woman in green, a carved staff in her hand, came toward him. He bowed to her. For whom did she speak, and did he dare to ask? No. Not so close to the dying of the year.
“What seek you, Tuathal mab Brida map Aidain?”
A good question. He turned his right hand palm up and showed it to her. “I seek to know why the marks of my gesh have not faded entirely. When first they came, black covered my hands as black covers a raven’s feathers. When I emerged from the water, only this remained.”
The wise woman pursed her lips, eyes narrowed and thoughtful. “And what is your gesh, Tuathal Open-handed?”
“To always return that which was borrowed, to the place from whence it came, in the condition it was when it came to me, no better or worse.”
Red-brown brows rose over blue eyes. “Ah. Return after the turning of the year, and an answer may be waiting.”
He bowed and departed. Something watched through her eyes, or so it felt, something wild yet womanly. Did she speak for Morak of the Horses, Lady of Battle? Or perhaps Braha of the Waters? He took his time returning to the hill, listening to the sounds of voices and of birds. Some had departed for the south already, following the first ducks and geese as they chased the sun. Others waited. Merchants and traders also went south, away from the storms of winter, but not warriors. Did the birds go beyond the mist? Others could, so long as they remained on the sea, but none set foot below the mist that he’d heard of.
Not his to try, not this season. Beyond the hill of the king, the great moss had begun turning red with the autumn, another warning to prepare for winter. The bog stretched north, then east, around the ridge. Stones stood out of the mire and bog, tall gray stones raised by the old ones, or so he had been told. The land had not been so wet in those days, the days of legend before the coming of his father’s people. Mounds hid in the moss as well, now vanished under the blanket of false ground and quivering reeds. A man walked into the bog at his peril, and none dared search for those who wandered astray.
The moss came closer to the king’s hill, and the sea drew back. Sea, sky, land all met in this place, fine pasture and salt marsh, hills and bog, with the higher mountains to the north. They had not yet donned their snow cloaks, but soon. Geese flew past, low and steady as they traveled south. Land and water, water and sky, all the elements met here, leaving land neither one or the other but all and yet none. He considered the day and the westering of the Ciranis’ truchai. After a bit of looking he found an open sheep gate, eased through, and made his way into the space between the hedge and the lowest wall. Some servants and others had dwellings so low, close to the beasts and the storm-driven waters.
A bit of white caught his eye. A flower bloomed amid the brambles of rowen and hawthorn. That … He drew the stone flower out of one of his pouches and compared. The hawthorn bloomed out of time, and the stone bloomed for all time. “A riddle indeed,” he murmured to the hedge and the stone. He reached for the living flower, then hesitated, glancing up the hill. No. Bringing the bloom into the low king’s domain might cause offense. Hawthorn blessed houses in spring, so long as it remained outside the walls. Eating the haws brought no difficulty, nor did carrying them under a roof, but flowers under the roof brought misfortune. He left the flower and returned the stone to the pouch. He made his way up the concealed route, cloak hood drawn forward so that he blended into the gray and brown of the stones and hill, lest unfriendly eyes see and note his passage. The guard on the hidden gate opened it only enough to allow him entry.
#
Three days later, the year died with the sun. The wise ones watched from the high places, speaking with the gods. Ordinary men and women stayed close to shelter. Doors between the realms opened in this time between times, neither one year nor the next. Safer it was to stay close to well-known places. The arms men and craftsmen too remained quiet. No new work should begin this day, no new songs be written or sung.
Tuathal crouched by the fire in the hall of feasting, watching the flames lick the large oaken log, slowly feeding on the wood. Should the fire fail, it would be relit from the priests’ bonfires, a bad omen. Among his mother’s people, such brought misfortune and a warning for the householder. Someone had not taken proper care, not shown the fire the reverence due the heart of the household. As a student he had watched the fires, had even stood in his cousin’s place at the sacrifices. Now, the red and gold flames ate slowly. Dull red and black coals glowed among ashy white below the night log. He did not stir them to greater life. Their time would come, or would not.
He should sleep. Restlessness moved in him as it had before, pushing him to go … Out. More he could not yet discern. He drew on his cloak and gathered the clarsach’s case. The air outside the halls cut like a fine knife, so sharp and dry it felt against his face. He made his way down the hill, quietly, moving from rock to wall to hedge, then out, east. Hard stars poured light down, and the young moon cast false shadows. Which black was tree and which shadow; which shadows held more than just darkness? He followed the road east, to the edge of the valley and the foot of the eastern ridge. The bog had not touched this land yet, and a grass-cloaked mound sat under the sky, a double handful of tall stones around it.
The end of the mound stood open. He considered the darker darkness of the doorway, and bowed, but did not enter. The open door might be an invitation or a test. Better to remain outside than to discover that the King under the Mound awaited another, not him. Instead he walked to the side of the mound and found a low rock, one outside the circle. He adjusted his cloak and sat, then removed the clarsach from the case. He checked the tune, very quiet in the stillness. Fingers warmed, he touched the strings and played a slow air, one without words, one ancient when his oldest master had learned it, a song of pride and longing intertwined. Then he turned to lighter melodies, a dance he’d heard from a merchant who’d gained it on the southern half-island across the eastern waters.
Tuathal kept his eyes on the ground. Should those under the mound venture out under the stars, he did not need to see. Indeed, hints of motion, of starlight and moonlight on gleaming metal and colored embroidery, moved just beyond his view, flicking into then out of his sight.
“In beauty she walks, in honor he goes
“Honor surrounds them, and loss by their foes.
“Lost in sweet dreaming, dancing in grace,
“Grace shining forth from each dancer’s face.”
After three turns of the tune, he shifted to a more complicated double dance. His fingers and wrists stung in the cold, then eased with the swift notes. When that song ended, he breathed the sharp, cold air, as fresh and crisp as the finest spring water in midsummer’s heat. Power surged in him, awan pure and strong, and he played and sang,
“Great is the king of ancient renown, the king over the mountain.
“Mighty the king of power full-grown, the king under the mountain.
“Wise is the king with knowledge hard won, the king over the waters.
“Gracious the king of open hands, the king of the hidden waters.
“Long were the days of richness and joy,
“Mighty the deeds of the men of the king.
“Joyful the songs of the ladies of court
“Beautiful women of shadows.
“Great is the king of ancient renown, the king under the mountain.
“Greater his warriors and ladies so fair, the king under the forests.
“None dare challenge his power this night, the king under the meadows.
“Mighty the king now hidden from sight, the king ancient as mountains.”
The song ended, the power flowed away, and he struggled to hold the harp properly and not fall over. He closed his eyes, breathing, regaining strength. Steps drew near, then retreated. He remained as he was until the stone under him steadied and the stars ceased their dancing.
A cup rested on the grass beside him. Steam rose from the simple vessel. He eased the clarsach into its case. Then he lifted the cup with both hands. Heat flowed into fingers stiff and cold. The steam smelled of fine apples and summer’s flowers. He saluted the dark mound and paler stones, and sipped. All of the richness of the year flowed over his tongue, plum and apple and sweet berries, the scent of fresh-mown meadows captured in cider and honey. Warmth as a soft summer night filled him as he drank. This was not a cup to be rushed, no. He savored the wild cup, then stood and tipped the last drop onto the closest of the standing stones, so that it rolled down to the earth.
“My thanks to the giver, and to those who gathered the apples, to those who tended the bees. May your gift return ten-fold, and your open hands taken in twice what is given. May frost not touch the trees of your orchard, and winter rest lightly on your sleeping bees.”
He set the cup back on the grass from whence he had lifted it. Then he sat on the low stone once more. A faint sound, then louder, like a harp played just on the other side of a wall, came to his ears. He listened, settling the clarsach once again against his shoulder and closing his eyes. When the song repeated, he ventured a soft harmony, one that complemented the other harper’s tune. The tune grew louder, bolder, and his notes strengthened likewise, weaving around the song from the hidden lands. After three more turns, it faded into silence. He let his own harp rest as well, then untuned it and put it in the case. He stood and bowed. “For the melody, thanks. May your fingers move swiftly and your instrument sing always sweetly, and nothing but praise follow your songs, oh bard of the hidden lands. Great is your most noble lord, the King under the Mound, and beautiful his lady, the Queen of the Lands in Shadow.” He bowed once more, then took up the harp’s case. The cup had vanished.
He made his way to the road, then back to the hill of kingship. Red glowed on the western hill, the first fire of the new year, or was it the last of the old? He looked up at the stars. Patterns of winter stared down, the great warrior and the bull and others. Tuathal saluted them, and the distant fire, before he walked to the sheep gate. He let himself in, humming softly as he climbed the faint trail. The moon hung close to the hills, silver and pure. It was said that some of the groupings of stone belonged to the moon, others to the sun. Such was for the priests and wise ones, not for bards to know. The doorway in the wall opened with a faint creak of complaint as he drew near. He nodded to the man on watch, then slipped through. Rest came easily when he sought his bed.
(C) 2026 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved
