Peter Tremayne - Dancing With Demons

‘Superstition and fear is no way forward,’ Fidelma said.

‘Any faith is spread by a certain degree of fear, lady,’ the old man replied philosophically. ‘Faith is not logic otherwise it would not be Faith. In those times it came down to those whose magic was the more powerful. That is why the stories of the miracles had to be told so that people would know what power the early fathers of the Faith had over their pagan enemies. Hence the Blessed Patrick could walk into fires or the Blessed Ailbe could restore to life the son of Mac Dara after he had drowned in the river. Look how it is told that Patrick smashed the skull of the Druid Lochru on a rock, using, as we are told, his magical powers to do so. This was to demonstrate that his magic was more powerful than their magic. In fear, they turned to the Faith that he brought as being more advantageous to their well-being. This fear spreads the Faith.’

Fidelma was slightly disapproving of the argument but she knew the stories well enough. For herself, she did not believe in miracles of any sort.

‘So this is a symbol of the old beliefs?’ she said quickly as she saw the old man about to extend his argument.

‘It may well be the only surviving symbol of a great Druid.’ Brother Conchobhar nodded slowly.

‘You think the old man who died in Ferloga’s inn was such an important member of the Old Faith?’

‘It is impossible to say with certainty, but it is rare to come upon suchaccoutrements. Do you know anything else about him? Was it known where he came from or where he was going?’

‘Apparently, he was from the north. He asked Ferloga the innkeeper, what road he should take for Cnánmhchailli. But there are no dwellings around there. It is an empty and desolate place.’

Brother Conchobhar’s eyes had widened. ‘Except for the ancient pillar stone,’ he pointed out.

‘So Ferloga said,’ Fidelma grimaced. ‘Why go to an old, decaying pillar stone? I have passed it a hundred times. It is of no significance.’

‘To you, perhaps. But if this man were truly one of those who clung to the pagan ways, then it might make sense that he would be going there.’

‘How so?’

Brother Conchobhar leaned forward, confidentially. ‘Have you heard of the legends of Mug Ruith?’

‘The sun god of the pagans?’

‘Yes. He became known as mac seanfhesa, the son of ancient wisdom, chief of all the Druids in the five kingdoms. He rode a great chariot, which at night shone as bright as daylight. In the days before the Blessed Ailbe of Imleach brought the teachings of Christ to this corner of the world, it was said that the pillar stone was a fragment of the wheel of Mug Ruith’s great chariot that had become petrified.’

When Fidelma smiled cynically, Brother Conchobhar told her: ‘It is not wise to dismiss other beliefs without understanding them. Among those who cling to the Old Faith it is said that Mug Ruith is their great champion against Christianity and that his Roth Fáil, his wheel of light, will one day be an engine of destruction that will sweep the teachings of Christ out of the five kingdoms; that we will once again encompass the old way. I believe that many of the Old Faith still search in the hope of finding the Roth Fáil.’

‘An old pillar stone is hardly the Roth Fáil.’ Fidelma was dismissive.

‘The Druids spoke in symbols. Who knows what they meant? Tell me, did this man carry anything else with him?’

Fidelma brought forth the bag of coins. ‘He carried these.’

Brother Conchobhar emptied the coins on his table and peered at them. ‘Roman coins?’ he asked.

‘Look closer. They are ancient coins of the type the Britons and Gauls used to cast before the coming of the Romans, centuries before the birth of Christ. I have seen them before in my journeys. And here are also somemarked with the name of Tasciovanus, who ruled in Britain two generations before the Romans invaded. Do you see the letters CAM on this gold stater? That signified his capital of Camulodunum. Not one of these coins is later than the time that Rome moved into these territories. They are the most ancient coins of our western world.’

‘Why would this old man be carrying such coins with him?’ frowned the apothecary as he sifted through the coins. ‘This is proof of wealth indeed.’

‘I was hoping that you would have some arcane knowledge that might explain it,’ Fidelma told him.

‘Alas, lady, I have not.’

‘Well, I will leave these items with you, my friend, in case you can discover anything else. If the old man was one of those ancient ones, a man who does not recognise the New Faith, it would be interesting to know what he intended. Do you really think he was searching for the Roth Fáil?’

Brother Conchobhar glanced at her with a worried expression. ‘Perhaps. And there might be something else.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I have heard that there is a new and growing activity from those who adhere to the Old Faith.’

‘Growing activity?’ Fidelma was surprised. ‘I haven’t heard this.’ Brother Conchobhar inclined his head seriously. ‘Some travellers from Inis Celtra in the Red Lake told me that they had heard stories.’

‘That is the school which the Blessed Caiman set up. I well remember him from when I was a child. A kindly old man who died when I was away at Brehon Moran’s school.’

‘Indeed. The travellers from Inis Celtra said that they had been hearing stories from some of the remoter regions of Connacht that Christian pilgrims have been attacked by bands who proclaim themselves to be of the Old Faith and who carry a totem with a wolf’s head affixed to it.’

‘A wolf’s head?’

‘Yes. In the old days, among Corco Baiscinn, the people who dwell near the Red Lake, there was a band of those who followed the old religion and they called themselves the Fellowship of the Wolf.’

‘And these stories, are they just stories or did these travellers know for certain such attacks had taken place?’

The old man shrugged. ‘They were repeating stories that they had been told.’

‘One can therefore place no reliance on such tales,’ Fidelma said briskly. ‘You know that. The Faith has only been spread for two centuries in this land and although you will find groups here and there who still believe in the old gods, they are usually elderly folk who cling to the traditions of our ancestors. Violence is not part of their character, nor did the old beliefs teach brutality or violence as a virtue. These people live in perfect amity with their Christian brethren. Indeed, there is something sad about them as they come to accept that the youth have eagerly devoured the New Faith and that the future of this land is inevitably linked with the teachings of Christ.’

Brother Conchobhar’s gloomy features did not lighten. ‘Even so, the story that the travellers recounted was told with such conviction that the Brehon Baithen has gone with some of your brother’s warriors to Inis Celtra to investigate.’

Fidelma was surprised but not concerned. ‘Well, there was no wolf’s head among the possessions of the old man who died at Ráth na Drínne. There seems no link that I can see and no need to bring the matter to the attention of my brother’s Brehon.’

She was about to leave the apothecary shop when Caol burst in. He seemed full of suppressed excitement.

‘Lady, your brother has sent me to bring you to him … immediately.’

‘Is anything wrong?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Nothing, lady, but he asks you to join him at once.’

‘Why does he summon me thus?’ she demanded.

Caol made a helpless gesture with his hands. ‘Lady, I am not permitted to say.’ He glanced at Brother Conchobhar and his eyes, still full of some excitement, came back to her. ‘All I can say is that half an hour ago, a messenger arrived from Tara, would not rest, bathe nor refresh himself until he saw the King. He is still with him.’