Peter Tremayne - The Spider's Web

Fidelma smiled appreciatively.

‘Then Gadra is a man of wisdom. Truly, if you do not raise your eyes you will always believe that you stand on the highest point. Come, Dubán, let us go in search of this sage.’

‘If he still lives,’ added Dubán pessimistically.

Dubán and Fidelma led the way along the narrow track that wound through the great oaks of the forest which spilled through the mountain passes. Brother Eadulf rode behind them. His eyes were watchful. With all this talk of raiding brigands, it occurred to him that whole warbands could hide in such gloomy places and not be noticed by wayfarers who might pass their concealment within yards and not even notice them, so dense and impenetrable were the rich woodlands that spread across the mountains which surrounded Araglin. So close together did the trees grow that they shut out all sight of the blue canopy of the sky and the warm spring sunshine. The air felt chill and Eadulf observed that few spring flowers were blooming but there were plenty of dark evergreens and plants that liked the cold dark musty atmosphere of the woodlands.

Eadulf rode with watchful eyes but his body was at ease, letting his mount match the leisurely walking pace of the lead horses.

The quiet was almost oppressive. Now and then something rustled through the underbrush and Eadulf had noticed that few bird songs trilled through the woodland.

‘A bleak, black place to dwell,’ Eadulf called, breaking the silence in which they had ridden since first entering this part of the woodlands.

Dubán half turned with a brief smile.

‘It is the nature of hermits to dwell in places that others are not attracted to, Saxon,’ he replied.

‘I have known healthier places,’ Eadulf responded. ‘What is the point of dwelling as a hermit if it costs you your health?’

‘A good argument, Saxon,’ the warrior chuckled. ‘Yet they say that Gadra has lived over four score years. And, if he continues to live, I shall be surprised.’

‘So you keep telling us,’ intervened Fidelma wearily. ‘Tell us some more of your knowledge of Gadra. We know he is a hermit and we know that he appears to be a man of wisdom. What else do you know of him?’

‘Little to tell. Gadra is Gadra. He has always been the same age to me.’

‘Is anything known of his origin?’ pressed Fidelma.

Dubán shrugged.

‘They say that he was a religious of the pagan times.’

‘A Druid?’ demanded Fidelma. It was true that here and there among the five kingdoms were still to be found followers of the old gods. Fidelma herself had encountered such members of the recluse; those who still clung to the old ways, the old beliefs. Even Fidelma found herself admiring many of their philosophies. The new Faith of Christ had not been long enough established in the land for the old ways to be anachronistic.

‘I suppose one would call him so. We were told stories of old Gadra when I was a boy. He has always been old to us. We were warned to stay away from him because the priest said he performed human sacrifices to ancient gods in these fierce oak forests.’

Fidelma sniffed deprecatingly.

‘There is always talk of human sacrifice when one does not understand the truth of a religious cult. The founder of my own house at Kildare, Brigid of blessed name, was a Druidess and the daughter of a Druid. There is nothing to fear from such as they. But tell me more about this Gadra. Is it known when he came to this place?’

‘Not in Eber’s time, that’s for sure,’ replied Dubán. ‘I think he came when Eber’s father was a little boy. He had the gift of healing and of wisdom.’

‘How could he have a gift of healing unless he believed in theTrue Faith?’ interrupted Eadulf a little indignantly.

Fidelma grinned at her companion.

‘One cannot argue with such logic,’ she replied mischievously.

Eadulf was not sure whether she was making fun of him.

‘Does he perform his healing in the name of the Christ Saviour?’ he demanded.

‘He simply heals those who go to him with affliction. He does so in the name of no one,’ replied Dubán. ‘Of course, Father Gormán used to denounce any he found who had sought a cure from Gadra. But I have not heard of Gadra for some years now. I say he is dead and we waste time on this journey.’

Eadulf was about to speak further when Dubán suddenly raised a hand to bid them draw rein on their horses.

‘I see a clearing ahead. I think we are close to the glade where he once dwelt.’

Fidelma peered forward eagerly.

‘Is this the spot where Gadra lives?’

Dubán nodded.

‘Stay here. Let me go first,’ he said softly, ‘for if he still lives, I think he will recognise me.’

He manoeuvred his horse in front of her and began to walk it carefully along the track towards the bright area of the clearing before them.

Fidelma saw that the clearing was only a small glade and she could hear, in the silence of the forest, the gushing and gurgling of a stream. Fidelma thought she saw a wooden building ahead through the trees.

Suddenly Dubán’s voice echoed loudly back.

‘Gadra! Gadra! It is Dubán of Araglin! Do you still live?’

There was silence for a while.

Then they heard a voice reply. It was a voice of age, yet deep and resonant.

‘If I do not, Dubán of Araglin, then it is surely a wraith who answers you.’

Dubán’s voice came again, lower in tone. Neither Fidelma nor Eadulf could hear what was being said. After a while, Dubán’s voice called loudly upon them to come forward into the glade.

On a level piece of land by a surging, tumbling mountain stream, stood a wooden cabin, well built and thatched. The glade showed signs of cultivation. A small garden of herbs and vegetables and some fruit trees surrounded it. Dubán had dismounted and tied his horse to a nearby bush and was standing a few feet from another figure. He was a short, elderly figure, with a shock of white hair, leaning on a staff of polished blackthorn. He looked, at first sight, frail. But Fidelma realised that the frailness was misleading. He was thin but sinewy. He wore loose robes dyed with saffron and round his neck was a golden circlet bearing ancient symbols the like of which Fidelma had not seen before.

Fidelma swung from her horse and handed the reins to Eadulf and moved forward towards the elderly figure. She halted a few paces away.

‘Blessings on you, Gadra,’ she greeted, inclining her head slightly.

She found herself looking into a kindly face, whose nut-brown, weather-tanned skin was highlighted by piercing bright eyes. They seemed grey rather than blue. The cascade of snow-white hair surrounded the face. It was shoulder length from the head and merged indivisibly into a silken-like beard that was cut short so that the circlet showed where it hung on his chest. That Gadra was old was not in dispute but it was impossible to estimate his age for his face was still youthful and unlined and only the rounded shoulders gave an impression of the passing years.

She found the face regarding her with good humour.

‘You are well come to this place, Fidelma, daughter of Failbe Flann.’

Fidelma started a little.

‘How did …?’

She saw the man laughing and she caught herself and smiled sheepishly and shrugged.

‘What else did Dubán tell you?’

Gadra nodded approvingly.

‘You have a quick mind, Fidelma.’ He glanced across her shoulder to where Eadulf was tying the horses to a bush. ‘Come forward, Brother Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham. Come forward and let us sit ourselves down and speak for a while.’

Fidelma, as she used to do when she was a young pupil of Morann of Tara, sank cross-legged on the grass before the old man, like a novice before a master. Gadra smiled approvingly. Brother Eadulf, more awkwardly, preferred to prop himself up on a nearby rounded boulder, using it as an uncomfortable seat. Dubán similarly seemed to think his dignity would be affronted to be seated on the ground and found another boulder. Gadra, as if he were still youthful, squatted down on the grass before Fidelma.