Mercedes Lackey: Lamma's Night (anthology)

The name of Carricknahorna caught my eye and I paused, moving the lamp so I could see the faded handwriting, precise and angled, with an occasional irrepressible nourish that revealed the writer's romantic soul.

"I walked out this afternoon to Stirring Rock, an alluvial boulder below the escarpment called in Gaelic Carraig na Eornan. It is an impressive feature, as if a giant had been playing ball and dropped it there, but more interesting is the folklore in the district regarding the stone. They say that in the old days it was the site of a combat between the god of light and the black bull that devours the harvest, for the favor of the lady of the land. On Lammas the people would go there to make their offerings to the ancient powers. This was done up through the Middle Ages, though the bishops preached against it. But since the English came to rule here the old customs have declined, and now the old rock is honored only on Bilberry Sunday at the end of July, when the young people go to sing and dance."

There was more along these lines, with reference to articles in various journals. Father Roderic appeared to be in disagreement with Wakeman, and contemplated an article of his own. I wondered if he had ever written it. I flipped through the pages, seeking the scholarly reflections embedded in the references to parish fetes and visits to the sick. One year led on to the next. My grandmother's death was noted; he wondered when my father would return to claim his inheritance—a disturbing comment there—

"The people miss their old lords as well, though they will say only that it's not 'right' without an Erne to dwell below the Rock. I fear that Lord Skein is not an acceptable substitute. In the old days, it would have been the Druid, their priest, who spoke for the absent king,..."

That night my sleep was troubled once more. I saw the young man I had followed, but now it seemed to me that he stood before a shadow that might be the entrance to the cave. His hair was as bright as young McMurtry's, but more knowledge than one man ought to bear haunted his deep-set eyes.

"Come—" said his gesture, "Lady of Carraig na Eornan, come to me!"

Looking into those eyes, I knew that this was the kindred soul for whom my own had been longing. I scrambled up the cliff, straining to grasp his hand. For a moment, it seemed, our fingers touched. Then, as I gained the ledge, he was snatched suddenly away into darkness and I was alone. The wind tugged at my dark hair, bringing a hint of music. It was a song I had heard a girl singing last market day. But the words were different—

"The fair god fights the dark god's reeve,

For corn the Lady will receive;

Both lad and lass,

Let all ill pass,

On Lammas Eve, on Lammas Eve!"

* * *

I woke exhausted, as if I really had spent the night climbing, and found on my pillow a posy of the blood-red poppies that grow among the grain. It was the last week of July. It seemed to me there had been something about Lammas Eve, that the ancient Irish called Lughnasadh , in Father Roderic's diaries. Pulling on my wrapper, I began to search through the yellowed pages.

Bilberry Sunday dawned with a spattering of rain against the window panes. Gray skeins of clouds were unravelling across the sky, stained pink by the rising sun. I had asked McMurtry whether there would still be dancing at Stirring Rock if it rained, and he had laughed at me. Wet weather was traditional, and the festivities would not be stopped by a few showers when the Sunday was also Lammas Eve.

Especially, he had added more soberly, when this might be the last festival. "Another failed harvest, lass, and we'll all be taking ship for America. And I do not think Lord Skein's sheep dance..."

I had slept badly, haunted by dreams of blood and fire. The priest had been there; it was his need that had called me. I remembered my own sorrow and confusion, but not what had caused them, only his appeal—

"I can save this land, lady, if you will call me back again!"

There was no point in going back to bed. I pulled on my walking skirt of dark green twill, did up the buttons of the matching jacket with its high neck and flaring peplum, and looked around for my cape and hat. By noon no doubt I would be envying the local girls in their stuff skirts and shawls, but they expect me to dress like a lady, and at least I would be warm.

When the trap drew up at my door I was surprised to find McMurtry driving. But seeing his scowl, I decided against asking after his son. According to the folklorists, Lughnasa celebrations were a traditional time for courting. Perhaps Luke was sparking a girl of whom he did not approve. I wondered why the thought should give me a pang.

Clouds still hung behind the escarpment, but the meadow below Stirring Rock was ablaze with sunshine. A blue trail of smoke from the bonfire hung in the bright air. As we drove up I heard the lively lilt of a fiddle; a few of the merrymakers were dancing. Cheerful voices hailed McMurtry as he reined in, faltered as they saw me and altered to a more sober tone.

"It's welcome you are, lady," said Rose Donovan, whose mother cleaned for me. "Come and sit if you will. The first of the new potatoes are roasting and will be ready soon."

I nodded and clambered down. The girl had always been guardedly friendly, but now there was a kind of grave courtesy in her manner that reminded me of ancient tales. I looked up at the gray bulk of the rock with the odd sense that all of us here were moving back in time. In this ancient place we were bound to old relationships of lord and leige that this new century had forgotten. My ancestors had ruled here. What did that mean to me?

The weather was changeable, blue sky half-veiled by opalescent cloud that thickened at times to release a misting of rain. They had stretched canvas near the fire to protect the fiddler, and someone set a wooden milking stool there for me. I was finishing my first, ceremonial bite of the new potatoes when shouts and laughter erupted from down the hill.

The girls ran towards the noise and I got to my feet, wishing I could kick off my shoes and join them. In a few moments they reappeared, dancing around a heaving knot of young men, McMurtry's son in the lead, who were hanging onto ropes tied around the neck of a young black bull. It was not entirely clear who was leading whom, but someone had tossed a garland across the curving horns. I thought suddenly of the sacred bulls I had seen in India.

"He's a fine beast, my son," said McMurtry, "but not from my byres. Where does he come from, and why have you brought him here?"

"As to his origins, where he comes from he will not be missed, and I left compensation," said Luke. "As for his destination—was it not you yourself who told me of the great bullfeasts they used to have on these heights? It seemed to me that maybe if we made the feast in the old way our old luck would come again."

"That's heathen talk—" McMurtry began, but the boy shook his head.

"We shall eat and drink in the name of the lord of glory and his blessed mother, and where's the shame in that?" He laughed, and at that moment the sun came through the clouds again and blazed on his hair. I blinked, and a voice I remembered from my dreams seemed to whisper, Now it begins.... I shivered despite the brightness of the sun.

"If you mean to feast this evening you'd best be butchering him now," said Rose. "And we'll be needing more wood for the fires—"

"Take the beast back, lad. There's no good can come of this—" McMurtry interrupted. But Luke was hauling on the ropes, laughing. Bright hero and black bull—I had read something of this in one of Father Roderic's diaries. I stared, trying to remember.