Andrew Offutt: The Sword of the Gael

Amid the assenting shouts, Connacht nodded. And then Munster. And the High-king. And all looked at Feredach. He was indeed the Dark now, his face filled with the hot blood of anger and humiliation and frustration.

When there was at last silence, a silence heavy and thick with the awaiting of every eye for Feredach’s nod, of every ear for his words, he made as if to stand. But another man rose up before him.

Feredach looked up, his eyes narrowing. The man on his feet, his poet’s mantle falling gracefully away from his shoulders and arms, was Cethern, chief poet; adviser and judge in the court of the High-king-and thus of Eirrin.

“My lord, I beg leave,” Cethern said.

Feredach made a jerky gesture and stared.

“When poets speak,” Erca said, “crowned heads listen.”

Cethern of the balding head and golden tongue looked about, and raised his voice. “The kings have spoken. In his demesne my lord Feredach reigns supreme; here he is but one man of many.”

The roar of assent and accolade had to be quelled by the rapping of more than one staff against the floor, and one of the staffs was that of Cethern himself. It had been said that he was more respected even than the High-king, for none denied that Erca Tireach respected Cethern the Poet.

“I would remind though that the precedent were dangerous,” Cethern told them. “Let me pose a question. Had that Cormac mac Art of twelve years agone been put to death in accord with the Law, would we twelve years later speak of the possible apprehension of kings, even the High-king, and or royal chicanery, and consider it injustice? Ah-ye looked shocked that I dare. What for me that I dare speak words, then: death, or exile, for me who has not slain?”

A new silence fell, and men looked at one another.

“This man has slain, and fled our land. Now it’s returned and as a hero he is, and we are ready to welcome him back. I state that for twelve years he has not been a son of Eirrin at all, and that before he again enjoys that most noble of estates, he learn what it means to be a weapon man of Eirrin! ” Cethern shouted the last word, ringingly. It echoed round about the vast hall: Eirrinnnnn, Eirrinnnnn, innnnn, nnnn…

Cethern was gazing upon Cormac, the man of letters at the man of arms.

“A son of Eirrin could not object to such, nor debate the foremost poet of Eirrin,” Cormac said. “Name the test.”

“It would be a test harking back to a time not so long gone, but already a matter for poets and legend,” Cethern said, to them all. He lifted both arms high. “The Martial Tests for Him Who would be of the Fian!”

Erca’ss decision was swiftly reached. Weapon men and kings were necessary in all lands. In Eirrin, one stood ever above them, and had for centuries and would for centuries to come: the creator; the writer; the poet. High-king Erca nodded. And so did the other kings. And so did Cormac mac Art. He would submit to the martial portion of the tests of the followers of Finn, back when Eirrin had possessed a sort of national militia: the Fian.

And then a skeletal Druid arose from among the Leinsterish ranks. It was a robed arm he stretched forth with a rustle, and a bony finger that pointed at Cormac mac Art. Old that Druid was, but his voice had lost none of its power.

“CROM DEMANDS TRIAL IN THE MANNER BEHLTAINE!”

All men sat still and silent, shocked. Trial in the manner of Behltaine! A thousand years old, probably more, was that method of the old gods’ deliberation, and never had there been appeal. Who dared deny judgment to Behl and Crom, the gods themselves?

A man tried. Direct from his see in Armagh, the fat Bishop of the new god arose. Scandalized he avowed to be, and he was noisy about it. Nor was he interrupted. Surely it was not Cormac he was interested in, but the power of the new priesthood against that of the old. That the life of the exile was involved surely did not concern this man with his crooked staff after the manner of Padraigh and Rome. But since Cormac’s life was involved, all were happy to let this successor to Padraigh and Benin-Patricius and Benignus-try.

The old gods won, with the unexpected aid of an adherent.

Once the Bishop of Christ had finished his harangue, Cormac mac Art lifted his voice.

“As I am a son of Eirrin, I welcome the old Fenian trials. As I am a son of Crom, and no follower of the hanged god of this man, a follower of Behl of the sun over our heads, not the son buried in the ground somewhere over in the eastlands, I submit myself to the Holy Druids of my ancestors.”

Many eyes stared at Cormac mac Art, and none with more surprise than the old Druid.

So it was written. First Cormac would endeavor to withstand the weapon man’s trials undergone by the followers of Finn: the band of iron heroes wiped out in a civil war two centuries agone-a war between Breasil, King of Leinster, and King Cairbre mac Cormac.

And then Cormac mac Art would be submitted to the far more ancient test, amid the roaring fires of Behltain. Many and many were those who’d got their deaths thereby.

Chapter Twenty-one:The Tests For Him Who Would Be of The Fian

“In a trench the depth of his knees, the candidate shall, with shield and hazel stave alone, defend himself against nine weapon men who shall cast spears at him;

“In a thick wood, with the start of a single tree, he shall escape without scathe from fleet footed pursuers;

“So skillful and agile must he be in this that in the flight no single braid of his hair shall be loosed by a tree-branch;

“So must his step be so light that underfoot he breaks no fallen or withered branch;

“In his course he shall leap branches the height of his forehead, while stooping under those the height of his knee, without undue delay-or leaving behind a branch atremble;

“He must, without pausing in his course, pick from his foot whatsoever thorn it takes up;

“Even though he faces the greatest of odds, his weapon shall not quiver in his hand;

“He shall stand to fight all odds, even as great as nine to one. “

No branch caught Cormac’s hair, nor did his foot pick up a thorn as he raced through the wood. No man could leap branches forehead high, and he swerved to avoid them, knowing that none among his pursuers could jump so high either. The other nigh-impossibility, that of stooping-while at the run-under a knee-high branch, had been ruled unnecessary.

He did bound one thick yew branch, which was half fallen and both the height and thickness of his waist; he was able to continue running without falling. His pursuers were four; he lost two of them then, for one tried to roll beneath that same obstacle and was caught by a wrist-thick branch thrusting downward from the main one. Another man jumped not well and fell to lie moaning and whimpering, clutching his genitals.

Cormac mac Art ran on. Behind him, two of the appointed pursuers followed.

They wore soft-soled buskins, all of them, for it had been decided that to race thus through dense woods without some sort of footgear was unnecessarily dangerous. Cormac limped several steps after coming down, on the arch of his foot, on a twig thick as his thumb and hard as lead. But he gritted his teeth and fled on, reminding himself that this was after all far better than riding a horse…

He did not look back at another cry from behind, just after he had leapt a little stream as wide as his height. No backward glance was necessary; the shout was followed by a mighty splash and a wet thrashing about.

Cormac grinned wolfishly. Racing on without pause, he grunted when a branch gouged up his forearm as he passed it too close. Since he felt only the stinging, not the ooze of blood, he did not look down or raise his arm. To do so would have been to jeopardize himself in his running, for he needed his full attention and the constant full use of his eyes to avoid falling or slamming into a tree. He assumed an inch or so of the outer skin had merely been rolled back; such was not worth glancing at.