Andrew Offutt: The Mists of Doom

All of which was to say that Art’s son Cormac had had a quite normal relationship with his father, though he was blessed in having one worthy of respect and who did not generate hatred. Few such peopled the ridge of the world. Siring sons, as Sualtim had pointed out in warnings to the boy as he approached puberty, were a simple matter. Being father to them was something else again.

Cormac had wept, but not in despair. And he had put by his weeping; there was not time for it just now. Such luxuries must be deferred. Just now…

Art was dead and laid out white on his bed, as had been his wife but two years agone. But was no disease or accident that had laid low Art son of Comal and called him hence to await rebirth and return.

Sualtim had found him yester eve, on the westward side of the barracks. The throat of the master of Glondrath had been slashed open. Nor were there footprints, or other traces of the slayer.

The druid and the women of Glondrath had washed the dead man, and his hair, and had dressed him in his cerements. So he had lain until the arrival of Cormac and Midhir. And Midhir had made a weapon-man’s pronouncement; Art’s throat had been cut, with the blade of a dagger, not a sword or broad blade of a spear.

These few facts the three exchanged and mulled over now, in a dim-lit room within the greathouse. Cormac’s tears had begun to seep again, though he made no sound, Outside, the death-keening rose loud and eerie. Was the way of Eirrin.

“Was someone he knew and trusted, sure,” Midhir said, the words emerging between teeth that were set together. “For no enemy would have got so close as to slit the throat of such a warrior!”

“Aye,” Sualtim said. Catching Cormac’s eye, he looked pointedly at the young man’s beer, that made of wheat and honey. “Aye,” the druid repeated. “Aengus mac Domnail bethought him that he saw a man clambering over the rath-wall a short time before I discovered the bo-discovered the lord Art.”

Midhir’s head jerked up and his face was instantly alert. “Ah.” Aengus was his second, as Midhir himself had been second to Art.

“Aengus is after taking out a company of men yester night, to search. Nor have they returned.”

Cormac sat in silence whilst he gave listen, nor would he use the beer to dull and ease his mind. The while he thought of Art, and of the past, and of himself, and the tears flowed down his cheeks. The sons of Eirrin were men, and sureness of it was on them; they’d no need to hold back or disguise their tears.

Cormac knew himself to be alone now. These two discussed a dead man. He was-he had been Cormac’s only kin. He had not known the sister who died, at less than a year of age, a year before his birth. He hardly remembered the brother on whom illness and death had come, in his third year, when Cormac was but one. His mother was two years dead; in winter she died, as so many did. He was alone. He felt that alone-ness, and knew it would become loneliness.

Despair he would combat, and reject, for he remembered the words of his father on that subject, after the death of Cormac’s mother Sobarche. Despair was not worthy. That he had of his father, and he would keep all that he had of that good and noble man. Was Art too had told him that Eirrin had need of weapon-men, that Connacht did, and so he must observe Midhir, and listed to Midhir, and practice with him. Too, Art had said that the world had need of men who thought , and particularly of such men of weapons, so that he had bade Cormac listen to Sualtim, and made the boy subject to the druid who had earned; the sobriquet Fodla for his wisdom. A man should not draw blade and leap, Cormac had beep told, and told. A man should think, and consider, and let his own self decide, rather than his glands. And then were it called for, he should draw blade and leap-and if possible with the absolute ferocity of a hungry and cornered wolf. Were best not to kill, he had been told, unless it were necessary. If it were-then kill, and kill swiftly.

Someone had thought, and considered, and drawn blade, and slain Art, swiftly.

On this Cormac was reflecting when they heard the horses outside, and then the voices and tramp of men.

Was Aengus, with all his company. They had found naught. In the noonday sun he looked worse than unhappy, for all his freckles that vanished not with the winter; shame was on the face of Aengus Domnal’s son, as for some failure of his own.

Midhir allowed himself to well into a rage that would build to loud railing against his second; Aengus’s face and downcast manner helped, of course, for they were all of them sore in need of an object for their wrath.

A very young man put his hand on the shoulder of Aengus Domnal’s son.

“Thank you, Aengus,” he said, and his eyes were on Midhir, and they were clear of tears and blue-grey as sword-steel.

Aengus looked both sad and grateful. Midhir subsided. They stared at mac Art then, the two stout weapon-men and the long-gowned druid. They saw him anew, and his words now heightened their new feeling for him.

“Sualtim: my father is dead and the slayer escaped. The rath mourns. Prepare him for burial, on the morrow. Midhir: send messengers throughout the land about, and to the king in Cruachan, that Art is dead and his son burying him on the morrow. See that none of those with Aengus go; they have done their best, and are weary.”

He looked at them a moment, and then Cormac turned and re-entered the house.

Sualtim nodded. “I will prepare Art, and prepare for the funerary rites,” he said, though not for the ears of Cormac. “No need for the couriers, Midhir; that I was thinking of this morning and I saw them dispatched.” He gazed solemnly on Midhir and Aengus. “See that no mention is made of this to Cormac. He too thought of it; let it be his word.”

The two men nodded, but they were gazing after the youth-become-man, not at the druid. So big and accomplished Cormac was for his years, and him coming to manhood so suddenly, and his hard encounter with the bear to be swallowed up by this tragedy, the way that he’d never feel the good glory of it was his due. And now, now he was master of Glondrath, and he both knew it and had shown it.

And, they all realized… surely he was in danger.

Amid the keening and the intoning of words in a language far older than Eirrin, Cormac remained silent. Solemn, stern, their life-symbolizing robes of forest green laid aside for the pure colourlessness of white, Sualtim and several assisting druids said the ancient words, their voices rising from mere murmur to volume that was nigh-shouting, and descending again.

Cormac stared dully, stricken, while his father was buried. The belief that Art would be back was a sustaining comfort, but provided little relief for grief and its normal companion, self-pity. Art would not be Art again. He would return as an infant and would bear the new name of that father. Even should his and Cormac’s life-paths cross, they’d know each other not.

Midhir stepped forward, for custom prevailed and was time for personal statements of loss.

“O Art my lord, you were betrayed to your death; your end is sorrowful to us all. You to die and we to be living! Our parting is a grief forever.” His voice caught and trembled as he said, “Farewell, weapon-companion; farewell, my lord.”

And Branwen said, “Dear to me O my lord Art, was your beautiful ruddiness, dear to us all your manly form and your kindness; dear to us your clear grey eye that saw so much and held such wisdom. Dear-” The housekeeper broke down weeping then, and her husband drew her away, nor were the eyes of Conor dry.

Was Aengus moved then to the fore, nearest that which had been Art mac Comail.

“My lord and my commander,” he said quietly. “There has not come your match to the battle; there had not come and been made wrathful in combat, there had never held up shield on the field of weapons the like of yourself, O Art of Comal!”