Andrew Offutt: The Mists of Doom

As Aengus stepped back, Sualtim switched from the Old Language to their own Gaelic: “…for had the world been searched from Behl’s rising to sunset, Art mac Comail, the like would not have been found of your valiant and wise self. And it is breaking my own heart is in my body, to be here speaking so and listening to the sorrowing of the women and men of Glondrath of Connacht, and Connacht to be in its weakness, and without strength to defend itself, for Red Comal’s son is gone from among us.”

Exaggerations all, as were the loud cries of lament and the wringing of hands and beating of breasts.

Was the way of Eirrin, and none was hypocritical of lament or plaint for well-liked had been Art Comal’s son. And when all, others had spoken their last to the man to be received by the earth and by Donn, Lord of the Dead, his son came forward. Tears shimmered like dewdrops on Cormac’s face.

“I am a raven that has no home,” he said, little above a whisper. “I am a boat tossed from wave to wave; I am a ship that has lost its rudder; I am… the apple left dangling on the tree alone, and it’s little thought I had of your being plucked from beside it. Grief on me! My sorrow, my father! Ochone! Grief and sorrow will be with me from this day to the end of time and life.”

After a long silence Cormac added, “May the gods make smooth the path of Return for you, Art mac Comail, athair na Cormaic Aenfher! ”

And he who had been called Cormac Pictslayer and Cormac Bearslayer and who now called himself Cormac the Lonely turned away of a sudden. He would not watch whilst they poured dirt over his father, but returned alone to the rath-house whilst those others completed the funerary rites of the murdered Art mac Comail of Connacht.

Chapter Four:

Master of Glondrath

Cormac mac Art had sat alone in his father’s command chamber all the morning. Outside birds twitted and a jay shrieked his raucous cry, as though angry. Otherwise there were only the somewhat muted sounds of the rath’s going about its normal business; the mournful, ear-grating keening for the dead warrior had ended. Art was in the ground. His son sat in the chamber wherein the master of Glondrath had spent most of his last eleven years. This day Cormac gave to grief, and memories. And there was the encroachment of some bitterness.

His father had been a weapon-man all his years, a man with the blood of conquerors and kings in his veins. Yet he had held little power, little land that was his own. A few acres, well away from here, in stewardship. He had known that his wife was far happier there than here; she had said naught, and he had striven for her peace whilst he kept the king’s.

Among those subject to him, the pigs for which Glondrath was well known were more numerous than human beings. The finest pork in Connacht, any agreed; the finest in all Eirrin, some said. And for this was known the descendant of Niall!

Companions most of their adult lives, Art and Midhir had served the King of Connacht willingly and well. The counsel of Lord Art, however, was seldom asked. Nor was he asked to come up to the capital where lesser men glittered. No war came on Connacht, and the constant necessity of beating off the incursions of Pictish raiding parties brought Art mac Comail no great fame or honour. Wealth and power avoided him-or rather were denied him.

Even Art’s command of this southwestern keep came not by birthright or even as result of his strength, but because of the weakness of another.

Gulban mac Luaig had commanded this rath and its people until eleven years agone; was then Gulban embraced the New Faith and commenced to wear the cross rather than the torc and sundisk or lunula. Too, he began to talk of peace with the Picts. With the Picts, who were not considered even so much as men! For the New Faith changed men, as it was changing all Eirrin and thus history-else the sons of Eire would have taken half of fallowing Britain erenow, rather than allow it to be sliced into pieces by pirates from oversea after the Romans’ departure. Battle and slaying were not “right,” Gulban began to say. Honour did not lie therein, as his people had believed for centuries upon centuries. One should turn the other cheek to him who slapped, and do all in one’s power to embrace peace, to spread and maintain peace-without point and edge. This whether the Picts gave heed or no.

Was all well in theory, Cormac remembered Art and Sualtim as saying, despite the obvious fact that the natural state of humankind and that which led it on, ever on-was striving. That striving frequently led to disputes and even war betwixt two strivers or striving peoples. And that led to the survival of the strong over all the ridge of the world. It was hardly unkown that in what remained of the two-headed wolf that had been the Empire of Rome, Christians slew each other with no less zeal than those they were arrogantly pleased to call “heathen” and “pagan.”

Besides, the Picts did not subscribe to such views, either in theory or practice.

Those dark savages would as lief slice the stones off a priest-and later his throat, an they were in a merciful mood-as of a weapon-man. These things Gulban, lord of Glondrath, knew well but seemed to have forgot. Connacht’s king knew, too, and no forgetfulness was on that wise monarch.

Indeed, as reminder, a hideous trophy hung ever on his wall amid the painted shields and flint weapons taken from slain Cruithne , Picts: a pouch stripped from the belt of one of those demons in semi-human guise. It was a hand-made pouch, threaded with drawstrings, made of the breast of a Gaelic woman of Connacht.

Connacht’s king’s reluctance was overcome by his wisdom and concern for his realm; he had Gulban stripped of rank and power. Indeed was said he had bade the man seek employment among the blackbirds, as he called those Romish priests, or at the court of the High-king, who was reportedly leaning in a crossward direction.

Was then that the Connacht-righ handed over command of his important rath to his captain of deeds and strong will and arm, Art, son of Comal. With his wife and very young son, Art mac Comail moved to, Rath Glondarth and took command. Even with the resentment that was on many because of the fall of their former lord and commander, Art had these peoples’ respect at once, their loyalty in a season, and the love of most within a year. For such a man was he.

Cormac well remembered the shame and dishonour on Gulban.

Gulban was changed aforetime , he mused this day after the funeral, and him a good man formerly. It’s no friend of the New Faith, the faith of the Dead God I’ll be, ever, with their carpenter god who makes sleeping dogs of men and would as soon that women were slaves. For such had never been the way of the daughters of Eirrin!

In his father’s chamber, Cormac sat, and he reflected on his growing to youth and manhood here, under the tutelage of Art and of Sualtim and Midhir. Advice he gained, and example, and on some occasions his lessons were accompanied by anguish and grief. Advice in the way of a man he gained, a man of Eirrin ; a man of weapons.

Aye, and so he was become, a weapon-man of Eirrin.

First there was respect and later deep friendship with Midhir, his father’s close friend to whom Art always gave listen and whom he trusted to make his son a surpassing warrior. Cormac well remembered that aspect of his life; their practice and practice, their telling of warlike tales at night by the fire, quaffing weak ale often no more than barley-water. For ale was a staple, and children began early the drinking of that which all adults quaffed as a matter of course. And Cormac remembered how he and Midhir had lied’ shamelessly in those taletellings… each with the knowledge of the other.