When Torcall the Harper heard of the death of his friend,
Aodh-of-the-Songs, he made a vow to mourn for him for three seasons--a
green time, an apple time, and a snow time.
There was sorrow upon him because of that death. True, Aodh was not of
his kindred, but the singer had saved the harper's life when his
friend was fallen in the Field of Spears.
Torcall was of the people of the north--of the men of Lochlin. His
song was of the fjords, and of strange gods, of the sword and the
war-galley, of the red blood and the white breast, of Odin and Thor
and Freya, of Balder and the Dream-God that sits in the rainbow, of
the starry North, of the flames of pale blue and flushing rose that
play around the Pole, of sudden death in battle, and of Valhalla.
Aodh was of the south isles, where these shake under the thunder of
the western seas. His clan was of the isle that is now called Barra,
and was then Iondû; but his mother was a woman out of a royal rath in
Banba, as men of old called Eiré. She was so fair that a man died of
his desire of her. He was named Ulad, and was a prince. "The
Melancholy of Ulad" was long sung in his land after his end in the
dark swamp, where he heard a singing, and went laughing glad to his
death. Another man was made a prince because of her. This was Aodh the
Harper, out of the Hebrid Isles. He won the heart out of her, and it
was his from the day she heard his music and felt his eyes flame upon
her. Before the child was born, she said, "He shall be the son of
love. He shall be called Aodh. He shall be called Aodh-of-the-Songs."
And so it was.
Sweet were his songs. He loved, and he sang, and he died.
And when Torcall that was his friend knew this sorrow, he arose and
made his vow, and went out for evermore from the place where he was.
Since the hour of the Field of Spears he had been blind. Torcall Dall
he was upon men's lips thereafter. His harp had a moonshine wind upon
it from that day, it was said: a beautiful strange harping when he
went down through the glen, or out upon the sandy machar by the shore,
and played what the wind sang, and the grass whispered, and the tree
murmured, and the sea muttered or cried hollowly in the dark.
Because there was no sight to his eyes, men said he saw and he heard.
What was it he heard and he saw that they saw not and heard not? It
was in the voice that was in the strings of his harp, so the rumour
ran.
When he rose and went away from his place, the Maormor asked him if he
went north, as the blood sang; or south, as the heart cried; or west,
as the dead go; or east, as the light comes.
"I go east," answered Torcall Dall.
"And why so, Blind Harper?"
"For there is darkness always upon me, and I go where the light
comes."
On that night of the nights, a fair wind blowing out of the west,
Torcall the Harper set forth in a galley. It splashed in the moonshine
as it was rowed swiftly by nine men.
"Sing us a song, O Torcall Dall!" they cried.
"Sing us a song, Torcall of Lochlin," said the man who steered. He and
all his company were of the Gael: the Harper only was of the Northmen.
"What shall I sing?" he asked. "Shall it be of war that you love, or
of women that twine you like silk o' the kine; or shall it be of death
that is your meed; or of your dread, the Spears of the North?"
A low sullen growl went from beard to beard.
"We are under _geas_, Blind Harper," said the steersman, with downcast
eyes because of his flaming wrath; "we are under bond to take you safe
to the mainland, but we have sworn no vow to sit still under the lash
of your tongue. 'Twas a wind-fleet arrow that sliced the sight out of
your eyes: have a care lest a sudden sword-wind sweep the breath out
of your body."
Torcall laughed a low, quiet laugh.
"Is it death I am fearing now--I who have washed my hands in blood,
and had love, and known all that is given to man? But I will sing you
a song, I will."
And with that he took his harp, and struck the strings.
There is a lonely stream afar in a lone dim land:
It hath white dust for shore it has, white bones bestrew the strand:
The only thing that liveth there is a naked leaping sword;
But I, who a seer am, have seen the whirling hand
Of the Washer of the Ford.
A shadowy shape of cloud and mist, of gloom and dusk, she stands,
The Washer of the Ford:
She laughs, at times, and strews the dust through the hollow of
her hands.
She counts the sins of all men there, and slays the red-stained
horde--
The ghosts of all the sins of men must know the whirling sword
Of the Washer of the Ford.
She stoops and laughs when in the dust she sees a writhing limb:
"Go back into the ford," she says, "and hither and thither swim;
Then I shall wash you white as snow, and shall take you by the hand,
And slay you here in the silence with this my whirling brand,
And trample you into the dust of this white windless sand--"
This is the laughing word
Of the Washer of the Ford
Along that silent strand.
There was silence for a time after Torcall Dall sang that song. The
oars took up the moonshine and flung it hither and thither like loose
shining stones. The foam at the prow curled and leaped.