"Play me a death-song, Mûrta mac Mûrta mac Neisa."
Mûrta smiled, and he played again the song of love.
After that there was silence for a brief while. Then Mûrta played upon
his reed for the time it takes a heron to mount her seventh spiral.
Then he ceased, and threw away the reed, and stood erect, staring into
the greenness. In his eyes was a strange shine. He sang--
Out of the wild hills I am hearing a voice, O Cathal!
And I am thinking it is the voice of a bleeding sword.
Whose is that sword? I know it well: it is the sword of the Slayer--
Him that is called Death, and the song that it sings I know:--
_O where is Cathal mac Art, that is the cup for the thirst of my
lips?_
Out of the cold grayness of the sea I am hearing, O Cathal,
I am hearing a wave-muffled voice, as of one who drowns in the
depths:
Whose is that voice? I know it well: it is the voice of the Shadow--
Her that is called the Grave, and the song that she sings I know:--
_O where is Cathal mac Art, he has warmth for the chill that I
have?_
Out of the hot greenness of the wood I am hearing, O Cathal,
I am hearing a rustling step, as of one stumbling blind.
Whose is that rustling step? I know it well: the rustling walk of
the Blind One--
She that is called Silence, and the song that she sings I know:--
_O where is Cathal mac Art, that has tears to water my stillness?_
After that there was silence. Mûrta moved away. When he sat by Diarmid
and ate, there was no word spoken. Diarmid did not look at him, for he
had sung a song of death, and the shadow was upon him. He kept his
gaze upon the moss: if he raised his eyes might he not see the Slayer,
or the Shadow or the Blind One?
Noon came. None drew nigh: not a face was seen shadowily afar off.
Sometimes the hoofs of the deer rustled among the bracken. The
snarling of young foxes in an oak-root hollow was like a red pulse in
the heat. At times, in the sheer abyss of blue sky to the north, a
hawk suspended: in the white-blaze southerly a blotch like swirled
foam appeared for a moment at long intervals, as a gannet swung from
invisible pinnacles of air to the invisible sea.
The afternoon drowsed through the sunflood. The green leaves grew
golden, saturated with light. At sundown a flight of wild doves rose
out of the pines, wheeled against the shine of the west and flashed
out of sight, flames of purple and rose, of foam-white and pink.
The gloaming came, silverly. The dew glistened on the fronds of the
ferns, in the cups of the moss. From glade to glade the cuckoos
called. The stars emerged delicately, as the eyes of fawns shining
through the greengloom of the forest. Once more the moon snowed the
easter frondage of the pines and oaks.
No one came nigh. Not a sound had sighed from the oak since Mûrta had
sung at the goldening of the day. At sunset Mûrta had risen, to lean,
intent, against the vast bole. His keen ears caught the jar of a
beetle burrowing beneath the bark. There was no other sound.
At the fall of dark the watchers heard the confused far noise of a
festival. It waned as a lost wind. Dim veils of cloud obscured the
moon; a low rainy darkness suspended over the earth.
Thus went the second day and the second night.
When, after the weary vigil of the hours, dawn came at last, Mûrta
rose and struck the oak with a stone.
"Cathal!" he cried, "Cathal!"
There was no sound: not a stir, not a sigh.
"Cathal! Cathal!"
Mûrta looked at Diarmid. Then, seeing his own thought in the eyes of
his friend he returned to his side.
"The Blind One has been here," said Diarmid in a low voice.
At noon there was thunder, and great heat. The noise of rustling
wings filled the underwood.
Diarmid fell into a deep sleep. When the thunder had travelled into
the hills, and a soft rain fell, Mûrta climbed into the branches of
the oak. He stared down into the hollow, but could see nothing save a
green dusk that became brown shadow, and brown shadow that grew into a
blackness.
"_Cathal!_" he whispered.
Not a breath of sound ascended like smoke.
"Cathal! Cathal!"
The slow drip of the rain slipped and pattered among the leaves. The
cry of a sea-bird flying inland came mournfully across the woods. A
distant clang, as of a stricken anvil, iterated from the barren
mountain beyond the forest.
"Cathal! Cathal!"
Mûrta broke a straight branch, stripped it of the leaves, and, forcing
the thicker end downward, let it fall sheer.
It struck with a dull, soft thud. He listened: there was not a sound.
"A quiet sleep to you, monk," he whispered, and slipped down through
the boughs, and was beside Diarmid again.
At dusk the rain ceased. A cool green freshness came into the air. The
stars were as wind-whirled fruit blown upward from the tree-tops. The
moon, full-orbed and with a pulse of flame, led a tide of soft light
across the brown shores of the world.
The vigils of the watchers were over. Mûrta and Diarmid rose. Without
a word they moved across the glade: the faint rustle of their feet
stirred the bracken: then they left the under-growth and were among
the pines. Their shadows lapsed into the obscure wilderness. A doe,
heavy with fawn, lay down among the dewy fern, and was at peace there.