“But a sign has been sent to the son of Ruadan, and to him the honor
will be if precious things or holy things are in that cell of a
hermit. Take horses and take men, and take Doire, our son, to that
place of the cliff on the shore of Dearg, and take well-cured skins
and ink for the record and witness. Every jewel write you down as
count is made, and every other thing of treasure. If it be that they
are holy things of Senan the Saint, their blessings may descend upon
another altar.”
Thus it was done, and great glory went to the son of Ruadan, who
uncovered the jeweled chalice, and wondrous other golden altar
service buried under moss, and shells of eggs, and bones of animals.
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Legends grew up about that finding, for after they were blest by
the cleric that no evil thing might leave smirch on their beauty,
they were placed with prayer in the oratory, and on the altar beside
them was found in the morning a jeweled book of holiness, thick set
with amber and pearl. No book had been found in the stone cell,
and Fergus, the priest, had never before seen or heard of it. Many
viewed it, and all thought it had, without doubt, belonged to Senan
the Saint, and after two hundred years of death he had come back to
gather together the things once precious to him on earth as a proof
to pious souls.
This was the thought of Fergus, who had a pride in the holy honors
sent to the roof where he was sheltered.
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And when Ruadan came back victorious from battle with the Danes, it
was Fergus who discoursed to him of a great church as their shrine.
He made clear that the wife and son of Ruadan had strange gifts and
powers of knowledge. If they were christian gifts it was well for
their souls, but if the power was of pagan strength, then fastings
and prayers should lift the last doubt. He reminded Ruadan that his
own peace with the church was not yet accomplished, and that there
were strange tales of how the mother of his son had ridden out of
the wilderness on a black stallion and no clan and no country had
been named for her claiming. The trappings of her steed were those
of a king, and she wore coat of mail like a young warrior of the sea
gods, riding out of the waves. No word to her confessor told of her
life before that day, and there were times when the soul of Fergus
was troubled over these mysteries, and was craving more altars to the
saints at Ardsolais.
“That is well enough,” said Ruadan. “She shall have a temple of her
own fashion for the housing of her sacred things—women and priests
have hunger for such. Guard you the souls by prayers in the temple,
Fergus, and my spearman will guard the temple if our shields are
lucky. That is the task of the man.”
And with his wife, the Beautiful, in her bower, he laughed, and
stroked her white shoulder, and mocked as was his wont.
“Thus I pay for temples to guard your soul from enchantments,” he
said, “for Fergus the priest finds you in a grievous way.”
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She mounted the black steed and rode beside Ruadan with Doire, their
son, and sought a fair level on a green height where huge stone slabs
stood upright with other slabs resting on them like high altars. It
was the place of ancient fires and for that was called the Hill of
Lights.
“Here, by this circle, are the hearts of the people,” she said, “for
at new moon they are coming, and at the rise of sun they are coming
in certain summer days. Why build the new altar in another place?”
She paced with her child the great space where the new temple would
be built for sinners, and the eyes of Ruadan looked their love on
her, and on the son she had borne him.
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And in the edge of the wild field where the forest came down from the
mountains, the cattle lifted their heads as a man, hairy and clad in
skins, strode among them with proud authority shouting to them of
crowns and wings.
“Whose is the voice?” asked Ruadan.
And his “heart-companion” of the wilderness touched his shoulder and
spoke low and awed.
“That is the voice of the man who saw no holiness in battle to
protect the helpless—it is the voice of the man who saw in love only
the mating of beasts—and his reward is his.”
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[Illustration: LIADAN AND KURITHIR]
[Illustration: The Dream of Kurithir]
[Music]
LIADAN AND KURITHIR
“_I am Liadan
Who loved Kurithir.
It is true as they say._
“_The music of the forest
Would sing to me when with Kurithir,
Together with the voice of the purple sea._”
It was the time of Hugh Finnliath, Ard-Ri (High King) of Erinn, and
glad youth of May lay on the land.
The hawthorn was in bloom against the hills, and the cuckoo was
calling as it flew in long billowy glides to its mate in the yew-tree
nest.
As the bird to its mate, went the gray eyes and the heart of Liadan
na Donal, when she looked on Kurithir, the poet and friend of kings,
in Far Connaught. Fair and gracious was he among the friends of her
host, and fair and gracious was Flann Siona, prince of the Sionan,
beside him as they greeted her, and greeted Aevil, her sister, who
was beautiful as a night of stars.
It was not the beauty of bronze-gold hair, or blue eyes of Kurithir,
by which she was held, and it was not the beauty of raiment and the
jeweled links of his garments, for the daughters of the Ui Maic of
Far Kerry were not without grandeur in the castle of Donal, their
father. Out of all the guests and the greetings, she knew not if
Kurithir, son of Doborchū, bent head or knee more graciously than
others. She knew only that his eyes looked deep, and looked steady,
into her own, and that without words they bore to her a message.
The message was strange because her heart leaped in her bosom to meet
it, and that was a new thing in her life.
And that message was this: “We have found the way to each other at
last, and both of us knowing it!”
Other eyes saw that look, and the wild-rose flush on her white
throat, and Aevil, her half-sister, spoke bitter words when they were
safe within their chamber, and there was present only the dark nurse
of Aevil, whose name was Moria, and whose lore was deep in herbs and
curious knowledge of druidcraft.
“Know you not that as elder sister my day of marriage must pass
before your day of courting?” raged Aevil. “For that reason I am
making this circuit of visits to see the lands and the furnishings of
our friends. It was in my charity that I brought you by me, and an
ill day it was to me!”
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Liadan sat by the window and looked down into the enclosed garden
where a red rose tree and a white rose vine were twining against
the stone wall, and she mode no reply, for her thoughts were all of
Kurithir, and that look in his eyes, and she felt close to him as the
white rose twining to the tree of the red bloom.
But Moria talked much as she smoothed the black hair of Aevil, and
vowed by the Elements that the beauty of Aevil exceeded by much all
other beauty at the Dun of Dearg. And that the eyes of Flann, Ri
Domna of Erinn, had not passed her by—nor had the other men.
There was truth in this, for black and red and rich cream was the
beauty of Aevil, and her pride was great because of her beauty to
which all men did honor. Liadan had heard all her life that there was
no beauty in Connaught to compare with Aevil who should, for beauty
alone, be a queen, and Liadan was well content that the crown go to
her sister so long as she had her harp and her garden, and now—two
blue eyes for mirrors!
But Aevil stormed and threw off the hand of Moria and would have no
caressing of words.
“Well you know there is one man spoke of here for my meeting, and
that man is Kurithir the poet,” she said. “He is the man whose songs
are sung by many, and my greeting was spoiled by a gray rat!”
“Only my eyes are gray, sister,” said Liadan, “and if you like not my
gray robe, it shall be put aside for our visit. What you choose shall
be done; all is one to me.”
For the song of joy was so strong in her heart that all the world was
shining summer for her. Her slender gray-clad feet trod as on the
clouds of heaven because of that look in his eyes. She donned a robe
of green with a girdle of silver, and in the brown curls of her hair
she fastened green jewels from oversea, and in the rush light of the
great hall she slipped quiet as a moonbeam, but Flann and Kurithir,
who were foster brothers and friends ever, left all others to bow
before her.
“We look for Maighdenmara in the old sea waves where the white foam
is,” said Flann. “Men never hope to see her drive in a chariot from
the forest.”
Kurithir said nothing, but his eyes were on hers, and she liked that
best, and dreamed of him sweetly that night on her maiden pillow.
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In the dawn Flann and Kurithir walked along the sea cliff and spoke
as brothers in bond.
“There are other maids and many for you, Flann. For me there is only
this one and I loving her.”
“You speak your heart and that is best, comrade. My eyes will look
the other way, and her sister is a fair queen for any castle.”
“I am thinking no castles,” said Kurithir, “I am thinking of a little
house under the oaks where the thrushes sing, and where heart can
hear heart away from sound of the steps of man. My harp I will take,
and hers. The hands of her were like white lilies on the strings when
she touched them last night. I could have knelt at her feet for joy
that we have found each other.”
“It is good to be you, Kurithir,” said Flann, who was a king’s son.
“May you hear the thrushes sing.”
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And Kurithir went back at sunrise, and watched her window in the
tower until her face looked down on him. Speak she dare not because
of Aevil and Moria. Go to him she could not for the locked door and
the key on the chain of Moria. But look at him with all her heart in
her eyes she could and she did, and a white rose she let fall from
her breast to his, and that was the first gift of Liadan and Kurithir.
That day was fair with beauty, and all went riding gaily to a
neighbor castle of friends, and gaily home at the setting of sun; but
Aevil put Aillain, the son of her host, to ride with Liadan, under
strict word that their visit would end if he heeded not her order—for
Liadan must either be guarded, or sent home at the dawn; so Aevil
rode with Kurithir and talked much with Flann, and was a sweet and
gracious lady to charm all. But Liadan sat quiet, smiling ever like
sun touching mist of the morning. Her heart was full of joy only to
hear his voice, even though the words were to another—which is Love
itself.
And that night was a very poet’s night of a young moon and the scent
of dew on the hawthorn, and under the tower Kurithir sang, and
touched the harp, and this was his song:
Sweet-scented branch of silver
Abloom above me,
Lean low to love me!
Gray bird of harmonies
Honey voice, morning star,
Wake to love’s dreaming!
His voice and the strings of the harp were whispers soft on the
night, yet in her heart every whisper was held, and the fury of Aevil
was as a storm seen afar in the valley. For Liadan was as snow on the
mountain shining in the sun.
When she left the locked door of her chamber, the dark woman, Moria,
carried her shuttle and thread, or her tablet of white birch and the
stylus, or the tiny harp of the six strings, but not apart the length
of a spear did she walk, and she listening.
But the love of Kurithir forced him to the speech of a man to his
mate, and he spoke.
“The song of the night was to you, Liadan, and all of me calls for
you more strongly than song can be telling. Liadan, marriage is well
for two singers who find the same song. It is by that choosing the
bird of the forest seeks ever its own mate, for the song is the soul
of the winged things. That is so of the birds and it is so of men,
Liadan. Thus the nightingale holds his song pure in rapture, thus
the children of us will sing our songs, and their own songs, in the
future years, Liadan.”
The soul of her moved to him that she trembled, but the dark woman,
Moria, behind the arras, was ears for Aevil who walked the garden
with Flann, and Liadan veiled her gray eyes lest he read them too
well, and spoke in sweet courtesy.
“Fair friend, it must be in the rath of my father I give troth to a
man and not in another place,” she said. “That gate will be open to
you on a day to come, and your singing will win you fair welcome when
you are coming there.”
“Your words are as snowfall at harvest time and the sheaves golden,”
spoke Kurithir. “Your eyes make themselves shadows of gray and are
veiling their sweetness. But I am servant of Liadan what day of days
I may ride her way through the forests.”
“The day may be long—the length of days rests in the heart itself,”
said Liadan. “A far circle of visiting is pledged to the friends
of our father. That circle must be closed ere we welcome poets or
princes at the portal of our own castle.”
“Honey mouth, the sweet coldness of you would freeze the red rose,
and all its flame could not save life to it,” he said. “But within me
is a deeper flame, and I wait my day, and I wait some sign from you
for speech again.”
But the bodkin of the dark woman touched the arm of Liadan through
the arras as a warning against other words, and she spoke no more but
bent her head over the harp as if alone, and Kurithir looked at her,
pondering, and then called for his stallion, and rode alone and apart
from the rest that day.
But Liadan rode not at all lest the hand of another man touch her
hand, or the hem of her garment, or offer her cup which another than
Kurithir had kissed.
But the harp of his in the hall was the only one she touched that
day, and she wished that forbidden druid power could be hers to charm
the strings into speech for his ear alone. With bodkin she traced one
word in ogham on the harp frame, but Moria watching! More she feared
to do, and her tablets of writing had been broken in the rage of
Aevil.
The dark woman told to Aevil all that discourse of the day, and Aevil
laughed her victory.
“Tomorrow’s sun takes us away from this place and this blind-eyed
poet,” she said. “I have a secret to tell, for Flann has desire of
me, and a king’s rath will yet be my abiding place. But I choose to
be away from the roof of my father ere these poet songs again make
night sleepless. My marriage comes before her betrothal. See you to
that!”
The dark woman promised and praised the maid Aevil, and had joy of
the thought of Flann who was king’s son and of power to be.
At the supper time, Aevil held up her square cup of mead and asked
a good wish on the road for the morrow. Her journey of joy was a
circle, and their chariot must start with the sun on the round.
There were words of pleading from many, but Kurithir said no word,
only stared at Liadan for a sign—and she there frozen with the grief
on her!
It was the first word she was given of the journey, but he could not
be knowing that, and his pride was a cloak as he stood before her.
“Sun-rise or sun-setting makes no change in me but to leave me in
darkness,” he said, “and the servant of Liadan is ever her servant.”
But Aevil laughed at his shoulder, and bade him not practice poet’s
art for the sake of practice, for Liadan knew the light worth of a
rhyme—and herself turned all things, from cock crow until moonrise,
to such usage!
Then she sent Liadan to her chamber on an empty errand, and laughed
again at Kurithir, and watched him, and his face white.
She knew that he felt hate for her, and would sing grief and disaster
on her but for the bond of one father and sisterhood with Liadan.
The dark woman plucked her by the sleeve and whispered warning lest
he do that thing and shame her before Flann and the host. Aevil was
green-jealous and was going far!
But the laughter of her scarce touched him, for the reason that he
saw only the face of Liadan who had gone past him, dumb and without
word of courtesy, and she hard struck at the fear of great forest and
wilderness between them.
It was that fear made her bold to dare what she dared not do before
the people. No tablet of writing could she send. No secret friend
could she trust in the castle of the Dun of Dearg where Aevil bore
casket of gifts for service rendered.
But more quickly than Moria could follow, she sped to the enclosed
garden where the red May rose bloomed against the south side of the
wall, and close under her linen shift lay a blossom of it before the
dark woman, with dark words, grasped her wrist, and drew her within
the portal.
“The fury of Donal your father will not be a summer storm to you if
he hears of lovers of yours before the Lady Aevil has her right as a
wife ahead of you,” she said. “The visits of honor are spoiled by the
endless twanging of the fool’s harp, and of yours, and the end of it
is coming!”
Liadan knew there were dark words said of Moria in whispers by the
people of the hills of Kerry. Her love for Aevil was a real love, but
her hate was a thing to fear, and the soul of Liadan trembled, yet
the thought of Kurithir brought back life to her, and she spoke.
“With your hands you will not touch me again,” she said, “and this to
your warning. As a child I mind me how, for curious reasons, you sang
sleeps upon me at noontide. I saw strange things in the sleeps you
sent me and some I remember. But I am not now a child and my life is
a different thing to me. No will of yours shall be on me again, nor
the will of any other mortal, save one only—and I loving that one.
My duty to Donal, my father, and Aevil, my sister, will be paid in
silence. But to the man who gives me heart-love there has been too
much of silence, and the end of that is coming!”
The dark woman looked at her sideways and said no word lest the maid
grow wild and run shrieking, or do some other ill thing to shame
them. For the words of Liadan told her it was a woman deep in love
who spoke, and that at once both her body and mind were sacred to her
as love’s offering on an altar.
And Moria went from the chamber in fear of the wrath of Aevil if the
lovers met, and in fear of other things! The key on the chain was
forgot at her girdle, and it was the first time.
At the foot of the turret stairs she remembered the key and would
have turned back, but Aevil was there and heard her story and smiled.
“Wait for the locking of the door,” she said, and frowned and
thought. “Since she is turned rebel on our hands, and a dagger is
forbid, we will try other ways, and ways will be found. Her poet is
sick with love and mooning alone, yet far enough from the turret.
Keep you ward, and send to me Aillain, son of our host. He mutters
poems of hers instead of grace.”
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It was true Kurithir was alone, and a new thought with him for
company. The next house of the visit of the sisters was that of a
friend where a welcome for him was ever waiting. Yet at this time he
would not ride there without a castle servant to ask his presence.
But on white beech tablet he was writing that friend to send for him
quickly, and his own servant was put on the road with it, while the
others played chess, and took pawns, and looked love to women, and
Aevil laughed, thinking that he wrote poems on dull tablets when he
could find more human pleasures. Flann laughed when she laughed, and
knew nothing of the heartache of his friend. After their words on the
cliff there had been no more words between them of Liadan or of Aevil.
Their laughter sat ill upon him, and he moved to a casement where
he could see the window of the turret chamber, and perhaps a light
there.
No light was showing, but the soft note of the little harp was heard,
and its sweetness was dear to him, for it was his own song of the
night she had caught.
“It is well Liadan is playing that,” said Aevil. “All the day she was
making practice of it because you, Aillain, gave it praise.”
“I?” said the youth Aillain, and stared, and his mother heard and
laughed.
“What does a manling do when music is made by fair lady to his
liking?” she asked. “A gold-caged thrush would be fitting for a
lady’s gift, or flowers for fragrance.”
They made jests of him as at a lover they were training for love, and
the eyes of the youth laughed also, yet he was courteous.
“No less than my duty, and the gift, shall be offered,” he said. “The
less garden bloom for the other ladies on the morrow.”
Straightway he started for the garden in the dusk, glad to show grace
to so fair a guest. The sky had primrose tints in it afar, and the
golden curve of the moon was above dark ocean. Only one star shone
high, and shadows fell thick where the hedges were, and where a great
vine threw wide arms at the foot of the tower.
A moment the boy paused to look up where the harp strings were softly
touched, then there was silence, and a white hand reached far out,
and a bit of fragrance touched his breast—it was a red rose, crushed
where it had lain under the linen of her warm bosom.
The youth was mazed and stood waiting with staring eyes. Was it a
mocking the gay group would make because of his lack of years, and
his height of a man? This was the reasonable thought, for he had a
sweetly gay temper of his own, and was used to their baiting.
But while he held the rose and listened for their laughter, something
finer came to him: it was the hushed voice of Liadan singing. A very
whisper of a song it was, and heard only by him, and by a man at the
casement.
The mystic rose are you to me
In secret bower growing,
The grayling bird of grief am I
Not joyous taking wing!
One star for both above the sea—
The trysting star! A grayling
Lets fall a rose and breathes her sigh:
Not joyous taking wing!
The voice ceased and the harp strings gave a wail as a heavy hand of
discord crashed it. The boy could make nothing of that, and walked
slowly into the dusk of the garden, intent as before on the gift of
blossoms.
It was a sweet song as she sung it, and a pleading one. He wondered
as to the meaning of the mystic rose. It was a new word to him and he
had an ear for words of beauty.
Then there came swiftly the rush of a slender form into the garden’s
dusk. Like a low-flying bird before a hawk she ran, for the dark
woman was at the portal.
“O rose of flame,” said Liadan sobbing, “that I should have given
snow for your fragrance!”
The tall youth, Aillain, had plucked a hand full of bloom, but stared
at her strangeness, and drew back from her.
“The roses are for your gift, fair Liadan,” he began courteously, but
at his voice she moaned in terror and caught his shoulder.
“O rose of brief bloom for me,” she said, and fell in whiteness at
his feet. He bent to lift her, but the dark woman was first.
“Silence is best for this,” she said to Aillain. “It is no new thing
and I can bear her alone.”
She was very strong, and Liadan lay in her arms like a broken flower,
and thus she faced Kurithir at the portal; he was white as the maid,
as he barred her way.
“Tell me of this meaning,” he said, and Moria laughed as Aevil
herself might have laughed.
“You are a man and should know,” she said. “The boy is a new
plaything and she broke the lock to keep tryst with him. You poets
play over much at the love game, and oft choose your mates strangely.”
“If you were a man my hand would send you to hell for that saying.”
“Even that would not make her over, or change the heart of her,” said
Moria. “Give way that I may put her back under lock ere her sister
learns this newest shame.”
He gave way, and paced like a chained thing the length of his leash
under the wall where he could see the light of her window. He
listened for her voice, but no sound came.
Later he sought Aillain, but the youth had gone straight to Aevil in
his amaze and fear, and she had cunningly bound him to silence, as if
Liadan were some distraught creature ever to be guarded when the moon
was new. To Flann, Kurithir could not speak.
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In the morning Liadan was dressed by Moria for the journey, listless
and cold, staring.
Aevil mocked her despair, and hummed the words of her trysting song.
“Think you a man of pride waits for tryst with a maid so bold?” she
asked. “The rose alone might have won a hearing, but men are fain to
do their own wooing. Your song argued practice in love, so he walked
away, O grayling, you!”
Liadan took up the harp and broke the strings.
“It will make songs for no other man,” she said. “So much for love’s
practice on me!”
Cold and white she sat for the braiding of the gold disks in her
brown hair, and cold and white for the girdling of the gray robe,
and the lacings of the gray shoes. After the breaking of the harp
Aevil mocked no more, for there were guests and a host to face in the
farewells, and it might prove a hard hour.
But Liadan strangely bade farewells as a child is taught to do. There
was a faint little smile on her lips, and she looked into faces as if
scarce seeing, while the dark woman watched her curiously.
“Her boast was that no will but his should lead her,” she said to
Aevil. “Look you! Whose will leads her now?”