Tuathal has a bitter night.
“Unless you have sheep skill, thresh, or cut wood, there’s no room for you.” The farmer folded his arms. “We’ve no place nor food for aught not workin’.” He stared at the hem of Tuathal’s cloak, then met Tuathal’s eyes once more. “Nor beggars.”
He could do two of the three. Instead he nodded to the farmer. “Then I hope you reap all that you have sowed.” He turned and stalked off, back straight, head up.
As he passed the land marker, a voice behind him called, “Aither, Aither, d’ you see his clarsach? It’s no beggar but a bard.”
“What—?” A sound of surprise, then the farmer called, “Bard, wait, We’ll find a place for ye.”
Tuathal continued walking, returning to the road and the bitter, misty rain that had begun stinging his face and filling the air. He’d not take hospitality from that farm. A beggar? How dare he. Hot anger warmed the late day and steamed off the rain, at least until Tuathal plodded up the hill and out of sight of the lowland to the south. Hissing wind in the trees combed water from the air as a woman combed dirt and grass from fleece. Oh, the night would be bitter indeed. He needed shelter and a fire.
Just as it neared full dark, and the mist turned to true rain, he saw a cluster of stones, part roofed. He hesitated, then touched the rowen. “Greetings to the stones,” he called, lest anyone mistake his intentions. Nothing of malice lingered, although … A faint sense of unease surrounded the four stones and their grass-thatched cap. No scent of animal or man reached him. Tuathal left the clarsach in the shelter, out of the rain, and scurried back to where he’d seen broken wood in the road, enough for a small fire if he took care. A few windfall nuts and bramble berries from the pathway came along as well.
He should have set pride aside and accepted the a place under the farmer’s roof. The cold rain did not care that he was welcomed in the court of the high king and of the queen of the Brytheen. Nor did flint and iron leap to do his bidding as did the bondsmen of his brother’s court. A praise singer, full of awen, still died of hunger and cold the same as the lowest beggar or slave.
On the fourth try, the fire caught. Tuathal tended it with moss and dry grass, then with great care added twigs. He singed the corner of his cloak, and bit his tongue to stop the words he wanted to say. His haste was not the fault of the fire. A mouse’s old nest went into the flames, food licked up by orange tongues. Once two larger sticks caught, he sat back, mindful of the clarsach, his other bag, and the cold stone just over his head. The space smelled of mouse, rock, and smoke. When the wind shifted, something else touched his nose, something old and watchful.
After he ate and burned the nut shells, Tuathal began to sing to himself, and to the presence in the stones. “Deep peace of the fields to you, deep peace of the quiet night to you. Soft rains of the gentle summer wash you, warm sun of the blooming spring wash you. The arms of the land enfold and shield you, the arms of the sun and moon enfold you, warm and loved by mother and land, rest safe in the deep peace.” The child-minder in his mother’s court had crooned the words to the littlest ones, not realizing the power in her song. Now he sang to the stones and what else dwelled here. The sense of age remained, but the wariness eased, soothed perhaps. Tuathal sang another slow, quiet song he’d heard from some shepherds, a night watcher’s assurances to the drowsing flock.
The night grew no warmer, nor the rain lighter, but the space in side the stones opened for him. Whatever remained here no longer objected to his presence, now a guest, perhaps. He would act as such. Tuathal tidied the fire and took no more dried grass or leaves from the space around him. As the night passed, he sang twice more, long tales of the sea and how Gwydion bargained with the stones of the south to find the gates of Annun.
The rain ended just before dawn, or before the world grew lighter. Tuathal roused himself from a half doze. The fire had faded. He smothered the last of it, careful of the ashes and bits of charred stick. He swept them out of the space under the stones, gathered clarsach, cloak, and bag, and sang, “For the shelter, my thanks, for the fire, my praise, for the roof, my blessing. May all you turn your will to bring wealth.”
The ford at Mud Creek was firm and clear compared to the road that awaited him. Tuathal removed his shoes and squelched. There was no help for it. The mud would ruin what remained of the leather. Even with his new vest and the cloak on, hood pulled up, the air chilled him and the mud stole more of his strength. Gray the sky, gray the dirt, gray the world, gray as the chaos before the gods brought order to all and made sky, land, waters, and living things. Tuathal whispered the tale to himself. It had been some time since he’d recited it, and memories faded, even his, if he did not remind himself of the lay.
The sky clung to the land as Neachta held her lover. The wind no longer cut through cloak and wool and flesh, but it had no need. The mist drew heat from him as he walked, the mud helping. Twice he saw people in the pastures and fields along the way, working to bring in the last of the harvest, or gleaning in the corners. He did not call to them. Oh, he should have set pride aside. Or perhaps not.
He drank from a burn and filled part of his stomach with hazel nuts. He trimmed two hazel rods and tucked them into his bag. Something stirred, and he preferred to go armed. Ragged gray skies paled, then darkened once more. Why had he left his brother’s court? Because the awen had driven him to the road, and he had no choice. Well, that and Aine’s father accusing him of taking her favors and giving a child in return. Tuathal snorted a little. Only Aine’s sire did not know who had blessed his daughter with a babe. It was not Tuathal, even though she’d warmed his bed in the past. Better to heed the awen’s call and depart than fight his brother’s master of horses.
He spent the night in a farmstead. The family and two bondswomen fell asleep before he finished, as they’d warned him they might. He tended the fire, then dozed off himself. They’d only finished cutting the grain as the rain began, and the last of the harvest covered every flat place and thing under the roof, drying. He understood their weariness. “I take no offense,” he’d said when the man of the house warned him. “Harvest and lambing keep a man alive, and come before all else.”
Two days later, Tuathal stopped at a stone by the way. People had left bits of wool, small heaps of grain, apples, and other gifts. He bowed and sang one of his new songs to the stone, bowed once more, and strode up the long hill before him. What the stone did, who had set it and carved it, he knew not. Nor did he question the offerings. His people honored the land and waters in their own ways, and the gods with them. The old ones had done the same, in their own ways, and a wise man did not give insult without cause.
(C) 2026 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved
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