Only the Stones Survive: A Novel (2 page)

Still laughing, my mother told me, “An adult thought is one which is not about yourself.”

But everything was about me. In the dawn of life children assume they are the center of the world and happiness is the normal condition—until they see its other face.

The Great War, when it came, was an awakening. Reminders of better times grew too painful. Titles extolling past glories fell into disuse. By the end of the war I was simply Joss.

The name I bear now is an oddity. As am I.

The event that would change everything was not recognized as a war, not at first. Like a tiny crack in a stone, it needed time to widen into malevolence.

The annual Being Together of the Túatha Dé Danann was held at the Gathering Place. The locale had been sacred to our tribe ever since we came to this island, and it was sacred long before we arrived, sacred even Before the Before. Place does not need people.

Before the Before stretched into an unimaginable past, as incapable of limits as the stars in the sky.

There were limits on our tribe, however, determined by the size of the land we occupied. The sacred island must always be able to feed us. We could not take more than we gave back. Our festivals were ceremonies of thanksgiving and promises of future generosity on our part.

The Túatha Dé Danann comprised a number of clans, each one an extended family tracing its origins from a common ancestor. Every clan had unique physical characteristics and patterns of thought. This made the connection between them vitally important. We were more than a tribe; we were a community: people and place wedded together. As long as the community survived, the Túatha Dé Danann would be immortal.

Looking into each other’s eyes, my people saw themselves reflected.

From the blue mountains and the whispering forests, from the silver shores and the fragrant bogs and the hidden places of the heart, the Dananns flocked to the Gathering Place in response to the yearly summons for Being Together. Kings and queens and all the nobility, the elders of the tribe, the makers and builders and artisans, those who worked with the land and those who worked with the sea. None were excluded. The Children of Light were a single entity.

The youngest children did not attend the Being Together, however.

When my parents invited me to accompany them it was a tacit recognition of my approaching maturity. The ceremony was an important rite of passage, the initial step into the mysterious world of the adults.

I was more interested in the opportunity to meet people of my own age.

Although the Dananns inhabited the entire island, their numbers were relatively small. Their emphasis on family and kinship, their peaceful nature and strongly pastoral but self-sufficient society had produced a scattered pattern of settlement. Their dwellings reflected their surroundings, whether forest or mountain or seaside. If you did not know what to look for, you might never see them.

Several families of our clan lived within half a morning’s walk of our home. Their children were younger than I was. On the occasions when I met these cousins, such as harvest time, we had little in common. I thought of them as babies. I do not know what they thought of me; it did not matter. Then.

For the Being Together an elderly couple joined my family on our journey to the Gathering Place. The Dagda and his wife, Melitt, lived at the other end of our valley. Originally he was simply Dagda, but over time his name had become a title of respect. The Dagda was the oldest member of our clan—and also the oldest of the Túatha Dé Danann, a man of such experience and wisdom that generations had called him king. When the task of tribal leadership finally became too arduous for a person his age, he had passed the kingship on to three brothers of royal birth. One man by himself could not have equaled the service the Dagda had rendered the tribe.

Relieved of the burden of authority, the Dagda had turned to teaching.

During darkseason I went to him to study or he came to me, more often the latter. Refusing to acknowledge his age, he would come striding down the valley with the energy of a younger man.

I must have been quite young when the pattern was set because I do not recall its beginnings, but I know I resented the time it took away from my play. The Dagda always had a lot to say and seemed to take forever to say it, droning on while I pretended to pay attention to wax tablets inscribed with numbers or to maps that he drew on the earth with a pointed stick.

The Dagda was inclined to say important things, lessons I obviously was meant to learn, when I least expected them. For example he might suddenly announce, “At birth we receive a gift of days, Joss. No person can say how many are allotted to him, but even if they number in the thousands, not a single one should be squandered. Our days are the greatest gift we are given.”

Why did he tell me that when I was happily engaged in daydreaming?

Occasionally I did listen—if he was answering one of my many questions. Such as, “What is time?”

The Dagda’s reply did not enlighten me. “Time is an illusion with a purpose.”

Much, much later, when I realized the question I should have asked next, it was too late.

While I respected the Dagda’s age and immense knowledge, I was genuinely fond of his plump, rosy-cheeked wife. Melitt was a merry little woman who baked delicious bread with summer fruits inside, like clusters of jewels.

As the five of us walked across the countryside, my mother chatted with Melitt and the Dagda, discussing old friends in common and days gone by, topics in which I had no interest. Fortunately, I was not expected to take part in their conversation. My father was busy preparing me for the event to come.

“The Being Together is the perfect occasion for making and renewing friendships,” Mongan explained, “giving us the opportunity to exchange ideas, tell of our joys and share our sorrows. With singing and dancing we express our pleasure in living, and we reward the generous earth for supporting us with gifts of thanksgiving. But there is another purpose for the great gathering. An annual meeting of the clans is essential because we are so few in number.

“As you will see demonstrated if the need arises, Joss, when the Túatha Dé Danann unite in common purpose, we can achieve more than any single individual can do alone. Within our combined power is the summoning of wind, the distribution of clouds, the taming of storms, the redirection of rivers, the enrichment of soil, the raising of hills, the opening or sealing of caves, the purifying of pools, the ritual of healing, and more besides. Almost any deed you can imagine can be accomplished by our acting together.”

We …
my people
 … could do all those things! How thrilling!

The adults were walking with the sedate, gliding gait that characterized our race, but I began to skip uncontrollably. Prompted by something the Dagda recently said to me—“Live your life in the expectation of sudden joy, Joss”—I turned handsprings; I laughed aloud. No butterfly dancing on the air could be more giddy.

My people cherished childhood and usually made no effort to curtail it. Why should they, when we lived so long? A Danann childhood could last for more than twenty sunseasons, followed by the responsibilities of adulthood for another eighty sunseasons. Only then could one become an elder, a person whose acquired wisdom was counted as part of the tribe’s treasure.

Unfortunately, my childish behavior on the morning of the Being Together brought a stern rebuke from my father. “Calm yourself, Joss! When we reach the Gathering Place you must be sedate and well-behaved. Listen instead of talking. Be mindful that you have nothing to contribute yet; it is enough for you to be there.”

I promised; I would have promised anything on that bright morning. The future was a splendid Unknown, and I was eager for it.

I would approach it differently now.

At high sun we came to a pathway beaten by the passage of countless feet over countless seasons. The grass on either side of the path was so thick it tempted my bare feet to stray. The air was a heady perfume. We were immersed in life: leafy woodlands and lush grasslands and fern-fringed pools where predator and prey drank together.

Before us lay a meadow thickly starred with flowers. At home my mother could fashion almost anything from stems and leaves and blossoms. A flick of her fingers could create a wreath for the brow or a platter to hold bread.

I was stooping to pluck an armful of color and fragrance when she stayed my hand. “You must take nothing away from this place, Joss. Not ever.” Her rebuke was gentler than my father’s, but it went deeper.

The Dagda added, “Do no damage here, young man. Anyone who does is destined to die roaring in pain.”

I swallowed hard and kept my hands at my sides.

The green land rolled before us in waves like the sea that embraced our island. I had not yet been taken to the coast to see the white-crested waves that were the manes of Manannan Mac Lir’s horses, but someday I would. I would see and do many, many wonderful things. It was part of my heritage.

I was Danann.

The path we were following began to slope toward a distant hill. Our small group soon was enlarged by a trickle, then a stream, then a river of people dressed, as we were, in their brightest clothes, with more flowers in their hair. Cheerful strangers surrounded and enfolded us. Kinfolk I had never met called out my names, my many impressive names, and told me theirs.

My parents were congratulated on the simple fact of my being.

I thought myself a very fine fellow indeed.

When we reached the hill it did not appear very high; it was a long, grassy ridge crowned with timber columns, outlining halls. The halls were roofed with thatch but open on all sides to light and air. Instead of climbing up to them, the Dagda led us around to the sunrise slope, where we sat down on springy grass and warm earth. A vast crowd—or what looked like a crowd to me, who had never seen one before—was spreading out along the flank of the ridge.

All were careful to sit down without crushing the flowers.

So was I.

While we waited for the ceremony to begin, the Dananns sang. Mindful of my father’s admonition, I stayed quiet and listened. It was just as well; I did not recognize any of the words. Rippling, floating words like a trill of birdsong or a stream burbling over pebbles. My mother leaned over to murmur in my ear, “We are singing in the old language, Joss. This is a song of welcome.”

I didn’t even know we had an old language. Yet when I listened closely, I observed that every unfamiliar word found its allotted place in the music. One could not be separated from the other.

Like the Dananns from their land.

Was that an adult thought? I must ask my father.

The singing ended abruptly, rising into one pure note of aching sweetness that took me by surprise.

How did they all know to stop at the same time? I must ask him about that too.

Before I could voice my questions, several splendidly attired men and women stood up in front of the crowd and began to make speeches of welcome. My father whispered their names to me, identifying them as members of the ruling family—who were related to our own clan. The audience warmly applauded each one in turn. “They are much loved,” my mother said proudly.

At that moment I began to love them too. My kinship to these radiant beings did not have to be explained; I could feel it welling up in me. As if responding to a silent command, the assembled Dananns broke into song again. The music celebrated what we were all feeling—even me, who didn’t know the words. I wanted to stay there and feel that way forever.

The joyous atmosphere was short-lived. It faded when one of the princes—a man whom my mother identified as her uncle Aengus—made a sobering announcement. “I regret to say that the tribes which our ancestors subdued are no longer content with the peace imposed upon them.”

I had only the vaguest idea what he meant. I knew that great battles had been won by our race long ago, led by a hero called Nuada of the Silver Hand, but I had never paid much attention when the Dagda was relating the details of history. The stories were not about
me.

“Men of the Iverni recently tried to assault a child on the brink of adulthood,” Aengus continued, “the girl who is called Shinann.” This provoked expressions of shock from some of his listeners and angry muttering from others. Shinann herself was not present, but many of her kin were. Aengus raised a hand for silence. “She is unharmed, I assure you, but it was not the only such incident. One of our craftsmen seeking copper ore in the mountains was threatened by a party of the Velabri. He tells us they were carrying weapons that were not shaped for hunting animals. To make matters worse, the dark-spirited Fír Bolga are now openly skirmishing with our shepherds in the borderlands.”

When he finished speaking, the elders took turns addressing the issue, then invited comments. Most people agreed that while none of these incidents posed a serious threat by itself, taken as a whole they were disquieting.

The Dagda pointed out that any unusual disturbance, such as a vortex in a normally quiet pool or a sudden leaping of birds into windless air, could be a dark portent. “This behavior among the formerly pacified tribes might signal the first twitch of rebellion,” he warned. “Their numbers are greatly diminished, but their primitive instincts remain.”

A rebellion! In a vague way I knew what that meant: a chance for real excitement. I had been quiet for long enough this morning. Youth and sun and strength were coursing through me. I was eager for action.

Sitting cross-legged beside me, my father placed his hand on top of my head as if to hold me down. “Stop fidgeting, Joss. We are not playing games now.”

But my mother gave me a tiny wink. Lerys was younger than my father; she and I often were confederates in small acts of naughtiness.

I winked back at her.

The discussion was becoming heated. One of the younger men jumped to his feet and shouted, “Unbury the Earthkillers!” Another promptly cried, “We need the Sword of Light and the Invincible Spear! They will remind the savage Fír Bolga where the real power lies!” A third added, “We must strike before they attack us and try to seize our treasures.”