The Greener Shore (28 page)

“I’m afraid it was Bal Derg,” Keryth said in a whisper.

Fíachu stiffened. “Bal Derg?”

“Your nephew.”

“Bal Derg,” the chieftain repeated through lips gone numb.

She said with obvious reluctance, “He killed Onuava and her infant in a mad rage and ran away. He’s hiding somewhere.”

On the battlefield I have seen strong men absorb terrible blows. To give Fíachu credit he did not flinch now. He blinked several times in swift succession, but that was all. “His mother was my oldest sister. She raised me on her knee after our mother died. Until Onuava’s child was born Bal Derg was the nearest thing I had to a son. How can I…” Fíachu stared at me helplessly.

I pitied him. “You should not have to. Ask someone else to judge the man.”

“Will you do it, Ainvar?”

“Not I, it’s not my gift. But our Dian Cet was a brehon judge before I was born. He’s been trained to be impartial.”

“Training is all well and good, but was Onuava his blood kin?”

“She was not, Fíachu. She was an Arvernian.”

“I see.” The chieftain swallowed. Hard. Clenched and unclenched his big fists. Men of action have to do something while they are thinking. “The situation could hardly be worse than it is now,” he said. “Bring Dian Cet to my lodge tomorrow at sundown. In the meantime, Ainvar…”

“Yes?”

“Will your women care for Onuava?”

“They will, of course. And the—”

“Not the infant,” Fíachu interrupted. “I’ll take my son with me now, and return him to his mother at her funeral. I leave it to you to arrange the ritual.”

In my life I have seen many sad sights, but one of the saddest was that big strong man walking away from our lodges with a tiny bundle in his arms. He stopped once to uncover the little battered face, and pressed his lips to it. Then he went on.

Keryth said, “That was the only son he’ll ever have.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. Very certain.”

“And about the other? Bal Derg?”

“Are you challenging my gift, Ainvar?”

The people nearest us pricked up their ears, as people always do when they sense a quarrel brewing. “No,” I said firmly. “Of course not.”

My clan slowly dispersed. I doubt if anyone felt like eating a meal that night.

Dara came to my lodge long enough to collect a leather hide, then went off somewhere alone. He reappeared late the following morning to announce that he had composed a lament for Onuava and her child. “Do you think Fíachu would like to hear it?”

“I’m sure he will. Come with us this evening.”

The three of us—Dara, Dian Cet, and I—made our way to the stronghold of the chieftain together. In the crook of his arm Dara cradled his new harp.

We saw Bal Derg as soon as we entered the fort. He was bound hand and foot and tied to a strong post. Four armed warriors stood guard while the captive alternately roared with anger and sobbed with anguish. There was blood on his clothing. Fíachu’s nephew had not surrendered easily.

His clan was gathered around him. I kept my eyes straight ahead as I walked past, but ordered my ears to listen.

“I don’t understand how this could happen,” a man remarked.

“Neither do I,” said one of Bal Derg’s sisters. “He was such a quiet lad when he was little. I can’t believe he would do such a thing.”

Her husband interjected, “If he did do it, Onuava provoked him to it. You know how she was, she rolled her eyes at every man who looked her way. She probably teased him until he could stand it no longer and he bashed her.”

“What about the baby?” a woman asked. “What harm could an infant at the breast have done him?”

An old man pointed out, “When that child was born Bal Derg ceased to be Fíachu’s favorite.”

“If he killed a child we should cut off his head!”

“But no one saw him commit the crime. We have to let him go.”

“Do you want a murderer running around loose?”

“I don’t want the blood of a kinsman on my hands.”

“We’ll all have blood on our hands if we let him get away with this.”

Discussions were becoming arguments. Violent acts engender violent reactions.

We found the chieftain alone in his lodge. He had sent his wives away; I suppose they took the infant’s body with them. Fíachu looked up when we entered. “Do you hear what’s going on out there? Any decision I make will turn half the clan against me.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Dian Cet reminded him. “I can take that burden from you so you remain blameless. But first you must ask your people if they are willing to abide by my judgment.”

Fíachu bridled. “I’m a chieftain, I don’t ask permission.”

“Very well, then. May I speak with the accused man?”

“Go ahead, but take a couple of warriors with you.”

“Bal Derg is well guarded and securely tied. He can’t hurt me, Fíachu.”

“Perhaps not, but feelings are running high. Anything could happen.”

My head agreed with Fíachu. These were Celts and Celts were volatile. I made a suggestion. “My son Dara has composed a lament for Onuava. Perhaps if he recites now, while Dian Cet has a word with Bal Derg, the poem will distract people as well as having a calming influence.”

Fíachu looked dubious. “It had better be good.”

Unbidden, an image of the harp came into my mind. The harp made of wood grown from Eriu’s earth. “It will be,” I predicted.

We left the lodge and approached the muttering crowd. The chieftain raised his arms for silence. “Dara the son of Ainvar knew the dead woman well, and has asked to sing her lament.”

These were Celts and Celts love to be entertained. All faces turned toward my son.

Dara waited for total silence. He spun out their patience like a spider’s thread, judging the exact time when one moment more would cause it to break.

Then he lifted the harp.

From seven brass strings like threads of gold Dara summoned a feminine murmur. It might have been a woman’s voice, humming to herself as Dara chanted:

“Twice she came among strangers, Onuava the Arvernian

Big-limbed and stout-hearted, the fair Onuava

Came while in mourning for one slain by the Romans

Came with her head up and her grief hidden in her bosom

To join the Carnutes for a new beginning.”

The voice of the harp turned into the voice of the wind, filling us with a sense of far horizons.

“To the land of the oak and the yew, the noble Onuava

With a king’s young son, and the sons of a druid,

Came without fear and without looking backward

Came with her passion for life undiminished

To begin yet again with the tribe of Broad Spears.”

The sound of the harp was mellow and smooth. Creamy, like Onuava’s skin. How long had it been since I last told her she was beautiful? I could not remember.

“Three lives had the woman called Onuava

She faced each in turn with unflinching courage

She who loved life lived to the fullest

She who loved children, killed no mother’s son

Weep for Onuava who never wept for herself.”

Under Dara’s hand the harp cried like a child, a sound so painful I could hardly bear it.

Only then did I realize the full extent of my son’s gift.

“Lament her sadly, lament her sweetly

Lament her kindly, all who knew her

Commemorate Onuava not with anger, but justice

For she was no stranger

She was one of your own.”

Dara summoned one last sound from the harp: a soft falling away, like earth dropping onto a grave.

Throughout the fort there was absolute silence. Even Bal Derg was quiet.

Dara lowered his harp and stood with bowed head.

Fíachu had to clear his throat twice before he was able to speak. “This young bard sang of justice. A wise judge is a just judge, but in this matter I am pulled into too many directions to identify the just path. Therefore I have appointed Dian Cet to make the determination for me.” As the first startled exclamations arose, Fíachu said firmly, “You will abide by his decision. On my honor, so will I.”

He beckoned Dian Cet to step forward.

chapter
XVIII

I
T HAD BEEN A LONG TIME SINCE THE OLD MAN FUNCTIONED IN A
judicial capacity, yet he still radiated authority. His hair was whiter than a cloud; his spine was straighter than a birch tree. When he spoke the words came slow and clear, so that he seemed to be responding to an inner voice, drawing on a wellspring of inspiration.

“The killing of Onuava and her son is an unthinkable crime,” said Dian Cet. “Our race does not war on women and children.

“We know only three things for certain. Bal Derg was caught hiding like a guilty man but denies any guilt. Killing him will not bring his victims back. Letting him go unpunished will outrage the entire tribe.

“Therefore this is my judgment. I decree no violence for Bal Derg. His official punishment will be to have a large notch cut from his ears. Then he will be released.”

“What does that accomplish?” someone asked.

“From this day forward, notched ears will mark a person as an outlaw. That means the individual is
outside the law.
” Dian Cet stressed the phrase deliberately. “Being outside the law means a person cannot call upon the law to protect him from the actions of others. Anyone who wishes to harm him may do so with impunity. An outlaw can be killed for the clothes on his back or the cup in his hand and no action will be taken.”

An excited buzz arose among the people, like the sound of a hive of disturbed bees.

Dian Cet went on, “Onuava was the daughter of a prince and the widow of a king. A man desiring to marry a woman of her rank would have had to pay her nearest male kin at least forty cows. If her infant had lived to weaning age his head price would have been higher, because he was the son of a chieftain. Under the circumstances, however, compensation is due only for his mother.

“Therefore I decree that Bal Derg or his nearest kin—his sisters, in this case—must pay the dead woman’s husband forty cows.”

Bal Derg’s sisters uttered shocked exclamations.

Dian Cet continued, “This payment will be considered redress in full. Upon its receipt, the matter will be closed. No grudge may be carried forward. The restoration of amity must be the aim of any judgment. That is vital to the maintenance of law.

“Should Bal Derg or his sisters fail to pay compensation, I decree that the dead woman’s husband is entitled to go and sit in front of their lodge. They must provide a bench for the purpose.”

The baffled crowd gaped at the brehon.

“Ainvar will refuse any food or drink until the payment is made. Among the Gael, hospitality is paramount, and a failure of hospitality is as great a crime as murder. Should Ainvar starve to death while waiting for redress, the penalty will be as follows:

“The names of Bal Derg, his sisters, and their husbands will be forgotten. The assets of the tribe will no longer be shared with them. Nor will their offspring be included in the history of the tribe, which means they can inherit nothing.”

In my life I had heard a number of brehons render judgments, but never had I been present when a whole new law sprang into being. Dian Cet’s pronouncement was so innovative, yet so just, that I could find no fault with it.

Neither could anyone else. Except for Bal Derg, who appeared dazed, and his sisters and their husbands, who were dismayed.

Fíachu had been listening with his arms folded and his eyes half-closed like a man in pain. When Dian Cet finished speaking he stepped forward. “As chief of the clan I accept this ruling on behalf of my kin,” he intoned. He had no choice; he already had agreed on his honor. “As chief of the Slea Leathan I accept this ruling on behalf of my tribe. From this day forward it will be in the interest of every family to assure that its members commit no crime.” He pointed toward the men guarding the prisoner. “Notch that man’s ears and turn him loose.”

Bal Derg fought with all his strength to resist, but it was no use. Two large triangles were cut from the upper portion of his ears while he squealed like a pig. Blood ran down both sides of his neck, staining his clothes afresh.

His bonds were released.

The clan moved back until he stood alone in the center of a huge circle.

I was reminded of the Crow Court.

Breathing hard, Bal Derg held out his hands in a plea to someone, anyone. A man with a bushy beard shifted weight from one foot to the other and drawled, “You hit me the other day for no reason. I’ve always fancied those gold arm rings of yours.” He casually reached for the knife he wore in his belt.