The Songs of Slaves (2 page)

             
“Hibernia has been unreached by the gospel of Christ for four hundred years,” Titus said.

             
“Where is Hibernia?” Connor asked.

             
“That’s Connor,” Dervel said. “He lives with us.”

             
“Whose son is he?” Titus asked.

             
“No one’s,” Cumragh said. “He came to us when he was scarcely a weanling. No one knows from where. And no one around here has his coloring.”

             
“A bastard.”

             
“An orphan,” Dervel said. “Bastards have mothers at least.”

             
“This place is Hibernia,” Titus said, looking at Connor.

             
“No, it is Eire.”

             
“To the rest of the world it is Hibernia, young man.”

             
“What right does the rest of the world have to name a place that is not theirs?”

             
“Right you are lad,” Cumragh said. “Right you are.”

             
“No more questions, Connor,” said Dervel. “Brother Titus Vestius has important business to discuss.”

             
“Hibernia has been unreached by the true faith for nearly four hundred years,” Titus continued. “Now the Holy Spirit has seen fit to draw it in. The
Arch
Bishop of Gaul – even the Pope himself – has taken an interest in what has been happening here over the last few years. Christianity is finding fertile soil in this dark land of the Pagans, but left alone to itself this new Christianity is vulnerable. It is open to all falsehood and confusions. The
Arch
Bishop of Britannia regards all Hibernians as Pagan savages who are unredeemable; but the
Arch
Bishop of Gaul has a heart for this lonely place, and has sent me here to help you, and all the people here, to grow in the true religion, in accordance with the Church in Rome.”

             
“I was taught by Gilas,” Dervel said. “He was taught by Declan himself.”

             
“And I as well,” Cumragh said. “We are Declan’s grandchildren in faith. He has taught us what we need to know. And we teach this to the people.”

             
“Perhaps this is difficult for you to understand,” Titus said. “But in the mainland this has all been played out before. Here you have no church structure, no accountability. You have only the word of Declan – saint that he is
–
and the men he has trained. That is a good root. I do not say other. But it is not enough. Look at the result! You keep the faith, but you fill in the missing pieces with your old ways. Look at you! Your
hair is cut like a druid’s – priests of a religion so subversive it was illegalized in the
Imperium
even in Pagan times! Your robes are white, like theirs. Like the Pagans of this land, you worship outside in the forest, instead of in a consecrated church. You celebrate the Lord’s most holy feast of Resurrection on the same day as a Pagan fertility rite. In the mainland we have seen the result of the Good News stolen and warped by the sinfulness of man – the Arians, the Gnostics, Manicheans, Pelagians, monophysites of every description – all of these false gospels become a worse threat to the soul than the teachings of Paganism, old or new. We do not want to see that happen here. That is why I have come. That is why the Holy Father has sent priests unto many places in this land.”

             
“God is our Holy Father,” Cumragh said, his face growing flushed.

             
“Amen,” Dervel said, as he placed a restraining hand gently on his friend’s shoulder. “Brother Titus, we have much to discuss. But perhaps we had better discuss it indoors, away from so many ears.”

             
Titus nodded.

             
Dervel turned to the crowd. Many had already left, after they had seen that the foreigner had not brought anything to trade or to show.

             
“We welcome Brother Titus Vestius
Laterensis
.”

             
The crowd murmured the requisite affirmation.

             
“Any who so wishes, come to our monastery this evening to speak to him and to receive
prayer.
”

             
Cumragh fell into animated conversation with Keagan as they followed Dervel and Titus towards the huts.

             
“That’s a Roman?” Mannus said when they were out of earshot.

             
Connor, too, was disappointed. The man was nothing of what he had thought he would be, and the Brothers were clearly upset by him; though Connor was still too young to really know why. 

             
“I should get back,” Mannus said. “Who knows what the sheep have got into?”

             
Connor nodded and turned to follow his friend back through the woods.

             
An unseen lark was singing beneath the heavy blanket of green. The air was cool as it carried the smell of wet bark and earth through the shadows of the old
oaks. Mannus picked up a stick and absently swung it against the brambles as he walked. Connor said nothing as he followed his friend along the shortcut to the pastures. He was still trying to think of what the priest had said, and to wonder why he had come and how long he would stay.

             
Sunlight shone through the clouds as the two emerged from the trees. The sheep were where they had left them, as if they had taken no notice that their shepherds had temporarily abandoned them. The beasts cropped methodically at the thick grass of the steep hillside. Mannus was relieved as Connor confirmed his head count. If any of the sheep had been lost or taken while he had left, then he would have received a thrashing when his father found out. He sat down on the gray rock wall that was just dry enough now.

             
Connor joined him and looked up at the sky. He closed his eyes and felt the warmth of the light on his face. The day was waning on, and the warmest part was over. Before long it would be time to work their way back with the herd.

             
“Tell a story,” Mannus said.

             
“What would you hear?” Connor answered. He knew all the stories – Jonah and the Great Fish, David
and the Giant, the three men in the furnace, Moses in the Wilderness – Dervel, Cumragh, and Keagan had taught him all of them. He even knew the less interesting stories – for Dervel always talked a long time about some detail or other in these. Of course, Mannus did not want to hear about Nehemiah and the Wall, or Ruth and Boaz, or Jacob and the Well.

             
“I want to hear about Cu Challain,” Mannus said. “I want to hear about the battle with Queen Maeve and the armies of Conacht.”

             
“Dervel and Cumragh say that I should tell the holy stories more,” Connor said, but his smile conveyed little conviction. In truth, especially on a day like today, he did not want to tell short stories about man and his dependence on God. He wanted to tell sagas of fate and bravery; of the heroes that could put a thousand enemies to flight, and who inspired the devotion of beautiful queens; men who struggled against a world full of mystery and magic and subdued it with their strength and their cunning. These were the old stories; and they could not just be told, they had to be sung with a clear voice in moving rhythm. Dervel had taught him a few, though Cumragh said they were merely Pagan. But most he had learned from a few old men, or had
overheard as the villagers celebrated
Samhain
,
Beltane
,
Imbolc,
or
Lughnasadh
.

             
Connor stood up again and took a deep breath. He sounded his voice in a clear note that seemed to ring over the hillside. The rhythm emerged from the melody, echoed by the cut of the verse and the percussive rolling of vocal ornamentation. The stage was set and the story began.

             
“You’re a rare singer, Connor,” Mannus mused aloud. “I think your father must have been a bard, or a druid.”

             
Connor did not pause to take in Mannus’ words. His own voice was carrying him far away. It was not only the words of the tale, or the sound of the song, but the bursting of creativity that fully engaged his mind – for he never told the tale the same way twice, but followed the music wherever it wanted to go.

             
An hour passed, and Connor’s voice grew raw as Mannus listened intently. A hero was born and grew up, faced enemies and obstacles, finding rewards and sorrows alike. The tale was driving towards climax, and Connor sang with renewed energy, ignoring the pressure in his throat. There was only the rhythm and
the words and the sound, the transformation of air into poetry within his chest.

             
But even then, Mannus jumped to his feet and pointed towards the trees. Connor saw it too – the movement of golden hair throug
h the shadows of the wood. H
is song halted, dissipating into the spring air.

             
“It’s Grania!” Mannus said, already up and walking past him. “Come on.”

             
Connor had not seen if it was Grania or not, but he knew that if anyone could recognize the sunlight on the golden hair of the girl at such a distance it would be Mannus. Connor moved to catch up to his friend’s earnest strides. The boy was not running
–
that would not do
–
but he might as well have been.

             
“I stood behind her as we gathered last Sunday,” Mannus whispered. “She smiled at me. I’m going to marry her one day
–
you know, when I’m a man.”

             
Grania had always had power over Mannus, as long as Connor could remember. She was one of the prettiest children in the settlement – with eyes more blue and skin
more fair
even than her two older sisters, who had already grown into beautiful young women. But there was more to her than this
–
there was an air about her, a way,
a
quality of spirit. And though Connor
was not yoked to her as Mannus seemed to be, he treasured her glances and her attention. And so Mannus’s frequent assertions that Grania would one day be his wife always galled Connor and made him testy. But Connor did not have time to make a retort without Grania hearing him; if that was she they had glimpsed walking within the trees. Connor reigned in his pride and held his tongue, and the exercise in virtue obscured the cold fact: whether the little girl grew up to love him or his friend, Mannus would inherit the wealth to support her. But Connor was only the fatherless ward of monks. He had nothing.

             
Mannus led him into the woods at the base of the hill. Connor reached to catch the branches as they snapped back from Mannus’ grasp. They rounded the base of a broad oak and stopped.

             
It was Grania, her braided hair falling down the back of her white linen dress and the forest light playing on her wispy form.

             
But Mannus’s merry greeting died on his lips as she turned towards him. Her face was flushed red and there were angry tears in her eyes. The furrow of her brow changed when she saw him to a look of imploring sorrow.

             
Connor quickly saw why. They had been in such haste to reach her, and had thrashed through the brush so noisily that they had not heard the voices. Grania stood with her fists at her sides, and Eogan, Colin, and Foin stood across from her. Eogan
–
the oldest and biggest of the three brothers
–
held a lamb roughly in his arms, clutching it to him every time it tried to break free. When he saw Mannus the wicked smile on his round face broadened.

             
“This lamb wandered off from my father’s flock! I have been searching for him, and finally found him, but these three grabbed him out of my hands and will not give him back! They mean to steal him!”

             
The words spilled in rapid succession from Grania’s mouth, and as they did the tears at the outrage welled up in her eyes anew. She was only nine, and the loss of the lamb to the ruffians was not something her family could afford easily. Eogan’s smile grew once more, and his skinny brother Foin began to laugh. Connor could see it was not the lamb they really wanted, though he was not surprised to find the three stealing. Rough as he was, the twelve-year-old Eogan was not immune to the girl’s charms. His cruelty was a fool’s way of controlling Grania’s attentions. Maybe he
would have given the lamb back, eventually, and maybe he would not have; but Connor knew the entrance of Mannus had changed everything.

             
Even as Connor was reasoning that it might be wiser for him and Mannus to turn and go, before they added wind to the fire, Mannus strode forward.