The Celtic Riddle
By Lyn Hamilton
THE SONG OF AMAIRGEN
Ic tabairt a choisse dessi i nHerind asbert Amairgen Glúngel mac Miled in laídseo sís:
As he placed his right foot on Ireland Amairgen of the White Knee recited this poem:
Am gáeth i mmuir
I am the sea-swell
Am tonn trethain,
The furious wave
Am fúaimm mara
The roar of the sea
Am dam secht ndrenn
A stag of seven slaughters
Am séig i n-aill
A hawk above the cliff
Am dér gréne
A ray of the sun
Am caín lubae
The beauty of a plant
Am tore ar gàil
A boar enraged
Am hé i llind
A salmon in a pool
Am loch i mmaig
A lake in a plain
Am brí dánae
A flame of valor
Am gae i fodb feras fechtu
A piercing spear waging war
Am dé delbas do chin codnu
A god that fashions heroes for a lord
Cóich é no-d-gleith clochur sléibe
He who clears the mountain paths
Cía ón co-ta-gair áesa éscai
He who describes the moon's advance
Cía dú i llaig funiud gréne
And the place where the sun sets
Cía beir búar o thig Temrach
Who drives cattle off from Tara
Cía búar tethrach tibis cech dáin
That fine herd touches each skill
Cía dé delbas fáebru áine
A god that fashions weapons of glory
Commus caínte Cáinte gáeth
An able poet. Wise am I.
(Translation: Dr. Harry Roe)
PROLOGUE
HERE'S a story attached to that, you know. It happened a long, long time ago, before mairgen and the Sons of Mil set foot on these shores, 'efore the children of the goddess Danu retreated to xe sidhe. Not so far back as the plague that killed the ons and daughters of Partholan. Not so far back as lat. But a long time ago, even so.
In those days, there were giants roamed the earth, nd creatures with one leg and one arm, like serpents, ame out of the sea. Back then, unsheathed weapons told tales, the sky could rain fire, and the shrieks of ie Hag would be heard in the night. And it was then tat the fiercest of battles, the struggle of light over drkness, were fought and won by the Tuatha de Da-aan. First they routed the Fir Bolg, then banished the readed Fomorians in the Battles of Mag Tuired.
The tales of their heroes, their leaders in battle, we tell to this day: Lugh, luminous, shining, destroyer of the Evil Eye; Diancecht, the healer; Nuada Silver land; and first and foremost, the Dagda.
Now there was a god! An excellent one, by his own description. A giant, with appetite to match. It was the Dagda had a cauldron in which pigs were cooked. This was no ordinary cauldron, nor ordinary pigs. Was always a pig ready, and the cauldron never empty, no matter how many came to dine. And, to top it all, the cauldron's contents were said to inspire the poet and revive the dead.
Anyway, one day the Dagda went to the camp of the Fomorians to ask for a truce, and also, for he was a crafty one, to spy on their camp. The Fomorians, some of them giants themselves, prepared for him a porridge of eighty gallons of milk, another eighty of meal and fat. Into this they put pigs and goats and sheep, then poured it all into an enormous hole in the ground.
"Eat all of it, " the Fomorians said, "or die."
"I will then," the Dagda replied, and taking his ladle, so big a man and a woman could lie down in its bowl together, he started to eat. As the Fomorians watched, he swallowed every last bit of it, scraping up the crumbs in the dirt with his massive hand where the ladle couldn't reach, then lay himself down to sleep.
"Look at his belly," the Fomorians cried, pointing at the sleeping Dagda, his gut rising like a mountain from where he lay. "He'll not be getting up from here."
And what do you think happened then? The Dagda awoke, grunted, hefted his huge bulk up and staggered away, his club dragging behind him, cutting a furrow the width of a boundary ditch. Even then he was not spent, for later that day, he lay with the Morrigan, the Crow, goddess of war. But anyway, that's another story.
I was there then, you know. Yes, I was. Who's to say that I wasn't?
Chapter One. I AM THE SEA-SWELL
ONE of the very few advantages of being dead, I've discovered, is that you can say whatever you like. Freed from the burden of exquisite politeness, you can utter whatever painful truths, cruel jibes, gut-wrenching confessions, and acid parting shots you wish, without having to endure the drama, endless protestations, embarrassment, or threats of retaliation such candor inevitably elicits.
Eamon Byrne thought as much, I suppose, but in saying what he did, he unleashed a howl of rage and bitterness so intense, perhaps not even he could have imagined its consequences. Certainly, when I heard him speak from the grave, I thought him merely churlish and insensitive, although not altogether mistaken. But that was before I had more than a passing acquaintance with the people of whom he spoke.
"I suppose you're wondering why I called you all together," Byrne began, a smirk on his face that turned into a grimace, then a gasp.
"Eamon always did like to be the center of attention," Alex Stewart whispered to me, leaning close to my ear so the others wouldn't hear.
"Eamon also had a way with a cliche, apparently,' I whispered back.
"Particularly," the man went on after a few seconds of labored breathing, "particularly," he repeated, "seeing as how I'm dead."
"Bit of a comedian too," Alex added with a sigh.
The face on the videotape leaned toward the camera, blurred, then lurched back into focus, the camera adjusted by some invisible hand. It was not an easy face to look at, sunken cheeks and eyes, an oxygen tube extending from one nostril, gray hair plastered to his head, but I could see the shadow of a proud and once handsome man.
"I'm amazed he'd allow himself to be videotaped in this state," I whispered to Alex.
Alex inclined his head toward me again. "I never had the impression he much cared what people thought, Lara. Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact." As he spoke, a foot-long tortoise inched its way across the oriental carpet.
"Shhhh," the pinched-faced woman in the row in front of us hissed over her shoulder. Two other like-faced women in the same row turned at the first's admonition to glare at us, mother and daughters, like three peas in a pod, the family resemblance that pronounced. I resisted the temptation of saying something unkind, and contented myself with glaring back and thinking uncharitable thoughts.
It was an unpleasant little group, I thought: the three women, and seated between them, like spacers of some kind, two men. The men had taken their jackets off, the oppressive heat and staleness of the room vanquishing any attempt at acknowledging the solemnity of the occasion. They slouched in their chairs, two white shirts and pale necks topped by fair hair, as much as I could see of them. For a moment they made me think of the cotton batting they stick between your toes when you're having a pedicure to keep you from messing up the wet nail polish. It was a surprisingly apt metaphor I was later to learn, not just because of what it said about the two men, but because of the way they divided the women of the family in life.