‘I suppose one would call him so. We were told stories of old Gadra when I was a boy. He has always been old to us. We were warned to stay away from him because the priest said he performed human sacrifices to ancient gods in these fierce oak forests.’
Fidelma sniffed deprecatingly.
‘There is always talk of human sacrifice when one does not understand the truth of a religious cult. The founder of my own house at Kildare, Brigid of blessed name, was a Druidess and the daughter of a Druid. There is nothing to fear from such as they. But tell me more about this Gadra. Is it known when he came to this place?’
‘Not in Eber’s time, that’s for sure,’ replied Dubán. ‘I think he came when Eber’s father was a little boy. He had the gift of healing and of wisdom.’
‘How could he have a gift of healing unless he believed in theTrue Faith?’ interrupted Eadulf a little indignantly.
Fidelma grinned at her companion.
‘One cannot argue with such logic,’ she replied mischievously.
Eadulf was not sure whether she was making fun of him.
‘Does he perform his healing in the name of the Christ Saviour?’ he demanded.
‘He simply heals those who go to him with affliction. He does so in the name of no one,’ replied Dubán. ‘Of course, Father Gormán used to denounce any he found who had sought a cure from Gadra. But I have not heard of Gadra for some years now. I say he is dead and we waste time on this journey.’
Eadulf was about to speak further when Dubán suddenly raised a hand to bid them draw rein on their horses.
‘I see a clearing ahead. I think we are close to the glade where he once dwelt.’
Fidelma peered forward eagerly.
‘Is this the spot where Gadra lives?’
Dubán nodded.
‘Stay here. Let me go first,’ he said softly, ‘for if he still lives, I think he will recognise me.’
He manoeuvred his horse in front of her and began to walk it carefully along the track towards the bright area of the clearing before them.
Fidelma saw that the clearing was only a small glade and she could hear, in the silence of the forest, the gushing and gurgling of a stream. Fidelma thought she saw a wooden building ahead through the trees.
Suddenly Dubán’s voice echoed loudly back.
‘Gadra! Gadra! It is Dubán of Araglin! Do you still live?’
There was silence for a while.
Then they heard a voice reply. It was a voice of age, yet deep and resonant.
‘If I do not, Dubán of Araglin, then it is surely a wraith who answers you.’
Dubán’s voice came again, lower in tone. Neither Fidelma nor Eadulf could hear what was being said. After a while, Dubán’s voice called loudly upon them to come forward into the glade.
On a level piece of land by a surging, tumbling mountain stream, stood a wooden cabin, well built and thatched. The glade showed signs of cultivation. A small garden of herbs and vegetables and some fruit trees surrounded it. Dubán had dismounted and tied his horse to a nearby bush and was standing a few feet from another figure. He was a short, elderly figure, with a shock of white hair, leaning on a staff of polished blackthorn. He looked, at first sight, frail. But Fidelma realised that the frailness was misleading. He was thin but sinewy. He wore loose robes dyed with saffron and round his neck was a golden circlet bearing ancient symbols the like of which Fidelma had not seen before.
Fidelma swung from her horse and handed the reins to Eadulf and moved forward towards the elderly figure. She halted a few paces away.
‘Blessings on you, Gadra,’ she greeted, inclining her head slightly.
She found herself looking into a kindly face, whose nut-brown, weather-tanned skin was highlighted by piercing bright eyes. They seemed grey rather than blue. The cascade of snow-white hair surrounded the face. It was shoulder length from the head and merged indivisibly into a silken-like beard that was cut short so that the circlet showed where it hung on his chest. That Gadra was old was not in dispute but it was impossible to estimate his age for his face was still youthful and unlined and only the rounded shoulders gave an impression of the passing years.
She found the face regarding her with good humour.
‘You are well come to this place, Fidelma, daughter of Failbe Flann.’
Fidelma started a little.
‘How did …?’
She saw the man laughing and she caught herself and smiled sheepishly and shrugged.
‘What else did Dubán tell you?’
Gadra nodded approvingly.
‘You have a quick mind, Fidelma.’ He glanced across her shoulder to where Eadulf was tying the horses to a bush. ‘Come forward, Brother Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham. Come forward and let us sit ourselves down and speak for a while.’
Fidelma, as she used to do when she was a young pupil of Morann of Tara, sank cross-legged on the grass before the old man, like a novice before a master. Gadra smiled approvingly. Brother Eadulf, more awkwardly, preferred to prop himself up on a nearby rounded boulder, using it as an uncomfortable seat. Dubán similarly seemed to think his dignity would be affronted to be seated on the ground and found another boulder. Gadra, as if he were still youthful, squatted down on the grass before Fidelma.
‘Before we talk,’ Gadra began, at the same time raising his hand to finger the golden crescent which hung around his neck, ‘does this bother you?’
Fidelma glanced at the emblem.
‘Why should it bother me?’
Gadra pointed to her own crucifix.
‘Is it not at odds with that?’
Fidelma slowly shook her head.
‘Your crescent stood as a symbol of light and knowledge among our people for countless centuries. I have no need to fear it. Why should it offend me?’
‘Yet it offends many who embrace the New Faith.’
Eadulf stirred uncomfortably for he found it distracting to be in the company of someone wearing a symbol of a pagan faith.
‘You have not embraced the Faith of Christ?’ he demanded.
Gadra looked up at him and smiled softly.
‘I am an old man, brother Saxon. In me, the ancient gods and goddesses of our people take a long time a dying. Yet I do not grudge you your new ways, your new thoughts and your new hopes. It is in the nature of things that the old should die and the newshould live. It is also the danger of this world as well as its blessing. That is the nature of the children of Danu, the Mother Goddess. Life dies and is reborn. Life is reborn and it dies. It is a never ending cycle. The old gods die, the new are born. The time will come when they will also die and new gods will arise.’
Fidelma heard Eadulf’s splutter of indignation but she said hastily: ‘We are all the prisoners of our times.’
Gadra chuckled approvingly.
‘You have perception, Fidelma. Or is it merely sensitivity? Can you tell me what is swifter than the wind?’
‘Thought,’ replied Fidelma at once, knowing immediately the game that the old man was playing.
‘Ah. Then what is whiter than snow?’
‘Truth,’ she replied sharply.
‘What, then, is sharper than a sword?’
‘Understanding.’
‘Then we understand one another well, Fidelma. I am the repository of the old and much will be lost when I am gone. But that is the way of it. And that is why I have come to the forests to die.’
Fidelma was silent a moment.
‘Has Dubán told you the news from Araglin?’
‘He has told me who you are. That and no more. That you have come to seek something from me is obvious.’
‘Eber, the chieftain of Araglin, has been murdered.’
Gadra did not appear surprised.
‘In my time we would celebrate the death of a soul in this world for it meant that a soul was reborn in the Otherworld. It was the custom to mourn birth, for it meant a soul had died in the Otherworld.’