In the Kingdom of All Tomorrows--Eirlandia, Book Three Read online

  ‘You have come to a place with many names,’ replied the comely maid. ‘Which one would you hear?’

  ‘We would hear the name most pleasing to our ears,’ answered Gofannon happily.

  ‘Since that is your desire, know this,’ said the maid. ‘You have come to Tir Tairngire, the Land of Promise. Where is your home?’

  ‘Great lady,’ called Nuada, ‘we come from Eirlandia far away in the east. Early this morning we put out our nets for fishing and caught a creature that brought us here.’

  ‘We are hungry and thirsty and tired,’ added Gofannon, ‘and we would be glad of your company and, perhaps, a drink and a crust of bread.’

  At this the lady smiled and her silent companions murmured and looked to one another. ‘You are a bold asker,’ she replied, ‘and it is well within my power to grant your wishes. However, you should know that to obtain even the smallest crumb from beneath our table and the tiniest sip of water from our stream would determine your destiny for ever and always.’

  ‘That seems to me a steep price to pay for a mere crumb and a drop of water,’ replied Gofannon. ‘Why is that, I wonder?’

  ‘Well you should wonder,’ replied the lady. ‘The reason is this: Anyone who sets foot on this island and eats from our table can nevermore return to the world left behind. Think you now, you would never see home and kinsmen again, never hear the gentle rain patter on the green woodland paths, or smell the sweet-smelling fields of broom and heather in the land dearest to your heart; never again would you see the sun rise in your beloved’s eyes.’ She leveled her gaze upon the pair of far-venturing youths. ‘You are young men yet, so I ask you to long and thoughtfully consider: Are you prepared to abandon everything you have known and loved?’

  Gofannon gulped and Nuada swallowed hard. They put their heads together and held a brief discussion. Before long, Nuada answered, ‘We thank you for your forthright advice, great lady. We find that we cannot so easily forsake our kinsmen and home for the cost of a drink and bite to eat. We will not come onto your island.’

  ‘Nor yet can we see how we are to return the way we came,’ added Gofannon quickly. ‘Unless the creature that brought us here can be induced to take us back, we cannot say how we will fare for the way is not known to us and we cannot long live in this bay, pleasant as it might be.’

  At this, a tall and majestic man stepped forth. Dressed all in sapphire blue with a gleaming white cloak with chains of gold around his regal neck, he raised his hands. ‘I am Manadan, and the creatures of the sea hear my voice and they obey. It is the work of a moment to send you home again if that is your true desire.’

  The two voyagers assured the Lord of the Sea that retuning home was indeed their sole desire. ‘Then go,’ said Manadan, ‘and take with you the knowledge of this place and remember that it is here waiting for those who tire of life in the wider world and would live in peace and harmony and plenty forever.’

  The Sea King was still speaking as the boat began to move once more. Looking over the side into the shallow water, Gofannon and Nuada saw in their net the dark, fluid shape of an enormous rainbow-sided salmon. The King of Fish pulled them from the pleasant bay and out to sea once more. The two stood at the stern and watched as the Fortunate Isle dwindled and faded as a dazzling silver sea mist descended and stole it from view.

  It was night and the stars were alight when the two ill-prepared seamen returned to the friendly shore of Eirlandia and to the homely cove of their departure. That night they told all their clan and kin about their seagoing adventure and their discovery of the Land of Promise—that realm beyond the farthest edge of the western sea. Everyone who heard the tale was amazed and filled with wonder at the telling.

  This happened in the time of Lord Céthur the Undefeated, who after the Battle of Mag Teamhair became the first High King of Eirlandia and Albion together, for they were still one land in those days. In time, Nuada became king after Céthur and received the silver hand from the physician Dian Cécht and Credne the silversmith when Nuada lost his hand in battle. Gofannon became lord and king in Albion about this time and ruled so well and wisely that he became known as one of the three Wise Kings of Albion. It is said that as he approached the end of his life, Gofannon took ship and sailed back to the Land of Promise. This may be true, for he was never seen again by anyone, nor is his grave known to this day.

  This is the tale our bards call ‘The Wonder Voyage of Gofannon and Nuada.’ I relate it here because my uncle Morfran, who is now King of the Tylwyth Teg, is of the opinion that it is time for our people to make that journey to the Land of Promise, nevermore to look upon the world of mortal men and their abhorrent works. He is not alone in this view, and though there are many who do not agree, sentiment in support of the idea is growing.

  But it is also said, by wise druids and sages, that there will come a day when the Land of Promise will extend its reign into this worlds-realm so that all mortal flesh shall know the manifold blessings of the Kingdom of All Tomorrows.

  5

  Corgan’s feast ended much as it began: in an atmosphere of somewhat strained cordiality. The Eridani king made a studied effort to play the genial host, but as the night wore on the temper of the gathering drifted steadily toward rancour and spite. Many of the worthies in attendance exhibited a crabbed suspicion if not outright resentment of Conor. It did not help that Liam and Vainche were seen to be deep in one another’s embrace—drinking and laughing together like kinsmen at a wedding—an outright snub that was not missed by anyone in attendance.

  Conor did what he could to show himself unaffected by the slight, maintaining a good humour throughout the meal. By evening’s end, however, he could no longer sustain the pretence; he rose from the board dispirited and dejected—a mood that only deepened the next morning as the lords filed into the hall.

  All the benches and boards for the feast the night before had been cleared, and a large ring of stools and chairs had been set up around the central hearth, where a small fire flickered—one seat each for a lord and his chief advisor. Any other advisors or counsellors were free to stand behind their lords to lend their support, or to come and go from the hall as they pleased.

  Also present were lords Sechtán and Garbha, who, late arriving, had missed the feast. ‘The Robogdi and Ulaid are here,’ whispered Donal as the two entered with their men. ‘We can count them friends, I think.’

  ‘At least, they are not already against us. That may be our best hope in this place,’ replied Conor, eyeing Vainche and Corgan, sitting opposite them on the other side of the hearth. Liam, not willing to waste a chance to openly offend his brother, took a seat at Vainche’s right hand so there would be no doubt where his sympathies lay. Conor smiled and nodded to the lords as they took their places around the ring, but no one returned his smile.

  When all were seated and settled, King Corgan began with a formal welcome and thanked those gathered in the circle for their participation; he then proceeded to recite the long-established rule of the airechtas. ‘Be it known to everyone here that certain grievances have been aired and accusations made that require resolution. As summoner of this council of judgement, I will present the complaints and allegations so that all may hear. I will then invite any who care to speak to stand and make themselves known.’

  He passed his gaze around the ring to make sure that everyone understood, then gestured to Conor. ‘The subject of the allegations will be called to answer the complaints in any way he deems appropriate.’ Conor nodded to show he understood.

  ‘Finally, after hearing both sides, we will weigh the merits and render judgement. If fault is found, we will determine the appropriate remedies. Therefore, I ask each of you within this circle to remember that this airechtas has been called with the aim of healing all injuries, paying all penalties, making restitution, or levying compensation as may be decreed by the judgement of the airechtas. All members gathered beneath this roof will agree to abide by the decision of this council.’


  Corgan paused to let his speech settle in the minds of the noblemen, then asked, ‘Are there any questions before we begin?’

  Conor rose to his feet. ‘I have a question.’

  Halfway to his seat, Corgan turned back, his eyebrows raised. ‘What is it?’

  ‘What if there is no fault to be found?’ Conor spread his empty hands in a gesture of open honesty.

  The Eridani king hesitated.

  Conor jumped on the momentary lapse. ‘If fault is found, you said, the appropriate penalties and restitutions will be assessed. But, if no fault is found, what shall be the compensation to the accused? For to be wrongly accused is injurious to a lord’s good name and standing among the tribes, as everyone knows. And any who make allegations later determined to be false should bear the penalty for that loss.’ He smiled and looked at the grim faces around him. ‘Those with older and wiser heads than mine will no doubt recall that this, too, is ordained by the airechtas—as is only right and just.’

  The silence that met this declaration resounded like dull thunder through the hall. At last, a lone voice spoke up. ‘That is so. I do recall this provision.’ Lord Garbha, one of the late-arriving kings, stood up. ‘Lord Conor is right to remind that a man wrongly accused suffers a loss to his reputation and that cost must be compensated.’ He sat down again, adding, ‘A timely word of warning for us all.’

  ‘That was well said,’ Fergal whispered, leaning over the back of Conor’s chair. ‘But I wouldn’t be counting my horses just yet.’

  Corgan resumed in a slightly strained tone. ‘We are grateful to Lord Conor for his reminder. The airechtas will now hear the allegations that have brought us here.’ He turned and, in an appeal to the gathering, asked, ‘Who will be first to speak?’

  Awkward in his eagerness, Torna, the angry young Volunti lord, leapt to his feet. ‘It is no secret to anyone here that Conor mac Ardan has claimed Tara and its three surrounding plains for his own—lands that have been sacred to all Eirlandia from long ages passed. I demand to know by what authority he has done this.’ Although Torna appeared inclined to say more, he sat down to allow others to speak.

  When no one did, Corgan, from his place at the hearth, announced, ‘This, then, is the heart of the matter.’ He turned to Conor. ‘You stand accused of seizing sacred lands belonging to the tribes and people of Eirlandia and taking them for your own—a serious charge. What have you to say to this?’

  Conor thought for a moment, then rose to his feet. ‘Is it true that I have taken Tara and her surrounding plains for my own?’ Conor said, looking directly at Torna. ‘It is not. I have done no such thing.’

  ‘Liar!’ shouted Torna, leaping from his chair as if it had suddenly become too hot to withstand. ‘He lies. He is building a fortress on Tara Hill! We have seen it!’ He thrust a finger at Conor and shouted, ‘Liar!’

  Lord Aengus, coming to the aid of his friend, jumped to his feet and appealed to his fellow lords. ‘I tell this assembly that I have seen the settlement he is raising! With my own eyes, I have seen it!’

  The enraged outburst unleashed a commotion—some voices adding their comments to the accusation, others calling for quiet—and Corgan seemed in no hurry to quell the commotion. When he finally contained the uproar, he turned once more to Conor.

  ‘Do you deny building a fortress at Tara?’ asked the king.

  ‘That was not the question before the council,’ Conor replied evenly. ‘Our young friend accused me of taking Tara Hill and the plains for my own. And I tell you and everyone here that I have not done so.’

  This denial only served to stoke the fire of outrage higher. And though Corgan was not inclined to silence the protests, Sechtán, the Robogdi lord whom Conor had saved the night of the massacre, stood up and said, ‘My lords, we seem to be wading into a bog. I say we allow Lord Conor to explain what he means lest we founder completely.’

  Conor nodded and thanked Sechtán for his intervention, then said, ‘I deny the allegation that I have taken Tara for my own for the simple fact that I am establishing a place of refuge for all the tribes and clans and people of Eirlandia. I am raising a settlement to be a haven and refuge for all the displaced of this island—all those made homeless by the raiding ravages of the Scálda.’ He looked around at the faces of the lords, some angry, some thoughtful, some confused. ‘Many of you will know the people I am talking about because many of you will have seen these exiles as they pass through your lands. Some of you will have even turned away these people yourselves, claiming you have no room for them.’ Conor’s voice took on a defiant tone. ‘But, I do not turn anyone away. Tara is for all Eirlandia, and so we have families and clans from many tribes—just as I have warriors from many tribes serving in my warband. And to those who say I am building a fortress, Tara does not even have walls. I ask you, what kind of fortress would it be that doesn’t have walls?’

  A sudden chatter coursed through the gathering as various lords discussed what they had heard. Ignoring the sour looks and whispers of the lords and their advisors, Conor turned to his ardféne. Calbhan passed him a water skin, saying, ‘Am I the only one thinking that fella Torna must have a wasp up his nose?’

  The others laughed at this, and the tension they all felt since entering the hall eased somewhat. ‘He’s like a little yappy pup that cannot wait to jump up and bite you.’

  ‘I cannot think why,’ said Conor. ‘I’ve hardly offered the man two words together since I met him.”

  ‘Clearly, something’s bothering him,’ said Galart. ‘It might be well to find out what it is before his barking rouses the bigger dogs.’

  ‘The big dogs are awake and growling already,’ observed Médon, taking the water skin. ‘You could see them talking behind their hands and giving one another nods and winks. They are only waiting for a chance to take over the fight.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Fergal, ‘they’ll be letting Torna and that Aengus fella worry at it for a little and then they’ll rush in for the kill.’ Nodding toward a knot of noblemen huddled tight around Corgan, he added, ‘Look at them over there—plotting their next attack now.’

  ‘Torna and Aengus are spoiling for a fight, true enough,’ said Conor, eyeing the ranks of lords. ‘Sechtán and Garbha may listen to reason. I’m not sure about the others.’

  ‘Do not doubt for a moment that Vainche and Liam are honing their blades,’ said Fergal. ‘They won’t be happy until they’ve sliced you to bloody threads.’

  ‘It may not come to that,’ suggested Conor hopefully.

  * * *

  ‘Ach, well—then you’ll have to dance lively to stay out of their reach.’

  Corgan, having allowed the chatter to continue, cleared his throat and took control of the proceedings once more. ‘I know I need not remind anyone here that Tara Hill and its three fair plains comprise the most sacred and revered lands of the Dé Danann. We have heard Conor claim that he is establishing a refuge at Tara for the good of everyone.’ Pulling on his chin as if deep in thought, he paced a few steps before his chair, then turned back to address the noblemen. ‘I am of the opinion that whether this claim is true must depend on the character of the man making the claim. In other words, my friends, is Conor mac Ardan to be trusted when he says he acts for the good of all Eirlandia?’ He glanced around the ring of seated noblemen. ‘Who would speak to his claim?’

  Lord Vainche rose to his feet and, as if the terrible weight of his testimony bore down upon his shoulders, he moved with slow, measured steps to take his place at the hearth in the centre of the ring of chairs. His smooth cheeks newly shaven, his hair neatly braided, he had arrayed himself in a costly cloak and now wore a golden torc around his neck—as if to remind everyone of the wealth and power of the Brigantes tribe he now ruled as king. ‘I would advise this council not to be seduced by a few slippery words. You see, I know Conor mac Ardan. It is a fact that he once served in my warband.’ Vainche turned and regarded Conor, then shook his head with a weary, lamentable air, adding, ‘Inde
ed, it pierces me to the very pith of my being to say that as a warrior he served so poorly that I had no choice but to dismiss him for his incompetence and utter lack of honesty. And this, after he had been shown great kindness by the queen, seemed to me nothing less than a betrayal of her trust.’

  This revelation caused an undercurrent of comment to swell through the hall. Corgan held up his hand for quiet. ‘You say he had been taken in and given a place,’ he said. ‘For those who don’t know the circumstances, can you tell us how this came to be?’

  Vainche nodded. ‘If you think it necessary to rehearse such a painful memory…’

  ‘It would help in our deliberations,’ replied Corgan, passing his gaze around the assembled lords.

  ‘It is well known that Conor was cast out of his tribe for stealing valuables from unattended tents during the last Oenach of Brecan mac Lergath. I believe Lord Liam of the Darini—his own brother—can swear to the truth of this sad event. As a wandering exile, Conor came to Aintrén and, against sound counsel, Brecan took pity on him and gave him a place in the Brigantes warband.

  ‘After Brecan was murdered…’ Here Vainche paused and cast a glance to Corgan, who nodded as if encouraging him to continue. ‘As many of you will recall, King Brecan was cruelly killed by a Scálda raiding party while on a circuit of his lands. It is also known that Conor was part of the bodyguard that accompanied the king, and that his role in Brecan’s murder has never been satisfactorily explained. Yet another question that, in my mind at least, demands an answer.’

  If Vainche’s first pronouncement caused a flutter of comment, this one stirred a commotion. Fergal slammed his fist into his thigh and loosed a curse between clenched teeth. One voice cried out for justice for Brecan’s murder.

  Conor felt the fire flow up through his gut to his ruby birthmark, and it began to burn like an ember plucked from the fire and applied to his face. Shaken by the cruel dishonesty of this spurious account, he nevertheless held his tongue and gazed in stony silence at Vainche and at the suddenly angry faces ringed around him. As the commotion subsided, another lord rose to his feet—one that Conor did not recognise.