Legend of the Celtic Stone by Michael Phillips

Author:Michael Phillips [Phillips, Michael]
Language: eng, fra
Format: epub
Tags: FIC042030, FIC042000, FIC026000
ISBN: 9781441229595
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2016-01-28T16:00:00+00:00

Eighteen

The aches in the arms and legs of the men of Laoigh had not entirely disappeared, though Fidach had used the intervening days to make further progress on his stone etchings, when three men from the north appeared.

They came from the plains across Aethbran nan Bronait. If further identification than the direction of their march were necessary, the deep-blue tattooed reindeer on the open chest of the one and the wolves on the other two easily marked the visitors as coming from one of the friendly tribes in Kildonanoid. On their shoulders, two of the men carried the ends of a stout pole, from which dangled a dead boar.

The children playing outside the encampment saw them first. With shrill shouts, they carried the news swiftly up to the hill-fort.

Cruithne’s mother was first to leave the gate. She descended a third of the way down the hill, stopped as if to peer more closely toward the approaching men, then turned back to shout at several women who had gathered about the entrance to the fort.

“They are of my old people!” Eormen shouted with apparent joy, then hastened down to meet the strangers.

When she returned with them several minutes later, a crowd had gathered in welcome, including Cruithne, Pendalpin, and several men of the community.

“These are cousins of my grandmother’s folk!” said Eormen in high spirits.

“The news of the loss of your chief traveled quickly to us,” said one of the men with grave countenance. “We have come in peace, bearing a gift in memory of the old warrior, and to pay our respects to his wife and clan.”

“Wives,” corrected Cruithne.

His mother shot a glance in his direction, but did not allow her face to lose its composure.

“You are most welcome in Laoigh,” he added. “We mourn yet for my father. But we do not despair in our grief, but remember him as he was. We mourn by erecting a monument to his memory, with which perhaps you may help.”

“Gladly,” replied one of the visitors.

“We will show you the monument tomorrow. Today, however, you must rest from your journey. Come.”

Cruithne led them inside the encampment. “Surrender your burden to our women,” he said. “They will take it to Uurcell to begin preparations to roast it.”

“No, please,” replied the man hastily. “We come to honor Taran and his people. We will roast the pig ourselves. If you will simply show us where we might be comfortable, we will rest for a brief while and then begin our work for the feast.”

“You are most generous.”

“It is only unfortunate your father could not be among us.”

“He enjoyed nothing like fresh boar,” replied Eormen kindly. “All of Caldohnuill feels his loss sorely.”

“We grieve with you, my cousin.”

“I must tell my brother of your arrival,” said Cruithne. He turned to go.

“Your brother?” inquired one of the strangers with raised eyebrow.

“Yes,” replied Cruithne. “My older brother and Taran’s eldest son, who will soon be chief in Laoigh.”

“We must meet him.”

“You will. I shall bring him.”

“I will see to their comfort, my son,” said Eormen.

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