Bard: The spellbinding odyssey of the Irish by Morgan Llywelyn

Bard: The spellbinding odyssey of the Irish by Morgan Llywelyn

Author:Morgan Llywelyn
Format: epub


20

Amergin’s restless feet would not submit to standing in a chariot. They insisted on movement, and so, with Clarsah on his shoulder, he paced the clanholding, trying to work out the tangle inside himself and reestablish harmony with his harp.

But still he could not force the ending of the epic to take shape. The pattern of his people seemed open-ended, an unresolved design.

The day was cold and raw and he had wandered some distance from the stronghold, paying little attention to the direction his feet chose. Movement caught his attention and he glanced southward in time to see a herd of cattle circling restlessly, a man running through its center – and, at the herd’s edge, a boy being struck by a charging bull.

Amergin began to run, too.

He was too far away to do anything, but he heard Éber’s howl of anger at seeing his best bull mortally wounded, and the bard watched in horror as the cattle took fright and bolted.

The fallen boy must be directly in their path, yet Ír seemed oblivious to anything but his otherworldly jubilation.

Amergin was fast, but he knew the voice of Clarsah could travel faster. He unslung her from his shoulder and laid his palm against the strings, demanding her magic more urgently than ever before.

She sang out in reply.

The great harps knew three kinds of enchantments. There was merry music that no feet could resist, filling hearts with laughter. There was mourning music, summoning all the sadness of the living into their eyes to be cried away at once, so they could turn away from the tombs and get on with their lives. And there was sleeping music, the soporific capable of making armies yawn, and stretch, and sink to the earth, their swords forgotten at their sides.

Amergin held Clarsah and played the sleeping music.

The sound seemed lost in the rumble of the running herd, but the ears of animals are keener than those of humans, and their spirits are more sensitive to vibrations. Even in their fright the cattle heard the harp and felt invisible hands laid on their heads, soothing them. They circled, slowed, and then walked, milling about rather than stampeding headlong.

Éber reached Moomneh before Amergin could. He hardly knew where to grieve – over his fallen nephew or his dead bull. He solved the problem by swearing at Ír.

“You weakskulled mooncalf!” he cried, shaking his fist at his brother. “You didn’t even take time to propitiate his spirit first, you just struck him down and set it loose to wander. Perhaps to come back and demand justice from me! You had no right, it wasn’t necessary, I could have handled him myself if you weren’t so…”

Ír was aware that Éber was mouthing words at him but he did not want to listen. Words would bring him back to earth and lock him in a place and a time, and he wanted to prolong the feeling of floating free, untouchable.

The bard came trotting up, panting. “He doesn’t hear you,” he said to Éber.



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