It is a beautiful morning. Mid-afternoon, the sun has long since warmed the fields and meadows, and the earth has responded by pouring forth her own energies. Everywhere there are flowers budding, leaves thrusting, and birds building. Even Tir na Noath, which surrounds all of Dun Ferric, is changed, as saplings emerge from the forest floor into the light. In the distant sky, the young boy Ystryd see an eagle plummet to earth in the hunt; he does not see it rise.
Away in the orchards, on the other side of the dun, the women are pruning. No fruit yet hangs on the branches, but the trees afford some protection from the sun.
As the boy turns away from that view, he sees movement in the forest. From under its eaves, along the dirt trail, a procession comes. At its head is a man, mounted on a brown horse. He is sitting very straight, and as he wends his way up the winding track Ystryd sees his black braided hair hanging down his back. Behind him, just leaving the shadow of the trees, two rows of men drag forward a wooden cart, its cargo covered by a large white blanket. Beyond them more shapes can be seen passing through the darkness of the forest.
Ystryd tosses aside the stick he's been using for digging mushrooms and runs down into the center of the village calling for his grandmother.
"Mamgu! Mamgu! Men are coming! Men are coming!"
Ystryd is excited by the new arrivals and wants to be first to bring the news, if only to his family. He then grows a little nervous, wondering for a moment if these are men from this village and moving on to speculate on the contents of the wagon.
Ystryd looks around for another stick.
It is some minutes before Ystryd's mamgu, an old woman, comes out of the house. By this time several other villagers have been attracted by the boy's cries, and are gathering around him. All, however, step aside as Ystryd's mamgu Doeth comes before him.
"What is this, child? You have seen the men returning? You must be ready to greet them properly, for they have been away a long time."
The others begin to rush into their homes, but Doeth grips Ystryd by the shoulder.
"First, go and tell your mother to come here at once. Be brave." She spins the lad on his heels and pushes him away in the direction of the orchards.
Ystryd looks up at his grandmother, unnerved for a moment by the increasing seriousness brought on by the new arrivals. He then turns and scampers away across the village, seeking his mother.
After a short distance he slows to cast a look back in the direction of the returning men and to gaze slowly around the now bustling village. He feels a bit dizzy or as if bees are buzzing inside his head. He feels coming change, and he is a little afraid.
From his new vantage point, Ystryd can see little more of the men; all that registers is that they are many. Suddenly a flash of light glares in his eyes, the sun reflected off some piece of metal on the horse or rider.
"Mother! Mother!" And he is soon running again.
At the edge of the orchard, he stops, for already his mother has noticed her son, and is rapidly walking towards him. The other women also cease their work, and begin to gather around. For a moment the boy does not recognise them, seeing only tall figures swaying the wind, without faces. Bywyd approaches, taking his right hand in her left, and laying her left on Ystryd's forehead.
High in the sky, a cloud passes before the sun.
"What is wrong, little one? Why do you interrupt us?"
"Hurry! Men are coming! It might be father!" Ystryd tugs eagerly on the restraining hand and turns again to gaze in the direction of the approaching riders.
Ystryd can imagine the news they might bring, the possibility of gifts or mysteries from faraway lands. He wonders what his father will be like. Is he among the riders?
Bywyd continues to hold Ystryd's hand firmly, keeping him close to her, but begins to walk with him in the direction of the houses.
Ystryd tugs at his mother's hand eagerly and is a bit frustrated by her slow pace, but as he becomes aware of the growing seriousness (and strangeness) of the village, he clings to her more tightly.
Suddenly a loud wail upsets the heavy stillness of the afternoon - one of the women, following behind, has thrown back her head, and is giving forth a long, keening cry. Bywyd continues walking, a slow pace, gripping Ystryd even tighter, almost crushing his hand.
"Ow, mother, it hurts," murmers a distracted Ystryd to his near oblivious mother.
And as the two groups, the women and the men, come to meet each other, one by one more and more women begin wailing. The noise is deafening, and it seems to take forever to reach the centre of the dun.
Ystryd is trying to hold back tears of fear and half-realized sadness. He too can feel the keening cry growing inside him, but he knows he must not cry out, for he is a boy and still not sure of himself.
The procession of men comes to a halt; the column is long, and there are many wagons. The man at their head is tall, his face and eyes hard. When the rider speaks, it is as if there is no other sound, and nothing seems to move.
"It is done."
His voice is flat, and the words are like the shutting of a door.
"We return your dead, they fought well. The bravest and their families come with us. We journey to Tollean don Beanas in the morning."
With this, he slides down off the horse. The silence is gone, and once more the wailings of the women resound in Ystryd's ears. All around is activity and confusion. In the centre of everyone's movement, Bywyd remains where she was.
Ystryd breaks the surrounding silence, crying, "Mother! Mother! Where is father? Where is father?" as he looks at her imploringly.
Bywyd is silent for a time, staring about her at the crowds of men. Then she looks down on her son, and it is with great love. Sweeping him up in her arms, she holds him close.
"My son, oh my child!" Her voice, a clenched whisper, sounds loud. Again, it is as if there is no other sound in the world. The hug seems to last forever.
Abruptly it ends. Old hands pull the child away, and Doeth's voice cuts in harshly.
"Let the boy go, Bywyd!"
Ystryd's mother is reluctant to release her grip on the boy, but Doeth's resolve is firm.
"Attend the duties, witch. You cannot halt change."
Bywyd begins to shake, trembling all over, then begins to keen violently, staggering away into the crowd and toward the carts. Doeth looks on impassively, then turns her attention to Ystryd.
"You, young man, do not belong with me. Seek out the men if you wish, or comfort your siblings. There will be time enough later."
With that, she begins to walk slowly away after her daughter-in-law.
Ystryd turns after his mother, shouting, "Mother!" then almost swallows the words due to the fearful tension about him. He feels tears welling up, and his whole, small body trembles silently.
He turns slowly to look up at the men newly arrived in the village, all strangers to him, the cause of unknowable change.
He wonders momentarily about his little sisters. Do they know? What is happening?
As Ystryd stands in confusion, the activity continues around him unabated. The men, having left the carts in the open, are gathering together, approaching the large meeting-hall of the dun. A few stop briefly to greet the friends and family they have at last returned to, but most are strangers to this village.
The women, too, form a group, clustering about the carts; their cries continue. Slowly they draw back the woolen coverings, but the massed bodies of the women mostly obscure what lies beneath them.
Ystryd stands for more than a minute in silent contemplation of the scene before him, his mind adrift with confused thoughts, and his blank face belying the turmoil beneath.
He then firmly purses his lips and walks with what he hopes is a mature stride over to the gathered men.
"I am Ystryd. Where is my father?"
Several men turn around, looking down at Ystryd. A couple look puzzled, but the third seems to recognise the boy, and smiles grimly.
"So you're a boy now. Here, you know me, young Ystryd. I'm Carraign, who was the potter here years ago. But then I knew you only as Chwerthin, so we've both changed. Now, you come sit with us."
He glances up and looks across to where the women are working. "Your father will be feasting later, though not in this hall. He was a good man, but it's not the time for stories now. Nothing until we're all back home."
Ystryd sits down beside Carraign. He is quiet for some time, knowing that something is wrong. He hopes the men will speak and help him to understand what has happened.
Finally he looks up at Carraign and asks, "But where is my father?"
The man takes a while to answer. When he does, he puts a large heavy hand on Ystryd's shoulder, his thumb behind the boy's neck.
"It's not my place to do this, but with everyone busy, it falls to me. I knew your father well, boy, and he talked about you when we were at the war. I knew you too, and his words were no boast. He knew you'd have to make your own way in this world, without all the guidance you might want."
He pauses, and looks again to where the women are working. Then he lowers his head down to regard Ystryd once more.
"Your father, Dewr son of Aelwydd and Chwerthin, is dead. He fought in the final battle against Annwyn, and there he fell. You shall hear his story told at Tollean don Beanas, and indeed you will tell a part of that story."
Ystryd falls silent as he tries to make sense of Carraign's words. He glances up to give Carraign a small, appreciative smile.
Carraign gives a slow smile in return, and looks at Ystryd approvingly.
Ystryd continues to sit quietly, the events of the day rolling through his mind, initial sorrow and confusion now past. He is only dimly aware of the activity around him and waits simply for events to carry him still further.
"You're a good boy, Ystryd. You've earnt your place beside us in the hall. Get up now, and we shall feast till nightfall!"
He puts out a hand and grips Ystryd on the shoulder, rising him to his feet. Already Carraign's two companions have turned and started walking towards the hall, and the warrior makes to go after them.
Ystryd rises a bit dazedly but manages to not quite cling to Carraign. He quietly follows the big men into the hall.
Ystryd knows his life has changed, that he is no longer, at least in the eyes of his family and community, the child that he was only this morning. Is he a man? He doesn't think so. That would seem to require more years and experience and something more too.
His lot seems to be cast with the newly arrived men, and he shall stay with them, especially Carraign, until his role and destiny become more clear.
Ystryd cannot remember a time when the hall was more full of people than now. Men from all over Rianne are gathered there, and not a woman present. Nonetheless the talk is subdued, and the noises of eating dull the sound of strange accents. The food is like nothing Ystryd has tasted before - dull and weighty, the food of travelling warriors. Though there is food in the village, none is touched. A poor feast indeed, in comparison to some that Ystryd remembers, but the solemnity of the occasion is obvious.
At one point in the meal, Carraign looks down at Ystryd, who is sitting beside him at a table.
"We are not yet home, boy. Tomorrow those who remain here will feast again, and it shall not be as warriors on campaign. But you will not see it, and must become accustomed to this food."
Then he returns to his eating, sharing an occasional word with the man on his other side.
Ystryd stays close to Carraign. He is quiet, and while he is somewhat distracted by his thoughts and confused emotions, he is observant during this time.
"Am I to leave the village? Will I be with Carraign? Will I see my family? What of my sisters? What of my mother?"
Carraign notices Ystryd's quiet questions, and turns once more from his meal.
"Yes, you will be leaving with us, tomorrow. Your sisters are too young to come, but Bywyd will travel too."
"Has my grandmother cast me out? How did my father die?"
Carraign laughs.
"No, Ystryd, you are not in disgrace. This is an honour for you and your family. We are going to Tollean don Beanas, where the heroes shall be buried, and their stories shall be told. There you will hear all, including how your father died."
"Will the food always taste like this?"
"This is the food of war, boy. It reminds us that we do not wish to fight, and that little good can come of it. Remember this, Ystryd, that we do what we do because it is a lesser evil."
Ystyrd nods in quiet understainding or compliance as Carraign answers his questions and follows where he leads.
The meal ends well before nightfall, but everyone continues to sit in their places, talking quietly in small groups. There is no music.
At last the doors of the hall are thrown open, and immediately the men rise to their feet. In solemn procession they start to file out of the hall, into the night. Soft singing from outside covers the small sounds of movement; the men have ceased their talk and are now deathly quiet.
Outside all is dark, save for the flicker of torchlight from many brands. Some are held high by the women, but most have been stuck firmly into the earth, marking out a passage from the hall to the meadow. Along this passage the men walk in ones and twos. Beyond the flame-track the women keep pace with the men, singing, their faces raised to the bright moon.
As the men maintain their silent march, the destination of the procession becomes clear. A large funeral pyre has been built in the centre of the meadow, and around it are massed all those of the dun, save the fighting men and Ystryd. Atop the wooden scaffold are the bodies of the dead, clothed in white.
From among the villagers, Doeth walks forward, standing between the pyre and the men, who have now gathered together. Raising her staff to the dark sky, she gives out a long cry, and turns to the pyre.
"Farewell, farewell, o warriors! Farewell, children of Tir! Under this light we who gave you life send you from life. Keep rest in Manawydd's halls. You are remembered!"
Doeth then turns to face the assembled men.
"Welcome, welcome, o warriors! Welcome, children of Tir. Do not grieve for your brothers; their labour is done. Under this light we welcome you, and give you to Kolino's guidance. We await your return."
Without another word, the old woman lowers her staff, and passes it through the flame of a burning brand. With a sudden flare of light the staff catches alight. From among the men, one steps forward, the horse-rider. Taking the burning staff from Doeth, he moves close to the pyre.
"Farewell brothers! We shall meet again, and we will be well met."
With a sudden thrust he forces the staff into the pyre. The flames flicker wildly, before the twigs and kindling take light. Soon, very soon, the whole structure is ablaze. Fire leaps up to consume both the wood and the bodies of the dead; the heat is immense, but while the women retreat, the men stand rigidly staring into the flames. The light on their faces reflects from their eyes, and there is nothing but the bright light and the absolute dark. Even Yael has shrunk in stature before the blaze, her light shimmering through the heat.
Time does not seem to pass, but suddenly the singing has begun again, and the men are moving. They spread out around the still-burning pyre, forming large circle. Then the dance begins, and it is fierce likes the flames. The men move like animals, leaping high into the air, scampering on all fours, wheeling and chasing, while all around the singing continues - and there seems to be no beat but the stamp of feet and the crackle of the fire consuming all.
Ystryd watches in silent fascination throughout the invocations and initial rites. As the dancing builds, he shudders with confusion and grief, grief for the life he has suddenly left for an unknown future. Sweat and tears begin to flow, and he finds himself propelled forward into the ring of dancing men, howling to be heard against the ultimate mysteries he now confronts.
The dancing never stops, though sometimes the pace slows into a stylised march around the burning pyre. Everyone, even the singing women, are on the point of exhaustion. Ystryd has already stopped feeling any pain or response from his body, which jerks along almost from habit. There seems to be nothing around him but an indistinct noise and blurred light. Every now and then the light fades into blackness, before returning in a sudden rush.
To Ystryd's ears, the noise fades even more, and the flickering light of the pyre starts to intensify, and at the same time grow still. Another circuit around the pyre, and the fires have resolved themselves into human shapes, bright and tall. In swift movement they suddenly leave their place, breaking through the circle of dancers. One passes before and through Ystryd, who can do nothing but continue the dance on numb feet. There is a sensation of great heat, though nothing burns, and then it has passed. The giant figure has moved away into the night, its fellows near by.
There is no light now. The noise returns in a great crescendo, only to die back and become clear once again, a single voice. The song sounds as though it should be familiar, but Ystryd cannot understand the words. Then there is light again, and an old man is standing there. He beckons to Ystryd to come to him. It is Chwerthin, Ystryd's father's father. But suddenly a look of shock comes upon his face, and he changes his gesture, pushing out his hand as if keeping something at bay. He is gone.
A young girl walks forward, out of the black. She has long hair, down to the ground, and it splays about her feet. She seems intent on reaching somewhere Ystryd cannot see; but she turns her head and gives him a brief smile. An armband of bronze is about her left wrist. The pattern is faint, mountains over water. She keeps walking, and is gone from sight.
Another old man comes, leaning on a staff. His hair, too, is long. He looks about himself, speaking all the while, though there is no sound other than singing. With a sigh, he lays the staff down upon the ground. A single nod, and he is gone. The staff remains.
From behind, a man walks into view. He leans over the staff, reaching for it. But the staff is a snake, and raises its head to strike. The woman leaps back, then moves around the staff and away.
A young man, dirty and tired. Blood covers his hands and face; his hair is hacked short. He picks up the staff, and tests its point. The spear is sharp, and blood runs down the wood. The man grasps it firmly, and trudges back the way he came.
An arrow flies towards the moon, up and up, never falling. The moon's light falls on the archer's face, a lady with hawk's eyes. She lowers her bow, and withdraws a knife. Baring her arm, she cuts the flesh three times. The ground shakes, and she collapses to the ground. Her arm is outstretched, reaching, the blood pumping out. Her eyes do not blink.
Darkness.
The singing has stopped.
Ystryd wakes up slowly. His body aches everywhere, and it hurts to move. Ystryd lies still for some minutes, his eyes closed. He listens for the familiar sounds of home and village, perhaps the whisper of a light rain against the roof. Are his sisters at play? What is being prepared for the next meal? What are his chores for this day?
A part of him recalls the events of the previous day and night with a dull pain, while for another it is vivid, powerful, and full of unrealized meaning.
Before any real thoughts come to him, his mother appears over him, carrying a bowl. From it she takes a handful of dark grey paste, which she rubs all over her son's body. She says not a word as she works. The effect of the balm, however, is almost immediate - Ystryd's limbs unstiffen, and it once more feels possible to move.
Ystryd stirs, opening his eyes.
"Mother?"
Having completed her ministrations, Bywyd gets up quickly and leaves what Ystryd now sees is his bedroom. At the entranceway, she turns and looks back at her son. Then she hurries out, without a word. Everything is quiet.
Some minutes pass, and Ystryd's eyes close. When they open again, he sees his two sisters, children both, standing at the entrance to his room. They are holding hands, and the smallest has her free hand held up to her mouth; wrapped around it Ystryd sees the familiar piece of deer skin that accompanies her wherever she goes. Both stare with their large eyes into the room.
Ystryd rises slowly from his bed and rubs his face vigorously with both hands. He feels haggard, perhaps from the strange events of the day and night before.
He smiles at his sisters, then grows serious. His gaze travels around the small chamber, as he tries to assess the path before him and his needs upon it.
The two children continue to stare. Several times the younger opens her mouth, then closes it. At last the elder speaks.
"What's happening? Ystryd, what is happening?"
Ystryd starts, for he is startled by their clear, young voices. He looks back to them slowly, feeling the weight of his recent experiences begin to settle over him again.
"My dear sisters," he says stepping closer to them, "I fear that all our lives have been changed by the news that came to us yesterday. Were you not present at the fire last evening? Have they not told you of the loss of our father? Have they not told you how you will fare?"
Ystryd knows that he may be speaking more than he should, but he feels the well of grief within him growing, and he wants with some desperation to have someone of his family with whom to speak. "Our lives, our family has been changed. I think I am soon to go away. I think you will remain. But I promise that I will not forget you and that I will return to you someday."
For a long time neither of the sisters speaks, and their expressions do not change. This time it is the little one's turn to break the silence.
"Why?"
"Why? Why? It seems to be our fate! You two just don't understand!"
Ystryd turns past them and hurries out of the house. He needs to get away. He needs to regain a sure path.
Behind him he hears one of the sisters start to cry, and the gentle voice of the other calming her. "Come on, let's go and find Mamgu. She'll tell us a good story. You'd like that..."
Outside the whole village seems to be already up and about. Men are wheeling the funeral carts into line and loading their gear into sacks. As Ystryd takes in all the activity, in sharp contrast to his sleepy mood, Carraign appears before him, blocking out the sun.
"You'd better get any gear you want to take, Ystryd. You won't need much. Run along now, we leave with the last man, and do not wish delay."
Ystryd remains still for several moments, disoriented by the activity and changes around him.
"I have everything I need," he mutters to himself.
Ystryd looks up, seeking Carraign. He moves slowly over toward and among the men as they pack.
Ystryd is not asked to help pull any of the funeral carts. For the most part the men ignore him, concentrating on their work, hauling the dead. For a long while, it seems, Dun Ferric remains in sight, its scattering of buildings oppressed by the mass of dull grey sky. A few drops of rain fall; a wind from the far-off mountains starts to make the long grasses wave.
Ystryd gives it one last, long look. He'll be back someday. The wind leaves him feeling shaky, and he hurries after the others.
In steady procession, the men, their carts, and the few families that are accompanying them, enter Tir na Noath, the ancient wood. Here there is no wind to stir any but the highest branches, and they are out of sight far above; and no rain penetrates the canopy. The men begin singing, songs that Ystryd has never heard. The forest noises recede as dozens of voices tell of all those warriors who have ever returned home thus. None of the few women that Ystryd can see are participating in any way; their heads are down, their arms wrapped in the dark heavy travelling cloaks.
Ystryd listens closely to the songs and after a good, long while tries to join in. He gives the women an almost disapproving look. His feet are on the path to new and unknown adventures. It's ridiculous for them to bear themselves so unremittingly gloomily. Ystryd knows that he will ever miss his father, but his father's death has placed him on a new track quite literally, and he is increasingly resolved to follow it to its end.
As Ystryd listens more closely to the songs, he becomes aware that it is more in the manner of a long list than a narrative, punctuated at intervals by variations on a simple chorus. Snatches of it begin to sound familiar, descriptions of great heroes of which many stories tell. For here is Tuchalwych, the long-legged, Magron's slayer, despoiler of Arach the black, beloved of the Maker and bane of his family; and here the proud Magidion, riding to his doom, the luckless one, with golden skin.
From throughout the long history of the Tualfehn, the list draws the heroes and their falls, a litany of loss. Death after death recounted, and always another hero to join the struggle. There seems to be no end, though before long Ystryd is forced to sing only at the chorus, for now there are names he can recall from no story, Iolainn and Ferroag and Wuryna and many others. But now he has been walking for many hours, without pause, and the list takes on the repetition of his feet. The hero's worth is in nothing now but in his own deeds, boldly done, for the enemy seems never vanquished, seems even not to matter. It is the air we breathe, the land beneath us, and they support our life even as they receive us in death. There is only a single light, and all the rest is shades, before and ahead, and darkness to the side. It's only possible to go forward, struggling. The hands are the light, only they plainly visible; the feet walk on their own unseen.
It stops.
It is evening, and there are no stars. A fire flares, and Ystryd is standing in a clearing; all about him those who travel with him prepare for the night. Food is brought out. The women once more mingle among the men. Bywyd approaches, brings supper for them both. Her face is grey in the gloom.
Ystryd is crying as she approaches, though he is not aware of doing so. The powerful songs coming so quickly after the confused and desparate emotions surrounding his father's death have left him bound in darkness. He wishes more than anything to understand his place in an increasingly vast and overwhelming world.
His stomach is cramping with hunger. He wants to ask for answers, but he wishes they would just tell him what to do, what to think.
"Here, child. Eat, and sleep. The road is long."
She hands over a bowl of food; as Ystryd reaches out to take it, their two hands touch. Bywyd jerks back, her eyes focussing for an instant, and the bowl falls to the ground. Bywyd makes no move to pick it up, or save any of its contents. She simply pushes over the second bowl, leaving it within Ystryd's reach.
Another woman approaches, holds out a hand to help Bywyd up. As she turns to go, she seems about to speak. Her mouth opens, but no word comes out. From out of the darkness comes a high screech, casting all else into thick quiet. The owls begin their day.
The smell of horses and men is strong; beneath it, all pervasive, the forest breathes out its own scent.
Ystryd stares after the two women as they leave. He feels the pulse of his own blood pounding against his ears. His vision narrows and expands as he tries to absorb and make sense of events and surroundings.
He rises stiffly, like an old man, and staggers toward the forest and darkness.
The trees close around him him, and he seems to be within the trees even before he has moved more than a few steps. The forest floor is rough and uneven, but Ystryd seems not to notice. The owl shrieks again, somewhere to the left. In the quiet that follows, there is a soft noise of water from ahead.
Ystryd steps forward, his foot pressing down on something which moves beneath him. A sharp hiss sounds an abrupt warning.
Ystryd leaps back with a stumble, his thoughts still half distracted by the sound of the nearby water. He clutches at a barnch or bush for support.
When he regains his balance, he sees before him, as clearly as if it were day, a serpent of great size, facing him. Its scales are a dark mottled colour, with twisting patterns in deep yellow. The large head rises silently up off the ground, effortlessly disregarding the earth's pull, until it is on a level with Ystryd's face. Black eyes stare, and a monstrous forked tongue darts out of a slit mouth, almost touching Ystryd. The accompanying hiss seems to come from all around him, as if the snake had already swallowed him whole.
A distant voice in Ystryd's mind shrieks in terror, but the emotions and exertions of late have left him numb and in a certain sense fresh.What is there to fear? What is left of hope?
He reaches out to touch the snake.
The serpent's head withdraws quickly, but not hastily, out of his reach. The unblinking eyes remain staring at him. Another hiss, and the ground rumbles, as if the earth were about to rise and walk away.
Without pause, the snake lowers itself to the ground once more, moving forward as it does so, uncoiling. Gliding to Ystryd's left, it curves back from behind him, between his legs, around his right leg, and back between them again. All without a sound, and though he can feel the snake's closeness, there is no touch. With an inhuman grace it heads away from Ystryd, heading deeper into the forest; behind it its long body traces a figure of eight around his legs, a hynotic unravelling of a knot.
Now only half the snake is visible in the gloom, slipping slowly away. There is the sound of water nearby.