A Wizard in a Feud

15

“Religious law,” Alea said.

Gar stared. “You mean they have a religion? I haven’t seen many signs of it.”

“You’ve been going among the bandits,” Alea said. “I’ve been going from homestead to homestead as a healer, so I met a priest who had also come to heal. He taught me a few techniques and quite a bit about the local herbs, too.”

“Did he really! And what sort of priest is he?”

“A Druid,” Alea said, “though I suspect the religion he practices has grown in ways that the Druids of Caesar’s time wouldn’t recognize.”

“Still, religion is religion,” Gar said, frowning in thought, “and if it’s devoted to goodness and growth, it’s a tremendous binding force for a people.”

“Devoted to goodness and growth? It is.”

“But if they had that much law to hold them together, how did the feuds start?”

“Because they stopped believing in their gods,” Alea said, “and began to think of their myths as only charming fairy stories for their children.”

“Fairy stories…” Gar gazed off into space. “But fairies are real here, and elves, too. I haven’t met anyone who doesn’t believe in them—including me.”

“And me,” Alea said with a smile, then realized the thrust of his thought. “You’re saying the Druids should include the Old Ones in their religion! Then the clans would have to believe in it!”

“And its laws.” Gar nodded. “It shouldn’t be hard, after all. The elves and fairies of Ireland were disguised memories of the Celtic gods.”

“But how are we to do that?” Alea frowned. “We can’t go to all the Druids in the land and ask them to modify their religion to suit us!”

“No, we can’t.” Gar bit his lip in frustration. “Do you suppose the Wee Folk could also act as a communications net for us, spreading the idea?”

“They probably would, but there’s no need,” Alea said. “I’ve found that news travels between these clans with amazing speed. No enmity in the world will keep them from listening to juicy gossip.”

Gar stared. “So if one Druid can lay down the law to one clan and see it enforced, all the clans will hear of it?”

“And their Druids with them. Yes.” Alea nodded. “But how long will it take you to argue one Druid into accepting elves in his pantheon?”

“As long as it takes me to make a Druid suit.” Gar grinned. Alea stared. “You’re not going to impersonate a priest!”

“Why not?” Gar asked. “I’ve posed as a madman, a peddler, a soldier, and Heaven knows what else as I’ve gone from planet to planet. Why not a cleric?”

“There’s a little matter of knowledge!”

“Yes.” Gar nodded. “There, you’ll have to teach me what the locals believe.”

“But I only know a little. Although…” Alea’s gaze strayed to Moira.

“You think you might know where you can find out?” Gar prompted.

Moira, though, didn’t notice their gazes; she was far too thoroughly caught up in her own conversation.

She and Kerlew had stood in uncomfortable silence when Gar and Alea went apart—once they finally stopped staring at one another. Then they began to shift from foot to foot, studying the grass, the leaves, the trunks of the trees, and snatching furtive glances at one another. Finally, the third time she caught Kerlew looking at her, Moira laughed. “How silly we are! Can neither of us think of anything to say to the other?”

Her laugh sounded to Kerlew like the chiming of silver bells. He grinned shamefacedly and said, “I’m only a rough outlaw, a man cast out from his clan. What could I say to a fine lady?”

“Fine lady?” Moira smiled. “The only reason my clan didn’t cast me out was because my parents did it for them, before I was born. Even the Druids wouldn’t take me because I was too zealous about preaching for peace.”

Kerlew lost his smile, but his eyes glowed. “That took a great deal of courage.”

Moira smiled. “None dared touch me; I’m a seer, and they thought I was mad.”

“Aye, for pleading the cause of peace,” Kerlew said with disgust. “If that’s madness, I hope it’s catching.”

“They seemed to feel it might be so.” Moira’s smile broadened; she felt a glow within. “Tell me, why were you outlawed?” It seemed a rude question, but Kerlew told her quite frankly, “They thought me strange, probably rightly, and made fun of me for it. I tried to behave as they did, but the harder I tried, the more they mocked me—so I finally gave it up for a bad job and started telling them what I really thought of the feud.”

“What is that?” Moira asked, her voice low.

“Why, that it’s stupid and corrupted as a week-old carcass,” Kerlew said, with feeling, “that it’s cruel and vicious as an adder with its tail in a vise.”

Moira blinked, startled by his intensity. “How did they take it?” Kerlew shrugged. “As you would expect. They cast me out, and frightened though I was of the forest with its wolves and outlaws, I took it as a relief to be away from their torments.” He smiled with sudden brilliance. “But an outlaw band took me in, and though they gave me their share of japes, they were never as bad as my clan. More to the point, they listened when I spoke against the feuds—and agreed with me!”

“Agreed with you?” Moira asked, startled. “Perhaps I’ve been speaking to the wrong people!”

“Why?” Kerlew asked practically. “It’s the clans that start feuds, not the outlaw bands—unless they become big enough and old enough to start calling themselves a clan in their own right.” He scowled, remembering Regan and her band.

“Become a clan, and start a feud of their own?”

“Not the feud yet, not the band I met with Gar, but they’ve only just begun to think of themselves as a clan. They’ll find enemies soon enough, I know.”

“I’ve heard of such.” Moira smiled, reaching out for his hand. “So we’re both outcast by our own choice, more or less, and both ready to plead the cause of peace.”

Kerlew looked up in surprise. “Why yes, I suppose we are.” Tentatively, he reached out and touched her fingers. There he froze, staring into her eyes, and might have taken firmer hold of her hand if Gar and Alea hadn’t come back, glowing with enthusiasm and brimming with ideas.

The sentries of the Leary clan both raised their heads at the same moment. Samuel frowned. “Do you hear singing, Eliza?”

“Singing it is, and very pleasing too,” Eliza answered. “Someone on the road knows harmony.”

“Yeah, but who’s creeping along with ‘em in the brush?” Sam raised his rifle and shot into the air, high over the trees. “That oughta bring help if we need it.”

“Didn’t faze them any.” Eliza looked down the road where the singing was growing louder.

“Wouldn’t, if they know we’re here and mean for their singing to draw our fire.” Sam set his rifle stock on the ground, pulled the ramrod, and started reloading.

“Birds are still singing,” Eliza noted. “They’d shut up if there were Clancies sneaking up in the brush.”

“True enough.” Sam raised his rifle again, frowning. “Might be just the three of them after all—no, four! There’s a deeper voice under the three.”

“Four there are.” Eliza nodded. “And here they come!” They came in sight, four walking side by side, filling the width of the road, the taller man and woman wearing the gray jackets of Druids, the younger man the blue of a bard, and the younger woman the green of a seer.

“Clerics!” Sam wrinkled his nose. “Might’ve known who’d be making such a racket.”

The four came to a stop ten feet from the sentries, all smiling and cheery. “Hail, clansfolk!” the tall woman said. “We bear a message for you.”

“A message?” Eliza asked warily. “For who?”

“For your whole clan!”

“Who from?” Sam asked, voice dripping skepticism. “From the gods.”

The sentries stared a moment. Then Sam turned away, fighting down laughter. Eliza managed to keep hers throttled down to a smile. “You still believe … No, of course you still believe in the gods—you’re Druids.”

Sam nodded, turning back with his laughter under control. “This is a bit big for us, Eliza. How about you take ‘em back to the homestead?”

“And leave you here alone?” Eliza asked. “Not a bit! We’ll wait for help.”

“Help here,” said a gruff voice. “What moves?”

Half a dozen clansfolk came down the path, rifles at the ready.

“Guests for the whole clan,” Eliza told them. “Best take ‘em to Grandma—they’ve got a message from the gods.”

A couple of the younger people turned away to hide laughter. The older ones managed, to confine their amusement to pinched smiles.

“Message from the gods, is it?” asked a woman whose coppery hair was streaked with white. “What do the gods want to tell us about, strangers?”

“Their displeasure,” the tall man said, “and the punishment your clan has earned.”

The throttled laughter died, the smiles ceased. The clanfolk stared at the strangers, and their stares weren’t entirely friendly.

“The gods angry with us?” Grandma asked from her great chair by the fireplace. “What did you bring them in for, Eben? I’ve no need to hear nonsense like that!”

“I know, Ma,” said a man with salt-and-pepper hair, “but we’re obliged to be hospitable to strangers.”

“Only if they mean us no harm!” Grandma scowled at the wanderers. Her hair was completely white, her face a network of wrinkles. Her wasted frame might have been robust and voluptuous in its day but was more bone than meat now. Nonetheless, her eye still gleamed with intelligence and her jaw was still firm with self-assurance. “If you come to curse us, strangers, you can keep right on going!”

“No harm intended,” Gar answered, “unless you mean hurt to us or defiance to the gods.”

Alea gazed off into space, raising her hands as she took on the appearance of a trance—and was surprised to feel some trace of rapport within her, some feeling of connection to a force greater than herself.

“What is this mummery?” one of the young men sneered. “Be still, Rhys!” Grandma hissed. “She’s making magic. Let’s see if there’s any worth to it.”

Rhys glanced at the old woman as if wondering about her sanity, then back at Alea with the first hint of awe.

“I speak for Dana in her aspect as Mother of All People!” Alea said, not noticing that her voice had dropped several notes and gained resonance. “She who gives life to all is displeased with those who take it. She from whom the red blood springs is angered with those who squander the precious life force and spill the priceless current of their veins!” Then she staggered as though missing a step, eyes wide in surprise.

Gar glanced at her in concern.

Moira spoke up quickly. “I speak the words of Cathubovda!” The clansfolk gasped, for Cathubovda was goddess of death and battle. You didn’t have to believe in her to be upset at the mention of her name.

“We have served Cathubovda as well as though she were real.” Grandma frowned. “We have been valiant in war, slain every enemy we could find, and cast out cowards and peacemongers from our ranks! What cause could Cathubovda have to be displeased with us?”

Moira stood, eyes upraised and unfocused, arms angled outward and downward, trembling. “Even Cathubovda wearies of excess! Slay strangers who come to you with fire and lead, not your own kind!”

“We do not!” Grandma Leary cried. “We slay only Clancies!”

“Celt must not kill Celt,” Moira moaned. “Gaul must not slay Gael. The People of Dana must not murder one another, or there will be none left to fight when the Sassenach comes upon you.” She threw back her head and gave vent to a weird warbling scream, eyes closing. “Cathubovda does as Dana bids! Cease this slaying of Danu’s children, or Cathubovda shall strengthen your enemies against you! They shall lay waste your crops, they shall burn down your houses, they shall scatter the ashes and let the forest come back so that none shall know this clan ever stood!” Breath hissed in, all about the chamber; wide eyes reflected lamplight. Even Grandma looked unnerved, but Rhys’s lip curled. “So speak the women. What say you, boy?”

Grandma rounded on him, face purpling, but before she could speak Kerlew stepped forward, singing a high open cadente, mockery dancing in his eyes, a smile of sarcasm showing teeth that gleamed in the firelight. Gar glanced at the boy and felt his blood run cold, for he could see that, like Moira, Kerlew believed his own role too well; the weird was upon him.

“So says the youth,” he chanted, “so says the minstrel who honors Aengus.”

People muttered to one another and someone even moaned, for Aengus was the Harper of the Dana, the Lord of the Land of Youth, who had gained his throne by trickery.

“Aengus, for the love of a maiden, sought the Land of Youth, where all was peace and harmony,” sang Kerlew. “In his honor, I shall punish all who hinder peace, I shall discipline all who hinder love, I shall lay a satire upon all who harken not to the wishes of Danu!”

“A satire?” Rhys made a burlesque of cowering. “Oh, not Not jokes! Not verses! Oh, how shall I defend myself against them?”

“How shall you defend yourself against your grandmother!” Grandma turned on the boy. “Fools should be still when wise folk speak!”

But before Rhys could respond, Kerlew began to chant:

A moment of preternatural stillness held the room. Then, almost imperceptibly, those nearest Rhys shifted their weight in such a way as to pull away from him a few inches. Someone said loudly, “Ridiculous!”

“To think a verse could change the way we think!” a woman agreed.

“Though you know, Rhys has always been kind of nasty,” a third said.

“He has that,” another woman concurred. “Now that I mind me of it, he did say some nasty spiteful things about you last winter, sister.”

Kerlew stared, stupefied.

“Oh, really! Well, you should hear what he said about you when you were out of the room!”

“Can’t really trust a man what’ll talk behind your back,” an older man growled.

“What are you talking about?” Rhys cried, turning from side to side to look at them all.

“If you can’t trust him behind your back with words, you sure can’t trust him with a rifle,” someone else opined. “You’re talking trash!” Rhys protested. “You know I’m loyal to the clan!”

“To the clan, aye,” Grandma snapped, “but to anybody in it? That’s another story, isn’t it, boy?”

Rhys spun to level a trembling forefinger at Kerlew. “This is your doing, stranger!”

Kerlew snapped out of his stupor and gave the young man a wicked grin. “Yes it is, and I could sing worse. How about if I tell them a man with a tongue as barbed as yours could only have been sired by a snake? Or that your boots are really hiding cloven hooves?”

Rhys paled. “They’d never believe it!”

“Are you sure?” Kerlew asked, then called out,

Everyone froze in a strange, still moment again. Then they relaxed, and a man called out, “You tell ‘em, Rhys!”

“Aye!” cried a woman who’d protested about him moments before. “There’s our lad!”

“Glad to have him beside me in battle, every time!” averred the man who hadn’t been willing to trust Rhys behind his back. “A fine upstanding Leary, and a credit to his clan,” Grandma said, nodding.

Rhys stared, jaw dropping. Kerlew wasn’t much better.

Then the young clansman turned on the bard. “You did that! All of it!”

Kerlew managed the wicked grin again. “Now imagine what would happen if I told them to cast you out—or told them all they were breaking out with boils?”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Grandma gasped, but her face paled. “I’ll do what the gods tell me,” Kerlew said bravely, then turned and called out to the assembly,

The people gave their heads a quick shake, then looked at one another, appalled.

“Did I really say a thing like that?”

“Rhys, I’m sorry!”

“I can’t believe I’d be telling such lies”

“Rhys, I can’t imagine what got into my head!”

“I can!” Rhys pointed a trembling finger at Kerlew. “His words!”

Everyone stared, then muttered with superstitious dread and moved a little farther away from the strangers.

Grandma appealed to Gar. “Bid him stop, stranger!”

“Stop?” Gar protested. “I haven’t even told him to start! It’s the gods who command him, Grandmother, not me!”

“All right; plead with your patron for us,” Grandma growled. “Which god do you serve, anyway?”

“I speak the words of Taranis the Thunderer,” Gar answered, “God of the Wheel and of Change!” His voice rose, carrying to the whole clan. “Do not kill anyone of your own kind, says Taranis—and your own kind is any Celt, any of the New People of this world!” His voice sank to an ominous rumble. “And of course, I do not need to tell you what would happen if you were to slay or even hurt one of the Old Ones!”

“Why should we heed what you say?” a clansman demanded angrily. “The gods are only stories for small children—they aren’t real! All that’s real is food and houses and rifles and gunpowder and bullets!”

The crowd muttered in answer, trying to work up enough anger to counter their sudden superstitious fear.

“Are your clothes real?” Gar demanded. “Are they as real as the cloth from which they were cut? Of course, for both were made by people! But was the cloth as real as the person who made it?”

“Why … of course.” But the clansman sounded uncertain; he looked to his kinfolk for support.

“I see what you’re saying.” An old woman frowned at Gar. “We may be real, but not as real as the gods who made us. Trouble is, stranger, they may not be real at all—only one more thing that people made up, like a song or a dance!”

“If you invented the gods, then they stand for you,” Gar countered. “Who is the patron of your clan?”

“Why … Toutatis,” Grandma said, frowning. “But he’s just a figurehead, a…” She left the sentence hanging, not wanting to finish the last word.

“Symbol?” Gar finished for her. “Then if you don’t honor him, you don’t honor your own clan—and if you fail to honor your clan, you fail to honor yourself.”

“You don’t mean we each have to have a god of our very own?” Rhys said, lip curling.

“Don’t you?” Gar challenged. “When you were small and hearing the tales of the gods, wasn’t there something within you that seized upon one god, one single one out of many, and said, ‘Yes, this is my favorite!’ ”

Everyone looked astonished, then glanced quickly at his or her neighbors to see if they had noticed.

“Well … sure,” Rhys said. “Doesn’t everybody?”

“Everybody does,” Gar agreed, “or if you can’t find one, you develop your own picture of the Godhead, the ultimate God, your own understanding—and it helps you discover what kind of person you are, which is a very large step towards discovering who you are. Which god did you choose, young man?”

“Mider,” Rhys admitted reluctantly, “the God of Good Judgment, the God of Common Sense.”

“No wonder you insist on hearing proofs of what we claim!” Gar smiled. “And haven’t you lived your life ever since as that god would have?”

“I see what you’re saying!” the old woman cried. “If we don’t respect our gods, we don’t respect ourselves.”

“Yourselves, each and every one of you.” Gar nodded. “Yourselves as a clan—and yourselves as Celts, as New People, as human beings! Whether you believe in your gods or not, you must respect them or begin to fall apart!”

“Fall apart…” a few voices repeated, and people looked at one another in astonishment.

“And you’d have us respect the gods by doing as you tell us?” Grandma studied Gar from under lowering brows. “What else would they have us do besides stop killing?”

“Don’t steal, not just from one another, but from other clans!”

A roar of protest answered him. Gar waited it out, then raised his arms. “Stealing, started more feuds than one! Especially don’t steal anybody’s wife or husband either, not even for a few hours! That’s the kind of thing can make clansman kill clansman.”

“You’re telling us the things that can make a clan fall apart,” Grandma growled. “That’s only common sense.”

“Then you agree with it?”

“Within the Leary clan, yes. Clancies are another matter.”

“Are they?” Gar demanded, looking Grandma straight in the eye. “How much of what you think to be their wickedness is really simple slander?” Grandma started to protest, but Gar’s voice rode over hers as he turned to the people again. “The gods hate lies like that! Don’t slander one another—no insults, no lies, no foul words aimed at other people! It might not only start a feud between clans—it might start a feud within a clan!” The people stared at the thought, then shuddered.

“Speak truth or don’t speak at all!” Gar orated. “Say ‘yes’ when you mean ‘yes’ and ‘no’ when you mean ‘no’—and if you can’t make up your mind, say so!”

“Next you’ll be telling us not even to think of doing any of those,” Grandma said with contempt.

“Think about them? You can’t help some of that! You can’t keep from wanting someone else’s rifle, if it seems to be better than yours—or other people’s spouses, especially if they’re really good-looking. But you can keep from really trying to get them, planning for it, scheming for it. Will you or won’t you, that’s the question. Wanting it you can’t help—willing it, you can, and shouldn’t!”

“Anything else?” Grandma grated. “How many other laws will the gods load upon us?”

“Only those, and they’re a lot fewer than the backbreaking load of laws your ancestors had before things fell apart. Anything else people are doing wrong, you can figure out from those.”

“And that’s all Taranis asks of us?” a clansman asked, looking worried.

“I’ll make it simpler,” Gar called out. “Respect your kinfolk and respect other clans as though they were kin, because somewhere far enough back, they are!”

Uproar filled the room. Gar waited it out, waited for the question he knew was coming, and finally Rhys voiced it. “What if we don’t, stranger?” His eyes were hot, his voice acidic. “What if we don’t choose to stop the feuding? What are you going to do—lay a satire on all of us?”

Kerlew nodded slowly, eyes glittering with all the bitterness and hatred of the outcast.

“Worse than that,” Gar said quickly. “How would we know you were doing it, after all?”

“That’s so!” A smiled curved Rhy’s lips. “You can’t punish what you don’t see!”

“But the Old Ones will see you!” Gar called out. “The Wee Folk honor the gods, even the gods of the New People—and there are many, many of them: an elf in every pasture, a fairy in every tree!”

The people turned to one another in furious muttered debate and fear shone in many eyes. The gods’ existence they might question, but nobody doubted the presence of the Wee Folk—their presence, or their power.

“Disobey the gods at your peril!” Gar cried out. “March to war against the Clancies and the Wee Folk will strike you down!” The crowd’s debate died down to a fearful mutter; lamplight reflected the whites of their eyes.

“All well and good,” Grandma said sourly, “but what if the Clancies march against us? We’re not going to stand there and let them butcher us!”

Half the clansfolk called out their agreement.

“We’ll take the word of the gods to the Clancies next,” Gar assured her. “If they march against you, the Little People will mow them down!”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Grandma snorted, “but if you’re going to talk to them, stranger, you’d better hurry. Night’s fallen, and they could be sending out ambush parties this very minute!”

“Oh, we’ll tell them, and quickly,” Gar assured her. “Come, friends!” He whirled away toward the door.

Alea pivoted to follow him. Kerlew and Moira stared, caught flat-footed, then hurried to catch up.

Gar turned about in the doorway, raising an arm in warning. “You’ve heard the word of the gods, and if you disobey it, there will be nothing I can do to save you! Farewell—and whether you believe in them or not, honor your gods!” With that, he spun about, cloak swirling, and strode off into the night, his companions around him.

The door closed behind them, and the clansfolk stood staring, frozen by the enormity of having seen and heard the unthinkable.

Then Grandma thawed and turned to Rhys. “Hurryl Send the captains out to the north pasture! Patrick’s squad to the east boundary, hiding in the scrub brush! Caitlin’s squad to the west windbreak, in among the pines! The rest of you move from cover to cover! If the Clancies are coming, we’ll outflank them, and if they aren’t, we’ll take them by surprise while they’re still numb from listening to those preachers!”

“But-but Grandma,” said one of the middle-aged men, “the Old Ones…”

“You really believe what those addlepates said?” Grandma scoffed. “Mooncalves, every one of ‘em—crazy as loons and walleyed as pikes! Old Ones obeying the New People’s gods indeed! When have you ever known the Wee Folk to strike at more than one person at a time? What are you all, a bunch of overgrown children, ready to believe whatever song you’re sung?”

That stung; the people frowned, anger stirring, muttering darkly.

“Out upon ‘em, then!” Grandma called. “The Clancies just might believe those preachers, like the half-wits they are, and if they do, we’ll never have a better chance of catching them with their guards down! Get out there into those woods and move silent as moonlight! Surround their house, then bust in and clean them out! when you’re done, burn the place down for good measure! Go on, now, GO!”