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  Hakon is on lookout at the prow. Clithna is at his side. She chatters. Skip listens.

  Deasún lifts the cess-pail and walks the length of the ship to throw its contents aft into the river.

  The Meuris glides over moonlit waters. As we sail north, the pathway of moonlight narrows. At three ship-lengths ahead, I see a slender-limbed young doe, the front part of her only, caught in the moonlight. I see her fore-legs splayed apart and her long neck stretched down to drink. The deer stands on a firm bank. She quenches her thirst at the river edge between water and mist.

  All is silent on the Meuris. No one speaks. Amidships some are asleep, others wide-eyed and awake. Frogs among the reeds croak at the stars.

  Suddenly Hakon’s call from the prow: ‘Step lively, lubbers. Jump to it. Step lively, I say!’

  Startled and panicky, the young doe slips among the reeds. She turns sharply, shows her white tail, and in one bound darts from moonlight into the mist.

  ‘Sail-work, lads,’ shouts Hakon. ‘Stand by! Baldr, you are now Kru’s ears!’

  Aye-ayes from the crew amidships compete with a chorus of frogs on the bank. Baldr’s call is clear above the rest. After Skip has called ship’s orders, in crisp signs Baldr transfers the words to Kru.

  ‘Three twisting bends,’ continues Hakon. ‘Coming up at nine ship-lengths — at eight — now at six. Wait for my call! Sharp turn to larboard — hold canvas at both beams. At three ship-lengths ahead. Thralson, are you clear-sighted?’

  ‘Aye-aye, Skip!’

  ‘Larboard brace,’ shouts Skip. ‘Loosen! Softly does it! As far she as she goes!’

  ‘Aye-ayes from Dantzk and Halpin, and Deasún takes up position behind them to help tidy the coil.

  ‘Stand by,’ shouts Skip. ‘Stand by to haul tight on steer-board brace!’

  ‘Aye-ayes’ briskly from Baldr and Hrut. Baldr nods aloft, a simple sign, and Kru jumps to it.

  I draw the tiller out steadily, edging gently span-by-span — no more — edging it as Skip would do.

  Before me, in the gap between hull and reeds, the shad-fish surge. Fjak hasn’t moved. He lies at my feet on stern-deck. I jab his motionless legs with my boot, and keep jabbing, kicking harder and harder. I draw tiller outboard; I keep my eyes peeled ahead into the turning pathway of moonlight.

  At last Fjak stirs from his slumber.

  ‘Up, man!’ I shout. ‘On your feet! Didn’t you hear the “Stand-by” called? Shape up, man! You’re needed on sheet-ropes.’

  ‘Thor’s sake,’ protests Fjak, as he finds his feet. ‘No need to kick me. I heard Skip first time off! His fecking voice would awaken the dead! Not that I was asleep, mind!’

  *

  At midnight with the moon overhead, six men — three on each beam — haul on the braces. Hakon steer-board with Kru and Baldr. Fjak is beside me aft, on the sheets. A third turn of sail — the second heavy lift for Halp, Dantzk and Hrut on larboard — brings our prow safely out of the twisting bends.

  I draw the Meuris to midstream. The moonlit channel narrows between hanging rocks, dripping and a-dazzle with mist, which rise above our heads on steer-board side. The tide is ‘in’ almost at the full, judged by a murky stain — a waterline — at eye-level on the hanging rocks. A roar of rushing water can be heard from distant waterfalls. As we pass through the gorge, bubbles gurgle to the surface of an-Uir. The falls must plunge underground and escape by some underwater chasm into the river. The ship sways like a cradle at the beams, our hull coggles prow to stern between falls, river and tide.

  ‘The run-off from Slieve Bhraan,’ says Hakon ‘We can’t see a thing tonight, but moorland and mountain rise above us — out there, somewhere in the night.’

  ‘The Cluddy,’ whispers Clithna. ‘The falls of Cluddy.’

  Clithna’s voice trails off. She looks upriver. We are coming out of the gorge.

  Mist still overhangs the river-banks. To our left, off larboard, lights all a-flare shining from dozens of men’s torches. The torches are not held in hand, but planted low at the water’s edge. As we pass the torches, reflected cross-slats of their yellow flamelight touch the prow of the Meuris and play upon our passing larboard beam. Ahead of the ship, the rippling reflections are like a stairway ascending the river, as if the waters up-stream would lead us step by step into the night sky.

  ‘Tide-head,’ shouts Hakon. ‘Inis-tioc! Prepare for beaching! Halp and Dantzk, landing ropes.’

  ‘Aye-aye, Skip.’ The two ship-mates’ calls return as one.

  ‘Deasún, take your wife aft! Make way! Our crew need “rope space” at the prow.’

  Clithna stays put. She has been entranced, like the rest of us, looking over the bows, watching the torches and their lights reflected on the water. ‘Are you chasing me, Skipper Hakon?’

  ‘Just do it, young woman,’ returns Skip in a firm voice.

  Deasún ushers Clithna to stern-deck.

  Fjak gazes at the lights on the bank. ‘Would you believe it, Thralson? Torchlight! How’s this for a welcome? They have lit torches to guide you to the Rath. Folks must have thought you needed them. They have made it easy for you to land on the isle!’

  Hrut’s laughter echoes over the deck. ‘They are not landing lights for a ship. People have set fish-traps along the bank — the flames from the torches reflect on the water and lure shad-fish to the nets.’

  Chapter 31

  For years Hakon has traded at the tide-head with people of the Rath. He has been acquainted with Tioc Cahaun, the clan chieftain of Inis-tioc, from his first days on the Three Rivers, when they were both young men. In token of Skip’s friendship with Tioc, the crew of the Meuris are invited to sit among the chieftain’s stewards, gillies and herders in the clachan-hall. Tioc has called an ale-feast to welcome his guests from Vadrar-fiord. As a mark of respect to Deasún’s father and grandfather, Lodin’s messenger is introduced as Deasún Mac-Bric-Mac-Feach.

  Deasún, Clithna and Hakon have pride of place with Tioc, beside his wife and their daughters. They sit on the tamped earthen floor in the centre of the clachan encircled on all sides by folk of the Rath. Tioc Cahaun shows his appreciation for gifts of wool sent from Vadrar-fiord by giving Deasún in return a hunting-rod of polished hazel for Lord Lodin and a copper brooch, shaped like a dragonfly, for Lady Aghamora.

  Once the formalities are dispensed with, the tubs are brought in and the ale-feast begins.

  *

  Long after midnight. No fire in the clachan-hall, but the air is warm and stuffy. Goats are byred in the clachan when it is not in use as a meeting house. A hundred or so men and women from the Rath have crammed into the round hall to drink through the night and — if they can stay sober long enough, and are awake till dawn — to hear what the visitor from Vadrar-fiord has to say. It is a tradition hereabouts that guests are not at liberty to broach any serious business until enough ale has been drunk. The isle people sit on the floor among smoking tallow tapers and steaming tubs of barley ale. They talk noisily in the coarse Erse brogue of the river folk. Their ale is not poured into drinking-pots but supped straight from brimming ale-tubs. After each man’s or woman’s draught from the black porter, an ale-tub is passed to the one seated on the right — widdershins for luck — and so on in circles from hand to hand around the clachan-hall until the tub runs dry and is replaced by another.

  *

  Not yet dawn. Many in the clachan have sunk into a drunken sleep.

  The clan chieftain of Inis-tioc is awake. He listens courteously, while Deasún explains the strategy proposed by the Lord Lodin. During Deasún’s lengthy speech Tioc exchanges glances with his wife Shaynat, and yawns politely. Clithna tries to warn her husband that he no longer has the ear of the host. She does it discreetly; tries to draw Deasún’s attention with a cautionary look. When that fails, she holds her head in exasperation — her husband won’t take a hint — and, though she itches to speak, she dare not intervene in the counsel of men.

  Boldly, and blindly, Deasún wades deeper
into the mire. ‘The Custodian of the Three Rivers will be glad to send warriors north from Vadrar-fiord to defend the island Rath and its people — providing, of course, he has the consent of Tioc Cahaun.’

  ‘It’s a blessing to know we will have help,’ replies Tioc non-committedly, ‘if we should need it.’

  ‘We must secure the tide-head at Inis-tioc,’ says Deasún. ‘If we don’t work together on this, Tioc, if we don’t resist the attack by Glun Amlavson, we will have lost control of the Three Rivers, and you will have lost your settlement — not to mention the lives of many people here.’

  Deasún’s comment arouses fear and anger in the clachan. The uproar wakens those, who had succumbed to the black ale, from their drunken slumbers. People in front of us jump to their feet. Soon everyone stands. Toppling of beer tubs and tallows. Spilled ale and wax. Yelling and fists in the air.

  Deasún, now on his feet, raises his voice over the noise. ‘Peaceful trading — what we enjoy now under Lodin — will be a thing of the past. Amlav will have opened up a clear path eastward through the lands of Osri. His invaders will be able to land their ships on the isle — and march from here all the way to Linn-dubh.’

  Tioc rises to his feet. ‘With regret, honoured guest, I have to cut this short. No matter how well intentioned your proposals — can’t you see? Already they are causing ructions among my people.’

  Deasún asks abruptly. ‘Man to man, Tioc Cahaun, are you with us or not?’

  ‘Neither with nor against,’ answers Tioc. ‘Simply put, it would be a betrayal of trust on my part to proceed without the consent of Dunchad. He is our Tuathal. As King of Osri, elected by the clan chieftains, he has sole right to raise fighting-men and wage war.’

  ‘Understood,’ replies Deasún. ‘But if Lodin sends warriors from Vadrar-fiord to help you, he must be able to depend on supplies from here and your people’s support. Lodin’s warriors must be made welcome on the isle, and fed! It is your cooperation that’s needed — not Dunchad’s. Without your say-so it won’t work.’

  A voice from the crowd ‘Ostmen are Ostmen! Why should we welcome one and not another?’

  ‘I am no Ostman,’ returns Deasún with fervour. ‘But I know who my friends are.’

  Shaynat and her daughters seek to lead their guest Clithna from the clachan — Hakon tries to force a path through for Lodin’s daughter — but they are prevented by people of the Rath pressing drunkenly into the centre of the clachan against Deasún and Tioc. They are calmed by Tioc’s slowly raised hand: the clan chieftain is urging them to stand back.

  ‘Is this your way to treat guests? Back off! Will you trample us down?’

  ‘Let no one be in any doubt,’ Tioc repeats his words in the hushed clachan. ‘Only Dunchad, our Tuathal, must give us the lead in war.’

  Deasún asks, ‘Will you send word to him urgently?’

  ‘Indeed I will,’ replies Tioc. ‘I will make known to him the purpose of your visit. But I fear the Tuathal will not be at Kil Khenna to receive my message. You missed him by half a day. He was here yesterday. He has ridden north to parley with the ‘wilderlings’ — the homeless hell-raisers and young cut-throats who roam the hills. I suspect he hopes to have their support against Amlav.’

  Deasún cannot hide his frustration. ‘Time runs short. My father-in-law must know your response.’

  Tioc composes himself and utters his final words on the subject. ‘I will inform Dunchad’s son, Gil-Phatric, that you have arrived, and the reason for your visit. But until we hear from his father, his hands — and mine — are tied.’

  Deasún tries to speak, but is overruled.

  ‘Fine! Fine!’ says Tioc, with a disparaging wave of the hand. ‘You are a good man, Deasún Mac-Bric-Mac-Feách. Let’s have no more wrangling. You must be patient and wait for the Tuathal’s return. He is expected within three or four days — or it may be a week.’

  As we leave the clachan at dawn, Baldr whispers in my ear. ‘Just as well, Thralson, that the young hot-head Ingvar didn’t come with us — or things might have boiled over.’

    Chapter 32

  Tioc Cahaun may have given short shrift to Deasún, when it came to talk of war. But, since the night of our arrival, when relations became strained under a haze of black ale and fatigue — and misspoken words — his kindness towards Lodin’s son in law knows no bounds.

  Deasún and his wife enjoy the privileges of Tioc’s household as honoured guests, as befits his status as a Mac-Bric among the Erse clans. Womanly needs for Clithna — purging herbs for a colic the young woman had on the morning after the ale-feast, and laundry for her linens — have been arranged by Shaynat and her daughters; provision of a horse, and smithy work on a cracked scabbard for Deasún. As for Hakon, it is not often Skip accepts home comforts, but since we arrived at the isle, he has slept under a clachan roof — and not, as he prefers, beside his ship under the stars. Perhaps he fears a return of the ‘iciness’ in his legs.

  Tioc’s warm hospitality has been extended also to the crew of the Meuris. We were present when tempers flared during the ale-feast, and have been invited on every night since to eat from the chieftain’s board. We are served with a glut of broiled shad lifted fresh from the fish-traps, and with wildfowl off the heath netted by his gillies.

  *

  It was no accident that Hakon chose a moon-tide for sailing the Meuris upriver. Skip knew what he was doing. On the night of our arrival at Inis-tioc, the tide from the estuary was at its strongest. When I beached the ship, just after midnight, the sea had reached high-water and we had come to the tide-head, its farthermost point inland on an-Uir. The next morning, at low-water, we could see a tide-line left on the muddy shore of the isle. There was a trace of willow leaves, broken fish-nets and other flotsam along the tide-line, and a faint, powdery dust of sea-salt washed upstream, from where the tide had retreated overnight.

  Twice a day, in the days since we arrived, with flow and ebb, the tide-line has receded lower down the shore, showing after each high-water, the gradual weakening of the tides. The hull of Meuris is beached above the highest tide-line. Our larboard beam tilts towards downstream. Our steer-board beam faces in shoreward next to the palings of the Rath. The ancient rugged cross of Saint Bhraan stands on the incline above us outside the palings.

  The wind has changed, mist has gone from river-banks and heaths. It is clear and sunny along the dale of Inis-tioc, skies cool and bright above the summit of Slieve Bhraan. The moorland peak rises to the east above the river. It was named after the Saint in memory of a miracle he is said to have done generations before. When I asked what the miracle was, I was given different stories of his saintly powers.

  The slopes of Slieve Bhraan abound with faded, windswept grasses — fine for grazing sheep — and brightened by patches of red heather in early summer bloom. On the other side of an-Uir, mountains range to west and north of the river, where, we have been told, the ‘wilderlings’ have their lairs. The fells look forbidding even when touched by the sun. A cool north-westerly blows from their heights. The constant wind from the fells makes a rustling whisper among reeds along the river.

  *

  From early morning Hakon and Tioc wade across the river by reed-ford and walk on river-banks south of the isle towards Cluddy. They keep to the river’s edge on their outward trek and, walking higher up on the homeward, pass through what Tioc calls his water-meadows.

  The two men are of an age. Their walk, seen from a distance, seems slow and ponderous to match their years, with frequent stops to stand and gaze. Tioc’s ‘water-meadows’ are a curious name for the land. They are not under water or surrounded by it, as might be thought by the Erse name, but rich fields for pasture and hay, with enclosures set aside for cultivating flax, barley and oats. The fields are ‘watered’ with river-flood in winter and again in spring to capture brown run-off from the mountains. Peat deposited by the river makes for moist grassland. The grass in the ‘water-meadows’ is a brighter green. It grows more quick
ly than in the surrounding fields. Its smooth lush surface, grazed close by cattle, contrasts with the windswept heath higher up the vale.

  Tioc speaks fondly of his ‘water-meadows’. Flood-trenches from the river, leats and field-drains in the meadows were first dug during his great-grandfather’s time. Without the rich meadows, the black cattle herd of Inis-tioc would not have thrived as it did. Tioc boasts that, given fair weather, his people can cut hay twice in a season, and some summers up to three times. He wipes a tear from his eye and surveys the rugged stone cross in front of the settlement, and from there shifts his gaze to the rounded mountain top of Slieve Bhraan.

  ‘Saint Bhraan looks down on us from above, his holy cross guards the entrance to the Rath, and his ‘water-meadows’ are under our feet. What isle could be more blessed?’

  In the afternoons Hakon and Tioc are off again. This time, with the tide running in, they use a punt to cross the river. Their stroll takes them beyond the head of the isle and out of sight. According to Hakon, they walk to the upper reaches of an-Uir, where in winter and spring sluices and gate-paddles are opened to divert waters from the brown, flooding river into the ‘water-meadows’.

  Sleeping in the clachan has done Hakon a power of good. I have not heard him complain once about pains in his legs. He is rarely seen in such contented mood — at least not while on dry land. ‘Three harvests of hay in a summer, Thralson,’ says Skip. ‘A miracle eh? Well, maybe not miracle, but as close as you and I will ever come to witnessing one.’

  *

  The Meuris is overrun with children from the Rath. On the ship’s yard, stowed lengthwise along deck, little girls go on tip-toe, balancing, chattering, giggling; holding each other at the waist. The children edge forward, small steps at a time, tottering from one end to the other. From twice their height — from above fore-deck — they leap off onto the muddy beach below, but only to scurry aft, and hop back ‘on the plank’ for another dare-devil tip-toe along the yard.