The next year saw Fia growing like a weed, and beginning to
experience the sort of things parents must explain to their children
honestly. For some parents it is easy, because they pull no punches.
For more nervous parents who have been raised not to speak of such
matters, it is a challenge. For Meg it was even more of a challenge,
not because she wanted to avoid the topic, but because she had to
figure out where on earth Fia might have got to on any given day.
Some days even Tally could not say. Fia would never explain fully
where she went, only saying, "The hills are alive with the sound
of music."
The year also saw a continuing development of Deirdre's efforts
towards literacy, for she eventually decided that, if words could be
embroidered on hemp, the ink only needed to be a set of markings for
the embroidery to follow. If one intended a piece of writing to be
permanent, then it could be embroidered with letters; otherwise the
cloth could be washed and used to write something else.
So she the people of the village were given hemp cloth and ink,
and were able to practice writing more easily than with slates and
pebbles, and now that such writings were portable and easily stored
in a pocket, everyone finally began to understand why this "writing"
business mattered at all. Because they now had a means of gossiping
that couldn’t be overheard. Deirdre was faintly embarrassed when
she realized what she had unleashed, but, well, that was the price of
spilling the secrets of the afterlife, and Meg was certain she wasn’t
going to be stopping at such a low level of revelation.
Only old Mochán complained about the whole matter aloud. He
insisted that the entire business of writing got in the way of
memorizing the old stories. It was true that now the old stories
didn’t depend upon someone memorizing them anymore. It was also
true that three young women were taking it upon themselves to listen
to Mochán tell the stories, write them all on hemp cloth and then
embroider them for posterity, stitching each piece together into a
great cloth roll. So now the only complaint was that they were using
up all the hemp cloth that would be available until the next harvest,
getting in the way of good gossip. The young women had no sympathy
for that.
As for the knowledge Deirdre was most desperate to impart, that
was a much harder sell. Nobody wanted the extra inconvenience of
boiling water before drinking it, especially when they wanted
something cool and refreshing after working the fields; nobody wanted
to take extra turns milking the cows when everybody called it the
most boring task; there was no easy way for Deirdre to explain why
hand-washing mattered at all.
Meg's approach to the matter was to mandate everything, much to
her own chagrin. She knew that her fellow villagers were bound to
listen to their great champion, yet she did not wish to feel like she
was stepping into Áed's role. Deirdre certainly wasn't pleased with
the implications. Neither she nor Meg wanted to be a queen of any
sort.
So it was a load off of Meg's shoulders when Tally offered his
aid. He would not offer any word of explanation to the villagers
about the Meg's decrees, but he did convince Deirdre to remind the villagers that willowbark tea and other steepings were a pleasant way to consume hot water. Tally also told them that if they didn't want to
take turns milking the cows, there was an easier solution, involving
scrapings from the scabs on the cow's udders, and a knife and –
suddenly there were far more volunteers to milk the cows in the
morning.
As for the matter of washing hands, the only explanation any of
Meg's crew could give was that it was a lot like the boiling of the
water. Boann joked that she might as well just boil her hands,
which some of the younger children nearly took seriously before their
parents stopped them.
But as for children – this year, for the first time in many,
many years, none of the newborns died. Not even during a difficult
birth, which Deirdre was able to guide to a successful conclusion,
with knowledge whose detail flummoxed the midwife. Nor any of the wee
little ones died, nor any of the older children. When it came close
to harvest time, and everyone took stock of things, that was most of
what anyone talked about.
Many began to speculate on what sort of weird secrets Deirdre had
brought back from the underworld. Some began to shy away from her,
when she went about the town. They gossipped about her snow-white skin and golden eyes, and said that her brain must be made of fairy gold, or something.
But they continued to wash their hands. Because whatever Deirdre
had done, her advice had proved sound. So that autumn, Deirdre was as
light as a feather, something Meg had not seen in many years.
At least until after the harvest, when the tax man came back.
Because the Hound came with him.
Everyone knew what that meant.
Once again Meg challenged the Hound to a contest of strength; once
again they wagered the service of Meg and the lives of her people;
once again they strove against each other; once again the Hound
insulted Meg severely, by calling her an upstart queen –
This time, though, the Hound was defeated more by chance than by
valor, for a tremor in the earth shook him off his feet just enough
for Meg to gain the upper hand, and she managed to force him a step
back.
"You flinched," said Meg, as she caught her breath.
"Surprised you didn't," said the Hound. "The earth doesn't just tremble like that out of nowhere. You've caught something's attention." He and the tax man hurried away without a word.
At the harvest feast, most everybody was merry, save for Meg and
Tally. Meg because she hadn't won fair and square; Tally because, as
he said, it might be time to pack up the village and move everyone
somewhere safe like Tasmania or Huaxyacac, wherever those were. Tally
wouldn't say. Deirdre looked like she knew. But she wouldn’t say
either.
So for Meg the harvest feast was a trifle melancholy. For Deirdre
it was wonderful. Everyone was toasting her. But they weren't
toasting Meg, not nearly as much. She'd rattled them, over the course
of the year. One wrestling match might not be enough to forgive that.
"Why the long face?" signed Deirdre.
"I guess I picked it up from you," signed Meg. "Maybe
one of us always has to carry the sadness. You, me, or Tally."
Deirdre stood up from the table, bowed to everyone gathered,
took Meg and Tally by the hand, and led them to their little
roundhouse.
"Private conversation?" signed Meg.
"I figured you needed a break from all the noise,"
signed Deirdre, as she sat at the fire. "And Tally, as for you,
I'm calling on you to uphold your agreement. Nothing big and bad
happened this year. So tell us what you mean by immortal."
Tally glanced at the ground. "Not sure I owe you the full
truth," he signed. "The earth is rumbling. Something is
noticing our indiscretion. I don't know what yet. If it's listening…I
can't risk saying anything more."
Deirdre looked disturbed. "If I cannot trust the word of a
bard – "
"Stop that," signed Tally. "Do not use my own
profession against me when you know how dangerous things are right
now. Don't you get it? You've been pushing the limits of what's
allowed for years! One of us is always carrying the burden of sadness
because we're always – oh dear. I said 'we' didn't I. Oh dear dear
dear. This was not supposed to become my story along with yours."
"You love us," signed Deirdre. "As you love your
daughter. You've been getting involved ever since you guarded her in the wilderness."
"Before that," signed Meg. "He's been getting
involved ever since he told me about the cauldron."
Tally buried his face in his hands.
"Hey," said Meg aloud, her voice a little odd in her
ears from long lack of use. "Hiding your eyes here is like
plugging your ears elsewhere."
Tally looked up. "Sorry," he signed. "I've just…so
much of my life has been getting stranger ever since that fateful day
I spoke to you. I could look like a heroic oddball to my fellow
bards, or I could look like a traitor to my profession. I fear what
they will sing of me."
"Sing your own song first," signed Meg. "Sing of
wondrous contraptions devised by the daring Deirdre, of mountains
climbed by the mighty Meg, of kings confronted by the tenacious
Tally. And remember that the story is not yet over. Not ours nor
yours. You wanted me to be worth singing about, didn't you? Perhaps
we ought to work our way towards confronting the gods, after all.
They will expect us to run away from them. They will not expect us to
run towards them. What do you say?"
Tally thought for a moment.
Then he picked up his lyre, and strummed a few bars.
"Are you amenable to this?" signed Deirdre.
Tally strummed a few more bars. "I am the bard of Annwn, cursed by the gods with immortality."
And so Tally strummed his lyre, and sang. He sang of his first
flight from Cerridwen, and of his perilous escape down into the
earth, until he found himself at the gates of Annwn. He sang of his
imprisonment there, while the gods pondered what to do with a living
being in their midst, one who did not belong in an afterlife but
could not be permitted to return. He sang of the whispers that filled
his head in the darkness, speaking of myriad marvels he would never
have guessed, of times long hence when the lands of humans would be
more glorious and terrible than anything anyone had ever dreamed.
He sang of the judgment the gods set upon him – that they
would release him, and since they could not erase his memory as they
could for a shade, they would bind him with a geas, that if he dared
directly reveal any of the secrets of Annwn, they would drag him down
to bind him in a place between life and death, where he could know
what ever he wished yet use none of it. He sang of how they banished
him from the bliss of death, and how he would be cursed to go on
forever, losing everyone he loved to the passage of time.
He sang of the heroes he had known of old, of mighty Fionn and his
bands of warriors, of daring Ness and her pursuit of Cathbad the cad,
of blessed Bran and Branwen and their doomed attempt to use
Cerridwen’s cauldron. He sang of how he would remember every hero
in song, and thereby never lose them completely, if all the world
would sing of them too.
He sang of Mighty Meg and the Dashing Deirdre, and of their deeds
of valor that rivaled Fionn himself.
And there his song paused.
"You try to immortalize everyone you have loved," rasped
Meg.
"As I never die," said Tally, "so they shall never
die, so long as I have breath to sing. This is the trick the gods
have played upon themselves."
The ground vibrated, sending dust drifting down from the ceiling
spars and nearly shaking Meg off her seat.
"Not the only trick," signed Deirdre. "Nor the
biggest, by far. We may meet more trouble by far, when that one comes
to a head."
"So what then?" signed Meg. "Will you stand with
us, little man?"
Tally sighed, and stood. "Would that I were one to stand in a
line of battle! But that is not my role. Instead I have messages to
deliver. But I swear to you – I will be with you when your troubles
come to the hours of crisis." He kissed Meg on the forehead, and
then Deirdre.
Then he was gone, with only the skin over the door flapping in the
sudden wind to mark his passing.