Lion of Ireland Read Free Page A

abandon her tasks and run to the other cottages with the news, that all who could crowd into Cennedi’s house might come and listen to the legends of their people.
    So it happened this night. The old man finally pushed his bowl away and wiped at his stained beard with a square of linen. He tilted his head back to gaze at the underside of the thatch, listening to the rain on the thick straw. He smiled.
    “It is a fine night,” he announced in a deep and musical voice.
    A little sigh of pleasure went up into the smoky air. Bowls were pushed back, hands folded.
    “A fine night,” Cennedi echoed, taking up the thread of tradition.
    “It’s a fine night,” many voices repeated.
    “Rain is good for the memory,” intoned Fiacaid. “When there is rain on the roof and meat in the belly, it is time to look over our shoulders and remember.”
    “We will remember,” chanted his audience. The shanahy had educated all of Cennedi’s tribe; they knew the litany by heart. Since the days of Saint Patrick and before, even to the misty dawn of their race, the chieftains of the island’s numerous tribes had vied with one another to possess the most gifted and knowledgeable seanchai the. Fiacaid was a great prize, as Cennedi often reminded his family when he felt their whispering and under-the-table pranks jeopardized their ability to learn from the storyteller’s words.
    “As you all remember,” Fiacaid began, “our last discussion was about the invasions of Ireland in ancient times. Long before history was written down, this land was settled by the descendants of Nemed. They were attacked by the Fomorians, a race of sea pirates from Africa. These Fomorians were great warriors and conquered the land, but some of the Nemedians escaped. Of these, some made their way to distant Greece.
    “There they were enslaved by the Greeks and called Firbolgs, a term given them because they were made to carry leathern bags filled with earth to enrich the rocky Greek hill- ‘ sides. After a long bondage some of them fled from Greece and made their way back to Ireland, armed with Greek weapons and knowledge of warfare.
    “They overran the Fomorians, defeating them by stealth and treachery, fighting in hidden places, and always attacking by night. The victorious Firbolgs partitioned the land into I those five sections we know today as Ulster, Leinster, Munster, Connacht, and Meath.
    “But the Firbolgs were a dark and contentious people, never at peace with themselves, loving argument and discord.” The seanchai’s voice dropped to a lower tone to indicate the sinister nature of his subjects, and Niall kicked Conn under the table and hissed at him, “You’re a Firbolg!”
    “I am not!” Conn cried, punching his brother in the arm. There was a general shushing and scowling, but Fiacaid
    merely smiled.
    “No, boyo, you are not a Firbolg. It is true that many of their blood are still in our land, stirring up trouble; every gossip and liar, every sneak and thief and hater of music may well be a descendant of the Firbolgs. But the sons of Cennedi are of another tribe, and we will learn of them in good time.”
    “What happened to the Firbolgs?” Echtigern wanted to
    know.
    “Yes, well. The Firbolgs were a doomed race, as the night is doomed by the coming of the day. Although they built many forts and thought themselves supreme, their time was growing short. From a distant place—some say the islands to the north—came the next of the invaders, a bright and magical people known as the Tuatha de Danann, the people of the goddess Dana. They were highly skilled in the arts of Druidry, and could call the wind by whistling for it, or make barren cattle conceive.”
    Fiacaid leaned forward, and all his listeners leaned toward
    him in response. “From their city of Falias they brought the Stone of Fal, which shrieks aloud when the lawful Ard Ri is named king of all kings at Tara.” His audience exchanged glances and knowledgeable