Only the Stones Survive: A Novel Read Free

well-behaved. Listen instead of talking. Be mindful that you have nothing to contribute yet; it is enough for you to be there.”
    I promised; I would have promised anything on that bright morning. The future was a splendid Unknown, and I was eager for it.
    I would approach it differently now.
    At high sun we came to a pathway beaten by the passage of countless feet over countless seasons. The grass on either side of the path was so thick it tempted my bare feet to stray. The air was a heady perfume. We were immersed in life: leafy woodlands and lush grasslands and fern-fringed pools where predator and prey drank together.
    Before us lay a meadow thickly starred with flowers. At home my mother could fashion almost anything from stems and leaves and blossoms. A flick of her fingers could create a wreath for the brow or a platter to hold bread.
    I was stooping to pluck an armful of color and fragrance when she stayed my hand. “You must take nothing away from this place, Joss. Not ever.” Her rebuke was gentler than my father’s, but it went deeper.
    The Dagda added, “Do no damage here, young man. Anyone who does is destined to die roaring in pain.”
    I swallowed hard and kept my hands at my sides.
    The green land rolled before us in waves like the sea that embraced our island. I had not yet been taken to the coast to see the white-crested waves that were the manes of Manannan Mac Lir’s horses, but someday I would. I would see and do many, many wonderful things. It was part of my heritage.
    I was Danann.
    The path we were following began to slope toward a distant hill. Our small group soon was enlarged by a trickle, then a stream, then a river of people dressed, as we were, in their brightest clothes, with more flowers in their hair. Cheerful strangers surrounded and enfolded us. Kinfolk I had never met called out my names, my many impressive names, and told me theirs.
    My parents were congratulated on the simple fact of my being.
    I thought myself a very fine fellow indeed.
    When we reached the hill it did not appear very high; it was a long, grassy ridge crowned with timber columns, outlining halls. The halls were roofed with thatch but open on all sides to light and air. Instead of climbing up to them, the Dagda led us around to the sunrise slope, where we sat down on springy grass and warm earth. A vast crowd—or what looked like a crowd to me, who had never seen one before—was spreading out along the flank of the ridge.
    All were careful to sit down without crushing the flowers.
    So was I.
    While we waited for the ceremony to begin, the Dananns sang. Mindful of my father’s admonition, I stayed quiet and listened. It was just as well; I did not recognize any of the words. Rippling, floating words like a trill of birdsong or a stream burbling over pebbles. My mother leaned over to murmur in my ear, “We are singing in the old language, Joss. This is a song of welcome.”
    I didn’t even know we had an old language. Yet when I listened closely, I observed that every unfamiliar word found its allotted place in the music. One could not be separated from the other.
    Like the Dananns from their land.
    Was that an adult thought? I must ask my father.
    The singing ended abruptly, rising into one pure note of aching sweetness that took me by surprise.
    How did they all know to stop at the same time? I must ask him about that too.
    Before I could voice my questions, several splendidly attired men and women stood up in front of the crowd and began to make speeches of welcome. My father whispered their names to me, identifying them as members of the ruling family—who were related to our own clan. The audience warmly applauded each one in turn. “They are much loved,” my mother said proudly.
    At that moment I began to love them too. My kinship to these radiant beings did not have to be explained; I could feel it welling up in me. As if responding to a silent command, the assembled Dananns broke into song again. The