“Asheep,” I repeat darkly.
“A sheep,” Onchú confirms.
I close my eyes, and after a long, disbelieving breath, laugh again. Relief and joy and released grief and a hundred other emotions I can’t even identify in it.
“It is not funny,” says Tadhg indignantly from the side.
I turn to him and embrace him around the head, struggle to get away though he does. “I am very sorry about the sheep, Tadhg. But I am also so very glad to see you.”
He continues to fight my grip for another second, then gives up and hugs me back.
“We wanted to see you, before we go. We are leaving in a few hours,” saysGráinne, a little apologetically. She shrugs at my look. “The farm has to be rebuilt. And now that Fiachra’s forces are broken, there is no danger.” She pauses. “You could come back with us, if you want.”
“You could doallof our work now that you have two hands,” adds Róisín.
I stick out my tongue at her grin. Hesitate as I glance across at Tara, who has seen I’m otherwise engaged and is chatting idly with a couple of older warriors nearby. There is merit, and some temptation, to the offer. The promise of a simpler life. A happier life.
And yet I can’t help but remember that last conversation with my father.Poor luck is being aware of these currents, but able only to drown in them.
“I need to be here,” I tell Gráinne. Sadness to it, but certainty as well.
She gives a small smile, and nods. She already knew the answer.
“But we areallhere now, today,” I add. “And there is nothing stopping us from sharing a meal together before you go.”
Gráinne’s smile widens into something warm, and Onchú slaps me on the back. “I would like that,” he says gruffly. The children nod their eager agreement as well.
And we walk back into the caer together.
MY FATHER’S FUNERAL IS SOLEMN, AND LARGE, AND BEAUtiful.
The people of Caer Áras did not know him, but Tara told them that he was a king and so he is treated as such. We march at dusk. He is wrapped in white cloth. A single, intricate gold torc around his neck. I help carry him slowly down the street from the centre of the Caer, cradling him on my shoulder, steadying him with my real arm. Tara is opposite, Conor and Miach and Fearghus and Seanna behind us. I feel his body through the fabric, and though it is cold and stiff, I cradle it lovingly anyway. I know he is gone, that he cannot feel it. I still act as if he can.
As we walk, the people line the way and they sing. The dirge is low and mournful and achingly beautiful. There are no tears, no wailing, but those would have been false given that they did not know the man. This display is for the living. This display is for me. It means more than I can say. It brings tears to my eyes again and again as we make our steady way down the hill and out the gate.
The torches are lit, lining the way down toward the lake. The sky is sprayed gold and purple, wisps of cloud catching the colour and reflected in the still water. The pyre is by the shore. We place my father’s body on it. I am handed a torch. I stand there. Knowing everyone is watching but not wanting to do it. Not wanting to let go.
I reach out, lean over and grip his shoulder. Just as he did to me, at the end.
I touch the torch to the kindling, and step back to join Tara and the others.
The singing has continued and as the flames rise higher it crescendos, a sorrowful, strong melody that echoes away over the darkening water.
I weep. I did not want to. I wanted to be strong in front of everyone. I wanted to show these people their stoicdraoi nasceann. But I cannot help it. My head bows, and I choke, and tears fall as the music swells.
A hand in mine. Tara’s. I squeeze it, hold it tight amidst the pain.
And then my friends are around me. Forming a protective circle. Heads bowed, close to mine. Arms around me. And I let go. I cry. I cry for the father I thought I lost years ago but now have in truth. I cry in a way I never did after Suus, because I was never afforded a chance to say goodbye. And saying goodbye like this hurts. Ithurts.
My friends hold me up. Patient. Just being there.
When I am finally done, the singing has stopped and the fire has died down and most have departed. I wipe my eyes and laugh in mildly embarrassed fashion and smile around at my friends, trying to show how much they mean to me. Tara still holds my hand. I embrace her for a long moment, then reluctantly disentangle our fingers.
We clear away the ashes and gather my father’s bones, burned clean and white. Then the six of us walk in silence along the shore. Off the paths, through the trees, only our torches to show the way now.
We walk for twenty minutes. The grove is a surprise to me when we enter it. Large and tranquil and picturesque, completely detached from the outside world despite being so close to Caer Áras. Cairns rise at intervals. Beautifully decorated stonework over their entrances.
Tara leads me to one a short distance in. Above its archway is carved a symbol, done with care and artistry. Three whorls, joined in the centre.
