Hush: An Irish Princess' Tale Read Online Free PDF

Usually banquets take days of preparation. But all we have is one.
    The guests begin arriving by midmorning of the next day. By midday, a cow and a pig have been slaughtered and roasted. The aroma makes even the air tasty. Beer and wine and mead flow freely, each guest taking according to his taste.
    And, now, finally, the evening entertainment begins. Horns, pipes, whistles, harps—every corner of the main hall rings with music.
    The
filid
marches in and stamps the floor importantly with his wooden staff. The bells on it jingle loudly. Then he plays a sharp tune on his
feadog—
his metal whistle.
    Mother stands beside Brigid and me. “In the old days,” she whispers to us, “these poets were druids, who knew secret ways for contacting other worlds.”
    “What other worlds?” asks Brigid.
    “Spirit worlds. The poets told the future and cast spells. Even today they can make themselves appear mysterious if their audience wants them to.”
    “I want him to,” says Brigid.
    Mother gives a look of mock surprise. “Really?”
    The
filid
begins, plucking on his lute. His eyebrows rise, his cheeks puff, his nose wrinkles, all to emphasize his points. But alas, his first poem amounts to nothing more than genealogies. He uses the same sounds over and over, praising the history of various chiefs and kings of Ulster.
    I had hoped for verse about visions and elopements and true love, especially true love gone athwart. Or, if not that, then at least cattle raids and battles and heroism. Genealogies make me fall asleep.
    But our guests cheer raucously when they hear their ancestors honored. I watch Liaig cheer too, though he looks about to fall over. He’s exhausted, after caring for Nuada without stop.
    Father and Mother and Brigid and I leave our contented guests with the
filid
before the first poem even draws to an end. We troop eagerly into the sickroom.
    Nuada is quite tipsy, it’s obvious. He sits on the bed mat propped up on cushions. His right arm is raised.Liaig says that will help slow any residual bleeding, and cut the pain, too.
    But it can’t be cutting the pain much. Nuada’s index finger of his left hand is curled through the handle of a jug of beer, just as it was yesterday. He takes swigs frequently. Sometimes the muscles of his jaw twitch. His eyes are glassy, his cheeks flushed.
    I look at my hands and wince. If one was gone …
    “Are you sure you want
seanchais?”
asks Mother.
    “Absolutely,” says Nuada. He spills beer on his chest. I’m not convinced he even knows what he’s answering. His eyes haven’t talked to mine since Dublin.
    I take my place on the bench beside Nuada’s bed and sit on my hands. Brigid sits beside me. Mother and Father take another bench, nearer the fire.
    “When …?” says Brigid.
    But a
seanchai
comes in before she can finish her question. There are several in the hall, as at any royal party, but the one who enters now is my favorite. He’s as correct in tone and style as any noble
filid.
    He plays the hammer dulcimer as accompaniment, like a minstrel. He begins. “Cuchulainn had a special—”
    “Stop,” I say. “Please.” My ears hurt at the name Cúchulainn. I think of his purple mantle and the purple tunic of the silversmith in Dublin, hateful Dublin. Ican’t bear it. Tonight is for celebrating. Nuada will live. Tonight is a happy time. “Please tell of someone else.”
    All eyes but Nuada’s are on me, wanting an explanation.
    “Someone who doesn’t battle.”
    Mother looks at me with surprised approval. She makes a little click of her tongue, a sign of agreement.
    The storyteller begins again. “Gartnán is a rich man. A chief of a
crannóg.
Picture him. Picture this chief of his settlement in the middle of an island in a lake. Shut your eyes and picture him.
    “Do you see this
crannóg
serving as a homestead for a few dozen people? Do you see them toiling hard, scraping to get by? Do you see them cold and hungry in winter? Do you see them riddled