Only the Stones Survive: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

overnight, or so it seemed, the splendid garments of the Gaelicians grew shabby. They had nothing to offer the Sea People in return for more bright silks and fine linen. Without enough cattle to trade with other tribes, the adherents of the Míl were reduced to exchanging jewelery of the finest workmanship for real necessities such as beans and barley. At the summer market, their nearest neighbors, the Astures, gave them one sack of mouldy wheat for two massive gold arm rings and went away laughing.
    Astures! Men who stooped to plant seeds in the earth! Éremón still shuddered at the remembered humiliation. And the cruel barbs Odba had slung at him when he returned home with so little to show for his efforts. She did not even prepare a welcoming feast for him—and Éremón was a man who loved his food. He was famed for eating right- and left-handed.
    Mílesios, his immediate family, and his far-flung dependants were all desperate to regain their lost prosperity. In common with people everywhere, they accepted myths as historic truth. One of these, related long ago by a patriarch called Bréoghan, involved an island he had glimpsed from the top of a watchtower at the harbor. He had claimed to see a lush green island of incomparable beauty floating on the northern horizon, a rich sweet land of honey and harvests where gold glittered in the streams.
    Bréoghan’s own people did not believe him, but the Phoenician traders with whom they did business believed. A few even claimed to have visited the island. Yet they were reluctant to go into any detail about the place they called Ierne. They spoke of it in hushed tones and insisted they would never go back. Their reaction added a delicious shiver of fear to the tale, which was repeated from one generation to the next until Ierne became little more than a tale to frighten children.
    Yet when the pangs of poverty bit deep, the Míl and his kin began to speculate in earnest. What if Ierne was real? A land like that would offer the opportunity they needed, if only they could reach its shores and start anew.
    Centuries earlier, a branch of the Celtic race had undertaken a similar migration, leaving the dark forests of northern Europe in search of a better life. Known as the Gael, they had dispersed along the western edge of the continent. The Gaelic ancestors of the Mílesians had even crossed the Pyrenees on their way to their current homeland.
    What sort of courage, Éremón had asked himself, did it take for men to pack up their families and all they possessed and journey into the unknown?
    Now he knew. Not courage but desperation.
    And Sakkar had appeared at just the right time. Unless of course they were mistaken about the Phoenician and he was a harbinger of disaster …
    Again Éremón reined in his wandering thoughts. His eyes were still fixed on the image on the horizon. Why was he finding it so hard to concentrate? The riches of Ierne would not be denied to him … putting two fingers into his mouth, he gave a shrill whistle. He raised his other arm and pointed toward his discovery. The gesture was intended for those on board the other galleys and the accompanying flotilla of hide-covered coracles. The two best-appointed galleys carried the families and possessions of the sons of the Míl, together with the brehon judges whose heads contained the laws of the tribe. Members of lesser Gaelician clans were in the other two galleys, crowded among crates of supplies and sacks of grain for planting.
    Freemen of the laboring class—often prisoners of war—were relegated to the round boats.
    Pushing Sakkar aside, Colptha the sacrificer thrust his face into his brother’s. “What do you think you’re doing, Éremón?” Colptha hissed. Even Scotta, who loved all of her sons, said talking with Colptha was like talking with a snake.
    “I’m taking us to Ierne, of course.”
    Colptha’s sardonic smile revealed a wide gap between his front incisors. In secret, he sharpened the