The Greener Shore Read Online Free PDF Page B

own, described the druids as ignorant savages who worshipped trees. A Roman simplification for simple minds.
    Trees are a visible representation of the sacred forces of wind and water and sun. Their shapes conform to the wind that swirls around them; their roots drink from the breast of Mother Earth; their arms are lifted in supplication to the Great Fire of Life. Therefore we worship
among
trees and
with
trees. Our reverence, like that of the trees themselves, is directed toward the Source of All Being.
    The Source has many faces, each a living embodiment of its power. Sun and moon and fire and water are sacred to us as aspects of the Source. When we offer appropriate sacrifices to them the Source sees. And knows.
    That Which Watches.
    The Romans, on the other hand, adore statues. It is not the marble they worship, however, but human images hacked out of the stone. They bow down before gods and goddesses they have made for themselves—and can unmake just as easily.
    Slumping down in the boat, I pulled up my hood and retired to the world inside my head. My imagination created a tree-covered island set like a jewel in the sea. A place where no one ever grew weary in his spirit. Druid magic, as strong as it ever had been, lay like stardust across the hills.
    Time passed while I drowsed and dreamed. The sea heaved around us but I was secure on my island. There are times when the contents of our heads are all we have.
    “Ainvar!” cried Briga from some great distance. “
Do
open your eyes and look!”
    She sounded exasperated. I must have been asleep for a long time. Rubbing my eyes, I sat up and followed her pointing finger.
    A band of richest green lay on the horizon. Never in my life had I seen such an intense color. I thought it was part of my dream until Goulvan said, “There it is, that’s Hibernia.”
    In the language of Latium, my head reminded me,
hibernus
meant “wintry.” Suddenly I was wide-awake. “The Romans named this place,” I cried, “so they’ve been here after all! Cormiac, acquaint this man with your blade again and make him tell us the truth.”
    Druids may not always recognize lies, but they know the truth when they hear it.
    Cold iron is persuasive. With the edge of Cormiac’s sword pressing against his throat, Goulvan revised his story. “The Romans may have known about this land for, ah, quite some time. They purchase native goldwork and pay high prices for certain giant hounds that are bred here, the largest dogs in the world.”
    “Go on,” I ordered through clenched teeth. “There’s more to this than trade. How did the island come by its name?”
    “A Roman expeditionary party came here a few years ago seeking a site for a garrison. They sailed from Albion in late autumn, or so I was told, and made landfall in terrible weather. Howling gales and icy rain. The Romans hated the island on sight. Albion was cold and wet; they weren’t looking for more of the same.”
    “Cold and wet,” I repeated. “Yet you described Albion to us as a paradise.”
    Goulvan rolled his eyes. “You have to expect a trader to exaggerate a little! Anyway, the small party of Romans ran into a large tribe of belligerent natives who called themselves the Iverni. To Roman ears this sounded like ‘Hiberni.’ The coincidence suited the scouts perfectly. They hurried back to Albion to report that the island to the west was called ‘Hibernia’ because winter lasted all year. They claimed the island would not support a garrison.
    “The Roman commander, whose supply lines were stretched to the utmost already, was willing to take their word for it. So this island was spared invasion. There are no Romans here, Ainvar. I swear it.”
    Perhaps not. But we Gauls were.
    Unlike the Roman expeditionary party, we reached Hibernia in late spring on a day of dazzling sunshine. As we drew near the shore, my eyes informed me that even Gaul had nothing to surpass the verdant luxuriance of the land the Romans had rejected.