The hearth-fire crackled brightly, In the circle round of upturned faces, Brows blood-crimson in the dancing flames, Leathery wrinkles shadow furrowing, Beards waggling as jaws clench. Conn glanced for friendly features Among the assembled chieftains. There was wide Sean from the North, Brian the Boar, hands glistening with meat-juice, Curach Silverhands, Bron of the Dog And even Timaon of the Salmon, Yet none cast a smile at brave Conn. Sternest of all was Sluatha, King, Legs thrust out wide and hand on thigh. “Why do you intrude, Oath-breaker?”, Voice but a growl as the words spat onto the floor.
Then stood Conn the bold square before the door. Collum knew well that Conn would pass his way. Well he knew the words of truth, Born from happier times, free from fear, Times when Druid or Bard would wander The land's long length, Their words alone, safe passage. A decision made, his spear was raised And his arm outstretched for Conn to take. Then both men stood arm to arm, The warmth of battle-brothers firing their hearts, The joy of ale to come and bread in the stew, The tales of old memory flowing free As a spring's sun-filled bubbles. "Enter within, friend," said Collum. "You'll find all at feast in the clan-hall."
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Animal movements rustling in the dark, Snuffling and bleats told Conn where he was. Low walls of rough stone surrounded Dark shapes of wattle, mud and thatch Enwreathed in night-time fire smoke As noises of tired people drifted on the air. In the centre around a warm, ruddy glow The largest dark shape loomed in front of him, A sharp mound deeping against the stars. Conn strode to the door, ancient wood ajar, And halted he there to find his centre. Decision of a sudden, he thrust out his hand Striding forward from chill air into warm air, From warm comradeship into chill stares.
Tall and straight, Collum the Warden, Gate-keeper, stalwart and worthy. Fair braids tumbling onto shoulders broad, Spear-shaft strong in steady hand, Holding its point to Conn's proud heart. "Whither goest thou?" in voice of thunder, "And whence have you come?" Conn's eye-hair raised in unspoken question And he paused a while - an emerald fire. "Know you me well, Collum of the gate. We have stood shoulder to shoulder On the line of rending death. We have called loud to the same gods And broken our fast at the same board. Why do you ask me such?" Then Collum the Tall, bending his head With shame-glimmers flashing through his eyes: "'Tis the Word of the King, old friend, That none enter whom he hath not named. I know of your worth, as does he, But for the mead... I have said too much." Then stood Conn to the ground, tired feet Squelching in the mud of a host's passing, His eyes straying through the gate At the flickering light beyond. Then smiled he at Collum and clapped Hand to tired shoulder. "Tell me, my friend, have the old laws Of guesting and fire fallen by the way? Is a tale or words from afar No longer the price of a meal! These are the gifts I bear, spear-brother, And I can give them to none but the King."
Trees waving proud in full leaf, The ground wet and deep beneath hoof, The wind rushing from a screaming sky Howling with the pounding and heavy breath Of the moss-brown stallion, heaving and sweating. Lightning sparks flying from stones As iron-shod hooves dance up the hill Towards the mound, the dun, black against the sky. Conn the Black, he of a thousand battles, Thrice blessed and thrice cursed, Son of Donan, son of Crom the Red, Hailing from the Westmarches, Deep within the marsh mists, Fey-friend and wielder of the Flaming Brand, Bending forward into the stallion's whipping mane, His breath ragged, his hair crow-dark with life of its own His eyes warm glowing with emeral fire. Urgent, he urged Blackmane on His message a sword cutting the threads of time. Two paths spread from this moment - The message the cross-roads. Urgent was the news, urgent for ears to fly to. The lips of brave Conn trembled, Trembled to let loose the fateful words, His heart beating pace with hammering hooves.
Long have I stood, watching the trees, The Skies ever-changing, the grass around my toes, Living and ever-living, undying The Voice of the Ages. I tell the story of Men, Of the sons and daughters of men, Some long forgotten, others etched in stone. I am the song of the breeze Amongst the waving meadowsweet. I am the voice of the heart unsung, The harp unstrung, the plan undone. Three songs have I sung in ancient times: The song of the battle on the plains of blood, Where men stood, died and stood again; The song of the long-armed and the silver king, When the champion's cup was passed around; The song of the Hound, the Hound from the North, With chariots thundering in a cloud of dust. These songs have I sung, yet more are to be. The tale of Conn, thrice renowned; Conn the Black, with heart pure as thistledown, Son of Donan, son of Crom the Red, A tale that grew in the telling, Told by the bards that tasted the blood Spraying like spittle from dying heroes. From heart to hand the song takes its flight And now it is my geas To loose the music from my harp, As the words come stumbling into trembling song, Building a swell of saga - a tale to be told.
