Work Text:
Whenever Senán recalled his earliest childhood days, these memories were always brightly coloured, limned in gold and fresh green, smelling of warm sunshine. Logic told him it couldn't have been an endless, cloudless summer, but even the remembered fragments that clearly were a part of another season, somehow carried the feel of that golden summer permeating them.
He was a happy child at that age of five or six summers, loving the people who were a part of his smallish - though to him, a grand and wide - world, and they all loved him, at least that was how it seemed to him.
Senán loved his mother, her shining golden hair and warm laugh. She loved him and taught him riddles and sang him songs and fed him with treats from the high table.
Senán loved his grandmother, his mother's mother, who everyone said was very wise and thus to be respected and also feared. But he loved her strong browned hands that soothed all his ills and the way the wrinkles around her eyes got even deeper when she smiled at him. And she loved him and took him to the meadow and the woods and to the boundaries of the places people are afraid to go - and rightly, she said, because you had to be wise and know things if you wanted to come back from there as well as you had gone in, but she taught him about the plants to gather, and what they were good for, and of the signs to look for and what they mean, in a man or a beast, if they are troubled or taken ill, and the things to do, the remedies to make, the words to say to help them. And she promised to him that one day he might be as wise as she, or even wiser, if he listened and watched the world around him and took care to learn.
He loved his sister, Brigit, slim and quick, eight summers older than him, loved her high clear voice and her nimble step. She loved him and played hide and seek with him and petted his hair. She was always singing when working, and when their fathers musicians struck up a dance tune, she would pull him along and patiently teach him how to move to the music.
He loved his big brother, Domnall, tall and ruddy with red hair like Senáns, ten summers his elder and almost a man grown, already wide at the shoulders, his father's pride and the fastest and strongest of the young men whom he would one day lead. And his big brother loved him, and threatened the boys who had mocked Senán for following his grandmother along instead of joining their games of war and tussling, and took Senán to sit with him at the high table to listen to the songs of the bards and to the stories the visiting monks told, of the lives of the saints and their wisdom and the miracles they'd performed, and of the heroes of old, of their wars and deeds and of the fame, the women, the cattle and other riches they'd won. And afterwards, Domnall would tousle his hair and whisper him promises, how when he would be famous and rich like those heroes, he would not be stingy to spend those riches to also send his clever little brother to the most famed monastery to learn from the most esteemed wise men all that they could teach, and one day Senán would be the storyteller everyone listened to at the hall where Domnall sat at the high table as the chief of them all, like his father did now.
He loved his lord father, who was big and strong and worthy to be a king even if he just ruled over some few villages and a smattering of fighting men, as he was said to be of the blood of the ancient High King Niall of the Nine Hostages, descended from his son Conall Gulban himself, and his cattle was at least as numerous and far finer than his dungheap's dog of a neighbors who claimed descent from Gonall's brother Eógan. And his lord father loved him, for he gave him a place in his hall and protected him - this is what his mother said; and while his father was known for his quick and frightful temper and heavy hand, he had never turned that anger at Senán - and if his eyes slid over Senán as if he was not there, it was to be expected because great lords have to spend their attention on important matters, not children; and he had sent away the old serving woman who had frightened Senán with staring at him and making a warding sign and calling him a changeling and a demonspawn, even if she was very good at cooking. (“Why did she call me a changeling?” Senán had asked his grandmother, but all she'd said was, “Because she's stupid.“)
Senán loved his father's warriors and Fergus, his father's right hand and the quickest man with the spear, and they loved him, because they never mocked him and sometimes called him their little monk, when he was helping his grandmother with treating the injuries they'd gotten when winning fame and cattle to their lord (looking for trouble and going against the word of the God and the common sense, and the laws of the saints, was what grandmother said, but she said it later under her breath when drawing water at the well and Senán was wise enough to understand that this was something that wasn't to be said out loud in the great hall).
Senán loved also the monks who often came from the great monastery in Armagh to sit in his father's hall and bring the news and talk about important matters and important people with his lord father, and teach the laws and tell stories and sing beautiful songs to everyone allowed in to the great hall in the evening. Senán loved brother Colum, who knew all the laws, and the stories of the Saints, and brother Padraig, who could talk about the ancient heroes like Cú Chulainn and king Conchobar mac Nessa for days (if his cup was kept full), and brother Adomnan, who knew the cleverest riddles and could tell tales of the far away lands. And they loved him, as they told him their tales, and made no notice of him if he hid under the table to stay and listen on when other children were told to go out or to sleep. Brother Adomnan made Senán feel a bit uneasy at first, with his dark piercing eyes and a nose that made him look a bit like a hawk, and his habit of looking straight at Senán with a gaze that seemed to see inside his head, but on the other hand, brother Adomnan often came to talk to Senán’s grandmother, and she said he was not just wise, but also a sensible man, and thus Senán decided that he should maybe try to love brother Adomnan the most out of the three wise monks.
So he was happy, and the world was bright and full of great stories and beautiful things, and honey-gold promises of more of the same.
And then the colours bled out of his world.
It must have happened gradually, but looking back, it always seemed to him that there was a sharp divide between the endless golden summer and the bleak timelessness that followed.
It began with his mother leaving him - at one moment, in his memories, she was there singing to him, golden and with a huge belly where his little sibling was growing to be big enough to be born, to be loved and played with and protected by him same as he was by Domnall and Brigit. And the very next instant she was screaming, and screaming forever within the circle of women, past whom he could not see, and his world trembled. And then she was not screaming any more, and her grandmother's face was ashen, and the world became bleak and blurry as mother and his littlest brother were put in a cold grave next to the small wooden church.
Then one dim evening the two lads driving the cows home were late, and then it was dark, and they still weren't home. And in the gray morning drizzle they finally came, exhausted and bruised, and what was the worst, with three of the best beasts missing, for the young men of the Cenél nEógain had ambushed them and made off with the cows. And amid the yelling and cursing and his father's roaring and all the young men of Cenél Conaill swearing revenge and loudly bragging about their plans, and women wailing and Senán’s grandmother busy with the hapless cowherds, it took another day for anyone to notice that Brigit was also missing.
The cows were kept close to the village, and men sent out with the cowherds, and after a few weeks, Domnall went out with a party of young men, and came back a few days later with their three cows and two others that were not from their herd. Most of the men were jubilant and the young women looked admiringly at Domnall and his friends, and Senán’s father allowed that the two extra cows were fine animals and in the evening there was eating and drinking in the great hall, and brother Padraig told the great tale of the Cattle Raid of Cooley and the men shouted that it was the best retelling that they had ever heard. But Senán’s world was still washed out gray, and his grandmother was grim with treating one of the Domnall’s youths, and brother Adomnan slipped away from the high table, through the shadows, to stare tightlipped at the wound together with the old woman, and somewhere a woman was wailing as she was told that her son would perhaps live, god willing, but he was going to be a cripple for the rest of his life.
And then the Cenél nEógain youths made an attempt to get their cows back, but they were clumsy, and loud, and unprepared for the many men they found guarding the cattle, and were forced to retreat shamefully to the shower of insults, stones and a thrown spear, that by sheer luck (ill-luck, Senán’s grandmother had muttered) had hit one of them, apparently well enough so that his friends had to carry him away.
A long, quiet winter followed, and it was generally believed - and said loudly enough, especially in the evening when the cups had been refilled a few times - that the craven cow-thieving bastards had had enough and knew now that it was futile to dream they could challenge the might of the Cenél Conaill. And if Brigit was still missing, then the two good cows were perhaps a suitable enough compensation, and when brother Adomnan brought word that the spear-stricken man from Cenél nEógain had died, it was considered a fair payback for the young man who had survived to limp painfully on his half-withered leg. Senán would have doubted whether the cripple got any relief from the death of another or whether a cow was a fair exchange for a sister who was never talked about (though grandmother got up and left every time when young people struck up a dance or a tune), but it felt as if there was a heavy cold stone in his belly and he was so tired of lugging it around, and anyways, nobody asked him.
But next spring, when the cows were chasing the new green and the guard had grown lax, the nEógain clansmen came, and went, and with them went ten cows. And Domnall was carried home with a spear wound in his belly, and although it was a bright spring, it was three dark days that it took him to die.
A week after Domnall had been buried, Senán’s lord father hit him for the first time when he was too clumsy in filling his cup, and cursed the god that had taken his son and only left him a changeling child. Brother Colum reproached him for the blasphemy, and Senán’s father had his men throw him out. Brother Adomnan drew Senán away and took him to his grandmother, who never smiled any more and whose hands often trembled, and told Senán to stay out of the sight of his father.
A month after Domnall had been buried, it was Midsummer and all over the land, people were celebrating. But on Midsummer Eve, the men of Cenél Conaill went out, with Senán’s father leading them.
They returned a few days later. With them they brought two dozen cows, a handsome bull, a dark-haired girl and Brigit. Two men that had set out did not return, and a third one died of his wounds the day after. At the feast in the evening, Senán’s lord father declared the dark-haired girl his new wife (“She is of noble blood and will give me good sons!“) and men claimed the cattle was the best of the beasts that could be, but the boasting was half-hearted, the feast subdued and short of grand stories as brother Padraig had left with brother Colum and brother Adomnan was away, tending the wounded together with Senán's grandmother, who seemed increasingly frail. At the great table, the dark-haired girl shivered quietly and when Senán’s father turned away, looked at him with bitter hate. Next to her sat Brigit, with a huge belly and a very straight back. Fergus was sitting by her, an arm around her, his hand fondling her breast, smiling at her like he was hungry and she was a feast. She didn't shiver, but she didn't speak a word and her eyes were empty, staring rigidly ahead.
Next morning, they found Brigit in the well.
Fergus and father were yelling at each other and Senán tried to make himself small, because he couldn't hope to get past them to the door, or maybe he could? And then a dog yelped because he had stepped on its tail when trying to back away and the men turned and looked at him. “Changeling,” his father said, and his eyes were scaring Senán, and he knew he should run, but the world was colourless and far away and he couldn't find his way back into it.
And then the men of Cenél nEógain came. There was yelling, and screaming, and Senán was running, though he wasn't sure where and he turned to look and the great hall was burning, yet the world was still void of colour and all the sound seemed to be far far away. Someone was grabbing him, lifting him and carrying him away, and he knew that he should fear, fight, try to get away, but it seemed easier to do nothing, just not to be, so he closed his eyes and gave in to the feeling of numbness.
He remembered what seemed an endless chain of days, sitting on a shaggy horse with brother Adomnan. The horse was doggedly plodding along. Senán had no words and no thoughts in him and brother Adomnan was silent. He was also warm and Senán pressed closer to him.
“Am I a changeling,” he remembers asking (did I do this, is it because of me, did I do something wrong, did I fail to do something right, am I a wrong thing).
The answer came days later, or maybe it only felt like that to him.
“Your father wasn't your father by blood, nor did your mother give birth to you. But your mother loved you, her little foundling, to her you were the gift God gave her after her child died. To your grandmother, you were the world and a hope of the future. Your father was proud of you, before in his grief and his madness he forgot that he loved you too, the same as he had loved those he lost. Does this make you a changeling? Or maybe a boy who is the only one to keep the memories of the ones that loved him?”
The sea smelled of salt and the seagulls screamed, and the wonder of that and the sleekness of the fishing boat bobbing up and down amidst the waves was almost enough to slightly dispel the dull fog that seemed now to be ever present between him and the world. The sea was green, now grey, now with a blue tint, and the sky between the clouds reflected the same muted colours back and seemed endless.
“Where are we going?“ a newly stirring spark of curiosity had prompted him to ask.
“You are going somewhere where you can maybe find out who you are. Or who you want to become, “ brother Adomnan had said.
Brother Adomnan, wrapping Senán up in a warm cloak that smelled of him (woodsmoke and something slightly bitter and foreign and yet the only familiar smell he remembered) and carrying him into the boat. Brother Adomnan standing on the shore, growing smaller and smaller. (“Who is brother Adomnan?” he'd once asked the good abbot Ailell, years later.
“Ah? A fellow traveler, “ the abbot had answered, nodding,” A fellow traveller in this world where we are all looking for the right path,“ and smiled.)
When the island rose up in front of him, and he staggered ashore, looking wide eyed at the huge enclosure and the many wattle and daub houses clustering around a green mound with a tall cross, the colours of the world seemed still muted, but they were there, as if timidly waiting for him to see them again. The wise abbot Aileill stood tall and imposing, looking down at him, and he was half intimidated into silence when the abbot asked for his name (and I have no name, do I, Senán was just something that wasn't mine, but a thing stolen, or maybe borrowed, same as the mother's love, from a dead child I never knew), so all he could do was shake his head. But the abbot had smiled then, and his eyes had crinkled and somehow his smile had been like grandmother's, when she still had smiled. And the abbot had held a crying boy and told him that it didn't matter if he came nameless to the Abbey, that many found their new names and their place under the Gods heaven there, and called him Sean, and said that it was a good name, as it meant God's grace, a gift of God.
“A gift for whom?” he'd asked (wasn't I a curse, not a gift, a useless foundling, a cuckoo in the nest where the others died?).
The abbot had smiled again. “Why, God's gift to you. Your soul, your being, your heart, given in love to you to decide with your free will what you are going to make from that gift.”
And that was when Sean felt that he wasn't a child any more, for to carry a responsibility so great, a gift so enormous that was both frightening and exhilarating, he had to learn to become a man.
He wasn't sure how, and he hoped he would not fail in this task, but one thing he knew and clung to - he knew he wanted above all to be a man of peace.