Deirdre sits in the little apartment of hers, her hands moving over sheets of paper, pencil grasped tightly in her fingers.  The graphite makes little scratching sounds across the grainy white paper.  Her nose is inches from the page.  She flips the pencil over, erasing furiously.  She returns to making a few more sketches.  Her teeth clench.  She grabs the paper, rips it from the sketch pad, balls it up, and tosses it among the graveyard of similarly crumpled balls.  As she works her mind drifts, her movements almost purely on auto-pilot.  Her thoughts skip and jump, drift and swim, moving through murky depths and airy vistas.  She dives into the past and skirts about the present, and touches the evanescent threads of the future.  

She hears her grandmother's voice, the lilting Irish accent.  Deirdre's not sure what she's saying.  It's more an impression of a voice than actual words.  She used to spend afternoons with her grandmother.  When she came home and Da was too drunk, and she didn't want to wake him up because she knew he'd be angry, and Cayden wasn't there to protect her.  So she'd walk the few blocks to her grandmother's small apartment that smelled of dust and flour and faintly of old urine.  She hears her grandmother's voice now.  She can't make out the words though.  But out of that comes something else, something deeper.  Something beyond words.  Maybe she doesn't need to hear the words to piece together the memories, to put together the puzzle of the past.  The voice is no longer her grandmother's.  Or, more correctly, it's more than that.  It's grown into something wider and more ancient.  And in that voice, echoing of eons and eternities and a time before time, in that voice whose words she cannot remember, she hears a story.

In her homeland, history and myth are one.  That's always been the odd, magical thing about Ireland.  Most who style themselves as true historians have been frustrated by it.  Unlike the French or the English, those who attempted to put together a written history almost from the outset, the history of Ireland is a piecemeal collection of tales and legends with only a murky relation to "real facts." It's one of the excuses the English made for judging the Irish as "uncivlized" -- they didn't understand the meaning of "true history."  Even today, to those who are truly Irish, history and legend are one.  They speak of the great kings and heroes -- Connachar Mac Nessa, Fenn Mac Cuil, Cuchulain -- as though they'd once lived, as if their semi-mythical reigns were as important and significant as the politics of the modern era.  There is no difference between what wasn't, what was, and what might have been.  It is not that the Irish have forgotten the facts, or that they never knew them to begin with.  Its simply that they don't really care.  Because they understand that the spirit of the past, the spirit that can only be captured in myth and legend, is just as important, if not moreso, than the real facts of events.

And now, from that ancient voice, the grandmother who is not quite her grandmother anymore but who is the voice of the ages, the voice of the storytellers and bards and druids, Deirdre hears her story, the story of her name.  The story of a legend older than Lancelot and Guinevere by at least six-hundred years, older even than Tristan and Isolde by two centuries or more.  The tale is a part of her blood, somehow, as surely as it is a part of her name.  Maybe that's the thing.  She remembers the words of her grandmother now, very particularly.  The old story that a name is not given to a person, but a person is given to a name...

In the ancient days, before Patrick came to Eire, before Caesar ever set foot upon Britannia, there was a forester and his wife, who had been childless for years.  They had paid the proper sacrifices, they had the right prayers to the old gods and fae folk who lived in the mounds of the sidhe.  But their sacrifices and prayers came to naught.  Until one cold winter night, an old man came knocking at the door to their cottage, begging for shelter from the biting frost.  In exchange, he offered to read their wyrd, their fortunes.  He cast his stones and he told the couple thus:  The gods had seen their prayers, and would grant them a child come spring.  Not just any child, but the fairest, most beautiful woman the island had ever seen, even more beautiful than the fabled queens of the sidhe who rode out from their barrows to join their noble faerie-lords in hunt.  But her beauty would come at a price.  For at her sake, the island would be washed in blood, death would follow in her wake, and would see sorrow and tragedy that it had never seen before, nor would ever see again in the ages to come.  They would name the child Deirdre.

But the couple hardly heeded the warning; they were elated that their wishes would finally be granted.  The forester's wife grew round with child, and by spring she gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.  But all the while the old man's prophecy had weighed on the forester.  Yet once he saw his daughter, he could not bring himself to kill her.  So, while his wife was sleeping he bundled up the child and took her into the woods, to an old herb-woman who lived as a hermit in the forest.  He gave the baby to the woman and bade her to keep the child safe, and to never let her see the face of man.  The woman owed the forester a favor from years past, and she took on this duty.  The forester left, and his wife died of grief shortly after.  It was not long before the heartbroken forester, bereft of daughter and wife, soon followed.

This was the first sorrow of Deirdre.

Under the protection of the old woman, she grew to childhood, and then to adolescence, and from adolescence into the spring flowering of her womanhood.  She was taught the names of flowers and the languages of birds.  She was taught how to call the forest animals by name and to persuade fruits to blossom.  All the while, the woman watched over her and made sure she never came to see the face of man.  For even the old woman could see that Deirdre was the most beauteous creature that had ever graced the earth, even more beautiful than the faerie queens.  She had skin like the white reflection of the moon in winter, and hair the rich red of a warrior's burnished armor blazing in the sun.  Her green eyes outbid the foamy waves of the sea, and her voice was more beautiful than the flowing laughter of the Shannon.

Yet the old woman knew in her heart that it could not be long before the inevitable would happen, and Deirdre would be brought into the world of men.  Already, in the distance of the forests, Deirdre had heard the blaring horns and barking hounds of the hunting warriors as they sprang through the forest.  The old woman told her they were but the wild hunts of the faerie-lords, and that she must not seek them out lest she be stolen away into the barrow sidhes for a thousand years.

One night during high summer a great storm came upon suddenly and ravaged the forest.  The old woman had been away upon an errand in the nearby village, and as she did when she was away, she left Deirdre in the small hut they lived in.

Now it was that upon that night, there had been a band of warriors from the court of king Connachar Mac Nessa hunting in the forest, and one of the band had been separated from his fellows when the storm came up.

As Deirdre sat near the fire a call came at the door.  Thinking it was an animal of the forest or a bird seeking shelter, she opened the door to find a tall man in mail standing there.  She gazed at him long, wondering in puzzlement over who what manner of creature he could be -- was he one of the fey lords who the old woman said hunted in the forest?

He requested a food and a seat by the fire, and Deirdre in her kindness granted him his request.  She questioned him as to his nature, and he chuckled.  No, he was no faerie-lord, but a man, sworm to Connachar of Ulster.  Just then the old woman came back, and she was aghast that a man had found his way into the hut.  She let him stay in the shelter for the night, but only so long as he swore to never speak of what he had seen to anyone.  The warrior, though he glanced at Deirdre throughout the night and was much taken by her beauty, promised the old woman.

In the morning, the warrior left the hut and went straight to his lord Connachar and told him how he had found the most beautiful woman in Ireland.  He told his king of the beauties of Deirdre.  Though Connachar was old and had been oft-married before, he was smitten by the mere descrïption of her splendor.  Girding himself in his most regal armor and mounting upon his chariot inlaid with gold, he had the warrior lead him and his warriors to the hut of Deirdre and the old woman.

The old woman came out to greet the king, but bade Deirdre stay back in the hut.  Connachar told her he had come to take Deirdre's hand in marriage.  The old woman refused.  Connachar replied that he was a king, she but an old herb-woman, she had not authority to withold Deirdre from him.  The old woman answered that she had the authority of a solemn oath, worth more in word than the king was in flesh.  In anger, Connachar drew his sword and slew the old woman.  Deirdre stood back, aghast, as the king's men surrounded her.  Stunned awe, fear, and grief, the men loaded her silently onto the king's chariot, and she was taken to Connachar's castle in Ulster.

This was the second sorrow of Deirdre.

And so, Deirdre was taken to Ulster, to the castle of King Connachar, son of Nessa.  She had never seen the buildings of man, save for the small hut of the old woman, and she was both awed and frightened by these high stone walls and the armed men who walked their halls and ramparts.  But she did not let the king see this awe, nor the fear she held.

Deirdre was dressed in the finest gowns of the kingdom, green velvet like the emerald of the rolling hills, that set off her burnished hair.  She was dressed and brought before Connachar.  He demanded her hand in marriage, for he was a king and he could make such demands.  But Deirdre, knowing nothing of man knew nothing of kings, and these words were empty to her ears.  Connachar was enraptured with the girl, and would not take her by force.  He implored her -- showered her with gifts and jewels and gowns and promises of the power she would have as his queen.  But Deirdre refused; she was a strong woman though innocent of the wiles of man, and clever with the natural cunning of the wild.  So she made a promise to him -- that she could not marry him, for she hardly new him.  If he would wait a year, she would give him her answer.

So Deirdre was locked away in the castle.  It was not a hard imprisonment, for she was allowed to wander the gardens and parks and beautiful chambers of the castle.  She was given ladies to wait upon her, and who taught her the harp and the flute and spoke of the great honor Connachar was doing her by asking her hand in marriage.  And Connachar would dine with her, and have great feasts and dances and celebrations in her name to woo her.  Yet she was not taken by these attempts to win her hand.  And slowly these ploys grew weary on her, and she langoured in the joyful halls of Connachar's castle, devoid with joy of her own.

This was the third sorrow of Deirdre.

Then one day as she was sitting upon one of the high green hills near to the castle, there passed three men walking on the road below to the castle gate.  They were dressed like regal warriors, with torcs of honor about their arms and necks.  They were the sons of Uisnech:  Allan and Arden and the eldest and strongest and most beautiful, Naoise.  Already her heart soared at the sight of the noble Naoise, and she knew that he must be her anam cara, her soul mate.  She ran down the hill calling to him, and her voice was so beautiful that first he thought it must be a swan upon the nearby lake, before he saw the girl.  

Deirdre ran up to him and placed three kisses upon his brow, and swore that she had seen no man more handsome and fair than he.  For his part, Naoise had never seen any girl so beautiful nor so bold as Deirdre.  He had heard tell of her, the captive beauty of Connachar's court, and even then his heart had ached at the pitiful tale of her imprisonment.  As those lips touched his it was as though a druid's spell had fallen upon him, or a faerie arrow had struck him, and Deirdre became the sole desire and focus of his heart.  Turning to his two brothers he told them his plan then and there:  to take Deirdre away from the covetous king, and to be one with her.  His brothers warned him against the wrath of Connachar, but even they were touched by Deirdre's pain, and by the sudden love of their brother for her.

So it was that Naoise and his brothers took Deirdre away from Connachar's castle.  And the king was much enraged by their boldness.  He devised a plan to draw Naoise and his brothers to him and to slay them, and win back Deirdre.  He would invite them a great feast for all the nobles and warriors of the realm, and he would pledge to make peace with them.  Only he plotted murder in his heart.

So he sent out his invites, and when the messenger arrived, a dark shadow fell over Deirdre's heart.  For ill-tidings had come to her in a dream.  Naoise, though a warrior, was a proud man too as are all warriors, and he could not reject the invitation.  Deirdre warned him of the dream of doom she had seen.  She could not believe that Connachar had any good planned for Naoise.  And she sang to him:

"I had a dream, O Naoise, son
    of Uisnech,
A dream for you to read.
On the warm south wind
    flew three white doves
Soaring over the sea.
Bearing in their beaks what
    every child loves.
Sweet nectar from the humble bee.

"I had a dream, O Naoise, son
    of Uisnech,
A dream for you to read.
On the cold north wind
    flew three grey hawks
Soaring across the sea.
Bearing in their beaks three
    bloody torcs
That meant the world to me."


But Naoise did not heed Deirdre's warning, and anyway, he swore, if Connachar had any treachery planned, he would face it head-on and strike the wicked king down with all his strength.  So, despite her fearful heart, Deirdre accompanied Naoise to Connachar's castle, and they were welcomed and housed like honored guests.

Now there was one in Connachar's castle, a warrior by the name of Gelban, who had once been a childhood friend of Naoise but who had over time grown greedy and hateful.  And Connachar came to him, and promised him great riches and torcs of gold if he would kill Naoise.  Gelban promised to do the deed for the king, and he went to Naoise's chambers.  Naoise was much pleased to see his old friend, and the two warmly embraced.  But as the two warriors clapped each other on the back, Gelban pulled a dagger from his belt and plunged it into Naoise's heart.  Deirdre screamed as she watched her lover collapse to the floor, gasping for breath.  Yet Gelban had no heart to see his old friend die, nor hear the grief of the woman, and he went to tell Connachar that his deed was done.

When Connachar came to gather Deirdre, he found her slumped over the body of her lover, crying out her lamentations:

"O Naoise, my most beautiful warrior.  Never shall I forget the moment we met, the night-tide of your long black hair, nor the lake-ripples of your blue eyes.  From this moment I am no longer able to eat or drink or sleep.  From this moment I shall never raise a smile to any joy of the world.  May my heart not break on this day, for sea-tides of our everyday sorrows are strong, but I am sorrow itself."

This was the fourth sorrow of Deirdre.

Now when Allan and Arden heard of their brother's death, they raised up their voices and waged war upon Connachar.  Yet the king's forces were vast and the sons of Uisnech could hardly hope to match them.  With swords and spears they assailed the castle, and Connachar unleashed his army.  There below the walls of the castle the two brothers fought, and they were as strong and valient as a hundred of Connachar's men.  They slew men by the thousands, though pierced by many arrows and spear-thrusts.  The blood of vengeance ran hot in their veins and it was as if the gods had given them their might.  Blood washed the hills of Ulster and painted the walls of the castle.  But the strength of all men must finally wane, and after days of fighting Allan and Arden were slain, one over the other's corpse, and their bodies were taken and dragged about the castle and placed on pikes high upon the wall.

This was the fifth sorrow of Deirdre.

King Connachar did not heed her grief, and he took Deirdre by force and had her married to him.  But Deirdre's pledge was true:  never did she smile, not for the sweetest song.  Never did she touch food to her lips or drink to parch her throat, and she began to waste away.  Though her body faded her beauty never did.  Just so, her beauty seemed to be all the more striking for the sorrow and grief that lay about her.  And though Connachar tried to coax her to bed, she would not go.  King Connachar was old, and he could muster up neither the strength nor the will to take her by force.  If anything, even his heart had begun to soften at the sorrows of the woman.  Yet this only made him angry, that a mere woman could bring remorse upon a king.  And she she gave her away, to Gelban.

Gelban had grown rich under the king's gifts, yet as the king's own heart was weighed down by Deirdre, Gelban found himself out of the king's favor.  Riches he had gained, but not prestige or the king's good favor.  He was now known only as a kinslayer and a brigand.  And so he took Deirdre as a gift from the king, for he knew nothing that could sate the hunger of his heart.  Though her hair hung lank, and her skin sallow, and her eyes were red with tears and lack of sleep, Deirdre still was a beauty to behold.  But she would go to Gelban's bed as readily as she had to Connachar's.  Yet unlike Connachar, Gelban's hunger knew no bounds, and he was a man hot in youth and vigor.  And so when Deirdre would not come to him willingly, he took her against her will.  And he threw her upon the floor of the chamber and he raped her.  But he soon realized the poisoned gift that Connachar had given him:  for he could gain no pleasure even from the taking of Deirdre, for she merely lay there, limp, eyes turned away as he ravaged her.

This was the sixth sorrow of Deirdre.

Gelban could take no pleasure from Deirdre, but he was too proud to release her.  The spoiled gift of Connachar was better than no gift at all.  And he took Deirdre from the castle and to his own house, to lock her away with all the other treasure the king had given him.  He loaded her upon his chariot, and they began the journey across the emerald hills and wooded valleys, bright with life and yet empty in the wake of grief and rage.

It had been, upon Naoise's death, that friends of his father had taken the body.  Connachar would not allow him to have the hallowed burial of warriors, and so they had taken him some distance from the castle and had placed him in a secret grave, marked with a cairn of stones.

Now, as Gelban drove Deirdre away, they passed the cairn.  And though Deirdre had never been told where her beloved was buried, something spoke out to her from the halls of death, and as she caught sight of the cairn of stones she knew her lover was buried there.  And one last spark of life filled her sorrow-stricken limbs, and like the deer leaping the brook, she tossed herself from Gelban's chariot and dashed her head upon the rocks of the cairn.

This was the seventh, and final, sorrow of Deirdre.

Deirdre was taken by the same friends of Naoise and buried next to him, for neither Connachar nor Gelban wanted her even in death.  And from the tombs two saplings sprouted, and as they grew, their limbs became entwined.  When Connachar heard of this the anger rose new in his heart and he had the trees cut down.  But they grew back, their limbs tangling inextricably.  And Connachar died and old, lonely man in his castle hall, with the knowledge of Naoise and Deirdre's undying love weighing heavily upon his heart.  And today the two trees still stand, though any other markings of the graves have gone, except those two symbols of the love and grief that moved the eons.  

--Last edited by Tara532 on 2008-12-16 14:13:47 --

Deirdre's pencil stops moving and she leans back in the chair, looking down at the sheet of paper.  She brushes slivers of rubbery pencil eraser shavings off the sheet.

An intricate circular Celtic knot spreads out over the page, loops and whorls twisting and intertwining.  There's no color yet, only the black-and-white of the pencil, but the knot appears to be woven out of pitted, rusted iron.  Drops of dark liquid dangle off the bottom edges of some of the threads of the knot.

Superimposed over the knot, in a similar twisting pattern of letters and shapes is a new monogramed logo:

Deirdre of the Sorrows