Chapter Text
“I cannot eat the flesh of a hare, you know that and they know that,” Deirdre said of the night before as she harvested leeks and cabbage with her friends, “I do not want my child born with a hare-lip.”
“Men,” Brìghid and Dearbhail said in concert, all of them sharing a look of annoyance.
Deirdre was close to fruition of her pregnancy and the cravings and the weight of her increasing belly were vexing her, together with the nights without sleep that were growing more frequent.
“Ailpean still has trouble with that, that there are things that a pregnant woman cannot eat,” said Eithne, “But he does his best. And at least my kindred are close around me; I have not gone hungry yet, with the goodwill of the Cailleach.”
“Aodh did the same thing,” Mór agreed, “I cannot complain.”
“And there’s no room to complain,” said Deirdre, her vexation ebbing, “My husband and his brothers are so patient with the outbursts, the tears without reason, the cravings, everything… I know not what I would do without you! You’re my sisters and I love you!”
“Deirdre of my heart…!” said Dearbhail fondly.
“We love you too, darling,” agreed Mór.
“Come-!” said Brìghid, embracing Deirdre, her own belly clearly pregnant again although smaller than that of Deirdre.
“Donnchadh!” Dearbhail scolded her son, Donnchadh, who was fighting with Gaiar.
“What’s the story of this fight?” exclaimed Deirdre, “How did this begin?”
“Gaiar hit me!” yowled Donnchadh, his face ruddy and his brown hair mussed.
“Donnchadh began it!” yelled Gaiar.
“I didn’t begin it!”
“He began it!”
“Enough of that, boys,” Dearbhail rebuked them with annoyance in her green eyes.
“Apologize to each other, now,” agreed Deirdre, “I do not want a fight between you.”
“I’m sorry,” Gaiar and Donnchadh muttered as one.
That was not good enough, it was empty. But before somebody could say anything else, Deirdre felt the pangs of childbirth. She grimaced.
“Mamma?” said Gaiar, watching her anxiously.
“Deirdre, what’s wrong?” asked Brìghid, her blue-grey eyes worried. She suspected that she knew but was still uncertain, “Is it the baby?”
Deirdre nodded her head, “Fetch Bébhinn, the baby’s coming!”
-----
They barely reached the cottage when the spasms hit increasingly hard, and Deirdre gritted her teeth, trying to keep from yelling.
“All right, Deirdre,” said Béibhinn, putting the birthing-chair beside the hearth where Dearbhail was boiling water in the cauldron, “We’re ready”.
“Where are the children?” Dearbhail asked Brìghid, “We left in a hurry.”
“Ùna and Mór are tending to them outside, they’re in good hands,” answered Brìghid as she and Eithne sat with Dèirdre.
“What has happened?” Ardán suddenly came inside, surprising them before he understood quicky and he saw the scene, “I’m sorry, ladies, I’ll tell Naoise and Ainnle! We’ll see to the children.”
With that, he left and the women could not help their surprised laughter, happy for the break in tension.
“If I wasn’t married already, he would be my husband,” chuckled Eithne, her blue eyes shining, “Why are the sons of Clan Uisneach so handsome?”
“I’m here,” said Mór, running into the cottage, her hands newly washed, “Many hands make for light work.”
Ùna followed, her eyes of hazelnut were resolute, “Warriors, let us prepare for the battle.”
-----
“Is Mamma all right, Papa?” asked Gaiar anxiously, leaving his play with Donnchadh and Fionnbharr for a moment.
“I know not, calf,” answered Naoise, equally anxious, turning his attention from his brother and the children, “Nobody knows until the birth comes to an end. We must pray to Bébhinn that your mother and the baby will be well.”
“But she’s with Mamma now,” said Gaiar, confused.
Naoise quickly understood and laughed a bit, “I’m speaking of the Goddess of birth, my son. My prayer that they will be safe. ‘Tis a coincidence that the midwife shares the same name with her.”
“Oh,” said Gaiar, smiling in understanding, “But when will we know?”
“Childbirth takes hours, calf, even more than a day,” Naoise said gently, “’Tis difficult and dangerous for the mother and the babe. We must prepare for the worst case and hope for the best case, as with anything.”
-----
“I can see the head, Deirdre,” Bébhinn said calmly between her knees, “You are doing well. Keep up with pushing.”
Sweat dripped from Deirdre and her knuckles were bright from the grip on the arms of the birthing-chair. She knew that this would not be as difficult as Gaiar’s birth, which lasted ten and twenty hours, but this was still difficult. She was only a girl when she bore Gaiar, now she was a woman, but it was still difficult and painful.
“This is almost finished, Deirdre,” said Eithne as she stood with Deirdre’s back against her own belly, supporting her through the birth, “You’re doing well, push-!”
“The bath is ready for your little one,” said Mór, raising her eyes from the tub, from which steam rose.
“O Béibhinn, I ask of You that my babe and I will survive and this pain will be past soon!” she thought agitatedly before she heard the squalling of a newborn.
-----
“Naoise,” called Dearbhail from the door, her auburn hair bursting from their plaits and her eyes tired but merry, “’T is a fair, healthy daughter!”
“’T is a daughter? I have a daughter?” said Naoise anxiously, “And what about my wife?”
“She’s tired, but there is nothing that you would not want,” Eithne answered behind Dearbhail, “Mother and child are well.”
“Papa,” asked Gaiar, “Is Mamma well?”
“Mamma is well, my calf,” Naoise told him in relieved joy, “And your sister is well also. You’re a big brother, now!”
“I have a sister?” asked Gaiar in wonder. Naoise nodded his head happily, “Yes, calf,” he said fondly, kissing his son before he turned attention to Dearbhail, “May we visit her yet?”
“Bébhinn must attend to her, because she has not born the afterbirth yet,” Dearbhail answered as Eithne ran into the house again at the squalling of the babe, “And we must wash the babe. I will let you know when you may come inside.”
As Dearbhail entered the house again, Naoise swept Gaiar into his arms, whirling with him, laughing before Ardán and Ainnle joined the joyous embrace, with the children dancing around their legs.
“The baby came?” asked Donnchadh and Fionnbharr.
“Are they well?” asked Dairearca, her blue eyes more sober.
“Yes, everything is wonderful, poppets!” said Ainnle.
-----
Deirdre rested exhaustedly on the bed, suckling her new daughter, watching her in amazement.
“You’re so radiant, like the sun,” she thought, giddy from ectsasy, “And thus I would think that that will be part of your name; I bestow upon you the name “Aebgreine”, like the sun.”
“You may come inside, now,” she heard Dearbhail at the door.
“Deirdre?” came Naoise’s voice.
“Mamma?” Gaiar followed closely.
“Such a fair little maiden!” Brìghid said about the babe.
Naoise watched her, with Gaiar in his arms, both amazed at the sight before them. This little maiden was only an hour of age and she was already fair.
Naoise kissed Deirdre’s brow lovingly, “Deirdre darling, how fair that you both are!”
Deirdre beheld them with a tired smile, “Gaiar, sweetheart, welcome your little sister,” she said, her voice husky from exhaustion, “She would like to meet you.”
“My little sister?” said Gaiar curiously, beholding this little maid in his mother’s arms, “But what about me?”
Deirdre and Naoise chuckled, “We haven’t forgotten you, calf,” Naoise said gently.
“Matters have changed with her, but we are not going anyplace, and we certainly are not leaving you, my darling,” Deirdre said with ineffable tenderness, “We love you too much, Gaiar of my heart.”
Gaiar advanced hesitantly, unsure of this little child, but he felt strangely protective toward her already in a way that he barely understood.
“Is she well?” he asked cautiously, for he had never seen a newborn.
“She is, indeed,” Deirdre said euphorically, “You were like this when you were born. Babes need us to protect them.”
“Babes are always delicate when they are born,” agreed Naoise, “We must be very careful with them. Can you do that?”
Gaiar beheld this girl, and she greatly resembled his mother although she had his father’s dark hair, and this made her bright, rosy face to glow like the sun.
“I like her,” he said naïvely.
“I would hope,” Deirdre and Naoise said merrily, almost as one.
“You did wonderfully, lass,” said Ùna, watching her warmly.
“And the lads did well, themselves, with the children,” agreed Mór, “Thank you many times over!”
“We would hope,” Ainnle crowed cheerfully, “They helped us to keep our senses.”
“Behold her,” said Ardán in awe, “She’s as radiant as her mother is… Oh Naoise, you have made beautiful children together!”
“She’s as bright as the sun,” Naoise said, overjoyed.
“But her hair is as black as yours, Papa,” said Gaiar.
“I know, calf,” Naoise chuckled.
“And incidentally, I would think that that would be perfect for her name; because we thought of the son when we saw her, I would think that the name “Aebgreine” would be perect for her.
Naoise was thoughtful for a moment but he smiled, “I like it. That suits her well.”
-----
Deirdre opened her eyes weakly, feeling heavy with fatigue, at the sound of Aebgreine crying, but she was relieved when she saw Naoise giving her to her.
“You were so tired and she was hungry; I didn’t want you to pull yourself to the cradle,” he said. Naoise was almost as tired as she, with dark rings under his eyes and his hair mussed in all directions, but he and his brothers knew that Deirdre was thoroughly exhausted. And she sensed the delicious odor of food. Was Ardán cooking?
“I cooked for you,” Mór said from the hearth, “I thought that you would need some help.”
“I thought that also,” said Dearbhail, putting a basket of fruits on the floor.
Deirdre sighed happily, again amazed at her good fortune.
-----
“Mamma,” said Gaiar, “When will Aebgreine be big enough to play?”
“That takes time, darling,” Deirdre crooned with Aebgreine on her lap, “She is only six months of age.”
“But I want to play,” he sighed in disappointment.
“Gaiar, my heart,” Deirdre said thoughtfully, wanting to shield them from the grim truth of the prophesy on herself as long as she could, “Would you do something for me? Would you promise that you will take good care of her? That you will take care of each other? You’re brother and sister, and you’re stronger together. Would you do that for me, darling of my heart?”
Gaiar smiled innocently, “I promise, Mamma.”
“Oh, thank you so much, calf of my heart!” Deirdre gasped softly, pulling him close, kissing his brow.
-----
“Come, sweetheart,” Deirdre eagerly encouraged, crouching with her arms open to her, “We’re here!”
“‘You can do it!” said Gaiar, ready to catch her if she seemed like she would fall.
“We’re all here,” encouraged Naoise, feeling tears prick his eyes.
After months of crawling, Aebgreine had begun to stand and now she was ready to try walking. Deirdre watched excitedly, her heart full and trying to control her tears. Her daughter was standing already and…
Did she see what she thought she was seeing? She was unsteady, but Aebgreine took a step. Deirdre was not mistaken; Aebgreine was taking her first steps!
Gaiar caught his sister as she fell after five steops at the same time that Deirdre lunged forward to catch her. They all laughed in relief and pride as Aebgreine watched them inquisitively.
-----
Deirdre and Ardán prepared the cauldron with vegetables before they began preparing the boar for the spit while Gaiar and Aebgreine watched, spellbound by the work.
“May we help you?” asked Gaiar.
“I wan' 'a help,” agreed Aebgreine.
“When you're older and bigger, you may” Deirdre said with a cautious smile, “But if you want to help us, you can help with the herbs.”
“The herbs?” asked Aebgreine.
“Here,” said Ainnle, “Take the leaves from the branches, like this, and after that tear the leaves into little pieces.”
“Best to teach them when they're young,” Ardán chuckled, fondly watching the spectacle.
“Papa, look,” Aebgreine said eagerly, “I cook!”
Naoise left his harp and he was beside them in an instant, jovial, “I'm so proud of you, my pups! You make me proud each day.”
Quickly, the cottage was busy with the little family preparing food, teaching the children craftily, enjoying the evening together.
“It would be a lie if I said that I did not miss Ulster," Ainnle said to Ardán, “But I would not miss this for anything.”
“I'd agree with that,” Ardán replied, unable to help his smile as he accepted the children's offer of herbs, "Thank you many times over, pups, you really help! O, be careful with the spit!”
“Naoise, I don't like that we are not in Ulster,” Ardán told Naoise, “But this is well worth it!”
-----
Deirdre could see it clearly. She knew that Naoise and his brothers were homesick for Ulster andshe wished strongly that they would not have to leave their homeland, that they were not homesick, but she also knew that she could not change their minds. She herself missed Leabharcham, but she knew that their return to Ulster would lead to death at Conchobhar’s hands.
At least Gaiar and Aebgreine would pull attention from homesickness. He enjoyed them too much and he could hunt and he was content with the life that they had created together in their exile.
“Papa, what’s wrong?” Aebgreine asked as Naoise played a sweet but melancholy air on his harp. At two years of age, she already greatly resembled her mother, although her eyes were of cornflower and her tresses of the raven, like her father. Despite her young age, she was very intuitive and prudent and she was worried at the wistful look on her father’s face.
“It’s nothing that should worry you, sweetheart,” said Naoise, “I’m only homesick for Ulster, where your mother and my brothers and I were born. We had to leave.”
“Why?” his little girl asked, her blue eyes curious.
“It doesn’t matter, darling,” he answered patiently, “I simply miss Ulster.”
Aebgreine embraced his big, muscular calf, “Love you, Papa.”
Naoise’s melancholy melted and he put his harp aside, pulling her to his lap, “Love you, darling of my heart.”
“How is everybody?” said Dèirdre, carrying a basket filled with crops, with Gaiar close on her heels, “You’ve returned early.”
“We had little luck with the hunt,” he said tersely.
“That has never stopped you,” Deirdre answered, sensing the true reason, “I recognize that look, dearest.”
Naoise nodded his head quietly as he cuddled the children. It hurt Deirdre that her husband was so afflicted for their home.
“I know, Naoise of my heart. I miss it, too. I wish that we could return.”
“Come, Greineag,” said Gaiar, recognizing that they had to speak by themselves, “Let’s see what Ardán and Ainnle are doing.”
Brother and sister ran to their uncles to let mother and father speak together, eager to see them after a morning and half the afternoon harvesting.
Deirdre pulled his head to her heart, cuddling him, “I know, Naoise darling, I know. I hate to see you so gloomy. Every day, it hurts me that you’re homesicj and I cannot help but feel regret for this. I wish that I could change everything and that we need not hide.”
Naoise sighed, accepting the embrace, “I knoe, love of my heart. I long for home, but I do not want you to blame yourself for this. I won’t regret that I met you or that we have beautiful children. I want that we will be safe from Conchobhar, that the children will be safe.”
Deirdre nodded, “And therefore, we should ask of Manannan that he will take them into his protection. Aebgreine has been weaned since a fortnight.”
“Perhaps,” said Naoise, “We could still visit them, if circumstances allow.”
“I cannot say enough that I love you, Naoise of my heart,” said Deirdre.
“And I love you, Deirdre of my love,” answered Naoise.
-----
Deirdre was teaching Aebgreine to harvest cabbage, leeks, and garlic in their garden with Naoise and his brothers tanning the hide of a deer when they heard a clear call for them.
"'Tis the call of an Ulsterman!' exclaimed Naoise, cocking his head and straining his ear.
Deirdre recognized that call also, and with the recognition came a cold grip of fear.
Original Gaelic version:
Dèirdre agas Naoise, Seallaidhean Dachaigheile
“Chan urrainn dhomh ithe feòl-mhaighiche, tha fios agaibh agas aca air sin,” arsa Dèirdre air an-raoir fhad ‘s gun do bhuain is folt-chìoban is càl le a bana-chàirdean, “Cha miann leam mo leanabh air bhreith le milleamh-maighiche.”
“A fhearaibh,” arsa Brìghid is Dearbhail mar-aon, ead uile ‘pàirteachamh fiamh-sàrachaimh.
Bha Dèirdre dlùth gu buil a leatruim agas bha na miannan is an truime a broinn cinneachdaiche ga sàrachamh, còmhla leis na h-oidhcheannan gun chadal a bha a’ fàs na b’ trice.
“Tha buaireas aig Ailpean fhathast air sin, gu bheil ann rudan nach urrainn do mnaoi thorraich ithe,” arsa Eithne, “Ach nì e a bhrod. Agas co-dhiù tha m’ fhine dlùth umam; chan eil mi air mo fhanamh gun bhiamh fhathast, leis an deagh-thoil na Cailliche.”
“Rinn Aodh an aon rud,” dh’aontaich Mór, “Cha dèanainn gearain.”
“Agas chan eil mar-a-bhiomh ann,” arsa Dèirdre, a dragh a’ traoghamh, “Tha mo chéile ‘s a bhràithrean cho foighidneach leis na reachdan, na deòir gun chomain, na miannan, uile rud… chan eil fhios a’m air na dhèanainn ás ur n-aonais! ‘S e mo pheathraichean a th’annta agas tha gràdh agam oirbh!”
“A Dhèirdre mo chridhe…!” arsa Dearbhail gu spéiseil.
“Tha gràdh againn ort, a mhùirneig,” dh’aontaich Mór.
“Tiugainn-!” arsa Brìghid, a’ dlùth-ghabhail Dèirdre, a brù fhéin nochte torrach a-rithist ged na b’ lugha na a’ bhrù Dhèirdre.
“A Dhonnchaidh!” spreig Dearbhail a mac, Donnchadh, a bha a’ sabaid le Gaiar.
“Dè ‘s sgeul don t-sabaid seo?” ghlaodh Dèirdre, “Dé mar a thòisich seo?”
“Bhuail Gaiar mi!” sgiamh Donnchadh, aghaidh ruiteach ‘s fhalt donn cleigte.
“Thòisich Donnchadh e!” sgiamh Gaiar.
“Cha do thòisich mi i!”
“Thòisich e i!”
“Foghnaimh siud dheth, a bhalachain,” spreig Dearbhail ead le sàrachamh air a glas-shùilean.
“Dèanaibh leisgeul ri chéile, a-nis,” dh’aontaich Dèirdre, “Chan eil mi ag iarraidh sabaide sam bith eadaraibh.”
“Tha mi ‘n duilich,” bhrunnd Gaiar is Donnchadh mar-aon.
Cha robh sin math gu leòr, b’e falamh. Ach mus b’urrainn cuideigin a ràdh rudeigin tuillidh, mhothaich Dèirdre na h-iodhanan. Choir e braoisg oirre.
“A Mhamaig?” arsa Gaiar, ga coimhead gu h-iomagaineach.
“A Dhèirdre, dé ‘tha ceàrr?” arsa Brìghid, a gorm-shùilean fo ìmcheist. Bha i an amharas gun robh fios aice ach fhathast mhì-chinnteach, “A bheil seo an leanaban?”
Chrom Dèirdre a ceann, “Faighibh Bébhinn, th’an leanaban a’ tighinn!”
-----
Cha mhór gun d’ ráinig ead am bothan nair bhuail na h-iodhanan cinneachdach cruaidh, ‘s choir Dèirdre a fiaclan an ceann a chéile, a’ feuchainn a chasg a rànail.
“Ceart gu leòr, a Dhèirdre,” arsa Béibhinn, a’ cor na cathrach-breith ri taobh an teallaich far an robh Dearbhail a’ goil uisge sa’ phoit, “tha sinn deas”.
“Càit’ a bheil na pataich?” arsa Dearbhail do Brìghid, “Dh’fhàg sinn ann an cabhag.”
“Tha Ùna agas Mór a’ gabhail umpa a-muigh, th’ ead fo làmhan ealanta,” dh’fhreagair Brìghid fhad ‘s gun do shuidh i ‘s Eithne le Dèirdre.
“Dé a tha ‘tachairt?” tháinig Àrdan a-steach gu grad, a’ cor clisge orra mus thuig e cho luath ‘s a chunnaic e an seallamh, “Tha mi ‘n duilich, a bhaintighearnan, innsimh mi do Naoise ‘gas Ainnle! Chì sinn dha na pataich.”
Le sin, dh’fhàg e ‘s cha b’urrainn dha na mnathan a leasachamh am gàire a’ chlisge, toilichte airson a’ bhrisimh na teinne.
“Mura robh mi phòsta a-cheana, bhitheamh e ‘nam chéile,” thug Eithne tiullan gàire, a gòrm-shùilean a’ dearrsamh, “Carson a bha na mic Clann Uisneach cho briagh?”
“Tha mi an-seo,” arsa Mór, a’ ruith a-steach don bhothan, a làmhan gu h-ùr nighte, “’S e iomadaidh nan làmh a nì an obair aotrom.”
Lean Ùna, bha seasmhach a sùilean an datha challtainn, “A bhan-laoich, dèanamaid deiseil airson a’ chatha.”
-----
“’Bheil Mamag gu math, a Bhobain?” arsa Gaiar, fo iomagain, a’ fàgail a chluiche le Donnchadh agas Fionnbharr car tiota.
“Chan eil fhios a’m, a laoigh,” arsa Naoise, fo iomagain ionann, a’ tionndamh aire ás a bhràithrean agas na pataich, “Chan eil fhios aig neach sam bith gus an tig an aisead gu buil. Feumaimh sinn dèanadh ùrnaigh do Bébhinn gum bi do mháthair agas an leanaban gu math.”
“Ach tha i le Mamag a-nis,” arsa Gaiar, am breislich.
Thuig Naoise gu luath ‘s thug e gàire bheag, “Tha mi a’ bruidhinn air a’ Bhan-dia na breithe, a laoigh. M’ùrnaigh dhi gum bi ead sàbhailte. ‘S e co-thuiteamas gun do phàirtich a’ bhean-ghlùine an ceart ainm leatha.”
“Ó,” arsa Gaiar, a’ toirt fiamh-gàire an tuigse, “Ach càit’ a bhios fios againn?”
“Gabhaimh aisead uairean, a laoigh, fiù ‘s tuillidh na latha,” arsa Naoise gu caomh, “’S e doirbh is cunnartach air a’ mháthair agas an naoidhean. Feumaidh sinn deasachamh airson a’ choir as miosa agas cumail dòchas airson a’ choir as fheàrr, mar le rud sam bith.”
-----
“’S urrainn dhomh an ceann a fhaicinn, a Dhèirdre,” arsa Bébhinn gu socair eadar a glùinean, “Tha thu a’ dèanadh gu math. Cùm suas leis a’ bhruthamh.”
Shil fallas o Dèirdre agas bha a rùdanan geala on greim air an làimh na cathrach-breith. Bha fios aice nach bitheamh seo cho doirbh ris a’ bhreith Ghaiar, a lean fichead uair ‘s a deich, ach bha seo fhathast doirbh. Cha robh i ach ‘na nighean nair rug i Gaiar, ‘nis bha i ‘na mnaoi, ach b’ e doirbh is cràidhteach fhathast.
“Cha mhór nach eil seo crìochnaichte, a Dhèirdre,” arsa Eithne fhad ‘s gun do sheas i leis a’ chùil Dhèirdre ri a brù fhéin, ga taiceamh tron aisead, “Tha thu a’ dèanadh gu math, bruth-!”
“Th’an ionnlad deas airson do bhig,” arsa Mór, ag éirigh a sùilean on amar, ás a dh’éirich stoth.
“A Bhéibhinn, iarraidh mi Uat gum mair mo naoidhean agas mi beò agas gum bi an cràdh seo air seachad a dh’aithghearr!” smaointich is gu buaireanta mus chuala is an sgiamhail naoidhean.
-----
“A Naoise,” ghairm Dearbhail on doras, bh’ a falt dubh-ruadh a’ briseamh o na dualan ‘s a sùilean sgìthe ach meara, “’S e nigheanag bhòidheach, shlàn!”
“’S ise nighean? Tha nighean agam?” arsa Naoise fo iomagain, “Agas dé mu dhéidhinn mo chéile?”
“Tha i sgìth, ach chan eil ann càil nach iarramh tu,” dh’fhreagair Eithne air cùlaibh Dhearbhail, “Tha máthair agas leanabh gu math.”
“A Bhobain,” arsa Gaiar, “’Bheil Mamag gu math?”
“Tha Mamag gu math, a laoigh,” dh’innis Naoise dha ann an aoibhneas saorsnail, “Agas tha do phiuthar gu math cuideachd. Tha thu ‘nad bhràthair mór, a-nis!”
“Tha piuthar agam?” dh’fhoighnich Gaiar ann an iongnamh. Chrom Naoise a cheann gu toilichte, “Tha, a laoigh,” arsa e gu spéiseil, a’ pògamh a mhic mus thionndaimh e aire do Dearbhail, “Am faod sinn gan tadhal fhathast?”
“Feumaidh Bébhinn gabhail uimpe, oir chan eil i a’ beirsinn seile fhathast,” dh’fhreagair Dearbhail fhad ‘s gun do ruith Eithne a-steach don taigh a-rithist aig an sgiamhail an naoidhein, “Agas feumaimh sinn ionnlad an naoidhean. Leigimh mi ris dhuibh nair faodaimh sibh tighinn a-steach.”
Fhad ‘s gun deach Dearbhail a-staigh a-rithist, sguab Naoise Gaiar a-steach do achlaisean, a’ cuidhleamh leis, a’ toirt gàire mus an do cheangail Àrdan ‘s Ainnle ris an caidreabh mear, leis na pataich a’ dannsamh mu ‘n casan.
“Tháinig an naoidhean?” dh’fhoighnich Donnchadh agas Fionnbharr.
“’Bheil ead gu math?” dh’fhoighnich Dairearca, a gorm-shùilean na b’ stuaime.
“Tha, tha h-uile rud iongnantach, a chuileanain!” arsa Ainnle.
-----
Theirinn Dèirdre gu claoidhte air an leabaidh, a’ toirt a cìche ri a nighean ùir, ga coimhead ann an iongnamh.
“Tha thu cho dealrach, mar a’ ghrian,” smaointich i, aotrom le mire, “Agas mar sin smaointichinn gum bi sin cuid d’ainme; bheir mi dhut an t-ainm “Aebgreine”, mar a’ ghrian.”
“Faodaimh sibh tighinn a-staigh, ‘nis,” chuala i Dearbhail aig an doras.
“A Dhèirdre?” tháinig an guth Naoise.
“A Mhamaig?” lean Gaiar gu dlùth.
“Abair gur i caileag bhòidheach!” arsa Brìghid mu naoidhein.
Choimhid Naoise i, le Gaiar ‘na ghàirdeanan, araon fo iongnamh aig an seallamh romhpa. Cha robh a’ chaileag seo air bhreith ach uair agas bha i bhòidheach a-cheana.
Phòg Naoise am bathais Dhèirdre gu gaolach, “A Dhèirdre mo chridhe, abair gur sibhse bhòidheach araon!”
Dh’amhraic Dèirdre ead le fiamh-gàire sgìth, “A Ghaiar, mo mhoigein, thoir fàilte air do phiuthrag,” arsa i, a guth tùchanach ás a’ chlaoidheamh, “Bu mhath leatha gad choinneachamh.”
“Mo phiuthrag?” arsa Gaiar gu feòrachail, ag amhrac na caileige ‘sna gàirdeanan a mháthar, “Ach dé umam?”
Thug Dèirdre ‘s Naoise tiullan-gàire, “Chan eil sinn air do dhearmad, a laoigh,” arsa Naoise gu caomh.
“Tha coir air an atharrachamh leatha, ach chan eil sinn a’ dol àite sam bith, agas chan eil sinn gad fhàgail, gu cinnteach, a laoigh mo ghràidh,” arsa Dèirdre le tlàths do-labhairt, “Tha cus gràidh againn ort, a Ghaiar mo chridhe.”
Chaidh Gaiar a comhair gu teabadach, mì-chinnteach an leanabain seo, ach mhothaich e annasach cobhrach a h-ionnsaigh a-cheana ann an dòigh nach mhór gun do thuig e.
“’Bheil i gu math?” arsa e gu cùramach, oir cha robh e air naoidhean a fhaicinn a-riadh.
“Tha i, gu dearbh,” arsa Dèirdre air mhire, “Bha thu mar seo nair rugamh thu. Tha feum aig naoidheanan oirnne gan dìon.”
“Tha naoidheanan daonnan fann nair th’ead air bhreith,” dh’aontaich Naoise, “Feumaidh thu ‘bhith glé chùramach leotha. An urrainn dhut a bhith cùramach leatha?”
Dh’amhraic Gaiar a’ chaileag seo, agas bha i glé choltach ri mháthair ged bha a falt cho dubh ris an fhalt athar, agas rinn seo a h-aghaidh geal, ruiteach a luisneamh mar a’ ghrian.
“’S math leam i,” arsa e gu soineanta.
“Bhithinn an dòchas,” arsa Dèirdre ‘s Naoise gu h-àbhachdach an imfhios mar-aon.
“Rinn thu gu h-iongantach, a chaomhaig,” ars’ Ùna, ga h-amhrac gu blàth.
“Agas rinn na gillean gu math, ead fhéin, leis na pataich,” dh’aontaich Mór, “Gun robh móran math aca!”
“Bhitheamaid an dòchas,” ghoir Ainnle gu h-aighearach, “Chobhair ead oirnn a chumail ar ciall.”
“Amhraicibh i,” ars’ Àrdan an iongnamh, “Tha i cho dealrach ‘s a th’ a máthair… a Naoise, tha sibh air clann bhriagh a gineamh còmhla!”
“Tha i cho soilleir ris a’ ghrian,” arsa Naoise air mhire.
“Ach th’ a falt cho dubh ri d’fhalt, a Bhobain,” arsa Gaiar.
“Tha fios a’m, a laoigh,” thug Naoise gàire.
“Agas gu tuiteamach, smaointichinn gum bitheamh sin foirfe airson a h-ainme; oir smaointich sinn na gréine nair chunnaic sinn i, smaointichinn gum bitheamh ainm mar “Aebgreine” foirfe air a son.
Bha Naoise smaointeach car tiota ach rinn e fiamh-gàire, “’S toigh leam e. Co-fhreagarimh sin i gu math.”
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Dh’fhosgail Dèirdre a sùilean gu fann, a’ mothachamh trom leis an sgìos, aig an fhuaim a’ chaoinimh Aebgreine, ach fhuair i faochamh nair chunnaic is Naoise ga toirt dhi.
“Bha thu cho sgìth ‘s bh’ an t-acras oirre; cha do dh’iarr mi thu gad tharraing fhéin don chreathail,” arsa e. Cha mhór nach robh Naoise cho sgìth rithe, le fàinneachan dorcha fo a shùilean agas a fhalt cleigte bhuaithe ‘s thuige, ach bha fios aige ‘s aig a bhràithrean gun robh Dèirdre ghlan claoidhte. ‘S mhothaich i am boladh blasta a’ bhìdhe. An robh Àrdan a’ bruich?
“Bhruich mi air ur son,” arsa Mór on teallach, “Shaoil mi gun robh feum agaibh air cobhramh-eigin.”
“Shaoil mi sin, cuideachd,” arsa Dearbhail, a’ cor chiosain nam meas air an làr.
Dh’osnaich Dèirdre gu toilichte, a-rithist fo iongnamh a h-àigh.
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“A Mhamaig,” arsa Gaiar, “Cuin’ a bhios Aebgreine mhór gu leòr a chluiche?”
“Gabhaimh sin àm, a laoigh,” rinn Dèirdre dùrdan le Aebgreine air a h-uchd, “Chan eil i ach sè mìosan a dh’aois.”
“Ach ‘s miann leam a chluiche,” dh’osnaich e ann am meallamh-dùil.
“A Ghaiar mo chridhe,” arsa Dèirdre gu smaointeach, ag iarraidh gan dìon on fhìrinn ghruamaich na fàisneachd oirre fhéin cho fada ‘s a b’urrainn dhi, “An dèanamh tu rudeigin air mo shon? Am geallamh tu gum gabh thu cùram math rithe? Gum gabh sibh cùram ri chéile? ‘S e bràthair is piuthar a th’annaibh, ‘s tha sibh nas làidire còmhla. An dèanamh tu sin air mo shon, a mhoigein mo chridhe?”
Thug Gaiar gàire shoineanta, “Geall mi, a Mhamaig.”
“O, gun robh móran math agad, a laoigh mo chridhe!” phloisg Dèirdre gu sèimh, ga tharraing dlùth, a’ pògamh a bhathais.
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“Thiugainn, a rùnaig,” mhisnich Dèirdre gu dian, ‘na crùban le gàirdeanan fosgailte rithe, “Tha sinn an-seo!”
“‘S urrainn dhut a dhèanadh!” arsa Gaiar, deiseil ga ceapamh nan do nochd i mar thuiteamh i.
“Tha sinn uile an-seo,” mhisnich Naoise, a’ mothachamh deòir a’ bioramh a shùilean.
An déidh mìosan an snàgaimh, bha Aebgreine air a tòiseachamh a’ seasachd agas ‘nis bha i dheiseil fheuchainn a’ coiseachd. Choimhid Dèirdre i air bhioran, air dhrùdhamh don chridhe agas a’ feuchainn a bhacamh a deòir. Bha a nighean a’ seasachd a-cheana agas…
An fhaca i na smaointich i gun robh i a’ faicinn? B’ise chorrach, ach ghabh Aebgreine ceum. Cha robh Dèirdre air a meallamh; bha Aebgreine a’ gabhail a ciad ceuman!
Glac Gaiar a phiuthar fhad ‘s gun do thuit i an déidh cóig ceuman aig a’ cheartair gun do leum Dèirdre air adhart ga glacamh. Thug ead uile gàire shaorsnail ‘s mhoiteil fhad ‘s gun do choimhid Aebgreine ead gu feòrachail.
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Dheasaich Dèirdre ‘s Àrdan am poit leis a’ ghlasraich mus thòisich ead a’ deasachamh an tuirc airson a’ bhiora fhad ‘s gun do choimhid Gaiar ‘s Aebgreine, fo gheasaibh leis an obair.
“Am faod sinn cobhramh oirbh?” arsa Gaiar.
“’S miann leam cobhramh oirbh,” dh’aontaich Aebgreine.
“Nair tha sibh nas sine ‘s nas mó, faodaimh sibh,” arsa Dèirdre le fiamh-gàire chrìonna, “Ach ma ‘s miann leibh a chobhramh oirnn, ‘s urrainn dhuibh a chobhnamh leis na luibhean.”
“Na luibhean?” arsa Aebgreine.
“Seo,” arsa Ainnle, “Gabhaibh na duilleagan ás na geugan, mar seo, agas an déidh sin reubaibh na duilleagan a-steach do mìrean beaga.”
“’S fheàrr gan teagasg nair tha ead òg,” thug Àrdan tiullan gàire, a’ coimhead an seallaimh gu spéiseil.
“A Bhobain, amhrac,” arsa Aebgreine gu dian, “Tha mi ‘bruich!”
Dh’fhàg Naoise a chlàrsach agas bha e ri an taobh ann an tiotag, àbhachdach, “Mo bheannachd agaibh, a chuileanain! Nì sibh mi moiteil gach latha.”
Gu luath, bha am bothan trang leis an teaghlach bheag a’ deasachamh bhìdhe, a’ teagasg na cloinne gu cleasach, a’ mealtainn am fheasgair còmhla.
“Bhitheamh e breug nan teirinn nach eil mi ag ionndrainn Ulaidh,” arsa Ainnle do Àrdan, “Ach cha chaillinn seo airson rud sam bith.”
“Dh’aontaichinn gu h-iomlan,” arsa Àrdan, nach b’urrainn leasachamh gàire fhad ‘s gun do ghabh e an tairgeamh nam patach luibhean, “Gun robh móran math agaibh, a chuileanain, tha feum againn oirbh! Och, air ur faiceall leis a’ bhior!”
“Naoise, cha toigh leam nach eil sinn air Uladh,” arsa Àrdan do Naoise, “Ach ‘s math as fhiach seo!”
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B’urrainn do Dèirdre a fhaicinn gu soilleir. Bha fios aice gun robh Naoise ‘s a bràithrean an cianalas air Uladh agas bu mhiann leatha gu làidir nach feumamh ead fàgail na dùthcha an dàimh, nach robh ead an cianalas, ach bha fios aice cuideachd nach urrainn dhi thoirt ás am beachd. Dh’ionndrainn i fhéin Leabharcham, ach bha fios aice gum bitheamh an tilleamh don Uladh ag iarraidh gu bàs aig fo làimh Chonchobhair.
Co-dhiù tharraingeamh Gaiar is Aebgreine aire on chianalas. Chòrd ead ris cus agas shealgamh e agas b’e toilichte leis a’ bheatha a chruthaich ead còmhla ‘nam fògairt.
“A Bhobain, dé tha ceàrr?” arsa Aebgreine fhad ‘s gun do sheinn Naoise fonn binn ach muladach air a chlàrsach. ‘Na dà bliana, bha i a-cheana glé choltach ri máthair, ged bha a sùilean a’ ghormain agas a ciabh an fhithich, mar a h-athair. A dh’aindeoin a h-aois mhaoth, bha i fhìor-imfhiosach agas ghlic agas bha i fo iomagain aig an fiamh chumhaich air an aghaidh a h-athar.
“Chan eil e càil air a bu chòir do chor dragh ort, a rùnaig,” arsa Naoise le fiamh-gàire chumhach, “Chan eil mi ach an cianalas airson Ulaidh, far an rugamh do mháthair is mo bhràithrean ‘s mise. Bh’againn ri fàgail.”
“Carson?” ars’ a nigheanag, a gorm-shùilean feòrachail.
“Chan eil diofar ann, a mhionaig,” dh’fheagair e gu foighidneach, “Chan eil mi ach ag ionndrainn Ulaidh.”
Ghaolaich Aebgreine a chalpa mór, féitheach, “Mo ghaol ort, a Bhobain.”
Leagh am mulad Naoise agas choir e a chlàrsach air leth, ga tarraing ri uchd, “Mo ghaol ortsa, a rùnaig mo chridhe.”
“Dé mar a tha h-uile duine?” arsa Dèirdre, a’ giùlan chiosain lìonta le barr na talmhainn, le Gaiar air cùl a sàilean, “Tha sibh air thilleamh gu moch.”
“Bha sealbh beag againn leis an t-sealg,” arsa e gu cuimir.
“Chan eil sin air do stadamh a-riadh,” dh’fhreagair Dèirdre, a’ mothachamh an adhbhair fhìor, “Aithichimh mi an fiamh sin, a leannain.”
Chrom Naoise a cheann gu ciùin fhad ‘s gun do ghaolaich e na pataich. Bha Dèirdre ghoirt gun robh a chéile fo éislean airson an dachaighe.
“Tha fios agam, a Naoise mo chridhe. Tha mi ga h-ionndrainn, cuideachd. ‘S miann leam gum b’urrainn dhuinn a thilleamh.”
“Thig, a Ghreineig,” arsa Gaiar, ag aithneachamh gum feumamh ead bruidhinn leotha fhéin, “Faiceamaid na tha Àrdan agas Ainnle a’ dèanadh.”
Ruith bràthair is piuthar chun na bràithrean an athar a leigeil máthair ‘s athair a bhruidhinn le chéile, dian gam faicinn an déidh madainn ‘s leth an fheasgair a’ buain.
Tharraing Dèirdre a cheann do a cridhe, ga ghaolachamh, “Tha fios a’m, a Naoise mo ghaoil, tha fios a’m. ‘S lugha orm gad fhaicinn fo gruaim. Uile latha, tha mi ghoirt gu bheil thu an cianalas agas chan urrainn dhomh a leasachamh a’ mothachamh aithreachais air sin. ‘S miann leam gun atharraichinn uile rud nach feumamaid falachamh.”
Dh’osnaich Naoise, a’ gabhail an ioma-ghlacamh, “Tha fios a’m, a rùin mo chridhe. Tha mi an cianalas, ach chan iarr mi thu a’ cor croin ort fhéin airson sin. Cha ghabh mi aithreachas gun do choinnich mi thu no gu bheil clann rìomhach againne. Tha mi ‘g iarraidh gum bi sinn sàbhailte o Conchobhar, gum bi na pataich shàbhailte.”
Chrom Dèirdre a ceann, “Agas mar sin, bu chòir dhuinn iarraidh Mhanannain gum gabh e ead a-steach do thèarmann. Tha Aebgreine air a bhith air chor far na cìche o chionn cola-deug.”
“’S mathaid,” arsa Naoise, “B’urrainn dhuinn an tadhal fhathast, ma cheadaicheamh na coir sin.”
“Chan urrainn dhomh a ràdh gu leòr gu bheil gaol agam ort, a Naoise mo chridhe,” arsa Dèirdre.
“Agas tha gaol agam ortsa, a Dhèirdre mo ghaoil,” dh’fhreagairt Naoise.
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Bha Dèirdre a’ teagasg Aebgreine a bhuain càl, folt-chìbean, agas gairgean ‘nam gàrramh le Gaiar a’ cobhramh orra agas bha Naoise ‘s am bràithrean a’ cartamh bhéin féidh nair chuala ead gairm shoilleir air an son.
"’S e an glaodh Ultaich!' dh’éigh Naoise, car ‘na cheann agas a’ sgagamh a chluasan.
Dh’aithnich Dèirdre an glaodh siud cuideachd, agas leis an aithneachamh tháinig greim fuar an eagail.