The storyteller looks round the expectant gathering, a weary smile crossing his features.
"So you wish a tale, eh? Something you've not heard before? Well, here's a story that's not heard very often, leastways, not in these parts. It comes from the mountain glens of Redvyrne County.
"Once there was a farmer, and his name was Raghnall. He was a man of wealth, for he had a great many sheep and a few cattle, and men considered him fortunate indeed. In one thing alone luck did not favour him he had but one child, and that a daughter. Ailvinn was her name, and most found her a disagreeable wench dark of complexion, with features more often set in a frown than a smile, and stooped shoulders so that her head was often downturned, rather than lifted to look at the world around her; she spoke seldom. Still, be she ill-favoured or no, the man who married her would inherit all Raghnall's vast wealth, and that was a thing not to be sniffed at.
"One day, at the time of year when winter was turning into spring, a stranger came to the glen, a youngish man, seeking work he said. He went by the name of Deorain, and his looks were uncommon, to say the least he had eyes the blue of the summer sky, and hair of a shade of brown so pale that it was almost blond. Never a word he said about whence he had come, or what he was fleeing. Folk took one look at him, and began to whisper that he must have Forgoil blood."
At this point the storyteller keeps his gaze fixed on the floor, carefully avoiding looking round the room at any of those present.
"Still, the lambing season was about to begin, and more hands were always needed at such a time, so Raghnall let the stranger stay, giving him a place to sleep in his barn.
The storyteller pauses to take a long pull from his mug of ale. Sighing and wiping his mouth, he continues:
"Deorain proved himself an able hand on the farm, and as time passed folk began to warm to him for he had an easy manner and a ready courtesy for all that he met and none more so than Ailvinn. She seemed to be drawn to the stranger, as was he to her, and the two spent much time together too much, maybe. For a long while this went unremarked, until one day, when the lambing season was finally over, Deorain said to Raghnall,
"That's a fine daughter you have there."
Raghnall answered, frowning, "Aye, she is at that, though her looks be against her."
"Say not such a thing," said Deorain quickly. "I would have her no other way. Indeed, such a liking have I taken to your daughter (and she to me) that I have come to ask for her hand in marriage."
At this, Raghnall flew into a rage. "What, give my daughter to some landless churl? Never will I do such a thing! Forgoil you look, and Forgoil I now name you, for by your very actions you reveal yourself a robber, a thief who would steal by trickery that which he cannot win by honest means lands and wealth. Wed Ailvinn? I should kill you for your insolence but I am a merciful man. Begone from this place, and never enter my lands again, or your life will be forfeit."
"Well, what Deorain thought of this the tales do not say, but on one thing they all agree he turned and left without another word, yes, without even answering the insult laid against him. Perhaps there was more truth in Raghnall's words than he knew. But from that day a change came over Ailvinn. She became pale and sad, and spoke even less than before, and to her father she spoke not at all. Each morning she would lead the sheep up to the open pastures at the head of the glen, and each evening she would return, downcast as ever. Until, that was, one day several months later, when high summer lay upon the land when nights were short and days were long. She brought the sheep back at dusk as usual, but something was different there was a light in her eye and a spring in her step. Folk wondered at the cause, but did not wonder for long, for when dawn came she was gone. Her trail led up into the hills, where it was joined by a second set of prints but then the tracks crossed a stony moor, and disappeared without trace, It was not until several days later, when all of the search parties sent out to locate the girl had returned empty-handed, that Raghnall noticed that three of his prize ewes were gone also.
"Now folks remembered Deorain, and how he had come from the hills and returned to the hills and hadn't Ailvinn taken a fancy to him? Perhaps her pallor had been more than sorrow. It was whispered that Ailvinn, daughter of one of the richest farmers in the land, had chosen to be an outlaw's woman. For with the theft of the sheep linked firmly to him, an outlaw Deorain had become.
"And Raghnall, blinded by rage at what he deemed the perfidy of his daughter, swore that never would his farm, or his wealth, belong to Deorain or his heirs nay, not even a penny. Ailvinn he publicly disinherited, and he swore to Kiern that if he ever laid hands on Deorain or any of his blood they would die a robber's death.
"A pretty enough tale," someone comments. "But there's no meat to it. Is there more?"
The storyteller frowns at the speaker. "Of course there is more," he says reprovingly. "Now, where was I? ..."
"It was three years later that Raghnall's oath was put to the test. There had been a spate of sheep thefts in the neighbouring glens, and Raghnall was convinced that the blame lay at the feet of Deorain the outlaw and his own daughter Ailvinn. When some of Raghnall's own flock went missing, he gathered together all the able-bodied men in the glen and led them, armed with spears and pitchforks, in search of the thieves.
"Raghnall and his men followed the outlaws' trail up into the hills, and when eyes alone were not enough to follow the trail, Raghnall loosed his dogs. And it turned out that Raghnall was right about the sheep-stealers' identity. Now, Ailvinn had known the dogs since they were puppies, and they would do no harm to her, or to those in her company. But when Raghnall heard their barking, he knew they had found their quarry. He and his men followed the sound towards a hollow in the moors, where they saw not two, but three figures a man, a woman and a child.
"When Ailvinn saw her father's mood, she was afraid, for tales of his oath had spread far and wide, yet she pointed to the young boy by her side, saying, "Here stands Ciadein, blood of your blood. If you will not forgive Deorain and I, at least show mercy to our son." Raghnall might have relented. But then he looked at the child, and he saw that the child had the same facial cast as his mother, but that was where the resemblance ended, for where she was dark, he was pale not Forgoil-pale, but a bleached whiteness that was wholly unnatural and his eyes were as yellow as a cat's. "No blood of mine is such a creature," he answered, his heart filling with hatred, "and no daughter of mine is she who has birthed is such a one. The boy is a thief and the child of thieves I'll hang him for it, aye, and his parents."
"Hearing these words, Deorain snatched up the boy and placed him on his shoulders, holding out his other hand to Ailvinn, and the pair began to run, with Raghnall's men in close pursuit. The two outlaws knew the country well, yet try as they might they could not elude their pursuers, who were slowly gaining on them. At last they came to a narrow ravine, where the ground dropped away into a steep cleft. They could not go round it, nor yet climb down not with the pursuit so near so they must cross it. A man might leap across, or a woman perhaps, yet not a small child, nor any burdened with a child's weight. The couple stopped then, and looked at each other, and in their eyes was a hopeless anguish. Then Ailvinn bent to pick up her son, held him close and kissed him, before passing him to his father. And Deorain, kissing the boy also, with a single swift blow broke the child's neck. Then they threw the body into the deep ravine, where the dogs could not reach it and maul it. Still, to this day, there are some who will show you the narrow gorge that is called 'Ciadein's grave'. Deorain and Ailvinn eventually outwitted their pursuers, but from that time on, their hearts were broken. That night, the grieving Ailvinn made a lament for her son, the lament I am going to play for you now.
At this point the teller of tales halts, and picks up the smallpipes lying in his lap the same pipes he has been quietly assembling as he spoke. Affixing the bellows to his arm, he begins to play a soft, sweet sound, oddly plaintive, bearing little resemblance to the raucous tone of the instrument's larger cousin, the Great War Pipes. The melody is a simple one: long held notes, evoking the soughing of the wind across the moors, the soft touch of the mist, the occasional calls of curlew and peewit ... a sound that is oddly calming. Yet now the music changes to the minor key, and suddenly the atmosphere becomes mournful the background of the drones is reminiscent of a low sobbing, the weeping of a mother whose grief can never be assuaged. As he plays, the piper starts to sing softly, almost under his breath, the slow lament that tells of Ailvinn's sorrow, his rough baritone voice in eerie contrast to the high notes of the chanter. The melody ends unexpectedly, abruptly, and the piper remains stock-still, head bowed. Throughout the room, there is a long silence.
Eventually, that silence is broken by a young woman, who asks, "What happened after that? Did Raghnall ever catch Deorain and Ailvinn?"
The storyteller carefully lays down his pipes, and reaches for his long-forgotten ale to moisten his lips before replying with a shake of his head.
"Raghnall eventually died, some eight years later, and Deorain was pardoned but by then it was too late for Ailvinn, for she had passed away the previous winter of the coughing sickness. The farm passed to the second son of Raghnall's brother. It never did well from that day on, though. My grandfather would have told you that Ailvinn had set a curse on the place. Myself, I reckon it was more that he spent most of his time playing the pipes and spared too little time for farming a common affliction.
Just for a moment, one side of the storyteller's mouth quirks up in a wry smile.
© Nadine Thompson 2001
Disclaimer:
The background world of Middle-Earth in which this story is set belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and Tolkien Enterprises. This story takes as its inspiration elements of a folk tale I heard in Iceland (about Fjalla-Eyvindur and his wife Halla). This story is © Nadine Thompson 2001, is strictly non-profit, and is written purely for my own pleasure.