Whispers of the Dead

finally arrived at the answer to his initial question on “The Blemish.”

“And this blemish-how would you describe its physical manifestation?” He smiled softly.

Fidelma hesitated for a moment and then decided that she would put forward her own concept.

“When the ancients talked about a blemish being raised, I do not think that they meant it to be taken literally.”

Brehon Morann’s brows drew together sternly.

“Ah, so you are an interpreter of the meaning of the ancient texts?”

Fidelma’s chin came up at his tone of mockery.

“I make no such pretension although, surely, it is the task of the Brehon to elucidate the texts? I believe that what is meant by this reference to a blemish is that the loss of a judge’s honor and the fact that he becomes known in public as someone who has delivered a false judgment puts a blemish on his character in the minds of the people; the blemish is in the mind, not physically on the skin.”

“Indeed?” Brehon Morann’s voice was dry and non-committal.

Brehon Morann leant forward and picked up a small silver handbell. As its tinkling tones died away the door opened and a short, wiry man with an abundance of white curly hair entered. He closed the door behind him and made his way to a chair at the side of Morann’s table facing Fidelma. His face bore no expression at all. His features were bland.

“This is the Druimcli Firbis of Ardagh. He will set a case before you and you will tell me if and why a blemish should have been raised on the judge involved in the case.”

Fidelma stirred nervously in her chair. A Druimcli was a person who had mastered the entire course of learning, and was not merely a Brehon but could be appointed to the most important legal positions. She turned slightly to face him.

Firbis’s tone was high-pitched and querulous and he had a habit of sniffing every so often as if in disapproval.

“Pay attention and do not make any notes. I do not approve of the writing of notes as a means to aid the memory. In the old days, before the coming of the New Faith, the writing of our wealth of knowledge was not allowed. The old religion forbade us to commit our teachings to writing and it is a good rule for pupils who rely on the written word and neglect to train their memories. When pupils have the help of notes, they are less diligent in learning by heart and so their memories rust. Is that not so, young woman?”

The abruptness of the question startled Fidelma for a moment.

“It is an argument that I have heard, Druimcli, ” she acknowledged, solemnly.

The corners of Firbis’s mouth turned down.

“But you do not agree?” He spoke sharply, his eyes perceptive.

“Our ancestors failed to record many essential matters before the coming of the New Faith and the result is that much has been lost to posterity. Philosophy, religion, history, poetry. . these things went unrecorded. Because of this refusal to set forth all knowledge in writing, have we not lost much that would be most valuable to our civilization?”

Firbis stared at her in disapproval and sniffed.

“I suppose that you are one of the young generation who applauds the work of those scribes in the foundations of the New Faith who spend their time setting forth such matters in the new Latin alphabet?”

Fidelma inclined her head.

“Of course. How will future generations know the poetry, the law, the ancient stories and the course of our history unless it is set forth? I would only make this criticism, that such scribes feel constrained to dress many of the ancient stories of the old gods and goddesses in the images of the New Faith.” Fidelma suddenly felt herself warming to the theme. “Why, I have even seen one text in which the scribe tells how the hero Cú Chulainn is conjured out of Hell by the Blessed Patrick to help him convert the High King Laoghaire to the New Faith and when Laoghaire becomes a Christian Cú Chulainn is released from Hell to go to Heaven.”

Brehon Morann leant forward.

“You disapprove?”

Fidelma nodded.

“We are told, in the New Faith, that God is good, loving and forgiving. Cú Chulainn was a great champion whose life was devoted to aiding the weak against the strong. He would surely not have been consigned to Hell by such a God and. .”

Firbis cleared his throat noisily.

“You seem to have radical ideas, young woman. But in reply to your question, future generations should learn by adhering to the old ways, learning by heart, passing on the knowledge one voice to another voice down the ages. Our tradition is that knowledge must be passed on and preserved in oral tradition so that outsiders do not steal it from us.”

“It cannot be. The old ways are gone. We must progress. But, hopefully, not by distorting the images of our past.”

Brehon Morann interrupted impatiently.

“You say, we must progress. Agreed. Progress in the matter we are dealing with today,” he said heavily. “The day grows short and there are other students to be tested before sundown.”

Inwardly, Fidelma groaned. She had obviously alienated Druimcli Firbis by her attitude and annoyed Brehon Morann by her lateness and her inability to keep her views to herself.

Firbis sniffed rapidly.

“Very well. Pay attention. I will not repeat myself and, whatever happens outside these walls, I will tolerate no writing of notes.”

He stared sharply in challenge at her but she did not demur.

After a moment’s silence, he began.

“This case involved a Brehon. We will not name him. A case came before him in which he found a woman not guilty of theft. Let us call the woman Sochla.”

He paused as if he expected a challenge to his opening statement.

“The circumstances were as follows: Sochla worked in the hall of the King of Tethbae. Do you know where that is?”

Fidelma nodded automatically.

“It is a petty kingdom bordering on the west of Midhe, not far from here,” she answered. Fidelma prided herself on her geographical knowledge.

“Indeed,” muttered Firbis, as if disappointed that his question had received a correct answer. “It was a small kingdom founded two hundred years ago by Maine, a son of the High King, Niall of the Nine Hostages.”

Fidelma also knew this information but did not say anything further.

“As I was saying,” began Firbis querulously, as if she had interrupted him, “Sochla worked in the hall of Catharnaigh, the King. In a casket, in the hall, the Kings of Tethbae kept an oak and bronze casket. In this casket was the preserved skull of Maine, founder of the kingdom, who died in battle. Maine of the Bright Deeds was how the poets described him. His skull was preserved in the ancient tradition as the rallying symbol of his people in Tethbae. It was valued beyond price by them.”

“There are many similar icons in other kingdoms,” observed Fidelma quietly.

“We are not speaking of other kingdoms,” snapped Firbis. “I speak of Tethbae! The skull of Maine was beyond price and kept in pride of place in the hall of Catharnaigh.”

He stared at Fidelma, challenging her to speak. When she did not, he continued less querulously.

“Catharnaigh and his retinue had left the hall to go to the Field of Contentions to attend a game of hurley. No one was left in the hall except for Sochla, whose task was to prepare the feasting hall for the King’s return. When Catharnaigh returned, he found the casket, containing the skull, was missing. Only Sochla had been in the hall during Catharnaigh’s absence and she was summoned. She denied any knowledge. Yet Catharnaigh was suspicious. Sochla’s quarters were searched and the casket was found under the woman’s bed. A learned Brehon was summoned and the case was heard. Sochla was found guilty of the theft.”

Firbis paused and sat back.

“This was the case. Did the Brehon render a true or a false judgment?”