The Lake of Ath Dara

The lake of Ath Dara has a song to sing. A bard in her own right, her water laps at her shores in the rhythm of an elegy sung by a druid. Her water, once still and serene, never ceases to ripple in aggravation, forever trying to tell her story. She has seen such laughter, love, and loss on her banks that to keep their memories within the confines of her waters would be like trying to express all the grief of a widow in a single sigh. Soon the sigh would swell to a sob; the sob to a wail. Likewise did the water of the lake of Ath Dara strive to overcome her bounds and swell to an ocean. I sat with her on a fair day in June and listened to her story. It came to me as a breath down my spine like a lad blowing into a hollow reed. It warmed me and chilled me and inspired me in turn.
She spoke to me of the virgin of Ath Dara. The maiden's golden hair, she told me, shined with a brilliance matching the sun and fell around her shoulders like a cascading waterfall. Her fair skin was a soft as a rose petal, as pale as the clouds in May, and as freckled as the night sky. Her beauty rivaled that of God's finest sunrise, yet her humility endeared her to the hearts of everyone she encountered.
Seren was peasantry, the daughter of an elderly charioteer, but she could have had her pick of all the men of Ireland. Her suitors, warriors and bards alike, tried in vain to win her affections by dressing her in fine silks, and to impress her with their heroes portion. Even the kings of the provinces stumbled upon their tongues in the radiance of her smile. But Seren kept her heart under the guard of her prudence and turned away all who sought it, regardless of the worth of his brooch.
She danced by the fires of the hosts, drank mead with the heroes of the parties, and sang verses with the bards. Her fiery spirit and quick tongue kept the people of Ath Dara entertained. She was fostered by nearly every family in the hamlet. All who saw her wanted her. All who knew her loved her.
But the maiden preferred the company of the spirits. She would spend entire days at a time living with the faeries of the forest. She preferred their playful companionship to the admiring stares of others in her hamlet. She sang songs of love as she bathed in the pond of Ath Dara and laughed heartily with the wood nymphs at the fool-hearted endeavors of the brownies.
On her way back to the hamlet from one such sojourn, she heard the neighs of horses and the shouts of men in great numbers. She

On her way back to the hamlet from one such sojourn, she heard the neighs of horses and the shouts of men in great numbers. She ran in the direction of the noise and saw the streets lined with chariots in rows like the pieces of a brandub board. Roars rose like thunder from the blue-painted throats of the warriors, and their weapons gleamed red in the light of the sinking sun. Shields were struck and rumbled; Hooves stomped viciously. The sights and sounds struck fear into her heart. Ath Dara no longer looked like her home. The fire pit around which she once danced was now black ash, kicked up in a cloud by a horse, staining his master's chariot. The field in which she had feasted was now overrun with the tents of these interlopers. Everywhere she looked, the men of her beloved hamlet were painted. The costume made them unkind and unrecognizable. These were not warriors, these were blue devils.
Seren raised her chin and walked through their ranks unafraid and unfaltering. Each man stood tall in his chariot as she passed, threw forward his brooch-boasting chest, or gave a glorious battle cry. But the maiden neither turned her head nor blinked at a single one.
When she came upon her house she threw open the door and demanded of her father an explanation.
?They say Romans are coming to Ath Dara. They've invaded the lower provinces and are heading North. Soldiers have gathered here to protect the land.? He took his daughter in his arms and embraced her. ?Darling, I have to tell you. I mean to join them.? She glanced over his shoulder at a table in the corner. On it rested a small bowl of blue paint.
?Father, you're not a soldier. You're an old charioteer. You're much too frail to fight the young men of Rome.?
?I've seen battle as a charioteer. That's more than I can say for most of these young lads claiming to be warriors, beating their chests as if they were Cu Chullain himself. But this is no mere cattle raid, las. This is our green Ireland. I've heard it said that these Roman men have no bards. They have no history to tell. They haven't the same pride as we Celts. I cannot let them steal our culture away from us as compensation for that which they lack. Wait and see me, las. I'll drive them South with the force of my blade! I'll defend the whole of Ireland with the strength of my single shield!? He raised his frail arms above his head in a gesture of might. ?Upon my return you may rest safely in the land of your ancestors. As the glory of the Ce

As the glory of the Celts, I'll have the hero's portion at every table. You'll surely be proud to call me your father.?
She fell upon him weeping. She wanted to shout at him, to call him a fool, but it would be to no avail. He was a man of courage, not sense. But he was the only man she had, and she loved him with more depth than the roots of an oak, and more vastness than the ocean's expanse. They belonged to each other completely as father and daughter, and in each other they had everything they needed. Their relationship had more purity of emotion than she would find in a husband, and the innocent depth of their devotion to one another's happiness and well-being more than fulfilled her. She knew he needed this as men need violence as well as love.
A heavy fog spread from Seren's heart through her spirit, like a black cloud eclipsing the moon as she picked up the bowl of blue paint. Her father stood before a mirror and she behind him. His chest rose and swelled with pride. His face wore a stern mask of determination. His wrinkles seemed to disappear and for a moment she saw through to the striking youth he had once been, pulling chariots through battle and readying weapons for warriors. Her eyes brimmed with tears and her hands shook as she painted the man's back blue. She suppressed memories of her childhood, and being carried upon that back. She held the tears that threatened to overtake her at the thought of it. She knew that her life as it had been was ending.
The next morning, as the warriors rode out to meet their enemy, Seren ran into the woods and sobbed. She could not bear to wave goodbye to her father. Hours she waited for them to return. Into the night she sat praying for them. No little faeries came to visit her for fear of drowning in her tears. No brownies would speak to a las so sad.
In the distance she heard a crackling. Toward the village by the edge of the wood she saw a glow. Through her nostrils there sifted a smoke. It was daybreak again. The blood orange sky matched the flames in the distance, and as she watched she could not tell where the fire ended and the sky began. They merged together, fed each other's brilliance, and seemed all-consuming in their vastness. All was lost, she knew.
Screams arose from the flaming huts as women and children poured into the streets. The thatched roofs became torches; Their smoke carried up the souls of those who had not awoken in time. She heard the stomping of hooves in the far distanc

She heard the stomping of hooves in the far distance, and her first thought was of her father. She ran towards the town in search of her blue hero. Through the streets and between the flaming buildings, she ran. Her dress was tattered and her hair gleamed like a fire of its own. She followed the sound of the horses to the far edge of town.
There were scores of them, all wearing red tunics and golden armor. She hid behind a hay bale and stared. Not a single painted warrior was among them. They yelled and laughed like heathens as they lit the huts on fire. Their armor reflected the torches they carried and it appeared as if the whole troop of them were ablaze. She had never seen such dark hair or dark skin, and the words they shouted were foreign to her. As she hid, a spark caught the bales before her, almost igniting the torn cloth of her dress. She jumped from behind them and gave a yelp. Instantly, several Romans turned toward her. One on horseback caught a gleam in his eye at the sight of such a beauty. Instinctively, Seren turned and ran. The Roman reared his horse and galloped after her.
Though the maiden knew the paths of Ath Dara well, the smoke clouded her vision and hung heavily in her chest like wet sand. She ran through a labyrinth of paths. One led to a dead end. Another brought her to a crowd of Romans. Yet another led straight into the heart of the blaze. Ath Dara had become a massive pyre. She was trapped. The man followed her every step. Though he was paces behind her, she could feel his hot breath on her neck and it spurred heron. She was exhausted. Her legs threatened to collapse beneath her. She couldnt breath and her chest was heavy. Yet at every desire to quit, she pictured his malicious grin, nearly hidden beneath his helmet. And on she ran. She ran out of hatred, she ran out of fear. She ran for her country, and her father, and her virtue. She ran until she reached the forest.
With the Roman horseman still several chariot lengths behind her, she called on the spirits of the forest to come to her aid. She beckoned the spirits of the trees and goblins of the wood and the faeries of the flowers, and then she ran inside the cover of forest where she felt safer. But still her pursuer followed. As his horse drew nearer the edge of the wood, it reared up on its hind legs. Faeries were upon its hooves. They poked and they pinched with the meager might of their fragile frames. Terrified, the horse threw its rider upon the ground and r

Terrified, the horse threw its rider upon the ground and ran confused across the field by the wood.
But the Roman was undeterred. He entered the forest at a run, with the determination of a wolf on the hunt. The fire had spread now, and flames were licking at the first trees as if testing them for flavor. The spirits of the trees, upon seeing the Roman on chase, bent their branches low. They tore at his tunic and scratched his skin. But he had the hide of Fer Diad, and sticks would not slow him.
The fire was feasting now. It consumed the brush and brambles as an appetizer, devoured the mighty oaks like a hero's meal, and drank them down with the green leaves of the canopy. Smoke flooded the forest with an opaque grey. The trees, in fear for their wood, raised their branches as high as they could to avoid the ravenous fire. But it was of no avail. The fire could not be obviated.
The Roman, now able to move easily, was still blinded by the cover of smoke. He followed the sounds of crunching leaves beneath Seren's feet. He darted through the trees with the agility of a gazelle. The tired las was no match for his speed. The fire raced along the forest floor behind him. Flames arose in his tracks and reached for his heals as he ran.
Seren saw fire all around. She heard the Roman behind her. She felt the heat of the flames reaching towards her like tentacles from the trees. Seeing the lake of Ath Dara in the distance, she ran and leapt into its cool shallow water. There she waited, hiding silently behind a cluster of reeds. But it was too late. The Roman had seen the splash and stood over her with his sword drawn and a perverted grin on his face. The two were an ultimatum, threatening her with steal to comply with his desire. There was no way out. She knew her only options were to submit or die. But she could not betray her virtue. These barbarians had killed her father and destroyed her hamlet. All that she had ever loved was but dust under their heels. She would not share that fate. She would not give herself to him, but to the lake of Ath Dara.
Inhaling one last smoke-filled breath, the maiden leaned back in the still dark water. It's blackness consumed her body and swam in her lungs. The faeries and sprites of the wood gathered round the pool to watch the virgin of Ath Dara give her spirit to the lake. She became the lake and the golden-haired body floating on her surface was a cast off shell. Its dress tangled with the reeds by her shore. Waves

never ceases to ripple in aggravation, forever trying to tell her story. She has seen such laughter, love, and loss on her banks that to keep their memories within the confines of her waters would be like trying to express all the grief of a widow in a single sigh.





The End

Waves crashed upon the shore and the once-still water became as turbulent as her spirit.
The Roman, furiously disappointed, turned to go back to his troop. But he, too, realized he was trapped. Fire was all around him now. It shone as bright as the sun in the reflection of his golden shield as it drew nearer and nearer. His cries echoed through the forest. The maiden of the lake watched as he was consumed by his own lustful flames.
The lake of Ath Dara has a song to sing. A bard in her own right, her water laps at her shores in the rhythm of an elegy sung by a druid. Her water, once still and serene, never ceases to ripple in aggravation, forever trying to tell her story. She has seen such laughter, love, and loss on her banks that to keep their memories within the confines of her waters would be like trying to express all the grief of a widow in a single sigh.





The End