Free The Diviners by Margaret Laurence Page B

them all, and all this was set down years later, pieced together from what old men and old women remembered, see, them living on far crofts hither and yon, and they sang and recited these poems as they had been banded down over the generations. And the English claimed as how these were not the real old songs, but only forgeries, do you see, and you can read about it right here in this part which is called Introduction, but the English were bloody liars then as now. And I’ll read you what he said, then, a bit of it.”
     
    A chariot! the great chariot of war,
    Moving over the plain with death!
    The shapely swift car of Cuchullin,
    True son of Semo of hardy deeds.
     
    Behind it curves downward like a wave,
    Or mist enfolding a sharp-peaked hill;
    The light of precious stones about it,
    Like the sea in wake of boat at night.
    Of shining yew is its pole,
    Of well-smoothed bone the seat:
    It is the dwelling-place of spears,
    Of shields, of swords, and heroes.
     
    On the right of the great chariot
    Is seen a horse high-mettled, snorting,
    High-crested, broad-chested, dark,
    High-bounding, strong-bodied son of the Ben,
    Springy and sounding his foot;
    The spread of his forelock on high
    Is like mist on the dwelling of deer.
    Shining his coat, and speedy
    His pace–Si-fodda his name.
     
    On the other side of the car
    Is an arch-necked snorting horse,
    Thin-maned, free-striding, deep-hoofed,
    Swift-footed, wide nostrilled son of the mountains–
    Du-sron-gel the name of the gallant steed.
     
    Full thousand slender thongs
    Fasten the chariot on high;
    The hard bright bit of the bridle,
    In their jaws foam-covered, white,
    Shining stones of power
    Save aloft with the horses’ manes–
    Horses, like mist of mountain-side,
    Which onward bear the chief to his fame.
    Keener their temper than the deer,
    Strong as the eagle their strength.
    Their noise is like winter fierce
    On Gormal smothered in snow.
     
    In the chariot is seen the chief.
    True-brave son of the keen brands,
    Cuchullin of blue-spotted shields,
    Son of Semo, renowned in song.
     
    Ossian. Christie says Aw-shun . And shows her the Gaelic words, but cannot say them.
    “It must sound like something in the old language, Morag. My father knew a few words of it, and I remember a little bit of it from when I was knee-high to a grasshopper and that must’ve been in Easter Ross before my old man kicked off and my mother came to this country with me, and hired herself out as help in houses in Nova Scotia, there, and kicked the bucket when I was around fifteen or so, and with all of that. I never learned the Gaelic, and it’s a regret to me.”
    Together they look at the strange words, unknown now, lost, as it seems, to all men, the words that once told of the great chariot of Cuchullin.
     
    Carbad! carbad garbh a’ chómhraig,
    ’Gluasas thar cómhnaird le bás;
    Carbad suimir, luath Chuchullin,
    Sár-mhac Sheuma nan cruaidh chás.
     
    “Gee. Think of that, Christie. Think of that, eh? Read some more in our words, eh?”
    But Prin waddles over to the table and lays it for supper, and they eat boiled cabbage and boiled spuds and baloney. Christie chews with his mouth open so you can see the mushy slop of pink meat and greeny mush cabbage and gummy potatoes in there. Morag wants to hit him so hard his mouth will pour with blood. She stares at him, but he does not notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t let on.
     
    The Grade Six room is full of maple desks, each with a metal inkwell. Initials of other kids in other years are carved intothe desks, with jackknives or by going over and over with a pencil until the lead eats into the wood. This is the easiest to do, and Morag has put M.G. on hers this way. You always have to look up at the blackboard at the front. Should be called the greyboard, always smudged with chalk. Morag can never see the board properly, and never has been able to, but doesn’t let on. If she let on, they’d move her to the front row and she likes the