The King of Sleep

by Caiseal Mor

  “You’re too hasty,” Lochie told Isleen. “You don’t look at all the possibilities.”

  As he spoke he shuffled his High-King out from its sanctuary and moved it to the edge of the cloth. “Sometimes it’s better to concede a little ground in order to achieve a long-term ambition.”

  Isleen brushed the wild red hair from her eyes and stared him down. “You’re just upset because I won our little wager,” she countered. “Aoife will marry Eber Finn. I knew it from the start. Mahon was never right for her.”

  Lochie gathered the pieces together and began setting them out for another round. “I wasn’t aware our wager was settled,” he remarked casually. “Eber and Aoife haven’t wed yet.”

  “They will do so soon enough,” she promised. “Eber understands the value of the match. I’ve seen to it.”

  “And what of his heart?”

  “Men like Eber Finn have no heart,” Isleen asserted. “Their ambitions are solely focused on kingdoms, wealth and prestige. No woman could ever give him that.”

  “So there’s no chance he might fall in love if the right woman came along?”

  Isleen looked up at her companion with suspicion. “What are you up to?” she asked.

  “Nothing! I was just asking a question. Surely he’s as vulnerable to a beautiful female form as any other man.”

  Isleen picked up the High-King to take her turn with the white pieces. “The war will start before winter. On the feast of Samhain Eve they will be wed—and with great ceremony and celebration.”

  “The wager isn’t settled they do marry,” Lochie said. “So I wouldn’t be so confident of victory if I were you.”

  Also by Caiseal Mór

  The Meeting of the Waters

  The Raven Game*

  * forthcoming

  The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed.” Neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this “stripped book.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  Copyright © 2001 by Caiseal Mór

  Published by arrangement with Simon & Schuster (Australia) Pty. Ltd.

  Originally published in Australia in 2001 by Simon & Schuster Australia

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

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  ISBN: 0-7434-2439-5

  eISBN: 978-1-451-60412-2

  First Pocket Books printing August 2002

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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  Front cover illustration by Yvonne Gilbert

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  Acknowledgments

  I am extremely grateful to several people who gave such encouragement to me to write this novel. Selwa Anthony, my literary agent, has always been a believer in these novels and the tales I write. Without her support and friendship I would never have put a word down on paper in the first place. Thank you, Selwa, for changing my life.

  Julia Stiles has edited all my novels, beginning with The Circle and the Cross. I thank you, Julia, for your magnificent patience in dealing with my often wild rambles.

  I would like to thank all at Simon & Schuster Australia, but especially Angelo Loukakis, who recognized the potential of the Watchers series and set about getting them published.

  Finally I must thank all the readers who continue to write to me through e-mail and snail mail. These many letters convinced me to continue with this cycle of stories and reminded me constantly what a joy it is to share a tale with others. If you would like to write to me to share your opinions on my novels, I may be contacted through my publisher or by e-mail at harp@caiseal.net or by following the links from my web page. The URL is: www.caiseal.net.

  Caiseal Mór

  Author’s Note

  In the gentle glow of firelight an old man, his hands hard from a lifetime of tilling the soil, warmed himself against the winter. His eyes brightened as I opened a bottle and found a seat opposite him. He told me no one listened to his stories these days.

  By the time the whiskey was gone I had heard one or two of his tales, though I’m certain he kept the best stories to himself.

  Music and storytelling have been a part of my life since childhood. My grandmother was a talented tale-weaver who had a gift for meshing different stories together. Her style was to overlap her tales into one long legend that explained the origins of the Irish people.

  In the early 1980s I traveled to Ireland and was privileged to meet some very fine storytellers there. The legends and anecdotes I heard inspired me to record as much as possible. In my enthusiasm, I filled notebooks with wise and humorous sayings I picked up, as well as the general gist of some fascinating tales.

  When I returned to Australia I put the notes away and got on with earning a degree in the arts. It was ten years before I looked at those scribblings again. By that time I had a much better knowledge of folklore and the storyteller’s craft and a fascination with all the characters who appear as the supporting cast of the great dramatic sagas.

  It crossed my mind that I might like to write a novel. Then by a remarkable chance, almost as if it had happened in one of those old stories, I met a mentor who would become my literary agent, Selwa Anthony. She suggested I write a story based on some of the tales I had collected.

  That was how the Watchers began.

  September 2001

  Caiseal Mór

  Prologue

  A SWORD, A SPADE AND A GOOD STORY ARE THREE things that should never be allowed to rust. So hush your foolish chatter and let me have the floor so I can get my tale done with, eat some of your fine smoked meats and go home before the sun rises.

  There’s no sense in shuddering. I’m no ghost. I’m no dark spirit of the night. I’m made of flesh and blood just as you are. So don’t get it into your head that you’re any better than me or you’ll taste my talons on your soft pink skin.

  I may not be able to lift a pen with these claws but you’ll never read a tale such as the one I’ll tell. Ravens have no need for pens and ink. Our folk are blessed with clear memories, though I admit my kindred are too often selective in their recollections. I don’t entirely blame them.

  Your breed is untrustworthy, dishonorable and greedy. Your kind have brought woe to this world too many times in your selfish quest for wealth and power. Even the best among you are always rushing about in a frenzy of confusion.

  Stupid creatures, the whole lot of you. And of all the tribes born of the sons and daughters of man, you Gaedhals are more foolish than most.

  And I should know. I was yet young when your folk first made their landfall on this shore. Who would’ve thought the coming of your forebears would signal such terrible changes? Who could have dreamed, even in their darkest nightmare, that the Gaedhals were capable of so much evil?

  They cut down the forests and turned the bogs into wastelands. They turned up the turf to fuel fireside and forge without a thought for the future. Wherever they settled,
lough and stream were fished out. Wherever they wandered they left their mark on the sacred stones, the hillsides and every stretch of coast.

  Your ancestors hunted out the creatures of the woodland until there wasn’t a badger could leave its burrow without the taint of fear in its heart. The stag no longer ruled the mountain passes. The hare was forced to leave off journeying in daylight and nowadays they’re only seen abroad at night. The great bear and the wolf were viciously pursued until not one was left alive on the whole island of Innisfail. Terrible was the bloodshed when the Gaedhals set out to battle with their own kindred, but wolf and bear suffered a worse fate. So complete was their slaughter that in time your folk forgot they had ever dwelled upon these shores.

  Through all these troubles it was the Raven kind who were most affronted by the coming of your race. My people were driven to despair by your ill-mannered ancestors. No respect for anything, that’s the trouble with your lot. No care for the countryside or thought for the future.

  Don’t shake your head as if it isn’t true. I was there. I saw what the warriors did. I watched your kindred pillage the land for food. They ignored the age-old prohibitions on cutting down trees. They didn’t heed the warnings about upsetting the eternal cycles of the Earth’s precious bounty.

  They took whatever stone they desired to build their fortresses, showing no regard for how long the rocks might have rested where they lay. And with the ancient foundations stripped away, many hillsides washed into the sea within a generation.

  The Forest of the Burren, an aged stand of venerable trees, was fashioned into ships which brought more Gaedhals over from the Iberian lands. With no roots to hold down the soil, the life-giving earth simply picked up on the wind and blew away. To this day nothing grows upon the rocky plain of the Burren. The scars can still be plainly seen after a hundred generations. And no Gaedhal among you will ever be able to put it right. The dead, stony Burren is the only enduring monument your people ever left behind them.

  When your fine houses, halls and harbors are no more than memory in the minds of storytellers, the wind will still wail over the gray Burren lamenting the day your kindred came to Innisfail.

  Of course your teachers never taught you all this when you were children, did they? I’ll wager they filled your heads full of heroic nonsense about the brave King Eber and his brother Éremon who sailed their ships across the heaving oceans and defeated the mysterious treacherous Danaan wizards in open battle.

  I’ve heard the foolish songs your lot sing about Amergin the Bard and his fine poems. Well the truth is, his skill was nothing compared to that of any Danaan Druid or Fir-Bolg Brehon. His music was no match for any of the Old Ones.

  You probably believe all that rubbish about the warrior bands of the Fian who roamed the country around, seeking out any who dared threaten the sovereignty of the Gaedhal. And how they bent the Faerie folk to their will even when faced with their powerful and frightening sorcery.

  I know quite a different story to be true. And you’d better heed it well, for the wheel of the seasons has turned and now your folk in turn have come under threat from invaders. The Danaans are but a memory. The Fir-Bolg are no more than a dim legend. But the Raven kind have not disappeared. We’re still watching.

  So take a careful note of what I have to say. Follow my advice and perhaps the Ancient Ones will lend you a hand in these trying times. Brush off my tales as pure invention and you will pay the price for your foolishness.

  But don’t get it into your head that I care one jot about you, your tall stone churches or the cursed unceasing ringing of bells you all seem so fond of. I come because I was commanded to do so by my queen. I am but a representative of my kindred come to offer you my wisdom and a comfort no book can give you. I bring you peace in my storytelling. If you can learn from what I have to tell you, you will live a happy life and go to your death with gladness and never a thought of Lochlann Vikings to trouble your dreams.

  I’ve already told you the story of the arrival of Eber and Éremon, how the Danaan Druids tried to raise a tempest against these invaders but were not strong enough, and how at last they resorted to a terrible enchantment in the hope of saving their people from slaughter.

  If by some unlikely chance you’ve listened well, you’ll know about the Quicken Brew which conferred a state of perfect health and unending life upon all who tasted it. And you’ll recall the manner in which the wise sages of the Tuatha-De-Danaan opened the doorway to the Otherworld so that their people might find refuge in that place.

  Now I’ll bring to mind the next part of the story. So sit still and listen while the mood is on me. If you value your tongues don’t ask me questions and don’t interrupt. Give me your silence and I’ll begin.

  Two lighten the road. So I’ve heard tell. There was a road. I knew it well. Lengthy some folk might call it. But it was long enough for me by any measure. Even though my wings are wasted and my breath comes hard, I’m still a traveler upon that wearisome path.

  May the road rise to meet you, a man once said to me. I didn’t understand his meaning then.

  I do now.

  He meant to say, follow the road. Don’t concern yourself with where it’s going. Don’t idly daydream of your destination. You’ll recognize the place you’ve been making for when you get there. The road will unfold itself with each dusty bend or lonely river crossing.

  Be patient.

  The road has many branches, some no more than well-worn tracks. But each arm of it, from the wide highway to the rambling path, is paved with joy and lined with bliss. And every cobblestone is heavy with enchantment.

  This is the only thing that matters. To deny the delight of one’s own private journey through life is a perilous folly. Only the wilful arrogance of a stubborn spirit dares to shun the purpose for which it was embodied on this Earth. But perhaps I am expecting too much of you to imagine you understand anything I say.

  If you let the road light your soul, then you’ll know the essence of trust and the absence of fear. You’ll hear your inner voices, as frightening or as soothing as they might be. And you’ll also learn to pay attention to muffled whispers from beyond.

  This is your challenge. For what is there really to be afraid of?

  Death?

  Embrace it. While you live, listen with your spirit so you will be well guided on your voyage.

  That’s the one thing about you Gaedhals I never understood. You are fascinated with the quest for immortality, for riches and perfect health. Foolish dreaming brought you to desire such empty pleasures.

  Without the hardships of life there is no learning. Without a rest from all the cares of life there can be no renewing. Without some illness there can be no true healing. Unless there is adversity, friendship is never tested and so remains forever shallow.

  Value well your traveling companions, your soul friends. And don’t for a moment think of squandering your time among folk you don’t deeply appreciate and respect. The enticing glimmer of a soft eye on a cold night won’t always warm you against the winter.

  Look deeper.

  I’ve always said the greatest test of a friendship is a long journey. That’s certainly proved true for me time and again. My dearest companions were the ones with whom I shared each burden cheerfully. Pain had no power over us when we walked together side by side and shared a laugh.

  So it must be true after all that two shorten the road.

  Every one of us is being tested. With every breath we take, with each passing moment. There’s no respite until the end. Consider my words and you’ll understand my meaning.

  You may think me nothing more than a bitter old bird but I have more than a thousand winters behind me. You may think I preach too much at times, but indulge me and perhaps you’ll learn something.

  I’ll say only one more thing then I’ll go on with my story.

  The many paths that make up the road of which I speak can be as hard as they are enlightening. But of all these roads the be
st is the road taken by the willing pilgrim. Enjoy your pilgrimage while you may. There’ll be time enough for resting at the end.

  Savor every footstep, every mile. Seek out that which makes your heart sing. That’s what you’re here for. And each night before you go to sleep say a little prayer for the quiet repose of Lom-Dubh the Raven who once walked the Earth as a man.

  Chapter 1

  NO CLOUD SHOWED A FACE IN THE DARKENING SKY. THE old fisherman looked up as he gathered the nets from his leather curragh at the seashore. The western horizon glowed red-gold and he knew from experience there would be no rain tomorrow.

  He ventured a silent prayer to the Goddess Danu that she would see fit to gift him with a storm. Not a full-fledged tempest, just a squall with water on its fingertips to wash the land clean and entice the fish closer to shore.

  He turned his attention to the handful of sea creatures he’d dragged from their watery home. His nimble fingers sorted the catch and he counted under his breath as each one fell into his basket.

  The fisherman had tucked them all away for the journey back to his family when a strange scent wafted in on the faint breeze. It was not salt, nor the briny rotting seaweed that had washed up on the shore. This was something familiar yet out of place.

  In the same instant he felt a soft thudding on the sand beneath his toes and he glanced over his shoulder at the rocks above. But there was no sign of anyone so he turned back to his nets.

  But a sailor’s instincts are impeccable. And this old man had been going to sea longer than anyone he knew. A nagging urgency tugged at his attention and he looked up again. Almost immediately he spotted a group of strangers running barefoot along the beach toward him. Their clothes were strange, their faces fierce and they all carried long silver swords.

  “Gaedhals!” the fisherman gasped.

  Without a thought for his own safety the old man drew a leaf-shaped bronze knife from his belt and stood up straight, waiting for the strangers to come on him. There was no doubt in his mind from their jeering laughter and yelping cries that they meant to take his precious catch.