The King of Sleep

by Caiseal Mor

  “Eber Finn is amassing an arsenal of weapons. He’s building war-carts and has a store of new swords fresh from the forge.”

  “Who is he intending to fight?” the king pressed.

  Fineen shrugged. “He’s been telling his folk that the Danaans are still a threat.”

  Brocan touched the healer on the shoulder and bit his bottom lip. “But we both know that’s not very likely.”

  “Eber knows it too, I think,” Fineen confirmed. “Máel Máedóc fears there may be trouble brewing with King Éremon, though Eber Finn has not spoken openly of any falling-out with his brother.”

  “I knew it!” Brocan hissed, picking up his pace so that Fineen had to struggle to catch him. “These bloody Gaedhals aren’t happy unless they’re fighting, are they?”

  Near the caves of Aillwee the Fir-Bolg had constructed a temporary settlement, housing craftsmen, stone-builders, warriors and displaced Fir-Bolg in an irregular gathering of round wattle-houses and long, rectangular halls.

  Fortifications were still being laid out around the cave mouth according to Brocan’s instructions. Once complete these defenses would be almost impossible to breach. And if necessary his people would be able to retreat into the depths of the cavern and survive a long siege. The caves in the upper levels were cold and dry, ideal for storing large quantities of food.

  The destruction of Dun Burren was a dishonorable act conducted by the Gaedhals under cover of darkness. The disaster had taught Brocan a valuable lesson and he was determined his people would never fall victim to such an attack again. That was why the Aillwee caves were chosen for the new fortress.

  At the first house Fergus the veteran was seated on a wooden bench by the door, waiting patiently for his king.

  “All went well in the caves?” the warrior asked expectantly as he stood to greet his old friend.

  “Of course it did,” Brocan snapped, handing the smouldering torch to the veteran. “What did you expect?”

  Fergus looked away. He had been as a brother to Brocan since they were both small boys and he could tell when something was troubling the king.

  “Now that you have proved there’s nothing to fear, the warriors will surely take to exploring deeper into the caves,” he assured Brocan.

  “They’ve all become like frightened children,” the king spat.

  “Some of them recall the fight in the Fomor forest,” Fergus reminded him with a shudder.

  “Owls,” Brocan sighed in exasperation. “We were attacked by flocks of owls. Not demons or bears or Sen Erainn.”

  “Sen Erainn?” Fineen breathed.

  “They’re nothing more than an old tale told to children to keep them from straying at night,” Brocan dismissed, cursing himself for even mentioning them. “What has become of everyone? Are there no stout hearts left among my kinfolk?”

  The veteran saw no point in pressing the matter. “I’ve had news from Rath Carriaghe,” he announced. “I must return home to my own close kindred as soon as possible.”

  “What’s this?” Brocan protested. “You know I can’t build the stronghold without your help.”

  “My mother is ill. She may already have passed on to the Halls of Waiting. I have a duty to visit her if I can before death takes her.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “A few days at the most. If I leave around midnight I’ll have an easy walk under the stars and will reach the rath by sunrise.”

  “Hurry back,” Brocan ordered. “There is much to be done.”

  “Have you no words for my mother?”

  Brocan blushed, realizing he had been brash and unfeeling toward his old friend in his time of sorrow. “Give her my blessing and tell her my fondest thoughts go with her on her journey.”

  Fergus nodded. He was accustomed to Brocan’s manner. The veteran touched his friend on the sleeve. “What’s the matter?”

  “I found something strange in the caves,” the king blurted.

  The healer raised his eyebrows. Brocan had not mentioned anything to him about an unusual discovery.

  The king sensed Fineen’s interest and turned to include him in the conversation. “I didn’t say anything at first because I wanted to wait until Dalan had returned to us,” he explained. “He knows more about these things than any Druid alive.”

  “Dalan will be here in a day or two,” Fineen told him. “He has gone to the eastern hills to search for a colleague of mine who may be able to help him in his work.”

  “We’ll talk about this matter then,” the king sighed. “I’m sure it can wait until we’re all assembled in the one place again.”

  Brocan took Fergus by the hand. “I’m sorry I was so abrupt with you,” he offered. “I have so much on my mind at present. My thoughts go with you. May your journey be safe. May you return to us in good health.”

  Fergus nodded, accepting the apology.

  “Come to my hall and take some food with me before you leave,” the king added. “We’ll open a new barrel of mead together and you’ll take one of my finest bottles with you to your mother’s home for the wake.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Fergus replied with a weary smile, then disappeared inside his hut.

  Brocan walked away, his head down. “I’ve noticed how old he is becoming,” he confided to the healer after some moments silence.

  “That is the way with all mortals,” answered Fineen. “Only three winters have passed since the Battle of Sliabh Mis, yet they have been hard times and his body is showing the strain.”

  The king stopped abruptly and faced Fineen. “You tricked me into taking the Quicken Brew,” he stated bitterly.

  “I saved your life,” the healer replied in consternation. “If I had not administered the brew you would have bled to death by that foreign arrow.

  “Now I find I cannot do without a sup of it each Samhain,” Brocan signed ruefully. “If I fail to take my annual cup I am laid up with unbearable pain until the brew passes my lips.”

  “And none can say what might happen if you did not share the brew at all,” Fineen shrugged apologetically. “But think on this; if you had died on the field of Sliabh Mis, who would have negotiated a treaty with the Gaedhals? Who would have led your kinfolk here and been able to envision a stronghold in this place?”

  Brocan grunted. “My best friend is aging fast. I don’t want to see him die. I can’t lead my people all alone. I need his help.”

  “Then speak with him when he returns,” Fineen shrugged. “Perhaps he will see the wisdom of taking the Quicken Brew for the good of his people.”

  “I could try,” Brocan told him, “but I doubt old Fergus would consent. His spirit is looking forward to a well-earned rest in the Halls of Waiting. I too was looking forward to the long sleep before I was forced to drink the brew. So I’ll find it difficult to convince him to relinquish his soul-rest.”

  “Your people need your wisdom if they are going to rise to the challenges of the future.”

  Brocan looked away thoughtfully. When he spoke again there was bitter resentment in his voice. “Long ages before the Danaans and their Quicken Brew, the Fir-Bolg held sovereignty over Innisfail. Since ancient days folk of my bloodline were the guardians of this land and its people. From generation to generation wisdom learned was passed down through the stewardship of our kings and Druids.”

  He caught Fineen’s eye in a wild stare that caused the healer to take a step back in surprise.

  “I have earned my respite from the trials of life,” Brocan went on, barely keeping his anger in check, “yet I have no chance of claiming any rest. My wife and queen left me for the Danaan king. My children have disappointed me at every turn. I thought to bring an end to war and fighting. I thought to bring peace and security to my kinfolk. But I have failed and I am tired. My spirit has no fire left for kingly duties. Your Danaan potions may cure the body and ensure eternal life, but they cannot heal the maladies of the soul.”

  Fineen looked down to the ground in sil
ent acknowledgment of the truth. Brocan was calmer now, but the anguish he was suffering was still discernible.

  “Fergus is going to farewell his mother,” the king went on solemnly. “His only hope of meeting her again is in the Halls of Waiting or in the next life into which his spirit is reborn. How can I ask him to abandon the chance of ever crossing paths with her again?”

  Brocan took a deep breath. “Too many of my loved ones passed away without tasting the Quicken Brew. I have no hope of encountering their souls again. That’s a bitter grief to me. And I wouldn’t wish such a fate on anyone.”

  “They’ll be reborn into the world,” Fineen soothed. “You’ll meet them and recognize them when they appear in your life. The brew offers other gifts if you would but open your eyes and your mind to them.”

  Brocan glanced at the healer in frustration. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said. But one day you’ll know what I’m talking about. One day you’ll understand why I respect the wishes of my old friend Fergus. He has chosen to retain his mortality. I wish I had that choice.”

  Then the king put a hand on Fineen’s shoulder. “I’ll rule my people alone if I must, though there was never a greater burden placed on any king.”

  Fineen shrugged. “If you are determined to leave Fergus to grow old and die, then I certainly won’t be able to convince you otherwise.”

  “It is well that you and I will live forever,” Brocan stated coldly. “Because it will take many seasons for me to understand what prompted you to bring me back from the brink of death. And many more before I find it in my heart to forgive you.”

  “I saved your life,” the healer protested.

  “It’s my soul I’m concerned about.” And without another word Brocan walked off, leaving Fineen to reflect on all his king had said. And so touched was the healer by what he’d heard that it was a long while before he continued on his way.

  At last, with a heavy heart, he sought out the poets’ house where all Druids lodged whenever they stayed at the Aillwee. Within that hall he knew he’d find a barrel of mead. And he knew the honey brew would ease his troubled thoughts, if only for a while.

  Chapter 2

  IOBHAR THE GAEDHAL HALTED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE steep well-worn path which led to the summit of an abandoned stone hill fort. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. Surely it would be no dishonor to him if he turned around now and abandoned the chase.

  A hundred paces up the slope ran a young Fir-Bolg woman, a sword strapped to her back. Her shining copper hair flew wild in the wind. She was quick, sure-footed and determined. And she didn’t once turn around to look back at him.

  A wave of determination came over proud young Iobhar. In the next second he was hurrying up the steep incline again, eyes fixed on his quarry.

  “Just wait till I catch you, my girl,” he hissed under his breath.

  In moments she had climbed a rocky outcrop and disappeared completely from view. Iobhar gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the terrible aching in his legs. But before long the warrior stopped in his tracks again, overwhelmed by exhaustion. The chase had lasted all morning. His spirit was flagging. He placed a hand on the hilt of his sword to reassure himself it was still there, then wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

  The beautiful young woman was well out of reach now. There wasn’t a warrior alive who could make up the ground between them before she reached the safety of the summit.

  But even as his heart was mourning her loss, something happened to inspire him to take up the pursuit once more. As the woman reappeared on the rough hillside track she slipped on the wet grass, tumbled over backward and rolled down the hill toward him. By the time she managed to arrest her haphazard descent, she had lost at least fifty paces.

  She glanced back down at her pursuer as she righted herself. Iobhar felt a rush of energy surge through his tired limbs. But the woman’s face showed a mix of fear and self-reproach. That soon passed and in a flash she was up again, retracing her steps as nimbly as an anxious mountain goat.

  Iobhar touched the hilt of his blade again in thankful blessing and laughed out loud. All thoughts of giving up the chase departed with the heady scent of victory. A simple turn of fortune had granted him another chance to capture this Fir-Bolg woman. And he was not going to squander that opportunity.

  In the next instant the Gaedhal let out a triumphant call and his voice was spiced with mischievous delight. When the Fir-Bolg woman heard it she stopped in her tracks to face him down, holding her hands up above her head to give a show of bold defiance to this arrogant foreigner.

  “Do you guess you’ve caught me?” she taunted. “You’re a bloody fool of a Gaedhal if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ve a wee bit of fight left in me yet and I guarantee this won’t be easy for you.”

  Iobhar stared up at her, roused to anger by her contemptuous tone. She was no more than a girl, yet she’d led him a fine chase all morning. And now, just as she was about to taste defeat, she was insulting him. The Gaedhal resolved to teach her a lesson in respect.

  He raised his eyes to the woman again and yelled across the distance between them. “Your feet are swift and for a while luck has run with you today. But when I lay hands on you, my girl, we’ll see who’s the fool.”

  The woman grasped the hilt of her sword and drew it from the leather scabbard secured across her back. “Would you battle with me, foreigner?” she challenged. “I promise you’ll not come away from the fight unscathed.”

  “My people are not foreigners in this land,” he snapped back. “We won the sovereignty of this island in open combat. This is our country now and your folk made a treaty to withdraw behind the veil of enchantment. You’re trespassing in the country of Eirinn, ruled over by King Eber Finn, son of Queen Scota.”

  She gave no reply. All her attention was suddenly focused on a point further down the hillside. The Gaedhal frowned as he turned to look behind him but he couldn’t discern what had distracted her.

  “I am Aoife, daughter of Brocan, King of the Fir-BoIg of the Burren,” she cried, Iobhar still squinting to follow her gaze. “My father made no treaty with the Gaedhal. If you don’t believe me, you can ask my brother and my betrothed. They’ll be here shortly.”

  All Iobhar’s jubilation departed as he beheld two armed warriors sprinting over a field toward the foot of the hill. A third man followed some twenty paces or so behind them. The Gaedhal would soon be out-numbered.

  He took a full draught of air into his lungs, shook the long brown wisps of hair from his face, then let out another battle cry. His voice echoed down the hillside, passing from boulder to boulder like a hurled rock bouncing down the slope.

  No sooner had the call left his mouth than Iobhar took up the chase again. By the time Aoife had disappeared over the lip of the ruined walls he had gained much valuable ground. Only twenty paces lay between them.

  Near a jumble of stones that had once been a stout defensive wall, Iobhar felt his own foot slip on the grass. He fell hard on his elbows, nearly losing a grip on his blade as he did so. Then he realized how stupid he was. Aoife would likely be waiting for him to emerge at the same spot where she had clambered over the wall. It would then be a simple matter for her to strike him down. Iobhar thought a moment then decided to surprise her instead.

  In the next second he was scurrying quietly around to the far side of the wall where the stones were not as high and the climb into the hill fort not quite so treacherous. His hands were cut and grazed from the strenuous pursuit up the hill; his legs ached for rest. Below were two well-armed warriors making good speed on the steep ground. Yet Iobhar knew he still had a slim chance of victory, provided he was swift about it. To tarry too long would be disastrous.

  “Aoife!” one of the young warriors called out from below. “Don’t try to take him on by yourself.”

  She did not reply.

  Alone on the flat expanse of grass where her fore-fathers had constructed a great defensive work
the young woman gazed steadily at the section of wall before her, awaiting the Gaedhal. The light breeze teased her red ringlets.

  Aoife stilled her breath to listen but she could hear no sound of the enemy’s approach. She gripped her sword in readiness for the first swing the very moment he showed his head above the stones.

  Around her stood the blackened shells of ruined buildings, silent ghosts with empty eyes and lonely spirits. All this destruction had been wrought by the Gaedhals, by Eber Finn who called himself the King of the South. He and his kinfolk had brought this misfortune on her people.

  Aoife felt righteous anger rise in her. And for the first time in three winters her heart desired nothing but vengeance. She cast her mind back to the night when this hill fort had been attacked and saw again the leaping flames devouring timber and thatch. It was a cowardly, skulking assault on her home. And these empty walls were testimony to the treacherous ways of the foreigners. That night had changed her life and those of all her people forever.

  “You won’t catch me!” she hissed at her assailant, though she still couldn’t see him. I’d gladly die before I’d fall into the hands of a Gaedhal.”

  The wind picked up and whipped at her tunic with cold fingertips. Aoife calmly raised her blade above her, set her feet firmly apart and bent her knees, ready to spring forward to the fight. She had taken no more than three breaths when a rock dislodged from its place in the wall behind her and tumbled down the hill. The young woman turned sharply just in time to see Iobhar leap over the ruined defense and stand with his blade pointed directly toward her throat.

  “Throw down your weapon,” he demanded, “and I promise you’ll not be harmed.”

  Aoife’s answer was short, sharp and direct. The sword above her head swung down as she retreated one short pace. Her bronze blade sang as it struck the strong foreign steel. Then, with all the grace of a dancer, the young woman spun around on her heel, dragging her weapon whistling through the air.

  The Gaedhal hadn’t expected her to offer this much resistance. After the long chase he thought she’d be exhausted and unwilling to face him down alone.