by Caiseal Mor
“We’re in a new land,” the Druid reasoned. “They’ve fought a bitter war. They should be compensated for their efforts. Perhaps tradition might be relaxed to some degree in this instance.”
Eber grunted in grudging agreement. Máel Máedóc narrowed his eyes, certain his concerns were not being taken seriously. He coughed to gain the king’s attention before he went on to his next piece of news.
“A band of ten Fian made a raid on a herd from a Fir-Bolg settlement some days ago. They dragged one of the poor herdsman home with them.”
“I am aware of the incident,” Eber answered sharply. “The farmer was compensated.”
“Yet no one was punished for this breach of treaty and honor,” the Druid pressed. “I understand there was little you could do about the fisherman’s disappearance, but there were witnesses on this occasion.”
“I have spoken with the warriors who were responsible. I am convinced it was merely a case of youthful high spirits which got out of control, nothing more. We have all been guilty of that at some time in our lives.”
“It wasn’t just the hot blood of youth that inspired this outrageous raid,” Máel Máedóc protested.
“Then what was it?” Eber snapped, clearly losing patience. “What’s the point you’re trying to make?”
“Unrest is spreading through the ranks of the warriors like a fire through dry thatch. They must be brought to heel before they turn their frustration on their own folk.”
“Some among their ranks are restless,” Eber admitted. “Clearly they perceive the mounting threat to our claim over this land. The warriors suspect, just as I do, that the Danaans are lulling us into a false sense of security in the hope we will relax our watchfulness. The youngest and least experienced of the Fianna can see the danger, even if the wisest of the Druids cannot.”
“The Fianna are bored,” Máel Máedóc countered flatly. “They have had nothing to do for three winters since our victory at the Battle of Sliabh Mis. Give them work. Set them to patrolling the coasts or exploring the forests. Give purpose to their lives, for without that they have nothing. Mark my words, they will resent a king who steals their dignity by letting them roam the land looting and burning for entertainment.”
Eber dropped his eyes as he considered the counselor’s comments. For a long while he was silent and the Druid waited patiently by his side. At last Eber Finn nodded his head.
“You’re right,” he admitted. “I will assign the warriors some labor to occupy their time. Work on the chariots will be suspended for now. There’s no sense in giving them new weapons if they are going to turn them on the innocent. Twenty war-carts are more than enough for my purpose.”
“Which is?”
“The defense of Dun Gur.”
“My lord,” the Druid sighed, “I am your counselor. It is my duty to advise you on all matters. It’s your obligation to share your concerns with me. Kings have relied on Druid knowledge in this manner since our people first called themselves Gaedhals. But I can’t help you in your work if you don’t tell me of your worries.”
For a moment Eber considered telling the old counselor all that had happened in the last few days. He would have been happy to unburden his soul and share the threats Eremon had sent with his messenger. War, his brother had warned, would be the result of Eber’s failure to pay a tribute to the Kingdom of the North.
But the king could not bring himself to trust the old Druid. As wise and as respected as he was, Máel Máedóc was a compatriot of Amergin. They were contemporaries and often consulted one another.
Amergin had decided to take Éremon’s part in this disagreement. So Eber dared not trust his own counselor.
“I have told everything there is to tell,” the king declared, but his tone was not convincing. “I promise I’ll keep you informed of any developments with the Danaans.”
Although Máel Máedóc suspected Eber was not being entirely truthful, the old man did not want to be rushed into presenting his satire. So for the moment he was content to accept what Eber told him.
“I have another matter I wish to discuss with you, my lord,” the Druid went on, neatly changing the subject.
“What’s that?” Eber frowned.
“The level of the lough around Dun Gur is falling daily. Within a single turning of the moon there may be no water left in it all.”
“How do you account for this?” the king asked with a frown.
“There has been no rain for two moon cycles,” Máel Máedóc explained. “The Danaan Druids say this has been known to happen before, though rarely.”
“Is it the result of their sorcery?”
Máel Máedóc looked deep into the king’s eyes. He was a little surprised at the question. “I would simply put it down to nature running its course,” the old Druid replied. “The learned Danaans say it is a sure sign of a hard winter ahead. In any case the lough has never completely drained. The Danaan Druids say—”
“I am sick to the stomach of all this talk of the Danaan Druids!” Eber cried, interrupting the old man. “If I hear them mentioned again, I won’t be held responsible for the measure of my rage.”
The king turned his whole body in open confrontation with the counselor. “Can’t you do anything about the falling level of the lough?” he mocked. “I thought your kind were masters of the subtle arts.”
Máel Máedóc let no emotion show on his face; instead he carefully concealed his disgust at this blatant show of disrespect. “I have no learning in such matters,” he replied, carefully controlling his voice.
Eber laughed. “It’s difficult for me to take you seriously sometimes, old man,” the king spat. “You were an adviser to my father so I have always had a certain respect for you. But perhaps it’s time you considered stepping aside to allow a younger man to take up your duties. It seems you’ve begun to lose your good judgment. Why haven’t you set about seeking a solution to this problem?”
Máel Máedóc took a deep breath, determined not to be roused by the young king’s provocative manner. “Don’t break a shin on a stool that’s not in your way,” he advised. “I thought it my duty to inform you of the problem first.”
“Must I deal personally with every little trouble that besets our folk?” Eber countered. “If you can’t cope with the responsibilities of your office, I suggest you step aside before the Council of Chieftains replaces you. I wouldn’t wish to see you suffer any such dishonor, but I fear you’re not the man you once were.”
The old coxmselor closed his eyes. He now had no choice but to act quickly if he was to have a chance of halting Eber Finn’s plans. “I am not quite ready for retirement,” he answered.
“You’re an old man. You’ve served your people well in the past. But you’re becoming a liability. I will speak with the council and we’ll decide on your replacement as soon as possible.”
“There is none who could take my place. There are no Druids younger than myself among the people of the south.”
“Then send a message to my brother Amergin to ask his advice.” Eber waved his hand to signal the discussion was ended.
The Druid took two paces back, his eyes to the ground as a mark of respect to his king. He was relieved the audience was over and was eager to find himself a quiet corner where he could begin to compose his satire.
With a sharp turn on his heel, Máel Máedóc spun around and hurried away. But he had not gone more than five steps when the king shouted out to him.
“If you interfere with the duties of my kingship, you had better have good reason. I am the duly elected war-leader of my people. And I am carrying out legitimate and justifiable preparations to defend our homes and pastures. No Brehon judge would question my right to take this action.”
Máel Máedóc faced the king again. “Take care you don’t misuse the authority granted by the Council of Chieftains.”
Eber pretended he didn’t hear the warning as he strode off toward his chariot. He patted his mare on the nose, leaped in
to the cart and in moments was charging off over the fields, whistling and whooping as he had earlier.
The old Druid sighed heavily and the first line of his satire came clearly to his mind.
“I saw a child playing at being a warrior,” he whispered to himself. “In the field he trampled down the oat stalks, leaving a terrible trail of their dead and wounded in his wake.”
Chapter 4
OLLAMH DALAN MAC MATH, BREHON JUDGE AND nominee for the office of High Druid, leaned against the oak tree and coughed. As he rested he gathered the long, finely matted locks of his dark brown hair that were falling about his face and tied them together at the back of his head.
Then he stared down toward the bubbling spring at the bottom of the little valley while he caught his breath. As he did so he again thought about whether he should accept the acclamation of his peers and take up the highest appointment a Druid could aspire to—Dagda. Many of his friends had pledged their support. More had expressed their confidence in his judgment and experience. But Dalan was not sure if he was ready for such a commitment. He had other, more pressing matters to attend to before he chose the future path of his vocation.
In the three winters since the Battle of Sliabh Mis he’d tracked down every scrap of knowledge, every whispered rumor, every tradition, song, poem and legend of the Watchers. And yet he seemed no closer to his goal.
After the battle he’d lost track of the Watchers entirely, though he’d heard they’d appeared in the north and were occasionally spotted at the court of King Eber. He hadn’t made any attempts to follow them—to travel such distances just to speak with them would have availed him nothing.
The Watchers were unpredictable, dangerous, ruthless and vengeful. They wielded an ancient, powerful enchantment yet were imprisoned by that same spell. They were a force to be feared and Dalan was as determined as ever to rid the world of them, though he was still at a loss to know how this was to be done.
These three winters past he’d been trudging the countryside in search of all those Druid folk who had preserved tiny snippets of the Watchers’ legend. Many knew the same stories, but once in a while he came across someone who knew more.
And that’s how he came to be here on a narrow muddy path which led deep into a shaded forest. If Fineen the Healer was right, the Druid woman who made this glen her home held the final pieces of the mystery that had plagued him for so long.
With nimble fingers the Brehon rubbed his calf muscles. He’d been walking all day and his feet were rubbed raw in places from the wear of his new boots. It would take many more journeys before the leather softened. Once his massage had soothed the soreness Dalan put his pack on the ground and listened carefully to the sounds of the woods. He heard the cries of many birds in the distance and the wind rushing through the leafy trees. Then his attention was drawn to the relentless voice of the water as it joyfully erupted from the dark earth into the sunlight at the spring.
An unexpected noise caught his attention so he cocked his head to one side like a fox listening for the hunter. Then his jaw dropped open in surprise and his hands stopped rubbing his calf muscles.
Dalan was certain he could hear a song on the air. The words were foreign to him but the voice was haunting. He strained to capture every note that came to him on the breeze.
And it was a delightful tune that serenaded his senses. The kind of melody that has you tapping your toes in time one second and stomping your feet the next.
The light-hearted song reminded Dalan of a warm sunny morning after a cold rainy night. The Brehon couldn’t help grinning broadly in appreciation and twitching his fingers to the beat. The smile spread across his face as his head began to nod in time with the music.
This was like no tune he had ever heard. One moment the melody was dancing over flower-strewn fields. The next it was full of passion that threatened to engulf the listener in a flooding torrent of rising emotion.
The Druid felt his heart begin to race as his imagination invented countermelodies and harmonies. His eyes closed briefly but he knew this was not a dream vision that would become clearer if he shut the rest of the world out. A bird fluttered out of a tree nearby, distracting him from his reverie. In the next breath he sensed a large black shadow pass by at the furthest edge of his vision. He turned swiftly to catch sight of it before it disappeared into the cover of the woods.
But he was too late. The bird had gone.
A cold chill passed over Dalan. The shape he’d glimpsed seemed much bigger than any bird he’d ever seen. He shook his head to clear his senses. Then he realized he couldn’t hear the tuneful song any more.
“You bloody fool!” he berated himself. “You should know better than to let down your guard in the forest. Who knows what spirits inhabit this place.”
His mind was full of memories of a night three summers earlier when he, Aoife and Mahon had fought off an attack from a horde of Otherworldly owls in the great woods to the south.
The memory made him very uneasy. With a long harper’s fingernail he drew a quick gesture of banishment in the air directly in front of his face. Then he shouldered his pack and gathered up his black Druid cloak of Raven feathers so it would not drag along in the mud. For once he was glad not to be lugging a heavy leather instrument case around with him on his travels. This was one journey he was unlikely to be needing a harp.
Dalan sniffed the air and listened once more but he couldn’t sense any challenge or hostility. Hoping the inhabitants of this forest would tolerate his presence, he set off to follow the path which led down to the spring.
It was not far to the bottom of the little glen but with such sore feet Dalan thought he’d never reach the pond which formed around the bubbling waters. But soon enough he stood by the boiling trickle of water that spilled over the rocks through a narrow crevice. When he had offered up a silent little prayer of thanks, he turned around to listen again. A long while passed before he cupped his hands to his mouth and called out a cautious greeting.
There was no answer save an echo from the rocks above and the murmuring of the spring as it filled the pool beneath it. There was no hint of a melody in its voice now, just a monotonous gurgling without any disciplined rhythm.
“Where is she?” the Brehon muttered to himself in frustration as he sat down on a flat stone at the edge of the pond.
In a few moments he’d pulled off his boots and was soaking his feet in the cool swirling flood. Soothed by the spring water he inwardly called down a heartfelt blessing on this place as cool healing ripples swirled about his ankles.
The day had been unusually hot. There had been no rain nor hint of it since the dark of the last moon. Dalan frowned deeply as he realized the silver orb of night had almost returned to the dark part of its cycle again.
He searched the skies but there were only a few white puffs of cloud on the horizon and no sign of relief for the land. The reading of the weather was not his special skill. He only knew a few little tricks to tell whether the next day would be wet or rainless. The sky in the west was shaded pink as the sun came closer to crossing the horizon. Dalan understood that meant the following day would be dry. He sighed deeply, resigned to the fact that there was nothing he could do about it. Then he slipped the cloak off his shoulders and lay down among the feathers to wait and rest by the pool.
Since the woman he was seeking was nowhere to be seen he decided to take advantage of this precious time alone. It wasn’t often he was given a chance to relax completely.
He glanced at the rocks surrounding the pool. There was a bundle of dry twigs nearby and a stack of split timber. Fineen had told him that the Druid woman came back here at sunset every evening to perform her devotions. If that was true it would be only a short while before she arrived.
The water around his legs was so refreshing, tranquil and lulling he soon forgot about the strange song he’d heard earlier, or any thoughts of danger. His body was aching with exhaustion. His clothes stank of sweat.
The Brehon untied the thin leather strap that held his tightly matted locks in place at the back of his neck. Then he scooped up two handfuls of water and threw them over his head. The locks fell about his face and he gently squeezed them until the water oozed out, carrying the dust of the road with it.
This style of hair was reserved for the most ascetic among the Druid kind. Each strand was twisted about into locks almost as thick as a harper’s little finger. Dalan had decided to take on this style until he solved the puzzle of the Watchers, but only he knew the secret vow he’d made to himself. He would cut his hair on the day he freed them from their bonds and released them from this world. After three winters his hair was already shoulder length and had earned him the respect and awe of his fellow Druids.
He lay back on the cushion his locks provided for him. As Dalan the Brehon closed his eyes he didn’t give another thought to the black shadow that had crossed his path. Nor did he think to keep his wits about him and stay on guard lest the spirits of the forest assail him. He was suddenly exhausted and all he desired was rest. His only thought was that this was the most beautiful, restful place on the whole island of Innisfail. His feet dangled listlessly in the pool. His eyelids grew heavy and the Brehon nodded off to sleep.
After a long while in the water Dalan’s toes got cold. So he lifted his legs up onto the Raven feather cloak and lapsed into a deeper state of relaxation.
Perhaps he should have been more careful. Perhaps it would have served him better to have stayed awake, at the ready for any sign of trouble. But even Druids and Brehons of great learning are capable of foolish mistakes.
