The King of Sleep

by Caiseal Mor

  “I will,” Brocan decided. “And then I will ask the Council of Chieftains.”

  As he spoke his eyes scanned the Brandubh board again. To his surprise he noticed a gap in his opponent’s defenses. In a moment he’d moved his warlord down the table to a winning position. And for the first time in a long while Brocan smiled.

  Chapter 8

  SLUMBER SANG A SLOW LINGERING LULLABY BEFORE spreading its drowsy veil over Dalan the Brehon. And all the while he dimly perceived the menacing presence of the Raven perched high in the rafters.

  The intensity of the creature’s glare was so threatening Dalan jolted in his sleep several times before exhaustion relaxed him and he rested soundly at last. And when he had been in that state for a long time a dream finally came to him.

  A dream unlike any other he had ever experienced.

  The Brehon was still conscious of the great black carrion bird looking down into the room. But his perspective of the situation had changed. He wasn’t staring up toward the ceiling at the Raven. Rather, he was gazing directly at the bird as if she were seated beside him. This unsettled Dalan’s instinctive defenses and he teetered between the waking and the sleeping worlds for just a moment. Then, when he realized the Raven wasn’t making any threatening moves, the Brehon relaxed again. He felt his shoulders drop as he stretched his neck high and took a deep breath.

  Suddenly he felt a sharp pricking sensation on his chest. It soon became an urgent burning sting. It was at that moment Dalan realized he had a beak. But the revelation didn’t surprise him at all. It was as if he’d always had this sturdy appendage on the front of his face. In a moment he plunged the point of his beak into the mass of feathers which now covered his chest, scraped the skin underneath and found what he was looking for. With all the deftness of any bird the Brehon plucked the parasite away and in one smooth movement tossed it to the back of his throat. He felt the tiny creature struggle momentarily, then he swallowed hard, cawed with contentment and shook his wings.

  In the next instant he scanned the room for vermin with eyes that needed no firelight to spot their prey. It was this keen eyesight which first made the Brehon frown. Suddenly the dreamlike sensations he was experiencing had become vividly real.

  His chest rose and fell silently and though he hardly moved at all he was aware of every muscle in this strong body. The feather tips of his wings vibrated gently as he drew in breath. His hard clawed feet gripped the beam with such force he knew the timber would be scratched and splintered where he sat.

  The Raven seated on the roof beam nearby slowly cocked her head at him and Dalan stared entranced into the black void of her eyes. The bird narrowed her eyelids, bringing all her skill at scrutiny to bear upon him.

  And Dalan’s feathers shivered as the bird sized him up.

  “You’re quite a fellow,” the Raven said in a rich throaty croak.

  It was a voice that was utterly feminine. But more like the creaking ropes of a ship at sea it was than the sound any living creature might make.

  “My brothers and sisters tell me you are marked for the office of Dagda.”

  “I was nominated,” the Brehon replied in a hesitant crow that emanated from the back of his throat. “I intend to decline the offer,” he added, and realized it was true.

  “Decline?” the Raven laughed. “You’ll decline the highest office of your order? You are pushing aside an opportunity to lead your sacred sisters and brothers into the new age which lies before them?”

  “I have other work to do.”

  “You are so selfless,” the bird retorted bitterly and the sarcasm in her voice was clear.

  “You seem to know a lot about me,” the Druid shot back, becoming bolder now.

  “Who hasn’t heard of the exploits of Dalan, Brehon judge of the highest standing?” the Raven mocked in a childish singsong voice. “Savior of the Fir-Bolg. Slayer of Owls. Mediator, Law-Keeper, Harper, Poet and Hunter of the Watchers. Quite a list of responsibilities. When do you have time to sleep?”

  “I thought I was sleeping at this very moment.”

  “You are. In a manner of speaking at least. I suppose I could have come to you in some form more appealing to your sensibilities. I could have revealed myself as a beautiful, sensuous young woman, or even as your mother if I’d thought of it. But I have certain standards and I prefer not to lower them unless absolutely necessary. There is, after all, no form so graceful, so strong or so enticing as that of the Raven kind.”

  The bird shifted her head as she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. She stared at the far end of the room for a few breaths then turned back to Dalan.

  “You should consider this transformation a great gift,” the creature went on. “Few of your kind have ever known the ecstatic joy of inhabiting such a body.”

  “Who are you? What do you want of me?”

  “I am Chief Raven of the Chorus,” she replied. “It’s a very dignified position. When the queen speaks in council to her people it is my duty to lead the assembly in echoing her words. I am her lady-in-waiting, her servant, her messenger, her instrument of justice and her anointed successor. And the queen is coming near to the end of her days.”

  The Raven cocked her head toward the end of the room again, taking careful note of the tiniest sounds, scents and scurried shuffles.

  “I am the most influential female of my kindred throughout the Isle of Innisfail,” the bird went on, eyes still scanning for prey. “And I have chosen to speak with you because the queen has charged me with forging a friendship between our peoples.”

  “Friendship?” Dalan asked, his voice wary.

  “Hard times have come upon my folk,” the Raven sighed, giving the Brehon her full attention. “Since the Gaedhals came to this land we’ve witnessed many changes. Not many of them have been for the better. Eber Finn, who calls himself King of the South, has been fortifying Dun Gur by rebuilding the old walls. His people construct dwellings wherever they choose, without consulting their Druids or the spirits which dwell in the land.”

  “They are an ignorant folk,” Dalan nodded.

  “That is perfectly plain to me,” the Raven snapped back.

  “I mean to say that their ancestors have never settled in one place for too long,” the Brehon explained. “They have lost all knowledge of such matters in their constant wandering.”

  “That may well be the reason for their behavior. But it doesn’t make it any easier to bear.”

  The bird snuffled her beak against the underside of a wing, shook her head and went on. “The forests are being cut down faster than they can be replaced. Fields have appeared where once there was only virgin woodland. The green canopy of the forest is shrinking at an alarming rate. Such destruction has never been known. Not even under the rule of the Fomorians who laid some places to waste. So that now nothing grows upon the earth they trod.”

  “There are still many forests where the ringing of the axe is unknown,” the Druid noted.

  “That is true,” the Raven conceded. “But your people, who used to be friends of all the woodland folk, have allowed this destruction to go on without a word of protest. What has become of the Brehon law which enshrines the sensible usage of the land? This practice was instituted generations ago. Why has it been so quickly abandoned? And why have the judges of both Danaan and Fir-Bolg turned a blind eye to this unchecked madness?”

  “The Fir-Bolg have been busy rebuilding their lives after the destruction of Dun Burren,” Dalan informed him. “Everyone, man, woman, child, warrior, Druid and king, has been mindful of only one task. The establishment of a new home.” The Brehon shivered, realizing this was hardly a valid excuse.

  “As for the Danaans, they now dwell beyond the gates to the Otherworld,” he went on. “They can’t be expected to take much interest in the affairs of this Innisfail any longer.”

  “They visit now and then,” the bird corrected him. “They haven’t lost their love of this island which was their home. But they
come less and less and seem content with their new abode.”

  “In time I expect their visits will be very seldom.”

  “You’re one of them. You drank the Quicken Brew. Will you withdraw to the Otherworld as well?”

  “I will one day, that is certain. This world of eternal decay is bearable if one’s fate is mortality. But in the Otherworld there is no death, no disease, no suffering. It is the only place for one such as myself.”

  The Raven clicked her beak loudly, then spoke again. “The Gaedhals must be stopped. And there is a reckoning to be paid. The great fire in the western woods destroyed many of the trees in that part of the island.”

  “That fire was not the fault of the Gaedhals,” Dalan cut in. “The spirits of the woods and the gathered owl folk were the cause of that disaster.”

  “The fire was started by a feckless Fir-Bolg youth with no respect for the forest folk and their right to seize tribute from all travelers. Sárán, son of Brocan, lit that blaze. I have no love for the owl tribe and in my opinion they deserve every misfortune heaped upon them. But in all conscience I can hardly condone the boy’s actions. As chief among the law-keepers of my people I demand recompense for this crime against all the woodland dwellers.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a claim!” Dalan exclaimed. “I wouldn’t know how to adjudge the wrong or tally up the penalty.”

  “If I may make a suggestion,” the Raven cut in confidently, as if this speech had been rehearsed. “The answer is obvious. The price I claim for my kindred and their allies is a deed and promise from your folk.”

  “What promise?”

  “Your solemn word that you will halt the destruction brought on this land by the wanton excesses of the Gaedhals. Your binding oath that the Brehon laws regarding the cutting of timber and the clearing of land be observed to the letter.”

  “That seems a fair price for the loss of the forest,” the Brehon considered. “The Danaans and the Fir-Bolg negotiated a treaty with the invaders. And no just consultation was sought with your kin.”

  “If you can give this assurance,” the Raven went on, “then I can promise on behalf of our present queen, and our future queen also, that all my kindred will lend your people their strength in time of trouble. They will offer their wings when there is urgent news to be sent and their hearts whenever despair should cast its shadow.”

  “I am not able to give you any assurance,” Dalan pointed out. “I am merely a judge. Such a treaty would have to be discussed among the chieftains of my people.”

  The bird regarded him intently once more. “Then accept the offer for yourself. Take on the mantle of advocate for my kin and we will offer you alone among your folk the terms I have detailed.”

  The Druid turned his head away to consider what the Raven had said.

  “I will do as you ask,” he replied finally.

  “Do you swear to uphold the rights of all woodland creatures, those of the earth, those of the air and those of the water, to the best of your ability?”

  “I do,” Dalan replied.

  “Do you promise to uphold the Brehon laws in this regard?”

  “I promise.”

  “And I in turn pledge the assistance of all my clans.”

  “The Queen of the Ravens must be close to death if you can make that promise so securely.”

  “She will be dead before dawn,” the Raven hissed in delight. “At last.”

  Dalan drew in a startled breath and the Raven clicked her beak in mockery of his fright.

  “You have already quite a task ahead of you,” the bird went on. “Lough Gur is drying out because of the unusually hot dry summer. If there is no rain soon the waters will be lower than ever before.”

  “I have no influence over the weather,” Dalan objected. “That skill is practiced by others of my order.”

  “King Eber of the Gaedhals will try to reclaim the land which lies beneath the lough. He’ll try to grow more grain and graze his cows upon the fertile pastures there.”

  “He has no need of more pastures!” the Brehon retorted. “Why would he do such a thing?”

  “He’s planning a war,” the Raven explained. “He will need the extra animals and grain to lure adventurers and mercenaries to his camp. And he has a hundred horses arriving from the land of Iber in a week. He needs that ground.”

  “Whom does he intend to fight? Would he break his truce with the Fir-Bolg?”

  “No. He wishes the Fir-Bolg to fight beside him.”

  Slowly the answer dawned on Dalan. “Eber is going to attack his brother in the north?”

  The Raven made a gesture the Brehon guessed was a nod.

  “I’ll do what I can,” Dalan shrugged. “But if the King of the Gaedhals really has his heart set on war, how can I convince him otherwise?”

  “It’s not for you to do so,” the bird explained. “I only ask that you save the lough. My kin have no interest in the affairs of the Gaedhals, or the Fir-Bolg for that matter. We only care about the creatures who rely on those waters for their homes and livelihoods.”

  The Brehon was about to speak when a movement caught his eye at the far end of the room. A small gray-brown shape flitted out from under the furs to cross the floor in front of the fire. Dalan watched the little creature as it darted furtively from one shadow to the next in the hope it would not be seen. But Ravens use all their senses when they’re hunting. The Druid heard its rapid heartbeat and smelled the aroma of its fear.

  The mouse ran around the hearthstone and in seconds was lost among another set of furs. The Brehon looked down, studying the area in case the tiny animal emerged. He was so enthralled by the rodent that at first he didn’t notice the larger shape wrapped up in skins and breathing gently.

  “He’s sleeping peacefully,” the bird noted dryly.

  Dalan didn’t take the Raven’s meaning at first. But then in a flash of understanding he looked down once more with fresh eyes. There was a body wrapped in furs on the floor. And the shape of it was familiar.

  “Is that me by the fire?” the Brehon asked in a shocked tone.

  “It is. And if you don’t mind, I’ll have that mouse. They’re very tasty, the ones who live in this forest, but I doubt you’d appreciate the subtle flavor of freshly killed rodent that has been fed on the finest grain from Sorcha’s storage.”

  “You’re welcome to it,” Dalan assured the bird. Then he thought of something. “What’s your name?” he blurted.

  “What I am called tonight will be forgotten by the morning,” the bird answered. “For by then the queen will have passed over as all souls must. Then I will be known by the title she bears. I will be called the Morrigán.”

  “You’ll be Morrigán of all the Ravens?” the Druid gasped.

  He had heard the story of the Morrigán many times, though he’d never imagined he would ever meet her.

  But before Dalan had even finished his question the Raven had spread her wings and dropped down to the floor. In the next moment the Brehon felt his feathers fall away as his spirit was drawn back to his body. He fell from the high roof beam, gently but surely to the floor.

  Dalan felt a rush of air upon his face, opened his eyes and knew he was no longer a bird. He looked up as he heard a cracking sound. And there before him sat the great black Raven with a mouse in her beak.

  The cold dark eyes reflected no emotion, betrayed no hint of feeling, yet the Brehon perceived a great intelligence burning deep within. The bird crunched her prey once more then threw back her head and swallowed the tiny broken corpse.

  But Dalan found he was no longer fearful of this creature. He closed his eyes again without a thought of danger and was instantly asleep.

  Mahon and Aoife lagged behind the others most of the way back to the settlement. Once Iobhar had recovered he was encouraged to walk, but even with his slowed pace he and Lom were soon far ahead of the other two.

  An hour’s walk from the Aillwee caves Iobhar halted to rest and there he and Lom waite
d till after sunset. Lom built a fire and began to wonder, as the night dragged on, whether Aoife knew another route.

  He was just thinking about moving on when he heard the Danaan’s voice reciting a short nonsense poem. The very instant Mahon and Aoife stepped into the firelight Lom knew what they’d been doing all afternoon. Tousled hair, disheveled clothes and broad smiles told that tale well enough.

  Straightaway Lom lifted his pack and helped Iobhar to his feet.

  “Let’s go,” he said sullenly.

  “Is there a hurry?” Aoife begged. “Couldn’t we stay out for the night?”

  “Father has ordered us to return by nightfall. There’s important news he wishes to share with us.”

  “What could possibly be so important?” she moaned. “Mahon and I don’t share much time alone together. There’s always someone sticking their nose in on us making sure we’re not up to anything.”

  “You’re an apprentice Druid,” Lom reminded her. “I understood you were supposed to be practicing abstinence for three moons.”

  “How did you know that?” she snapped.

  “Let’s just say a rumor went around that Dalan caught you and Mahon together in bed. And your teacher punished you with three months of self-restraint.”

  “It wasn’t because we were in bed together,” Aoife blurted. “It was because I didn’t place his harp in her case as soon as I finished playing her. But it wasn’t my fault. I was distracted and forgot.”

  Mahon looked to the ground, obviously regarding himself as the distraction.

  Lom smiled and shook his head. “Father will burst a seam if we don’t get back this evening,” he warned.

  It took a little more persuasion to convince Aoife, but when the fire was doused the four of them set out again. They were all tired and their pace was slow so it wasn’t until after midnight that they first saw the lights from the settlement’s signal torches.

  As they approached the timber palisade which marked the outer perimeter of the defensive works Aoife noticed her father at the wall. He was standing in the torchlight with Fergus at his side.