The King of Sleep

by Caiseal Mor

  The juice quenched his thirst immediately but a disturbing change occurred. The glow that had surrounded everything abruptly took second place in the Brehon’s senses because his ears were alive with sounds such as he’d never heard before.

  He was suddenly aware that all the beetles sang a similar song. The butterflies, too, had their own particular chant, and every ant was merrily engaged in a common chorus as it worked. The flowers had the sweetest voices, high-pitched and delicate. The bees serenaded them but their humming was not what Dalan was accustomed to. To his utter surprise the honey-makers seemed to be composing poems in their own language. He could almost pick out the words, though he couldn’t understand them.

  It was then the Brehon noticed a thrumming melody that underpinned all these various choirs. As he looked about him he realized this was emanating from the trees. And all the different clans, from the oak to the birch and elm, had their own intricate part to play in this symphony of the garden.

  The blackberry bush had its own melody too, a sweet lilting refrain that lifted the Brehon’s heart so that he couldn’t help but hum along. He joined in with the bush and they chanted their tune together. As he became more confident Dalan put a few words to the air and he sensed the blackberry bush wasn’t holding him any longer.

  It was hugging him close.

  As this realization struck him he tried to stand up by himself and found he wasn’t restrained at all. High above in the mighty yew tree the Raven gave a joyous if slightly mocking laugh.

  In less time than it takes to draw twenty breaths the Brehon was making his way forward again. His mind was reeling from the intensity of light and sound that bombarded him. Like a drunkard who has lost his way he stumbled over a low stone wall and fell onto a close-clipped lawn bed, the softest bed ever known. The grass was fragrant, moist and refreshing, so much so that Dalan was overcome by the urge to slip into a powerful sleep.

  He stood up and noticed the yew tree just ahead of him on the other side of the lawn. He was about to step out toward it when he realized how well tended this garden was. The grass was cut short and there were no weeds anywhere to be seen.

  “There must be a gardener!” Dalan exclaimed.

  The words were barely out of his mouth when two things happened. First, the Raven spread her wings wide and dived out of the tree directly toward him, and second, the Brehon felt unseen hands tugging at his cloak.

  The garment fell to the ground behind him but he was too concerned by the unexpected attack to see to it. In the next breath he was cowering on the grass expecting to feel a biting beak at the back of his neck.

  But nothing happened. There was no flurry of wings or screech of anger. Nevertheless, it was a long while before the Brehon dared look up to find out what had happened.

  There was no sign of the bird high in the yew branches, just the ever-present symphony of creation and the illumination which bathed the spirits of all he saw. Dalan breathed more easily and lay back on Sorcha’s cloak to take stock of all that had happened.

  He closed his eyes to rest them and wished he could have shut his ears in the same manner. It was then he noticed the warmth of the sunlight on his skin and remembered that he was deep within the secret places of the cave. Surely, he told himself, there could be no sunshine in this place.

  He opened his eyes again and stared skyward into a deep blue void that was unlike anything he’d ever seen before. The sun was there in the western sky but the stars were also visible as tiny points of light.

  The Brehon sat up to admire this new spectacle and as he did so he noticed a movement underneath the yew tree at the far side of the lawn. Intrigued, he got to his knees ready to stand, but before he could get up the figure moved from the shadows into view.

  And Dalan gasped in amazement when he recognized the woman’s face.

  Chapter 20

  BROCAN STAYED BY THE FUNERAL PYRE UNTIL THE LAST embers were glowing orange and there was nothing left of the old Druid’s corpse. Fineen went to where the river flowed into the lake to fetch some fresh water.

  When he returned Lochie was waiting, head bowed, behind the king. The Watcher looked up as Brocan stirred and got to his feet.

  “You’ve done your duty to him,” Lochie declared. “We should envy him. He has set out on his voyage back into the light. May we all be granted passage for that journey one day.”

  The king didn’t reply. He had spent the long while in contemplation of Lochie’s offer of sleep.

  “My soul is tired,” Brocan whispered finally. “I haven’t the stomach for living among my own kin. I am the only immortal among them except for my children. Perhaps after I’ve had some rest I’ll have the strength to go on again.”

  Lochie hummed a little under his breath to indicate he understood what the king was saying.

  “I’m just not sure whether I should trust you. You’re a Watcher, a sworn enemy of my people and a Fomorian.”

  “I may have lived among the Fomor,” Lochie protested, “but I was born a Fir-Bolg. I was banished because I disagreed with my king and the High-Druid. All of us were Danaans or Fir-Bolg.”

  Brocan raised his eyebrows. “Dalan told me you were servants of Balor, the warrior king of the Fomor.”

  “We were never servants,” the Watcher snapped. “We were misled.” Lochie moved closer. “That’s all long ago,” he told Brocan smoothly. “What happened a hundred generations or more ago has no bearing on you.”

  He placed himself directly in front of the king to press home his next point. “What you must understand is that my companion and I are very powerful. We’re determined to find a way to break the enchantment that binds us to this world. Whether you decide to accept my offer of rest or not is up to you. But you can’t prevent us from carrying out our plan.”

  Lochie opened up his palms to indicate he had nothing to hide.

  “I’ll be honest with you, we’ve created the perfect conditions for a war. And we’ve made it obvious that we are to blame for the coming conflict. In this way Dalan will work harder to rid the land of our presence forever.”

  “Why would you work for your own destruction?” Brocan asked.

  “You’ll understand when a hundred generations have passed you by and your yearning for peace has become an agony of regret. I’m offering you some respite from that pain. In return you’ll be doing me a great service.”

  “What service?”

  “If you’re out of the way and your son is left to rule, it will be easier to manipulate the situation to my advantage.”

  “I don’t want my kinfolk to suffer.”

  “The world is full of suffering,” Lochie scoffed. “Even the Quicken Brew has not put an end to that. Even though you may never know ill health or death, there are other kinds of discomfort. Folk will suffer whether I have a hand in it or not. And some will greatly benefit.”

  “How?”

  “Your children will learn some valuable lessons,” the Watcher replied. “And from what I’ve seen of them, a few hard experiences won’t do them any harm. But most important of all, the end result will be that the land is rid of my kind. That can’t be a bad conclusion.”

  “I will have to think more carefully and discuss this with Fineen.”

  “He’s already made up his mind,” the Watcher said, and Fineen nodded gravely in acknowledgment.

  “But don’t just take his advice,” Lochie added. “There are others who decided to take the long sleep.”

  As he spoke a woman appeared from out of the shadows behind him. She was dressed in a long green gown of shimmering velvet and about her shoulders was a cloak of fine crimson. Her hair was copper red and it cascaded over her shoulders like a waterfall of fire.

  Brocan recognized her immediately.

  “Riona?” he gasped, only half believing what he saw.

  “Greetings, husband,” she answered and there was such emotion in her voice as he’d never heard before. “I’ve come to beg you to come with me to the land
of sleep.”

  “This is a trick!” the king raged as all the bitterness of separation rose in him and none of the sense of loss he genuinely felt. “My wife would never return to me.” Brocan shut his eyes so she wouldn’t see his rising pain or the tears that threatened to blur his vision. Despite the pain Riona had caused him, he knew he still loved her. And his heart ached to be with her again. But he knew her to be a defiant woman, too stubborn and proud to come begging for anything from him.

  “I am your queen,” she retorted. “I’ve lived with Cecht these last three winters in the realm of the Otherworld. But for all the gifts I found there, for all the joy I experienced, my life was empty without you. Despite your faults, despite your arrogance and stubbornness, I miss you.”

  “Lochie, you’ve gone too far!” Brocan shouted as he turned on the Watcher. “I might have considered your offer if you hadn’t tried this foolish deception. Riona would never speak like that to me. This is another of your illusions meant to convince me to make a favorable decision.”

  He glared at the queen. Then he frowned as the bitterness passed away to be replaced by hope. His unspeakable sorrow at her loss began to well up once more. Brocan was a stubborn man, however. And through all else that he was experiencing it was his only armor against possible disappointment.

  He wanted to see Riona but he feared the wounding that would result if this proved to be an illusion.

  “Well it won’t work. I wouldn’t have that woman back if she were the last living soul in my kingdom. She betrayed me and her children. And she deserted her people in their hour of need. She’s a cruel, heartless, selfish creature who thinks of nothing but her own pleasure. She can rot in the Otherworld for all I care.”

  With these words he turned to storm off up the sandy beach. But he hadn’t gone ten paces when he heard a bitter wail that gripped his heart and froze his feet to the spot.

  It was Riona.

  A great tearing of his spirit threatened to bring Brocan to his knees. He steeled himself and swung around to face the woman he had once called his queen. For a moment he didn’t care if this was nothing more than an illusion. An image of her might be the closest he’d ever come to being with her again.

  “It’s too late for that,” he stated coldly. “Go back to Cecht. You made your decision and I’ve made my peace with it.”

  Riona spun around and ran off into the darkness. The king lowered his eyes and stared fixedly at the rocky floor of the cave as tears began to well in the corners of his eyes.

  At last he lifted his face to Lochie and spoke. “I’ve made up my mind.”

  The Watcher waited to hear what he had to say.

  “Sixty summers have passed by since my mother bore me. I’ve already lived longer than any of my clan has ever managed before. I’ve seen war, death, famine, betrayal and the murder of my dearest friend. It’s unnatural to go on indefinitely without rest. My soul yearns for peace.”

  “And you shall have it.”

  “Will I dream?”

  “You will dwell in the land of dreams until such time as you are ready to take up a life in the outside world again. And whenever you wish you may return to the realm of slumber. All you need do is return to these caves and he down to sleep.”

  “Can you guarantee my son will reign as King of the Fir-Bolg in my place?”

  “Lom will rule your people. You have my solemn promise on it.”

  Brocan smiled grimly, his expression one of relief rather than happiness.

  “I will be monarch in the country of rest.”

  Lochie nodded. Brocan shrugged at the title which now described his state of being. But he claimed it with pride.

  “Then let me be known as the King of Sleep.”

  The Brehon stayed on his knees as the woman crossed the lawn and stood in front of him. She held out her slender hand and he thought it was the most beautiful sight he’d ever beheld.

  The fingers glowed with a golden fight that emanated from the tips and colored her flesh a deep yellow. Her eyes were bright jewels set in a halo that shone with all the brilliance of a sunset moon in summer.

  “I’ve been searching for you,” she whispered. “Did you lose your way?”

  Dalan couldn’t find the words to answer her so he nodded. The woman grasped his hand and helped him to his feet. He was surprised to find that his legs were numb and that it was difficult to keep his balance.

  “Can you walk?” she asked.

  Again he nodded silently. With her hand still tightly gripping his, the woman led him down to the yew tree. Once he was walking the Brehon began to feel the life come back into his legs.

  They skirted the huge tree and came to the crest of a grassy ridge that rolled down onto a verdant plain. There at the foot of the rise stood another tree. It was the same one Dalan had seen the last time he’d wandered in the spirit with his guide Cuimhne.

  They stood there for a little while enjoying the fresh breeze against their faces. Dalan closed his eyes, overwhelmed by a sense that he was perfectly safe with this woman. Then he noticed the intoxicating scent of lavender once again. It drowned his senses with its warm cleansing fragrance.

  As he opened his eyes he realized the scent originated from the mighty tree which grew at the foot of the ridge. There were many different fruits hanging from its branches, some familiar, some utterly foreign. Its leaves were those of a rowan, painted in countless subtle shades of green. The fine branches intertwined as if woven together by some skilled craftsman. Under and over, under and over, each knotted twist of vines or branches had its own symmetry.

  “Shall we go down and sit under the tree?” the woman offered. “You’ve come at a marvelous time. The rowan is bearing its summer crop. There’s fruit upon the ground and a carpet of lawn on which to rest your head.”

  “Are you my guide?” he managed to say.

  The woman laughed. “No one can guide you but yourself. I’m just a companion on the road.”

  “But you’ve guided me before,” Dalan protested.

  “Your own spirit spurs you on.”

  As she spoke she took his hand again and began the long walk down a winding path to where the shade of the tree darkened the grass. The closer they came to the rowan the more Dalan was intrigued by the magnificent tree.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it!” he gasped when he realized it was even larger than he’d remembered.

  “You’ve never seen this tree before,” his companion assured him gently. “You may have encountered her sisters who are scattered around this country. But few folk come here more than once.”

  The Brehon sighed to indicate he understood, then, with eyes ever upward, he followed on. With each step his sense of awe deepened until they were very nearly at the bottom of the hill and his heart was beating with excitement.

  If he’d stood on the woman’s shoulders he wouldn’t have been able to reach up and pluck a leaf from the lower branches. Brocan’s hall could have been carved out of the rowan’s trunk and there would have been room for sleeping quarters as well. What had appeared to be a ring of shade beneath the tree proved to be something else entirely. The grass all around was Uttered with thousands of tiny rowan berries laid out in a thick, tightly woven carpet of regal red.

  “Lay your head down here,” she motioned to him and the Brehon cautiously put a foot on the berries.

  The rowan fruit was remarkably soft underfoot.

  “Is this the Quicken Tree?” he gasped, eyes raised to the treetop.

  “This is the tree which grows in the Land of Promise,” she affirmed. “All the other Quicken Trees are her children. She is the queen of her breed.”

  Dalan looked up into the branches again and a movement caught his attention. In among all the magnificently interwoven boughs was an ominous black shape.

  The Raven gave a tiny cry no louder than he might have expected a robin to give. But the voice was unmistakably of the carrion kind. He took a step back as the huge bird spread its w
ings to dive earthward.

  It seemed to Dalan that the Raven never took its eyes from him as it swooped down, and he briefly wondered if it was going to misjudge the distance and hit the ground. But he should have known that a dive from the treetops was a simple matter for one of this kind. The Raven pulled out of the dive suddenly and began instead a circuit of the tree. As it came around for the second time a remarkable transformation took place. The Brehon watched transfixed, hardly daring to breathe.

  The air sparkled as if the sky were spewing specks of silver snow. And the Raven grew legs, arms and a human body. All its feathers disappeared the instant it set foot upon the ground.

  And Dalan recognized the form it had taken. His heart missed a beat for joy and he ran to embrace his friend, feeling a sense of immense relief that she’d come to him.

  “Sorcha!” he sang as he grabbed her in a little dance of jubilation. “I’m so happy to see you.”

  “Who is that woman?” she asked him sternly. “The one who brought you here.”

  “This is Cuimhne,” Dalan informed her.

  But even as he spoke the name he understood he had been tricked.

  “That’s not my name,” the other woman protested. “I’m called Isleen.”

  As he heard the Watcher’s voice the Brehon felt a faintness descend upon him. And if it hadn’t been for Sorcha he would have fallen down where he stood. She wrapped her arms about him to hold him up and he hugged her as tightly as he could.

  “You’re a Watcher,” he groaned when the power of speech returned to him.

  “You’re an Ollamh Brehon,” she teased.

  “Why did you bring me here?”

  “I don’t want you to forget me,” she shrugged. “I’m hoping you’ve found an answer to our little dilemma.”

  “I believe I’ve found a song that may release you both from your enchantment,” Sorcha cut in.

  The Watcher’s eyes lit with excitement but it was an unnatural brightness that made Dalan and Sorcha turn their faces away.