The King of Sleep

by Caiseal Mor

  “I’m happy to hear this news,” Isleen nodded. “I’ve come to let you know that you have until Samhain Eve to effect your remedy. If on that night Lochie and I are still abroad in the land, you and all the people of this island will know what real havoc is. Hear me well, Ollamh Dalan the Brehon. Our patience is wearing thin”

  “Why can’t you give us a little more time?” Sorcha pleaded. “We want to help you. You must believe that. But this pressure is unnecessary.”

  “Is it?” Isleen scoffed. “One day perhaps you’ll understand how I feel. Until then you can take my word for it. Every moment has become an unbearable agony. Every breath is an eternity of waiting. My soul is wasting away. My spirit is hungry for rest. And I will do everything in my power to gain that rest. Even if it means the destruction of the Gaedhals.”

  “How are the Gaedhals involved in this plan of yours?” Dalan demanded. “They have no quarrel with you nor you with them.”

  “Don’t I?” she spat. “I have a grudge against all those who possess the gift of death and do not value it. The Gaedhals will not escape my wrath.”

  “Why can’t you simply wait until we’ve discovered the cure for your malady?” Sorcha cried. “Why must you continue to spread such misery?”

  “It’s my nature,” the Watcher replied with a shrug. “I may show compassion now and then when the mood takes me, but I was commissioned to bring chaos and disorder. It’s all I’ve ever known. You can’t really expect me to change, can you?”

  “What compassion have you ever shown?” Dalan retorted.

  “I admit it is rare,” Isleen shot back. “Lochie is guilty of that trait more than myself. He’s already offered the long sleep to the Danaans who have not gone into the Otherworld and to the Fir-Bolg.”

  “The long sleep?” the Brehon repeated.

  “When death cannot touch you, sleep may comfort you. Brocan and Fineen are resting deeply now in a secret place beneath the earth. And there they’ll remain.”

  “You’ve made them prisoners?”

  “One day when the weariness strikes you, Dalan, you’ll understand. But I suppose by that time I’ll be long gone. I won’t be able to help you to find the Land of Slumber.”

  As she spoke, her form shimmered and she rose into the air until she could reach out to pluck a branch from the tree. Three thick interlinked vines broke off together in the shape of a staff. Once she had this in her hand she dropped back down to the ground and held it out for Dalan to take.

  “Accept this gift,” the Watcher told him. “I’m unaccustomed to granting such indulgences but I want to thank you in advance for all your good endeavors.”

  “I don’t want a reward,” the Brehon replied, shaking his head.

  “Take it, you ungrateful little nobody! Who do you think you are? To refuse a gift from one who has supped with heroes, danced among immortals and shared the beds of kings. Take it!”

  “I don’t need a staff.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” she declared, and with a mighty swing of the branch she struck Dalan just below the knee. The knee dislocated and he fell over in agony clutching at his leg.

  Sorcha was by his side in a second. Her skill in the healing arts was insignificant compared to Fineen’s but she knew how to comfort such an injury. Dalan fought her off at first but then he succumbed to her insistent ministrations.

  He lay down on his back in the rowan berries and it was then he noticed Isleen had disappeared.

  “How did you come to be here?” the Brehon asked Sorcha as she put her hands to the collar of his tunic and untied the bindings that held it tight about his neck.

  “I come here often at the command of the Queen of the Raven kind,” she answered in a formal tone.

  She lifted the tunic up over his head and wrapped it into a tight ball. It was a simple pillow but Dalan was grateful of it.

  “We’ll be home soon,” she soothed as he struggled to keep his eyes open. “Don’t let yourself fall asleep. Stay awake with me until the healing is done.”

  Under the influence of the Quicken Brew it wasn’t long before the pain had ceased to burn at Dalan’s knee. Then he stretched out properly upon the carpet of berries, thinking that it was the finest he could remember.

  He placed his hands behind his head and lay on his back, drinking in the heady fragrance of lavender as Sorcha gently stroked his hair. Now he could discern other scents mixed in with it and he struggled to identify them all. Apple was the strongest. There was a hint of rose too, but he couldn’t name all the other spicy aromas. When he opened his eyes to ask his companion she was kneeling beside him, slowly untying the binding of her own tunic.

  Fascinated by the delicacy of her hands he watched her nimble fingers at their work. When the cords were free she slipped the garment over her head and Dalan felt a sudden urge to reach out to her and hold her close.

  The mystical glow that had enveloped the garden was gone. Sorcha’s flesh was a healthy pale pink, but he was too shy to look anywhere other than directly into her face. When she’d rolled her tunic up she laid it down beside his head and for the first time his eyes strayed down across the smooth skin of her shoulders.

  Her arms were crossed self-consciously over her breasts as she stared down at him with eyes full of loving tenderness. The Brehon lifted his trembling hand to touch her lips with the tip of his finger.

  She closed her eyes and gently kissed his hand. And before Dalan was fully aware of what had happened they were locked in a passionate embrace there under the Quicken Tree on a carpet of red berries in the Land of Promise.

  Chapter 21

  LOCHIE SAT HIMSELF DOWN AT THE GAMING TABLE, A flat slab of rock lying on its side by a tall tooth-shaped standing-stone in the cleared circle at the heart of a wood. His opponent spread out the Brandubh cloth and set the pieces in their starting positions. Her eyes sparkled with merriment as she watched him fill two cups with mead. When all was ready she handed him the white king.

  “You may begin when you’re ready,” she told him.

  He placed the piece in the central square where the High-King always commenced the game. Then he moved one of the four lesser kings into a strategic position to initiate play.

  Isleen didn’t hesitate. In a moment, seemingly without thought, she’d moved one of the twelve dark Raven pieces. Lochie gave a breathy snigger but didn’t respond immediately. He took careful note of all the possibilities, thoughtfully determining the best course of action.

  Then he picked up a piece opposite the central square and shifted it along to a new position where it could easily be taken. In a flash Isleen had surrounded this lonely white sacrifice and it was removed from the game.

  Lochie was anything but disappointed.

  “You’re too hasty,” he told her. “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.

  “That was one of the quickest games I’ve ever played with you,” he chortled victoriously. “You slip your guard too often. You should take more care.”

  “And you’re just upset because I won our little wager,” Isleen 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, have they?”

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

  “Have you indeed? And is he a man ruled entirely by duty or obligation to his position?”

  “He will do as I advise.”

  “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 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 wager isn’t settled until Eber marries Aoife,” Lochie added. “So I wouldn’t be so confident of victory if I were you.”

  “The war will start before winter. On the feast of Samhain Eve they’ll be wed with great ceremony and celebration.”

  “The war!” her companion exclaimed. “I’d almost forgotten about the coming conflict. We’ve done well, haven’t we?”

  “Let’s wait and see.”

  “What of the Brehon?” Lochie asked.

  “He’s enlisted the help of a young woman Druid who knows something of the song-maker craft. With her Draoi skill at the Frith and his determination I’m certain we’ll be free before midwinter’s day. That is, if the war doesn’t distract them.”

  “It will stir them to more diligent researches,” Lochie assured her. “Have faith.”

  “What, in mortals?” Isleen scoffed, making the first move of the new game.

  “But the Brehon has partaken of the Quicken Brew,” he reminded her. “He’s no longer mortal. He’ll live forever if he so chooses.”

  “Will you tell him there is a way to avoid that fate?”

  Lochie shook his head. “No one ever helped us,” he reasoned. “Why shouldn’t the Danaans and the FirBolg find their own solution? It’s enough that there is a way to end the imprisonment of the Quicken. In time they’ll discover it.”

  Isleen raised he eyebrows sceptically, then said, “It’s your move.”

  Lochie picked up a piece seemingly at random and moved it across the board to a position where it was vulnerable to attack. Then he confidently sat back with his hands behind his head.

  Isleen took a long while to make her next move. When she did Lochie’s piece was still on the board.

  “You’re too suspicious,” he told her.

  With an exaggerated sweep of his hand he moved another dark Raven into line with his first one. A single white playing piece was wedged between them. This he lifted up and placed down at his feet.

  “You open yourself up to capture,” he dismissed. “You should try to see the world for what it is.”

  “Aoife is in love with Eber Finn,” Isleen grunted, put out by the capture of her piece. “No force on Earth could stop her wedding him.”

  “She’ll bed him, that’s certain,” Lochie quipped. “But a wedding takes much more finesse, forethought and foolishness. And she lacks the first two.”

  “What becomes of our wager if it isn’t settled by Samhain Eve? Or if we are freed of our enchantment before Aoife makes up her mind?” Isleen asked.

  “I hadn’t considered that possibility,” Lochie admitted. Then an idea struck him. “If she hasn’t married Eber by Samhain, you should concede the wager to me.”

  Isleen laughed. “But if her mind isn’t set on Mahon either,” she hummed, “then I have won.”

  “Very well!” Lochie agreed. “You may consider the challenge laid down afresh.”

  Dalan lay on his back for a long while, staring at the ceiling and trying to recall how he came to be in Sorcha’s house in the middle of the woods. The fire was burning brightly in the central hearth and the Raven which usually perched in the rafters was nowhere to be seen.

  He was still drowsy and rather confused. His last memory was of entering the strange underworld garden through a gap in the cave wall. The Brehon found himself wondering what had become of Brocan. He prayed silently that the king had found his way out of the Aillwee without being captured by the Fomor.

  Suddenly he began to question his whole experience among the Fomorians. He was certain none of that race lived anywhere within the borders of Innisfail. He asked himself if it could have been the legendary people known as the Sen Erainn who’d accosted them. But his mind was too weary for such thoughts and he soon drifted into a hazy observation of the rafters where many varieties of herbs hung slowly curing in the smoky atmosphere.

  At length he realized his throat was parched dry. He lifted himself up a little in the bed and to his surprise discovered that he was completely naked under the furs. He blushed at the thought of Sorcha undressing him while he was still unconscious.

  At his side on the floor he found a jug of water which he snatched up and put to his mouth. When he’d had enough he placed the vessel down again and brought up a belch of air.

  Suddenly there was a movement beside him and the furs were thrown back. Dalan nearly jumped out of the bed in fright.

  “Can you pass me the jug?” Sorcha asked as she rolled over.

  Underneath the furs she wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. The Brehon’s jaw dropped open in surprise but he made no move to lift the water jug.

  “What’s the matter?” she laughed. “Haven’t you ever woken to find a naked woman beside you in bed before?”

  “I usually recall getting into bed with her,” Dalan stuttered.

  “You were in no state to remember anything. It was all I could do to bring you back from the garden in the Land of Promise.”

  “The Land of Promise?”

  She sat up and ran a hand through his hair to soothe him. “You really don’t remember anything do you, you poor dear?”

  Dalan was speechless, embarrassed that he had no recollection whatsoever of what must have been a remarkable experience.

  “Water?” Sorcha sang.

  The Brehon sprang into action, handing her the water jug and watching in wonder as she drank her fill.

  When she’d finished she leaned over him to place the empty vessel back on the floor. Dalan shuddered to feel her warm flesh pressed hard against his own.

  “You really don’t remember anything of our little adventure, do you?” she laughed softly.

  “I can’t say that I do.”

  “Can you bring to mind the tree? The carpet of rowan berries?”

  Dalan shook his head.

  “Then let me refresh your memory,” she whispered.

  With that she snuggled in close to the Brehon, took his hand in hers and kissed his fingers one by one.

  The long column of Fir-Bolg warriors and chieftains came to a halt at the edge of Lough Gur the day before the midsummer feast. A hundred folk gathered from across the Burren gazed in stunned silence at the view presented to them. Such a spectacle had not been witnessed since before the days of their grandsires.

  The shimmering waters had retreated. The once mighty lake had withdrawn. And the waters that remained lapped against muddy banks. Dun Gur was no longer an island. A causeway, laid with stones to form a road, now linked the fortress to the shore.

  Dalan, Sorcha and Lom stood together on the grassy slope that led down to the stone path. No words passed between them but their eyes spoke of their dismay. The Brehon recalled his promise to the Raven that he would protect the lough. Clearly he would have to bring all his influence to bear on Eber if he was to keep his vow.

  Sárán pushed forward through the crowd, dragging his sister Aoife behind him until they were shoulder to shoulder with their brother.

  “What are you waiting for, Lom?” he asked. “We should be getting on. There’s much to be done before sunset.”

  His brother woke from his half-dream and stared into Sárán’s eyes with deep concern. “What has happened to the waters?”

  “The Goddess Danu is angry with the Gaedhals,” Sárán explained.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Dalan laughed. “The Lady of the Flowing Waters doesn’t punish her own children. She is our Mother. The lough is drying up because there has been no rain for thr
ee moons.”

  Sárán tightened his lips. He knew there was no point in arguing with the Brehon, whose opinions were highly regarded by Lom. But Dalan would not always be around to advise his brother, the new king of the Fir-Bolg. So Sárán kept quiet. For now.

  “The waters will return when the skies open up again,” the Brehon assured everyone. “There is no omen in this.”

  “Dalan is right,” Sárán agreed cannily. “Today we enter into an alliance with the Gaedhals which will ensure the survival of our people and our lands. Lough Gur is welcoming us. See, the road before us is passable. We’ll be the first warrior band ever to march up to the gates of this fortress. This is a clear sign that the future is bright for our kindred.”

  Dalan grunted indignantly and rolled his eyes at the opportunism of this young fellow. But Sorcha grabbed the Brehon by the elbow and squeezed it tightly to indicate he should not be so open with his criticism.

  Sárán went down to the mud bank with Aoife still in tow. He dipped his hand into the dwindled lough and tasted the waters.

  “Lough Gur is as sweet as ever,” he declared.

  Dalan clenched a fist and turned away, ready to address the crowd. But he didn’t get the chance.

  “Let him be,” Sorcha whispered. “We have more important matters to be concerned about. Don’t be worrying about what that lad has to say. He’s quite capable of making a fool of himself without any help from you.”

  “He hasn’t even been properly welcomed into the Druid orders yet,” Dalan hissed under his breath. “Who does he think he is?”

  “Lom chose him as his adviser,” Sorcha reminded him. “And Brocan endorsed Lom’s leadership of the Fir-Bolg. The chieftains will soon choose a better king and a worthier Druid to the task. In the meantime they can do no real harm.”

  “Bring forward the weapons!” Lom commanded.

  His voice cracked with nervous tension but no one seemed to notice. Soon everyone in his retinue had a sword or spear and a great bronze shield. Only the Druids refrained from taking up the weapons.

  When Lom saw that all was ready he called out to his brother. “Are you ready, Sárán?”