The King of Sleep

by Caiseal Mor

  “I am.”

  “Then lead us into the fortress.”

  Aoife and Sárán climbed back up the bank, their feet caked in mud to the ankles. They quickly cleaned their boots on the grass then made their way to the head of the column. After a few whispered words between them they set off over the stone causeway toward the waiting watchmen on the other side.

  The Gaedhals had gathered on the bank to watch the spectacle of the approaching force and sentries ran this way and that sounding the alarm. Before Sárán and his sister were halfway over, a hundred warriors of the Fian were waiting in three close-knit ranks to block their way.

  The Gaedhals lowered their spear points as the two came closer and halted. Sárán turned to his brother and waved. Then Lom set out across the causeway followed by all his warriors in their battle array. Only Dalan and Sorcha stayed put.

  As the Fir-Bolg marched in four broadly spaced lines they hummed a stirring chant that was proud and threatening. The Fian closed their ranks, lifted their shields and gave an answering call that sounded like a pack of hounds howling in unison.

  “This is foolishness!” Dalan sneered, but Sorcha hushed him.

  “They’re warriors. They have their way and we should respect it.”

  “I wish I knew what those two lads had in mind. To come to this fortress armed for a fight is worse than stupid. Even with the causeway laid down the Gaedhals would easily hold the gates. They haven’t got a chance of defeating them.”

  The gathered Fir-Bolg halted half a dozen paces from where Aoife and her brother were standing in front of the spears of the Fianna. The song abruptly ceased as they lowered their weapons ready to make a charge.

  “Who comes here to Dun Gur, armed for war?” a voice challenged from behind the ranks of battle-ready Gaedhals.

  A warrior stepped out through the forest of spears. His sword swung in his hand and his shield was at his shoulder. On his head he wore a helm fashioned from bright gold and across his body he wore a yellow breacan cloak.

  Every Fir-Bolg warrior recognized Eber Finn, but tradition demanded that he identify himself. Sárán bowed and threw open his cloak so the Fian could see he was a Druid and unarmed.

  “Who would stand in the way of the kindred of Lom mac Brocan, King of the Fir-Bolg of the Burren?”

  “I am Eber Finn. I rule the people of the Kingdom of the Southern Gaedhals.”

  He took his time to observe the grim warriors who faced him down.

  “There is peace between our peoples. A naked blade is not a sign of friendship.”

  At those words Lom stepped up past Sárán and Aoife with his sword pointed to the ground.

  “I am the king of these folk,” he declared. “I’ve come to bless the hand of my sister who has chosen to wed with Eber Finn of the Gaedhals.”

  “It’s unwise to whip a willing horse,” Eber quipped.

  “I’m not here to fight you,” Lom smiled.

  As he spoke he lifted his weapon high in the air. Then he swung it around his head and tossed it as far as he could into that part of the lough where a deep pool remained. The bronze sword skipped across the water with a mighty splash and then it was gone.

  Before Eber understood what was happening, all the Fir-Bolg followed their king’s lead. Swords, spears, shields and harness fittings all flew into the water on each side. So astonishing was this sight that the Fian let their spear points drop to the ground and looked at each other in confusion.

  “As you see,” Lom declared, “we are unarmed.”

  Then Eber understood exactly what the young Fir-Bolg king had done and he gazed admiringly on the lad.

  Dalan laughed. Now he could plainly see Lom’s plan. With one stroke he had put himself on equal standing with Eber. If the Gaedhal was so desperately in need of a Fir-Bolg alliance, he would have to arm the warriors of the Burren himself. And that meant the Fir-Bolg would no longer bear the weak bronze in battle. They would carry iron. Perhaps Lom would not be such a foolish king after all.

  “I see a hint of your father in those eyes, King Lom,” Eber noted. “Your people are welcome. But first I have a gift for you.”

  The ranks of the Fian parted and a man struggled forward bearing another on his back.

  “I present to you Tuargain the wheelwright and Méaraigh the blacksmith,” the Gaedhal announced. “The one is blind and the other is lame but they are the finest craftsmen my people have to offer. They will live among your folk and teach you the mysteries of iron-making.”

  “And if you’ll arm us with your weapons we’ll fight faithfully by your side,” Lom added.

  “I will do so,” Eber promised. “Now come into my home and feast with your friends. Let’s talk not of war but sing songs of love. Tomorrow I’ll wed Aoife of the Sparkling Eyes and our alliance will be as solid as stone forever more.”

  A cheer went up from the Fir-Bolg ranks and that was closely echoed by another from the Gaedhals. Then the two opposing groups of warriors ran toward each other to embrace. Eber waited until Lom, Sárán and Aoife approached him. He took each brother by the hand and welcomed them heartily, then he noticed Lom was still carrying the bronze axe of kingship.

  “Will you throw that into the lough also?” Eber asked.

  “I have another fate in mind for this,” Lom answered enigmatically.

  Aoife caught the Gaedhal’s eye at that moment and Eber’s face lit with admiration.

  “You’ll be Queen of the Gaedhals by Samhain if you wish. Or earlier if you desire it,” he told her.

  “I don’t care,” she told him with a shrug. “As long as you are my husband I’ll be content.”

  The two of them shone like bright torches, each trying to outdo the other with the light of their joy. A piper struck up a dance then, a strange melody such as only the Gaedhals knew how to play, and everyone began an impromptu celebration there in the middle of the new causeway.

  Sorcha and Dalan watched the proceedings from the bank, happy enough to stand by and not take any part.

  “Will you take up the position of adviser to Eber Finn?” Sorcha asked.

  “I am honored that he asked me,” Dalan replied. “But I’m not sure I’ll have the time to perform my duties to the full satisfaction of the king.”

  “He’ll be looking for a steady guiding hand. Before Samhain Eve I’m convinced he’ll be sorely tested. And I don’t doubt that Sárán and Lom will also need some reining in.”

  “Have you seen this in your augury?” the Brehon laughed.

  “I have divined this through the Frith craft and by my intuition.”

  “And what can you tell me of the Watchers?”

  Sorcha shrugged and looked down at the muddy ground.

  “It is beyond my skill to see such things,” she admitted. “Perhaps the Watchers are preventing me from seeing too much.”

  “I wish I knew what has become of Brocan,” Dalan sighed. “If he were here I’d feel a little more at ease about what is yet to come.”

  “I’ve searched for him with all my skill. And the only vision which came to me was of Brocan sleeping peacefully by the shores of a huge black underground sea.”

  “I believe I know the place you’re speaking of,” the Brehon told her. “I hope he rests well in his dark kingdom under the earth. I’m sure he wouldn’t have been happy living among us. The Quicken Brew was such a heavy burden to him.”

  “Perhaps in time we’ll begin to understand how he felt,” Sorcha offered. “I pray we don’t turn out as bitter as the Watchers have.”

  “I’ll not be bitter as long as I can stand with you,” Dalan blurted.

  Sorcha smiled at his clumsy manner and took his hand gently in hers.

  “Then let’s wait here a while longer and let the others have their celebration. For we should make the most of our time together. Who knows where the road will lead us tomorrow.”

  Epilogue

  FALL IN LOVE WITH THE DUNGHILL AND YOU WON’T mind the stink. A traveler told me that.
He was searching the world for his long-lost love and not doing a very good job of finding her. So I told him that honey is sweet but only a fool would try to lick it off a thornbush.

  My argument didn’t sway him at all. When we parted he went off trudging the roads again, full of hope, high ideals and sickening optimism. Poor ignorant fool, so typical of your folk. But I’ll tell you more of him another time.

  If I sound like a scornful old bugger, remember you’ve only heard part of my tale. So I’ll forgive you for misjudging me.

  Here’s another good saying. You must have heard it. The eye of a friend is the best mirror. I don’t know about you but I’ve never mastered the art of looking at myself. No one really does, do they? We’re here to be mirrors for one another. We’ve all got stories to tell. In my tales you’ll likely find something of yourself. We all walk the same road, it’s just some of us get lost along the way or choose to be waylaid or set ourselves down to sleep too long.

  I’ve met travelers aplenty who’ve abandoned themselves in the Forests of Greed. I’ve seen the haunted eyes of those who glimpsed the burning bridges which span the River of Fear. I’ve heard the anguished cries of those who’ve tarried too long in the Valley of Doubt.

  There are countless diversions to distract you from the road. Keep a watch on yourself. Don’t forget who you are or where you’re going. Your ancestors forgot once. So foolish of your kind.

  It would have been better if they’d stayed beyond the Ninth Wave. I’ve told you all about the Ninth Wave, haven’t I? It was not so much a warning as a reminder to those who lived on the island of Innisfail not to stray too far from home. To cross the Ninth Wave was to go beyond the help or hope of their kinfolk who dwelled on shore.

  The world beyond the Ninth Wave is wild and unpredictable. Only storms or invaders ever came from there. And sometimes both.

  When the Gaedhals sailed into their waters the Danaans used arcane songs and music to conjure a mighty storm. Waves and breakers the height of ten ships bore down upon the invading fleet, scattering boats in every direction. The initial rage of the storm dispersed the main body of sea craft, sending many straight to the bottom of the ocean.

  In the midst of this turmoil, Amergin the Bard stood up on the steerage deck of his Gaedhal ship and raised his hands to the sky. Then he spoke a poem over the ocean spray which calmed the furious gale and settled the surface of the sea. You may have heard about it. They say he was the greatest Bard who ever lived. He wasn’t a Bard’s belch compared to one fellow I used to know.

  But that’s a different story. As I was saying, with all those wild winds blowing and waves crashing down, you’d expect the Gaedhals to have turned around and sailed back to the lands of Iber, made the best of things there and told everyone to steer clear of the Danaans. But your folk are renowned for their stubbornness. A goat is always just getting into mischief or just getting out of it, as my father would have said.

  Iobhar imparted his foolishness to Mahon after their banishment. I’ll tell you what became of them another time.

  So now you know two-thirds of my tale, and if you’re patient I’ll return when my belly is empty and relate the rest of it to you. A Raven will happily dance until he’s fed. Then he’ll fly off again, only to return when scarcity prompts him to beg.

  That’s the Raven game.

  About the Author

  CAISEL MÓR WAS BORN INTO A RICH TRADITION OF Irish storytelling and music. As a child he learned to play the brass-strung harp, carrying on a long family tradition. He spent several years collecting stories, songs and music of the Celtic lands during many visits to Ireland, Scotland and Brittany. He has a degree in performing arts from the University of Western Sydney and has worked as an actor, a teacher and a musician.

  If you would like to write to Caiseal Mór, he can be contacted at the following e-mail address: harp@caiseal.net.

  More information about Caiseal and his work can be found on his website: www.caiseal.net.

  LOOK FOR THE RAVEN GAME

  Book Three of the Watchers

  Coming soon from Pocket Books