Dreamwander

by Kildare

  Cillian plopped down on a log near the fire. Across from him the three Muir Mac Tír groomed their long hair with bone combs etched with runes. Watching such war-like men spend so much time caring for their hair was a strange culture shock. As he observed Arinbjørn, Cillian noticed an owl perched in a tree in the background. It watched them. Something glinted around the bird’s eye in the light of the fire.

  Cillian leaned in close to Fáelán, and whispered, “How skilled are you with a bow?”

  “Few are better.”

  “Skilled enough to kill an owl?”

  “You don’t eat owl. Killing something you don’t intend to eat is a waste of life.”

  “That owl is spying on us.”

  “What?” Fáelán sounded dismissive. “It’s not spying on us.”

  Cillian clutched Fáelán’s arm and hardened his tone. “Kill it and I’ll prove it.”

  Cillian marked off fifteen paces and commenced jumping jacks, yelling out the count. The owl shifted its focus toward him and away from the fire. A whoosh of a loosed arrow, a thwack, and the owl plummeted to the ground. Cillian ran over, grabbed it, and brought it to the fire. The owl’s eyes had strange silver markings on the surface and each was surrounded by a thin metallic ring.

  All the others gathered around except Niamh. Cillian looked for her, but she was nowhere in sight.

  “What is that?” Fáelán asked.

  Cillian dug his finger into the edge of one eye and popped it out, severing the optical nerve. It wasn’t a normal eye, but a mixture of flesh, metal, and wiring. He stared at it in disbelief. The technology was beyond anything he had ever seen before. “It’s a video camera.” He raised it up so the others could see. “It’s like an eye. It captures everything it sees and sends the images back to a device to watch it on.”

  “Who has that technology?” Arinbjørn asked.

  “You tell me. The Dread Queen? The Tuath Dé? Someone’s spying on us.”

  They all searched the woods for other strange signs, but spotted nothing unusual in the gathering gloom.

  “This place has a bad air about it,” Kjartan remarked.

  Egil agreed. “We shouldn’t have camped here. We should’ve made for the pass.”

  “The climb is too dangerous in the dark,” Rebel Sly said. “We have no choice but to wait until sunrise.”

  So though they were all visibly on edge, they reluctantly consented to spend the night in this spot.

  Cillian used a rock to smash both eyes, tossed the rest of the owl into the fire, sat back down, and fingered the broken metal, his uneasiness growing. He kept checking the trees, half-expecting to see someone lurking out at the edge of the darkness. He saw no one. Was the old man involved in this as well, or someone else? Niamh returned not long after, springing from the shadows.

  “Where were you?” Rebel Sly demanded.

  “I scouted out a ways.”

  “You shouldn’t have gone alone,” Kjartan said. “None of us should go out alone.”

  Niamh ignored him. “What did you find?”

  Cillian showed her the broken camera and explained its purpose.

  Niamh examined the smashed eyes, a look of confused suspicion on her face. Her eyes darted out in the gathering shadows. “If there’s one spy, there’ll be more. We must assume we’re being watched at all times.”

  Niamh’s words darkened the somber mood that had settled over the party since the discovery of the strange grave. With night settling in, they discussed the order of the night watch. Niamh and Rebel Sly would take the first watch, Egil and Cillian the second, and Kjartan and Fáelán the third. Arinbjørn had earned his turn to avoid the duty. With their schedule in order, those who had the later shifts settled into their bedrolls. Their watch would come soon enough.

  VIII

  -------

  23

  Cillian felt like he had barely fallen asleep when Rebel Sly woke him for his turn at the watch. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, staggered to his feet, and found a tree to lean against to watch the edge of the woods. Heavy clouds drifted across the sky, allowing little moonlight to penetrate the forest canopy. In the darker moments, anyone lurking around could sneak right past without him ever seeing them.

  He had been awake for about fifteen or twenty minutes—it was so hard to tell without a clock and him so tired—when he heard a strange moan somewhere in the woods. Whatever made the sound, it was no animal he had ever heard before. Didn’t sound like a bear. Or a big cat. A few minutes passed before the moan came again from a different direction. Cillian crept across the campsite in search of Egil.

  “Did you hear that?” Cillian asked when he found Egil kneeling against a boulder.

  “Yes. And no, I don’t know what it was.”

  A stench wafted through the air so overwhelming that Cillian buried his nose into the crook of his elbow to keep from retching. Somewhere a heavy sigh. Moments later a branch cracked. He squinted, trying to make out anything in the darkness. A horse whinnied, sparking a frenzy of motion and frightened neighing. The horses had caught scent of the foul odor, too. The clouds parted somewhere above and a gleam of moonlight struck the forest floor. It lasted only a moment, but he thought he glimpsed a figure partially hidden behind a tree.

  “Did you see that?” Cillian whispered.

  “See what?”

  “It looked like someone standing behind a tree over there.”

  They waited for another beam of light. This time the light lingered long enough they could clearly see there was no figure by the tree. Cillian was positive he had seen something. That the shadows weren’t playing tricks on his eyes. Where had the figure gone? Was it the old man? An owl screeched somewhere. Egil tapped him on the shoulder, pointed across the camp, and beckoned him to follow. On the other side, they found Kjartan hunched down behind the stump of a busted and fallen tree.

  “What is it?” Egil asked.

  “I don’t know. But something’s out there. It made a complete circle around the camp.” He pointed off to their right, then around in an arc. “I caught a glimpse of it over there, then there, then somewhere ahead. Whatever it is, it’s much bigger than a man.”

  “A bear?”

  “Awful quiet for a bear. Bold, too.”

  The stench that had dissipated when they crossed the camp, returned.

  “Whatever it is,” Egil said, “it smells like death.”

  “Draugr!” Kjartan screamed. “To arms! To arms!” He grabbed Egil and Cillian and dragged them back toward the camp. “Draugr! Draugr!”

  A chill slid down Cillian’s spine at the word. A draugr was an undead creature in Norse mythology. They were monstrous in size, reeked from the stench of decay, often guarded a tomb or treasure, and were notoriously difficult to kill. A draugr was a creature dangerous and foul enough to instill terror in even the most hardened soul.

  The fire flared back to life. Someone had tossed oil onto it. In the sudden burst of light, Cillian glimpsed a hulking, dark shape running parallel to them toward the camp. The creature was cutting them off. The others had risen with swords drawn, prepared to meet the monster’s charge.

  The draugr reached the fire first, flinging Rebel Sly aside as it barreled through. A sword flashed and sank deep into the beast’s side, unleashing a murderous howl. A second sword also found its mark. The draugr stumbled backward and toppled into the fire, extinguishing most of the flame. The woods plunged back into darkness as the draugr screamed in anguish and fury.

  “Hack off its head,” a voice cried out that might have been Fáelán’s.

  Cillian saw the grotesque figure rise in the dim light of what little fire hadn’t been snuffed out. Kjartan reached the creature first. No sooner had he swung his sword and he was gone. Had he been thrown? A heavy weight slammed into Cillian’s chest, knocking him backward onto his ass. He tried to rise, but couldn’t catch his breath. Shouts and screams and shrill whinnying rang out all around.

  Cillian stumbled back to his f
eet and spun around, searching for the draugr in the dark. In the confusion of shadows and voices, he couldn’t tell who was who. He couldn’t just go swinging Anbhás around. If anyone else got between, the sword would cut them in half. He needed to be able to see what he attacked.

  “I need light,” Cillian yelled.

  The fire flared back to life to reveal the monster wielding a fat branch as a club against Egil, who was sorely pressed by the vicious onslaught. Cillian swung Anbhás at the creature’s abdomen, slicing clean through, but failed to cleave the creature in two. The draugr turned on him, bringing the club down on his head. Cillian blocked the blow with the sword, splitting the wood in two. The draugr roared and flung the broken stub at him, striking his sword hand. His grip released and Anbhás fell to the ground. The creature pounced, bowling him over. It grabbed the stub of wood, raised it above its head, and was about to smash it down onto Cillian’s head when Fáelán leapt between. He slashed at the creature’s hand, knocking out the branch.

  Cillian rolled over, grabbed Anbhás, and swung at the draugr’s leg, severing the ankle. The creature howled in agony and tumbled to its knees. Cillian leapt to his feet and brought the sword down and across the creature’s neck, slicing its head clean off. The howling silenced as the great mass slumped to the ground. Slash marks and stab wounds covered the creature’s dark-blue skin. Even its neck had been unsuccessfully hacked at.

  “Is everyone all right?” Niamh asked.

  Voices all answered in the affirmative except one. Fáelán sat propped against a tree, his pale blue eyes staring into the fire. The blood on the side of his head told them all they needed to know. Rebel Sly knelt and slid his hand down the face of the Black Bow, closing his eyes one last time.

  Rebel Sly bowed his head in sorrow. “This is a great loss. He was the best man who ever served with me.”

  “He saved my life,” Cillian said.

  “He may have saved all our lives,” Arinbjørn said.

  Egil turned his gaze to the perimeter. “This place isn’t safe.”

  “The horses!” Kjartan darted off to where the horses had been tied. The others rushed after him. The horses were gone, their snapped ropes all that remained.

  “They won’t stop running for miles,” Kjartan predicted. “We could lose days trying to recapture them. We’ll have to go on without them.”

  “We shouldn’t have stopped here,” Rebel Sly said. “I knew something was wrong about that grave. But we couldn’t risk the pass in the dark, either.”

  “You think the draugr came from there?” Egil asked.

  “Where else?”

  “What do we do with Fáelán?” Arinbjørn asked.

  “We take him with us,” Rebel Sly said. “If some dark servant of the Dread Queen is near, I’d rather die than allow Fáelán be turned into a draugr, too.”

  “And the draugr?”

  “We have to burn it,” Kjartan said. “It’s the only way to make sure it stays dead.”

  They tried to drag the draugr to the fire, but even with six people the creature was too heavy to move. Kjartan and Egil could barely lift one of the draugr’s legs. Cillian noticed something strange on the body and halted their efforts. He grabbed a burning stick from the fire and held it near the body, orange light flickering over the mottled skin. Entangled in the dead man’s hair was one of the same blue flowers that had been scattered over the grave.

  Their suspicions were confirmed.

  “That’s our proof,” Rebel Sly said. “Someone traveled a great distance to bury a body across a path we’d have to take to reach the pass. If not the Dread Queen, who?”

  “Where is the person who buried the body?” Cillian asked.

  All eyes scanned the woods but nothing moved out in the darkness.

  Unable to move the draugr, they piled wood over the body and set it ablaze. Once the fire burned hot enough to consume the creature’s flesh, they wrapped Fáelán in what little cloth they had, constructed a simple bier, and laid him upon it.

  “Do we attempt the pass?” Kjartan asked.

  “There’s too little moonlight,” Rebel Sly said. “We could walk off a cliff or march blindly into an ambush.”

  “Reb is right,” Niamh said. “Without light, it’s too dangerous. We’re safer here.”

  “Then we must prepare for whatever this night brings us,” Egil said.

  They moved what part of their camp hadn’t been destroyed by the draugr’s attack or lost in the flight of the horses, which was little more than what they carried on their backs and a couple of packs that had been sitting on the ground. They formed a semi-circle at the base of a rock wall near the road. Then they gathered a great pile of wood and set it ablaze to give them warning if anyone approached too close. They wouldn’t get caught blind again.

  The rest of the night seemed to have no end. Every little noise and trick of shadow caused by the fire set them on edge. Imagined monsters lurked everywhere out in the shadows, yet none revealed themselves. Only when the red blush of dawn arose in the east, and the darkness lifted from the forest, did they finally relax a little. They snuffed out the fire as soon as they could see their surroundings, and hiked up the road toward the top of the pass. Without the horses, the change in altitude became more noticeable, the thinning air sapping Cillian’s stamina.

  The road had been engineered to maintain as straight a line as possible, cutting its way through solid rock instead of angling around, creating long tunnels and wide grooves with steep walls and no roof. An ambush could be sprung on them anywhere. Cillian never let his eyes settle long on one spot or his mind wander. Even the birds set him on edge. Was it truly a bird or a mimicking call?

  “We should be safe,” Rebel Sly said once they were halfway up the mountainside. His earlier wariness had dissipated.

  “How do you know we’re not being watched?” Arinbjørn asked.

  “We are being watched. That’s why we should be safe.”

  Cillian scanned the surrounding woods and rocks but saw none of the eyes to which Rebel Sly had referred.

  “Why would some servant of the Dread Queen have buried the draugr to attack us?” Egil asked. “To kill Cillian?”

  “More likely to slow us down,” Rebel Sly said. “He’s of no use to her dead.”

  “If she wanted to slow us down,” Niamh said, “she should’ve started a week ago. “There has to be another reason.”

  “Something is amiss in these woods,” Kjartan said. “The sooner we reach the safety of An Dún sa Spéir, the better.”

  The road crested a rise and the ground leveled. Cillian could see the cliff wall through the trees ahead, now close enough to touch with a fired arrow. The cliffs were a spur protruding from the main wall and between a hollow had been carved out. He stopped and stared in wonder at one of the strangest sights he had ever seen.

  Water trickled down from the cliff walls here, tumbled down the broken wall there, and cascaded from much higher heights in a misty veil that caught the rising light of the east and burst forth an arcing rainbow. The water fed a deep, dark pool. White flowers were sprinkled in the green grass covering a mound at the pool’s closest edge. But it was the trees that held Cillian transfixed. Two gigantic oaks grew from the mound, and as they climbed, the trunks, and then the limbs, intertwined so that he found it impossible to tell the trees apart despite the leaves of one being white and the other red.

  Niamh’s face beamed with wonder. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Here is the Daoine Saora’s most sacred Crann an tSaoi.”

  The Tree of Life. The ancient Celts believed trees possessed magical properties, particularly the oak, which was viewed as the doorway to the otherworld. The word “druid” meant oak-seeing, or one enlightened in the power of the oak, and by association, the otherworld. Trees also connected the living to spirits and ancestors. Around them centered the entire Celtic mythology. With two such astounding trees growing here, it wasn’t surprising the druids would maintain their stronghold nearb
y.

  Cillian was at a loss for words for a description. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  The three Muir Mac Tír, who had also never seen the trees before, looked as dumfounded as Cillian felt. He sat down at the edge of the mound. The oaks gave off a pleasant aroma like nothing he had ever smelled before. He had to correct himself. The scent was even more refreshing than pine. Niamh knelt next to him.

  Rebel Sly stopped at the edge of the pool and cast a short, bent sword into the calm waters. Cillian needed no explanation for his action. He was offering a sacrifice. It was a common practice among the ancient Celts. One more strange similarity between this world and Earth.

  “This mound is named Uaigh an tSaoil,” Niamh said. “According to legend, the lovers Baile and Aillinn are buried here. Their story is too long to now tell, but it’s said that those who lie beneath the shade of the trees experience the most restful sleep of their lives, wake with a renewed spirit, and are never the same again. The Grave of Life’s power casts a spell over all these woods.”

  “If what you’ve said is true,” Cillian said, “it’s a shame to not lay down and take a nap.”

  “There’s no time now,” Rebel Sly said. “We must reach the citadel before nightfall.”

  “Have you slept on the mound?”

  “Once. It’s true that you aren’t the same afterward. But we mustn’t delay. Tearmann na Gealaí isn’t an easy city to navigate in the dark.”

  They departed the grave and followed the road as it dropped down into the valley. Cillian couldn’t help but keep looking back in wonder at the trees and waterfalls. He wasn’t the only one. A sense of sadness pierced him to the core as the leaping rainbow faded away and the red and white leaves of the enchanted oaks slipped behind the mountainside. He didn’t know how, but he knew he would never see those trees again, never rest beneath their shade. The fleeting, radiating, indescribable light of true beauty one finds only a few times in his entire life was extinguished, leaving behind a world that seemed mundane and drab in comparison.