by Caiseal Mor
“What do you mean?”
“You are slipping. I can see it plainly. But you're too stubborn to admit it.”
Isleen laughed nervously and waved a hand in dismissal.
“I am firm. I will not slip away. I am content as I am.”
“Contentment is the first sign of trouble,” Lochie warned. “Remember our brothers and sisters who have not been so fortunate. Every one of them found contentment before they began to slip away. What must their existence be like? Do you want to end up like them? Empty? Passionless? Bored? Is that what you want?”
“I have no time for boredom,” Isleen replied nervously. “I have a duty to fulfill, not to Balor but to myself. I have plenty of work to keep me occupied. I watch over a few individuals who have become my favorites. And I make a point of ensuring no one suffers from my gentle meddling. The Danaan king is a perfect example.”
“There is no such thing as gentle meddling.” Lochie laughed. “There is only deliberate interference.”
“I don't expect you to understand,” she snapped. “Your purpose has taken a path quite different from mine.”
“Over the years we have grown apart,” Lochie admitted.“When we first started out we had a common goal. The nine of us were specters of fear to our enemies. Our assembled company was an unbeatable force.”
“Until the Danaans defeated us,” Isleen quipped.
“It was Balor of the Evil Eye who let us down,” her companion snapped back. “You and I were never defeated. If Balor had not allowed his pride to rule his decisions, the Danaans would have been overrun and the world would be a different place. The Children of Danu are still our enemies.”
“There are no more Fomor,” Isleen said slowly. “You and I represent the last of the sea folk. We have been very fortunate to survive this long. Perhaps you are right, it is time to consider our future. No good will come of dragging up the past and using it to justify our actions. The Danaans are not my foes.”
“We are the Fomor,” Lochie stated. “The last of our people. We have a duty to our ancestors which must be honored. And we have an obligation to ourselves to outlive the scheming mind of Balor who abandoned us to our fate. How would our forebears judge us if they could hear this conversation?”
“Perhaps they can hear it,” she whispered, regretting her hasty words. “You seem to forget,” Isleen went on, “we forfeited the right to dine with our ancestors in the Otherworld when we made our oath to Balor.”
“I hope to find a way around that yet,” he told her. “But I'm not quite ready to give up this existence. I know my soul will be liberated one day. And I am determined to discover the means to set it free. Until then I have a duty to myself to keep active and not to risk going to sleep. You have seen our comrades. They are prisoners for eternity in a circle of stone.”
“I am beginning to see your argument,” Isleen whispered, unwilling to make the admission. “But in the end you must follow your path as I must try to find my own. We worked together once but that was long ago. You must pursue this destiny without me.”
“I need your help!” Lochie blurted desperately.
Isleen caught the hint of panic in his voice and she carefully scrutinized his expression. Suddenly she understood what was behind their conversation. “Are you worried you might be about to slip away like the others?” she asked. She placed a hand tenderly on her companion's shoulder to comfort him.
“I am frightened,” Lochie admitted. “Aren't you?”
“I have never been so afraid.” She nodded.
“I will fight against this fate,” Lochie vowed quietly, his eyes to the floor. “I chose my path long ago. My passion will not burn out. I will not become an empty soul like the others. There will dawn a day when this spirit is set free.”
“I would dearly love to be free,” Isleen admitted.
“Then you must join with me for your survival.”
“I cannot,” she replied. “Not if there is a chance of any mortal being hurt. I do not wish to bring any more sorrow into the world.”
“That is our nature. Does an oak refuse to give acorns? Does a cow refuse to give milk? Does a warrior ask whether it is right to defend his kinfolk with the sword?”
“We don't have to bring misery into the world. I have become compassionate.”
“Compassion!” Lochie spat. “Have you been playing compassionate Brandubh matches with King Cecht? It was passion not compassion that led you to his bedchamber in the middle of the night to ply the gaming board with his playing pieces.”
“I am sure I detect the pungent scent of jealousy,” she shot back. “I told you earlier I have a good friendship with the Danaan king. I am passing on to him many lost and forgotten customs.”
“What value is all your compassion now?” Lochie hissed. “Your argument is empty if you can't show compassion to the one who has known you the longest. What use is your high-minded idealism if you can't bring yourself to aid the only other living soul on this earth who understands you?”
Lochie paused to gauge Isleen's reaction. “We are in danger,” he pressed. “If either of us succumbs to the Great Sleep it will be the end of the other as well. There is nothing we can do to avoid that. I need you and you need me.”
“It is true then?” Isleen asked. “You feel you are drifting away?”
“I fear that I am.” Lochie nodded.
Then he looked up and locked eyes with his friend. “You simply must help me. As I must help you also.”
“I will consider what you have said,” Isleen agreed as she slowly bowed her head.
“Perhaps you'd like to view a little of the work I've been engaged in,” Lochie offered. “If you saw what I was arranging you might be inspired to lend a hand and perhaps slow your own decline in the process. We are both in limbo, neither of this world nor the next. And as each new day dawns we come closer to that state which has claimed our seven friends.”
“What work have you been doing?” Isleen sighed in a defeated tone.
“A battle.” Lochie beamed. “Shall we go to watch it? There is still time.”
Isleen screwed up her nose in disgust. “War is not a very subtle way to keep oneself amused.”
“When dealing with mortals,” Lochie countered, “I have always found it best to be blunt and to the point. No room for subtlety with them. Most important of all, the quarrel is none of my doing.”
“If it is not your quarrel, why bother?”
“I learn a great deal observing mortals as they go about their business. Their behavior reminds me of my youth. And there is no better place to witness raw unrestrained fear.”
There was a pause. “I can't help myself,” Isleen admitted after a moment's internal struggle. “I know I should be able to restrain my desires. I know I should not indulge. But I simply have no control when it comes to witnessing mortal fear. I am fascinated. I simply have to watch.”
“I know what you mean. That is Balor's legacy to us. We feed on fear and so we live. It's our nourishment and to a certain extent we are slaves to it. For now.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I intend to find a way to free us both from this bondage,” he explained. “But if my plan is to succeed we will both need to build up our strength in a way we have never done before.”
“And that is why you think we should work together to interfere in the lives of mortals?”
“Precisely. There will be sorrow in the world whether we guide it or not. Doesn't it make sense to turn the suffering of mortals to our advantage? When we have built up our strength we will be able to break free, change our fate and escape the end Balor had planned for us.”
His companion found herself warmed by the hope in his voice. “But how can it be right to feed from the discomfort of others?” she argued.
“We will turn their fear into our freedom,” Lochie explained. “We will transform an unfortunate reality into a healing release.”
“I will go with you,” Isle
en agreed softly, her eyes betraying her interest. “But just to observe your battle, nothing more. For the time being I won't commit to aiding you.”
“Then let's be on our way,” Lochie urged excitedly. “There will be all sorts of trouble brewing before evening. And I don't want to miss any of it.”
Chapter 4
AOIFE SCRAMBLED DOWN THE HILL IN PANIC,ALL THOUGHT of her brothers banished. Terror had a grip on her heart, blurring her vision, heightening all her other senses. She heard every twig snap beneath her feet, smelled the strong scent of her own sweat and tasted the dry salty flavor of fear in her mouth.
She was so distraught that every bush seemed to be a forest where many Danaans lurked in ambush and she soon became disoriented. Her one hope was to reach the encampment of her father, King Brocan of the Burren, but such was her terror that she had no idea in which direction the camp lay.
Panic swept over her in a wave of rising shudders. Her legs moved faster, feet flying, barely touching the ground as she ran. Halfway down the hill Aoife tripped over an exposed root. She tumbled headlong for ten paces, rolling over and over on the soft grass until at last she ended her descent face down near the bottom of the hill.
The young woman did not know how long she lay there like that before she heard herself sobbing. When she realized her face was wet with tears her resolve suddenly hardened. A bitter determination took over, enclosing her soul in its armor.
Aoife sat up to catch her breath. Her clothes were wet with perspiration, her head ached with a hot thudding at the temples. But she found herself strangely calm. As the young woman stood up to brush the grass off her clothes, she suddenly remembered Sárán and Lom. She was their only hope. It was her duty to find the Fir-Bolg camp and bring help to her brothers. She dare not tarry for too long. In a short while enemy warriors would likely be swarming all over the hill searching for her.
Soon she was stumbling on her way again with visions of a horde of Danaans in pursuit. Along the rough path to the bottom of the hill she darted this way and that, searching for cover. In her confusion she found herself barreling down a bank of earth overgrown with flowers and long grass. Somehow she managed to keep her feet without falling again. Then abruptly she came to a halt, her way blocked.
Doubled up breathless, Aoife found herself at the foot of a hill, a stand of trees forming the edge of a little wood. Thick strong bushes blocked her path in every direction. Birds sang in the trees and butterflies blundered along oblivious to the disputes of Danaan and Fir-Bolg. It was shaded and peaceful here. No sign of war.
It briefly occurred to the young woman that the woods might be full of the enemy, but she dived in among the underbrush anyway hoping to find a way through. She stumbled on with frantic haste between the trunks, running from any sounds she heard. At last, almost dropping from weariness, she realized she had lost all sense of direction. Exhausted, frightened and alone she leaned up against a tree to catch her breath.
After a moment she became aware she was hugging her right arm tightly against her chest. Then she noticed a twinge of pain. Aoife realized she must have bruised herself when she leapt into the forest. She had already forgotten her tumble down the hill.
Shortness of breath was making her head spin and her eyes were full of tears. Her mind was sharply aware of the danger all around her. She struggled to bring her breath under control.
It was a long while before she was feeling any better. She sat down against the tree trunk and threw back her head to look up at the canopy of leaves spread out above her.
“What will Father say when he finds out all three of us are here?” she asked herself, hardly knowing whether she spoke aloud or not.
“All of you!” a deep voice repeated in dismay. “May you find a speedy ship and have a strong wind in your sails if that is true. For your father will chase you down until he has spent his wrath for this stupidity. You foolish child. Where are your brothers?”
“Fergus!” the young woman cried as an old Fir-Bolg warrior held out his hand to assist her. “Uncle, you must help Lom and Sárán. They are up there with two Danaans.” She pointed back in the direction from which she had come.
“They're on the hill, my lord Brocan,” the man repeated, passing on the message. A dozen warriors abruptly stood up out of the bushes. The Fir-Bolg war party had been concealed close around her all along. And she hadn't realized.
“We'll not risk the lives of other warriors on those two boys,” the king answered and Aoife did not miss the coldness in her father's voice. She was ashamed of herself. She should never have convinced Sárán to come with her on her adventure. Now both her brothers were in deadly danger with no one willing to rescue them. If anything happened to them she would be responsible.
Her father did not rebuke her, but his silence stung her worse than any words.
“You must help your sons!” she pleaded. “The Danaans will kill them!”
Brocan did not speak but instead turned to Fergus and slowly shook his head. The old warrior looked away with sadness in his eyes. They had silently agreed to do nothing.
“We would be safe at home awaiting the return of the war band if it had not been for me,” Aoife pressed. “This is not their fault. Don't blame them for my stupidity.”
“That is quite an admission, daughter.” The king turned away and stared into the forest. “But those two wouldn't be the first of our bloodline to find themselves in deadly peril at the whim of a woman. All the males of our line are weak-willed. I know I am.”
“Father . . .” Aoife began but he cut her off.
“You have too much of your mother about you, young girl. You're willfully contemptuous of tradition, custom and the wisdom of your elders. And like my wife you always have an elaborate argument to present. You at least can see when you have committed some wrong.”
“What about Lom and Sárán?” she breathed, shocked he could calmly leave them to be murdered by the enemy.
“If they are killed,” her father told her, “you will have to answer for their deaths. And if they live, they will have learned an invaluable lesson. They will take more care for their safety in future. And they will not so easily be swayed by the speech of a pretty woman, whether she be their sister or their mother.”
Aoife wondered whether her father would be acting differently if it were Fearna's life that was at risk. Brocan had openly favored his enemy's son over his own flesh and blood. She blushed with guilt at the thought and drove all memory of the dead boy from her mind.
Brocan turned to face her again, his black eyes hard and emotionless. “You will go immediately to my camp under escort and wait until I return there this evening. There is to be no battle until tomorrow. The ground is too wet. If the clouds stay away it will take the rest of this day to dry out. We will meet the Danaans in the morning.”
“Are you really going to leave your sons to be captured?” she gasped.
“If they survive this trial I may allow them to join the battle tomorrow. However, you ran from the enemy, abandoning your brothers in time of need. You will not fight this year. You have too much to learn. You can't even follow a simple order to stay at home to help defend the clanhold. What would have been the result if I had lost the fight and the Danaans had decided to march on our home? Who would have been there to defend it?”
Aoife hung her head.
“You must think hard on the consequences of your actions,” Brocan went on. “You are born to a royal house. You have no right to indulge your sense of adventure if it puts the lives and livelihoods of others at risk. Do you understand?”
The young woman nodded.
“Well, go and do as I tell you,” her father huffed.
“Yes, Father,” she replied but as she moved a sharp, urgent pain ran up her right arm. Aoife looked down at her numb hand. “I can't feel anything in my fingers,” she said in shock.
“You've broken your arm,” the king informed her without any hint of sympathy in his voice. “You're lucky I
thought to bring Fineen along with me. He is the finest healer in the west. Go to him. He is sitting by my fireside turning the spit for our feast tonight. He'll do what he can. It's a miracle you did no other damage to yourself. You might have been killed and that would have been an end to the female line of the family. You are the last. Remember that well.”
Aoife swayed as shame and pain began to overwhelm her.
Fergus put an arm gently around her waist to support her. “I'll take her back to the encampment,” the old veteran offered.
“Thank you, foster-brother,” Brocan replied. “We will return at sunset.”
With that Fergus led Aoife away through the woods until they found the path which led to the camp.
“You don't want to take too much notice of your father,” the veteran told her kindly as they walked. “He is just relieved you are safe, even though he may seem very angry.”
The pain in Aoife's arm had intensified before they had gone too far. Scorching fire of agony spread down from her shoulder and ended with an uncanny lack of sensation in her fingers. She was unsteady on her feet. Her head was heavy; her feet ached. With every step her awareness faded until, before they had walked two hundred paces, she slipped into unconsciousness.
So Fergus carried the young woman the rest of the way to the Fir-Bolg camp. It was a long, slow journey but the veteran's burden was not great. It was late afternoon when Fergus laid the young woman down among her father's fine collection of bed furs then went off to find Fineen the healer.
By the time the old warrior returned with the Druid physician, Aoife had started to stir. Through tired, sore eyes she glimpsed the fair-haired man in the long blue cloak. Fineen was renowned for his skill. He was a friend to Brocan and Fergus, even though he was a Danaan. As a healer and a traveler on the sacred path he put himself above all disputes.
“She broke her arm tumbling through the trees,” Fergus told Fineen.
“How long ago?” the healer inquired urgently, observing carefully the color of her eyes and tongue.
“This morning,” replied the veteran with uncertainty. “No more than four hours after the dawn, I'd say.”
