The Meeting of the Waters

by Caiseal Mor

  “What do you intend to do?”

  “The king must know of his daughter's misdeeds,” he told her.

  “What good will come of that?” Isleen demanded. “The war has already started. The Brehon judges have made a decision, one which is unlikely to be reversed even if this revelation comes to light. Surely there is no point in telling King Brocan the truth. The story will come out eventually.”

  “These two peoples are not destined to fight today,” Lochie explained. “Well, not very much anyway. A certain Brehon is on his way here even now. He has been charged by the Dagda to order Brocan and Cecht to lay down their arms. This Brehon is the key to our salvation for he has a great knowledge and he is a Seer.”

  “How can he help us?”

  “I have scrutinized the Druid Assembly. This Brehon is our only hope. He has the talent to take the office of Dagda one day. And when he does we must be ready.”

  “Does the Brehon know Aoife and Sárán were responsible for Fearna's death?” Isleen frowned.

  “He does not,” Lochie replied, shaking his head. “There are other reasons for canceling the fight. You will have to be patient until all is revealed.”

  “I don't see what you hope to achieve.”

  “I wish to shame King Brocan, if not publicly then privately. That will soften his attitude enough so he will readily agree to the compromise the Brehon is about to offer.”

  “And that compromise is the hub of your mischief?”

  “It is not mischief, Isleen. This sort of thing ensures I do not become stale. It keeps me alive. We have a chance to defeat our fate. And if we are careful we will gain great strength from the conflict about to descend on Innisfail.”

  “What conflict?”

  “I'll let you know all about that by and by.” He winked. “It's my little surprise. A piece of work I have been planning for many seasons. I'm quite proud of my efforts too.”

  “You seem to be going to a lot of trouble for rewards that are not immediately evident to me.”

  “I haven't done anything yet.” Lochie laughed. “The Danaans and the Fir-Bolg have managed this mess thus far on their own.”

  “Who are you?” bellowed a Fir-Bolg sentry high in the branches above.

  The two Watchers ended their conversation immediately, instantly becoming the characters they were portraying—two travelers from the north.

  “We are Druids,” Lochie stated, looking up. “My name is Lochie. I am well known to your king and people. And this is my wife, the renowned Seer Isleen.” He gestured toward his companion.

  “Your wife?” she hissed under her breath as she punched him on the arm.

  “We have come to witness the battle at Mag Slécht and to preserve the memory of it in song,” he went on, ignoring her protest.

  “You are always welcome, Bard,” the sentry replied enthusiastically. “King Brocan is out scouting. But we expect the warriors to return soon. You may go and wait by the great fire if you wish. Fergus is in camp. You may remember him. He is the king's steward and foster-brother.”

  “Thank you,” Lochie replied graciously. In a moment he was nimbly adjusting the position of a heavy harp case which appeared out of nowhere to hang over his left shoulder.

  “I will not pretend to be your wife!” Isleen whispered as soon as they had passed the sentry.

  “You don't have to do anything,” Lochie grumbled. “Just enjoy yourself. We don't get as many opportunities to have fun as we used to in the old days.”

  “Why did you tell the sentry we are married?”

  “Because that way it's easier to explain your presence. Most Druids travel alone, you may recall. It might be suspicious if we arrived together and were not husband and wife. It will instantly earn you the trust of the king and his people.”

  Isleen was silent, unwilling to concede that he might be right. Then a thought crossed her mind. “We aren't likely to have any dealings with the Danaans, are we?”

  “I hardly imagine that will be possible,” Lochie laughed, “as we are taking dinner with their bitter enemies.”

  “I've never heard you play the harp,” Isleen went on with a sigh of relief, changing the subject smoothly.

  “I took up the craft ages ago,” Lochie told her proudly. “The harp keeps me out of mischief. It reminds me of my youth. And I have composed some touching ballads. I must sit down and play a few for you.”

  “There were no harps like that when you were a lad.” She laughed.

  “Why must you insist on spoiling everything for me?”

  At that moment Lochie noticed Isleen staring off along the path ahead of them, breathing in very deeply. Then he too smelled something on the air and was immediately reminded of his empty belly. His companion was already pointing to the great fire where Fergus the veteran was methodically turning the carcass of a pig on the spit.

  “It is a wonderful thing to have possession of the full five senses again,” she said in a whisper. “To feel the breeze against my skin, to hear the wind in the trees and to catch the aroma of slowly roasting meat in the evening air.”

  “Just beyond that fire is the king's tent,” Lochie stated. “That is where we begin our work.”

  “Have we time for a small bite to eat first?” asked Isleen hopefully, her mouth watering.

  Lochie somehow managed to restrain his joy at hearing those words. “Of course we do.” He smiled broadly.

  Despite the soothing infusion Fineen had given her to drink Aoife awoke time and again, unable to fully rest. Her head swam with drowsiness and her limbs ached from exhaustion but her thoughts were alive with worry.

  And the nagging pain in her arm made it impossible to relax. Soon after the sun had set the young woman was still drifting in and out of consciousness, overhearing voices from her past in the busy conversations just outside the hut. She began to experience vivid visions of that terrible night in the snow last winter. Her blood began to pump loud at her temples as the memory of her fear returned. She'd thought they'd all be lost in the storm, for when she and Sárán had left Fearna by the oak grove, they'd had no idea where they were.

  In the deep falls of snow the landscape had altered dramatically. Before brother and sister had realized something was amiss they were heading in the wrong direction, clambering among unfamiliar rocks.

  Now the agony in Aoife's aching limbs reminded her of that night. Of the slow trudge into the white night for what seemed an eternity. Aoife had felt as if she was fit to drop from the effort. As her thoughts wandered, her legs somehow kept time, taking up a slow monotonous rhythm. A steady thud began to course through her as her feet marched on. Then a female voice rose from nowhere to fill the air. A woman was singing in a clean somber tone. It was a tale of her own long march in search of her true love. Aoife was astounded when she realized she knew the words to this song even though she had never heard it before.

  In her imagination Aoife was in the snow again, yet on the night of Fearna's death she had not heard any music or song. She was starting to feel confused now. This vision had seemed like a dream reminiscence at first. Now it was strangely distorted.

  A goatskin bodhran picked up the beat as the mysterious performer's song melted away. And instantly Aoife was walking again in the rocky uneven snowfields of the Burren searching for the way home. She was humming the sweet melody under her breath, keeping up with the beat of the bodhran. Ahead of her she thought she could see her brother keeping a strict pace so she followed his example until the ground became flat and even. The music of the tiny bronze bells she always wore on her boots rang in her ear.

  Her whole being was tramping through the icy white making toward the Dun of the Burren, yet part of her also knew she was wrapped safe in her father's furs. Suddenly a chorus of men and women joined in the drumbeat with a soothing chant. Whenever their voices ceased the melody was taken up by other instruments and a droning hum which she could not name. And then as she watched the world began to change slowly.

 
; The snow and ice were melting from the ground. Winter retreated and the spring buds appeared on every tree as if time was rushing by in a torrent as the swelling voices rose in intensity.

  The choir hummed a soft but potent melody punctuated with the lilting voice of the woman who had started the song. Aoife had no choice but to surrender to the haunting call. The chant went on as the wheel of the year turned full circle before her eyes. Winter disappeared. Then as spring came round all the voices dropped gradually away until there was almost complete silence. The woman's voice continued to hover delicately in the air until she was barely whispering.

  And then with a sudden burst of color the earth exploded into vibrant heady summer.

  Every hue of the rainbow was daubed on the trees, rivers, fields and sky. Aoife was not marching anymore. She was dancing joyfully in time with the glorious entrancing beat of a drum she could not see. She closed her eyes to soak up the compelling music as if it would seep into the wellspring of her soul.

  Swaying to the merry tune she allowed her hands to reach out far ahead of her and high above. It was then she sensed the warm, inviting presence of another soul nearby. She opened her eyes and recognized the man she was dancing with straightaway.

  He was the young blue-eyed Danaan who had challenged her brother and herself on the hill that morning. The choir returned to hum their drone once more and Aoife was drawn to approach this stranger.

  His eyes flashed with fire, caught her gaze, and in unspoken agreement the two souls let themselves fly with the rhythm as their bodies transformed into a pair of dancing green dragonflies. Their faces were unchanged but their flesh was the same color as the holly leaves at Samhain.

  She stared in wonder at the bright red tips of her partner's legs and the delicate golden lines across his belly. But most astounding of all, more incredible than the six pairs of feet they both now possessed, were the limbs which sprouted from their backs.

  Aoife and her partner each sported two pairs of translucent silvery wings. Flimsy they seemed and yet when she had the mind to beat them together they lifted her up and around until she laughed for the joy of her flight. The Danaan flitted about her gracefully. Throughout their beautiful dance they never said a word to each other. Nor did they touch for even the briefest moment. But those two dancers spoke to each other with their spirits.

  As the pair fluttered about each other the great unseen choir moved away, gradually allowing the song to fade and die. The intensity of their performance never once waned until the last moment when the entrancing drumbeat was swallowed up by the warm night.

  The words of an old poem came into Aoife's mind, then it was her dancing partner who was speaking them in a deep soothing tone that sent shudders of excitement rippling through her body.

  “In love the greatest king becomes a slave. Dust becomes gold. Soured milk turns to honey. Pain is joy. Small faults forgiven. The dead come to life. Love is the elixir to cure all ills. Drain the Cup of Desire then fill it up again. The Well of Passion is unquenchable.”

  Aoife sat up a little with a start. Instantly she was back in her father's hut. It was summer, her arm ached and the young Danaan spirit dancer had fled back from whence he had come.

  The enticing aroma of cooking food filled her senses now. She opened her eyes and her attention was drawn to the weight restricting her arm. The young woman looked down at the splints wrapped by bandages and straightaway recalled falling heavily on the hillside as she made her escape.

  She raised herself on her good elbow and looked around the hut, which was little more than a low circular stone wall with hasty thatching thrown over the top. She was alone. She reached out to pick up a jug of water then drank deeply. After a few moments the effort of staying upright proved too much so she put the jug down and lay back in the furs, rolling carefully onto her side so she could nurse her wounded arm.

  As she started to relax again a movement, caught out of the corner of her eye, abruptly distracted her attention. She looked up at the doorway. A man was standing there. His shape was outlined by the firelight outside and she could not discern the features of his face.

  “Fergus?” Aoife called. She had no idea how much time had passed since that morning. “Is that you? You don't have to watch over me, you know.”

  The man laughed.

  Aoife gasped. This was not the old veteran. “Who are you?”

  The stranger took a few tentative steps forward.

  Aoife was beginning to feel very frightened now. There was something familiar about this young man's shape, his walk, even his sniggering laugh.

  “Who are you?” she repeated with more urgency.

  He came swiftly closer, his feet making no sound on the floor.

  Aoife made a move to get out of bed but to her dismay her body would not respond. Her terror increased tenfold when she found she could not move her eyes, nor could she speak or utter any sound at all. She was trapped and she could barely breathe.

  The stranger shuffled out of her line of vision and sidled up to the furs. Aoife's heartbeat thundered through her body as she lost sight of him. Now she was certain she was dealing with a malevolent spirit.

  “Do you not know me?” came the hissing taunt.

  At the sound of that voice Aoife would have jumped out of bed and run all night with fear if she could have persuaded her body to do her bidding.

  “I know you well enough,” the man whispered and she felt his breath on her face. It smelled of mead and it was as cold as a snow wind.

  “Fearna,” Aoife managed to stammer.

  “Fearna,” the stranger confirmed.

  “Why have you come?”

  “I loved you. You teased me. You taunted me. You mocked me. You murdered me.” There was no emotion in the voice. The words were uttered as if they were the obvious answer to her question.

  “We meant you no harm,” she protested but she didn't sound convincing even to herself.

  “No harm?” the spirit repeated with distaste.

  “Sárán and I were just thinking of fun. We only wanted to have a laugh.”

  “A laugh?”

  “We didn't know you'd get so drunk you'd fall off the drafthorse and break your neck,” she sobbed. “No one was meant to be hurt.”

  “You lied to your father about your part in my death.”

  “We were frightened,” Aoife told him. “Sárán was sure your father would use our involvement as an excuse to end the old truce.”

  “As it is there is war anyway. You were more afraid of your own father than you were of mine.”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “Our father would surely have taken leave of all restraint in his rage if he had known what we had done.”

  The figure moved to stand in front of her again. He had his back to her as he spoke.

  “You have done a great wrong, Aoife. You owe me recompense and one day I will ask to be repaid the debt.”

  “Your eric-fine should have been handed over immediately. I don't know why Father opposed the payment.”

  “I am not talking about giving over my value in cows!” the spirit cried. “You owe me for what you have done. You stole the rest of my life away from me. How will you repay me for forty good summers?”

  “I don't know. I'll find a way if you can forgive me.”

  “The next time I come to you,” Fearna's ghost told her, “it will be time for me to claim my fine. And then you will give me whatever I ask of you.”

  The spirit turned around and Aoife could see the features of his face clearly. She recognized the youngest son of the King of the Danaans immediately, even though his skin was gray and his hair spattered with blood and soil.

  “That's how you looked when they brought you in,” Aoife sobbed. “Your lips were blue and your eyes glazed over with snow.”

  “May you never forget me, Aoife.”

  “I won't,” she replied. “The tears I cried for you were real enough.”

  “You weren't crying for me,” the spirit
huffed. “You were crying for yourself, for your own guilt.”

  And with those parting words the ghost of Fearna, son of the Danaan king, melted into the air and was gone. In his place stood Fergus, Brocan's foster-brother, and there was shock on his face.

  Aoife shook her head a little. “Is that you, uncle?” she asked nervously.

  “It is,” he replied solemnly.

  “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough to know how Fearna came to be riding alone and drunk in the forest after a heavy snowfall.”

  “What?”

  “I heard everything, Aoife,” Fergus told her. “It was as if you were speaking to someone who never answered. I thought for a while you imagined yourself to be talking to Fearna himself, come back from the dead to haunt you.”

  “It was him!” she cried. “He has returned to torment me!”

  “It is your conscience that's tormenting you,” the old veteran told her with raised eyebrows. “But that'll soon be put to right. I must tell the king of this.”

  “This is a portent of death,” Aoife whispered. “Fearna came to summon me after him.”

  “I did not see Fearna,” her uncle assured her.

  “Am I going to die?” she cried. “I don't want to pass over to the Halls of Waiting yet.”

  “You're not going to die,” Fergus soothed.

  “But when folk are visited by a tormented spirit it is a sign their life is ended.” Her frightened eyes stared out past Fergus toward the doorway.

  “Death is the least of your concerns,” he told her. “There are worse things than death that can befall you in this world.”

  “What is worse than losing your life?”

  “Loss of dignity. A compromise to your honor. When you have to endure those things, death can be a welcome visitor.”

  Aoife thought about the veteran's words before she fully understood his meaning. Her father would be held responsible for Fearna's death, even though she had committed the crime. He would suffer the loss of dignity to a greater extent than she.