The Meeting of the Waters

by Caiseal Mor

  Near the edge of the battleground closest to the Fir-Bolg hill there was a flattened stone ten paces from the circle of trees. It was long and wide enough for two men to stand up above the heads of any listeners. This rock was used as a platform by the Brehons to pronounce the victors in any test of arms.

  There at the Victory Stone Cecht and his two warriors waited for Brocan to arrive. All three Danaans nervously looked about them, expecting treachery at any moment. At the top of the Fir-Bolg hill Sárán muttered under his breath, cursing quietly as he watched the scene unfold.

  “Father spoke of his reputation,” the young man whispered to himself. “How will his good name live after this?”

  “He has no choice in the matter,” Lom cut in as if his brother had been addressing him.

  “We can't stand by and let the King of the Fir-Bolg humble himself and his people before the Danaans,” Sárán replied indignantly.

  “There's nothing we can do,” his brother answered. “If you'd told the truth about Fearna's death in the first place perhaps the situation might have been different.”

  Sárán accepted his brother's rebuke but in his mind he heard Isleen goading him on to act. She had foretold he would play an important part in the outcome of this battle, and she was a Seer who had obviously glimpsed the future. In a flash the young man knew what he must do.

  “I must make amends. Father is right. This terrible shame is all my doing,” Sárán whispered. “If he agrees to pay the eric-fine our people will go hungry. This could tear our clans apart.”

  “What can we possibly do now it has come to this?” Lom asked with resignation in his voice.

  “There's only one thing to do,” his twin told him coldly as he held up their father's sword.

  Lom felt his blood turning to ice.

  “What madness has come over you, brother?” he stuttered.

  Sárán smiled as he raised his father's weapon to the sky, watching with awe as the highly polished bronze shone in the morning sun. Distorted, twisted shapes reflected on the surface of the blade. The young man stared at them and saw a bright future. He stepped forward so the Danaan warriors could see him.

  Lom reached out in horror to grab his brother by the sleeve. But Sárán was already gone, racing recklessly down the slope toward the Victory Stone. Without a thought for the danger Lom hurled himself headlong after his twin, frantic to halt him before it was too late.

  He waved his uncle's blade wildly to keep his balance on the rough ground as he shouted his brother's name to the four winds. But Sárán had a good lead on him and he was not making a sound as he ran. So it was Lom's shouting that first attracted Brocan's attention. The king had just spoken a greeting to Cecht when he heard his son's voice. He turned to see what all the commotion was about and was faced with the sight of Lom running furiously down toward him bearing a weapon. Perhaps because his brother was yelling at the top of his lungs, no one noticed Sárán.

  Cecht stepped back as his two warriors instinctively shielded him with their bodies. The Danaans and the Fir-Bolg on opposite hills fell silent, shocked at this unbelievable breach of tradition.

  It was Fineen who first noticed Sárán running toward them through the trees. The healer stepped away from Brocan and Fergus with his arms held out wide so the young man would plainly see he offered no threat.

  “What are you doing?” Fineen demanded loudly.

  Sárán had his eyes fixed on the Danaan king. He hardly even glanced at the healer. Fineen felt the blood drain from his face.

  “You've come far enough,” the healer declared, holding his hands high and placing himself directly in front of the young man. “Stop here or there'll be a terrible price to pay.”

  “Out of my way, Danaan!” Sárán cried venomously. “Or you'll be the first of your people to fall.”

  Sárán held out the sword level in front of him. Then he slashed at the air believing Fineen would step back out of the way to avoid the blow. But the healer had never dodged a blade in his life, much less trained for war. No one had ever raised as much as a hand to him. He had no idea what to do if attacked.

  The physician held up a hand to shield his face and the blade struck his forearm. This weapon was not one of the sharp-edged cutting swords the Danaans often carried. It was a short stabbing instrument meant for fighting at very close quarters. The blade drew blood but it wasn't sharp enough to injure Fineen badly.

  The shock of the blow passed quickly. The healer stared straight at Sárán who had ceased his charge and was standing panting with excitement and exertion. Suddenly Fineen forgot his pain, grabbed the blade and held it tight.

  “Put the weapon down,” he demanded. “Your actions will only bring grief. Lay the sword aside and return to the hilltop.”

  Sárán's face turned red. In a rage he wrenched the blade from the healer. And before anyone could come to Fineen's aid, Sárán stabbed the point of the weapon hard into the healer's chest.

  At that moment Lom arrived, still screaming his brother's name with all the force he could muster. Fergus was shocked out of inaction and he strode forward to punch Lom effortlessly to the ground. Then he swung around to deal with Sárán.

  But before Fergus could lay a hand on the young man a great shout of outrage rose up from the Danaan ranks. The veteran looked up to see the enemy charging in an angered mass down the hill. There was fire in their eyes and hatred in their voices.

  Cecht and his escort were gone. They had already retreated to safe ground to retrieve their weapons. Battle was now unavoidable. Fergus swallowed hard and not for the first time wondered if he was about to lose his life.

  While the veteran was distracted Sárán thrust the sword point at the healer three more times. Fineen fell as his knees buckled under him and pain overcame his senses.

  Fergus let his own fury wash over him. In a flash he caught Sárán by the back of the neck with one hand and disarmed him with the other. Then he pounded the lad with his fists, blinded by anger and shock. The veteran didn't stop until he felt Brocan dragging him away.

  “Hurry!” the king cried, retrieving their two swords. “If you don't get a move on they'll be on us. Now we've no choice but to fight. What of Fineen?”

  The veteran dropped Sárán who slumped on the ground, rendered senseless by his beating. Fergus quickly examined the healer and with the instinct of a battle-hardened warrior knew immediately that if Fineen wasn't dead he was close to it.

  “There's nothing we can do to soothe him,” he reported.

  Fergus raised his eyes toward the approaching Danaans, then looked over his shoulder toward the Fir-Bolg ranks. King Brocan's warriors were charging down to aid their ruler but it was clear they would not reach the battleground in time.

  “Retreat back up the hill!” Brocan bellowed. “You carry Lom. I'll take Sárán.”

  “Let them both rot!” Fergus cried angrily.

  “They're my sons,” Brocan protested.

  Fergus grumbled but he didn't argue. He settled the unconscious body across his shoulders and made his way back up the hill. The charging Fir-Bolg spilled down the slope through the trees toward them.

  Brocan was just behind Fergus as their warriors met them. The twins were dumped unceremoniously between two oaks and instantly forgotten. In the next second Brocan and Fergus raised their blades to join the tightly packed throng, all the warriors screaming wildly as they charged toward their doom.

  At the foot of the Victory Stone the two war parties met with a great clash. There in that place the first blood was spilled between Fir-Bolg and Danaan. Brocan, overcome with shame, led the attack, daring death to strike him down, not caring if he lived another day. Fergus stayed close to his lord, loyally protecting him from unexpected assailants.

  Three Fir-Bolg fell defending their king who pressed relentlessly forward toward Cecht, hoping to settle swiftly between them and keep the slaughter to a minimum. But the King of the Danaans kept falling back as his two bodyguards fended off all
comers.

  “Stand and fight me!” Brocan shouted in frustration. “This is between us. No need to waste other precious lives. Come and do battle!”

  “If I can't trust you in peace, I'll not tempt your hand in war,” Cecht shot back.

  This only hardened Brocan's resolve and he pushed his way closer to the enemy leader. The cries of the injured he didn't hear. The entreaties of Fergus meant nothing to him. The thudding clash of bronze sword against shield was not worthy of his attention. His goal was clear. To save lives by surrendering his own.

  The disgrace and infamy of his sons' actions overwhelmed Brocan. He did not wish to continue living for he knew he'd never be able to bear the humiliation. If he fell the battle would be ended since he had commanded his warriors to yield in the event of his death.

  Suddenly he was struck across the side of the head with the flat of a blade and he fell onto one knee. Fergus was at his side in an instant to fend off the attack but Cecht's two bodyguards kept him busy. The king was dazed by the blow and fumbled around in the dirt for his sword. He had just found it when he received a heavy kick to his rib cage which sent him crashing full onto his side.

  When he looked up the Danaan king was standing over him, the point of his weapon aimed down at Brocan's chest. Fergus was gone. There was no one to help the King of the Fir-Bolg.

  “Do it!” Brocan whispered hoarsely. “Get it over with quickly so no more of our people need die in this stupid fight. My son has shamed me and you'd be doing me a great service to end my life now.”

  Cecht hesitated, realizing the attack on Fineen was none of Brocan's doing, that the offer of truce had been genuine.

  “Get it over with,” Brocan screamed, “or you'll have the senseless murder of more men on your hands.” The King of the Fir-Bolg tore open his saffron shirt to bare his chest, daring his enemy to strike. His eyes radiated pain and resignation but there was a deep hatred there also.

  And that woke Cecht from his pity. He knew it was his duty to kill this old adversary.

  As Cecht raised his blade to plunge it down into his opponent's heart, Brocan shut his eyes to await the blow. But none came. Then he realized all was perfectly still around him. He knew without looking that all his warriors were about to witness his pitiful death, the price of his arrogance. He breathed deep, taking one last taste of the sweet air, expecting at any moment to hear the short sharp whistle of Cecht's sword as it bore down on his body.

  But the sound that came to his ears was much more remarkable. A gorgeous high-pitched tinkling filled his consciousness. It was like the ringing of a bright new bronze harness, yet at the same time quite different. Try as he might he couldn't put a name to the source of this melodic cascade. The enchanting sound brought to mind Tir-Nan-Og, the Land of the Ever-Young, where harpers welcomed home the souls of the departed.

  Brocan breathed out in relief and resignation. His life had ended. He was standing at the threshold of the lands beyond life.

  Chapter 10

  DALAN HAD MARCHED ALL NIGHT, FORCING HIS FEET to go on when his weary body would have surrendered to exhaustion. His vision at the pool had drained every last measure of energy from him, and it was only his discipline and sense of duty which drove him on.

  It was long after sunrise when he had come at last, foot-sore and soul-tired, to the valley which ran down between two hills to the field of the Óenach Samhain. The Brehon had prayed with every step to Danu that no sword had yet been drawn.

  The Druid knew this ground well enough. He had taken part in the rituals of Samhain Eve here in boyhood, though for the last ten winters he had dwelled in the east. He knew the battleground was not far off. The wooded hillsides restricted his view but his heart had been lightened when he couldn't see any warriors about.

  At a place where the trees thinned a little the spur of one hill met with the foot of another and the path lay around the landscape like a twisted rope. The going had been hard here, for despite the even ground the track was sheltered from the sun so it was muddy from the previous day's rain.

  Dalan knew the Victory Stone lay just beyond this path. He judged he had a mere fifty paces to walk before he caught sight of the monument. So, putting aside his urge to sit down, catch his breath and rest his aching back, he had trudged on through the mud.

  Near the end of the path he had slipped his footing and fallen but in a few seconds had managed to get to his feet again. For the first time in many seasons Dalan thought he might have pushed himself too hard. His heart was beating wildly, his chest hurt and head ached with a pounding that kept pace with his pulse.

  So it was with immense relief he found himself on open ground at the edge of the ring of ash trees. He looked out across the Óenach toward the Victory Stone and there he saw a group of warriors standing passively facing each other.

  Dalan quickly realized there was a parley going on. None of these warriors was armed and their attitudes were calm. The Druid laid his harp case down by the nearest tree then carefully took his pack off his back and placed it on the grass. Finally his weary legs gave way and he sat down to rummage through the pack in search of his water bottle. When he had found the leather vessel he drank deeply then replaced the stopper. And in that instant the Brehon glimpsed a flash of red metal on the other side of the Óenach.

  Without another thought Dalan leapt to his feet. Now his heart was pounding for fear not from exertion. He hadn't taken two steps before he witnessed a young man stabbing at a Druid dressed in an undyed cloak which marked him as a healer.

  “Fineen!” the Brehon exclaimed.

  He tore the leather cover from his harp, breaking a pair of straps in his haste. He had arrived at a crucial moment but he was still a long way from the Victory Stone. He offered a silent prayer to the Goddess Danu in the desperate hope he was not too late.

  Before the Brehon knew what he was doing there was renewed strength in his limbs. His feet were running as they had never done before; his lungs were fit to burst. His shoulder would have shrieked in agony had it a voice, for the harp was heavy and it was not an instrument to hurry with.

  A tenth of the distance between the trees and the Victory Stone lay behind the Druid when he saw the Danaans charging down from the heights above. Their nakedness declared their loyalty to Cecht, a king who held to the venerable tradition among his people of making war without armor.

  Dalan almost dropped to his knees in despair when he heard the battle cry of the Fir-Bolg warriors as they flew down to the fight. Somehow the Brehon managed to keep moving forward but a good distance still separated him from the thick of battle when the first clash of arms fell on his ears.

  By the time he had reached the Victory Stone, panting heavily, he hadn't even been sure whether he had the energy to climb up on it. But he had known he must if he was to have any hope of halting the slaughter. On the flat of the rock he had placed his harp, managing to drag his sore body up alongside. In moments his hands had been on the harp, though his fingers had been swollen and unwilling to do his bidding. With a supreme effort Dalan had touched the wires of his instrument and a favorite old tune unfolded at his command.

  If he had been concerned no one would heed his music, the Druid need not have been. He had hardly reached the end of the first phrase when he had been noticed. By the time he had played through his tune once, most warriors were prostrating themselves at the base of the Victory Stone.

  So Dalan played on, putting all his heart and spirit into the melody, conjuring an air of peace with which to enfold all present.

  Brocan had ceased to question what was happening to him as his thoughts began to drift along with the music. He was completely enthralled and thoroughly defeated. For a long time the Fir-Bolg king conserved his breath and kept his eyes firmly shut. He could hear a tune he knew well. It was an air often played in his youth but seldom heard these days.

  Under the high-pitched Fir-Bolg tune he discerned a strident droning hum reminiscent of a Danaan warrior chant. And it was
close by. In confusion the king dared to tentatively open his eyes. The scene that confronted him was dreamlike and uncanny.

  Every warrior before him was laid on his stomach, flat on the ground. No one stirred. Brocan would have thought them all dead but for the fact that every pair of eyes seemed to be staring at him. Directly and fixedly on him. The Fir-Bolg king turned his gaze up to look questioningly at Cecht and his mouth dropped open in surprise.

  Even the King of the Danaans had laid aside his weapon and was stretched out on the ground, gazing up. But Cecht was not staring at Brocan. His eyes were focused on a point behind the Fir-Bolg leader.

  Brocan frowned. Perhaps this was how Death heralds his arrival, with the sweet music of the Otherworld to accompany him.

  Soothing song to send the soul to its rest in the Halls of Waiting.

  And then Brocan realized the melody he heard was a tune of the kind known as sleep music. This form of traditional lullaby was used by the healer Druids to bring a deep rest to those who were ill. When it was played on the battleground it was the signal for all hostilities to cease immediately. He was still alive! This was no music of the Otherworld.

  The king half sat up. He knew he was defying the laws of the battleground by failing to lay himself flat on the ground in submission. But he had to know. He made out the shape of a man kneeling on the top of the Victory Stone and he gasped in awe. The stranger was dressed in a long coat made from what seemed to be countless black feathers. In front of this Druid a simple harp sat. It was an ordinary-looking instrument, much like any which the Bards usually carried. But this harp sparkled with energetic force. That magic which the Druids named the Draoi.

  The harp strings did not have the dull green sheen of wires. These strings were a shining yellow reminiscent of gold. And the lilting, swaying, enticing melody went on until the King of the Fir-Bolg could no longer resist the urge to fall on his face and let himself be enveloped in the music.