The Meeting of the Waters

by Caiseal Mor

  Brocan had no sooner laid his head on the ground than the music ceased and he heard an unfamiliar voice.

  “I am the Ollamh Dalan. I am a Brehon judge. I have come to this place to stop this stupid slaughter and to bring tidings which were revealed to the Gathering of Harpers in the east. I come with the blessing of the Dagda and in his name I command you to lay down your arms.”

  “This is none of your affair,” Brocan managed to protest weakly without lifting his eyes.

  “It's my business to announce and enforce the judgments of the Druid Assembly,” was the sharp reply.

  The king narrowed his eyes, regarding the Ollamh with closer scrutiny. This Brehon was not a Danaan, as almost all tended to be in these times. He was a brown-haired Fir-Bolg who might have stepped out of the old tales. The Raven-feather cloak he wore shone with a thousand shifting rainbows shimmering on a field of black. Then the king recognized the Druid. He had not been seen in these parts since he had been chosen as a boy to pursue the path of learning.

  “It is the wisdom of the Druid Assembly that this trial by battle should cease immediately,” the Brehon went on. “There'll be no more fighting today. The Dagda has decreed there will be no more war between the folk of the Fir-Bolg and their ancient enemies the Danaan. From the time of the last full moon two days ago an eternal alliance has been bound by each side.”

  “I heard nothing of that decision,” Cecht protested. “Why was I not informed?”

  “Your fellow Danaan kings sent messengers to you but you turned them away saying you would hear them after the battle. A decision had to be made in your absence.”

  “I should have been summoned!” Cecht insisted. “And so should Brocan for that matter.”

  “It was necessary to move quickly.”

  “What do you mean?” demanded Brocan.

  “A terrible disaster has come upon us, but I will not speak of it until the injured and dead are tended,” Dalan told them sternly. “Tonight there'll be a feast in honor of the peace. I'll speak then of my tidings, when all are rested and the battle fury has passed from your eyes. And then I will pass judgment on all that has happened this day.”

  “I bow to your wisdom,” Brocan assured him, still shocked that he was alive.

  “Then go about the task I've set you!” the Ollamh ordered. “You will set the fire pit only an axe throw from here and I'll stand upon the Victory Stone to address you. Now hurry to help the wounded.”

  “There is a brother Druid here who has been injured,” Fergus called to the harper from amidst the rising warriors.

  The Brehon followed after the veteran to where Fineen lay, his upper body drenched in blood. Dalan immediately sat down at his friend's side and touched the skin of the wounded man's cheek with the tip of his finger.

  Fergus watched as the Brehon dragged the skin down a little to expose the white of one of Fineen's eyes. Abruptly Dalan turned to the veteran and there was a fearful expression on his face.

  “This man has lost a great deal of blood. He will not live unless he is tended properly.”

  Fergus gasped and shook his head in disbelief. “I thought he must surely be dead,” he stammered.

  “He's lucky. The stabs didn't touch his internal organs. His rib cage was not breached. But he is weak. Pick him up and carry him to the camp,” Dalan commanded. “If we're quick we may save him. And send someone to retrieve my pack. I left it over there at the edge of the trees.”

  The veteran carried Fineen carefully but securely in his arms up the hill toward the Fir-Bolg camp. Dalan followed with his harp until they came to where Lom and the still unconscious Sárán lay.

  “How did these two come to be here?” the Brehon inquired. “They're not warriors, yet they're both injured.” Lom had no chance to answer on his own behalf.

  “I'll tell you the tale while you tend Fineen,” Fergus cut in. “Though I am ashamed to relate this terrible business.”

  “What terrible business?” Dalan asked. “Were these two involved in the battle? That would be a serious break with custom.”

  “There's a lot more to the story than first meets the eye,” Fergus began as he passed on up the hill out of Lom's hearing.

  After the Brehon and the veteran had gone Lom lowered himself onto his back. His head was still spinning from the blow that had knocked him out. He glanced at his brother's body. Sárán was breathing steadily but his face was covered in blood and bruises.

  Lom rolled on his side to cough the dust from his air passage. Then, as he stared at the broken face of his twin, he lapsed once more into a painful dreamy blackness.

  Chapter 11

  ARAVEN HAS NO HEARTH TO CALL HIS OWN. MY KIND may settle on rooftop or tree for a while but soon move on. Even our nests are abandoned the instant the last fledgling departs. We have our gathering places where the tribes congregate but the ways of your kind, with your filthy smoke-filled houses, are enough to turn a raven's stomach.

  Among your people there are many of the same mind. Some are filled with the traveling spirit by tales told at a cozy hearth. Others through necessity or hardship find themselves walking the earth, drifting from one land to another, eternally searching. A few peoples have preserved the timeless traditions of the nomad. For these clans traveling is their life and life is their journey.

  You Gaedhals are another breed altogether. Your ancestors lived and loved in the Islands of the West before the flood. No storyteller now lives who could give a reason why they departed that sacred land seeking new pastures to the east. The details have been lost with the passing of time.

  Your own legends speak of an arduous voyage which took your ancestors first to Lochlann, home of the fierce Northmen. From there they made their way down a mighty waterway toward the Middle Sea. They named this great river after the deity who had always guided them. Her name was Danu. She was known as the Goddess of the Flowing Waters, Starlight on the Sea, Moon on the Lake, Queen of Women, Princess of the Crescent Horns.

  The River Danu led them eventually by a long route to the lands of the Hibiri, the Judah and the Parsi. This was the start of their wandering. Their voyages were the subject of many songs. They were held in awe as fine warriors by all the folk they met. And they were richly honored for their skills in battle.

  It was in the country of the Maat, a desert people, that the Gaedhals at last took their rest. The Maat were a warlike folk, custodians of three enormous man-made mountains constructed of hand-cut stone. They took the Gaedhals into service as mercenaries. And their priests taught the newcomers all the secrets of smelting the black metal and the white metal.

  Three generations were born and passed away while the Gaedhals served the Pharaoh of Maat. But in time a new priest-king came to the throne and he was a peaceful man. He had no use for a large retinue of professional warriors. So the Pharaoh married his daughter Scota to Gall, the King of the Gaedhals. For the wedding dowry he gave ships, gold, cattle, and provisions. And then the Priest-King of Maat sent them off across the Middle Sea in search of new lands.

  A small group of Hibiri tribespeople who had also served the Pharaoh went with them. And they were given a gift of gratitude from the priests—a piece of one of the three pointed mountains. The Gaedhals named it the Stone of Destiny. And it soon became their own version of the mystical Lia Fail which had been venerated by their ancestors in the Islands of the West.

  Sacred knowledge bestowed by the priests on Scota and the Hibiri guided the travelers westward to a fabled land where the grass was thick and lush. And before many days had passed the Gaedhals landed their ships at the far edge of the Middle Sea, near where it pours through into the wide ocean.

  They found open plains stretching away to the north. And once they crossed those desolate parts of the land they came to a fertile country. In honor of the Hibiri who had shared their knowledge of this place the Gaedhals named their new homeland Iber.

  Scota proved to be an able queen who continued to rule long after her husband's deat
h. And so every female leader of the Gaedhals ever after took the name in honor of her reputed courage, wisdom and strength.

  The land of Iber was their home for many generations before an overwhelming incursion of merciless raiders from the south-land came to threaten their cattle, their crops and their livelihood. The Gaedhals, though expert in the art of war, were heavily outnumbered and gradually began to lose ground to the strangers. Within a dozen seasons of the first foreign incursions the rains became heavier than ever, destroying the harvests time after time. Then a disaster fell upon the Gaedhals which truly tested them to the limit of their endurance.

  In a massive raid the southern barbarians slew more than half the able-bodied warriors of the Gaedhal. Not only were their defenses depleted but their herds of cattle went untended and the crops rotted in the field. At the height of these troubles their king, Míl, passed away suddenly, leaving his queen to deal with these catastrophes.

  It was then that the last Queen Scota of Iber decided to continue the ancient journey of her folk. The Gaedhals had once prospered in this country but those days were ended. It was time to move on.

  Scota sent her brothers out in small ships to search the seas for a place where the Gaedhals would be safe from attack and their cattle could be well provided for. The brothers returned with reports of a fertile land to the north, an island bounded by rough seas and treacherous rocks. Green rich pastures were common in this country; immense silent forests waited to be cleared for timber. Lakes and rivers abounded and there was plentiful game in the mountains and woodlands. And Scota heard tell that the inhabitants were gentle folk who lived simple lives. These natives were given to war when pressed but they preferred a peaceful existence.

  What persuaded the queen to attempt to conquer this island, however, was the fact that the natives had never learned the secret of iron and steel. Their weapons were crude bronze artifacts from a bygone age. Pitted against the Gaedhals who had been renowned warriors for generations, these poor folk were defenseless.

  Nine moons after her husband Míl's passing, Scota suffered a dream, the first of many. The land of Eriu beckoned her. And she answered the summons, certain this would be the final homeland of her people.

  Seasons flew by while preparations were made for the epic voyage to Eriu. Ten winters after her brothers returned, the Queen of the Gaedhals stepped on board a ship and in a mighty fleet her people set out on the next part of their remarkable journey.

  And thus brewed the terrible conflict I witnessed in my youth. Greed fermented into conquest and your people drank their fill of war.

  Ravens have long memories. And though I had not the wisdom of the feathered kind in those days, even so I sensed some change upon the wind. Before the enchanter sang me into this shape, before I was called Lom-dubh, the land of Innisfail was turned into a battlefield.

  Heavy sparse droplets pelted down onto the young woman's bare skin. She tentatively touched three fingers to her cheek as the rain ran over her. When she looked at her hand it was smeared red. All around her the other warriors of her kin stood silent, patiently waiting for the downpour to cease.

  Bright ochre war paint daubed on their faces and in their hair streamed down over arms and legs so each man and woman among them seemed to have been bathed in blood. To the young woman this seemed a frightening portent.

  You've fought many battles, Scota, she reassured herself. This is just another one. You're young yet and strong. You've nothing to fear. But the conviction in these words was not matched in the depths of her being.

  Her inner voice spoke clearly to her and the message hit her as hard as a slap in the face. You're dreaming!

  Scota felt her whole body shiver. If this was a dream, it was uncannily real. She banished the voice and struggled to concentrate on the task at hand. Now more than ever before she knew she had to hold her nerve. This fight would decide the destiny of her people. There could be no turning to retreat. There was nowhere to run but back into the sea from whence her warriors had come.

  “I'm the Queen of the Gaels!” she cried, emptying her lungs with a mighty shout. “I'm the Sovereign Lady of the South!”

  The heavens answered her boast with a brilliant shaft of purple lightning which tore open the sky to strike the foot of the hill before her. The blast of its bellowing voice was defiant and unwavering. An unexpected tempest howled around her warriors as if choosing to side with the enemy in this conflict.

  Courageous warriors who had battled the bloodthirsty invaders of southern Iber fell back before the elements. The bravest few held their ground wide-eyed with awe and shock. But high on the hill before her the hosts of the Tuatha De Danaan and the Fir-Bolg stood shoulder to shoulder, unmoved by the spectacle before them.

  The air became biting cold and the rain intensified. It stung against Scota's arms as it fell, striking her finely wrought scale armor in a deafening chorus. Mud flew up around her knees, churned up by the force of the squall.

  Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the downpour ceased and the battlefield fell silent. Scota shuddered with anxious anticipation. The unearthly quiet unnerved her after the quick-tempered storm, and she wondered if enemy Druids had summoned the elements to their cause.

  Another flash in the sky lent its sickly light to the scene. It was immediately chased along by a shuddering clap of thunder that set the chariot horses screaming. The clouds rolled in and the hill was snatched from sight.

  Scota was sure her heart would burst from her rib cage with fear but she determined not to flinch. Her sword, bright and silver, was crying out for war. Numb fingers gripped the cold hilt and the queen summoned all her will to rally the warriors of the Gaedhal.

  “Now!” she screamed. “Now this land will be ours forever!”

  She forced her feet one after the other forward toward the hill. To her relief a throng of red ochre warriors faithfully swarmed around her. She was sure they'd have followed her to the very gates of the Otherworld if she had commanded it.

  As the black clouds retreated again the hilltop was gradually revealed. Three banners had appeared, each at least as tall and broad as an oak. The enemy gathered around these banners, well armored for the fight. The queen wondered how her warriors would ever break that steadfast line.

  Halfway up the hill Scota stopped to touch the earth and catch her breath. Over her head the deadly arrows of her tribesmen sailed toward their helpless targets. A few of the enemy fell. But wherever one foreign warrior was struck, another took his place.

  Now Scota was feeling hot from the climb. Sweat and rainwater mixed with red war paint ran into her eyes. She tasted salt and earth in her mouth and breathed in the heady aroma of sodden soil. Unceremoniously she dropped her shield. It had become suddenly cumbersome, too weighty and unwieldy to be of any use. Her own folk passed her by as she loosed the straps of her scale armor. The garment fashioned from tiny steel plates fell to the ground with a clatter.

  Relieved of these burdens Scota breathed more easily. Now she was ready to finish the climb. Before she had walked another five steps a war cry shook the earth. A savage bowel-trembling shout arose from the top of the hill as the enemy poured forth in a torrent of righteous rage. Down the steep slope they careened, spears at the ready, axes poised to strike, swords raised. Some among their number were completely naked but for the blue-green designs painted upon their flesh. Their hair was white as snow, every one of them.

  The queen's resolve faded. She could not will her feet to move another step. And while she struggled with herself to keep advancing, the enemy fell upon the leading ranks of her warriors with a resounding crash of weapons. Many Gaedhals wavered in that moment and some retreated in dismay.

  Before Scota realized her own peril a naked stranger armed with a broadaxe fell upon her in an untamed fury. Scota lifted her blade to dispatch him but her hands were weakened and she could not strike.

  “I'm not afraid of you!” she bellowed as she managed to parry his blow.

 
But the force of his attack was overwhelming. Scota slipped back in the mud, clutching at the hilt of her sword with both hands as he raised his axe to strike. Instinct commanded her to act but her limbs refused to move. All the queen could do was watch this stranger in his fierce battle paint prepare to put an end to her.

  “I won't let you murder me!” she cried and at that very instant an arrow fell from the sky. It struck the stranger near to the collarbone. The axe dropped from his hand onto the muddy earth at Scota's side.

  Before the stranger had managed to fall back out of the way the queen regained her feet. Then, like sunlight spilling into a dark room, all weakness passed out of her body. With another fierce cry she drove her weapon deep into the enemy warrior's chest.

  His eyes widened in agony and surprise as Scota deftly pulled the weapon out again. The stranger was bathed in his own blood but he did not fall. He stood proud and defiant. And when he caught the queen's eye he smiled.

  “I am Scota, Queen of the Gaels,” she told him.

  “I am Mahon, son of King Cecht of the Tuatha De Danaan,” he replied.

  As he spoke he plucked the arrow from his shoulder and threw it down upon the ground contemptuously. “You'll not defeat us so easily,” he cried, holding the wound where her sword had stabbed him.

  Scota raised her blade to strike at him again but was distracted before the blow could fall. To her bafflement the warrior's injury swiftly festered, dried out and began to heal. The queen looked down at the stab wound in his chest and it too was slowly covering with fresh skin as if it had never been.

  To her astonishment the stranger calmly bent over to retrieve his axe. All around her the battle still raged fiercely. Scota shivered. The sword dropped from her hand. She couldn't speak.

  Her helm was knocked off her head by another assailant before she knew what had happened. Then she was lying on her back in the mud again. The point of a spear was pressed into her belly and a wild-looking woman gripped the shaft. This warrior was dressed for battle in bronze-ringed armor. Her helm was polished to a coppery red that almost matched the color of her hair. A strip of blue pigment three fingers wide crossed her face from ear to ear. The whites of her eyes stood out amid the blue, making her seem all the more fierce.