The Meeting of the Waters

by Caiseal Mor

  “I'm Riona, daughter of Eriu!” the woman declared.

  “I'm the Queen of the South!” Scota shot back. “My people have won this land from you.”

  “The country of Innisfail will belong to your sons and daughters forever,” the woman told her, “but they have paid for it with your blood, Scota.”

  Then the strange woman pressed the spear point hard into the queen's body. Scota felt her flesh tearing under the weapon. With strained breath she gasped a vain cry for help. No one answered. No warrior came to her aid.

  “Where are my sons?” she begged.

  Already the world about her was darkening. Her vision was fading away with each breath.

  “Your boys have won a great victory,” Riona assured her.

  “The struggle is ended?” the dying queen asked.

  “It is ended.”

  Then Scota, Queen of the Gaels, prepared to surrender her spirit. The smell of battle and blood was all about her. Smoke caught in her throat.

  “Mother?” a familiar voice begged.

  Scota did not have the energy to open her eyes but she knew it was Míl's youngest son who cradled her head in his arms.

  “Eber,” she whispered. “Don't leave me.”

  These three words spent the last of her strength. Then the queen's soul departed and Scota was at peace.

  Gentle lapping waves washed against the side of the ship. It was a lulling and beautiful sound, the kind of soft music Poets speak of. It was like the soothing voice of a lover. The vessel's slow, almost unnoticeable rocking had a calming effect on all her passengers. Even the three men who were gathered around Scota's bed waiting for her to wake.

  “I heard her cry out in the middle of the night,” the youngest stated. “I came to comfort her but she was talking nonsense again. Something about the struggle being ended. She begged me to stay at her side.”

  His dark brown hair was braided carefully into long strands which were secured behind the crown of his head. As a gesture of frustration he loosed them and the plaits fell about his shoulders.

  “Three times this month the sickness has come upon her,” he went on. “And on each occasion she's fallen deathly ill afterward. When she could speak all she talked about was this land across the ocean where she says our people will find peace. My brothers, I am worried for her.”

  The eldest of the three nodded sympathetically. “I understand your concern, Eber,” Amergin said softly, running his hand through his graying brown beard.

  “She's dying, isn't she?” the last of the three inquired, voicing the thought that had been haunting Eber.

  “No, Éremon,” Amergin stated confidently, smiling at his fair-haired brother. “She's suffering. But she'll not die yet. It's not her time.”

  “The visions are driving her to distraction,” Eber cut in. “If this goes on she'll surely not survive the winter. You're a Poet, Amergin. You've knowledge of such matters. What's causing these dreams?”

  “Our father's death was a contributing factor. Mother has taken on all the responsibilities of kingship and this burden has been hard to bear. She's ruled wisely while twelve winters passed by. And she's had to put aside her own grief for the good of her people.”

  “She's no longer fit to rule,” Éremon declared. His blue eyes flashed as he gave voice to a view he had long suppressed. “One of us should assume the kingship.”

  “It's too early to say that!” the Poet snapped. “And it's not for one such as yourself to make such statements publicly. You may be the son of Míl but so are Eber and myself. Don't be too hasty in your wish to walk in our father's shoes. You may find they blister your feet.”

  Éremon stood up. “Amergin,” he stated coldly, “you and I are sons of Míl by Scota. Eber may resemble her in many ways but he is only our half-brother. His mother's family are not of noble birth. He'll never be considered for the kingship.”

  Eber looked away and bit his tongue. He knew it was best to stay silent when Éremon was in this mood.

  “I may be a Druid,” the Poet replied, “but I'm just as entitled to rule as you are. Have you forgotten it is the responsibility of the Druid Council of the Northern Iber to decide this matter? You're a fine warrior but it will take more than a well-meaning strongman to save our people from the coming troubles and strife.”

  “I'm going to fetch some mead,” Éremon spat as if he had heard nothing his older brother had said. “My views are obviously not welcome here.”

  “Bring some meat with you when you return. And some wine,” Amergin told him, ignoring his brother's fit of pique. “Mother will need to take food when she wakes.”

  Éremon grunted in reply as he climbed a ladder up to the ship's deck and was gone.

  “Don't take anything he says to heart, ”Amergin advised his younger brother after Éremon had gone.

  “She's always treated me as if I were her own,” Eber protested. “My birth marked the passing of my natural mother from this life. Scota took her place long ago.”

  “You've been a better son to her than some,” the Poet nodded, touching the young warrior on the shoulder in reassurance.

  “What has she told you of these dreams?” Eber whispered.

  “She reckons the spirits of that place sing to her in her sleep.”

  “I believe her,” the younger man breathed as he brushed his fingers tenderly through Scota's hair.

  “And I believe her dreams are true visions of the future, of all that will be.”

  As Amergin spoke the woman under the bedcovers began to stir from her long sleep.

  “Mother?” Eber whispered as he cradled her head gently in his arms. “Are you awake?”

  She opened her eyes and stared up at her son. “Water,” she wheezed painfully through a dry throat.

  Amergin was already handing a cupful to his brother. Eber placed the vessel carefully to Scota's lips. She drank deep before she lay back again to breathe peacefully. But when Scota had rested for a few short breaths her eyes shot open again. And she stared directly at her eldest son, the Poet.

  “How's the breeze?” she demanded.

  “Nothing to speak of,” he replied. “We're still becalmed and sitting beyond the ninth wave as we agreed.”

  “I don't trust those natives,” she hissed. “They're setting a trap for us. I can smell it.”

  “Rest now,” Eber soothed. “We'll talk of these matters when you're well again.”

  “Have you witnessed more of the future in your dreams?” Amergin asked.

  “I have,” she affirmed. “Each vision is clearer than the last. And with every one I'm granted a new glimpse of the days to come.”

  “You must rest,” her youngest son insisted. “The grief of our father's death has not washed from you yet.” Eber placed a firm hand on his mother's shoulder but she shrugged it away.

  “What do you know of my grief?” she retorted and immediately regretted the sharpness of her tone.

  Eber grabbed her hand but she shook his grip until he let go.

  “I am Scota, Queen of the Gaels,” she declared sternly. “I'm not an invalid.”

  “Yes, Mother,” the young man replied, bowing his head.

  “Is it morning?” she asked.

  “It is,” Eber replied. “Three hours after the dawn.”

  “I must prepare to meet with one of the daughters of Eriu,” Scota stated. “And she'll not wait for me.”

  “Is that the name of this land?” Eber asked. “Eriu?”

  “The natives call it Innisfail,” she told him.

  “That's a word from the old language of our ancestors,” Amergin breathed. “It means the Island of Destiny. It will truly be the island of our destiny.”

  The queen frowned as she touched a hand to her cheek. When she examined her fingers she was relieved to find they did not run red. “I dreamed I was a girl again,” she sighed, staring off into a dark corner. “I imagined I was a young warrior with strength and vigor in my arms. But in truth I'm old. My days
are nearing their end and my people have no home.”

  Then Scota looked her youngest son squarely in the eyes. “Eber,” she said softly. “I don't want you arguing with your brother Éremon over the kingship after I'm gone. I have a solution to the problem which will satisfy everyone.”

  “What?” Amergin inquired.

  “Eber will be King of the South. And Éremon will be King of the North.”

  “And what of me?” the Poet cut in.

  “You'll be adviser to both,” the queen replied. “And you'll be honored as an equal by them.”

  “Éremon will object,” Eber noted. “He wishes to be king over all the Gaedhals.”

  “We'll leave him to conquer the northern parts of the island,” Scota decided. “If he's kept busy he won't have time to argue. For now Amergin will act as his counselor and I will take the role of your teacher, Eber. Fear not. I'll guide you well. For my spirit has already walked the hills of Innisfail. I know the nature of its people. My own destiny is to one day die on a hillside there in a beautiful place shrouded by a misty fall of rain.”

  “Don't talk of your own death, Mother,” the Poet advised gently. “You've many seasons yet amongst us.”

  “Can't you see how old I've become?” She smiled. “I've worked myself to exhaustion with the duties of a queen.” Scota dragged herself up off the bed and swung her feet down onto the floor. Then she took Amergin's hand. “We must prepare now for the future,” she sighed. “I'll be gone soon enough and then you'll be left to carry on without me.”

  “You have many seasons ahead of you, ”Amergin insisted. “It's dangerous to interpret a vision without training in the art of the Seer.”

  The queen laughed at her eldest son, surprised that one who had spent so much time studying the ways of wisdom could be so blind to the truth.

  “In the land of Eriu I'll reclaim my youth,” Scota told him. “I'll dance again like I did as a girl. And you, Eber, will be by my side.”

  Chapter 12

  IT WAS JUST COMING TO LATE AFTERNOON WHEN LOCHIE the Watcher stuck his head in through the door of the king's hut. In a mischievous mood he had taken on his old comfortable form, all bald head, gnarled fingers and glowing eyes. It amused him to observe the reactions of mortals to this shape.

  Aoife stirred from her troubled sleep, thinking a bad dream had woken her. Then she noticed a shadow in the doorway.

  “Who are you?” she gasped, surprised at the dryness in her throat.

  There was a faint scent of lavender in the air. The fragrance was so pure and clean the sweetness of it seemed to cling to her lungs.

  “I am a friend,” came the reply.

  The young woman started to rise in panic when she didn't recognize the voice.

  “Would you like some water?” the Watcher asked her softly.

  Aoife was so touched by the gentleness of his tone she immediately relaxed. With a loud sigh she lay back among the bedclothes, surprised at her own skittishness. This fellow must be a healer or a Druid come to check on her.

  “Yes, please. Some water.”

  “I'll fetch you some.

  Lochie departed. Shortly he returned with a skin full of cool spring water. He helped the young woman sit up so she could drink deeply from the neck of the vessel. When the dryness in her throat was at last abated she hummed to let him know she'd had enough.

  “Are you a Druid?” the young woman asked, noticing the dark cloak he wore.

  “Yes. That's what I am,” the Watcher replied as if he had just realized it himself.

  Lochie shoved the cork into the neck of the skin and placed the vessel down beside the furs. “Now you'll have water whenever you wish it. It's here by the bed.”

  “I wish only for sleep,” Aoife whispered. “If I could rest peacefully I'd be content.”

  “You shall have your wish,” the Watcher promised and his eyes lit with a passion he hadn't felt in generations.

  “If only you could grant it,” the young woman replied in despair. “But I have a heavy heart that won't release me from a weight of guilt.”

  Lochie closed his eyes to savor the moment. A wish freely asked, he told himself, was the sweetest favor a mortal could bestow. From the simplest desires a thousand fears could blossom. And fear was nourishment for the Watcher kind.

  “I assure you I can grant you whatever you hope for,” he told her softly.

  With those words Aoife closed her eyes and fell into a sound, healing sleep. Lochie smiled then leaned closer to her face so he could observe her.

  “You're a pretty one, aren't you, my dear girl?” he whispered. “I wonder what it'd take to convince you to wed young Mahon? What dreams shall I send you? Would you like to imagine the lad saving you from a band of renegade Gaedhals?” The Watcher reached out a finger to stroke her cheek tenderly. “Or would you like to dream of him building you a house? Or the faces of your unborn children? Or would you like some more dancing?”

  Suddenly Lochie froze, every sense on alert.

  “Is she sleeping?” a deep confident voice inquired quietly.

  The Watcher spun around. Before him stood King Brocan, frowning to see a stranger tending his daughter.

  “Who are you?” Brocan demanded. “What are you doing in my hut?”

  Lochie took three slow measured steps toward the king. And as the Watcher glided forward his face passed through the firelight and miraculously changed before Brocan's eyes. Where there had been what seemed to be hairless skin on top of his head there were now short cropped black strands. And where there had appeared to have been a strange glow there were now two moist gentle eyes peering back full of compassion.

  “I am Lochie,” he declared in a firm, clear voice. Brocan squinted and suddenly the man was no longer a stranger. “So you are,” the king exclaimed, still not quite believing what he saw. “It must have been the shadows that confused me.”

  “Indeed.”

  Brocan swallowed hard. An urgent desire to turn and run came over him. Then, just as abruptly, the sensation disappeared and he breathed easily again. In moments he was laughing at his own foolishness.

  The Bard touched the king's arm to reassure him. Then he laughed too, convivially sharing Brocan's embarrassment.

  “I've been a warrior too long,” the king confided, slapping the Bard on the back. “I see enemies behind every bush and traitors at every table. I'm too old for this.”

  “You mustn't imagine your work is done!” the Bard retorted in alarm. “You've only just begun the long journey of your life.”

  “I'm forty-eight summers on this earth,” the king said solemnly. “All my childhood friends are gone except for Fergus. I've lived beyond the span of seasons allocated to most warriors.”

  “That doesn't give you good cause for regret,” the Druid pointed out.

  “I was defeated today in both war and diplomacy,” Brocan noted bitterly. “Perhaps the days of my leadership are done.”

  “But the trials of your kingship have just begun,” Lochie confided in a low voice. “Dalan bears tidings of invaders from over the sea, but their quarrel is with the Danaans. They'll not venture to the west where the land is near barren. The Brehon has come to ensure your alliance with King Cecht, but it's a Danaan trick.”

  “Dalan is a Fir-Bolg,” Brocan scoffed. “He wouldn't betray his own people.”

  “He is one of our people by birth,” Lochie whispered. “But he's a Danaan by habit, as most Druids tend to be in these times. It's safer to accept the dominance of the old enemy than to openly oppose it.”

  “What are you saying?” Brocan demanded, hardly believing his ears.

  “You're the last independent king of the Fir-Bolg. Even King Lianan of the Cairige pays tribute to the Danaans and accepts their overlordship.”

  “It's true,” Brocan sighed. “No one has the will to resist them any longer. Their ways are intoxicating to our folk.”

  “Many still resist their charms, even if they don't do so openly. In the comp
any of the Druids there are some, myself and my wife Isleen among them, who'll never bow down to the Danaans. And as long as our people have kings such as yourself, we retain strong hopes that Innisfail, the ancient homeland, will be ours to rule again.”

  “Yes,” the king muttered, overwhelmed that in this darkest of hours there were others who understood his concerns. Perhaps, he told himself, there was hope for his people and his dignity.

  “Hope,” Lochie echoed and Brocan was startled that the Bard seemed to have heard his thoughts.

  “You are our hope,” the Bard whispered in a soft warm tone. “Don't ever give in. Placate the Danaans, yes. Accept their hard judgments against you, certainly. But most of all be patient. The day will come when the Fir-Bolg rise again. You must never endanger that prospect by foolishly entering into an alliance.”

  “Thank you, Bard,” Brocan said quietly.

  “Remember, my lord,” Lochie added as he moved toward the door, “you may call on my advice at any time of the day or night. I'll serve you faithfully. For you serve our people.”

  With that the Bard bowed his head, put a hand to his breast, and left the king alone in the firelight to decide his next move.

  Dalan, wrapped in his Raven-feather cloak, sat on the Victory Stone as the sky began to darken. No one disturbed him. Danaan and Fir-Bolg alike recognized he was searching for the inspiration to pass a judgment. Such responsibilities were left to the Brehons because they were trained to walk the roads of the Otherworld and the paths of the legends, where all questions could be answered.

  In seeking a solution to this difficult matter Dalan knew he would have to draw on all his internal strength, to enter a state of being where the material world and its trials became simple matters easily resolved. The first step to that stillness was a condition often likened to hibernation. Once achieved the senses lost importance, overruled by the imagination. And if approached with care, the beings who served the races of the earth as guides from the beyond were said to give freely of their advice.