The Meeting of the Waters

by Caiseal Mor

  “You are trying to convince me that Mahon and Aoife would make a good match.”

  Cecht coughed and Riona squinted to show she was thinking carefully about her next words.

  “Don't you think they would be a good match?” the queen inquired.

  “Of course they would!” the king grumbled. “That's not the point. You could have simply asked me my opinion.”

  “I might have done. What do they have to say about it?”

  “They have not had a chance to think about it!” Riona snapped. “They certainly haven't had an opportunity to discuss it.”

  “Leave them alone, you interfering old nose,” Brocan replied. “Let them make up their own minds about it in their own time.”

  “Then we'll still be here waiting for their word when the snow comes again,” the queen sighed.

  “What is the rush? You weren't that set on me that it couldn't wait till winter.”

  “I was a queen in my own right then,” she reminded him. “You were still a warrior chieftain with high hopes. You are king because of me. Because my children were descended from the Fir-Bolg royal clans of old. And because my mother is Eriu.”

  “I am king because I was elected to the post by my fellow chieftains,” Brocan spat, finally losing his temper. “But this is not the place for such quarrels,” he added, hoping Cecht and Dalan were not offended.

  The chieftains of the Fir-Bolg and their kin were already filling the hall by this time. Brocan called on them all to take their places around the fire. Then he called for the mead barrel.

  “I would dearly love to hear a tale of the old days,” Riona sighed, turning to the Brehon. “A tale of my ancestors.”

  “A story of betrayal, love and strength of purpose,” Cecht added.

  “A song to put away the fears of the world,” Aoife cut in. “A poem to banish despair. A tale to end sorrow.”

  “You're learning very well, my friend,” Dalan told her. “Soon enough you'll be ready to take your blue robes.”

  Mead was brought for the company in great earthenware jars, and wooden cups were distributed. Then the Danaan king ordered a box to be opened. Within were tightly packed many silver spoons for the broth. These wide flat eating utensils were little more than scoops for picking out pieces of meat from the soup, but they were ornately decorated. The spoon Aoife received was etched with spirals and zigzags in the same patterns worn by the Danaan warriors in battle.

  King Cecht stood when the spoons had been distributed. “This is my gift of peace to the people of the Burren,” he began. “I hope whenever you sit down to your broth you will think of my folk with friendship.”

  There was a general chorus of approval as Cecht resumed his seat and King Brocan rose to reply.

  “Danaan and Fir-Bolg have been enemies since before our grandfathers were born,” he began. “Tonight we will once more mend the rift that has kept us apart for so long and strengthen our bond. Whatever the news may be that is coming to us, we will never again resort to war in order to settle our differences. And our children's children will know nothing of the fighting we have experienced all our lives.”

  Brocan sat down with his son Lom behind him as befitted the son of a king. Then Dalan took his turn to speak as a Brehon judge and told them all he knew of Balor and the failed alliance between the Fir-Bolg and Danaan of old.

  “We must not make the same mistakes,” the Brehon ended. “Balor was a clever manipulator but he could have been easily defeated if our folk had banded together.”

  “A timely tale,” Cecht congratulated Dalan. “For now the Milesians have replaced the Fomor as our deadly enemies and we must hold fast together against them.”

  “Indeed our peoples must unite without delay,” Dalan agreed. “If we don't put the past aside, the land of Innisfail will fall to the invader and our peoples will be destroyed.”

  “So that's what this is all about?” Brocan fumed. “This gathering was requested by the Druid Assembly. I was told Fineen was to bring news of the war. But in truth it's an elaborate plan to convince me to send my warriors off to fight in a conflict that has not even touched my folk.

  “Well, I will not fight an unnecessary war.”

  “You've given an assurance to aid the Danaans. Have you forgotten?” Dalan demanded.

  “I'll not send men and women of the Burren away to die for the sake of the Danaans!” the Fir-Bolg king said emphatically. “If the Danaan kingdoms are threatened by these invaders, that's their difficulty. The people of the Burren will not be involved and that is an end to the matter.”

  “And what will you do when the Milesians have defeated the Danaan armies and murdered the Druid Assembly?” Cecht asked.

  “We'll make a treaty with them.”

  “You don't know these folk,” the Danaan scoffed. “They delight in war. They sing songs of their brave youths who are reckless in battle and who kill for the sake of it.” Cecht sat forward to press home his next point. “In that at least you have a common thread.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The crime your children committed may have been adjudged by a Brehon,” Cecht spat, “and the breach of tradition punished, but the foal learns to kick from the stallion. Your children were taught the rules of conduct by their father and king.”

  “How dare you insult me in my own hall?” Brocan shouted. “The debt is being paid.”

  “I'm merely speaking what is on the minds of most folk,” the Danaan retorted.

  “Savage!” the Fir-Bolg yelled. “What would you know of honor? You who charges into battle naked and then calls your enemy uncivilized when you're beaten.”

  “My warriors were never beaten by the Fir-Bolg of the Burren.”

  “Bring me my sword!” Brocan bellowed. “We'll go outside and settle this forever. Cecht and I will fight to the death and then we'll see if you've never been defeated.”

  The Danaan king stood up and threw his cup down upon the floor. “Such is the niggardly hospitality of Brocan,” he said addressing the entire hall, “that he can't even wait until the broth comes around before he's goading his guests on to a fight.”

  “That's enough!” Dalan cried and his voice resounded through the king's hall. “The first one of you to move from your place will be under a Brehon interdict. And I'll advise the Druid Assembly to impose banishment on you both.”

  “This is my hall!” Brocan grunted. “And you're one of my own people. Would you stand with the enemy rather than the king of your kin?”

  “The real enemy is not the Danaans,” Dalan insisted. “The war between our folk should have ended before you and I were born. The real threat is from the Gaedhals. If we do not bury our past differences we will all be wiped away before the invaders like a bank of sand before the incoming tide.”

  “Dalan is right,” Riona declared. “I may be your wife and the Queen of the Fir-Bolg, but I'll not stand by you if you take up the old fight again. It's time for us to join with the Danaans for the sake of our own survival. I'll divorce you if you don't fulfill your obligations under the treaty.”

  “Even you have turned against me!” Brocan sighed.

  “I am not against you,” Riona assured him. “But I will not see Fir-Bolg lives wasted in a stupid fight that would still expose us to a Milesian attack. Do you really believe we could defeat the Danaans or the Gaedhals in open battle? You're lying to yourself if you do. We are not the great people we once were. We've become a little folk, petty and quarrelsome. Your warring has done that.”

  She waited to hear his protest. When there was none she went on. “The Danaans of north, east, and south could unite to annihilate us whenever they wish.”

  “It wouldn't be easy,” Brocan replied defiantly.

  “No other Fir-Bolg chieftain would stand with you,” Dalan told him. “They would side with the Danaans. The folk of King Cecht have been good to the other Fir-Bolg folk of the west. You would be isolated and vulnerable to attack from the Milesians.”

&
nbsp; “The Milesians won't come this far west.”

  “They're already here!” Cecht exclaimed. “One of their ships was seen in the Bay of Gaillimh and I myself saw the ruts one of their boats made in the sand. The war has come to you, Brocan, so you must join with me to rid the west of this menace. For the sake of your people's future.”

  “If my folk are swallowed up in the kingdoms of the Danaans they have no future. These Milesians are not the first invaders to have come to Innisfail, you know. The Danaans were considered the invaders once.”

  “You're speaking of a time that passed generations ago,” Dalan reminded him. “The world changes as surely as the seasons. Since the battle four seasons ago when you promised to uphold my judgment you have not aided the Danaans even once in their defense of the coast.”

  “I promised nothing,” Brocan protested. “It was my children who were judged, not me.”

  “He is the Bres of our age,” Cecht commented.

  “What do you mean?” Brocan shouted, his face bright red with rage. “Are you calling me a traitor?”

  “Yes.”

  “I made no pact formally binding me to fight your wars for you. How can I be called traitor?”

  “You are treacherous,” Riona cut in. “For you will not side with anyone until you have decided who offers the best advantage, Danaan or Milesian.”

  The cowhide flap to the king's hall was pulled aside as she spoke and two weary travelers bent low to enter the room. No one noticed the pair of latecomers and they did not intervene in the argument. They just stood silent and patient in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to announce themselves.

  “You must join with Cecht,” Dalan pressed. “You have no choice in the matter. Your people wish to live in peace. Only you have this notion that the old fight should continue.”

  “If this is the message the Druid Assembly would have me answer,” Brocan said with finality, “then Fineen is wasting his time in coming to the Burren. He might as well stay at home with his Danaan friends.”

  “I'm sorry to hear you say that,” a voice interrupted and all heads turned toward the door.

  “Fineen?” Dalan asked. “Is that you?”

  The healer stepped forward into the light. Sárán was beside him in an instant.

  “It is I,” the healer confirmed. “Fineen the healer, messenger of the Druid Assembly.”

  “How long have you been standing there?” Brocan asked suspiciously.

  “Long enough to understand there is some disagreement between yourself and Cecht,” Fineen answered carefully. “But not long enough to know the details of the dispute.”

  “I will tell you,” the Fir-Bolg king retorted. “I refuse to ally myself with the Danaans.”

  “That's it?” the healer inquired.

  “That is all there is to it.”

  “Will you do me the courtesy of listening to my message before you make up your mind?”

  “I have made my decision and I will not retreat from it.”

  “I will tell you my news in any case,” Fineen stated coldly, bristling at the manner in which he was being addressed. “If you will do me the honor of passing the Welcome Cup?”

  Brocan blushed. He was angry but there was no excuse for failing to observe the rituals of hospitality. “Forgive me, healer,” the king begged in a gentle tone. “I have allowed myself to become distraught.”

  “These are difficult times.” Fineen nodded. “I will forgive you when my thirst is quenched.”

  Brocan took the silver cup reserved for honored guests and dipped it in a mead jar. Then he handed the vessel to Fineen with a bow. The healer took a sip, enough to indicate that the ritual had been observed, and then passed it on to his student.

  “Welcome home, my son,” Riona said tenderly.

  “Thank you, Mother,” the young man replied with a shy smile.

  “Please take a seat by the fire,” Brocan offered, his voice calmer.

  “Thank you. I'll stand.”

  “Welcome, brother physician,” Dalan added. “Will you not take some food and drink before you perform your duties?”

  “There's no time for that,” Fineen declared. “It seems I've arrived just in time to avert a terrible disaster.”

  “Come by the fire and speak,” the Fir-Bolg king insisted.

  Fineen walked slowly to the fireside and was handed a wooden bowl of mead. He sipped at it for a moment. Everyone in the hall was perfectly silent as they waited, even though they were hungry and the broth filled the house with an enticing aroma.

  “I come from the Druid Assembly,” the healer began. But they all knew that and so the hall was full of blank expressions. “I bring news and a message. I will tell you the news of the war first.” He took a long draught of mead and then put the cup down by the fire to warm. “The Milesians are skilled warriors, and they have renowned Bards and Brehons among them. You are all aware that the wisest and most skilled of our own Druid musicians failed in their attempt to raise a mighty storm against the Milesian ships.”

  Fineen paused to look from Brocan to Cecht. “At first we all thought the spell had gone out of control and destroyed the harpers in its unimaginable ferocity. We now know what turned the tempest-making around. It was a song. And it was sung by Amergin, the Chief Bard of the Milesians.”

  The listeners gasped, unable to suppress their shock.

  The healer cleared his throat. “It took great skill for the Danaan Druids to raise their storm against the Milesian ships. The power of their music rang long after through the whole land as the tale passed from mouth to ear at countless firesides,” Fineen told them.

  Now he was chanting in the fashion of the ancient storytellers who lived in the days before the Danaans came to Innisfail. And to all who listened it was as if he had stepped out from those days when the Isles of the West still sat above the ocean waves.

  “Amergin is a rare Druid. And he proves the Milesians are truly an honorable race. When I met him he was very polite and agreeable, even though he carried hard word from his brother Éremon, their chieftain. His ultimatum, as you know, was simple: the Danaans, the Fir-Bolg and all the other smaller peoples of Innisfail were to relinquish the island to his folk or face war.

  “The renowned Poet granted a turning of the moon for the three Danaan kings and the council of the Fir-Bolg to decide whether or not they would defend Innisfail. The Druid Assembly of the Tuatha De Danaan used this time to prepare the Music of the Tempest. As the Milesian fleet approached the shore a massive storm, conjured by the harpers, swept down upon them.”

  Fineen put out his hand for another cup of mead and no one so much as made a sound while they waited for him to continue. They had all heard parts of this tale from travelers and other wandering Bards, but Fineen was the first of such skill to know the whole story, past to present.

  When he had taken a drink the healer coughed to indicate he was ready to continue. Then he launched into the tale afresh. “But the storm our harpers conjured was too violent. It soon became unpredictable and blew in toward the coast. The Druids who had created it were swept away in its brutality as it passed to the north. Amergin's song had added just enough weight to the tempest to make it unmanageable. When the storm was gone, most of the Milesian ships remained afloat and in good condition.

  “The invaders landed soon after and the island of Innisfail sank into a war that has lasted an entire turning of the cycle of the seasons. The Gaedhals have had the upper hand from the beginning. Their weapons are superior. They do not have to worry about planting crops or seeing to herds, they feed themselves by plunder.

  “And they are able to move on quickly when they have exhausted the pickings. Our warriors rarely arrive in time to catch them for we have no ships. Four seasons have passed of this conflict. Many fields have not been planted because the people are war-weakened. Cattle are left to wander and mills allowed to fall into disrepair. The Danaans and the Fir-Bolg are edging day by day into famine.”

&
nbsp; “What has this to do with me?” Brocan cut in, though he knew it was extremely impolite to interrupt.

  “There are reports the Milesians have sent a fleet to the west,” Fineen told him.

  “I can confirm it,” Cecht asserted.

  “Then I fear we may already be on the brink of war in this part of the island,” the healer said solemnly. “Do not underestimate the fighting prowess of the invaders. They do not fight pitched battles. Their tactic is to raid for food and livestock, to take hostages for ransom and to destroy as many of our fishing boats as possible.”

  “They'll not come here,” the Fir-Bolg king retorted. “I have no quarrel with them.”

  “The Milesians do have a quarrel with you.” Fineen smiled, impressed at Brocan's stubbornness. “And they will bring it here soon enough. The Circle of Seers convened last Samhain. And they have witnessed the future.”

  “What did they see?” Dalan asked excitedly.

  “The Gaedhals will win this land from us. There's no doubt. And the time is not far off.”

  “I don't believe you,” Brocan scoffed. “The Seers are mistaken.”

  “The Seers are never mistaken. Misguided sometimes but never mistaken. The Gaedhals have set their sights on this country and they will take it. Nothing is more certain. We can't stand against them. Your band of warriors, Brocan, won't be able to hold them at bay.”

  “We'll not fight.”

  “The future has been foretold.” The healer shrugged. “So we must prepare for the great change which will soon overtake us all.”

  “It's hopeless then,” Cecht sighed in defeat. “We might as well give in now and save ourselves any more bloodshed.”

  “We need not be so hasty in giving up hope.”

  “Is there a way to defeat them?” Cecht asked.

  “We were presented with several courses of action which could,” Fineen replied. “The Druid Assembly has discussed them all and I will relate to you their conclusions.”

  Brocan sat back, stretched his feet to the fire and frowned. He was unmoved by all this talk and quietly outraged by Riona's threat of divorce.

  “We could raise a war band and force the Milesians into a fair fight,” the healer began. “But we cannot stand against their weapons. And we have no ships, so it's very difficult to transport our warriors quickly from one place to another. And the Seers assured the Druid Assembly all such efforts would be in vain. Indeed, if we go to war with a mind to win, we'll be scattered to the four winds.”