The Meeting of the Waters

by Caiseal Mor

  “I will not abandon my land to the invaders!” Brocan shouted defiantly.

  “You will not have to,” Dalan explained. “The Otherworld is not separate from this world. The two are intricately linked. Our new home exists in the realm beyond the doorway. At the same time Dun Burren will remain here on this side of the door. Our folk will be able to cross back and forth as they wish. But the Milesians will not be able to cross over into the Otherworld unless we allow it.”

  “I will not be a party to this,” the king stated. “I sense Danaan trickery in this tactic.”

  “It may be the only way to retrieve our cows and keep off hunger come the winter.”

  “There is no honor in this action.”

  “You must join the alliance or risk that your chieftains will take part without you.”

  “Let the chieftains go.”

  “If they go you will no longer be King of the Fir-Bolg of the Burren.”

  “It seems to me that will be the outcome no matter which choice I make,” Brocan noted wryly. “So I will take the decision which costs me the least affront.”

  “Your presence and that of your clanhold are essential if we are to make a good impression on the enemy,” Dalan reasoned.

  “A good impression? I do not go into battle to make a good impression. I go to defeat my enemies and end their threat.”

  “A Fir-Bolg presence without you and your immediate kinfolk would tip the scales too far in favor of the Gaedhals,” the Brehon pressed. “Without you we will not be able to hold our ground for long enough.”

  “Sixty warriors will stand by me,” the Fir-Bolg king countered with venom. “If that robs your force of warriors I cannot be held responsible.”

  “Do you think by ignoring the invaders they will simply go away?” the Brehon scoffed, unable to believe Brocan's stubbornness in the face of his people's opinion. “Beware, there is an opportunity in that assertion for the composition of a very eloquent satire on the duties of a king.”

  “Do not threaten me with satire!” Brocan warned. “I don't fear your poetic tricks. Say what you will. I care not. But when you have lost your land and your hope to these foreigners, remember it was because you danced merrily to their tune.”

  Dalan smiled and nodded, acknowledging the king was quoting the Druid's own earlier words.

  “I lift my feet to the melody of my own choosing,” Brocan declared.

  “Very well then.” Dalan hardened his tone. “I had hoped it would not come to this.” He took a deep breath and glanced at Fineen to make sure the healer was still supporting him. When his brother Druid shrugged and rolled his eyes, Dalan went on. “Is there anything that could persuade you to take the field?”

  Brocan breathed out heavily. At last he seemed to be getting the upper hand in this negotiation. But outwardly he still regarded the Brehon with suspicion. “What do you mean?”

  “Is there any price you would put on the lives of your warriors in battle?” Dalan pressed. “To put it another way, what would it take to convince you to aid the Danaans and all the people of Innisfail in their time of need?”

  The king tried to hide his joy. One moment his kingship had seemed to be at an end, the next the Brehon had offered him a wonderful gift which would win his people back to him.

  “Remission,” Brocan replied sharply and without hesitation. “An unconditional remission of the verdicts placed upon us without shame to my people or to myself. Nothing short of the annulment of your judgment of a fine against us for Fearna's death will convince me to take part in this adventure.”

  There was a collective gasp from the gathering. Some of the chieftains openly praised Brocan's wisdom at holding out for this valuable concession, but most were as surprised as Brocan by this turn of events.

  Dalan cast his eyes to the ground in defeat.

  Brocan observed the look and read it as unfavorable. “I will consider nothing less,” the Fir-Bolg king reinforced. “The debt must be wiped out, now and forever.”

  Dalan sighed as he raised his eyes to meet Brocan's. When the Brehon spoke his voice was uncharacteristically subdued. “That is quite a concession you are asking the Danaans and the Druid Assembly to make. Is that the only way I can ensure your participation?”

  “If the Brehon judges can approve such a remission I will recommend to the chieftains of my people that we form an alliance with the Danaans.”

  “And what of the Druid Assembly's plan to open the doors to the Otherworld?”

  “I will put that to the chieftains in a separate council.”

  “Very well,” Dalan said quietly and without emotion. Then he dipped his cup into the mead pot and went back to his seat. No one uttered a sound as the Brehon sipped his liquor.

  Brocan frowned, not understanding what Dalan meant. “You don't have the authority to make such a decision alone,” the king protested.

  “I am authorized by the Druid Assembly to offer whatever concessions are necessary to gain your support.”

  “You will truly reverse the judgment?”

  Dalan got to his feet again as he drained the cup to refresh his voice. “From this moment your debt is annulled. Any cattle already delivered to Cecht remain his property but there will be no more payments. As long as you honor a treaty with the Tuatha De Danaan and fight in this battle against the Milesians with all your warriors, my judgment is reversed.”

  The Fir-Bolg king smiled. Then as the full meaning of the Brehon's words hit him, he began to laugh. But suddenly a thought crossed his mind. He did not want it said he had sold the services of his warriors to another king.

  “I must consider the situation more carefully before I hasten to give my word on it,” Brocan muttered.

  “You will be well paid for your skills as a warrior,” Danal cut in. And then he turned to face the crowd still listening intently. “King Brocan of the Fir-Bolg of the Burren has agreed to a treaty with the Danaan,” the Brehon began. “He will supply warriors for an expedition to fight the Milesians. And in return for their loyalty his people will be freed of their debt to King Cecht. This is my judgment.”

  “The Fir-Bolg are now mercenaries,” Fergus cried out in disgust. Everyone turned to look at him as he removed his cloak and laid it in the midst of the fire. Then he took his leather boots and threw them in to burn as well. The veteran kept nothing but his roughly stitched woolen trousers.

  Then the veteran spoke and his voice was weary, angry and cold. “Fergus watched his house and the hall of his king burn down last night. He saw his kinfolk run for their lives. But Fergus is not a mercenary. Fergus will not accept a Danaan king as his overlord. The Fir-Bolg may well lose sovereignty over their land if this treaty is made. The Danaans will become our rulers. I would rather pay the heavy fine to the Tuatha De Danaan, stay out of this fight with the Milesians and see my folk retain their freedom. In fact I would prefer to deal with the Gaedhals than with Cecht's people.”

  With that the veteran pushed his way past the seated folk and vanished into the night.

  Brocan was visibly shaken. He had grown up with Fergus and he understood that frustration had brought this proud warrior to say such things, yet he was shocked his brother would so openly stand against his decision. Nevertheless, he forgave his foster-brother without a moment's hesitation.

  Brocan was silent for a long while as voices were raised around him, some in favor of the deal, some bitterly opposed. In the end the king knew the best path to take would be to secure an annulment of the debt and then see what the future held. With luck, he told himself, there might not be any need to go to war.

  “I have made up my mind,” he said at last. “Since our cattle are gone I must think of the future. The debt will be wiped out so the burden on our kinfolk will be eased. We may even retrieve our cows before this adventure is concluded.”

  Then he took a mouthful of mead, readying himself to give the orders.

  “Tonight I will send scouts to bring in as many of our warriors as possibl
e from outlying duns and forts. They will meet our main force at Sliabh Mis. I and my warriors march at sunrise for the south. If we arrive early our people will be well rested in time for the fight.”

  No one dared to speak up against him. Everyone was glad this was not their decision to make.

  “I want twenty warriors who are willing to accompany me to the battleground. We will assemble after first light. Now everyone go to bed. There is much to be done in the morning and we all need our rest.”

  No one moved.

  “Now!” he ordered.

  Suddenly the courtyard was alive with movement as folk found places to rest for the night or gathered their closest kin about them. Brocan wrapped his cloak tightly around his body to keep out the cold air coming up from the bay. Then he called for the chieftains and the fastest scouts.

  Dalan pulled the hood of his own cloak over his eyes and went to the fire to lie down. Fineen touched his comrade's shoulder to congratulate him but the Brehon's eyes were already shut tight. At last Aoife managed to push her way through the crowd to his side. She shook Dalan lightly as she spoke, surprised he seemed to be resting so soundly.

  “What do we do now?” she asked.

  “Sleep,” the Brehon told her. “Tomorrow you and I have a long journey ahead of us.”

  Chapter 19

  BY THE TIME SÁRÁN FINISHED CLEANING HIS TEACHER'S herb bowls at the spring it was well after midnight. The water skins were full and all the silver measuring cups packed away in their leather case when he rose to return to the hillfort.

  The young novice had shouldered Fineen's bag and was preparing to climb the hill when he noticed the tiny orange glow of a fire on the other side of the valley. He knew he should be getting back to the hillfort to sleep but his curiosity was aroused. Carefully he stowed the bag and the water skins by the holly tree which grew by the spring. Then he made his way off toward the tempting light.

  If they were Milesians, he decided, they would surely not harm him. Aoife's treatment had shown they respected the Druid kind, even novices such as himself. Any of his own people would all be within the fortress of Dun Burren, even though the breached walls offered little protection. Still he walked mindfully on, making as little noise as possible. The ground on this side of the fort was rocky and difficult to cross under moonlight, so it was some time before the young man came close to the fire.

  To be sure he was not putting himself in danger Sárán sat back behind a large boulder to survey the scene. Before him was a perfectly constructed fire, small but burning brightly. It was well provided with a stack of kindling and a store of fuel. A few steps from the fire, lit by the flickering flames and laid out on a piece of dark cloth, was the body of a cleanly plucked gosling. The bird had been pierced by a long bronze skewer. It now waited to be roasted over the flames.

  “Will you sit there among the rocks all night?” a woman's voice called and suddenly a figure appeared in the firelight.

  It was Isleen.

  “Come and share this feast with me, young Sárán,” she offered. “While it roasts we will talk.”

  The young man stood up, feeling rather stupid at having concealed himself so poorly.

  “If I had been a Gaedhal,” she laughed, “I would have set out to hunt you when I heard you clambering over the rocks.”

  “I thought I was making very little noise,” Sárán replied good-naturedly, accepting the gentle ridicule as he walked over to the fire.

  Isleen placed the cleaned bird high over the flames so it would roast evenly then searched around in her pack until she found a leather flask.

  “Let's have a drink to keep out the cold,” she offered, passing the bottle to the young man.

  “I am warm enough,” he protested but even as he spoke the air seemed to take on a chilly bite.

  “Drink,” the woman told him firmly and Sárán took the flask without any further hesitation.

  “What are you doing here so far from the hillfort?” the novice asked her after he had swallowed a gulp of mead. “What happened to you last night? And where is your husband?”

  “He's probably off with Dalan talking of the troubles that have beset us all. Those two must think they are young again. And like young men I'm sure they believe they can solve the world's woes,” she replied. “I came out here for some peace after the excitement of the last day and night.”

  “Are you not concerned there may be Milesians about?”

  “Sit down, Sárán, and warm yourself. You know as well as I do that the invaders have sailed south to make preparations for their battle-challenge. Considering everyone will be traveling toward Sliabh Mis in the morning, this may be the last chance I have to be alone with my thoughts. But I don't really mind that you have come to talk with me. I'm sure there is much to be said between us.”

  “You haven't answered my question,” he pressed as he took a seat by the fire.

  “I made my way down to the sea when I escaped from the hall,” she explained. “What happened to you?”

  “My brother found me.”

  The aroma of the roasting bird filled his senses so completely he was distracted by it. The next thing he knew his mouth was watering and he was staring at the slowly cooking food.

  “Have you eaten since last night?” Isleen inquired warmly.

  “I've been working alongside Fineen for most of the day. There was so much to do, and since he did not stop to eat I considered it best that I fast also.”

  “Fasting has its place,” the woman told him sternly. “If you are seeking inspiration through dreams, if you wish to discover your limits, or if there is simply not enough food to go around, then it is a helpful practice. But if you are tending to the wounded and the sick you must keep up your strength. If you do not you will fall ill yourself.”

  Sárán nodded politely to acknowledge the advice.

  “If I am to be your teacher you must take my words very seriously. You must never hesitate to do as I bid you,” she added.

  “Fineen is my teacher,” the young man protested. “I am bound to him in payment of my fine.”

  “Did he not tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “You are to travel under my tuition for a while,” Isleen informed him. “It's all been arranged. I thought that's why you sought me out at my fire.”

  “I honestly had no idea,” Sárán replied, shaking his head. “When was this arranged?”

  “Two moons ago. Bless him but Fineen is quite forgetful sometimes.” She smiled. “Have you got all your things together?”

  “No.”

  “That's too bad.” She frowned. “For as soon as we have eaten we are off to find the Milesians. You won't have time to go back to the hillfort now.”

  “I left Fineen's bags of herbs and the water skins by the spring.”

  “They'll be safe there until morning. Someone will retrieve them.”

  “It'll only take me a little while to take them back to the fort and say my farewells.”

  “We are about to set out on a long journey,” Isleen said sternly. “You have already told me you have not eaten for some time. There will be precious little chance to cook a decent meal once we are on the road. You will stay here and eat with me,” she demanded. “And you will rest a short while before we set out.”

  “Let me go bid farewell to Fineen.”

  “No. You must become accustomed to accepting orders from your betters.”

  Sárán's shoulders slumped in disappointment. “I wish he had told me of this plan,” the young man muttered.

  “Don't look so dejected.” Isleen smiled, passing him the leather mead flask again. “You never know what you might learn from me. Perhaps you'll even enjoy yourself. You'll certainly gain the knowledge you need to one day become a High Druid.”

  “I would rather speak with my teacher, even if it's very briefly.”

  “You'll see him at the field of contest at Sliabh Mis,” she soothed. “You have the Quicken berries, don't yo
u?”

  Sárán frowned.

  “How did you know that?”

  “Fineen told me to guard both you and your precious berries well,” Isleen explained. “And so I shall. Now we must rest.”

  At Isleen's insistence they slept only a short while after they had eaten. Then they made final preparations for the journey. Three hours before the dawn, when all was perfectly quiet around the sacked hillfort of Dun Burren, the Seer and her newly acquired student slipped away to the south.

  By sunrise they were already coming to the edge of the rocky ground of the Burren. At midday, with Isleen setting the pace, they could see the mouth of the River Shannon in the distance. The Seer reckoned they'd reach water by nightfall.

  At the edge of a forest where the road plunged in among the trees they came to a wide but poorly maintained crossroads. Here Isleen called a brief halt by a standing stone which stood at the edge of a pool. The water fed out of a spring under the upright granite slab.

  The Seer leaned against the stone and muttered under her breath a string of words which Sárán could neither hear nor interpret. While she did that her student filled a leather mug with water.

  Isleen finished her strange prayer and turned around to look directly at her young companion. “In the ancient days this was a busy place,” she informed him. “Though the forest is encroaching on it now, this crossroads was a trading center where Fir-Bolg and Fomor came together to exchange news and barter for each other's goods.”

  “Were there Fomorians near here?”

  “Down that road to the west lies Dun Beg, the last stronghold of the followers of Balor. It's a dangerous path and one not to be traveled by the unwary. Lost souls wander there and the forest has an appetite for the well journeyed. Many folk go missing on this road.”