The Meeting of the Waters

by Caiseal Mor

  Then he was away up the hill headed for the forest, hard on his companions' heels.

  He soon caught up with Mahon and Aoife who had paused at a fork in the road.

  “Which path do we take?” the Danaan asked in confusion.

  The Brehon looked about and quickly realized Sárán could equally have chosen either direction. He summoned all his instincts, calmed his racing thoughts for a second, and then made a decision.

  “We'll take the right-hand path,” he told them and without another word they were off.

  It was not long before they came to the muddy stretch of road where Sárán had dived off into the woods for cover. They could still see his footprints in the deep sludge and it was obvious where he had gone.

  “We're too late,” Dalan sighed in despair. “He has gone where few folk would dare to tread and where I would not go if my life depended on it.”

  “Why do you say we are too late?” Aoife inquired hesitantly, dread in her heart for the answer.

  “Because the forest is haunted by the ghosts of the Fomorian sorcerers who died at the siege of Dun Beg. He is beyond our help now. The cauldron has been lost to the Milesians and the Quicken berries are gone with Sárán. We are too late.”

  “What shall we do?” Mahon asked.

  “Build a fire while there is still enough light to collect kindling,” the Brehon told him, “and then sit by it all night without straying for an instant. A good bright fire is our only hope of surviving the night to come.”

  “What about Sárán?” Aoife sobbed, seeing Dalan was ready to abandon her brother to the demons of the forest.

  “I will have to think very carefully about that question,” her teacher admitted. “Right now I have no idea what we should do, other than stay out of the forest and get a fire going to keep the spirits of the night at bay.”

  Brocan and his advance party of warriors arrived at the standing stone which marked the Dun Beg crossroads just as the sun went down. The king ordered the war party to halt for the night but Fineen intervened, giving him the same warning about the spring at the foot of the stone that Isleen had given to Sárán.

  “I would rather we did not stop at all,” Brocan admitted. “But the road passes through the Fomorian forests before too long and I would not risk traveling that part of the path by night.”

  “The woods are no more dangerous after sunset than they are during the day,” Fineen laughed. “I have heard tales of the most terrible events which took place here. Many of them bathed in the bright warm summer sunshine. Daylight does not keep evil at bay, though it may seem to.”

  Brocan gestured for the healer to keep his voice down. He did not want to make his warriors any more concerned than they already were.

  “Could we make it to the landing place at Deer Island before dawn?” he asked in a low voice.

  “I have traveled this road many times,” Fineen replied. “I guess we could expect to arrive there shortly after midnight if we did not stray from the road at all.”

  “Why would we stray from the path?”

  “The spirits entice folk into the woods with little temptations,” he whispered so that only the king could hear. “Those who answer the call are never seen again. The forest devours them. It takes them in and they become food for the trees as their bodies putrefy.”

  Brocan swallowed hard and then glanced at the healer. “How do you suggest we resist the temptations of these spirits?”

  “I haven't got the first inkling of an idea,” Fineen told him with a friendly hand on the shoulder. “I've never seen them.”

  The king narrowed his eyes, unsure whether the Druid was playing some sort of game with him.

  “Hadn't we better be on our way?” the healer asked, breaking the silence.

  “Yes,” Brocan agreed and then with a wave of his hand he sent the scouts out again. The remainder of the warriors waited a short while and then followed, marching on by moonlight, the path a silvery band of earth laid out before them.

  At length they came to the edges of the forests. Here the trees which had flanked their eastern side joined with another wood on the west. And the tops of the trees seemed to have intertwined their branches overhead to form a natural roof.

  Fineen approached the king before they marched on and spoke a few words to him. Brocan held his hand up, calling the war party to a halt.

  “We could camp here until dawn if you prefer,” the healer told Brocan. “There is no safe place to stop after we enter the forest. Once we take the first step under that canopy we must go on until we reach the other side.”

  “We will march on to Deer Island tonight,” came the cold reply. “I am not afraid of the ghosts of a defeated people.”

  “I am,” Fineen retorted. “May I suggest that every second warrior light a torch?”

  “One or two torches will do to lead the column on,” Brocan declared. “I don't want to burn them up unnecessarily.”

  “My lord,” the healer cut in, “if you want to make it to Deer Island by dawn you will need at least thirty torches. The demons will not approach a fire. It is one of the only precautions you can take that may prevent or forestall an attack.”

  “You seem to know an awful lot about the demons of this place,” the king remarked with suspicion. “I thought you said you had never seen one?”

  “These beings cannot be seen, my lord,” Fineen said, eyes lit with a recollection of terror. “They find a way inside your thoughts. The world becomes a dream. They will croon to you and you will curse your ears for hearing their songs. They are not like us. I don't know anyone who can truthfully say their eyes have beheld the demons of Dun Beg. You will not see them.”

  Brocan was suddenly very uncomfortable. There was sweat trickling down his forehead. His hands were shaking.

  “I would not think any less of you,” the healer said at last, “and neither would anyone else, if you decided to wait here until sunrise.”

  The king would have agreed to this straightaway, yet something told him that if Fergus had found Sárán and they were somewhere within this forest, they would stand in need of assistance. Besides, he did not want to look weak in front of the warriors when his popularity had only just taken a turn for the better.

  “We will go on,” the king said with quiet decisiveness. “Everyone is to carry a lighted torch!” he ordered at the top of his voice.

  “If we must go, then let us be well lit,” Fineen sighed with acceptance.

  “If the Milesians see us they will wonder at this mysterious procession through the ancient forest in the middle of the night,” the king laughed.

  “We will be a fearful sight,” the healer agreed. “But not as fearful as what we are likely to encounter before dawn.”

  Tinderboxes were quickly brought out, resin-tipped torches set afire. Then the company of warriors from the hillfort of Dun Burren set off into the darkest, most frightening journey of their lives.

  Chapter 22

  IT WAS A LONG WHILE BEFORE SÁRÁN'S EYES ADJUSTED to the utter darkness of the woods. But all he glimpsed were confusing shadows, frightening shapes and the occasional scurried movement of some small creature.

  Despite this he managed to remain calm and quickly decided to keep moving to prevent the Milesians' stumbling over him in the dark. But he had to wonder whether they would have been so foolish as to dart into the trees as he had.

  He turned a full circle, searching desperately for any sign of light or life. But there was nothing to guide him in the eternal night of the forest. Then he realized that in turning around he had completely lost his bearings. Now not only was he blinded but he had no idea which direction he had come from.

  Berating himself for the mistake, he carefully felt his way forward step by step. He went on like this for a long while, counting his paces to help keep track of time.

  When his count reached one thousand he stopped still and sat down to listen. The first thing he realized was that the woods had become gradually hot
ter. The air was stale and sticky. He must be near some stagnant water, he reasoned.

  Sárán touched the ground beneath him and sure enough it was soaking wet. This reminded him that he was very thirsty. He found the leather bottle at his belt, uncorked it and drank the last few drops of precious cooling liquid. He had not filled it since the night after the Milesian attack when he was washing at the spring.

  Far off the young man could hear the cries of night birds. Above him the leaves rustled in an imaginary wind.

  Then faint and in the far distance he heard a voice.

  Sárán strained his ears, focusing on the sound. A shiver passed through him. There was someone else in the forest with him, far enough away that he could just hear the sound of them speaking but not close enough for him to understand what was being said.

  His first thought was that he should move as far away from the voice as possible. But he soon came to his senses. He had no water, no way of knowing where he was or how to get out of there. No way of making a fire. Nothing to eat. He could be lost in this place for days. Better to risk capture by the Milesians rather than perish alone in the woods.

  Just then the voice in the distance turned to laughter. Wild, hysterical and unrestrained. Sárán swallowed hard. He could discern no joy in the sound, no mirth.

  His resolve wavered. Then a whiff of smoke caught in his nostrils.

  “Fire,” he thought. “Light. Food.”

  The laughter ceased abruptly and by the time the last echo had died Sárán was making his way toward the source of the sound.

  The going was slower because he had waded into a pool. He didn't realize until the water was up around his knees that it had been getting steadily deeper. Mud on the bottom of the pond sucked at his boots so it was a great effort to lift his feet.

  The young man was near exhaustion by the time his feet found dry soil again. But the voice was louder and closer. Sárán sat for a while to catch his breath. There was only one voice doing all the talking. A man whose tone indicated despair but whose words were still unintelligible.

  The smell of smoke was stronger so Sárán made his way forward again. He did not know how long he went on, struggling in the darkness to gain ground. Time lost all meaning in a place where the sun had never visited.

  When he first saw the light of the stranger's fire it stung his eyes. He looked again and his heart began to pound. The trees seemed to be the dancing shadows of mighty demons twisting about in the yellow radiance. The forest was turned from black to a rich sweet green. The stranger's voice went on in an unnerving monotone. And Sárán finally admitted to himself just how frightened he was.

  It was a long while before he could coax himself on. Fifty paces he counted before he came to the edge of a steep ridge that descended to a cleared, brightly illuminated space. The trees still blocked his view but now he could catch a little of what the stranger was saying.

  Sárán heard his own name and froze to the spot.

  “Who is this?” he asked himself, struggling to recognize the voice. It could not possibly be a Milesian warrior, so it must be one of his father's people sent out to find him. Suddenly he was emboldened.

  With a breath of relief he began the climb down to the clearing. The voice grew louder; the scene unfolded slowly. Before him was a grassy cleared circle about thirty paces across. The clearing was encircled by a perfect ring of masterfully carved standing stones such as Sárán had never seen before. Each granite needle was covered in the most intricate patterns. Not just the familiar spirals that Sárán had so often seen but also symbols which he could make no sense of at all. At each quarter of the circle there was a larger stone, taller and broader than the rest. On either side of these pillars there was enough space for a man to enter the clearing.

  The stranger was still hidden from view. Sárán decided he must be sitting at the foot of one of the stones. He continued down until he was sure the man must be able to hear him but still the voice carried on.

  Sárán stopped to listen and the sound that came to his ears filled him with terror.

  “When I find him I'll kill him. That Sárán, curse him. If it hadn't been for his treachery we would never have come here. I would not have been drawn into the woods. I would not be lost in this demonic kingdom.”

  There was no emotion or hope in the voice. The speaker was dispirited, exhausted, spent to the point of madness. But he talked on.

  “That's right, boys,” the stranger said as if addressing his companions and at last Sárán recognized the voice.

  “Fergus!” he cried. His call echoed through the forest, stirring the night birds to screech back their challenges and wakening creatures that should have been allowed to rest.

  The voice had stopped. Sárán made his way as quickly as he could down into the clearing. There a merry little blaze had been built up out of fallen timber, twigs and dry leaves. There was no sign of the veteran.

  Then the young man heard something that would be with him to the end of his days. It was the sound of Fergus sobbing quietly to himself. The veteran had managed to wedge himself in between two stones. He was cowering in debilitating terror.

  Straightaway Sárán began to feel his own heart beat louder. “What are you frightened of?” he demanded.

  The veteran just screamed back at him. Sárán ran to his side but the battle-hardened warrior slunk back out of his reach, retching with fear.

  “What has scared you so?” the young man cried, looking all about him for the source of danger.

  “You!” Fergus shrieked. “It's you!”

  Sárán reached out a hand and placed it on the old warrior's shoulder to calm him.

  “I won't hurt you,” the young man assured him gently, dismayed to see his uncle in such a state. “Come out.”

  Slowly the veteran calmed down until he was finally able to emerge into the firelight. Sárán gasped to see the man's face. It was completely covered in blood. His hair was matted with it, his cloak stained with it.

  The veteran's hands found Sárán's and the old man looked directly into his nephew's eyes. “Are you going to take me?” he asked with a tremor in his voice.

  “Take you where?”

  “Has my turn come?”

  “Your turn for what?” Sárán begged in confusion. “Where are your warriors?”

  The veteran did not speak. His mouth was dry, he gasped for air. And then he pointed to the opposite side of the stone circle. Sárán looked across to a low rock just on the other side of the fire.

  The young man had to turn away as soon as he realized what he was looking at. And it was a long time before he could bring himself to cast his eyes in that direction again.

  “I don't believe it,” he stammered. “What happened?”

  On the rock before him lay the severed heads of five warriors. And to Sárán's horror he could put a name to every one of them.

  “The owls did it,” Fergus whispered. “I saw them trap each man and kill him. Then they gnawed the heads from each warrior and set them on that stone.”

  “Owls?” Sárán repeated, astonished. “How did you get here?”

  “I don't recall,” the veteran replied. “We were at the Dun Beg crossroad. The scouts saw something on the road. The next thing I remember is finding myself here. I gathered together what kindling I could in the dark and lit a fire. The next thing I knew I was watching the birds butcher my comrades.”

  Fergus let the tears well up in his eyes as he grabbed Sárán's hand.

  “They are going to kill us,” he said. “There's no doubt about it.”

  “Then we will have to defend ourselves,” the young man decided.

  “We can't fight them off,” Fergus wept. “They are too many.”

  “Why didn't they take you?”

  “I sat close to the fire. They don't like the flames. They can't abide fire. Makes them fly away.”

  “Then we'll set their home ablaze,” the young man declared, holding his uncle's hand tightly. “We
'll burn our way out of this forest.”

  Dalan struck the two pieces of flint together. A spark sailed gracefully up and into the midst of the dried leaves he had set down for tinder. In a moment his skilled hands had the blaze burning brightly. Then he sat back against his harp case and looked about him.

  The landscape seemed to have changed dramatically. He was sure the trees were taller, their trunks broader. Mahon and Aoife seemed suddenly to have become tiny. They huddled together like two skittish creatures, eyes everywhere, on the lookout for danger.

  An owl chanted a steady, even call which ended on a high-pitched squeal then started all over again. Dalan wished he knew something of the speech of birds. He was convinced they were passing news about this unwelcome intrusion into their home.

  “They are watching us,” Mahon whispered with dread. “I can almost feel their eyes burning into us.”

  “This is their world.” The Brehon nodded. “We are invaders no less than the Milesians are trespassers on this island of ours.”

  “They want us to be on our way,” Aoife stated. “I can hear the hatred in their cries.”

  “Spirits long gone from this world is what they are,” Dalan told them both. “They take joy in our fear. They are taunting us.”

  As he spoke a bright red ball of light rose slowly up from the road two hundred paces away. This inexplicable light danced about erratically them plummeted to the ground again and disappeared.

  None of them could find words. The strange light had been at once terrifying and magnificent. The owls started up a great chorus as they moved through the forest. Their powerful wings beat with the sound of a rushing squall surging between the trees.

  “Play the harp for us,” Aoife begged. “That would surely quiet their howling.”

  “I dare not,” the Brehon replied. “These are the spirits of the Fomor and their folk had no love of the harp. Their music was the piper's tune. We have already attracted their attention. I do not wish to invite their wrath.”

  Another light appeared as he was speaking. This was a bright green so powerful that they each had to shade their eyes from its glare. The glowing orb danced about, sailing high up to the canopy of trees and then round in endless circles and spirals that trailed behind after it.