The Meeting of the Waters

by Caiseal Mor

  In his attempts to strike out at the spirits, he dropped the flaming torch from his hand. In moments it had sputtered out on the wet road, filling the air about him with curls of its dying smoke.

  By the time his comrades were standing in their circle the young man had begun to calm down but by then it was too late. Countless owls as irresistible as the waves of the ocean began to surge down upon him. Before he could raise his spear to fend them off, he was engulfed, completely lost among their feathers and wild cries.

  The ground about him was gradually soaked in blood as hundreds more birds joined in the frenzy of the kill. If he called out for help or in anguish he was not heard above the jubilant hooting of this Otherworldly foe.

  Brocan watched the scene helpless to save the careless warrior, but his resolve hardened.

  “They shall not get any more of us,” he declared to his war band above the din of the slaughter. “Now you see what will become of you if you break from your ranks. We will hold firm and we will survive.”

  The young man was still invisible to them, cloaked under the great bulk of birds. Abruptly the seething mass toppled forward and spread out upon the road and the king knew the young man was finally beyond pain.

  “What do we do now?” Brocan asked the healer.

  “We march on in a tight formation guarded front and back by flame and spear,” Fineen replied. “They will continue to assail us but they will have no chance of breaking through if the warriors do not flinch at their duty.”

  All eyes were now full of hatred and most hearts ready for vengeance. The king knew how warriors could change when these two emotions showed upon their faces. While the owls were still picking at the young man's corpse he gave the order to march.

  Past the bloody mess in the road the war party trod, weapons at the ready, torches swinging at any owl foolish enough to come too close. But the birds knew their strength lay in their great number. Wave after wave descended upon the Fir-Bolg so that after they had marched one hundred paces twice as many of the winged creatures lay dead behind them.

  Now the warriors knew their opponents. They understood their methods and their weaknesses. A thousand steps they trod and then an anguished cry arose from the bird folk. Their steady attack dwindled and their numbers, still in the countless hundreds, began to decline.

  Before the war party had marched another twenty paces the air was cleared of owls. Only the trail of scattered dead and wounded birds behind them remained. The king called the band to a halt again and they took up the shape of a defensive circle once more.

  And they waited.

  “What is happening?” Brocan asked the Druid.

  “I don't know,” Fineen admitted. “Some catastrophe has befallen the woods. All the bird folk are retreating to safety.”

  “What calamity could cause them to break off battle-and fly from us when they were so determined?”

  As he spoke the forest to his right began to rustle. The rustling soon turned into a rumble as the trees began to shake. The air was full of the cries of thousands of animals leaping, charging, screaming as they left the cover of the woods. Like the banks of an overflowing river they burst out from their cover, flowing all around the startled Fir-Bolg.

  “They mean us no harm!” the healer shouted. “Let them pass.”

  All the path before the warriors and after them was a panicked assortment of creatures. Badgers, boar and wild dogs, mice, squirrels, rats, otters, wolves, foxes and every tribe of bird passed by, ignoring the war party entirely as they crossed the road and ran on.

  Among the last a great brown bear, Brocan's own totem animal, loped its way across and disappeared into the trees at the other side.

  “What is going on?” the king demanded.

  “A warning has passed through the ranks of all the creatures who live here,” Fineen replied. “The forest is on fire.”

  Chapter 23

  LONG AFTER MIDNIGHT DALAN AWOKE WITH A START. IT had been his intention to stay wide awake by the fire but the hours had passed by slowly and silently. Eventually he had dozed off. The Brehon stretched his arms high into the air and moved his toes in his boots. He glanced over at Mahon and Aoife still fast asleep in each other's arms.

  Only then did he notice the countless owls sitting wide-eyed and silent all around them, waiting for the fire to die down. In an instant the Brehon was on his feet but the birds were not intimidated by his sudden move. Dalan grabbed the last of their supply of fallen timber and stacked it neatly on top of the flames.

  Soon the little blaze was burning away merrily again but the Druid knew the fuel would not last them until dawn. He looked down on Mahon resting so peacefully and considered whether it was worth waking him. He decided to wait until the flames had almost finished their work. Let the young warrior rest for now.

  Then Dalan took up his seat, leaning against his harp once more. After he had settled he took out his little black-handled knife, a tool which all Druids carried no matter what their specialist craft. He turned it over in his hand.

  “I have never taken any life with this blade,” he confessed quietly to the nearest owl. The bird stared back without any sign of recognition. “But I will slay as many of you as I can before you overwhelm us,” he went on. “Do you understand?”

  The owl cocked its head and took a step closer.

  “Stay back,” the Brehon warned and the bird nested itself down again to wait. Twenty paces away there were owls landing to join their comrades. More and more arrived by the minute. Dalan was beginning to despair.

  Suddenly there was a great stirring at the back of the assembled birds. Owls were hooting loudly and flying off in different directions. Only those closest to the fire seemed determined to stay put. Dalan quickly surmised the birds were about to launch an assault, despite the flames which had kept them at a good distance for so long.

  “Mahon!” the Druid called. “Aoife! Wake up! We are about to be attacked!”

  The pair stirred immediately but already many owls had disappeared into the night. The birds nearest the ring of the fire were also withdrawing reluctantly and this puzzled Dalan.

  He looked around, then gasped, “Torches! Coming from deep within the forest!”

  “Who would be traveling the forest road at night?” Mahon asked.

  “I have no idea,” Dalan replied. “But I fear we are in real trouble now. The birds we could keep away with a simple fire. Armed warriors are a different matter entirely.”

  “The fire will give us away,” Aoife pointed out. “Shouldn't we put it out?”

  “Then we risk being attacked by the owls,” Mahon countered.

  “Aoife is right,” the Brehon sighed. “But I fear they will have already spotted our tiny blaze. If we can plainly see their torches at this distance, there is no doubt they have seen our shadows moving about in front of the fire.”

  “We must escape!” Mahon exclaimed.

  “It is useless to run,” the Brehon told him wearily. “There are too many of them. And in any case where would we go? The road to either side of us is a muddy trap. We would not get far. And I would rather take my chances here, waiting for these warriors to come upon us, than venture into the forest of Dun Beg.”

  It was then Mahon saw a little flash of orange in the forest. “Look!” he cried. “More of those strange lights are coming upon us.”

  The Brehon frowned. There was a light, but it was not an Otherworldly fire like those they had seen earlier. This was a single orange torchlight flickering from view as it passed between the trees.

  “I fear we are surrounded,” Dalan muttered, downhearted that the end had come upon him so soon.

  “Are they Gaedhals?” Aoife asked.

  “I hope so,” the Druid replied. “For if they prove to be the folk I fear them to be, we are in deep trouble.”

  “Fomorians?” Mahon gasped. “But all the Fomor are dead and gone, their dust scattered to the winds.”

  “Their spirits live on in this p
lace,” Dalan told him. “Many of them have taken the form of those owls. The remainder march in ghostly company to harass any travelers passing through their realm.”

  No sooner had he finished speaking than two figures stumbled out of the forest and fell down on the soft earth. Their torch dropped to the ground and was soon extinguished. Mahon drew his sword in readiness but Dalan, his eyes wide with surprise, held the young warrior back.

  “You will not be needing that yet,” he said, hardly able to believe his own eyes. “They are not our enemies.”

  “Who are they then,” Mahon inquired in confusion, “if not the spirits of the Fomor?”

  But the Brehon did not have a chance to answer. Aoife had already recognized her brother and was running toward him before either Dalan or the young Danaan could stop her.

  “Aoife!” Sárán cried, overjoyed to see her. “How did you know we would come out of the forest here?”

  “This was the spot where you entered the woods,” Dalan replied for Aoife as she cradled Sárán's head in her arms. “It is no more than chance brought us to stay here the night.”

  “Dalan,” Fergus coughed, “is that you?”

  “Is that the king's brother?” the Brehon asked incredulously. “How did you come to find Sárán?”

  “He found me,” the veteran admitted. “And he saved my life.”

  “We must get you both to the fire,” Dalan told them. “You are soaked through to the skin.”

  Sárán and Fergus looked at each other with concern.

  “Fire!” they said together.

  “There is a fire sweeping through the forest,” the veteran gasped. “We barely escaped it by diving into a stagnant pool. The flame front was whipped up by the wind and swept away down a valley. We are not far ahead of it.”

  “A fire?” the Brehon repeated, finding it hard to believe there was yet another danger descending upon them. “How on earth did a fire start deep within the woods?”

  “We lit it,” Sárán told him.

  “You lit a fire in the forest?”

  But before the young man could tell any more of his tale Mahon put a firm hand on the Brehon's shoulder.

  “The warriors are almost upon us,” he declared. “What shall we do?”

  “Warriors?” Fergus asked with sinking heart. “Are you going to tell me we trudged through that hell just to be captured on the other side by the Milesians?”

  “Come to the fire,” Dalan sighed. “There is no escape for us. Even if we were all fit to run, there is nowhere left to flee. We will wait and warm ourselves by the light of the flames. Are you thirsty?”

  The veteran nodded and with his arm around the Brehon's shoulder managed to walk to the fireside and sit down. And there they all waited with resignation for the enemy.

  But as the warriors drew closer, making their way laboriously through the mud which blanketed this part of the road, Fergus noticed a familiar form at the head of the column. The veteran stood up so he could get a better view of the approaching war party.

  Then, to everyone's surprise, Fergus cried out triumphantly and ran down into the mud, slipping and sliding as he went.

  “What is it?” Dalan called after him. “What's the matter?”

  “It's Brocan and the warriors of Dun Burren!” the veteran sang. “They've come to rescue us!”

  The Fir-Bolg war party covered their heads with their cloaks to fend off falling sparks as they marched, managing to escape danger before the fire consumed the southern edge of the forest completely.

  Dalan, Aoife, Mahon, Fergus and Sárán marched among the warriors. Brocan didn't speak a word to any of them until they were safely beyond reach of the flames and the spirits of that haunted place.

  Where the road came out of the woods at the top of the hill overlooking the mouth of the River Shannon he finally halted his people then commanded cooking fires be lit and food be apportioned out. Two casks of mead were opened. Everyone took a cup to ease their discomfort and exhaustion.

  “We'll rest here till noon,” the king told them as the eastern sky behind him was lit by the red glow of the forest blaze. “Then we will press on to the river.”

  He sent two scouts ahead to arrange with the Cairige folk who fished the waters around Deer Island for boats, enough to carry his warriors to the southern bank. Then, when all were settling down to rest and he had eaten a few mouthfuls of bread washed down with mead, he sent for his son, Sárán.

  “Do you have the berries which Fineen gave into your care?” Brocan asked the young man in a quiet but demanding voice.

  “They're here,” Sárán replied, handing the little leather pouch to the healer.

  Fineen took the bag, checked the contents and then spoke to the king. “The berries are safe. I will be able to prepare the brew in time if we make it across the river today.”

  Brocan nodded and sighed heavily. “And what of the cauldron?”

  “The Milesians have it,” Sárán replied, head bowed in shame.

  “You delivered it into their hands?”

  “I had no idea Isleen was carrying the cauldron in her pack,” the young man protested. “If I had known it was her intention to betray her people by this action, I would have stopped her. I did not discover her real purpose until it was too late.”

  “Nevertheless you left your duties and your teacher to go off with this woman,” Brocan growled. “You deserted your kinfolk in time of trouble. You led us into danger by taking this road south.”

  “I was following Isleen,” Sárán pleaded. “She told me that Fineen had granted his permission for me to travel with her.”

  “And why didn't you ask your teacher about this yourself?”

  “There wasn't time.”

  “What do you think, Dalan?” Brocan asked. “You are a judge and I have decided to bring charges against this lad.”

  “He's your son,” the Brehon began.

  “I didn't ask you for a lesson in genealogy,” the king snapped.

  “If you charge him formally, there is a risk he could be banished,” Dalan explained. “Would you want that?”

  “If he's guilty he should be punished,” Brocan answered coldly.

  Dalan looked hard and long at the young man standing before him. “Do you understand the nature of the charge being brought against you?” he asked after considering the matter.

  “Yes. Theft and treason,” the young man shot back with vestiges of his old arrogance in his voice.

  “And your defense is that a Seer convinced you to desert your teacher and your king to travel with her to the south?”

  “That's correct.”

  Dalan turned to the king. “I've been suspicious of Isleen and her husband for some time. I should have said something publicly. I should have challenged them. If I had, this problem would not have arisen and the Cauldron of Plenty would be safe.”

  “Are you trying to shift the blame?” Brocan asked with suspicion.

  “Sárán could not have known of my growing distrust of them,” Dalan observed. “He simply followed the orders of a respected Seer. He had no reason to question those commands.”

  “Sárán is a traitor and a thief. I demand the harshest penalty under the law,” Brocan countered.

  “I cannot oblige you,” Dalan breathed. “It was youthful foolishness, that's all. You said so yourself.”

  “And is there no punishment for foolishness?”

  “The sentence which I pass upon fools,” the Brehon replied, “is that they should learn from their mistakes.”

  “You're afraid,” the king decided. “You, the last of the Fir-Bolg Druids. You're frightened to upset your Danaan masters.” Brocan took a deep breath and looked the Druid in the eye. “Very well. Sárán will be cast into chains and dragged along with us to Sliabh Mis. After the battle I will try him with another judge until a fitting punishment is meted out.”

  “You can't do that,” Dalan protested. “It is the role of the Brehons to institute such things. You d
on't have the authority.”

  “It seems that treachery among the Fir-Bolg Druids is not so uncommon,” Brocan noted bitterly.

  “A king has no right under the law to hold anyone against their will,” the Druid maintained calmly.

  “I no longer recognize your authority,” Brocan hissed. Then he turned to Fergus. “Take Sárán and bind him well so all he can do is walk. He will come with us in shame for his actions.”

  The veteran did not move. “My lord, your son saved my life in the forest. If it weren't for him I'd still be there staring at the lifeless heads of my five scouts. His tracks into the forest led us out again. I owe him my life.”

  “It was because of Sárán that you were led to the forest in the first place!” the king cried. “He is responsible for those five deaths as surely as if he had murdered them himself.”

  Fergus nodded. “I spoke up against you once,” the warrior declared. “I vowed I would not do it again. And so I will be true to my word as long as you are legally the elected king of our people.”

  Fergus turned to Sárán. “Come then, lad. Submit to your fate and trust that your innocence is genuine.”

  The young man stepped forward and Fergus led him away to be bound.

  “That is enough talk,” Brocan commanded. “I will rest now before we set out for the river. No one is to approach me on this matter until we reach Sliabh Mis. Then I will tell you my decision.”

  “Your decision?” the Brehon asked.

  “I will make up my mind about this battle when I have judged the Milesians' strength.”

  “You have already made a commitment to fight with the Danaans against the invaders.”

  “I have changed my mind.”

  Isleen and Eber arrived at the Milesian camp around the same time as Sárán was being bound in chains by the veteran whose life he had saved. On a long stretch of seafront known to the Cairige people as the Beach of the Bright Sands their boat landed and was dragged ashore by many hands.

  The Gaedhals cheered their war leader as he went around the crowd, greeting those who had just arrived from the east.