The Meeting of the Waters

by Caiseal Mor

  “And make sure they have their weapons ready,” Fineen called after her. “It is almost noon and the Milesians will be upon us soon.” Then the healer turned to Delan. “Are the musicians ready?”

  “The singers have their melody well rehearsed,” the Brehon informed his friend. “And the trumpeters have polished their instruments so they will seem to be all the more magnificent.”

  “Will the song-making truly open the doorway?” Fineen queried.

  “I believe it may,” Dalan replied with obvious reservation. “I have never witnessed this song before and my experience of the Draoi arts of music is limited. But I have reason to be hopeful.”

  “The Druid Assembly would never have entrusted the task to you if they did not believe you would rise to the challenge.”

  Dalan shrugged his shoulders to show he was not convinced.

  “I have heard you were nominated to be among the candidates for the position of Dagda,” Fineen commented.

  “I was nominated,” Dalan admitted. “But I have little-chance of winning enough support among the Danaan Druids to gain the vote.”

  “Do you really think they would reject a talented Fir-Bolg in favor of a mediocre Danaan?”

  “Since the days when my people were first joined with yours in the Druid Assembly no Fir-Bolg has held the office of Dagda,” Dalan reasoned. “It is unlikely that will change, especially in these turbulent and unsettled times.”

  “You have the skills and the knowledge for the position. I'll cast my support behind you.”

  “Thank you,” the Brehon said, taking his friend's hand. “But I'd really rather stay by Brocan's side after this business is concluded. I may be the only person who can reason with him. And that will certainly be necessary in the coming season.”

  “Brocan can look after himself,” the healer argued. “You can't put aside the highest office in the Druid Circle simply because of one stubborn old king. You must think also of your own fulfillment.”

  “True, but I have another, greater problem. I fear that if I do not find a way to defeat the Watchers,” Dalan admitted, “a greater peril will come to this land than the Milesians.”

  “Those Watchers have become an unhealthy obsession with you,” Fineen stated bluntly. “I acknowledge they are very likely abroad in this land, but what can you do to fight them? There are none now living who keep the lore which related to them. You would be giving a greater service to the Druid Assembly with your leadership than by tracking down a pair of spirits whose day will soon be past.”

  “I wish I knew for certain they were fading from the world,” the Brehon said wearily. “But the truth is they are becoming stronger. They feed on the fear and suffering of our folk. Soon they will have a new race of people to prey upon. The Milesians have no tales about the Watchers. Their Druids have no experience with them. Whereas I—”

  “You are a gifted judge.”

  “I have a duty to find some way of dealing with the Watchers,” Dalan insisted. “I stumbled across them and I must track them down again. With the threat from the Milesians the Druid Assembly has released much old lore about the Draoi-Music. Perhaps I will discover a song which will rid us of the Watchers before they bring more havoc upon us.”

  “Let us talk more about this when the current crisis-is resolved,” Fineen suggested.

  “The Milesians are here because the Watchers drew them to our island home. If we do not defeat these ancient servants of Balor, other invaders will be summoned to our door before too long.”

  “Help me finish preparations for the brew,” the healer said, trying to distract his old friend. “The musicians will be here soon to begin the ritual blessing. Could you stir this pot while I see to them?”

  “I would be happy to,” Dalan replied, relaxing a little.

  “Steady and slow,” the healer advised, handing him the wooden ladle.

  “As you wish.”

  “You shall have the first helping,” Fineen told him. “And then you must administer it to me.”

  “Very well.”

  With that the healer was gone to find the Druid musicians, those singers, drummers and harpers who would lay the blessing of their craft upon the Quicken Brew.

  Brocan's warriors listened in stunned silence to his reasoning. But when he had finished speaking the king knew every one of them was behind him. After the victory against the owls in the forest the Fir-Bolg would have battled the flow of the River Shannon if he had asked them to.

  “If any among you have doubts about refusing the brew,” the king assured them, “I'll not judge you if you decide to take it. But any warrior who accepts the Quicken Brew will fight alongside King Cecht. I won't have them with the Fir-Bolg.”

  No one moved among his warriors. This brought a smile of gratitude to Brocan's face. Then there was a cough from the rear as someone pushed forward through the ranks. In moments a young man stepped out from the gathering. It was Lom.

  “I will take the Quicken Brew,” he announced.

  Brocan was speechless at his son's gesture. “Why are you doing this?” he managed to mutter finally.

  “I can see Dalan's argument,” Lom explained. “If we beat the Gaedhals today, they will only return again. Eventually they will come in such numbers that we will have no hope of standing against them. We cannot always expect to have weather and landscape on our side.”

  “You would submit to the Danaans?” Brocan gasped.

  “It is not submission. It is common sense.”

  “If you do this,” Brocan stated coldly, “you will join your brother as an outcast from our people. You will be banished forever.”

  “You've been unjust to my mother and my twin,” Lom countered.

  “Your mother has divorced me to take up with Cecht. Your brother is a traitor who stole the Cauldron of Plenty from me. Is this the kind of company you wish to keep?”

  “Sárán did nothing wrong,” the young man protested. “He was tricked by the Seer Isleen.”

  “You are not yet tainted with the sins of your brother. If you leave my company now you should realize you will never be able to return. You will have no place among us.”

  “Then I'll live with my mother among the Danaan who do not make and break their word whenever the whim takes them,” Lom replied with a coldness in his voice to match his father's.

  “What word have I broken?” Brocan asked. “I am a servant to my people. I must do as they wish. My office depends on them. A king cannot always do as he wishes. A king is merely the protector of his kinfolk.”

  “You've been dishonorable!” Lom cried.

  “I have bargained our kin into a very favorable position,” Brocan pointed out. “If the Danaans get what they want from this battle, we'll still need to hold our own against the Milesians. If the Gaedhals gain the victory our position will be even less secure. But it is still my intention to win this fight and assert the strength of my people again.”

  “I can see there's no sense in arguing with you,” Lom sighed.

  “You may have a little wisdom about you after all,” the king snapped.

  Lom walked off in the direction of Fineen's fire where the musicians were gathering to perform their ritual.

  “Go to your mother then,” the king called after him.

  Lom didn't have the opportunity to answer. At that very moment the choir of Druid musicians began their chant. Three bronze horns each as long as a man sounded their deeply sonorous bellows.

  Then Lom was gone to join the ceremony, leaving his father to ponder the loss of another son.

  The rain was still pelting down as the singers began their strange melody based around the low notes of the bronze horns. Lom felt his guts begin to shake as he approached the assembled Danaans. All doubts he may have had about taking this step were banished from his mind.

  Around the fire where the brew had been cooking the choir had assembled in the shape of a crescent moon. At the two horns of the formation sat the musicians with the
long bronze horns, facing in toward the singers. In the center of the choir three harpers were positioned to guide the singers in their melody. Lom had never heard music like it before in his life. The strange tune floated in the air all around him, filling his every breath with excitement. It penetrated his body like a sharp prickling tingle that started at the top of his head, traveled down his spine and spread out into every muscle and fiber of his being.

  Lom noticed Aoife standing hand in hand with Mahon among the Danaans and he wondered what his father would make of that. But he soon found he had to close his eyes to take in the music and all such thoughts left him.

  Somewhere along the way the melody transformed into a soothing embrace which enlivened his spirit. Lom held a hand up to his face in wonder, half expecting the tips of his fingers to be glowing with energy. There was no visible light, just an ethereal prickling sensation, warm and relaxing.

  As the music gradually gathered momentum Lom found his twin brother and his mother standing silent with Cecht and Dalan. He approached them without offering a greeting because he did not want to break the spell of this gorgeous music. Riona nodded to her son and reached out a hand to take his. At the very moment they touched Lom perceived a more intense and moving sensation flow through him. His mother released his hand and the feeling subsided a little, but the effect of it burned fiercely in his mind as if the contents of his head had been seared with the heat of a divine flame.

  As his breathing began to quicken Lom started to feel uncomfortable. He knew there was nothing to be afraid of, but the intensity of the experience was decidedly unsettling. An urge came over him to run back and join his father, to abandon this wild scheme of the Druids. But Lom could not bring himself to move his feet. The choir lifted up their voices in a glorious harmony that brought vivid pictures of the mountains and the sea to his mind. But Lom instinctively knew this landscape spread out in his imagination would be found in Innisfail. Somehow the music had given him a glimpse of the ancestral land of his people.

  By this time the young man could feel sweat gathering in the palms of his hands. The sweet voices held only a rising terror for him. Lom was faltering in his resolve, ready to run. And he would have done so too if something unexpected hadn't happened just at that moment.

  As if they all shared common thoughts, the choir, the harpers and the horn players ceased their song at once and a heavy silence descended on the hilltop.

  Lom breathed more easily and risked a glance around him. Dalan's eyes were shut tight, his face covered with perspiration. Fineen was shaking almost imperceptibly as he stared ahead with empty eyes. Riona swallowed hard, struggling to catch her breath. When he realized everyone about him had been as deeply moved by the experience as he, Lom felt suddenly comforted.

  He had no sooner begun to settle though when a steady drumbeat struck up from the midst of the choir. Among the thirty singers were nine men and women who bore goatskin drums. The beat was strong like the pulse of a heart. And it was soft, comforting like a lover's gentle embrace.

  As the drummers meted out their rhythm Lom felt compelled to close his eyes. And as he did so the landscape that had filled his mind earlier returned in striking colors. Just as the song had entered his body through the top of his head, so too did this steady drumbeat. But now the young man could sense the music journeying up and down his spine with a warmth that left him refreshed, enlivened and intensely aware of every pore of his body. This, he told himself, must be a similar experience to that state the Druid kind called ecstasy, which their Seers strove to attain throughout their lives.

  The drumbeat became more urgent; the singers raised their voices again. But now their song was not so harmonious. It was filled with distracting little phrases which did not seem to suit the melody at all. Then suddenly, in a grating conflict of notes which fought violently against each other, the music ceased.

  Lom opened his eyes, noticing the rain had begun to fall a little heavier. Dalan stepped solemnly toward the cauldron. Fineen followed after him a few seconds later. Both men were pale and somber.

  “In the days of our ancestors,” the Brehon began, “the Druid kind held much wisdom at their command. They knew such skills and crafts that we can only wonder at. And yet for all their learning, for all their knowledge and for all their understanding of the ways of the earth, they allowed their craft to be used for ill deeds. They turned their skills to greed and avarice. At first it seemed they had tapped into the source of all the abundance of the universe. The chief Druids among them sanctioned the use of song to bring riches to the Islands of the Blest.”

  The Brehon paused to allow his audience to consider his words.

  “In time they no longer held the earth in any esteem for it appeared they had the power to produce all they needed for their survival, and more. But their conceit blinded them to the destruction they had brought upon this world by upsetting the delicate balance of all life.”

  Dalan took a deep breath as he looked around at the listeners. Most had bowed their heads. Some seemed to be praying.

  “So it happened,” the Brehon went on, “that one day the Druid-Seers declared that a great tragedy would soon be visited upon the world. The lesser moon that had for generations sat in the heavens beyond the greater moon was slowly edging closer to the earth. The wise ones calculated it would come down upon the Islands of the West and obliterate them as it fell.”

  Fineen stepped forward then and took up the tale from his companion. “That's why the Danaans abandoned the ancient homeland to come here. It was our own Druids who brought this disaster down from above because they had not learned to stem their greed or tempered their cleverness with wisdom. The Islands of the Blest were swallowed up entirely by the floodwater and all those who had remained behind, their beautiful cities of glass, their fine roads paved with sparkling stone, their palaces and sanctuaries, all were washed away as if they had never been.”

  It was Dalan's turn to speak. “The first Quicken Tree, a rowan of exceptional beauty, grew in the mountains of the Isles of the West. It was a tree of healing, a tree of life. When our ancestors departed their homeland they took with them nine berries of the fruit of that bough. And in secret a new Quicken was planted so that if ever our folk stood in need of its healing, they would not be denied.”

  “Each of you,” Fineen continued, “will taste the brew of the Quicken berries today. And in so doing you will ensure not only the survival of our people but the continuity of our laws and customs. This responsibility is not to be taken lightly. If we are successful in implementing the plans of the Druid Assembly, the Milesians will, in time, adopt our customs as if they were their own. This is the surest way we know of preserving peace on this land for all the folk who live here.”

  “Now you must each make a vow,” Dalan stated. “To uphold the Brehon laws with every measure of your being. To never waver in your compassion for the Gaedhals, who are like children compared to us. They need our guidance. They must be taught there are better ways to conduct themselves. To that end it is the duty of all of you who take the brew to act as counselors, as teachers, as advisers to these newcomers in the hope they will learn from our example. For one day they will be the guardians of our knowledge and this island.”

  With that Dalan stepped back to the fire where the cauldron was simmering gently in the glowing coals.

  “If there are any among you who cannot make these solemn promises,” Fineen declared, “let them withdraw from this gathering.”

  The healer paused to see if anyone would leave. No one moved.

  “Very well,” he went on. “It's time to take on the mantle of immortality. Now let us shake off the endless cycle of birth and death and rebirth. We will live in the world of the senses for as long as we desire, and our kin who tarry in the Halls of Waiting will not see us again until the world has changed entirely.”

  Fineen went over to where Dalan was waiting for him. Then the healer took a small piece of oat bread with a cup of stea
ming liquid from the cauldron and handed them to his friend.

  “Just drink it straight down and eat the bread afterward,” Fineen whispered.

  Dalan did as he was told. No sooner had he taken a mouthful of the liquid than his face screwed up. He swallowed the brew quickly and stuffed the bread into his mouth as fast as he could to take away the strong flavor.

  “Did it really taste that bad?” Fineen asked under his breath.

  “That was the foulest concoction ever to pass my lips,” the Brehon coughed, keeping his voice down so no one would hear. “You may be a fine healer but your cooking skills need some improvement.”

  “I'll water it down,” Fineen decided, tasting a spot of the brew from his finger. “That'll make it more palatable.”

  “Are you going to have your portion?”

  “I'll wait if you don't mind,” the healer replied.

  “You were trying that out on me, weren't you?” Dalan groaned. “I can't believe I let you do that to me.”

  “You may be a fine judge but you're very gullible.” Fineen shrugged with a grin.

  “I can't banish the foul taste of it,” the Brehon complained as he gulped water from a bucket.

  “It could be worse,” the healer told him. “Stop your whining and go to your work. You have a battle to observe today. And this tale is one you'll be asked to relate a thousand times over the rest of your life.”

  Then Aoife stepped up beside her teacher to receive her portion.

  “Have you taken your brew?” she hummed.

  The Brehon signed to her silently that he had.

  “Now the Milesians can't defeat us. Not even time will wear us down.”

  “We shall see,” Dalan replied with a sigh. “We shall see.”

  CHAPTER 25

  TO BROCAN'S DELIGHT THE RAIN WAS FALLING HEAVY by noon and his hopes rose higher when the Milesians appeared to be late for the contest. He scanned the ground at the foot of the hill and tried to judge the time, but as each moment passed the king was becoming more confident.