by Caiseal Mor
“I'll find a way.”
“You'd better be quick,” Isleen hummed. “We can cause an awful lot of damage and heartache when we've a mind to.”
The both of them laughed uproariously and then, in less time than it takes to blink an eye, they had vanished as if they had been nothing more than a product of the Brehon's imagination. The next thing Dalan knew someone was gripping his sleeve, dragging him back up the hill.
“Brocan's been wounded!” the Fir-Bolg warrior told him urgently. “Come, we need your help.”
The Brehon took a moment to shake off his horror, then he turned and followed the warrior to the top of the hill.
Fineen examined the Fir-Bolg king carefully. Brocan's breath was already a low rasping at the back of his throat. It was obvious he'd been severely wounded. When the healer had finished looking at him he shook his head mournfully.
“I saved a cupful of the Quicken Brew in case the need should arise,” Fineen told Lom. “But I can't be certain it will do him any good. He's lost a lot of blood and his rib cage has been shattered by the force of the arrow and the manner in which it was removed. It may already be too late.”
“You said the brew could heal any hurt,” Lom protested.
“I don't have enough experience of its properties to be certain. All I know about it I learned from hearsay.”
“Give him the Quicken Brew,” the young warrior demanded.
“Your father chose to reject it,” Fineen reminded him. “It wouldn't be right to administer it to him now.”
“You have the power to save his life,” Lom insisted.
“But should I exercise that power? Can you be certain that's what he wants?”
As the healer spoke Dalan arrived at the fire. “How bad is it?” the Brehon asked, breathless from the climb up the hill.
“He's not long for this world,” was the solemn reply.
“Give him the brew,” Dalan commanded.
“Fineen refuses to,” Lom cut in.
“We'll stand in need of his experience and wisdom after all this trouble is sorted out,” Dalan pressed. “If he passes away now, who'll lead the Fir-Bolg?”
“I will,” Fergus offered. “Brocan chose me as his successor four seasons ago. I'll be King of the Burren if he passes away.”
“You're already the king,” Lom pointed out. “My father might as well be dead.”
“The decision is yours to make, Fergus,” Dalan advised. “If Brocan dies, it will be your duty to lead the Fir-Bolg into the future. If he lives, there'll be another hand to help you guide the tiller.”
Fergus lowered his eyes to the bloodied pale form on the ground. Brocan wheezed painfully but there was no sign of consciousness from the Fir-Bolg king.
“He's my brother,” the veteran murmured at last. “How can I let him die when the means to save his life are readily available?”
“Give my father the brew!” Lom shouted.
Fineen put aside his reservations and went to the fireside to fetch what was left of the Quicken Brew. He stirred it with a wooden spoon as he brought it to where Brocan lay.
“It's gone cold,” the healer noted. “I was advised only to administer it hot, or at the very least warm. But I left it standing too far from the coals. I'll give it to him but you must not expect too much.”
“Hurry!” Lom demanded.
Fineen knelt by the dying king while Fergus held Brocan's nose and tilted his head back. The brew spilled into the slack open mouth and much of it dribbled down his chin. Then the veteran tenderly laid his foster-brother back on the ground and spread his own cloak over the injured man.
“How long before we know?” Lom asked.
“Not long,” the healer replied.
Brocan's breathing became suddenly easier. His whole body relaxed as the pain seemed to drain away from him. Fineen touched a finger lightly to Brocan's throat.
“His heartbeat is slowing,” the healer announced after a pause. “He's weakening.”
Brocan's breathing was less strained but it was also more shallow. His face was a deathly white now and his lips were changing hue to a gray blue. As they watched the king drew in a deep breath with great effort. And when he exhaled it seemed that all the worries of the world were expelled from his body.
Fineen lifted Brocan's eyelids to check the color of his eyes. Then he turned to Lom and Fergus, the disappointment apparent on his face.
“There's nothing more I can do.” The healer shrugged.
“He's gone?” Fergus asked in a whisper, not willing to believe his brother was dead.
Fineen nodded.
But just then Brocan drew another deep breath and opened his eyes. The healer watched with surprise as the bloody wound in the king's chest began to bubble with activity. A flat scab formed over the gaping hole and in a few minutes there was no sign of the injury save for a large scar of soft new skin.
Brocan looked up at the expectant faces gathered around him and frowned.
“I've just had the most astounding dream,” the king said.
Fergus smiled and brushed a hand through his brother's hair.
“I am tired of fighting,” Brocan said softly.
“I know.”
The king lifted his eyes to his friend and the veteran saw they were full of sadness. “I want to go home and rest,” Brocan sighed.
“What of the battle?”
“Send word to the Milesian king. Tell him I'm ready to sue for peace.”
In the chilly autumn morning air representatives of the Danaan folk and the Fir-Bolg waited around a large fire on the hillside thirty paces from the entrance to King Cecht's fort at Dun Gur. Druid counselors, Brehons in their blue robes, Seers, Poets, physicians and harpers stood around the king, arranged according to their professions.
Cecht, Riona and the Danaan royal household remained at the gates of the hillfort awaiting the arrival of the foreigners. Brocan stood by the fire dressed in the formal cloak of his office with an eagle feather in his long gray hair to signify his status.
The Fir-Bolg king was a changed man since the battle of Sliabh Mis. His manner was more friendly and jovial. And his generosity to those who had suffered in the sack of Dun Burren was unsurpassed. Brocan gave all his cattle away to the needy folk of his kin and kept only goats for himself. He had worked tirelessly for nearly two moons building a new home for his people in the ancient caves of the Aillwee on the coast of the Burren.
More importantly, he accepted Lom back into his house with all the forgiveness his heart could offer. Riona, Sárán and Aoife had not approached him since, but Brocan seemed very understanding of their feelings.
In the days after the battle he never spoke of the dream that had come to him as he lay dying at the healer's fire. And he never once expressed any regret that the Quicken Brew had been administered to him without his consent.
Fergus noticed the foreigners first. He pointed them out to his foster-brother and soon everyone was peering off into the mist to catch a glimpse of the Gaedhals.
Over the hillside track in the distance the brightly colored train of King Eber of the Milesians made its way toward them. For here on this day the treaty conference was to be held which would seal the future of Innisfail.
“It would seem the Druid Assembly has achieved its aim,” King Cecht declared to Dalan as the Brehon stepped up to report the Milesians' arrival. “Will the Dagda be satisfied with what we've achieved?”
“We still have a good way to go,” the Brehon conceded, “but I imagine he is pleased so far. In the north he has met with Éremon the brother of Eber. The treaty negotiated there was a simpler matter. There was no dissension between the Danaans and their allies. We must do everything right, then we'll be able to rest peacefully.”
“I've never felt so rested in my life,” Cecht hummed as he held Riona's hand tightly in his. “I have never been so content.”
“And at the same time,” Riona cut in, “I have never looked on this world with so much cont
empt. The Otherworld is a paradise where colors are more vibrant, emotions deeper, honesty easier and the cares of this world insignificant.”
“I've decided on the concession which you suggested to me,” the king confided.
“You will relinquish Dun Gur to the Gaedhals?”
“I see the wisdom in such a move,” Cecht sighed. “This place has been the home of my family since the Danaans first arrived in Innisfail. But we have a new home now. A better home. It would be churlish to cling to this place knowing such a gift might earn us the peace we all yearn for.”
“The most important thing,” Dalan assured him, “is that we can in time win the trust of the Milesians so they see the value in adopting our Brehon laws. If they don't change their ways, it will be only a short while before new conflicts arise. Already Eber's brother Éremon is demanding that the southern Milesians pay homage to him as high-king of the entire land. The gift of Dun Gur will win Eber's confidence in the art of diplomacy over the devastation of warfare.”
“This hillfort will be a secure settlement in which to establish himself,” the king added. “These walls have never been breached. No besieging enemy has ever managed to bring the garrison to its knees. If his people are secure Eber will have time to listen to reason.”
“When will you join us in the Otherworld, Dalan?” Riona asked and the Brehon was surprised to notice her expression was gentler, her voice warm and welcoming.
“I have duties to fulfill before I can consider retreating behind the veil,” the Brehon replied.
“You've been nominated, I hear, to the office of Dagda,” she teased. “You'll make a great High-Druid.”
“Indeed I've been nominated,” Dalan sighed. “But I find I am unable to accept the honor.”
“Unable to accept!” Cecht gasped. “Do you realize what you are saying? Few Druids are ever considered worthy of such rank and responsibility. And now more than ever the Druid Assembly needs wise counsel from such as yourself.”
“The current Dagda will serve for a while yet,” the Brehon assured Cecht. “He took the Quicken Brew. It's no longer so urgent that a replacement be found as his health is not ailing him any longer. And in any case there are others who could just as easily fill those shoes when the time comes for him to stand down.”
“But you've a unique talent,” Cecht pressed. “You've always been comfortable in the world of the spirit. You know the ways of the Otherworld. I may be a king among my people but I have no idea how I'll face the challenges which lie before us. Your guidance would be a great reassurance to me.”
“I'll offer you whatever advice I can.” Dalan smiled, acknowledging the compliment. “But there's a task I must perform which is more delicate and more urgent than any other challenge which may beckon.”
“What would that be?” the king asked in surprise.
“The Watchers are still abroad in the land,” the Brehon answered solemnly. “Neither Lochie nor Isleen has been sighted since I encountered them on the battlefield. I feel it's my duty to deal with them before they cause more havoc. We've not yet achieved a certain and lasting peace. And I don't believe it's possible until these ancient troublemakers are released from their imprisonment.”
“This may turn into the work of a lifetime,” the king cautioned. “Are you willing to take on this quest in the knowledge there may not be an answer to this riddle?”
“Fineen has taught me well.” The Brehon smiled. “I've learned there is a solution to every puzzle. One just has to look at the question in the right light.”
“You know best what is right,” Cecht sighed. “Let's hope your skills as a mediator can bring Brocan back into the fold. I am frightened he will cause trouble of his own even if we come to an agreement with the Milesians.”
“I have spoken with the King of the Fir-Bolg,” the Brehon said. “It is his wish to remain independent from any decisions you and the Gaedhal may negotiate.”
“Independent?”
“Brocan wishes to broker a separate peace with the Milesians in order to retain some of his people's land and titles. Eber has been informed of this and has proved himself favorable to such an arrangement.”
“Why was I not informed of this?”
“It was a delicate matter,” Dalan soothed. “In any case, you were aware Brocan was reluctant to throw in his lot with you.”
“He is still fuming that his wife left him for me,” Cecht whispered so no one else would hear.
“That's not quite true. The Fir-Bolg king is a changed man. Anyone who has their life snatched away from them then unexpectedly given back will grow from the experience. Given time he may even prove an ally.”
Cecht coughed in disbelief.
“I'll believe that when I see it with my old gray eyes.”
“You'll witness everything through young blue eyes in future,” Dalan corrected him. “It would be wise to remember that or you may find the gift of everlasting life becomes tedious.”
“Brocan shouldn't have arranged his own separate peace,” Cecht frowned. “And you shouldn't have agreed to negotiate it.”
“The Gaedhals are not far off now,” Dalan noted. “They'll arrive before a cauldron of fresh water boils. I suggest very strongly you don't attempt to interfere in the agreement between Eber and Brocan. They're not joining in alliance against you. Each is ensuring his own people are well served by these treaties.”
“You should have told me.”
“Be content,” the Brehon snapped, tiring of the conversation. “Brocan has been given a gift he never desired. His life won't be easy. His kinfolk will pass away to the Halls of Waiting before you have even begun to grow tired of your endless life. He'll be alone. You'll have those about you who care for you.”
Then Dalan touched the Danaan king's arm to draw his attention to the approaching delegation. On the other side of the water Eber and his party were already embarking in the cowhide curraghs that would bring them to the island in the middle of the lough.
“Enough of this talk,” the Brehon said firmly. “You must remember your place in all of this. Brocan never disclosed the secret of the Quicken Brew in all his discussions with Eber. The Fir-Bolg king has acted honorably to preserve your advantage in these negotiations. I trust you will treat his position with the same respect.”
Cecht grunted but the Brehon was already striding down to the water's edge to greet the Milesian delegation.
Brocan had stood all the while a good distance away from the Danaan king but now he moved quickly to stand by Dalan. The two men nodded to each other as Cecht waited with his own retinue. His welcome would be much more formal because this island still belonged to his kinfolk.
“Thank you, Dalan,” Brocan whispered as they both watched the curraghs cutting through the water past the houses built on reeds in the middle of the lough.
“I've only done my duty.”
“I know I've been difficult,” the Fir-Bolg king admitted.
“Danu knows that!” Dalan replied.
“Now all I want is peace,” Brocan stated. “I've seen what a waste my life has been. I have no wish for petty warfare anymore.”
“You have no bitterness for the manner in which your life was saved?”
“I only refused the Quicken Brew through stubbornness,” Brocan sighed.
“You mentioned a dream when you were waking from the effects of the brew.”
Brocan stared blankly out across the lough. “I dreamed I was a drop of rain. I imagined I was falling from on high, passing down through the clouds on my earthward journey. Beneath me I saw a lake and my yearning heart wished to be absorbed completely into it. The wind took me and guided me toward the sparkling water. Just before I dived in I perceived there were many others like me, all wishing for the same ending to their lives.”
“To become one with the great lough,” Dalan echoed. “Your dream reminds me of an old poem.”
Dalan paused, bringing the verses to mind. Then he recited them, his voice sudden
ly formal.
“Raindrop, hurtle down. Surrender yourself to the lough. Flow on with all your kinfolk to the river. Onward to the sea, at one with the ocean. Where will Danu take you when you have merged with her? My soul is a raindrop.”
“Yes,” Brocan breathed. “To unite with all my brothers and sisters. To be lost in the unfathomable beauty of this lake. I don't know whether my spirit will ever know such peace. But in my dream I was aware it was a fleeting experience, that I would be a raindrop again one day and the endless cycle would carry me on whether I wanted it or not.”
“The most sacred places on this earth are where the waters meet,” Dalan agreed. “Danu is the Goddess of the Flowing Waters. She is the force behind the turns and changes in our lives, just as she is in the origin of the seasons and cycles of nature.”
“I pray every day to her for peace and the opportunity to join again in the great lough of souls.”
“May you be granted your wish,” the Brehon sighed and placed a hand on Brocan's shoulder. “You've learned a lot and you deserve to find your peace.”
“Is it too late for me to take Druid orders?” the king inquired.
“It's never too late.” Dalan smiled, pleasantly surprised.
“I'd like that,” Brocan decided. “My spirit has been neglected.”
“You still have some work to do as leader of your people.”
“When that's all finished then.” Brocan nodded. “I'll take the orders and seek healing for my soul.”
The Brehon nodded, gaining a new respect for Brocan. He might have been stubborn, even unreasonable at times, but he was not too pig-headed to admit he still had a lot to learn.
“I've one more request to make of you.” Brocan coughed.
“Another? What?”
“Aoife.”
“I don't understand.” Dalan frowned.
“I've lost my wife and one of my sons,” the Fir-Bolg king began.
“That is not entirely out of your hands,” the Brehon reminded him. “You could still accept your sons back.”
“Sárán is not likely to return to my hearth.”
