The Tales of Amergin, Sea Druid

by Peter Green

  She came back to the cold flagstones high up on the battlements, a smile on her countenance now. Sceine was fully alive, every synaptic connection firing. She was on a rolling wave of emotion, exhaling so deep with pleasure and release. She was deeply comforted, deeply happy and ecstatic to have been with Amergin, to have been entwined with him, to feel him, to have him in her universe.

  Sceine returned now to the heady high altitude concoction of mountain air and oceanic ozone...

  Still with him, she came back to this place where the eternal battle for the enlightened world rages…

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN:

  THE SHAMEN OF LAND’S END

  Far, far to the north, in the ancient land of the Firbolg, Septiem marched onwards... into the realm conquered by Antiem... his mission to convert, to prosthletise, to bring the more enlightened Firbolg on their side.Sent by Sceine to bring the former servant race into the fray against their former evil masters.

  This was a strange land, harsher on the eye, colder on the heart, an expansive place with huge vistas opening up over the extremities of the Northern Ocean, a land of big skies.On the western horizon an indented coastline with a myriad of beaches, promontories and islands floating offshore.

  To the east, precipitous flat topped escarpments plunging into the ocean, the tops a lost world of mysterious plateaus. The topography occasionally broken by glacial valleys carved deep into the plateaus. From the high edges, waterfalls cascaded into the heavens. Water vapour hung in the air for a moment, stillness, then whipped into tumultuous vortices by downblasts of cold wind descending from the high escarpments. Whirlwinds scurried across the corrie lakes, vanishing as soon as they appeared. Violent ones swept down the valley out to sea. Sea birds and sailing vessels leant into the turbulence, before resuming their normal course.

  Even further to the north and east, the end of the land, just visible with the naked eye. Sea cliffs of unimaginable heights clouds billowing up and over vertical cliff faces. A mirage, a last bastion of land that drew closer in then further away, in touching distance, but out of sight, as the shafting sunlight burst through the clouds. Veiled light in a million shades of grey. Reflective liquid, grey-silver seas and grey to white sunlit clouds and in the far distance mirages of sky touching cliffs.

  A cold but strangely inviting limitless ocean, stirring the senses as each intense shaft of light swept through. The body, the mind, the heart, the soul were drawn irresistibly over the water to the far distant cliffs plunging defiantly into the sea.

  Septiem and his travelling crusaders were being drawn hypnotically to Land’s End. They followed the wave battered coastline under the shadow of high, flat topped escarpments. There was impending danger! The route would leave them exposed between the crashing ocean and slopes of the escarpments. There would be no refuge, but they must press on to Land’s End... courageous crusaders or lambs to the slaughter!? He sent word back along the winding, marching line, “Be ever vigilant! We are entering the realm of the Shamen of Land’s End!” Septiem had heard tales of this place on the northern edge of the known world, tales of magic and murderous deception, tales of innocent travellers being lured to their death, or worse taken as slaves by the cruel merciless Firbolg.

  Antiem, the much lamented king of the Tuathans, and father of the High Priestess Sceine, had warned warriors and travellers alike of the Shamen of Land’s End. Antiem’s forays into the Northern Province were legendary. He swept through, subdued and ultimately converted the majority of the Firbolg to the cause of the Light. Septiem’s mission was to rally those converted and to journey even further to the North and find the fabled Shamen of Land’s End, for they had powers even the dark Sidhe could not counter. It was crucial to find the shamanic Firbolg...

  The Shamen of Land’s End worshipped nature, their sacred site perched on the edge of the world. The path meandering along the coast and rocky outcrops was dotted with carved stone idols guiding the welcome traveller but warning the intruder...

  Ahead of them lay a rocky promontory. Volcanic igneous protrusions forced vertically out of the restless, heaving ocean. Rock carvings pointed to the edge of the world, and there a single massive Bluestone obelisk pierced the sky. The standing stone stood on a carved rock slab, teetering on the cliff edge, commanding the place where the elements of land, weather and ocean collided.

  “This must be the Portal of Land’s End!” he speculated. Septiem peered over the cliff edge. A tortuous path traversed down to a lower wave cut platform. Here, dark stains covered the rock surface and followed cracks and fissures to the heaving ocean below.

  The Shamen of Land’s End were notorious for their live sacrifices, appeasing their pagan deities with animal and human blood at the full moon...

  The energy of the full moon will energise the Bluestone and the veil will be close to the surface, permitting the Sidhe to pour forth, “Here is the source of the Shamanic magic!” Septiem surmised, “We must hope and pray the energy of the portal is still pure and uncorrupted!” With this Septiem turned to his crusaders, he nominated eight of them to stand guard over the portal, “We will go to find the Shamen, and return to witness a blood ceremony. Only then will we know if the Shamen can be trusted!”

  Septiem marched on in search of the Shamen, following the path inland towards the flat topped escarpments. They crossed a limestone wilderness of dry river beds and yawning cavernous caves.

  The march was treacherous over sharp edged clynts and grikes. Septiem felt uneasy, he could feel the veil was near and in such places was uncertain as to what might pour forth from the under world.

  As darkness descended they made camp on a stretch of weathered rock that gave a panoramic view of the area. A roaring, comforting fire was lit, fuelled by storm tossed and wind dried and aged sea kelp. To the west, back from whence they had come, another fire flickered on the coast line, lighting up the darkening indigo evening. Their fellow crusaders at the Portal of Land’s End...

  Septiem allowed his mind to drift. Relaxing with the sound of crashing waves, surging, ebbing, receding and surging again, flowing in an endless shushing and shishing, back and forth, calming and soothing...

  Then across his line of vision... a flash of orange light... broken from his reverie... he watched as the single flash became a procession... moving, swaying along the edge of the high escarpment... the procession growing all the time. Straining into the dark, his eyes focussed on figures holding swinging lanterns on tall pikes.The procession now descending and traversing the escarpment edges.

  The sheer faces looked impossible to negotiate. “These beings must have descended from mountain goats. How could they scale such precipitous faces?!” quizzed Septiem. Whoever they were they vastly outnumbered Septiem and his crusaders.

  The swaying line of orange lanterns grew closer and closer. The line still pouring down from the escarpment as the first of them reached the limestone carst. As Septiem feared, on this coast they had nowhere to hide... they had found the Shamen of Land’s End!

  From such a high vantage point the Shamen had been watching from the moment Septiem and his crusaders arrived in the Northern Province. He soon realised that resistance was futile, out numbered and strategically poorly located. All they could do was stand and watch and wait as the procession got closer. The swaying lanterns mesmerised them. Soon they were able to make out the beings holding them on the long pikes. In the vanguard, a group of fiercesome swordsmen, armed to the teeth and clad in black body armour, with a texture of compressed and woven turf.

  They approached to within a stones throw of the band of crusaders, wedging the pikes with lanterns into the limestone cracks and crevices. In the eerie orange glow the next group of advancing Shamen. They could not have been more different... slender, elegant beings, male and female, tall and graceful, dark skinned and handsome. Clad in woven flax and the same black body armour. They wielded lengthy spears and carried finely crafted bows with deadly sharp flint headed arrows in quivers slung over their should
ers. They too wedged pikes and lanterns into the rugged ground.

  The effect now was a wall of fiery orange light, growing in intensity all the time. Through the glare came the next group... they heard them before they saw them... hooves clattered on the hard brittle limestone... now came the legendary Horsemen of the North! Legend has it that they came from the under world, creatures sent by the Sidhe to protect the mortal realm. Half horse, half man, equine bodies with the torso and heads of man. Septiem and his crusaders gasped in awe and astonishment at these four legged, hooven warriors...

  Septiem had heard the mythical tales of these warriors of the North, allegedly they could not be defeated in battle... they must be converted to the cause of the Light... they would be the most stalwart of allies in the war against the dark one MacCuacht...

  Septiem stepped forward into the orange glow. He raised his arms, showing he carried no weapons. He bowed his head in deference...

  “No further Tuathan!” boomed a commanding voice from the orange glow. Septiem moved not a muscle. Through the orange fiery glow he began to make out a tall physically powerful Shamen.Evidently the leader, an imposing being with a fierce stare, and equally dramatic head of silver white dreadlocks falling over broad shoulders. Porcelain white flesh ...face, arms, torso, legs covered in tribal tattoos that appeared to move in empathy with his facial expressions.

  Septiem had heard of these genetic tattoos, or more accurately genetic birthmarks. They grew as the “wearer” grew and their magical powers strengthened... Natural, inherited powers honed and refined by Shamanic training and culture...

  Septiem looked across at the other Shamen. All in the “welcoming” committee were impressively endowed with the genetic tattoos. None could compare with this individual’s living etchings!

  Septiem dropped to his knees in further deference, clasping his hands together in a sign of peace.

  Sensing wisdom and genuine intent the Shamen’s demeanour lightened, “I am Magire the leader of the Shamen of Land’s End! Our tribes have fought long and hard through the ages. Many of us fought against your High King Antiem. Many of us and many of you were slain. Only now do we of the Shamen realise that there is a greater enemy... the dark one MacCuacht, who deceived us cruelly and slaughtered hundreds in the evil process. He enslaved many of our kind and turned them to the way of the dark! We now see that Antiem was an enlightened being!”

  Septiem acknowledged the praise for his great, now departed King, “We bow to your wisdom Magire! We come in peace, hopefully to convince you that we follow the way of the Light, and in time, you may join us in the cause, may the grace of the Great Spirit be upon you and your tribes!”

  Magire remained expressionless, though less threatening, “We will escort you to the high escarpment to talk further, and we will send a guard to assist you in protecting the Portal of Land’s End. The Bluestone must be protected! The dark Sidhe are encroaching throughout our sacred land! I will go to the Portal of Land’s End and make a sacrifice to the gods... I will join you soon... my wife Zendris will go with you to the escarpment...”

  Septiem was shocked at the prospect of a live sacrifice... animal he hoped! His shock soon abated as he was greeted by the hypnotically beautiful Zendris! She stood before him in all her glorious strange beauty. Dressed in an exquisite loose flowing silver fabric, her long white silver tresses fell over bare, ornately tattooed elegant shoulders. Grace beyond belief! Beauty beyond compare! Septiem was instantly bewitched! Entranced and under her spell...

  The siren Zendris was pleased at what she saw... Septiem was a handsome being... for a Tuathan!

  Zendris smiled alluringly at Septiem and gestured for him to follow... He followed willingly!

  Zendris smiled, she was used to such obedience and loyalty...

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN:

  THE FLIGHT OF EIRU

  Far, far to the west, in the lee of the Magine Islands, the remaining vessels of the Milesian fleet took shelter from the strengthening easterly wind. They waited for the sign from Amergin for them to come and join him...

  Milidh and Scota braced themselves at the helm of their royal barque. They stood transfixed, staring at the distant eastern horizon. They had watched as the encroaching storm front swallowed the high altitude peaks and rolled remorselessly towards the coast.

  The gusts were getting more violent by the minute, sweeping out westwards over the ocean towards the islands. Seabirds of every description flew ahead of the worsening weather seeking refuge on the precipitous slopes of the islands.

  Scota sensed they must make landfall, and soon! She also sensed Amergin and his brothers were in mortal danger! They searched the base of the towering cliffs for a safe haven... a place to drop anchor and a way to scale the island. The tide pushed in, the wind rose and the swell increased.

  They must find sanctuary!

  The fleet sailed along the leeward side of the smaller, but still towering, island. Nowhere to make landfall! The sails filled as they nosed out into the strait between the islands. They headed for the larger island... a sea mount so huge that clouds formed high over the towering cathedral spired peak. The clouds trailed far out into the ocean... seabirds glided and swooped and swirled ever upwards towards the summit of the pinnacle. The air alive with gannets, fulmars, gulls and seabirds of every description, a raucous, screeching cacophony resounded and echoed around the pinnacles and sea cliffs.

  Mid way between the islands the tidal race was so strong, wind pushed against waves creating standing waves out of nowhere. They were beaten and buffeted, pitched and pulled, tipped and tossed... then suddenly they were through, released from the tides grip and pushed into a place of relative tranquillity in the lee of the big island.

  Scota and Milidh looked back to see the fleet free from the watery mayhem, out of the wind now, protected from the swell. The tidal race reduced, the fleet drifted quietly, searching for an inlet or a wave cut platform and somewhere they could alight. As they edged around a huge sea stack, there before them the entrance of a cavernous sea cave. Shafts of piercing, brilliant sunlight illuminated the cave entrance, scattering fresh crystal clear water, dripping from the roof, into a myriad of rainbows, each drop of water sounding its own note, resonating deep into the cave. The pitch black sea cave seemed to beckon them in. The currents from the eddying tidal race took them in. Booming, surging swell pushed them deep into the sea cave. After what appeared like an eternity, in the pitch black, a flash of white as the wave broke against a wave cut platform at the back of the cathedral sized cave.

  Slowly drifting into the sea cave the shafts of light penetrated into the saline depths, fish, large and small, lulled and lolled back and forth in the sparkling, dappled waters. Green, brown and turquoise infused with undulating fronds and strands of seaweed and kelp, intense colour then dark as they drifted in and out of the sunlight, through the gaping mouth of the cave and to the shadowy innards.

  The strengthening wind and building swell forced them deep in to the sea cave. Scota turned to Milidh, expressing her mixed and confused emotions, “I have never seen such a vast sea cave. The scale is immense, almost other worldly!” Milidh agreed the shelter was welcome, but the sea cave forbidding. Their voices echoed and resounded in the high vaulted chamber...

  The water was so deep they had to tether themselves to stalagmites rising up from the wave cut platform. The black water was disturblngly deep. They were in fear of being sucked out of the entrance as set waves roared through and the tidal level dropped. The tethers were made sure and tight! This was their haven while the storm raged outside...

  Two of the fleet arrived late to moor in the sea cave. They had been fishing in the lee of the island sending out long lines to the plummeting depths. Hook upon hook baited with glistening, flashing sand eels caught on their journey to the sea mount. They had slowly drifted with the tide, jigging and jagging their lines. The racing tide scoured feed from the sea bed, an endless stream of Mackerel were heaved on deck. The upwelling curre
nts around the sea mount created rich feeding grounds. The fishing vessels now appeared through the curtain of rainbows at the sea cave entrance.

  “Shelter and food!” exclaimed Milidh in delight, “Praise the Great Spirit!”

  From the gunnels of their vessels, stores of dried seaweed and pine cuttings were taken to the rocky platform. They were intending to smoke the fish. Very soon the first spark lit, the bone dry pine cuttings, and the seaweed smouldered with a rich, thick, aromatic smoke. Billowing clouds of the sea weed smoke filled the cave... fresh fish was gutted, cleaned and cured in the acrid smoke within the hour, food for the feast that evening and some for the stores.

  Green, gelatinous sea weed that clung to the rocks beneath the tide line was thrown into a monster cooking pot, together with limpets, sea urchins and the odd scavenging crab. The pot filled to the brim and gently simmered. The smoked fish added to make a rich, thick oceanic chowder.The crew were salivating as the almost edible pungent aromas filled the cavernous chamber.

  Scota watched contentedly as the mariner’s, male and female, scooped ladel upon steaming ladel in to capacious wooden bowls. Appreciative grunts, slurps and belches echoed around the sea cave as they fed their smiling, appreciative faces and now bulging bellies.

  Scota watched the sawdust and sea weed smoke curl and swirl high into the cavern. Some of the thick, acrid curing smoke swept high up in to the vaulted ceiling and then was sucked out of the cave entrance by the increasingly intense and frequent gusts that roared like freight trains past the island. She noticed how some of the fragranced smoke curled away from the main stream, ascended into the blackness of the cave and was gone. No matter how she squinted and strained in to the lofty blackness, she could not make out any natural chimney or escape route. Her mind and her imagination played tricks with her... the grey plumes of seaweed smoke clung to the cave wall in regular organised shapes, “Were those steps carved into the cavernous chamber!?”