The King of Sleep

by Caiseal Mor

  “If you listen to my advice and do not question me, you will have whatever you desire,” she assured him. “I’ve told you that many times before.”

  “Why are you helping me?” Eber asked suspiciously. “Why are you betraying your people to aid my cause?”

  Isleen smiled but she didn’t answer.

  “Why are you afraid that Fineen the Danaan Druid will find out you are dwelling with me? Why don’t you want my own people to know that you have been acting as my adviser?”

  “You have a suspicious mind,” she chided. “That’s a good thing for a king. Especially an ambitious one. As a matter of fact I don’t see my collusion with you to be an act of betrayal at all. As for Fineen, he has his reasons for mistrusting me. Well-founded reasons, I might add.”

  She stepped closer to the king, close enough to run a finger down his cheek. “You see, my dear king, one day I intend to marry you. One day I will be your queen. What do you think of that?”

  The Gaedhal breathed in a deep draught of her sweet scent. It reminded him of lavender mixed with a delicate touch of early morning dew in the springtime.

  “I like the idea,” Eber grinned, as intoxicated as if he’d swallowed a measure of mead. The soulful sparkle in her deep green eyes always enthralled him and he silently surrendered his spirit.

  “You must realize that I’ve gained a few enemies during my life,” Isleen went on. “Folk like Fineen would rather see me banished than wed to a king.”

  Eber frowned, wondering what crimes she had committed that would inspire such hatred from her own folk. Isleen saw the concern on his face and spoke before he had an opportunity to give voice to his doubts.

  “I don’t want to wed a weak ruler,” she warned. “I want a king who truly is the lord of all the land. I want to live in luxury. I want to feast until I’m full, and sleep sound in the knowledge that no man would dare attempt to take this life away from me.”

  “You shall have that assurance.”

  “But how?” Isleen shrugged. “How can you promise me such security while your brother is arming for war? As we speak he’s planning to come here and take your hard-won kingdom away from you.”

  “If Éremon marches into my kingdom I’ll be ready for him,” Eber stated.

  “Will you? And will you rely on your own young warriors to defend the south?”

  “It was always our plan to bring your people in to help me,” the king reminded her. “I’ve already invited Brocan to the midsummer feast. I plan to win his confidence then and gain his aid.”

  “There’s only one way to ensure an alliance with the Fir-Bolg,” Isleen countered. “And that is by bond of marriage.”

  “I’ll gladly marry you to forge that bond.”

  The woman laughed out loud, laying the palm of her hand against his chest to steady herself. Eber relished her touch and smiled back, utterly captivated by everything about her.

  “I am nothing to my people but a wandering Druid,” she explained. “Marriages of alliance are not forged with the daughter of a homeless poet. The woman you wed must be of noble blood, preferably the offspring of a war-leader or a king.”

  “I thought you said you wanted to marry me?” Eber frowned.

  “And so I will one day when your first wife has served her purpose. For a while we will have to continue to conceal our feelings for one another. Do you think you can do that?”

  Eber nodded. Isleen smiled. That is what they had been doing for the last three winters.

  “I very much doubt you will be able to keep your intentions to yourself indefinitely,” she scoffed mischievously. “But we’ll worry about that problem when it arises.”

  She ran her fingers through his brown hair and cupped his head in her hands. “I’ve arranged for a suitable candidate,” she told him softly. “You’ll meet her soon enough if all goes to plan.”

  Then she kissed the king lightly on the lips.

  “She’s the daughter of King Brocan of the Fir-Bolg whose people live on the Burren. Her folk once held an ancient enmity against the Danaans but she has spent much time among those folk. She is a Druid in training who is not attentive to her studies. She would rather have been chosen to the warrior class. Her discontent will make it easy for us to persuade her father that marriage would be better suited to her.”

  Eber opened his mouth to ask a question but she kissed his lips lightly again to silence him. “She is under punishment for a misdeed committed against the Danaan king, Cecht.”

  “Cecht is the king I should be seeking alliance with,” the king cut in. “The Fir-Bolg are too few to swing the balance in my favor.”

  “The Danaans will not come to your aid. And even if they cared about your trifling concerns Cecht still bears a grudge against you.”

  “I suppose he doesn’t think that kindly of me,” Eber admitted.

  “You didn’t treat him with much honor,” Isleen reminded him. “He was your prisoner before the Battle of Sliabh Mis. You should have taken care of him and offered him your best food and mead. You could have given him a decent bed at least.”

  “He was rude to me.”

  “You captured him in the dead of night and dragged him away with the wife of the Fir-Bolg king, with whom I suspect he was engaged in a recreation best played out by moonlight. Not only did you break the Brehon laws governing war, you also announced to the world that King Cecht and Queen Riona were out alone together beyond the confines of Dun Burren at midnight. It was very embarrassing for everyone concerned.”

  Eber dropped his eyes to the ground, trying to shrug off the reprimand. “I might have done a better job if you had stayed by my side,” he noted. “But you decided to abandon me in my hour of need.”

  “You were being stubborn and tiresome,” Isleen dismissed. “What was I to do?

  “Fortunately everything has worked out for the best,” she went on. “Riona decided to divorce her husband King Brocan of the Fir-Bolg and I believe all parties are well pleased with the way things turned out. I’ve heard her bless the chance that brought you to capture her with Cecht because afterward she was forced to make a choice between her husband and her lover.”

  Isleen stopped for a moment to admire the golden torc around the king’s neck, that ornament which marked his office and his standing with his people. She continued.

  “Riona couldn’t go back to her husband after that. She chose to act before old Brocan had the chance to accuse her of infidelity. If he’d brought such a charge against her she could have lost all her worldly goods and gone to Cecht without any possessions or dowry.”

  Isleen took a breath while she waited to see if Eber was following her tale.

  “So because her secret tryst with Cecht was exposed to the world, Riona left her husband?” the king asked.

  “Indeed she did,” Isleen smiled. “I think I can safely say you have her on your side. Riona is a formidable woman who may be relied on to remember those who have served her well. But don’t expect her to do anything more than remember your service.”

  “She is the mother of this woman you’d have me wed?”

  “Your future wife is every bit her mother’s daughter. She has the same red hair, the same cold green eyes and the same self-serving nature.”

  “What’s her name, this woman?”

  “She’s called Aoife,” Isleen told him. “I’ve been watching her for a long time. She is perfectly suited to our purposes.”

  “How long will it be before my brother loses patience with me and marches his warriors south?”

  “You haven’t given in to his demand for taxes and tribute, have you?”

  “Of course not!”

  “He won’t come this summer,” Isleen assured him. “He still has the harvest to bring in. But we can expect him at snow-melt for certain.”

  “That doesn’t give us much time.”

  “At the feast of Samhain, the Danaans who have not crossed over to the Otherworld and the FirBolg will send their representatives t
o you for the ceremonial planting of the sacred Quicken Tree. By then you must win over young Aoife if you are to have any hope of gaining an alliance with those folk.”

  “Win her over?” Eber frowned. “I don’t understand you.”

  “Aoife is young and inexperienced,” Isleen explained. “Encourage her love and she will go to the Danaan court in your name to present your plea for help. They will listen to one of their own.”

  “And what will become of this girl when my brother has been defeated?”

  “I have set aside a place where no man will ever find her, though they search for a thousand winters. For although she is a Fir-Bolg she has been gifted with Danaan immortality so she cannot be eliminated completely. But she must be kept apart from her kind forever.”

  “I’ll be High-King?”

  “Without question.”

  “When?” Eber pressed.

  “I’ll tell you all in good time, my dear,” Isleen laughed.

  Then she leaned forward to kiss Eber once more. This time she flooded him with her passion and he closed his eyes to savor her scent and touch. Soft fingers stroked the back of his neck and Eber Finn groaned with pleasure.

  Then Isleen suddenly pushed him away with the palm of her hand, turned and strode purposefully toward the chariot.

  “So, Eber Finn of the Twenty War-carts,” she taunted, “High-King of all Eirinn and Master of the Warrior Circle, I think it’s time you took me for a ride on the back of your chariot.”

  The king laughed, sheathed his sword and brushed the dirt from his backside. Then he sauntered after her with half-closed eyes. And not for the first time he blessed the day he’d met Isleen of the Teasing Fingertips.

  Dalan followed the Druid woman a short distance until they came to a densely wooded grove. They picked their way through the trees for no more than sixty paces before Sorcha halted and turned to face her guest.

  “Say nothing,” she whispered in an urgent hiss. “No matter what you see ahead of you, don’t let a sound pass your lips. If you do you will offend my guardians. And I will not be responsible for what happens to you afterward.”

  Dalan nodded, pressing his tongue hard against his teeth so he wouldn’t be able to utter a sound.

  Sorcha looked him sternly in the eye, then turned on her heel and marched down the narrow track which cut its winding way between the trees.

  Dalan tried hard to stay a few steps behind her, but he began to feel an unnatural fear descend upon him. It was as if the trees themselves were alive with a menace so all-pervasive it stifled every little noise within the woods. The air was thick as if no breeze had passed through the forest in many seasons.

  The Brehon’s throat was dry; his hands sweated profusely. Dalan tried to calm down, telling himself Sorcha’s house could not be too much further. But with each pace he felt his heart falter as fear gave way to unspeakable terror. He began to question the wisdom of placing himself so entirely in this woman’s hands.

  At length they came to an arched gateway formed by the intertwined branches of two mighty oak trees. Sorcha stopped again to put a finger emphatically to her lips. The Brehon asked himself what possible force could be so malign as to be stirred by the voice of a stranger.

  The perspiration rolled down his forehead and his breath came in short shallow draughts. He thought his body would collapse with the overwhelming sense of threat that seeped up through the ground into the soles of his feet with every step as they passed under the arched gate.

  He glimpsed a shape ahead of him to one side of the path and at first he thought it was a small child waiting. But as they got closer he noticed the shape was perfectly still.

  In seconds he could make out the detail of a crudely carved face. The features were long and drawn like those of a carrion bird. The body was hunched and twisted, half Raven, half human.

  But it was the eyes that turned the Brehon’s blood to ice. Orbs of fluid blackness they were. And though carved out of a dead tree trunk they gave this sculpture life, and an air of deadly hatred.

  Panic gripped poor Dalan’s heart. Sorcha might have warned him not to speak but the Brehon was so profoundly frightened he was incapable of speech.

  As he drew level with the statue he stopped in his tracks. As much as he wanted to be away from this terrifying sculpture he could not step beyond it. Frozen to the spot as if held by an invisible hand, Dalan began to shake, the spasms spreading through every muscle in his body.

  Sorcha didn’t notice his predicament. She was soon gone beyond his sight and he was left entirely alone on the path.

  The Brehon stood there in almost utter darkness for what seemed hours. He was unable to move his feet forward and unwilling to try. But the Raven was no less frightening in the shadows; indeed it was more so. And Dalan swore he saw the eyes twinkle once or twice as they coldly regarded him.

  Just as the Brehon thought his legs would give way under him, Sorcha returned, searching for her guest along the path. She walked straight up to him, took his hand and half dragged him past the statue. The moment he was beyond the reach of those dark eyes his journey became a little easier. Until the next sculpture loomed ahead and Sorcha had to coax him gently on again. Ten more Ravens stood as sentinels to her home. And even when Dalan came to the last one he was still as frightened as he had been when he’d encountered the first.

  “We’re here,” the Druid woman whispered. “You’ve done well to keep silent.”

  Dalan still didn’t dare answer nor make any sound. But he frowned when he noticed nothing before him but a bare grassy hill.

  Sorcha smiled, pleased her illusion had taken him in.

  “I live under the ground,” she explained with a wink.

  And with that simple phrase she banished all Dalan’s fears. There was something in the sparkle of her eyes and her patient manner that reminded him of Cuimhne. As he looked at Sorcha now he was all the more convinced he’d met her in another place, perhaps while he was under the influence of the Faidh.

  The young woman strode forward, knelt down and fumbled for something in the grass. When she stood up again she dragged on a heavy object and to Dalan’s surprise an opening appeared in the hillside. The Druid woman removed a perfect circle of grass, laid it down on the ground, then motioned for him to follow her.

  The soft glow of candlelight spilled forth from this opening in the earth. The honey-golden luminescence spoke of safety and welcome. Dalan bowed low as he followed the Druid woman into her hall, then the door slid down upon its hinges behind him and shut out the woodland spirits.

  The first thing the Brehon noticed was a tinge of fragrant smoke and the aroma of a hot meal bubbling gently by a fire. He took a deep draught of this sweet air and felt the homeliness of it seep into his bones. This house was a sanctuary from the terrors waiting outside the door.

  Sorcha took off her brown breacan cloak as Dalan surveyed the interior of the dwelling. The building was perfectly circular, exactly the same as any FirBolg home. Nine thick posts of oak supported the roof. There was plenty of room but the air was unusually smoky. The Brehon soon understood why.

  As he peered toward the roof timbers he realized there was no chimney hole in the ceiling. So the smoke from the fire in the center of the chamber had to filter out through the layers of turf and sod above. This design was more primitive than he was accustomed to but Dalan didn’t mind the slight discomfort.

  Sorcha had everything she needed here. Cooking pots and herbs hung from the rafters. A huge barrel of what he guessed was water stood beside the door. Skins and furs were curing all about the place, aided by the smoky air. And an empty butter churn stood near a beautifully carved low-set Brandubh table.

  “Take off that cloak!” Sorcha demanded tersely. “And put it out of sight.”

  Taken aback by her gruff tone, Dalan did as she told him without a word, obediently hanging his cloak up by the door and covering it over with her plain breacan. He must have offended her in some way, though he did not
know how. He turned to offer her an apology but what he saw rendered him speechless. High in the rafters a dark shape moved slightly, just enough to draw attention to its presence.

  Dalan couldn’t breathe. Once more he was paralyzed with the same fear he had known in the woods. There was another movement in the dark rafters.

  Then, in a sudden flurry of black wings, a Raven dived down from its perch and landed on the Brandubh table, scattering pieces this way and that.

  And never for a moment did the carrion bird take her gaze from the Brehon.

  Sorcha busied herself filling two wooden bowls with broth from a small cauldron which hung over the fire. She didn’t seem to notice the sudden appearance of this disturbing black shadow.

  “Will you take some food with me?” she asked.

  The Brehon nodded. But the Druid woman wasn’t watching.

  “What’s that?” Sorcha asked again when she heard no reply.

  “I will take some food. Yes please.”

  “It’s good to hear you’ve not lost your voice in the evening air.”

  “I didn’t expect to journey through such a grove after sunset,” he ventured. “It has been an unnerving experience.”

  “You kept your head remarkably well.”

  The Raven clicked her beak, making the Brehon jump.

  “Is something wrong?” Sorcha inquired.

  “What’s the bird’s name?” Dalan stuttered, gesturing in the Raven’s direction.

  The great black carrion creature set about preening herself, but the Brehon was sure she was taking careful note of everything he said and each tiny move he made.

  “I’ve never asked her,” Sorcha shrugged as she placed a steaming bowl in Dalan’s hand. “Would you like some oatcakes?”

  He nodded.

  “They’ll be a little while yet. I’ve just laid them out to bake among the coals.”

  The Raven stretched her wings out, opened her mouth wide and yawned.

  “I’ve never seen a bird do that before,” the Brehon commented. “I’ve seen dogs yawn, and cats, but never a Raven.”

  “When you were a child, weren’t you taught that it’s rude to stare?” Sorcha snapped. “That bird lives with me. She’s my companion. If I knew her name I probably wouldn’t be able to pronounce it to her satisfaction. It doesn’t interest me. Only our kind are concerned with naming things. All the other inhabitants of this Earth use other means to identify each other.”