by Caiseal Mor
“Have you taken the Quicken Brew?” Lochie asked.
“I was the brewer,” Fineen told him.
The Watcher smiled. This healer was the key he’d been searching for. Now there was a hope of disposing of Brocan as he had planned. “I am going to enjoy this,” he sniggered. “If only all those who cooked up remedies were also forced to take them. We’re going to put your recipe to the test. I want to know to what extent the Quicken Brew will preserve life and limb. It must have its limitations.”
“If I tell you what you want to know, will you release me?”
Lochie could hardly believe his luck. He had intended to conduct a few tests of his own on this Druid. Now it seemed Fineen was willing to save him the bother and tell him everything he knew about the Quicken Brew.
“You’re willing to divulge such information? I would’ve thought you’d want to guard it with your life”
“You’d find some way to learn the secret anyway,” Fineen noted. “You’re a shape-shifter. It would be no trouble for you to find out anything you wished to know. So I might as well tell you and save us both a lot of bother.”
“You are wise,” Lochie conceded. “I’ll allow you to leave when I have the information I am seeking.”
“Very well. I’ll tell you all there is to know about the Quicken Brew.”
Lochie bowed in a gesture of thanks. He caught his captive’s eye as he straightened up. Suddenly flames erupted and a small fire appeared between them. It was set in a fireplace constructed just like any central hearth.
Fineen was still gasping when he stumbled sideways onto a sturdy three-legged stool. He almost fell but caught himself and was left leaning heavily on it for support. His eyes were unbelieving.
“Take a seat and tell me your tale,” Lochie hummed as he squatted by the fire.
Hesitating a moment, the healer drew the stool up to the fire. Then he sat down to face the Watcher, ready to relate the story.
Of the many legends, tales, songs and epic poems, none were so ancient, so shrouded by the mists of time, as the story of the Quicken. Arcane motifs had been added to the telling of it and it was only a skilled tale-weaver who could discern their meaning.
When the empire of the Islands of the West was entering decline the Druid herbalists of that time stumbled on one of nature’s great secrets. Afraid of the ramifications of their find the Druids jealously guarded the discovery. However, it was generally agreed by scholars of the histories that they’d hit upon some hidden key to the mystery of procreation. Whatever the truth, within twelve seasons there were new grains being cultivated that could withstand high rainfall or dry spells.
Elated by their success the Druids applied to their assembly to continue investigations along this path. The Druid Assembly attested to the value of the work but expressed concern at such tampering with nature’s ways. The herbalists were challenged to find an unquestionable advantage to justify the continuation of this study.
The wisest of the Druid healers were called in to help. And within nine summers the Quicken Tree was planted as a sapling.
It was claimed that a berry from this tree could cure all ills in man and beast alike. And what is more, whoever consumed its broth would live forever without blemish of time or mark of age.
The Druid Assembly were unanimously appalled at such a prospect and they outlawed the Druid herbalist who was custodian of the tree, banishing him beyond the waves. And for good measure they ordered all his work be censured indefinitely. The Druid healer left the Islands of the West and came to Innisfail. With him he brought some berries from the Quicken.
In time he was accepted by the Danaan folk for he had great skill as a healer and herbalist. In secret he cultivated his own Quicken, never speaking of its mysteries to anyone except his apprentice. That young woman guarded the tree throughout her lifetime and passed the secrets on to her student.
And that was how, Fineen explained, he had come to be the latest in the line of healers whose knowledge descended from that first outlawed Druid. That was how he came to be the Guardian of the Tree, Keeper of the Quicken Berries. And only one other Druid alive knew the recipe for the healing brew.
Lochie listened to Fineen’s account with rapt attention. When the healer had finished the Watcher asked the question that was at the forefront of his thoughts.
“Is there any way the effects of the Quicken Brew may be annulled?”
“If anyone who has tasted the brew should fail to take it at least once in every turning of the seasons, they may suffer some malady,” Fineen asserted. “But no one knows exactly what form that might take. The knowledge has been lost down the generations.”
“And any sickness may be cured by the brew?”
“If one who has taken the brew falls ill, the effects of the sickness will last but a short while, perhaps no longer than the time it takes for a small cauldron of water to boil.”
“And wounds are healed completely?”
“In a much shorter time,” Fineen confirmed with a nod.
“But does the brew keep hunger at bay?”
“No. In fact I find my appetite much improved since taking the brew.”
“And if, for instance, no food were available?”
“Do you mean what would happen if there was famine in the land?”
Lochie nodded.
The healer held a hand to his chin to consider the question. “I have no idea,” he admitted at last. “All I can say is that there have been a few occasions where I’ve been observing a fast as part of my duties and at each time IVe felt incredibly sleepy. Not merely tired but totally exhausted to the point where I had to be helped out of bed on the third morning of the fast.”
“Have others attested to this?”
“Yes,” Fineen answered. “Dalan and I were joking about it the other day.”
The healer stopped short. “I’ve told you what I know,” he said. “Now set me free.”
Lochie stood up and shrugged. Then he smiled and there was an unusual warmth in his expression.
“Fineen,” the Watcher began, “you’ve been most helpful. I’d be happy to release you.”
He paused, held out a hand to the fire and the flames dropped down.
“But the truth is, I can’t afford to,” he went on. “I need to do some work among the Fir-Bolg and you have provided me with the perfect disguise. To that end I’ve decided I will keep you here for a while.”
“No,” Fineen whispered.
“I can’t leave you any food but I can assure you the fire won’t go out,” Lochie continued. “So you’ll be warm and dry at least. The water from the springs in these caves is drinkable so you won’t thirst.”
“How long do you intend to leave me here?”
“A few moons, no more.”
“I’ll be missed.”
“No you won’t. I’ll be taking your place.”
With these words Lochie’s face transformed before the healer’s eyes. And for the first time in his life Fineen saw himself as others saw him. This was no mirror image glimpsed in a clear pool. This was how he appeared to the world.
His fascination overcame his panic. “What do you hope to achieve by this?”
“I don’t want to let on just yet,” Lochie said, and his voice was Fineen’s own. “All will become clear with time. Do not fear, I won’t let any harm come to you.”
“Abandoning me here in this cave will hardly be good for my health!” the healer added sarcastically.
The Watcher came a little closer then and spoke in a sympathetic tone. “You may not believe me, but I would not wish anything to happen to you.”
“I’ll be missed.”
Lochie shook his head. “No one will even guess that you are biding your time in the depths of these caves. Why would they when they will see you going about your normal daily business as if nothing was wrong? I must admit you could have posed me quite a problem. I mean to say, I can’t kill you, can I? The best I can hope is to store you some
where for a while.”
The Watcher looked around the chamber mockingly, his arms held wide. He smiled but managed to restrain his laughter. When he spoke again his tone was threatening.
“There’s no sense trying to escape. I’ve sealed the entrance to this cavern. None of Brocan’s folk have ever come this deep so they won’t notice the changes I’ve made. Go where you will within this domain. But you should understand you are beyond aid. No one can hear your cries nor witness your tears.”
“But what will become of me? I may drift into an unending sleep if there’s no food for me to eat. No one really knows enough about the Quicken brew to state confidently whether there may be some adverse result.”
Fineen looked away in anguish.
“Well, my friend, we shall just have to wait and see.”
Lochie placed a hand lightly on Fineen’s shoulder.
The captive turned to face his tormentor, but though Fineen could still feel the pressure of a hand upon his shoulder, the Watcher was already gone. The fire blew up, warming the healer but not cheering him.
It was much later that the shock of all that had happened finally hit the forsaken Danaan Druid. But it was long after that he sat down upon the stool in defeat, placed his head in his hands and sobbed.
At the same moment Lochie was revealing his impersonation of the Fir-Bolg king to the healer, Brocan himself was shut away with his closest adviser. Fergus the Veteran, friend and confidant of the king, lay down by the fire, carefully considering a strategy for the Brandubh contest.
The gaming board was a short-legged table no higher than a baby’s knee on which was carved the signs which marked its purpose. Seven squares measured each of the four sides, with a central place for the white warlord High-King. The white pieces had been turned from the teeth of a walrus. And the twelve dark Ravens were gouged out of the hearts of rare black stones.
This table had been crafted in the days of long ago when the Fir-Bolg were fighting off the Danaans. In those times the white pieces on the board, the kings, represented the four tribes of their people. And the fifth piece, the warlord, symbolized their chosen king, their savior in time of mutual threat.
Now only two tribes of the Fir-Bolg remained after having gradually absorbed the other two. In the west and south of Innisfail the Cairaighe held sway. Brocan and the Burren folk were of this kindred. In the north and east the Cruitne were predominant. Many of those folk had moved on to the eastern land of Alban since the coming of the Danaans.
So this gaming board had seen the fortunes of the Fir-Bolg fall and rise throughout the generations. And now once more, as many times before, the floor of the king’s house was laid with furs and the board had been set by the fire for competition.
The king lay stretched out opposite his chief counselor, the two challenging each other with strategies while they tried to put to rest the problems of their people.
Fergus laid a large hand on one of the dark pieces and shifted it along the board. Then he sighed and rolled on his back to stare aimlessly at the ceiling. Brocan frowned, leaning his arm on the corner of the table as he sat up. He picked up his wooden cup and drained the last drops of mead. He reached over for a doeskin bag, removed its stopper, poured himself a cupful and then offered the skin to his friend.
Fergus considered the offer for a few seconds then shook his head. He didn’t want to arrive at his mother’s house smelling of mead. Brocan sighed with frustration. “Where are they?” he fumed. “Lorn and Aoife should have been back by now.”
The veteran didn’t even bother to reply. He’d heard this question twenty times since the game began.
“Try to relax,” Fergus advised. “Even if Aoife and Lorn were here right now you would be no closer to finding a solution or making a decision.”
“I would be if you could offer some advice! But all you do is move your pieces and lie upon your back. You haven’t said a word since I told you about the message from King Eber and his suggestion of alliance.”
“I’ve been considering all that you’ve said,” Fergus protested. “I want to be sure I have explored all the possibilities in my mind before I utter any word that might be interpreted as advice.”
“Do you think you’ll be ready to comment before dawn tomorrow?” Brocan snapped.
“It’s just passing sunset now,” the veteran assured him. “It’s very generous of you to give me so much time to think about it.”
This comment stopped the king. He couldn’t be sure whether Fergus was joking. And he never found out for at that moment the leather flap over the doorway lifted and a warrior poked his head through.
“My lord, your son wishes to speak with you.”
“He’s arrived at last!” Brocan huffed. “Send Lom in to me immediately.”
The sentry coughed nervously. “It isn’t Lom, my lord, it’s Sárán.”
The king sighed as he stretched out by the Brandubh table again. “That bloody misfit! Very well, let him in. But bring Lom and Aoife to me the very instant they return.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Immediately Sárán opened the flap and entered. It was clear by the dour expression on his face he’d heard the whole exchange. Brocan made no move to greet his son so the young man came no further into the house.
Fergus lay still, staring at the ceiling, unwilling to say a word lest it be read by the king as lending support to Sárán.
“Don’t bother to rise,” the young man began, seeing they weren’t about to anyway. “I’ve come to tell you I delivered your message. Aoife, Lom and the others were at Dun Burren playing warriors. When I arrived your daughter, ever the gentle Druid, had just rendered Iobhar of the Gaedhals unconscious with a knee applied enthusiastically to his groin.”
“What?” cried the king.
“When I departed, Mahon was preparing to carry the poor foreigner back here upon his shoulders. I expect that is why they’re so far behind me.”
“She was playing at warriors again?” Brocan snarled.
“With her lover, Mahon, son of Cecht, spurring her on,” Sárán added, relishing the pain his words were causing. “She is certainly in violation of the Druid prohibition against such behavior. I will be bringing this matter up with her tutor.”
“Be quiet!” the king bellowed. “This is none of your affair. I forbid you to interfere.”
Brocan sat up and looked at Sárán for the first time. “Get out of my sight. Go back to your master Fineen. I have no further use for you.”
Sárán bowed low as he lifted the leather flap and left the house.
“You shouldn’t be so hard on the lad,” Fergus advised. “One day you’ll regret your sour treatment of him”
“I only regret the day he was born,” Brocan grunted. “He’s never been anything but trouble.”
“He’s just a lad.”
“He betrayed me by stealing the Cauldron of Plenty which was awarded to me by the Druid Assembly. He handed my honor over to my enemies. Prior to that he affronted the Warrior Circle with an unprovoked attack under the very mantle of a truce. He is trouble and I bless the day when Fineen took him away from me once and for all.”
“You’ve since forgiven your enemies,” the veteran noted.
“I expect my foes to take advantage of my weaknesses. I expect betrayal at their hand. I don’t expect it from my son.”
“I have a suggestion,” the veteran cut in.
“I’ve heard enough of Sárán for one day!” Brocan boomed.
“I was referring to your other children,” Fergus sighed, refusing to be baited into a fight. “I was talking about Aoife. Have you come to a decision about her future in the holy orders?”
“I have a mind to wed her to the King of the Gaedhals. I made the decision while I was waiting for you.” The king sighed then he took a mouthful of mead and lay down by the table once more to listen to the views of his trusted confidant. Fergus hardly flinched at the news. He was used to Brocan’s abrupt manner.
“It’s well known she has no love for the Druid Circle,” his friend shrugged. “If you can negotiate her withdrawal from the order she would be free to train as a warrior as she wishes. But if, as her guardian, you command her to marry Eber, she will refuse.”
“She only has eyes for that Danaan Mahon,” Brocan shot back. “Her mother left me for his father. It must be in the blood.”
“Mahon has nothing to do with it,” the veteran retorted. “She will defy you because you have ordered her to do something she might otherwise have done with or without your approval.”
“I don’t understand what you’ve saying.”
“Tell Aoife about the offer of alliance the King of the Gaedhals has sent. Send Lom and Aoife to Eber’s court as your emissaries. And before they go, give them a stern warning about the consequences of misbehavior.”
“That will only ensure they both cause havoc,” Brocan hissed indignantly.
“That’s what you want them to do.”
The king shook his head and sat up again. “Why?” he asked, confused.
“If Aoife is provoked in the right way she’ll marry Eber of her own free will, no need for persuasion of any kind. And that will guarantee your treaty of alliance with the Gaedhals. I agree, there is no other way to secure such an agreement. Marriage into the nobility of the Gaedhals is the only way.”
“My only concern is that she will resent me for bargaining with her life in this manner,” Brocan admitted.
“She’ll thank you, in time,” Fergus sighed. “It’s clear she’s not content with the life of a Druid in training. Everyone knows it, especially her teacher, Dalan. He’s spoken with you about his frustration with her. Let her be what she wishes and do as she pleases with her life. She’s too headstrong to follow any other path.”
“Will Dalan agree with you?” the king asked.
“Only Dalan has the authority to reverse his verdict against her. He is the one who set her on this path in penance for her misdeeds. You must ask him.”