by Caiseal Mor
Fergus smiled at his friend. They embraced briefly, and then the veteran was gone into the night.
Chapter 9
IT WAS STILL DARK OUTSIDE WHEN DALAN WOKE WITH A start. Sorcha was standing by him in the firelight, kicking his foot lightly to stir him. It was a few moments before he sat up and stretched his arms to the ceiling.
Then he was overtaken by a sudden violent fit of coughing that had him gasping for breath.
“Bring up all that silt,” Sorcha soothed as she patted his back. “A night in a sod house with a peat fire burning does wonders for clearing out the chest.”
Dalan couldn’t answer her but if he’d been able to he would have suggested that the thick smoke in the room could hardly be considered good for the health.
It was quite a while before the coughing passed and the Brehon was able to stand. Then he draped his cloak over his shoulders, grabbed his traveling pack and headed outside into the clean air.
“I’ll wait for you out there,” he gasped.
The Druid woman grunted assent as she gathered her gear for the journey and piled the furs against one wall. The sky was beginning to brighten at the approach of sunrise by the time she joined Dalan outside.
“We must hurry if I’m to make it to the spring by dawn,” she told him. “Are you up to it?”
“I’ve completely recovered,” the Brehon stated confidently.
“You don’t travel very much any more, do you?” she asked.
Dalan shook his head. “I seem to spend most of my time at King Brocan’s side, helping him sort out his troubles. When I do go off journeying it’s rare I have the opportunity to wander as I please. The joy of traveling seems to have deserted me so that even when Tm off trudging the roads my thoughts are not free to roam as they will.”
“Well this little adventure should change all that,” she slapped his shoulder. “It’s probably time you got yourself fit again.”
She set off along the path to the spring, Dalan following close behind. With the approaching dawn lighting their way and knowing what to expect, the Raven idols were not as disturbing to the Brehon as they had been.
Dalan stayed close behind Sorcha nevertheless. The thought of becoming lost in this wild wood did not appeal to him. There was an ancient menacing spirit about the place, primal, savage and barbarous. And he wasn’t ready to encounter it just yet.
By the time they came to the spring the sky was a light gray-blue and cloudless. Sorcha busied herself with preparations for the fire ritual of morning, a rite Dalan had only heard whispered rumors about.
When he was an apprentice Brehon, twenty winters ago, his teacher had warned him about the Ritual of the Sun. It was an arcane practice, it was said, which stirred the power within Sun and Earth. The energy thus raised by the celebrant was immeasurable and unpredictable.
It was this force, so the story goes, that led directly to the destruction of the Islands of the West in days gone by. For the Druids of old used it to their own purposes and the spirit of veneration which lay behind the ritual was neglected and forgotten.
There were some, of course, who always kept the true meaning and purpose of the ritual sacred. But they made their devotions in secret for fear of persecution.
The details of the practice were handed down the generations of Druids as a sacred secret to be shared with only one person, usually a student. So careful had the keepers of the ritual been that even one such as Dalan had never witnessed it. And he had traveled the length and breadth of Innisfail. He’d been nominated to the highest office in the Druid Circle. He’d met most of the traveling Druids of the orders and indulged in endless discussions about the forces of nature and how they might be summoned to a just cause. Yet still he had never seen the Ritual of the Sun.
Sorcha knelt down at the fire pit which had been gouged out of the rocks next to the spring. She carefully placed splinters of wood within, blessing each as she did so. Then she gathered some dry grass and leaves for kindling.
“May I learn from you?” Dalan ventured.
The Druid woman looked down to where he was standing by the spring.
“Come up here then,” she replied after a few moments consideration.
The Brehon was suddenly excited. He felt as though he was about to be initiated into a great mystery.
“Though the details and the practice have long been kept guarded,” Sorcha told him, “this rite requires no special knowledge or learning. Anyone may take part in it and feel the benefits immediately. But I warn you, it must be performed precisely or the energy which rises may take a dangerous form.”
Dalan made no comment as she began to prepare her sacred fire. Sorcha took a flint and struck it against a smooth river stone. A spark flew out and she deftly caught it in a nest of dry grass and leaves.
Then, as if she were breathing life into it, the Druid woman gently blew on the kindling until the grass began to glow. Suddenly a flame erupted. She whirled the nest of tinder around her head and it burst into flames. In an instant she had thrown the fiery mass down into the fire pit among the twigs. Then she carefully built the sticks up around the delicate fire until it was burning intensely.
Once Sorcha was certain the fire was well established she opened a wooden box that lay at her side. The box had two compartments. One half was full of butter, the other of what looked to Dalan like a dry compressed herb. Sorcha took a fine copper spoon and sprinkled some of the herb over the flames. Then she picked out a small quantity of butter and placed it in the middle of the fire.
That done, the Druid woman knelt down to stare at the horizon and wait. The Brehon was intrigued by the significance of these items and the meaning behind the ritual. But he was too respectful to ask her anything just now. He resolved to make a full inquiry when the time was right.
Dalan followed her gaze to the horizon and soon understood what she was waiting for. On a hill some four hundred paces away there was a lone standing stone. The top arch of the sun was already outlined behind the monument, its movement clearly visible.
The Brehon was surprised at how quickly the golden orb climbed up into the sky. The stone changed from blue to gray to black in a matter of moments as the sun rose higher above the horizon.
Dalan had watched the dawn on countless occasions. It was his favorite time of day. The beauty of sunrise always touched him to the heart. But this was the first time the deep mystery of the event had struck him so deeply.
Sorcha made no move or sound until the upper rim of the sun just clipped the top of the stone. The monument split the orb in two and light spilled out all around it. The Brehon had to turn away from the intensity of it.
And then he heard the Druid woman chanting. With a musician’s ear he listened for words and melody but the language was strange to him. And the tune was just a monotonous repeated phrase.
Yet the Brehon sensed a power within the sounds that reminded him of the song-making of the Druid musicians at the Battle of Sliabh Mis. The warmth of the sunlight bathed his face and the force of it flowed through his body to his feet. His toes tingled no less than his fingertips and he breathed in deeply, savoring the sweetness of the air.
All his troubles faded. He felt refreshed, renewed and ready for whatever challenges lay ahead. So deep was the effect that the Brehon started to hum along with Sorcha under his breath.
The Druid woman paid no heed to the Brehon. All her concentration was focused on the flames of her sacred fire. Her mind’s eye was traveling among the embers seeking out the hidden pathways to the Otherworld of the spirit.
The keeping of the ritual had been her duty for the greater part of her life. Her teacher had passed the secrets of its significance to her when she was but nine summers old. And since the old woman had passed away Sorcha had continued to kindle the flames whenever she was certain she would not be disturbed by others. This was the first time for many seasons that a stranger had been present while she was engaged in the Ritual of the Sun. She knew instinctively Dalan
would not understand the meaning behind the symbolism and was unlikely to judge her harshly for her dedication to this ancient practice.
As her thoughts became calmer the Druid woman drifted into a peaceful, euphoric state, the natural state of the soul. Singing all the while, she clearly saw in her memories the withered form of her teacher leaning heavily on a staff, speaking of the Oneness of all things, of the great creature composed of everything which drew breath and all that did not.
Sorcha was but a girl in those days and hardly understood the deeper meaning of the old woman’s words. It was before her initiation, before she wore the brown robes of the Frith craft and before her head had been shaved across the forehead in the Druid tonsure. Sorcha clearly recalled the fear that had dwelled in her heart at being separated from her mother for the first time.
As the seasons passed Sorcha had grown to love her teacher as a soul-friend and developed a profound understanding of her view of the world. The Oneness her teacher spoke of was not easily discerned at first. It could not be perceived without dedication to the purpose.
Yet once an initiate was opened to an awareness of the Oneness the knowledge became an integral part of their being, affecting every action, thought and word.
As Sorcha watched the flames consuming her kindling she said a silent farewell to the spring and the forest where she had lived since her teacher’s death. In her heart she thanked the woods, the waters and the Ravens for the knowledge she had gleaned from them. She wondered how long it would be before she was able to return to this place she called home.
The sun rose higher in the sky, scattering its warm rays across the sparkling stream. Sorcha looked at the ashes one last time and knew that despite taking the Quicken Brew she must one day return to the dust. She had no understanding of how this might come to pass. Then she glanced up at the world around her and was certain that the great living organism of which she was but a small part would guide her to that step when the time was right. Sorcha took a deep breath as the last of the embers died. Abruptly she ended her chant and looked around at Dalon.
“The ritual is done. Now I must wait for the fire to die down. The ashes have a special quality which rejuvenates and heals the sick.”
“I feel like I’ve never seen the sun rise before,” the Brehon whispered, his voice full of awe.
“I’ll teach you all I know, if you’ve a mind to learn,” she offered.
“I’d like that,” he replied without hesitation. “I’ve suffered the Faidh all my life. I would dearly love to learn the skill of the Frith.”
Their eyes met as Sorcha returned his beaming smile.
“We’ll be at Aillwee by sunrise,” Dalan told her.
“Go fill our water skins,” she said, turning back to the tiny dying fire. “By the time you’ve done that I’ll be ready for the road.”
The Brehon climbed down from the rock in the sprightly manner of a younger man. He found the skins by Sorcha’s pack and waded into the pool to get close to the spring. All the while the water gurgled cheerfully out from its secret depths within the Earth. And Dalan thought he’d love to live here in the forest far from the cares of the world beyond.
Goll woke with a start and sat up. Despite his desperate desire to see he couldn’t seem to focus. He was still drowsy and he hated to be in such a state of unreadiness. The warrior shook his head as his hand found a cup full of some liquid. Without thinking he put the cup to his lips and drank the contents.
Almost immediately his vision cleared and he knew the sun had already risen. By his side among the furs was a mass of black matted hair which puzzled him at first. Then he remembered that Mughain had come to his shelter after all the other warriors were asleep.
“The sun’s up,” he said, prodding her in the back with his finger. “This is no time for sleeping. We’ve work to do.”
Mughain grunted and pulled the furs up over her head so she couldn’t hear him. As she did so Goll stood up to get dressed in his fighting gear. He was arranging his breacan cloak when a head poked in through the tent opening.
“Good morning, brother,” Goll said when he recognized Conan’s face in the shadows.
“Good morning,” the younger warrior replied. “I’m sure it will be a wonderful day.”
“Conan, why didn’t you wake me?” Goll hissed. “I told you to make sure I stirred at dawn.”
“The raid is cancelled,” Conan announced flatly. “I had a dream last night that warned me of your death.”
“Brother, have you been drinking again?” The war-leader stepped forward and sniffed his brother’s breath. “I gave orders there was to be no drinking.”
“I haven’t touched a drop,” the younger man protested.
“You’re a poor liar.”
“I promise you on the names of the gods our people swear by,” Conan answered solemnly. “I am not lying to you. Last night I saw your death in my dream.”
“You’re mad.”
“If you go down to that settlement this morning with the intention of raiding you will die at the sword of a Fir-Bolg champion,” Conan insisted.
Goll took a few deep breaths, determined not to waste any energy on this foolishness. He would need all his strength for the coming raid.
“Call the Fian together,” he ordered. “I want to reach the village before the women take the cows out to pasture and the other folk go out in the fields.”
“Didn’t you hear what I said?” his younger brother gasped. “If you go down to that rath you’ll forfeit your life.”
“There isn’t going to be any fighting,” Goll snapped back. “We’ll be too busy driving cattle and loading grain to have time to draw our blades.”
“But there are four old Fir-Bolg warriors within the walls. They’ll surely put up some resistance. And they are a strange race with an uncanny influence over the elements.”
That was enough for Goll. He could bear his brother’s prattling about dreams and omens. He’d put up with that since they were children. But now Conan was refusing to obey commands.
The war-leader grabbed his brother’s tunic close to the throat and hauled the younger man close. When Goll was certain Conan could see every pore of his skin, every flick of his eye and every twitch of his mouth, he spoke in a low slow menacing tone.
“You’ll do as I tell you or I’ll give you the beating I should have given you when you were a boy.”
“I’ll not see you waste your life on a dozen cattle and a barrel of smoked fish. You could be King of the Gaedhals one day if you’re careful. Don’t tempt disaster by fighting with the Fir-Bolg.”
“There’ll be no fight!” Goll spat back. “There’ll be no need. The Fir-Bolg warriors have nothing better than bronze swords. Those archaic weapons are no match for silvery steel. If those warriors are wise they won’t even leave the hearth fires where they slept last night.”
“Brother, I fear for your life,” Conan sobbed, his eyes welling with tears.
Goll frowned. In the past he’d seen his young brother suffer through many delusions, usually related to his overindulgence at the mead barrel. But this was different. There was something in Conan’s eyes that spoke of real fear.
The war-leader began to wonder whether he should listen to the warning. As the first doubts crossed his mind he heard a stirring growl from the bed of furs.
“Come back to bed, Goll. It’s cold and I’m sleepy.”
Goll pushed his brother away with a sneer. Then he turned around, grabbed the furs and pulled them from the woman warrior. Mughain curled up to cover her nakedness. Then, suddenly wakened by the cold air, she shook her head to clear it.
“The Fianna are becoming weak,” Goll grunted. “They have no work to do and so they grow lazy and frightened. Well I’m not going to stand by and watch the Fian bands decline until they’re all too afraid or too drowsy to go raiding.”
He turned to his brother. “Go and fetch the warriors. If you haven’t returned with them in the time it takes for me
to put on my boots and fasten my cloak, then you’ll answer to my blade. Do you understand?”
“Yes, brother,” Conan bowed, shaken by the threat.
In a moment he was gone. Then Goll turned to Mughain. “You shouldn’t encourage him. He’s getting worse day by day. I’m certain he’s losing his mind.”
“And what if he proves to be right?” the young woman asked. “Would you throw away all hope of becoming king?”
“I’ve never aspired to the kingship.”
“But those who have traveled with you and fought under your guidance have considered it for you,” Mughain told him. “There are those of us who would risk our honor to depose Eber Finn tomorrow if you gave the command.”
“Are all the other warriors of the same mind?” Goll asked, stunned.
“Everyone in our band would stand for you.”
“Even my brother?”
“Especially your brother. You have a loyal and devoted follower there. That’s why you should be a little easier on him.”
She wrapped a fur about her body then stood up. “Don’t throw your life away,” she begged him as she came close. “Conan may be right in his prediction.”
Goll placed his strong hands on her shoulders. “Who knows of Conan’s prophecy?”
“Every warrior in the band has heard him speak of it,” she replied. “He told them as soon as he woke.”
“Then I must carry out this raid,” the war-leader decided. “I must show that I’m not afraid of prophecy. I will prove that nothing can turn me away from my goal once I’ve set my mind on it. I can’t be seen to back down just because of a dream. I want the warriors to follow me to the last.”
He looked into her eyes. “Don’t worry. I intend to be very careful. But if I can survive my brother’s prophecy I will ensure the continuing respect of the Fian. I have a feeling I’m going to need that.”
“I can see your heart is set on it,” Mughain sighed. “At least let Conan and I guard you.”
“Very well,” the war-leader nodded. “If I’m killed I’ll lay the blame on you. You can pay my family the appropriate compensation.”