The King of Sleep

by Caiseal Mor

  “Hear me!” the Gaedhal commanded. “You will retreat from this rath. But not until this veteran has surrendered his weapon.”

  Fergus raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I won’t yield to you.”

  “Then we’ll stand here until one of us falters,” Goll shrugged. “I’m a young man. I have a good ten hours in me before I’ll need to rest. How long do you think you can last?”

  The veteran knew the war-leader was right. He had run a great distance. He was an old man. He was already exhausted. Gently closing his eyes in resignation, he let the deadly spear point drop until it touched the ground at his feet. Then, after a short hesitation, he let go of the shaft.

  The weapon fell with a clatter.

  Goll smiled and took a step closer to the veteran to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  Then in a flash he drew a long dagger from his belt and, before anyone had a chance to gasp, he drove the weapon hard into the underside of Fergus’s ribs.

  The veteran’s eyes opened wide and his jaw dropped. He threw his head back in inexpressible pain. He reached out a hand to grasp Goll’s tunic but the strength was already draining from his body. Fergus leaned forward to support himself against his enemy and the knife bit deeper into him.

  Then with his last few breaths he spoke a curse. Part binding spell, part prophecy, such a pronouncement was a powerful declaration that constrained the life of the recipient.

  “I lay a Geis on you, Goll, son of Morna,” the veteran whispered hoarsely. “You’ll never sleep in one house more than three nights in a row. You must never show mercy to a stranger as long as you live. If a black pig should come into your possession, not a drop of blood must fall from its body. If your king summons you, you must not tarry but travel to him by the most direct road. No woman may come between you and your next meal. Your brother will be the instrument of your downfall.”

  The Fir-Bolg’s mother pushed forward but was restrained by a Gaedhal.

  Then Fergus slipped to his knees, dead before his body hit the ground. Goll stood grasping his bloody knife but he did not look down. A Geis was an overwhelming burden and the Geis of a dying man was the strongest of all.

  As strange as the words sounded to everyone present, every single person knew that Goll mac Morna’s fate had been sealed. One by one each of these prohibitions would be broken, there was no doubt of that. And when the last prohibition was concluded it would signal the end of the war-leader’s life.

  Goll understood now that no matter what happened in the future this raid had changed his life forever. In a sense his brother’s prophetic dream had already come true. The warrior threw his knife to the ground and looked around the silent gathering of the Fian.

  “Burn it,” he ordered.

  “What?” Mughain stammered.

  “Burn the whole bloody place down. Burn the houses. Burn the grain store. Set fire to the curraghs. Gather all the cattle, and the goats and sheep. But don’t harm a single one of these Fir-Bolg. I want them to live to tell the tale of Goll mac Morna.”

  The Fian enthusiastically set about their task while the war-leader stood silently over the body of the Fir-Bolg veteran, the sound of the old woman’s keening hollow in his ears. After a long while he glanced down at the bloody corpse and noticed a piece of bright yellow woolen cloth poking out of the pack.

  Goll knelt down and pulled it out to take a closer look. It was a finely woven breacan cloak, golden yellow in color with a pattern of red, black and green checks. Though lightweight, the garment was obviously sturdy and warm.

  With the breacan in his hand the war-leader stood up. He knew this must be the gift the King of the Fir-Bolg had sent to Eber Finn. With a smile he wiped the blood off his hands with it. He was about to throw it aside when another thought came to him. This breacan would be the symbol of his kingship. As much as it was a sign of Eber Finn’s treachery, it would also be the badge of his own worthiness.

  “I have come to save my people from betrayal,” he whispered to himself, wrapping the cloak around his shoulders.

  Then the war-leader saw the flames already leaping from the thatch roofs of the low houses. He picked up his sword, helped Conan to his feet and dragged him toward the gate of the rath.

  “So much for the premonitions of your dreams,” Goll scoffed as he laid his brother down in the grass outside the walls.

  “It would have been better if Fergus had killed you outright,” Conan replied grimly. “Now there’s a Geis laid on you and you cannot avoid your destiny.”

  “I make my own fate,” the war-leader replied. “I always have done. That’s how your prophecy was proved wrong. I never believed I would die this day.”

  “You’ll make a great king,” Conan told him. “But you’re a bloody fool.”

  Chapter 10

  AOIFE SAT IN THE SHADE OF AN OAK TREE, MAHON DOZing in her lap. Not far away Iobhar the Gaedhal was also sleeping peacefully, propped up against the gnarled brown trunk. Lom was stretched out on his back in the grass. By the gentle heave of his chest and the occasional snort it was apparent he too was resting deeply.

  The young woman stroked her lover’s hair as her thoughts drifted off. She was envious of these three lads who were born to the life of a warrior. They were free to follow their chosen vocation without hindrance.

  She was not so fortunate. She had committed a terrible crime when she was younger. Her mischievous nature had led Mahon’s younger brother to his death. She touched the Danaan’s brow tenderly and silently thanked him for his forgiving nature.

  If only, she told herself, Dalan could have been so understanding. In judgment for being a party to a young man’s death the Brehon had imposed a harsh penalty on her. She was condemned to follow the Druid path.

  It was a road she had never wanted to walk. Tedious learning of ancient tales. Endless lessons at the harp. Countless little rituals and observances that drove her to distraction. And all those warm summer days wasted indoors discussing the precedents of law.

  She had tolerated the restrictions of this life for three cycles of the seasons because she had really believed she should be punished for her foolishness. But now she was beginning to understand what kind of life lay ahead of her if she continued to honor Dalan’s judgment.

  And she knew the Druid path was not for her.

  Warriors were free to travel the country as they wished and take a spouse whenever they were ready. A Druid might not attain initiation until all their tests and tasks were completed. And as long as she remained a student of Dalan, Aoife knew she would not be allowed to marry Mahon.

  The young woman took a strand of her lover’s hair and twisted it into a knot. Mahon winced and slapped her hand as the strand tangled.

  “Be careful!” he laughed. “That hurts.”

  Aoife let the hair slip through her fingers. “I’m sorry.” Then she leaned forward to get his attention. “Have you ever traveled to the north?” she asked in a low voice so the others wouldn’t hear.

  “Never.”

  “It’s quite a different country from the west and south,” she told him.

  The young Danaan hummed sleepily in acknowledgment.

  “I’ve been there twice with Dalan,” she went on. “Éremon, the King of the Northern Gaedhals, has built a fort he calls Teamhair. It’s a beautiful place. There’s a fine house for every chieftain and a great hall where wondrous feasts are held. There are many more Gaedhals in the north than here in the west.”

  Mahon opened his eyes to look at her. “Perhaps Dalan will let me come along the next time you visit the northern king.”

  “I’d be very surprised,” the young woman replied, shaking her head. “He doesn’t approve of us spending so much time together. He seems to think I’d be better off with a man of Druid training.”

  Mahon closed his eyes again. “He’ll change his mind one day.”

  “I’m tired of waiting for him to change his mind!” she growled.

&
nbsp; Mahon looked up at her in surprise at the change in her voice. “We’ve discussed this many times, Aoife,” he reminded her. “The only way you’d ever escape your vows and the penalty imposed on you would be to abscond. And where would you run to?”

  “Teamhair,” she answered, full of excitement now. “I’d go to the court of King Éremon.”

  “You’d be banished by your own folk!” the young Danaan exclaimed.

  “I don’t care. I’d be allowed to follow my own destiny. I’d be able to train as a warrior and forget the tedious learning of poems and music.”

  “You’re a fine musician.”

  “I want to live the life of a warrior. It’s my true path in life.”

  Mahon sat up a little on his elbows, twisted his body around and stared into her eyes. “We’ve taken the Quicken Brew,” he reminded her. “There is no death for us nor sickness. And I’m beginning to believe there’s no sense in fighting either. There’s no use for warriors in a world without death.”

  “The Gaedhals are still a threat to our people.”

  “Not as long as you’ve got one strong knee,” Iobhar quipped bitterly, and betrayed the fact he had been listening in on their conversation all along.

  “But you’re talking about going to live among them!” Mahon retorted, ignoring the Gaedhal’s little joke.

  “I’m just saying I don’t wish to live any longer under the constraints that have been placed on me.”

  “You don’t want to be banished,” Mahon told her. “You can’t even imagine what that would mean.”

  He lay back down in her lap, closed his eyes and took her hand in his.

  “I don’t understand why you’re not happy,” he continued. “You’re the daughter of a king. You’ve a respected Brehon for your teacher. You don’t have many duties to perform. You have guaranteed good health and a long life ahead of you. You and I are happy together. What more could you want?”

  “I’m away with Dalan on his cursed journeys for most of the summer,” she spat. “I don’t really spend that much time with you.”

  “I think you’d quickly grow tired of me if you had to put up with me every day,” Mahon sighed. Then he rolled onto his side and put his arm over his head as if to filter out her words.

  “Perhaps I’m tired of you already,” she whispered, but he didn’t hear her. She was only half glad he hadn’t.

  She’d always imagined that he’d stay by her side if ever she were banished. Banishment was reserved for the worst of all criminals—oath-breakers and murderers. It was a severe penalty, placing the offender beyond the help and hearth of all kindred and friends. Anyone who assisted a person placed under banishment was themselves banished.

  The banished simply ceased to exist. And because they no longer had a place in society, any crime committed against them was ignored by the Brehon judges. They had no claim for recompense nor any hope of appeal against their sentence.

  Aoife understood that if she deserted her teacher and went off to Teamhair she would be condemned as an oath-breaker. Banishment would be the immediate result. But she was becoming so desperate it no longer held any fears for her. Her father had promised to speak to Dalan on her behalf but she was growing daily impatient, and there was no guarantee the Druid would free her from her vows.

  As she looked down at the handsome Danaan warrior who lay with his head in her lap she realized something for the first time. She was growing tired of Mahon. He was content to waste his days with fishing, mock fights and sleeping. But Aoife knew she needed more excitement. She craved new influences, new ideas, new adventures. Mahon only ever thought about his next meal.

  In that instant Aoife realized she was very much like her mother. Riona had tired of King Brocan when they were both still young, but she had remained loyal to him out of a sense of duty. As the seasons had passed, however, Riona had grown more and more bitter at the life she had been given. At last, when she had been unable to bear old Brocan’s ways any longer, she had left him for Cecht, the King of the Danaans, who was also Mahon’s father. Now, according to all reports, she had found her happiness in the realm of the Otherworld with the Danaan folk.

  Aoife briefly wondered whether she could dwell content in the Otherworld. It had been her teacher’s decision to remain behind when the Danaans departed, but she had been relieved. There was still too much left to explore in this world and where was the thrill in living in a place that was too perfect, without danger?

  Her mind was made up. She had to escape her commitment to the Druid path, even if that meant becoming an outlaw. In the same moment she knew she would have to leave her beloved Mahon who had been her companion, friend and lover for three winters. She felt a twinge of regret for all the laughter they had shared. She frowned when she tried to imagine life without him. He was a good man in his own way, caring, gentle and simple in his tastes.

  But the wider world was beckoning to her and Aoife knew she must answer the call. She pushed Mahon’s head from her lap, jolting him from his slumber.

  “What—?” the Danaan grumbled. But Aoife ignored him.

  “Iobhar!” she cried. “It’s time to teach me something of the bow.”

  “Not now, Aoife. I’m tired.”

  “Get up off your arse, you lazy Gaedhal, or I’ll take to you with my blade.”

  “All right, all right,” he groaned. “Give me a moment to find my arrows.”

  Soon they were standing side by side as Iobhar explained the fine points of bowmanship to his new pupil. Aoife took the bow and one arrow which she slotted into the bowstring as she’d been shown. Iobhar stepped closer to her, placing an arm around her shoulder as he pressed his body close to hers.

  “Treat the bow like a lover,” he explained. “Take your time. Let the tension build on the string. Caress the tip of the arrow, and then when you’ve selected your target, close your eyes for a second and savor the moment. Imagine the arrow flying off to do its work.”

  Iobhar felt Aoife’s body against his and his one thought was of stealing her away from Mahon for himself. He leaned in closer to whisper directly into her ear. “I’ll take you to the court of the King of the Northern Gaedhals.”

  “What?”

  “Come with me. We’ll run away together.”

  Aoife opened her eyes wide and let the arrow fly from the bow. It sailed high into the air in a graceful arc as she shoved her elbow hard into Iobhar’s ribs. He stepped back to avoid being winded, but he was certain there was none of the usual violence in her gesture. She hadn’t meant to hurt him. She was just being playful.

  She turned to look him directly in the eye and they both forgot the lesson in bowmanship for the time being. The arrow sailed off into the distance and was lost. Neither saw it fall.

  “Show me again,” Aoife purred. “I don’t quite understand what you mean by treating the bow like a lover.”

  Iobhar smiled with half-closed eyes and handed her another arrow. She lined up the notch of the missile with the bowstring and drew back on the bow a little. The Gaedhal moved nearer again and she yielded her body to him, leaning back so they were in close contact.

  “The trick is in the way you hold the shaft,” he began, and Aoife let out a deep giggle of delight.

  She forgot Mahon was watching everything. In fact she hardly cared. If he didn’t want her enough to run away with her, then she’d go north with a man who did.

  Then, across the pasture in the line of her bowshot, Aoife caught sight of a thin black-haired young man dressed in the Druid brown of a healer’s apprentice. There was no doubt about the identity of the young man. By the loping gait and haughty carriage it could be none other than her brother Sárán.

  “A black cloud has just blown in,” she whispered to Iobhar.

  “We’ll get some rain then?” the young Gaedhal asked, turning to survey the skies.

  While he was distracted Aoife let the arrow fly. It sailed off toward Sárán as if rushing to meet him at some predetermined place in the
middle of the field. Iobhar grabbed the bow and flung it down when he realized what she’d done.

  “Are you mad?” he gasped. “You’ll kill him!”

  “I hope it strikes him through the heart,” she hissed. “I know he hates me for what happened to him. I swear I despise him for leading me to the Druid path.”

  “It was none of his doing,” Mahon cut in harshly. “And well you know it.”

  “Get out of the way!” Iobhar screamed.

  But Sárán had seen the missile coming toward him and easily avoided it.

  “What were you thinking?” Iobhar shouted, grabbing the young woman by the shoulders. “You could have killed your own brother!”

  “You’ve lived among us long enough to know the Quicken Brew keeps death at a distance from those who supped it,’ she sneered. “Sárán is safe. In any case, the arrow didn’t hit him.”

  Iobhar stepped back from her, appalled at her lack of concern for her brother’s well-being. He understood what it meant to have taken the Quicken Brew but was only just beginning to realize how different these people were becoming as they adjusted to the idea of immortality free from injury or sickness.

  “I wish he’d leave us alone,” Mahon grumbled.

  “Aoife just shot an arrow at Sárán!” Iobhar exclaimed. “Is that all you can say?”

  “She’s right,” the Danaan shrugged. “It might have hit him but it wouldn’t have done him much harm. Perhaps he would have suffered some degree of pain for a while, but that would have quickly passed.” With that Mahon rolled over onto the grass and covered his head with his arms to feign sleep.

  Sárán leaned heavily on his staff as he made his way toward them, giving the impression of age beyond the span of his seasons. His cloak was impeccably clean, without a wrinkle or loose thread. His long black hair was tied back from his face and the beard which had sprouted on his chin was neatly trimmed.

  Aoife thought how much more suited her brother was to the Druid life than she. He seemed to revel in the discipline, the learning and the symbols of his social stature. She could understand how a man such as he so easily accepted the rules, strictures and abstinences required of a student of law and lore.