by Caiseal Mor
In moments the warrior was at the door collecting his gear and then he was gone.
Eber Finn sat staring into the fire for a long time after the champion had left. He wrung his hands, drank cup after cup of honey wine and agonized over the wisdom of his decision. In the end he knew he’d had little choice but to send Goll mac Morna and his miscreant warriors as far from Dun Gur as possible. With luck, the champion would be killed in battle or at least wounded badly enough that he ceased to be a threat.
As these thoughts were coursing through his mind a familiar voice broke his concentration. It was Máel Máedóc the Druid.
“My lord, I must speak with you at once.”
“If it’s about that fool Goll mac Morna,” the king groaned without raising his eyes from the fire, “I’ve already dealt with him. I’m sending him away where he can’t stir up any further trouble.”
The old Druid frowned. Tm heartened to hear that news. But he is just one of the challenges to beset your reign.”
Eber looked up and as he did so he noticed a movement in the shadows on the other side of the hall. A form materialized before him in a breathtaking display of shimmering color. And from this misty rainbow stepped Isleen.
She put a finger to her lips to silence the king, winked, then smiled. In the next second Máel Máedóc was taking a seat beside him. Isleen squatted down on the opposite side of the fire, her green eyes sparkling like two jade pebbles in the orange light. The old Druid didn’t seem to have noticed her sudden appearance, so Eber Finn decided it was best not to express any surprise in front of him.
“The lough is retreating more and more each day,” Máel Máedóc began, leaning forward to press the urgency of the situation. “I must seek some advice from the Danaans and the Fir-Bolg.”
“I’ve considered this problem,” the king announced, glancing across at Isleen who’d earlier suggested a course of action. “If we can find the source of the spring and block it up we’ll have fertile grazing ground for our livestock where there is now only water.”
“Under the treaty we must preserve the lough!” Máel Máedóc protested. “It would be extremely unwise to take such action without the sanction of the Danaan king who once owned this stronghold.”
“Very well,” Eber sighed. “Tomorrow you’ll accompany me to the stronghold of Brocan, King of the FirBoIg. I’m sure his advisers will be able to give us some guidance.”
“You’re going in person to make amends?”
Eber Finn nodded.
“Is that wise?”
“A great wrong has been done.”
“And we’ll need the goodwill of the Fir-Bolg,” Isleen added, though the Druid didn’t seem to hear her.
“It’s to be war then?” Máel Máedóc inquired with resignation, understanding his king’s motives.
“I’ve already committed myself to that action,” Eber confirmed.
Máel Máedóc stood up slowly and the king noticed his shoulders were hunched over. Old age, Eber realized, was finally showing its effects on the counselor.
But it wasn’t the weight of the seasons that had bent Máel Máedóc’s back. It was the burden of his responsibilities. The old Druid knew it was best he accompany the king to Aillwee. The satire would have to wait until their return. But not a moment longer.
“Good night, my lord,” Máel Máedóc offered with a feeble bow.
“Rest well,” Eber replied.
With that the Druid shuffled off to the door and was gone.
“I don’t trust him,” the king confided as soon as he had left.
“Nor should you,” Isleen advised. “He’s planning to satirize you and have you removed before the conquest of the north can be undertaken.”
Eber Finn frowned. “How could you know such a thing? Have you spoken with him?”
“I have not.”
“For that matter, how did you manage to conceal yourself from him?”
Isleen stood up and sauntered over to where the king was seated. She placed a hand softly on the back of his neck. “My talents will help install you as HighKing of this island,” she whispered. “All I ask in return is that you ask no questions. It’s impolite.”
“What about Goll mac Morna? I fear he’s plotting to take the kingship from me.”
“All you need to do is throw a dog a few scraps and he’ll gladly follow you afterward.”
Eber laughed and grasped her hand as she stroked the fine hairs at the back of his neck. “Sometimes I’m not sure what sort of creature you are,” he told her.
“I’m a woman,” she laughed. “A woman with grand ambitions for her lover.”
With that she put her lips to his and his doubts were immediately banished.
* * *
At the cave fortress of Dun Aillil Dalan and Sorcha were being led into the king’s hall. Runners had been sent to all the chieftains with news of what had happened to Fergus. And the word that went with the messengers was a call to gather the council, or at least as many as could make the journey.
By sunset several elders of the Fir-Bolg had arrived to take up their seats at King Brocan’s side. Two chieftains were seated opposite the king as was the tradition. It was the duty of this pair of elders to face the king down on behalf of their brethren should there be a dispute.
On either side of these two chieftains was a place each for Fineen and Dalan. As the senior members of their order, they were charged with giving advice throughout the meeting and settling minor points of contention as quickly as possible so all important business could be concluded without too much fuss.
When Aoife and her companions arrived, the evening shadows were already deepening. She and Lorn went straight to the seats allotted to them. Mahon dragged Iobhar into the hall against his will to sit along the east wall. This was where the hostages were placed when they weren’t invited to sit in honor by the king.
Sárán observed their entry with a secret smile. As he took up his position beside Aoife, their father, Brocan, entered the hall. Everyone present stood to bow their heads for his grief. It was well known that Fergus had been like a brother to him.
When the king had stood at his seat for a short while Dalan stepped forward and rapped his ceremonial staff on the floor. Three loud knocks he gave, followed by another three and then another.
Warriors were seldom honored by the Druid kind other than in poetry and song, so for Dalan to call the assembly to silence with the same ritual knocking that was accorded to the highest Druid in the land was unusual and very moving for those present.
Fergus had been universally respected for his wisdom, fighting skill and, most of all, his good heart. Brocan closed his eyes as they brimmed with salty tears. Even Sárán, who had often differed with the old warrior, bowed his head and sobbed a little.
The hall was still shuddering from the knocks when Dalan began to declaim a poem in his best judge’s voice.
“Who watches ii the night lest the raiders should come? Which of you stands sentry on the cattle in their pasture? How many of you will take up the weapons of killing and yet be called honorable by all who speak your name?”
The Brehon looked about the hall to catch the eyes of his audience.
“There will be weeping in this fortress tonight. And there will be sorrow for some days yet. But in the Halls of Waiting there will be rejoicing. For this evening there will arrive a warrior who spent his life watching in the night lest the raiders should come. A man who would gladly stand sentry over the cattle and the goats and think it no dishonor that he had been asked to do so.”
He paused for breath and to gather his thoughts. This poem had not been planned. It was flowing out of him fresh and free.
“The ancestors will welcome one of our kindred this night. They will praise him for spending his life with a sword in his hand but no joy in the wielding of it. Together they will sit until the dawn listening to the wisdom of Fergus mac Roth who was a champion, a chancellor and a sturdy soul. Now we salute his spirit as we send his body t
o the grave and his soul to the Halls of Waiting.”
Dalan went to stand before his seat again. The king waited until the Brehon was beside him once more, then he raised a hand in the air and motioned for everyone present to sit. As one the entire gathering did as he commanded without so much as a whisper among them. Their silence was an expression of respect for Fergus.
“As you have already heard,” Brocan began, his voice cracking with emotion, “my dear friend and lifelong companion Fergus mac Roth was cruelly slain this morning at Rath Carriaghe.”
Aoife looked up at her father’s face and thought she’d never seen him so utterly devastated, so completely lost. Although he had taken the Quicken Brew and usually had an air of youth and health about him, his face seemed to have aged suddenly.
“I’m told by Dalan that a gang of warriors attacked the rath a few hours after dawn. Fergus arrived as the assault was taking place and came to the defense of the folk who lived there. He was outnumbered at least twelve to one yet he chose to stand and fight.”
The king choked back the tears. Dalan lowered his eyes as he recalled the scenes of sorrow when he and Sorcha arrived at the rath on their way to Dun Aillil.
“The barbarians slew him then took off his head. Their gruesome trophy was carried away to Dun Gur, so it is believed. I have sent a runner to Eber Finn demanding an explanation and the immediate return of the stolen article.”
Again Brocan had to stop speaking. He put his hands to his eyes to cover them as everyone kept a steady, unflinching gaze on their king. The silent support he received in that moment must have given him a little strength because he was able to raise his face again and continue.
“Fergus was on his way to give King Eber a gift from me and an assurance I would uphold my treaty with the Gaedhals. I should have listened to my old friend when he warned me not to trust the foreigners. If I had taken his advice we would not be mourning his loss.”
Suddenly the tears began to roll down Brocan’s cheeks like a waterfall. His eyes blazed red with weeping and his cheeks sparkled with trails of sorrow.
“I am responsible for my dear brother’s death,” he went on unsteadily. “I killed Fergus mac Roth.”
“The Gaedhals slew him,” Sárán cut in.
Dalan instantly shot a glance at the young Druid that communicated both outrage and warning. But the young man’s words reverberated in every heart. The Gaedhals had murdered a champion, contrary to the rules of war. They had broken their treaty. And worst of all, they had treated the body of their slain foe with the greatest disrespect imaginable.
Dalan sensed the anger in the room and decided to focus it toward something positive, speaking up before any further outrage could be openly expressed.
“It is true that the Gaedhals have violated their bonded promise to us. They have shattered the peace between our peoples. But the only honorable way to deal with this is by imposing penalties according to Brehon law. Nothing will be gained by stirring up anger. We can’t hope to defeat them in battle.”
“I will have justice,” Brocan insisted with a determined tone, and for the first time a murmur spread around the room.
Everyone was of the same mind.
“Eber Finn has broken his solemn oath,” the king continued. “He must be brought to account.”
There was general agreement again.
Dalan put up both his hands to quieten the gathering. “Clearly a terrible crime has been committed. But it would be unwise to hastily lay all blame on the Gaedhal king. How can we be certain he knew anything about this raid?”
“He’s their king,” Sárán called out. “It’s his duty to keep his folk in check.”
The Brehon turned to glare at the young apprentice. Then he cast a questioning eye at the man he believed to be Fineen. Lochie shrugged his shoulders at Dalan’s scrutiny, confident that his disguise would not be discovered.
“Your student is a little too vocal,” the Brehon noted under his breath. “He’s forgotten his place.”
Lochie looked around the room before he answered. “The boy has gauged the mood of the gathering well.”
Dalan frowned at this unexpected reply but he had no opportunity to question the healer. This situation called for firm reasoning and calm consideration. If there was no voice of moderation, this whole meeting could end in another unwanted war.
“A message has been sent to Eber Finn,” the Brehon cut in above the chorus of discontent. “If he’s an honorable man he’ll answer the charge brought against him and accept our judgment.”
“The Gaedhals aren’t to be trusted,” Brocan bellowed. “They must be punished.”
Dalan shuddered. The situation was rapidly deteriorating into battle talk.
“There’s a Gaedhal among us,” Sárán cried out. “The hostage should answer for the crimes of his king.”
The crowd stood up together, baying for blood. Lochie rolled his eyes back in his head, delighting in the rising conflict. Then he had an idea.
“Trial of the warrior!” he called out in a commanding voice, and the gathering shouted their approval.
Mahon immediately rose from his seat to stand in front of the terrified young hostage.
“Stop!” Dalan demanded. “Be quiet, all of you. You don’t know what you’re saying. This lad had nothing to do with the death of Fergus. How can such thoughts enter your minds?”
He turned to Lochie again, shaking his head. “Fineen, what’s come over you? Have you gone mad? We are supposed to be the guardians of reason.”
It was Brocan who eventually called the assembly to silence. “Take the Gaedhal to his lodgings,” he told Mahon. “And see that no harm comes to him. He is in my care and I won’t allow him to fall victim to our rage. Dalan is right. The lad had nothing to do with Fergus’s death.”
There were muffled protests as Mahon led his friend out of the hall.
“This madness is not the way of the Fir-Bolg,” Brocan went on. “There will be no war. There’11 be no outpouring of anger. I was responsible for the danger my friend encountered. I will challenge Eber to a combat.”
“Wouldn’t it be wiser to claim a payment in recompense?” Dalan argued.
“That is for the family of Fergus to decide,” the king shot back. “For my own satisfaction and that of our people, Eber Finn must be taught a lesson. And I ask you, Dalan, to adjudicate the fight.”
“I won’t.”
“You’re my adviser. It’s your duty.”
“I’m a Brehon judge. My duty is to justice. I will not involve myself in a ritual blood-letting that will achieve nothing but discord and lead to counterclaims of compensation.”
“I’ll arrange the contest,” Lochie offered, and for the third time that evening Dalan turned to the healer with a frown.
In that instant the Druid noticed something about Fineen he had never seen before. There was a fire in the healer’s eyes that banished his air of humility. His worldly wisdom was still evident. And his features, his stance and his voice were all unchanged. But there was something unfamiliar about his old friend that put the Brehon’s instincts on edge.
“I’m a neutral party in this,” the healer went on. “As a Danaan and a Druid I am best qualified to arrange a challenge.” Lochie paused, seeing he had the attention of everyone and the approval of most. “But I agree with Dalan. A trial of battle would achieve nothing. It would be more prudent to arrange a test of skill”
“A test of skill!” Brocan roared. “What satisfaction will that give? Let me fight him!”
“I have too much respect for you, Brocan,” Lochie stated. “I will not allow you to dishonor yourself in that manner.”
The king was about to explode in protest but Lochie didn’t give him the opportunity.
“Eber Finn has not taken the Quicken Brew as you have. It would not be a fair fight. You’ve immune to injury.”
Dalan looked at Fineen and relaxed. This was the healer he recognized. Calm, clear-headed and thoughtful.
/> Brocan breathed out heavily as he realized there would indeed be no honor in such a contest. “What do you propose?”
“You must give me an opportunity to consider this question carefully,” Lochie replied.
But the Watcher already knew the nature of the test he would set for Brocan and the King of the Gaedhals. These folk were falling into his hands like ripe apples tumbling from a fully laden tree.
“Send another messenger to Dun Gur,” the king commanded. “Summon Eber to this place to answer for his crime.”
The gathering rose in unison. “Aye,” they answered together, and then without a word of dismissal the elders began filing out of the hall into the night.
“You have made a wise decision, my lord,” Dalan assured Brocan.
“This brew is proving to be a curse,” the king snapped. “I should never have allowed it to be administered to me. If I’d had my wits about me I would never have so much as sipped it.”
“Then you’d have gone to the Halls of Waiting,” Lochie observed with a shrug. “What use would you be to your people then?”
“I’ve heard enough of that argument. I seek rest. I’m tired of a lifetime of fighting, of dealing with the troubles of my people. My body may be able to go on but my spirit is weary.”
“It’s true,” Lochie sighed, and Dalan was surprised at the intensity of his expression.
Sorcha came over and stood by Dalan’s shoulder, intending to observe the healer close up. She felt uneasy but couldn’t understand what it was about Fineen that disturbed her. As he went on she took careful note of every turn of his eye and of each syllable he spoke.
“We should not mourn Fergus. He has gone to a reward which we will only know in our dreams. We should envy him.”
Brocan reached out to grab the healer’s sleeve. “Sometimes the only thought on my mind is sleep. I close my eyes at night and my body rests but that sort of slumber is unsatisfying. I awake each morning tortured by the knowledge that my soul may never find rest.”
“Think of the good your experience brings to your people,” Dalan cut in. “It is your destiny to guide them through the future.”
“Wouldn’t it be better if they learned to look after themselves? Am I to be here in a hundred generations, still guiding their hands?”