The King of Sleep

by Caiseal Mor

  “I have already forgiven you,” Eber told his host smoothly. “This won’t be an impediment to our negotiations, will it? I hope to present an attractive offer to you.”

  “Do you mean with regard to my daughter?”

  Eber nodded.

  “Let’s conclude the test first and see whether you’re worthy of her hand,” Brocan declared. “Now I must go to my bed. There’s much to be done in the morning and I need rest. Goodnight.”

  Then he was gone and Eber was left alone with Máel Máedóc.

  “I’m sworn to truth!” the old Druid hissed as soon as the king sat down by the fire.

  “Then you did a pretty good job of sticking to your vows and serving your king at the same time,” Eber quipped.

  “Don’t ever ask me to do such a thing again.”

  “You are a servant of your people as much as I am,” the king informed Máel Máedóc.

  “I’m indentured to the law and to the truth.”

  “Then it is certainly time you considered retirement,” Eber finished. With that he rolled himself in his furs and tried to get some sleep.

  As the night sky began to retreat before a pale gray morning Brocan rose from his bed and dressed himself in battle array. He pulled on his leggings and strapped them tight. Then he put on his deerskin boots and his shirt of fine linen. Over the top of that he wore a sleeveless leather tunic and a cloak of the finest wool dyed green and black. He had experienced the cold in the deeper parts of the cave and knew he would freeze without adequate protection.

  He buckled his belt about him and arranged the breacan cloak so that it was tucked firmly in at his waist. Then he tied his sword sheath to the belt and placed his blade carefully within the leather protector.

  In his pack he placed as many dry oatcakes as would fit and half a dozen salted fish. Then he found his leather mead bottle and checked that it was full. In another small pouch that hung from his waist belt he placed two flints, some flax for tinder and a small piece of fire-blackened cloth for starting a fire.

  Last of all he took a bundle of twigs and two small pieces of dead oak branch. He intended to take a torch with him as he couldn’t be sure how long he’d be wandering within the cave and he wanted to be prepared for any eventuality.

  When all was ready he picked up his bronze axe, a small weapon which could easily be carried in one hand or thrust into his belt. It was the symbol of his kingship and a tool with many uses. He wouldn’t have left it behind even if he’d been commanded to do so by Fineen.

  Then, satisfied he had all he needed, he stepped out of his hall and strode off alone toward the entrance to the caves where a fire had been prepared. A cauldron was bubbling away over the flames. Brocan recognized it as his own; the very vessel which had been gifted to him by the Dagda in a gesture to honor him.

  It was known as the Cauldron of Plenty.

  As he approached, the king noticed that Eber Finn and his Druid, Máel Máedóc, were already warming their hands in the orange glow. Fineen the Healer was stirring the pot. Dalan and Sorcha were standing nearby.

  When the Brehon noticed his king coming down the path to the caves he picked up a bunch of dried sage and thrust it into the flames. When it caught he blew on it till a thick smoke poured out.

  Brocan stopped a short way from the fire and waited till the two Druids approached him, hoping no mention would be made of the events of the previous evening. The king closed his eyes as Dalan bathed him in the sacred herbs in blessing for his journey. Sweet smoke caught in the king’s throat but he made no sign of his discomfort.

  When the little blessing was done Sorcha whispered in Brocan’s ear. “Have you any experience with the herbs of seeing?”

  The king shook his head.

  “Fineen is preparing a brew made from redcaps that I have cultivated myself,” she went on. “They’ve been guarded by my predecessors for generations, so I can give you some idea of how you might react to them.”

  “Go on.”

  “You may feel very ill at first. The urge to empty your stomach may be unbearable. But you must try to constrain the urge to retch whatever you do or it may go worse for you later.”

  The king nodded. “What else can I expect?”

  “I can’t tell you exactly. The experience is different for everyone. The pathways to your inner self may be opened or you may not even pass beyond the gateway of your fears. You may face the elemental demons who inhabit the bowels of the Earth or be confronted with the frightening forms of your nightmares come to life. Indeed, even if you return, you may have lost your senses. Madness lurks in every passage. At the very least you will be changed.”

  “I’m ready,” Brocan decided. “Let this trial begin.”

  Sorcha bowed to him as he strode toward the cauldron then she and Dalan followed after. When Lochie looked up from his task he summoned the Druid woman to him with a wave of his hand.

  “All is prepared,” he told her.

  Sorcha peered into the vessel. The thick brown liquid within bubbled gently and a familiar aroma filled her senses.

  “I thought you said you’d never prepared this brew before,” she commented.

  “I’m a healer,” he explained, realizing she could well be suspicious of his knowledge. “I have learned all about the redcap broth even if I’ve never had the correct ingredients at my disposal to make it.”

  “But you’ve never tasted it yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Have you advised the kings what to expect?”

  “I don’t know what to expect,” Lochie smiled. “I told you, I’ve never tasted the brew myself. And in any case, isn’t that the whole point of the exercise, to let them discover for themselves?”

  Not for the first time Sorcha’s instincts told her Fineen was not being entirely honest. Perhaps it was the unusual air of confidence the healer had somehow acquired lately. She couldn’t quite discern what it was about him that put her on edge.

  Lochie turned to face the four men who were about to take this challenge.

  “Is all made ready?” he asked them.

  The two Druids nodded. The kings followed.

  “And have you made arrangements for your kingdoms in case you do not return from the caves?”

  The Gaedhal looked at the Fir-Bolg and both kings shook their heads.

  “What do you mean?” Brocan asked.

  “Who will rule in your place should you not come back from this journey?” Lochie insisted.

  “Goll mac Morna will have the kingship of the southern Gaedhals,” Eber Finn replied. The king had decided that if he was fated to die then it was likely the destiny of his rival to rule in his place. “If I am lost then he will make a fine king until the chieftains can decide on my permanent replacement.”

  “I can think of no one,” Brocan admitted. “Since the death of Fergus there isn’t any Fir-Bolg I’d trust with the kingship of our people. He was the only warrior experienced enough to do the job.”

  “And what of your son?” the Watcher asked.

  “Lom?” the king scoffed. “He’s nothing but a foolish boy.”

  “Yet he’s wise enough to rule until your chieftains have had time to decide on a replacement, as is the custom of your people. He is of your bloodline and so would be the only suitable nominal king of the Fir-Bolg in the interim.”

  “I can’t leave all I’ve worked for to a mere slip of a lad who has had so little experience of the world.”

  “You must let go one day,” Lochie smiled. “We’ve spoken of this before. If you truly wish to sever your ties with this world and find rest, there will come a time when you will have to leave all these matters in the hands of others. Lom will have myself and Dalan to advise him if you’re unlucky enough to fall victim to some mishap.”

  Brocan considered the healer’s words for a few seconds and then nodded his head in agreement.

  “You’re right. Chances are I’ll return without incident so there’s really nothing to worry abou
t. Therefore I formally leave the kingship in the keeping of my son Lom. Should I fail to return, he will rule the Fir-Bolg in my place until the Council of Chieftains sees fit to replace him.”

  “Let all those present bear witness to these words,” Lochie intoned in the manner of a Druid recording a solemn contract.

  Sorcha felt a twinge of disquiet as he spoke the words. Why had Fineen pushed for Lom to be proclaimed Brocan’s heir? It didn’t make sense.

  “Now take a sup of the redcap brew,” the Watcher said, raising a wooden cup high above his head before dipping it into the cauldron. “If any among you has decided against setting off on this journey, speak now.”

  None of them so much as moved a muscle, though Dalan was silently praying one of the two kings would back down. He would rather not go through with this ordeal if it was at all possible. But there was no other Druid of his experience available. And both kings would need the advice of the holy orders. This was one of the duties of his vocation.

  “To the kings I say this,” Lochie continued. “This brew is a gift rarely given to any outside the Druid orders. You have been allowed to take this journey because you are adjudged wise among your people and you have much experience of the world. If you allow your fear free reign you may find yourself trapped and unable to return. This is the only warning I give to you.”

  Then he turned to Máel Máedóc and the Brehon.

  “To each Druid I give this advice. You will share the experience of the king you’ve been asked to guide. Don’t interfere in his decisions. Don’t let your own fears cloud your judgment. And above all don’t give anything but advice or you may find yourself sharing the fate of your charge.”

  Sorcha stepped forward to speak her piece.

  “The brew will not take effect immediately. It may be as much as an hour before you experience any sensations which indicate a change in your consciousness. By that time you should be deep within the caves. You may walk for a while in the Otherworld, or the Underworld. Or you may be overcome with a yearning for sleep. Take care what course you take if you truly wish to return to the mouth of the cave.”

  Lochie handed the cup to Máel Máedóc who took a mouthful of the liquid and passed it on to Dalan. The Brehon took his share and then handed the cup to Eber Finn. Brocan was the last to taste the brew and he drained the vessel before handing it back to Lochie.

  “Go now,” the Watcher told them. “And may your gods go with you.”

  Máel Máedóc took a lighted torch from the fire and handed it to the Fir-Bolg king. Then he picked up three fresh unlit bundles of rushes and the two of them set out on their journey into the depths of the caves.

  When they had been gone for a short while Dalan turned to the King of the Gaedhals.

  “I believe we’ve given them enough of a lead. Shall we go?”

  Eber Finn nodded and with a burning rush light in his hand set off. The Brehon followed closely behind carrying spare unlit torches. He waved to Fineen and Sorcha as they departed.

  The Druid woman smiled at him and the sparkle in her eyes plainly spoke of her admiration for him. Dalan felt a warm glow in his breast and resolved that when he returned he would spend as much time with Sorcha as his duties would allow.

  They were soon within the mouth of the cave and the flickering light from the torch was invisible to any who stood outside. Lochie hardly waited until they were gone before he turned to the Druid woman and made his excuses for leaving. He told her he wished to go and collect rare herbs on the hillsides to the south and that he would have to set out immediately.

  “What of the remaining brew?” Sorcha asked. “You can’t simply leave it here where anyone might partake of it.”

  “I’ll send Sáarán to clean it up,” the Watcher told her. Then he picked up his linen herb bag and hurried off toward the main gate to the fortress.

  Sorcha watched him as he made his way to the dusty road and she couldn’t help but wonder what had come over him in the past few days. She thought she would like to go and eat some breakfast but her sense of duty forced her to stay by the cauldron to await Sárán.

  So she stretched out by the fire to warm her hands and await the full glory of the sunrise. And while she lay there she wondered what terrors awaited the two Druids and their kings.

  * * *

  Aoife had woken Sárán half an hour before the dawn and once they’d gathered some provisions they’d gone to observe the proceedings at the entrance to the caves.

  Together they’d crouched behind one of the defensive walls and waited until the healer had left Sorcha by the fire.

  When the Druid woman had lain by the cauldron a while, they made their way down to her, both shivering with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. Sorcha heard their footsteps and rose to greet them.

  “Your master said you’d be along to clean the cauldron.”

  “Yes,” the lad replied. “Aoife came to help me.”

  Sárán couldn’t believe their luck. Here was a chance to take whatever they needed of the brew without being detected.

  The Druid woman never suspected for a moment what they had in mind. Her thoughts were elsewhere. In the short time she had been lying by the fire she had begun to suspect Fineen was not all that he seemed.

  “Has your master been ill?” she asked the lad.

  “He’s never been better,” Sárán replied.

  “Have you noticed anything strange about him these last few days?”

  “He’s been eating better than I can remember, though he hardly seems to sleep at all.”

  The Druid woman frowned. “I’ll leave you to your task,” she told them. “I have a few matters which need my urgent attention. Whatever you do, don’t touch so much as a drop of that brew. It will surely be the worse for you if you do.”

  “We’ll be very careful,” Aoife promised.

  With that Sorcha was off as fast as her feet could carry her.

  Brother and sister pottered about the fire gathering the cooking utensils until she had passed out of sight.

  “Now we must hurry,” Sárán told his sister. “We’ve no way of knowing when she’ll return.”

  Aoife already had a bundle of rush lights in her hand. She tied them together with a short thin rope and slung them over her shoulder. Meanwhile Sárán took the cup, filled it to the brim with the thickened brown soup of the redcaps and offered it to Aoife.

  “Should I drink the whole thing?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Perhaps we should share this one cupful.”

  His sister looked at him sceptically. “Are you sure this is safe?”

  “This was your idea,” he snapped. “If you’re going to change your mind, this would be a good time to do so. But I had the impression you wanted to prove your worth as a warrior. Surely a Druid brew doesn’t frighten you.”

  Aoife glared at him and snatched the vessel. “I’m not afraid of it. I’d drink a dozen cups if I thought it would give me what I seek.”

  “So be it,” Sárán shrugged.

  He watched his sister take a deep draught of the liquid and then he waited to see if any immediate change came over her. When she handed him the cup he carefully observed her eyes and the color of her skin, but there seemed to be no visible effects.

  “How do you feel?”

  Aoife took a moment to consider the question. “It’s a satisfying meal,” she began. “My stomach is surprisingly full. But I can’t discern any other effects.”

  Sárán decided that the soup probably had to begin digesting before any noticeable changes took place. He put the cup to his mouth and tasted the liquid. To his delight the soup was very tasty. The aroma of fried mushrooms pervaded his senses and his mouth was full of the flavor of winter broth. Without considering that he should probably not drink as much as his sister, he drained the vessel then placed it down beside the fire.

  His stomach was bloated as if he’d eaten a huge meal of pork and oatcakes. And a familiar drowsiness
descended upon him as it always did after such a meal. He was tempted to lie down by the fire as Sorcha had been doing but Aoife noticed his lethargy.

  “Shouldn’t we be moving along?” she pressed.

  “Yes,” he replied with a yawn. “I suspect the brew will begin to make itself felt once the broth has started to digest.”

  “That doesn’t give us long,” Aoife observed and in the next second she was off toward the mouth of the cave, a lighted torch in her hand. Without turning back to her brother she called out, “Hurry up. I don’t want to be separated from you in the darkness. I have a feeling we’re going to need to stick close to one another.”

  Sárán shook his head to throw off his grogginess, grabbed a rush light and followed after her. And before he knew it they were far enough into the cave that their only light came from those two precious torches.

  The first part of their journey was not difficult. In previous generations these caves had been used as homes and for the storage of cheese, mead, ale and butter. The walls had been smoothed and the path between each of the chambers was well worn.

  Once or twice they thought they heard voices ahead of them and reasoned that they must be making better time than the other travelers. So at intervals they stopped to rest and give the others a chance to get well ahead of them.

  Even at this reduced pace it wasn’t long before they reached the place where the single path they’d been following branched off into three passages. This was their first real challenge, to decide which path to take.

  It was Aoife who noticed a trail of oat grains leading off down the passage to the left. Obviously someone had dropped them to make it easier to find their-way out. Sárán soon discovered white marks etched on the wall of the right-hand passage, and thus their decision was made for them. Without discussing the matter they set off along the middle passage into the inner parts of the Aillwee caves where no living soul had walked in many generations.

  They had not gone far when the air suddenly became very chill, like a night in winter without a hearth fire. There was a breeze blowing up the passage into their faces which had a bite to it like a sharp frost.