The King of Sleep

by Caiseal Mor

  “Isleen?” Eber shot back.

  “The Watcher.”

  “What is a Watcher?”

  “An ancient force conjured in the days of our forefathers by the enemies of the Danaan and Fir-Bolg,” Dalan explained. “Isleen is one of only two remaining Watchers. Their sole purpose is to spread havoc among mortal kind.”

  Eber was shocked. Surely the Brehon wasn’t referring to his Isleen. But he could hardly ask—if he revealed that he’d been consorting with this Watcher, it could spell the end of any hope of alliance with the Fir-Bolg.

  “Are they really all that dangerous?” he inquired, all the suspicions he’d held about Isleen starting to make sense.

  “More deadly, more treacherous and more pitiful than any creature that ever walked. They’re shape-shifters. They influence the world around them, the thoughts of men, the desires of women. Bless the Goddess Danu you know nothing of them.”

  The Brehon sighed deeply, realizing they were wasting precious time. “Now you have your trophy, perhaps we can consider returning to the cave mouth,” Dalan begged. “I’d rather return home before the seeing herbs take their full effect.”

  “Nonsense!”

  And with a laugh Eber Finn was off down the passage once again, searching for more adventure. But the Brehon, following close behind, shared none of the king’s joy at roaming this underworld kingdom full of long-dead monsters. For Dalan was beginning to experience an overwhelming sense of foreboding such as he hadn’t known since before the coming of the Gaedhals.

  Máel Máedóc had just sat down when the first effects of the seeing potion came upon him. He’d had some experience of similar brews when he was a young Druid in training, but it had been many seasons since he’d consented to partake of them. This was mainly because he had never felt entirely comfortable with the way his mind behaved under the influence of such herbs. Máel Máedóc was a man who liked his life to remain ordered and simple. If there were to be challenges to his way of thinking he preferred them to be easily recognized and quickly dealt with. But the seeing potions opened his mind to often frightening visions.

  The old Druid had seen but twenty summers when he’d had his first experience with a potion made from a flowering plant known as the gloves of the goat-headed god. The effect on him was unusually prolonged and profound, so much so that his teacher forbade him to take the potion ever again.

  His next experience was ten autumns later, as part of the Samháin rituals, when he was fed a small amount of dried mushroom similar in many ways to the redcaps Sorcha had provided. His teacher had passed on by that time so his guide was a good friend who was a herbalist and well versed in the ways of seeing. He still couldn’t recall much of that experience other than the long period of recovery that followed. His guide had misjudged the dose and poisoned them both. Máel Máedóc had survived, but his friend had not been so lucky.

  Such were the dangers of these preparations. Anyone who took these seeing brews was changed forever; some for the better and some for the worse. Máel Máedóc’s own limited experience had led to him being extremely cautious in every aspect of his life.

  Yet here he was in his old age taking part in a strange journey which could end in his own death. He’d only agreed to take part because it was his duty to stand beside his king. Only a few days ago he’d been busily composing a satire against Eber Finn. Now he was risking his life in order to honor his duty to the man.

  His senses were reeling from the dank air in the cave and the unfamiliar ground they had covered. But he was not yet so groggy that he felt the need to stop. It was Brocan who had called them to a halt.

  “I’m ill,” the Fir-Bolg king stated.

  These were the first words he’d spoken to the Druid since they’d entered the darkness.

  “Shall we rest?” Máel Máedóc inquired.

  “You’re the old man,” Brocan dismissed. “I’ll rest when you’re ready.”

  “I would like to move on.”

  “Very well.”

  The king ignored the trembling in his guts and continued on, though his legs were unsteady and his pace had slowed. The old Druid observed the difficulty Brocan was having and was surprised that he himself was only suffering from a mild giddiness.

  “I would like to stop for a while,” Máel Máedóc said finally.

  He’d barely finished speaking when Brocan collapsed on the ground and curled up in a tight ball of pain. The Druid offered him a taste of water from his bottle but the king refused it and it was a long while before Brocan stretched out again and grunted in relief.

  “I thought my guts were going to explode,” he gasped when he could speak again. Then the king noticed that Máel Máedóc wasn’t showing any ill effects.

  “I have much experience of the seeing herbs,” the old Druid declared, though this experience was obviously unlike any other he had been exposed to.

  “Have you ever seen anything like that?” Brocan asked, pointing to the ceiling.

  Máel Máedóc looked where the king was pointing but couldn’t at first understand what he meant. All he could see was a plain, rocky gray roof, damp in places but otherwise unremarkable.

  “What have you seen?” the old man demanded, but as he spoke his eyes were opened in a way he’d never known before.

  Hundreds of tiny lights of red and green and the brightest yellow began to dance around the wall to the accompaniment of the most wonderful melody that had ever met his ears. The tune was light and merry and in no time Máel Máedóc’s toes were tapping in rhythm to the music. Then, as if he had no control over himself, he was on his feet, discarding his staff to step out a lively jig such as he’d hadn’t danced since he was a lad. The lights grew brighter by the moment until the entire passage seemed to be alive with their vibrant presence.

  And something else happened to Máel Máedóc. He experienced a great opening of his heart, a precious joy that entered his soul and rejuvenated his very being. He threw his arms out in ecstatic thanks to whatever unseen power had granted him this wondrous gift. And as he offered up his gratitude enlightenment struck him.

  His own life, everything he had ever said and done, even his eventual death, meant nothing to the greater cycle of the universe. He was just one small part of an unimaginably immense organism that followed its own patterns, rhythms and rules. But as insignificant as he was, he was still a part of that unknowable being and as such would always remain a part of it, even beyond death. After his passing his body would break down into dust and return to the Earth. But his soul would move on and change into something completely new yet positively alive.

  This concept had been taught to him by various teachers all his life. He had discussed it with his learned friends and students alike, and yet he had never really been convinced of the truth of it until now.

  And with this realization all the cares of his office, all the concerns of his vocation and all the accumulated regrets of his lifetime were released into the air and blew away like as much ash scattered on a dungheap.

  The music was growing richer by the moment. Drums, pipes and whistles joined in the chorus with the delicate notes of the harp picked out above the other instruments. There were voices joining in also but Máel Máedóc didn’t listen for the words they were singing. His entire being was lost to the melody and the ecstatic dance. Even Brocan was no longer of any concern to him. The old Druid didn’t give a thought for his duties or his responsibihty as a guide to the Fir-Bolg king.

  This uplifting sensation of Oneness with all things was what he’d been searching for all his life. Through long seclusion and meditation he’d tried to achieve this state. When that path had proved fruitless he’d turned to music and poetry. He’d glimpsed the ecstasy of being, certainly, but he’d never been immersed in it, never been swept up in the joy of living as he was now.

  As all these thoughts flowed through the mind of Máel Máedóc, the Druid’s body began to twirl in a dance such as he’d never attempted before. With
arms still outstretched he turned around and around until everything about him, stone walls, rocks and the flames of Brocan’s torch all blurred into a weird mix of color and light.

  But despite this constant spinning, Máel Máedóc didn’t feel at all dizzy or disoriented. In fact, if anything, the more he twirled the sharper his awareness became until he began to sense the presence of other folk milling about in the chamber.

  Once or twice these strangers were so compelling in their silent observation that Máel Máedóc very nearly ceased his dance altogether to ask them who they were.

  But his feet would not do his bidding.

  “I don’t care if I die now!” he cried out for the sheer joy of expressing an end to all sorrow. “I’ll never be unhappy again. I’ll cling to this feeling for the rest of my life.”

  As he spun around again he caught sight of Brocan, who had a look of genuine concern on his face. Before he’d come around once more, Brocan had his arms about Máel Máedóc.

  The old Druid fought him off for a short while, then his knees began to buckle under him. Before he knew what was happening the old man had lost all sensation in his legs. If it had not been for the king’s strong arms about him he would have surely fallen face first onto the rocky floor. As it was, Brocan was sufficiently affected by the seeing brew himself that he struggled to hold the old man up.

  The next thing Máel Máedóc was aware of was the ceiling of the cave. This and this alone filled his consciousness, though at times he glimpsed Brocan’s face. The entire chamber seemed to be spinning as if he hadn’t stopped dancing.

  The old man knew his body was being twirled around by the ever-moving floor beneath him. But he was not in the least sickened by the sensation. If anything he was thoroughly enjoying it.

  Brocan, on the other hand, was struggling to fight off the effects of the brew, for his instincts told him there was something terribly wrong with the old Druid. The king searched around in Máel Máedóc’s pack for his water bottle. His hands seemed unwilling to do as they were bid and the search went on for an interminable period. It was all Brocan could do to concentrate on this simple task. At last he found the bottle but his fingers refused to grasp it.

  It took an incredible force of will for the king to lift the bottle and remove the stopper. He placed the vessel at the old man’s mouth with trembling hands that spilled the precious liquid all around. But Máel Máedóc drank deeply and for a few moments his eyes focused and cleared.

  To his intense frustration Brocan could not keep his attention on anything for more than a split second at a time. Once Máel Máedóc had taken a drink the king was so exhausted from the effort of finding the bottle that he slumped back against the wall. Then his entire body began to grow numb.

  All his senses were dulled. Sounds were muffled. Colors brightened. Odors strengthened. His mouth tasted salty and dry but he didn’t have the energy to take a sip from his companion’s water bottle. And the mere thought of taking a draught from his own mead bottle turned his stomach.

  It was then that Brocan noticed his rush light was flickering. Somehow he’d managed to drop it on the ground where it spluttered dangerously close to extinction. If the light went out they would certainly be in trouble. If it was difficult to find a water bottle it would be impossible to locate a flint and tinder in the pitch blackness.

  With all his strength Brocan sharpened his resolve and moved toward the torch. Though he couldn’t manage anything better than a slow crawl across the floor he soon had his hands on the shaft of the rush light. With the greatest care he propped it up against the wall so that at least it would continue burning. When he was certain the light was safe he rolled over on his back and became conscious of the sweat running down his face like a mountain stream.

  And as he lay on his back he began to feel an unfamiliar and disturbing coldness spread across his body. It started in his feet then engulfed his ankles and calf muscles. Wherever it went it left behind a paralysis so devastating that Brocan could not so much as twitch a muscle.

  By the time panic set in, it was already too late. His hands and arms were lumps of cold immovable stone; his heart was slowing and his breathing had become strained and irregular. Only two parts of him seemed immune to this affliction: his mind, which raced on, fuelled by fear; and his eyes which, though they would not move in their sockets, remained open and aware of every subtle movement in the chamber.

  This was how, after a long while lying on his back unable to move, Brocan first noticed a small group of strange folk standing at one end of the passage, quietly observing him.

  They were dressed entirely in the skins of animals. Their hair was long, brown and filthy. They were shorter than average, with large eyes and hands. And none of them spoke a single word, though Brocan sensed they wanted to communicate with him.

  At length a woman came to sit beside him. Gently she propped his head up under his pack and he felt a few drops of water pour into his mouth. The king tried to thank her but his Ups and tongue would not answer the call to speak.

  The strange woman stroked his hair and stared intently at his helpless face. Her eyes were like those of a seal—large, black and wet. After a short while she motioned to her companions and there was a flurry of movement. But Brocan had exhausted his reserves of energy.

  His eyelids would not remain open, no matter how he struggled against them. At last the woman closed them for him and he fell into the deepest sleep he’d ever experienced.

  For all the noise of folk scurrying about him, for all the concern he held for Máel Máedóc’s well-being, Brocan let himself be transported to the realm of sleep. And once his soul was floating at peace, he allowed the ship of his spirit to float aimlessly on a flat featureless sea of restfulness.

  Sorcha went directly to the hall of poetry, hoping to find Fineen. But by the time she got there he was nowhere to be seen. Her suspicions were definitely aroused now. It would have been almost impossible for him to have reached the hall, collected his things and gone off in search of herbs as he had intended.

  To be certain she went down to the main gates of the fortress and inquired of the sentries whether the healer had passed that way. They told her no one had entered or departed the gates since sunset the previous evening.

  To make certain her instincts weren’t playing tricks with her, the Druid woman began a systematic search of the entire fortification, beginning with the king’s hall, then the house of the chieftains and any place it was likely Fineen might have gone before setting out on his expedition.

  She asked everyone she met along the way but no one had seen the healer all morning, which was strange since he was such a popular figure. Everywhere he went folk looked out for him either to thank him for some cure or to ask his advice with a health problem.

  In the end Sorcha decided to return to the hall of poetry once more to see if he’d returned there. But there was no sign of him. His bed had not been slept in. His traveling pack had not been touched. And his clothes were still laid out for the day as if he’d not yet awoken.

  In the course of her curiosity Sorcha opened Fineen’s box of herbs. And there she saw something which made her blood run chill. A thin gray film of mold covered every leaf, twig and seed within the box. Nothing had been touched for days.

  This was not just unusually careless of the healer. It was highly unlikely. And it convinced the Druid woman she had stumbled across the reason why Fineen had been making her feel so uneasy.

  She thought back to the conversation she’d had with him a few nights before and her mind began to race with possibilities. How did he know so many tales that hadn’t been told in generations? Where had he gained his knowledge of the Watchers? He’d certainly not known so much when they’d first met.

  Her heart racing furiously, Sorcha made her way back down to the cave entrance to speak with Sárán. To her surprise she found the cauldron still propped over the fireplace and the contents settling into a solid mass within.

 
; “Where are the two trainee Druids who were sent to clean this vessel?” she asked the guards who had just been posted to ensure no one entered the caves.

  The two men looked at each other and shrugged.

  Now Sorcha was beginning to feel more than uneasy. She grabbed a torch from beside the fire, lit it and prepared to venture into the Aillwee by herself. She knew this was perhaps a foolish act but her concern for Dalan and the others was overwhelming.

  She suspected that she had discovered one of the Watchers going about his mischief in the guise of the healer, but she hardly dared admit this even to herself, for the idea was simply too disturbing.

  She intended to go as far into the caves as was safe and no further. But the sentries had been given strict instructions to stop her from entering and no amount of arguing or begging had any influence over them. At last she simply tried to push past the two warriors but they easily picked her up between them and carried her back to the cauldron. When they set her down by the fire the larger of the two issued her a stern warning that she would not pass them as long as they had any strength.

  Downcast but desperate to do something, Sorcha threw down the torch, turned on her heel and headed off toward the main gate of the fortress. Then, without so much as a water bottle or a cloak in case the night turned cold, she set off down the dusty road toward her home in the forest.

  She had just entered the woods which lay directly to the south of Aillwee when a familiar voice called out to her. The Druid woman stopped in her tracks when she heard the call and waited until the huge black bird descended from the trees to stand beside her on the path.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” the Raven cawed in her gravelly tones. “There’s terrible news on the wind.”

  “Why didn’t you come to the Aillwee and speak with me?”

  “Not all the Fir-Bolg are friends of the Raven kind,” came the reply. “King Brocan fought a battle against my cousins the owl folk and many of them died. I won’t easily forget that.”