The King of Sleep

by Caiseal Mor

  His attention was drawn to the high arching roof of the cavern above him where the flickering firelight caught the shadows on the rough surface and made them dance wildly. For a long time he lay like that, his thoughts drifting until at last a vivid picture came to his mind.

  In his reminiscences he traveled to the place where he’d been born and raised, the fortress of Dun Burren. Many happy memories flooded over him and a wide smile illuminated his face.

  As clearly as if he had been standing on the walls of his old home he looked out and saw a woman running up the path to the main gate. Her hair was a long coppery-red river that flowed over her shoulders, down her back and touched her thighs. Even at fifty paces her eyes were the brightest green he’d ever seen, except for those of his daughter. She was slender, gentle, mischievous and merry. She was a beautiful spirit with a passionate heart. She could dance through the night even after the musicians had gone to their rest. And she was the most wonderful, loving, difficult, contrary, tempestuous, sensuous woman he’d ever known.

  Her name was Riona. She had been his wife and his queen. And when she’d left him for King Cecht of the Danaans a light had been extinguished in his life. Brocan had lost the joy of living and the passion he’d had for fighting.

  His heart was sick for the loss of her. His spirit had shut itself away from joy. And nothing, not even the Quicken Brew, had been able to heal the wound he had suffered at their parting.

  All food was bland, all mead was bitter. His duties had become empty and meaningless, though he struggled to continue to serve his people. The only thing he’d desired since she’d gone away was sleep. Sound restful eternal slumber.

  Brocan’s heart had had a tiny crack in it since she’d gone. Like a cooking pot that slowly leaks, the joy had been seeping out season after season until now his spirit was a dry, withered thing. And death would not be any comfort to him. His soul could not go off to the Halls of Waiting to renew itself in the waters of the Well of Forgetfulness. Although his body was strengthened by the Quicken Brew, his spirit was trapped. No Druid potion could heal the ailment from which he suffered.

  It was sadness that finally stirred Brocan from his rest. He couldn’t bear to think about Riona any longer, nor could he face the pain he was suffering deep within himself. So he rolled over on his side, ready to get up.

  It was then he noticed the roaring fire that lay between himself and Máel Máedóc. He must have been sleeping very soundly not to have noticed the old Druid building up the flames. But where could all this kindling have come from? There was surely more stacked up in the flames than he’d been carrying in his pack. And what of those two logs? They defied explanation altogether, for there were no trees growing underground.

  “Máel Máedóc,” he whispered. “Are you awake?”

  “Did you see them?” the Druid replied as he turned his head to face the king. “They are the most beautiful folk I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  “Who?”

  “The folk who came to help us.”

  A sudden rush of remembrance came to Brocan; a glimpse of a strange woman’s face. “I thought I was dreaming,” the king replied.

  “I thought that at first too. But I’ve never had a dream so wondrous, so calming and so filled with the power of healing.”

  “Are you feeling better?”

  “I am,” Máel Máedóc smiled. “But this cave will be my last resting place. My time has come.”

  “Don’t speak so. You’re suffering from the brew. You mustn’t think that you’re going to die yet.”

  “Not quite yet,” the old Druid replied. “First I must deliver a satire. Then I will bathe in the sacred river. And after that my soul will be set free.”

  Brocan was puzzled by these words but he convinced himself the old man was simply suffering from a strange vision that would soon pass.

  Máel Máedóc’s eyes sparkled and a smile spread across his face as if he’d heard the king’s thoughts. “I’ve found my peace,” he nodded, tears welling up in his eyes. “I’m going to sup with my ancestors. But the longer I delay the more I will suffer the pains of my aged body.”

  The king felt the emotion welling up in his throat and he couldn’t speak.

  “Help me,” the Druid asked calmly.

  Brocan looked away, refusing to believe that Máel Máedóc was about to breathe his last in this hidden cave far from his kindred and in the company of a stranger. But when he could bring himself to turn back and look at the Druid’s face he knew immediately the old man was speaking the truth.

  There was a peaceful serenity in his moist gray eyes that had not been evident before. And his skin had begun to drain of all its color. This was the touch of death, nothing was more certain.

  “How can I be of assistance?” Brocan asked, choking back the tears.

  It wasn’t that he felt any particular attachment to this Gaedhal. But he considered it a great privilege to be in the presence of one who was about to embark on the mysterious voyage to the lands beyond life. It was a journey Brocan expected he would never experience for himself.

  “Bring Eber Finn to me.”

  “What hope do I have of finding him in this vast cavern?” the king countered. “You could be gone long before I returned.”

  “You’ll find him not far away,” Máel Máedóc assured him. “I’ve been told he’s just beyond that passage.”

  “Who told you?”

  “The shining people.”

  Brocan looked over his shoulder and down the passage in the direction the old man was pointing. He was not convinced. It was very likely the Druid had imagined these folk.

  “I didn’t invent them,” Máel Máedóc snapped. “You saw them too but you’d rather forget about them. They make you uneasy. Well I’ve got nothing to be uneasy about. I’m dying.”

  “Who are they?”

  “They didn’t tell me.”

  “I’ll go and take a look,” Brocan promised. “But I’m not going to wander too far. I don’t want you to be alone for too long.”

  “I’ll still be here when you get back,” the old Druid scoffed. “I’m not in a hurry. I still have one duty to perform. I should have put it behind me before I parted with Eber Finn but I was weak-willed and lacked the resolve. It’s an unpleasant task but I must have done with it before I go.”

  The king stood up, grabbed a torch and headed off down the passage. As his light disappeared in the infinite blackness, Máel Máedóc remembered something important.

  “Take care of the shining ones!” the old Druid called out. “They’re not as friendly as they might appear.”

  If the king heard, he did not answer. And Máel Máedóc could only hope Brocan would be wise enough to face any threat alone.

  Dalan gathered his pack and lit a new torch as soon as he realized the Gaedhal was wide awake.

  “Shall we go on?” the Brehon asked.

  “Yes,” Eber nodded, anxious now to return to his people and defend himself against the machinations of Goll mac Morna. “I think it’s time we put an end to this foolishness and found our way out of the caves. Fineen spoke of a river that runs out from the caverns to the south. Perhaps if we can locate its source here in the depths we’ll have a chance of finding our way back to the Fir-Bolg fortress.”

  “I believe you may be right,” Dalan agreed. “If you listen carefully you’ll hear the sound of what may be river.”

  Both men fell silent, concentrating on the noise. It was faint but unmistakable and it was emanating from a spot further down the long passage they’d been following.

  “Your heart is still set on war?” the Brehon asked.

  “It matters little what I think or desire,” the king replied. “My brother is readying himself for conflict and my most trusted champion sees an opportunity to seize the kingship for himself. I must stand for my people and protect them from two enemies who would enslave them.”

  “But the Druids of your people would surely not allow Éremon to con
duct a war against you?”

  “The chief Druid of the Gaedhals in this land is my eldest brother, Amergin. He and Éremon have always been close. When we first landed they sent me to the south in the hope that I’d be defeated or possibly killed in battle. They didn’t imagine that our mother would choose to accompany me or that I’d be victorious. Now I’m a thorn in the foot of their intentions. Éremon rules the north because Amergin supports him. The chieftains accept this situation because they revere the memory of our father, Míl.”

  Eber picked up a torch and held it in the flames until it caught. Then he went on.

  “I am the youngest surviving son of Míl and Scota. According to the traditions of my ancestors I should never have had the opportunity to rule in my own right. But my chieftains have expressed their confidence in me as a war-leader and it is my duty to perform that task to the best of my ability.”

  “And why hasn’t an older, more experienced chieftain stepped forward to be considered for the kingship?”

  “The influence of my father should not be underestimated. The mere mention of his name is enough for many. He was a legend even in his own time. It is too often assumed that his sons were cast in the same metal.”

  “So Éremon is not his father’s son?”

  Eber ignored the question and continued. “It’s true there were many good reasons for our journey to these islands. Invaders from the south were harassing outlying settlements and our cattle herds had grown to the point where the land could not feed them.”

  Eber breathed deeply as he thought fondly on his homeland.

  “Life was different there. My father’s kingship was strictly regulated by the Druid orders. Éremon could not accept many of the rulings the wise ones passed down on him. He saw this new land as a means to escape their strictures.”

  The king looked away in shame as he went on. “I must admit I agreed with him then. But now I understand that he is greedy. He seeks to change the whole weave in the fabric of our society. I believe the king should be the servant of his people. In the same way the Druids preserve tradition and law, the war-leader should tend to the defense and physical needs of his kinfolk.”

  “But your brother would turn this way of life upside down?”

  “He was always enamored of gold,” Eber Finn sighed, and knew he was also speaking about an aspect of himself. “Wealth should be a reflection of a chieftain’s success at feeding his people. If they have the leisure to produce luxuries then he deserves to benefit. But Éremon would have the people pay him a price for his skill that is beyond their means, for not every harvest is a good one.”

  “That is slavery!” the Brehon stated in horror.

  The King of the Gaedhals nodded. Eber closed his eyes for a moment, realizing he too had once believed such methods were acceptable. Now he was changing his opinion. A king should be the servant of his people.

  “When I set out for the new land I held many beliefs in common with my brother. But I’ve witnessed the struggle for survival that has been thrust upon my loyal supporters. I understand now that every decision I take affects the lives of everyone in my clan. There has been enough suffering. I don’t wish to see any more.”

  A transformation of heart struck the Gaedhal as he spoke and was clearly reflected in his eyes.

  Dalan raised his eyebrows and clapped a hand across the king’s back.

  “I believe I may have misjudged you,” the Brehon admitted. “You have a way to go, but I would say you’ve on the path to wisdom. You’ll be a good king one day.”

  “That is my only ambition.”

  “If you will accept my advice along the way, I’d be honored to help you in whatever way I can.”

  The two men shared a smile and without any further discussion headed off down the passage that led toward the sound of water falling. The going was hard but both of them had lightened their hearts.

  The further they walked the damper the air became, and before long the stones seeped water and the path became slippery. This slowed their progress but they were obviously nearing their goal so neither man gave expression to his frustration.

  At length they rounded a sharp bend in the passage and a blast of cool air hit their faces. And carried on the breeze was a merry song—the music of a river rushing along its course. Eber Finn ran forward to where the path passed into a wide entrance. The Brehon followed him step for step. At that point the floor disappeared unexpectedly and the king lost his footing. In a flash Dalan was at his side and had hauled him up onto safe ground again.

  The pair lay back with heaving chests until the excitement of the moment had passed, then the Brehon sat up and looked down at the foot of the cliff. There far below was a wide torrent with sandy banks and mossy rocks.

  The whole scene was lit from above by sunlight which filtered in through openings in the cavern wall on the opposite side of the river. The nearest opening was at least a thousand paces away, Dalan reckoned. To reach it they would have to climb down the cliff, cross the torrent and scale the other side. Such a journey could easily take two days. It was out of the question.

  “What shall we do?” the Brehon mumbled under his breath.

  “There must be another way down,” the king suggested.

  But they hadn’t passed any forks in the tunnel. This seemed to be the only opening to the river on this side. Eber dangled his legs over the edge and sat with his chin resting in his hands while he considered their situation.

  The cliff was almost sheer to the bottom. There were footholds but he couldn’t be certain how secure they might be. He had a length of rope in his pack but he was sure it wouldn’t be long enough. It was as he was pondering the problem that he caught a strange glimmer out of the corner of his eye. The king squinted, concentrating on the area where he thought he’d seen the little light.

  Suddenly his hand was on Dalan’s arm and his fingers were squeezing tight.

  “Look!” he gasped. “Down there. It’s a fire.”

  The Brehon shielded his eyes from the sunlight and looked carefully. But he couldn’t locate any fire.

  “Are you sure?”

  Just as the words left his mouth the Brehon caught sight of the flames. The fire was far off in the depths of darkness at the lower end of the river, but there was no mistaking the flickering reflection against the surface of the water.

  “That’s the direction we’re headed in,” the king said. “Perhaps Brocan and my adviser have made better time than we have.”

  “They’ve taken a different path, that’s all,” Dalan corrected him. “What shall we do? Scramble down or retrace our steps and seek out another passage to the river?”

  “We could wander these stone corridors for the rest of eternity and not find our way back to the river,” Eber judged. “In my opinion we should try to climb down the cliff face.”

  Dalan edged closer to the brink. His heart raced at the thought of making that descent.

  “Look,” he began nervously, “the truth is, I’m not very comfortable with heights.”

  “What have you got to be worried about? You’ve taken the Quicken Brew. What possible harm could come to you if you fell?”

  The Brehon looked over the cliff again and laughed at himself a little.

  “I’m the one who’s risking his life,” Eber went on.

  With that the Gaedhal found the rope in his pack and fastened it around an outcrop of rock. He tied a sailor’s knot that would allow him to slip the rope away when they had climbed down to the full extent of the line. Then he tested that it would hold his weight.

  “Shall I go first?”

  “Is this a good idea?” Dalan stuttered, terrified at the thought of plunging down the cliff face suspended on such a flimsy-looking cord.

  “You have nothing to fear,” the Gaedhal reminded him. “Even if you fall, no harm will come to you.”

  “I’ve never really put the brew to the test before,” the Druid admitted. “It has only been three winters since I drank
of it.”

  Eber smiled. “You Druids are all the same. You steer clear of danger. You spend your whole lives learning rules and laws. You love to tell tales of the heroes of the past. But when it comes down to it you’re all just hiding from life. You’re afraid of what might happen to you if all your rules fell apart.”

  “I’m not frightened of death,” Dalan snapped back indignantly.

  “It’s life that scares you,” the Gaedhal cut in.

  And with that he wrapped the rope around his waist and prepared to start his descent to the river.

  “There’s a ledge just above where this rope runs out. It’s wide enough for both of us to stand on. I’ll meet you there.”

  In the next second he was off, carefully finding a foothold here and there and letting out the line gently as he went.

  Dalan watched from above and tried to tell himself Eber was right. He had nothing to fear. Even if he slipped and fell he was unlikely to be killed. Yet all his instincts told him this was foolishness. Eber Finn’s rebuke, however, stung his pride, and as the king reached the first ledge Dalan decided to fight off the fear that was overwhelming him.

  He wrapped the line about his waist in the same manner the Gaedhal had done and, his eyes fixed firmly on the placement of his feet, lowered himself over the edge of the cliff.

  The first thing he noticed when he stepped off the ledge was not fear. It was a confidence he had never known before. This wasn’t nearly as frightening as he’d imagined and now that he was committed to this course of action it seemed almost enjoyable.

  But then Dalan made a terrible mistake. In his new-found self-assurance he ventured to look down to see how far it was to where the Gaedhal was waiting for him. It was just a glance, no more than a glimpse, but it was enough to turn his stomach. Suddenly his heart was beating in his mouth and his hands were sweating around the rope. His fingers seemed incredibly weak and his knees were shaking as a cold dread began to engulf him.

  All his former confidence was swept away on a rising tide of panic. And it was the kind of terror that would have seen him running as fast as he could in the opposite direction if he hadn’t been halfway down the cliff.