by Caiseal Mor
“Take it easy, Druid,” the king called up to him. “Don’t rush yourself. Keep your eyes on your boots and choose your next foothold carefully. Don’t think about how frightened you are. You have a job to do, so concentrate on it.”
“My hands won’t support my weight.” “I don’t understand you folk of the Draoi path,” Eber Finn scoffed. “You can stand up to kings. You can talk with confidence in front of hundreds of your kinfolk. You pronounce the law and judge transgressors as if it were the easiest thing in the world. You can even compose and play the most beautiful music without a second thought.”
The Brehon closed his eyes as he listened to the king’s words. Then he pushed his forehead into the back of his hand as he desperately gripped the line.
“Yet give you a simple task and you lose your nerve,” the Gaedhal concluded. “How do you expect a warrior to respect your words if you haven’t the heart to suffer the same risks and the same trials as the rest of us?”
“I’m not a warrior!” Dalan hissed. “I didn’t choose to walk the same path as you. How could you know what I’ve suffered in order to gain my education and the respect of my peers?”
“Show me your worth, Druid,” Eber countered. “Keep your mind on the journey and drive away all thoughts of your destination. If you think too much about where you’re headed, you’ll be distracted and then you’ll surely falter.”
Dalan heard these words and knew the king was right. He took three deep breaths to steel his nerve and then looked down at his feet. The next outcrop of rock that appeared as though it could hold him was just a short step away.
He lowered his left foot onto the stone and transferred his weight. He took another breath before he spotted a place for his right foot. His toe found a solid support and he let out a little of the line about his waist.
In this manner he slowly made his way down to where Eber Finn was waiting for him. The king was obviously impatient. When the Brehon was finally standing at his side on the narrow ledge the Gaedhal sighed heavily and snatched the rope from him.
Then, in a practiced maneuver, Eber flicked the line with one hand and it fell down on top of them. Dalan pressed his back to the wall, his palms flat against the rock. He tried to steady his breathing, to ease the deafening pounding of blood through his body. But before the Druid had settled himself, the Gaedhal had secured the rope again and was back down the cliff face. The Brehon could only wonder at the man’s determination. Little by little he felt respect blossoming for this foreigner.
In this way the two of them inched their way down the sheer rock face, relying on the rope when there was no footing to be had. Nevertheless the descent took longer than even Eber had imagined for it was difficult to judge the distance from the top of the cliff.
When at last the Brehon dropped down onto the soft sand at the very base of the rock wall he fell on his face and stayed that way for a long time, clutching at the grains with his fingers. Eber Finn coiled the rope and calmly placed it in his pack in case they should stand in need of it again.
“I’m ashamed of myself,” Dalan finally admitted when he lifted himself up off the ground onto his knees. His face and clothes were covered in sand. “I was so frightened I thought my heart was going to stop.”
The Gaedhal leaned over, grasped him by the hand and helped him to his feet.
“So was I,” he admitted. “There’s nothing like a challenge to get the heart pumping. And when my blood is up I know I’m really alive.”
The Brehon looked into Eber’s eyes and saw he was speaking the truth. Then the two of them fell into each other’s arms and laughed.
But their relief was short-lived. As they broke from their embrace the two men realized they were not alone on the narrow sandy beach at the bend of the underground river. Dalan swallowed hard and the Gaedhal drew his sword. But before they fully understood what was happening the whole area was lit by the flames of a hundred torches.
It was Aoife who dragged herself to her feet when the sound of the harp met her ears. Her brother looked up from where he lay but wasn’t keen to go off searching in the dark for the mysterious musician. “We haven’t any torches left,” he reasoned. “We’ll just get hopelessly lost.”
But his sister didn’t take any notice of him. The melody was compelling and familiar and it called to her like the voice of a dear friend. She took a dozen steps away from the fire while Sárán struggled to rise on his elbow.
“I’m too tired to go off searching the cave,” he told her. “Let the harper come to us.”
When she offered no answer the young man looked up. His sister was gone.
“Aoife!” he cried, panic lending a tremble to his voice. “Where are you?”
“There’s a light up here,” she answered. “I think I’ve found a way out of the cave.”
In a flash Sárán was on his feet, running toward the rocks behind the little beach. But the shadows concealed many hidden pitfalls and he tripped on a sharp jutting stone. He was just getting to his feet again, rubbing his shin where his breeches had been torn open, when Aoife appeared at his side.
“I’ve found an exit,” she informed him, grabbing his hand and dragging him along between two huge boulders. Within ten steps they’d rounded one of the massive stones. There before them was a hole in the rocks worn smooth by water over thousands of seasons.
The passage beyond was lit by an eerie blue glow and a freezing wind issued forth from it. Sárán recoiled as soon as he set eyes on the entrance to this new corridor. An inexplicable terror shook him and he knew without a doubt that it would be a mistake to enter this part of the cave system.
But Aoife was keen to explore beyond the doorway. She made a few tentative steps toward the passage, though her brother stayed where he was, frozen to the spot. As she turned to check whether he was following her, a shadow appeared behind her, and Sárán’s eyes widened.
The sound of the harp met their ears again as Aoife dashed back to stand by her brother. The shadow grew as a hooded figure made its way down the passage toward them. At last the stranger stood silhouetted against the faint bluish light behind him. He was nothing more than a dark outline but he inspired such fear in Sárán that the young man could have fled there and then. And if it hadn’t been for his sister’s tight grip on his arm, that’s exactly what he would have done.
As they watched, the stranger turned around and headed back in the direction he’d come. Aoife was off after him before her brother had a chance to object. Reluctantly he followed her, calling her name to no avail.
The passage was incredibly cold. Ice clung to the rocks, making the floor dangerously slippery. Several times Sárán fell over hard against the wall or slid along as the corridor descended. Aoife, however, had always been more sure-footed than her brother and she was soon far ahead of him. Sárán struggled along as best he could but it wasn’t long before he was out of breath, too exhausted to call out.
A wailing wind greeted him as he entered a new chamber and flakes of snow began swirling all about him as he walked. The young man was very concerned now. There was no sign of Aoife anywhere.
Just as he was wondering whether she had been set upon by the hooded stranger, his sister appeared. She ran into him on her way back down the passage, nearly knocking him over in her haste.
“You won’t believe what lies beyond that stretch of corridor!” she told him. “I can scarcely believe it myself.”
Sárán frowned. “I don’t want to know!” he stormed. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to be running around in these caves? We don’t know what dwells down here beneath the ground. We’re going back to the lake right now.”
“But that passage leads to the outside world. We’re free!”
She grabbed his arm to drag him on along the corridor. Before they’d traveled far a bright light filled the cave and the wind built in intensity. There was snow all around and the ice was treacherously thick on the ground.
Moments later they were
standing at the cave mouth looking out over a wintry landscape.
“It was midsummer when we entered the Aillwee,” Sárán protested. “How could it have come to winter so quickly?”
“I have no idea,” his sister replied. She pointed to a spot on the other side of the field which lay in front of them. “But I recognize that wood over there. It’s not far from our old home at Dun Burren.”
“I don’t understand,” Sárán breathed. “There’s something terribly wrong. There can’t be snow on the ground.”
“I don’t understand it myself,” Aoife admitted. “But I see we’re safely out of the caves and that’s the most important thing. Over there is the road to Aillwee. If we run we’ll make it to shelter before nightfall.”
The next thing he knew Sárán was running as fast as his legs could carry him through the heavy snow toward the woods at the other side of the field. He’d completely forgotten about the stranger they’d seen in the cave. He was overjoyed to be free of the eternal darkness.
They had almost come to the line of oak trees that marked the woods when his instincts called to him again. Out of breath he dropped back behind his sister. He’d taken her word that this was a place not far from the old fortress of Dun Burren, but now that he looked about him he wasn’t entirely convinced. Stunned that he could have failed to question Aoife’s judgment, he stopped in his tracks to search for familiar landmarks.
Sure enough, the grove of trees directly ahead of them was a familiar sight. It certainly reminded him of the woods near Dun Burren. But the slope of the hill behind the trees wasn’t exactly as he remembered it and the fields had been turned under the plough where nothing had ever been planted.
Then he spotted a small building not far to the left of the woods. It was an unusual shape for a dwelling—squarish rather than round. Indeed he’d never seen any building constructed in that shape before.
“Aoife!” he called.
She pulled up and squinted to try and make out what he was pointing at. Then she signaled that they should make toward this strange building. Their paths met when they were less than twenty paces from the door.
The wind whipped up into a gale that tore at their clothes so they had to lean into it to make progress. As they trudged on, the snow deepened and the sunlight faded. By the time they came to the door of the unusual building it was night.
Sárán yelled to his sister to be careful but his words were swept away by the tempest. Her hand went to the door and pushed it open and Aoife was inside in a second. Her brother followed after and slammed the door behind him, leaning on it to keep the snow out.
Aoife went straight to the window to pull the curtain across but she was astounded to find that the opening was covered by a solid sheet of semitransparent glass. It was similar to the beads her mother had often worn but it had no color at all so that she could see the world outside with surprising clarity. She shook her head as she ran her hand over the smooth surface. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. But it was icy cold.
It was then she noticed a roaring fire set in a hearth built into one wall of the house. Neither of them had ever seen anything like it. They were used to houses built around a central hearthstone. This was certainly a peculiar house.
But the unfamiliarity of their surroundings didn’t stop them from huddling together in front of the dancing flames. Before their fingers were warm they’d helped themselves to spoonfuls of a thick barley broth that was bubbling away in a pot over the fire.
A black cat appeared and rubbed itself against their legs with a welcoming purr. It jumped onto Sárán’s lap and began a long discourse in the language of its breed, with many enthusiastic mewls and the occasional nip to keep the young man’s attention. He stroked the animal across the back and it arched its body in response.
While her brother was engaged with the cat, Aoife took time to observe the interior of the house. There was a bed of straw raised slightly off the floor with room enough for one. Next to this there was a little table on which were carefully placed several unidentifiable articles.
Her curiosity aroused, Aoife got up to inspect these items more closely. There was a candle made of wax so smooth and fine that it looked as if it had been carved from bone. Beside this was a silver ornament as long as her forearm. She lifted it up to take a closer look. It seemed to be a simple cross with many knotted designs woven over its surface. As she couldn’t discern any possible purpose for the item, she placed it back on the table.
Then she noticed a cloak laid out on the bed as a cover. She brushed the palm of her hand over the garment and gasped.
“It’s the softest wool I’ve ever known!”
The words were no sooner out of her mouth than the door swung open and a short man dressed all in dark brown entered the house. He shook the snow off his boots, drew the hood from his head and turned to the fire.
And when he did he nearly jumped out of his skin with fright.
“Who are you?” he demanded tremulously, his voice filled with apprehension. “You’re not robbers, are you? If you are, I’ve nothing of any value.”
His eyes strayed to where Aoife was leaning over his bed, her hand still resting on the cloak.
“I’ll give you warm clothes if you need them, but I beg you to leave that cloak. It was a gift from a dear friend who has long since departed these shores.”
The man was not much shorter than Sárán but he was very thin. His clothes hung off him as they might if they’d been hung over a tree. And his head was shaved in a most peculiar fashion. All the hair had been cleanly shaved from his crown in a circle.
Aoife frowned to understand what the stranger was saying through his thick accent.
“We haven’t come to steal from you,” her brother assured him. “We’re seeking shelter from the storm.”
The man scrutinized them both carefully when he heard their speech.
“You re from the north then?” he asked. “I can tell by the way you frame your words.”
“We were born in Dun Burren,” Aoife informed him.
“Dun Burren? Can’t say I’ve ever heard of that place. Is it near Emain Macha and the seat of the UiNiall?”
Brother and sister looked at each other with puzzled expressions.
The stranger noticed this so he decided to introduce himself. “My name is Caoimhan.”
“I’m called Aoife and this is my brother Sárán,” the young woman replied, edging away from the bed to stand by the fire.
“You’re welcome in my humble home,” Caoimhan told them. “I trust you’ve had something to eat?”
The two travelers nodded.
“How came you to this part of the Burren?” he inquired as he took off his cloak and hung it on a peg at the door.
“We were lost in the Aillwee caves,” Sárán replied.
Caoimhan turned around sharply and looked at the young man with such intensity that Sárán took a step toward his sister.
“You can’t be serious!” he laughed. “For a moment there I thought you were telling the truth. No one’s been within those caves in living memory.”
Suddenly his face paled as he realized the young man was very serious.
“Your name is quite unique,” the stranger stammered, changing the subject. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard it before.”
“I am Sárán, son of Brocan, who is King of the FirBolg of the Burren.”
Caoimhan’s eyes bulged out of his head and he made a simple gesture with his right hand, touching the top of his forehead, his chest and each shoulder in turn. Then he fell to his knees with his hands clasped tightly before him.
Neither Aoife nor her brother could understand the language that now poured out of his mouth so they waited patiently for this fit to pass. It was considered impolite to ask too many questions of a host.
“This is not our country,” Sárán whispered to his sister. “We have to go back to the caves. We’ve crossed over into the Otherworld.”
“The Otherworld!” Caoimhan cried, catching the word. “By Brigit’s holy gown I’m surrounded by Faerie folk. First there was the ghost at the woods, then the Raven and now these two.”
He stood up.
“I beg you to leave me in peace. I’m but a humble collector of tales. Whatever your quest I cannot help you. God knows I’ve spent months trying to aid that poor lost soul who haunts the oak grove, and all to no avail.”
“We’ll go,” Sárán assured him. “We’ll return to the caves and bother you no more.”
Aoife grabbed the sleeve of her brother’s tunic. “If we go back into the caves we might never find our way out again,” she hissed under her breath.
“We’re going!” her brother insisted as he shook off her hold.
Then he made for the door. Aoife followed him reluctantly but she didn’t forget to thank their host for the meal and his fire before she departed. Outside the snow was falling lightly now and so the near-full moon lit the landscape a pale blue.
“I know exactly where we are,” Sárán told her when she stood beside him. And then he set off down toward the woods with his sister trailing behind.
They hadn’t gone far when a terrible recognition hit her. ‘I won’t follow you!” she cried. “I know where you’re taking me,”
“Come along,” he ordered. “I’ve a feeling that many things have changed in this countryside, but that wood is known to me.”
Grudgingly she continued on behind him, putting her feet in his prints in the snow so that the going would be easier. Then a stone’s throw from the trees, Sárán stopped to squint at the grove.
“That tree was a sapling when we were last here,” he asserted. “And the younger ones were not even acorns in the kernel.”
Aoife caught up with him and leaned heavily against his shoulder, panting.
Her brother sniffed the air. “He’s still here,” Sárán told her. “I can feel his presence as clearly as if he were touching my arm.”
“Don’t speak so!” she stuttered.
But as she spoke her worst fears materialized before her eyes. In the shadow of the trees there was a movement and then a rustling of branches high in the ancient oaks. A figure clad in white like the mist of midnight took form at the edge of the grove.