The King of Sleep

by Caiseal Mor

  “What was that you said about the Fomor?” the Brehon cut in.

  “These folk who dwell in this underground town are Fomorians. Perhaps the last remnants of that people on this Earth.”

  Dalan put a hand to his chin and shook his head. “There haven’t been any Fomor in these parts since the time of Balor of the Evil Eye,” he scoffed. “How can you be sure?”

  “That’s what they call themselves,” Brocan shot back. “Their queen told me so. And I seem to remember a great tribe of owls who attacked my people in a forest not so many winters ago. They were Fomorians, weren’t they?”

  “I suppose you could say the owls were, in essence, Fomorians, but I would class them rather as spirits of the woods summoned up by the Watchers.”

  “Well these folk aren’t ghosts,” the Fir-Bolg king replied. “They’re real enough. And they’re as ugly as any description I’ve ever heard of the Fomor.”

  “Who are the Fomor?” Eber Finn interrupted.

  “Ancient enemies of the Danaan and Fir-Bolg peoples,” Dalan explained quickly. “Their armies were destroyed generations ago and their tribes scattered to the four winds.”

  “Except for these folk,” Brocan added.

  The Brehon shook his head. “It’s not possible that they could have lived here in this place all this time without anyone suspecting,” he reasoned. “The Fomor are a bitter folk who would not have willingly deserted the land of Innisfail. They would have made their presence felt, I’m sure. There’s more to this than meets the eye. If we stay calm we’ll find a way out. I suspect this whole experience has some connection with the Watchers and the seeing brew we each drank.”

  “You’d better see to Máel Máedóc,” the Fir-Bolg king said dismissively. “I believe he is in need of a fellow Druid.”

  “What do you mean?” the Brehon frowned.

  Brocan turned and pointed to the rear of the cave where the old Druid lay propped against the wall.

  Dalan was at the old man’s side in an instant. He quickly checked Máel Máedóc’s heartbeat, breathing and the color of his eyes. Then he examined the Druid’s tongue.

  “I’m dying, brother,” Máel Máedóc struggled to say. “I must conserve my energy for King Eber.”

  “The king is here,” Dalan soothed. “Would you speak with him?”

  Máel Máedóc’s eyes widened and some color returned to his cheeks for just a second. Then he nodded as he grasped the Brehon’s hand. “But I fear I’m too late to sail home with you,” he gasped. “You must promise me you’ll bathe me in the sacred river.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Dalan replied, a frown of confusion across his brow.

  “Fetch the King of the Gaedhals,” Brocan cut in. “I’ll make sure the old man has his last wish fulfilled.”

  The Brehon shrugged and with a wave of his hand summoned Eber Finn to his side. The Gaedhal knelt down and gently took the hand of his counselor.

  “How are you feeling, Máel Máedóc?” he asked with genuine concern.

  “Is that Eber Finn who calls himself King of the Southern Gaedhals?”

  “He’s holding your hand,” Dalan confirmed.

  The old man sat up and stared directly at his king. And Eber was surprised at the rage burning in the gray of those aged eyes. “Are you in pain?” he whispered.

  “I am.”

  “What can I do to help you?”

  “Listen.”

  “Listen?”

  “I have a poem for you.”

  “Save your strength, my loyal friend,” Eber urged. “This is no time for a song.”

  “This is no ordinary song.”

  “Rest quietly.”

  “This is my satire on you.”

  The King of the Gaedhals sat back and let the Druid’s hand drop from his. “You’re weary. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “I am tired. But I should have spoken my mind a long time ago. A curse upon my gentle tongue that did not have the will to condemn you. But if you go on to conquer the whole land you will have earned this disgrace a hundred times over.”

  “I beg you to lie back and rest.”

  “Your father, Míl, would not have let matters come to this. Your mother, Scota of the Flaming Sword, would have scolded you ceaselessly had she been alive. I am the only one who remains. I’m the only one who remembers the days when kings were honorable.”

  “Hush now,” Eber insisted. “You’re upsetting yourself unnecessarily. We’ll talk when we return to Dun Gur.”

  “He’s not going back to the fortress,” Brocan cut in. “Can’t you see he’s dying?”

  Eber shot an angry glance at the Fir-Bolg king which clearly suggested he should not be interfering in this matter.

  “Let him have his dignity,” Brocan pressed. “He is a learned Druid and he has a few words to speak before he passes.”

  “Very well,” Eber conceded, making no attempt to conceal his displeasure.

  Máel Máedóc stared directly into the king’s eyes, ran the tip of his tongue over his lips to moisten them and began his poem.

  “I saw a child playing at being a warrior. In the field he trampled down the oat stalks, leaving a terrible trail of their dead and wounded in his wake.”

  Eber Finn looked away but the old Druid grasped his hand so tightly the king was compelled to turn back to him.

  “For now it’s only oats that fall before his weapons. But soon enough, if he has his way, there’ll be warriors wallowing in blood upon the battlefield. And to what purpose?”

  The King of the Gaedhals opened his mouth to protest but Máel Máedóc gripped his hand with his last reserves of strength and would not give him the opportunity to speak.

  “This war-leader comes of solid stock. His brothers are renowned, a poet and a king. He learned his craft well from his kinfolk. So why does he behave like a little boy with a new amusement? By what right does he bring war to the land of peace?”

  “I won’t listen to this!” Eber fumed.

  “Be quiet,” Dalan advised him firmly. “There is no greater insult you could offer than to interrupt a poet during the recital of his work. If you have any decency you’ll shut your mouth and take his criticism in good spirit.”

  Thus reprimanded, the king bit his tongue and resolved to sit out this humiliating tirade. It would be ended soon enough and then Máel Máedóc would no longer be able to interfere in the affairs of the kingdom.

  “Walk carefully along the road to conflict, my son. With each step remember that every king must surrender his throne one day. When you’re gone they will sing about your deeds. Let the songs be joyful ones and your soul will live forever. If your father were here, wise Míl whose memory is sacred, what would he choose to do?”

  Dalan nodded encouragingly. The poem was not a fine composition, it lacked subtlety and meter, but the message was clear. The Brehon noticed the color drain away from the old man’s face and he forgave the inadequacies of the poem. Here was a Druid at the end of his life. This was a counselor who had spent his strength in dedication to his duties. At the last his gifts had failed him but his honor was assured.

  Máel Máedóc lay back to close his eyes. “There has been enough war,” he whispered. “I place a Geis on you.”

  “No!” Eber hissed.

  “If your brother should come with the blade of battle lust you will not draw a weapon against him. If your brother should denounce you to your kinfolk you will make a gift of two portions of your land to him. No black pig shall perish within the borders of the country which you rule. No bird will feast within your hall. No woman shall have cause to call you miserly. No rival will ever suffer hunger while he dwells on your land.”

  Máel Máedóc smiled.

  “You, not I, will devise the Code of the Fianna, so that folk in future will remember you for your wisdom.”

  The old Druid let his mouth drop open and for a moment the king thought there would be more. But Máel Máedóc was dead. His heart had st
opped beating and his breath was gone.

  They all watched as the life drained his frail body. But only Dalan saw something strange rise up from the corpse. It looked like a golden butterfly, exquisitely formed and as bright as the sun, but the Brehon knew it was the Dealan Dé, the departure of Máel Máedóc’s spirit.

  Eber Finn felt the gnarled fingers relax in his hand but it was a short while before he realized what had happened. When he saw Máel Máedóc had passed over, the king stood up and moved slowly away to the gate.

  Dalan covered the face of his brother Druid with a cloak while Brocan went to stand with the Gaedhal. The two kings spent a long time in silence, staring out at the guards, until Eber Finn finally spoke.

  “He was a good man.”

  “Most of their kind are,” Brocan whispered, not wishing the Brehon to hear his words. “They have chosen a life in which it is difficult to be otherwise.”

  Then he placed a hand on Eber’s shoulder in reassurance.

  “Kings may be called good in their time but our path is not so clear. We must be ready to risk condemnation to ensure the safety and security of our kinfolk. A Druid may understand this and advise us wisely. But in the end no one blames a catastrophe on poor advice.”

  Brocan’s eyes now spoke of the change that had come upon him. He was overwhelmed by compassion and a sense that he would never be the same again.

  Eber hummed in recognition of the wisdom of these words. And he recognized some transformation had taken place for the other king. Perhaps in much the same way as was happening to him. The Gaedhal now regretted his harsh words to Máel Máedóc.

  “Will you help me?” he asked the Fir-Bolg king.

  “If it is within my power to aid you, then I shall,” Brocan confirmed. “But I too would avoid a war as long as possible. Perhaps we should send a delegation to your brother’s court before he has the chance to raise his army. The longer we stave off any conflict the better it will be for everyone.”

  “I know Éremon’s mind,” the Gaedhal sighed. “He may politely listen to our assurances of peace, but if his heart is set on war no force on Earth will stop him. We must be ready.”

  Brocan shrugged. “For now you need not worry too much. There’s nothing you can do while you’ve imprisoned by the Fomor.”

  “Then I’ll escape,” Eber Finn told him through gritted teeth. “I have a duty to my people and I will not be swayed from that for another instant. Are you with me?”

  Brocan looked out at the half-dozen guards who loitered around the cave mouth. Then he turned and glanced at the lifeless form of Máel Máedóc lying beside the wall.

  “I’ll help you in whatever way I can,” the Fir-Bolg king replied. “But I promised the old Druid I would bathe him in the sacred river. I intend to keep that promise.”

  “Are you mad?” Eber sneered. “He’s dead! There’s nothing you can do for him now.”

  “The body may be cold but I sense that his spirit is not yet at rest. I will do as he asked and then I’ll find my way out of the caves.”

  Brocan turned to the Gaedhal and leaned close. “The lake must run off into a river. And the river surely feeds out into the open ground to the south. I’m certain it emerges somewhere on the Burren. If you can but find your way to the lake you may have a chance of escape.”

  “The waters are icy. Anyone stupid enough to try swimming the lake would be dead within a very short while.”

  “Then find yourself a boat,” Brocan recommended, not bothering to hide his frustration. “I imagined you to be a resourceful man who could easily adapt to any situation.”

  “Where will I find a boat?”

  “These folk live by the shores of the lake. Don’t you think they’d have some use for water transport?”

  “Come with me.”

  Brocan shook his head. “You must take Dalan. I’ll remain with Máel Máedóc’s body and see he receives the funerary rites to which he’s entitled. Perhaps I can create some confusion and give you a chance to slip away.”

  As he spoke a thronging crowd of Fomor appeared on the path which led to the cave. All were carrying torches and most were chanting a rhythmic song full of malice.

  As the Brehon came to the gate to see what the commotion was all about a tall figure dressed in a long thick black fur stepped out from the crowd. The garment draped over his shoulders and dragged behind him. On his head he wore a massive skull which concealed his face completely.

  The bear-man raised his torch in the air and gave an order in his own language. The gathered Fomor were instantly silent. Then the stranger strode to the gate and stood just three paces away from the captives. If it hadn’t been for the heavy portcullis he could have reached out and grabbed any one of them.

  “Why you come here?” the figure demanded in a thick accent.

  “You speak our language!” Dalan exclaimed.

  The skull mask turned as the bear-man scrutinized the Brehon. “I am Druid,” the stranger declared. “I have much knowing.”

  “I am also a Druid,” Dalan replied, seeing a hope of reasoning with these people through their holy man.

  “You Fir-Bolg,” the bear-man spat, pronouncing the name of Dalan’s folk with obvious disgust. “Why you come to the home of the Fomor?”

  “Fomor?” the Brehon repeated, scarcely believing his ears. “I was taught that all the Fomorian people were scattered after the death of Balor.”

  “Your teacher not very wise,” the Fomorian Druid smiled. “Why you come here?”

  “It’s difficult to explain,” Dalan began.

  “I listen carefully.”

  The Brehon glanced at Eber and Brocan as he tried to summon the right words. “The Fir-Bolg have a fortress at the mouth of this cave,” he ventured.

  The bear-man shrugged. “They should stay there. This Fomor ground.”

  “These two kings came into the caves to complete a test.”

  The skull turned briefly to regard Brocan and Eber. “Very foolish.”

  “My brother Druid and myself accompanied them to offer advice along the way.”

  “Not wise.”

  Dalan shut his eyes for a moment as he tried to gather his thoughts. He couldn’t help agreeing with the stranger. It was, in his opinion, an extremely stupid risk they’d taken in penetrating the caves so deeply.

  “We must find our way home,” the Brehon sighed.

  The bear-man immediately turned to his people and spoke at length to them in their exotic tongue. There were raised voices from the crowd and angry outbursts until finally the Fomorian Druid turned to the captives again.

  “You may not leave.”

  “What are you going to do with us?” Eber bellowed.

  “You stay here. You find road to Fomor place. You must not go tell Fir-Bolg or Danaan.”

  “We were lost,” Dalan explained. “None of us would ever be able to find our way back here again.”

  The bear-man made no reply. Clearly he was unmoved by this plea.

  “We’ll swear an oath of secrecy,” the Brehon offered.

  The Fomorian turned around again to face his own folk. He spoke to them briefly and there was cautious assent from the gathering. Dalan’s suggestion did not seem to have been met with much opposition.

  “Fir-Bolg evil folk,” he told the Brehon when he had concluded his explanation to the gathered Fomor. “Not welcome here. You go down river far away. Not come back. Not speak kinfolk this place.”

  “I promise,” Dalan assured him. “If you help us, no word of your settlement will ever pass our lips.”

  The bear-man raised his torch in the air as he spoke a few Fomorian words. The portcullis lifted with a groaning of ropes and pulleys. And suddenly they appeared to be free.

  But the crowd edged closer, snarling and spitting at the prisoners. Some waved their torches; others wielded clubs of heavy timber. At another word from the bear-man the crowd parted to allow them to leave, but the Fomor were still threatening their captives.
r />   “May we depart?” Dalan called out to the Fomorian Druid.

  “You go,” he nodded. “We chase you out. River that way. Run fast or we kill you.”

  The three men looked at each other in alarm. Brocan glanced back at the body of Máel Máedóc.

  “I’m staying,” the Fir-Bolg king announced.

  “You must come with us!” Eber urged.

  “I’m in no danger,” Brocan replied calmly. “The Quicken Brew will preserve me. Indeed it is you, Eber Finn, who should be worried. You’re a mortal. Death comes very easily to your kind.”

  The Gaedhal’s face turned white. “They’ll kill me!” he hissed.

  “Count to one hundred before you follow after me,” Brocan smiled.

  In a flash the King of the Fir-Bolg was off down the path, running the gauntlet of countless Fomorian fists and clubs.

  Dalan held the Gaedhal by the sleeve to restrain him. “Do as he says,” he advised. “He’s drawing them off so we can get away.”

  Together they watched the crowd disperse to chase Brocan. Soon there were only a few children and old folk milling around them.

  The bear-man walked up to Dalan and stood close enough that the Brehon could hear the man breathing.

  “You a little wise,” he nodded, and then he stood aside to observe what happened next.

  Chapter 18

  DALAN COUNTED TO A HUNDRED AS BROCAN HAD commanded. Then he dragged Eber down the path toward the river as fast as they could run. All the strongest Fomor had chased after the Fir-Bolg king so the going was easy.

  A few well-aimed blows fell across their backs as they started out but it was nothing compared to what Brocan must have been suffering. Not far along the track they lost all their pursuers, save for a few young children who continued to throw stones all along the way.

  The Brehon tried to place himself between any blows aimed at the Gaedhal. He knew that no matter how vicious the assault the Quicken Brew would heal him.

  At length they came to a crossroads. Further down the path which curled to the right they saw a great crowd of folk. Dalan realized these Fomor must have been chasing the Fir-Bolg king. So he led Eber Finn along the path which forked to the left.