The King of Sleep

by Caiseal Mor

  In a very short while they had come to the water’s edge and, blessing their good fortune, they found a leather curragh upturned on the shore. There were two poles lying alongside the little vessel which would serve for oars. The two men quickly had the craft in the water and were well out on the lake before the Fomorian mob noticed them. By now they were out of reach but they still pushed their poles vigorously through the icy blackness to ensure there was no chance of being recaptured.

  It was a long time after, when the lights of the settlement were distant and faint, that Eber finally sat back in the boat with his oar beside him.

  “That’s enough!” he sighed. “Now we must rest.”

  Dalan looked over his shoulder at the shimmering yellow lights. Then he gave in to exhaustion and sat down facing the Gaedhal.

  “What will become of Brocan?” Eber said after they’d both lain there in silence for a long time.

  At that moment he saw a light on the shore not far off but he didn’t have the will to stand up and begin paddling again. The boat drifted silently on and he reasoned that the folk on shore probably wouldn’t notice their passing if they made as little noise as possible. But the shifting current of the river that fed through the lake was unpredictable and it was not long before the curragh ran into a submerged rock. The vessel lay caught, barely fifty paces from the shore.

  Dalan peeped over the rim of the boat but couldn’t see anybody near the fire, which struck him as very strange. But there was no time to question their luck. He whispered instructions to Eber and the two of them slipped over the side of their vessel to free it from the rock.

  As soon as they did this, the light curragh was whipped up out of their hands by the current. The boat was swept toward the shore, leaving the pair of them splashing about in the freezing lake. In moments the chill waters began to sap their strength, but the pair managed to make it to the sandy bank. Dalan helped the king out of the water and over to the fire.

  There they sat trying to warm themselves. It was the Brehon who recovered first, the Quicken Brew working its magic. He went to the shore and dragged the curragh up to where the current wouldn’t be able to reach it.

  Then he made his way back to where Eber lay.

  “We mustn’t tarry here long,” he told the Gaedhal. “The Fomor will be upon us if we don’t get a move on.”

  “I’m so cold,” the king stuttered.

  “Whoever lit this fire can’t be far away,” Dalan insisted as he dragged the king by the sleeve.

  But Eber wouldn’t budge. “Let me warm myself!”

  In the end the Brehon relented. He let the Gaedhal curl up close to the little blaze for a while but kept a watch on the rocks nearby, ready to run if the Fomor appeared.

  The fire died down to almost nothing in a very short while and there was no other light. So Dalan persuaded the king to get back into the boat. Just as Eber stood up there was a noise behind them which made both men jolt in surprise.

  In nervous haste the Brehon grabbed Eber by the back of the tunic and forced him to the shore. But along the way the Gaedhal fell hard and the wind was knocked out of him. He lay on the sand trying to catch his breath while Dalan prepared to meet the enemy with his fists.

  Two figures loomed out of the darkness carrying a meager little light between them. The Brehon couldn’t make out their features but he feared the worst. In an attempt to frighten them he stood up to his full height and raised his arms in the air.

  “Halt!” he cried, realizing too late that the Fomor wouldn’t understand him. “Come no closer or you’ll meet with your deaths.”

  His words seemed to have the desired effect. The two strangers stopped in their tracks and seemed to be whispering excitedly to each other. Then all of a sudden they strode confidently forward.

  “I told you to stay where you are!” Dalan bellowed, summoning his most commanding voice.

  But the strangers ignored him and in a few seconds were within a stone’s throw of him.

  The Brehon looked around for some weapon to defend himself. He grabbed one of the poles they’d used to paddle the curragh. With this makeshift weapon leveled in front of him Dalan prepared for the worst.

  “Get up, Eber!” he hissed. “You’re supposed to be the warrior, not me. I can’t hold off two of them.”

  “It’s no good, they’ve caught us,” the Gaedhal replied in resignation. “I can do nothing.”

  But even as he spoke the king’s eyes widened with curiosity. The two figures walked upright with no sign of any serious deformity, unlike the Fomorians they’d already encountered.

  Just then Dalan dropped his pole in shock.

  “Aoife?” the Brehon gasped. “Sárán? What are you two doing here?”

  “Thank the Goddess Danu you’ve come!” the young man shouted. “We were sure we’d never find our way out of this maze.”

  Eber Finn forgot his pain, astounded at their sudden appearance. “Where did you come from?” he asked incredulously.

  “We were hiding behind the rocks,” Aoife admitted. “We saw the boat but thought it best to conceal ourselves until we could be certain you were not hostile. In the end we thought it best to take a risk and ask your help.”

  “You’ve saved us from walking around lost in these caves for the rest of eternity,” Sárán cried as he threw his arms about the Brehon.

  “We’ve barely escaped the same fate ourselves,” Dalan told him, gently disengaging himself from the young man’s embrace. “And we’ve no guarantee that we’re traveling in the right direction. But there’s room for you both in the curragh, though I can’t say you deserve it after such defiance.”

  “I’m sorry,” Aoife offered. “I know we shouldn’t have entered the caves but I had to prove myself.”

  “I won’t speak of this with you now,” the Brehon replied sharply. “I’m angry and deeply disappointed in you. Your behavior is unfitting of an aspiring Druid.”

  “I’m not an aspiring Druid!” she snapped. “Can’t you get it through your thick tangled locks of hair that I don’t belong in your world. I was meant for the warrior path.”

  “That’s enough!” Dalan bellowed, losing his temper. He instantly regretted his harsh tone but he was appalled at his student’s attitude.

  “We’ll have plenty of time to discuss this if we ever find a way out of the caves,” he added in a somewhat gentler voice. “For now we’d better be moving along. There are creatures dwelling on this shore who bear us great malice and I wouldn’t like to be captured by them again.”

  Sárán wanted to ask what kind of creatures could possibly live so deep underground. Then he remembered the skull his sister had in her pack and his curiosity took second place to fright. He ran to the boat to steady it, eager to be out on the water where the subterranean monsters would not be able to reach them.

  With that the four of them boarded the leather vessel and pushed off into the current. Soon they were being swept along ever faster, and in the distance they could hear an ominous roar that grew with each breath and thundered across the vast cavern.

  Brocan led the Fomor on a merry chase down the narrow paths to the lake and then back again in a huge arc. By the time he returned to the cave where they’d been held prisoner he was tired but not yet exhausted. And he was gratified to find only the Fomorian Druid waiting for him.

  His bruises and cuts were already healing. And he was glad he’d found the courage to press on through the melee.

  The bear-man bowed to the king when he arrived and Brocan returned the gesture.

  “I would like to carry die body of the Druid, Máel Máedóc, down to the lake,” the king told the Fomorian. “He is a man of honor who deserves to have his last wishes fulfilled.”

  “You may do so,” the bear-man answered in a clear tone without any of his former accent.

  “Are you the same man who spoke with us earlier?” Brocan asked in surprise.

  “I am.”

  “You don’t have a Fomorian ac
cent.”

  “I’m not of the Fomor,” the bear-man shrugged. “Though I have a knowledge of their tongue. I am a Fir-Bolg like yourself.”

  “How came you to live among them?”

  The stranger laughed. “I don’t live among them. I haven’t even spoken with any of the Fomor for longer than I can remember.”

  Brocan frowned in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  “The Fomor were scattered to the four winds long ago. Certainly there are none now living in Innisfail.”

  “But …” the king began.

  “You saw a vast host of them,” the bear-man stated with a nod. At that he slipped off the skull that covered his face to reveal a bald head and a pair of bright green eyes.

  “Who are you?” Brocan gasped, feeling as though he should recognize this fellow.

  “I have had many names. But you may call me Lochie.”

  “Lochie the Bard?”

  “You remember me!”

  “Dalan told me you were one of the Watchers.”

  “I have that honor,” Lochie nodded.

  Brocan felt a cold shiver grip his body. He half turned to scout out a path to escape.

  “You won’t get far,” the Watcher warned him. “And in any case I have a feeling you’ll be happier here.”

  “What are you taking about? Why would I want to live among the Fomor? They are the enemies of my people.”

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Lochie laughed. “There are no Fomorians. I created them. They were an illusion helped along by the seeing herbs I administered to you before you started out on this foolish journey.”

  Brocan shook his head, struggling to understand what was being revealed to him.

  “I’ve been posing as Fineen,” the Watcher admitted. “I was very convincing, wasn’t I?”

  The king numbly nodded his agreement. “Why did you do such a thing?”

  “It suited my purposes,” Lochie explained. His voice was soothing, like that of a doting parent indulging a child. “Don’t worry about Fineen. He’s safe. No harm will come to him.”

  “Dalan told me you are an enemy of my folk,” Brocan ventured. “He told me you would do everything in your power to bring havoc and misery to the Fir-Bolg.”

  “Dalan is a fine storyteller with an impressive imagination,” the Watcher noted with a gleam of mischief in his eye. “But he hasn’t quite got a grasp of what I’m up to yet. Let me assure you, I have no intention of bringing misery to your people. They are quite capable of doing that without my help. I’m merely pushing events along to their conclusion.”

  “To what end?”

  “I’m attempting to inspire Dalan to help me on a certain matter. And I want him to act quickly.”

  “Why don’t you simply ask him?”

  “This way is much more interesting,” Lochie shrugged. “And in any case I have made approaches to the learned Brehon. His progress is a little too slow for my liking.”

  “I don’t understand why you would have wanted us to venture down into the caves,” Brocan said. “Why did you go to all this trouble?”

  “To teach Dalan a lesson. And to offer you freedom from your affliction.”

  “Affliction?”

  “The Quicken Brew. I happen to know how you feel about the whole business. You told me. Remember?”

  “I talked with Fineen about it,” the king recalled. “So that was you?”

  “Indeed. I understand how you feel because I’m under the same sentence. However, I and my companion do have hope of escaping our bonds. With Dalan’s assistance I believe we might be free before the end of winter.”

  Lochie came and put a hand on Brocan‘s shoulder, but the king recoiled from his touch.

  “You, on the other hand,” the Watcher went on, “have no hope of freedom. You will never know death. I cannot help but feel sympathetic toward you.”

  “How do you know the Quicken Brew is so powerful? Not even the Danaan Druids can predict whether its effects will last indefinitely.”

  “The truth is,” Lochie admitted, “I inspired the Druids to concoct the brew. I know what effect it will have because when I was of the Fir-Bolg, before I served Balor, I was among those who were instructed in the secret of its properties. That was long ago when I was a Druid myself.”

  Brocan swallowed hard. “Why did you do such a thing? Why bring so much misery into the world?”

  “I often ask myself the same question,” the Watcher answered. “I suppose it is because I was offered this task and took it on willingly. I could have refused but I chose to accept. It is in my nature to bring heartache to the folk I swore to hate. Just as you must act in the manner of a king, so I must be true to my vocation.”

  Lochie threw up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Of course I had no idea I’d be doing this for more than a hundred generations,” he sighed.

  Then his eyes brightened again. “The Quicken Brew was one of my finest tricks. On the surface it would appear to be a wonderful gift which fulfils the wish of every mortal. But of course, as you and I know, the price of immortality is a high one.”

  “My soul will never find rest,” Brocan stated bitterly. “Without any chance of death, my spirit will be trapped in this body for all eternity.”

  “That may be true,” Lochie agreed. “But there is an alternative to death. And I am willing to offer it to you.”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “You have no reason to,” the Watcher laughed. “But let’s say I have a compassionate streak in me even after all I’ve been through. Indeed, as it becomes clear that I may soon find the release of death, I’ve softened my attitude a little to your people.”

  Lochie turned to face the Fomorian settlement where hundreds of tiny lights were still sparkling in the windows of the houses.

  “Let me show you something,” he said, waving a hand across the scene.

  The view changed before Brocan’s disbelieving eyes. Suddenly, all the lights went out, the pathways disappeared and there was only the black icy lake with its blue reflections shimmering across the roof of the cavern.

  As Lochie turned to face the king again a familiar form appeared at his side. The figure stretched and yawned as if waking from a deep restful sleep. Brocan recognized the man immediately but he was not convinced of his identity.

  “Fineen?” he whispered. “Is that you?”

  “Brocan? Where are we?”

  “You are in the depths of the Aillwee caves,” Lochie informed him. “Don’t you remember?”

  The healer shook his head to clear it. “Have I been asleep?”

  “You have.”

  “For how long?”

  “A week, no more.”

  “Why have you brought Brocan to this place?”

  The Watcher looked into the eyes of the Fir-Bolg king. “Brocan is seeking sleep. He wants to be free of the Quicken curse.”

  Fineen thought carefully about Lochie’s words before he asked another question. “Are you going to imprison him also?”

  “I have a feeling the king will come here of his own free will. And I will return you to Aillwee if you wish, though I regret that I cannot allow any recollection of this adventure to remain with you.”

  “I’m not sure I wish to return,” Fineen cut in quickly. “I had the most wonderful dreams. And I’ve never rested so well. I don’t want to go on living forever, watching the world change, witnessing the suffering of others and unable to make any real difference to their lives.”

  The Watcher was beaming with joy. “Now perhaps you understand a little of what I’ve been subjected to all this time. I was a good man once, before I took on the duties of my vocation. I assure you that in time you will learn to free your soul from your dreams for a while and live other lives. You may never know death but the sleep I offer you will be sweet.”

  “I will sleep, Lochie,” the healer decided without any further thought on the matter. “I was frightened of you before I knew any better. Now I’m
grateful for your compassionate gift.”

  “How can you trust him?” Brocan snarled. “He brought the Quicken Brew upon us. He drew the Gaedhals to our island. He has probably been behind every petty conflict that’s beset Danaan and Fir-Bolg since the days of Balor.”

  “It’s true,” Lochie agreed pleasantly. “You shouldn’t make any rushed decisions. You can’t possibly be sure you can trust me. How do you know I’m not leading you into a trap from which there is no escape?”

  “I certainly thought that at first,” Fineen conceded. “After you lured me down into the caves and left me, it was a while before sleep came upon me, and so I had time to think carefully about my future. I have no desire to live forever. And since that is likely to be my lot, I would rather sleep and dream, far from the harsh world of war and want.”

  Brocan strode up to the healer and threw his arms around him. He was solid. He smelled of dried herbs and physician’s powders. And something in his eyes hinted that this truly was Fineen the Danaan.

  The king turned to Lochie. “How can I be certain that all you say is true?”

  “What is the alternative?” the Watcher shrugged. “Would you be happy with everlasting life? Could you learn to quiet your restless soul? How would you keep boredom at bay?”

  Brocan dropped his chin to his chest and considered these questions. Eventually he looked up and asked, “Can I be certain my people will be well governed in my absence?”

  Lochie laughed raucously. “You’ve already left the kingship in the hands of your son Lom. Nothing is certain in life.”

  “You tricked me.”

  “I admit it. But is there anyone else who could do the job better? Will Lom be such a disastrous leader? Don’t you think he’ll learn as he goes along? Isn’t that what you did? Come now, if you really want to let go of life you must cut all your ties. Abandon all attachments to the world and your former ways. Then you’ll be free to move on to new challenges.”

  “That’s what death is,” Fineen agreed. “All of those things.”

  “And more,” Brocan pointed out.

  “But for the time being my offer is all you can expect.”