The Meeting of the Waters

by Caiseal Mor

  A scent wafted in from the hills. The stranger sniffed the air again, then he pulled back the cowl which covered his smooth bald head and closed his eyes to concentrate.

  “The girl and her brother are approaching now,” he announced as he leaned down to tenderly stroke the golden locks of hair away from the glassy eyes. “Soon you will rest among your own folk.”

  Another cry echoed into the trees. The dark-robed figure covered his head again to keep out the frost as he turned around to face the hills. Not three hundred paces away two dark shapes struggled across the thick frozen blanket of snow making a difficult headway in the icy wind.

  “Your friends have come to find you, Fearna,” the stranger told the boy, “but it serves my purpose they should not tarry here too long. I must make certain that pair are gone again soon. Do not fear, I will wait by you through the night and keep you company till morning.”

  “Fearna!”

  The young woman's gray cloak flew about her face obscuring her vision. Impatiently she threw it from her shoulders to search the fields. Soon enough her copper red locks fell loose from their binding and she had to cover her head again. Her green eyes had not lost their bright light despite the seriousness of the situation.

  “Aoife!” her brother Sárán begged. “Slow down. I can't keep up with you.”

  She ignored him, though she slipped time and again in the deep drifts of snow. Each time she struggled to her feet and trudged on as quickly as she could manage.

  “I can see him!” she cried out at last. “He's standing by the oak trees.”

  “Where?” her brother replied, scowling.

  “There,” she pointed.

  “Aoife, I cannot see anything. The snowfall is too heavy.”

  Beneath the oaks the spirit-walker let a smile curl the edges of his mouth. Then the moon passed behind a cloud and the creature melted into the trees without trace.

  The young woman stopped in her tracks. “He was there!” she exclaimed. “He was standing in front of those oaks.”

  When her brother caught up he grabbed her hand and dragged her forward. “It was a trick of the shadows,” he told her, searching her eyes for any sign of delirium. “The cold is overcoming us. We must keep moving or the frozen night will kill us both.”

  Aoife nodded but she knew it was not shadows she had seen.

  “There is something lying on the ground near the oak wood,” Sárán added, squinting to try and make out what the shape was.

  “Then let's make for the trees,” Aoife decided. “At least we'll find some shelter from the cold.” She trudged on, cold and wet, sweating under her cloak and woolen clothes, until the grove was just ahead.

  Sárán and Aoife saw the bloodstain on the snow before either of them caught sight of the drained gray features of Fearna's face, eyes wide open to the sky, collarbone shattered, neck broken and twisted. Sárán touched the boy's cheek in the vain hope of finding life but Aoife stood back staring in disbelief.

  “He's dead,” her brother announced with certainty.

  “I could have sworn I saw him standing by the trees,” Aoife sobbed in anguish. “I know I saw someone.”

  “There are no footprints in the snow,” Sárán reasoned. “There was no one else here.”

  “I saw him standing beneath this tree!” she cried again as she approached the body, convinced that the boy must still be alive.

  “It was a trick of the light,” her brother sighed.

  “No.” But Aoife drew a sharp breath when she caught sight of the young man's lips, blue and swollen.

  “Fearna is gone, Aoife.” Sárán took his sister by the shoulders and shook her to bring her to her senses. “Do you hear me? He is dead.”

  “It's my fault,” Aoife whispered, warm tears streaming down her cheeks. “If it had not been for me he would be sitting by the hearth at home listening to the Bards sing their stories.”

  “Be quiet!” her brother snapped. “This is all your fault, I won't argue with you about that. May Danu forgive me for playing along with your game. I should have stood up to you.”

  “It was as much your doing as mine,” she protested.

  “Don't turn this on me. It was your idea to come out on this night and risk our lives for a childish prank.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  Sárán sighed deeply as he stood up. “We must not be found with him,” he decided. “If anyone so much as imagined we were involved in his death, it could mean war.”

  “And Father would see us punished severely,” the girl added. “There is no greater dishonor than the death of a fosterling through neglect or misadventure, and he loved Fearna more than his own.”

  “We must keep this night a secret,” Sárán insisted urgently. “You must keep quiet. Our future and that of the Fir-Bolg may depend on it.”

  Aoife did not answer.

  “We must return to Dun Burren before anyone misses us,” Sárán hissed. “Then you must banish all thoughts of this night from your mind.”

  “I didn't mean it to be like this,” the girl cried, turning away from the corpse. “I wish I had never thought of coming out here at midnight.”

  “It is done now,” Sárán replied. “No one knows we were here except Fearna and he won't tell. Of that you may be certain.”

  With that the two of them made their way as quickly as they could to the road, careful to brush away their footprints as they went. But in the event they need not have bothered. The snow began falling heavy again, and in a short while all trace of them was completely obliterated.

  The two young siblings were barely out of sight and sound when the black-clad spirit appeared again from beneath the stand of ancient shadowy trees. He crouched down beside the lifeless lad.

  “Only you and I know the truth, Fearna,” he sighed gently. “You see what kind of company you have been keeping? I almost feel it is my duty to visit retribution upon them.”

  He touched the lad's hair again and there was true compassion in the gesture.

  “You have no idea of the gift you have been given,” the stranger whispered. “I wish you could tell me about the lands beyond life. I wish I could walk there with you.”

  A brief smile touched the creature's lips. Then he sat himself down amidst the snowstorm to watch over the corpse until daybreak.

  Chapter 2

  DALAN THE BREHON SAT DOWN BY THE SWIFTLY FLOWING stream, scooped a handful of water into his mouth and breathed in the summer fragrance of the forest air. He had been walking at a good pace all night long and he was exhausted. The Druid stretched his neck, leaned against his huge pack and traced with his fingers the shape of the bronze cauldron inside. Beside the pack sat his harp in its case, another heavy load.

  “A short rest,” he told himself. “Not far to go now. Why did I agree to carry both these burdens all on my own? I must have been touched with the madness.”

  Dalan sat up again to wash his face. The Brehon scooped up a handful of water and poured it over the crown of his head then dragged his hands down over his ears until the palms met in front of his face in the attitude of prayer. This was his silent ritual of thanks to Danu, the Goddess of the Flowing Waters. She watched over him, he knew, guiding his life from beyond the veil. The chilly droplets revived him a little. His short dark brown hair sparkled in the sunlight as if laden with dew.

  Then the Brehon lay back again, propped his head against the pack and stared into the treetops, savoring the silence. During this last cycle of the moon his stamina had been sorely tested. In the Druid Assembly he had argued relentlessly as an advocate for Brocan, the King of the Fir-Bolg. Now he had been assigned to bring the Cauldron of Plenty to the west. As a gesture of goodwill by the Druid Assembly it was to be lodged in the royal house of the Burren until the next summer.

  Dalan reflected on the fate of his people. So few Fir-Bolg were now under instruction in the Draoi arts that within two generations there would likely be no practitioners of the old blood left at a
ll. He was the last traveling Brehon judge among the Fir-Bolg Druids of Innisfail. When he was gone it would be left to the Danaans alone to keep the law. In the last fifty summers his kinfolk had been driven to the barren west coast of Innisfail where the Danaans didn't care to live. Which perhaps explained why King Brocan of the Fir-Bolg was so bitterly opposed to the chieftains of the Tuatha De Danaan.

  The Brehon idly brushed the smooth skin across the top of his head where he had been shaved to mark him as a man of poetry and learning. As a judge he was considered an expert in the laws and customs of his folk. He was a teacher and arbitrator, a respected adviser on matters of protocol and tradition. Yet he knew Brocan was not likely to listen to him. The king was a proud warrior and the only independent ruler of the Fir-Bolg. Dalan would be fortunate if he so much as considered a reply to his entreaty. The coming of the Cauldron might sweeten the discussion but it would not guarantee Brocan's good favor.

  The Brehon's fingers searched around inside the dark blue robe he wore. After a few moments he found the little leather bag he habitually fastened about his waist. He carefully brought it out, untied the cords of the brown purse and emptied the contents into his hand.

  A collection of shriveled red berries tumbled onto his palm. Dalan quickly counted them to make sure none had gone astray.

  “Nine.” He breathed with relief.

  Then he picked up each berry and examined it closely for flaws. At last when he had inspected them all and was satisfied they were still fertile, he placed them back inside their bag and tucked the purse into his robe.

  At least this part of his duty would not be difficult. As long as the berries still held the seed of life within them, his journey would have been worthwhile.

  With that he stood up to stretch his legs. The stream in front of him flowed down between a small grove of trees before pouring into a wide deep sunlit pool. Dalan felt an overwhelming urge to go down and rest awhile on the warm rocks at the edge of the pool. But he still had a good way to go. He tried to convince himself he would be able to rest when he reached the battleground, but in his heart he knew there would be no opportunity.

  It had been two cycles of the ever-changing moon since he had found time to be alone like this. And much longer since he had last sat down simply to close his eyes for a moment's peace, without some urgent concern springing to his mind. Perhaps if he sat here for just a short while he would be fresh and sharp-witted when he arrived at the battlefield.

  Convincing himself of the wisdom of rest, Dalan made his way quickly down to the pool. There he squatted in the pleasant sunlight at the water's edge, listening to the gentle trickling of the stream as it flowed away into the thickly wooded grove beyond.

  When his face was warmly tingling Dalan positioned the bag with its heavy bronze cauldron in the shade, closed his eyes and breathed slowly. Then he lay back on the rock to enjoy the feeling of the sun on his skin.

  “I have spent too long in the north,” he sighed to himself.

  He had hardly thought these words when there was a sudden disturbance in the pool. His eyes snapped open though every other muscle froze. Directly in front of him, just under the water, a beautiful trout was sucking at the glassy surface, searching for tiny morsels of food. Dalan's stomach growled with hunger.

  As if caught in some marvelous Draoi spell from the legends of old, the Brehon put aside all thoughts of his pressing duties and took a closer look. The trout stared back cheekily at him, as if challenging him to reach out and catch her. Gorgeous scales sparkled in a hundred subtle shades as she rippled her delicate body through the clear water.

  Then she suddenly grew bored of Dalan and turned away. Perched on the rock the Brehon leaned over above the fish, utterly lost in thoughts of this trout and the empty space she would fill in his groaning stomach. Noiselessly, patiently, he edged close enough to strike. He lowered his hand into the water until no more than a finger length separated them. She hovered around as if unconcerned by the intruder. Dalan smiled as his palm brushed her belly. The trout did not swim away. His fingers tenderly stroked her, then suddenly he gripped her hard.

  The Brehon felt the trout struggle and then she tugged surprisingly hard in a last-ditch attempt to break free. In the next instant the fisherman felt himself being pulled down into the pool. He lost his balance to tumble helplessly forward.

  As the Brehon fell into the cold waters he barely had time to take a breath, but he did not let go of his prize. He panicked when his feet could not find the bottom. The mud stirred up as Dalan thrashed about and this obscured his vision. It seemed as if he had passed through some mystical portal into the Otherworld and all things had become dimmed to human sight.

  A moment later he found his footing again and stood up in the water, still clutching his precious supper. Without a second thought he tossed the trout up onto the rocks where she flapped about in the golden sun, her scales reflecting light all the colors of the rainbow.

  She had almost ceased her struggle by the time the Brehon hauled himself out of the pool. As if in recognition of his victory the fish gave up fighting her fate to case a steely eye upon her captor. It was then Dalan realized what a fool he was. Not only had he wasted precious time indulging himself with rest, but he had got his best cloak, his walking boots and all his undergarments wet through. He reached into his blue robe in a moment of breathless panic, then sighed with relief when he found the berries undamaged.

  Now he would have to dry his clothes, he reprimanded himself crossly. He couldn't arrive at the battleground in this state. The contest didn't begin until dawn, however. As long as he did not dally too long he could have the early afternoon to himself. That should be plenty of time to dry out and tidy up.

  “I'll have a fire going soon,” he said aloud, deciding to make the best of things. “Then I'll eat and be on my way as soon as my cloak and robes are dry. No harm done. If I leave by sunset I'll make the battleground long before the contest is due to begin.”

  His heart sank a little as he wondered whether the Chief Druid, the Dagda, would approve of the break in his journey. Forget the bloody Dagda and the Druid Assembly for a moment, he told himself. He needed to lie down with a full belly, to forget the troubles of the world for a while.

  The Druid checked the position of the sun to reckon the hour. He stripped off his soaking garments, laid them out in the sunshine and went to gather enough kindling to start a decent blaze. And when the fire was good and strong he set about preparing his meal.

  Dalan cooked and ate his trout before the sun had traveled a hand-breadth across the sky. His hunger satisfied, the Brehon sucked his fingers, savoring the tasty sweet juices of the slowly roasted fish. Then in a fine mood, he lay back in the sun and closed his eyes. His cloak hung on the tree behind him, his boots were by the fire and the rest of his clothes were spread out across the rocks to dry.

  I'll just close my eyes for a short while then I'll be on my way again, he promised himself. It's no good for my stomach to walk a far road with a meal digesting.

  The stream bubbled away nearby, the wind sighed a lullaby through the trees. In a matter of a few moments the cares of the world had dropped away from the Brehon and he had slipped into a sound and much needed sleep.

  It seemed to Dalan he had hardly closed his eyes when his rest was disturbed by the sound of a woman singing in a high sweet voice.

  “Why can I not have even a moment of peace?” he hissed. “For pity's sake leave me alone for a little while longer.”

  The song was not a lilting sleep melody. It cut across the muttering of the gentle gurgling stream and drowned out the whispered tune of the branches swaying in the breeze. The woman's voice grew stronger and more urgent with every phrase.

  Dalan refused to open his eyes.

  “I am resting,” he declared hoarsely. “You can sing all you like. I will not be disturbed. I'm owed a little peace after all I have been through. Come back when I am awake and I'll speak with you.”

 
“I bathe your hands,” the woman crooned in his ear, “in a cascade of mead, in the fire of my spirit, in the four elements, in the juice of blackberries, in the milk of a white cow. And I grant you nine gifts. The gift of beauty. The gift of sweet voice. The gift of endless good fortune. The gift of a good heart. The gift of gentle wisdom. The gift of merciful charity. The gift of manliness. The gift of a bright soul. The gift of fine words to speak.”

  Dalan smiled when he heard this. All his deepest wishes seemed to be listed in the woman's song. He opened his eyes, curious as to who had intruded on his peaceful afternoon. He sat bolt upright in shock.

  The stream had become a river. The pool was a wide sea, the furthest shore of which was lost to sight in a thick rolling mist. And the rocks Dalan had been resting on were now a grassy windswept hill. All around were tall well-tended trees abundantly laden with brightly colored fruits and flowers. Strange birds sporting feathers of gold, crimson, black and yellow sang in the highest branches. These creatures looked down on him with obvious suspicion, though Dalan could not understand why the birds might distrust him.

  “May you have the skill of the ancient ones who lived before the flood,” the woman sang. “May talent at the harp be yours also. For you are the joy of all joys, the light of the sun, the open door of the welcome-house, the star of guidance, the swift foot of the horse, the nimble foot of the stag. You are the grace of the swan.”

  Dalan was entranced by the enchanting song-poem. The words shuddered through him like the rumble of distant thunder. He was sure he had heard this chant somewhere before. But he could not recall which legend tale they belonged to.

  “Where am I?” he asked in a daze.

  “This place is called the Islands of the West,” the woman answered.

  Suddenly the stranger was in front of Dalan. She was dressed in a cloak of deep blue cloth decorated with silver stars that sparkled like the eyes of a happy child. Her hair was white as chalk, though her face was youthful. She seemed no more than twenty summers old at most. Her skin was fair and delicate. Her hands were small and fine-boned.