The Meeting of the Waters

by Caiseal Mor

  “The best hour of the day be yours,” she smiled, “and the best day of the season. May the best season of the four-fold circle be yours and the best circle of a thousand also.”

  “I wish these things for you also.”

  The woman laughed as if the Brehon's courteous reply were hilariously funny.

  “Who are you?” Dalan asked with a frown.

  It was at that moment he realized he was naked. Straight-away he reached up to the tree where his cloak had been hanging but the tree was gone.

  “You may wear this,” the woman giggled. “ Consider it a gift.”

  As she spoke a cloak woven entirely of black feathers landed beside the Brehon as if it had fallen from the sky. Dalan carefully lifted the beautiful garment and placed it around his shoulders, surprised at the great weight of it. It fitted him perfectly, hugging close to his flesh like a second skin made of feathers. He was pleasantly warm and dry beneath this strange covering.

  “Thank you,” Dalan stuttered.

  “My name is Cuimhne,” the woman declared. “I am the guardian of the Hall of Remembrances. Some folk ascribe to me the name of Justice but only folk who do not understand my true nature.”

  “Justice? Remembrances?” The Brehon frowned. “I don't understand. You are the Goddess Cuimhne?”

  “I'm not a goddess,” she chortled. “I am merely a guardian. You have not told me your name.”

  “I am called Dalan Mac Math.”

  “Math is the old word for bear.” She smiled. “Are you truly the son of a bear?”

  “That was my teacher's name,” the Brehon explained. “He was a Druid judge who lived in the caves of Aillwee for much of his life. He found the coat of a bear in those dark caverns one winter and he wore it ever after. That is how he came to be known as the Bear.”

  “So you are the son of the Bear?” she asked as she approached him. There was no sound of footfall as she moved closer. Cuimhne held out her white hand and touched Dalan gently on the chin.

  “I knew your teacher,” she confirmed. “You have his wisdom but you are not a bear. Your totem is the Raven.”

  “The Fir-Bolg people, my own folk, regard the bear as their guiding spirit.”

  “And like the bear in winter your kindred will sleep soon enough,” Cuimhne replied. “The land of Innisfail will one day know them only in songs of past days and former glory.”

  Suddenly the Brehon shrank back from her, his heart beating in his chest. “I recognize you,” he whispered. “I know your face. Where have we met before?”

  “In your dreams and visions. In the land of memory. I am your future too. I have been waiting a long while for your return.”

  “Return?”

  “Do not trouble yourself with such thoughts.”

  “Am I sleeping?” the Brehon gasped. “Is this a dream?”

  “You are resting. Often what exists in the imagination is more real than the everyday things we perceive with our other senses.”

  “Am I imagining your beauty?”

  The woman smiled sweetly. Her face shone like a lamp. “You are very complimentary, Brehon,” Cuimhne laughed. “You have a good heart.”

  As she said that she took Dalan's hand in hers and led him to the top of the hill. When they reached the windblown summit she led him to the center of an incomplete circle of standing stones each of blue granite.

  The woman put her hands on the Brehon's shoulders so he faced back the way they had come. A vast ocean lapped at the foot of the grassy rise. Dalan was speechless with surprise.

  “That is the eastern ocean,” Cuimhne crooned softly in his ear. “Your ancestors sailed across from this place generations ago to seek their new home. So many seasons have passed by since then that your people do not remember the songs of those voyages. They do not often tell the tale of their first landfall in Innisfail.”

  “Beyond the mists,” the Brehon mumbled in a soft awed voice, “lies Innisfail?”

  “Yes. The land which will one day be known as Eriu after the Danaan queen.”

  Then the woman turned him round again so they were walking away from the sea, passing under the impossibly tall trees which grew in an ordered wood on the other side of the hill. As they passed through the woods a new sight met Dalan's eyes. Green valleys and high-peaked mountains spread out before the disbelieving Brehon. Golden fields of wheat and oats patched a landscape irrigated by azure blue canals. As he marveled an amazing spectacle unfolded.

  A great gathering of folk dressed in the same manner as Cuimhne stood in the midst of a yellow field of barley. Dalan was about to inquire the purpose of this meeting when the sound of low humming came to his ears.

  A dozen men and women had stepped out from the crowd with huge bronze trumpets that curled like the horns of a cow. The sound emanating from these musical instruments was a thrumming call reminiscent of lowing cattle but much more powerful.

  “Music of the Draoi,” Dalan muttered. “I have never heard the likes of it.”

  “It is rarely heard these days in the lands before death,” Cuimhne informed him. “Your folk are too consumed with their petty wants and goals. They will not rediscover this mystery until they throw off the shackles of desire. This music is the essence of the pure spirit of all people. These musicians are weaving the Draoi-Craft. If they had acted sooner their holy prayer-song might have turned events around. Alas but the melody commenced too late to save their homeland.”

  Once again Dalan felt his body begin to vibrate. His guts turned with the trembling resonance of the music. And then the choir of women began to sing. It was a high floating melody that danced around in delicate trills contrasting the steady low vibrato of the horns.

  When the men's voices joined in Dalan began to feel very faint, as if the music held some strange power over the senses.

  “I am drunk,” he managed to whisper, though Cuimhne made no sign she heard him.

  As the melody built to an urgent crescendo the Brehon had to drop to his haunches. He was so overcome with a nauseating dizziness he was finding it difficult to focus. A moment later a strange light began to course across the field in rhythmic pulsing beats of bright white. When this ceased and the light faded, a whirlwind formed in the middle of the field.

  The choir raised the pitch of their song and the pace doubled. Dalan thought his head would surely burst if the music continued much longer. His ears were aching and his stomach convulsed in punishing spasms. Just when he was sure he was going to faint the song ceased abruptly and all was quiet again. In seconds the whirlwind disappeared, leaving behind a wide swath cut into the crops in the form of an intricate spiraling circle.

  Dalan's ears were ringing and his head spun as if he had been at the very center of the twirling windstorm. But when he noticed the strange design in the barley he struggled to his feet again and stood silenced by the spectacle, arms hanging limp by his sides.

  “The earth is our mother,” Cuimhne told him. “Her life force is strong. In the ancient days our people knew the paths of the sacred force. They harnessed her energy for the good of all.”

  “Until new songs were sung,” Dalan continued. “Songs of destruction, greed, jealousy and fear.”

  “Raising storms with the Draoi-Music will not keep the invaders at bay,” Cuimhne said, shaking her head. “Even if your people could conjure the fires of the earth, as your ancestors once did, it would avail them not. The strangers will come. And these Milesians are the first of many.”

  “Will we be swept away?”

  “Not if you learn to live with your neighbors.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Use the Draoi-Songs for the benefit of all,” Cuimhne advised. “For the good of Fir-Bolg, Danaan and invader alike. If you all work together, the ways of Fir-Bolg and Danaan will be preserved. Share the bounty of your knowledge and the future will be a graceful dance of partnership and preservation of the land. Have compassion for your fellow beings and learn cooperation and compassion.” />
  “What if we cannot all agree to work together?”

  “Then no song will save you from the destruction that is to come. Remember the tales of the Islands of the West. The Druids of those times thought they had achieved the pinnacle of knowledge but they only brought famine, fire and flood upon their land. When their greedy melodies brought the star crashing to earth, the bowels of this world opened. Mountains spewed forth molten rock which covered their homes.”

  “And yet the ancients venerated the red-hot lakes of that land,” Dalan continued, struggling to recall the tale, “because they believed such places were gateways leading to the Otherworld.”

  “You have learned your craft well.” As Cuimhne spoke Dalan felt the ground beneath his feet tremble. “We must go now to the stone circle,” she told the Brehon. “Do not fear. No harm will come to you there.”

  “What is happening?”

  “The end of days has come upon us,” Cuimhne explained. “You are witnessing the final moments of the Islands of the West. These lands are about to be torn asunder in retribution for the Druids' unchecked use of the Draoi-Songs. Remember well what you see here.”

  Dalan's eyes widened in confusion as she took his hand again to lead him back through the wood toward the summit.

  “What you see before you is the past,” the woman soothed. “You stand beyond the bounds of this place. You cannot be harmed.”

  “What can you tell me of the future?” Dalan cut in.

  But Cuimhne offered no answer as she hurried him along to the top of the hill and the shelter of the stones.

  “Here stand the seven,” she told him. “Two more roam the world. You must take great care they do not interfere with the peace between the Danaans and the invaders. If any force in creation can bring disaster to your kindred it is those two.”

  “I don't understand,” the Brehon said.

  As he spoke the sky was ripped open by streaking purple lightning. Dark clouds blotted out the sun and the sea began to boil with fury as the elements gathered to do battle.

  “I speak of the Nine Watchers of Balor who were once the greatest threat to the Danaans and the Fir-Bolg.”

  “Balor was destroyed in the time of my great-grandfather. Surely he poses no danger to us now?” Dalan's alarm was obvious.

  “Balor is gone,” Cuimhne assured him. “You need not fear. Lugh of the Many Skills put an end to him. But Balor's servants lived on for a long while after their master departed to the Halls of Waiting.”

  “The Watchers are still among us?” the Brehon gasped in disbelief.

  “The two remaining are the most dangerous of all. They know their days are nearly at an end and they live in terror of what will become of them. That pair will stop at nothing to prolong their existence. Be careful where you place your trust. They have a longer vision than you and may act with treachery.”

  “How can you be so sure they will cause trouble?” Dalan asked.

  Cuimhne turned and pointed to the seven stones set in an almost complete circle. “Because if they do not, they are fated to join their comrades here. This is not death. These poor souls are trapped for the rest of eternity as sleeping stones. They are aware of their surroundings but are unable to move or cry out. This is an agony worse than any death.

  “Go to them,” Cuimhne urged. “Touch one of the stones and you will know what I know.”

  The Brehon hurried over to the nearest blue granite-tooth as the rain began to fall in droplets the size of quail eggs. The storm was rising to an unbelievable fury now. Birds dropped from the sky, stunned by lightning and thunder. The sea whipped up and spray was carried even to the top of this hill.

  Dalan went to the first stone and stood before it.

  “Place your palms flat against the surface,” Cuimhne yelled above the noise of the tempest.

  The Brehon did as he was told. Immediately everything that was happening around him became insignificant. A strange unearthly voice came, filled his senses, and he backed away from the granite in surprise.

  “She cannot harm you,” Cuimhne called out in reassurance. “Do not be afraid. It is the Watchers who are not yet clothed in stone you should fear most.”

  Dalan reluctantly placed his palms up against the stone again. Immediately he noticed the surface was warm to his touch. Then he heard the voice again.

  “I am Sarna . . . Sarna,” the voice repeated, as if singing a song with no other words.

  In the tips of his fingers Dalan could feel a pleasant tingling. The feeling soon began to extend up his arms into his shoulders. The storm around him was growing to a furious intensity but he barely noticed.

  The Brehon saw in his mind's eye a tall woman with dark skin and long black hair beautifully braided down her back. She wore great silver half-moons for earrings. Her arms were painted blue with intricate tattoos laid out in geometric patterns.

  “What do you want?” she demanded suddenly as if woken from her own trance. “Why are you disturbing me? Have you come to take me away to the land of spirits? Is my time here done at last?”

  Dalan was so shocked and surprised he could not answer. His arms were beginning to ache now and the stone began to glow with a gentle luminescence. A spiral of light surrounded the base of the granite slab. This spiral slowly began to wind its way up toward the top. As it reached his hands Dalan felt a faintness come upon him again.

  “What should I do?” he called out to Cuimhne.

  “The Milesian Gaedhals have been drawn here through the cunning of the Watchers,” she replied. “These invaders are distant kin to the Danaans and the Fir-Bolg. But their ancestors departed the Islands of the West before the moon descended and the earth erupted. Their laws and customs do not hold the Druids of their race to account for misusing their skill.”

  “How will we defeat them?”

  “You will not defeat them with swords but you may win them over with words. Convince them to change their ways, to throw off the barbarism of their ancestors. Teach them your Brehon laws; join in partnership with their folk. There is no other way. If you attempt to defeat them in battle they will certainly prevail.”

  Dalan frowned deeply as he considered Cuimhne's advice.

  “The Fir-Bolg and Danaans will cease to be. If they are not scattered to the four winds they will melt away from the world and disappear. Without the wisdom of your people the Gaedhals will dabble in the little Draoi knowledge they possess. In time Innisfail will fall to the same fate that came upon the Islands of the West in times long past. Do you want to see that?”

  The wind whipped up the Brehon's hair as he shook his head. The gale rose suddenly in intensity, almost lifting Dalan up off his feet. He cried out in fright. Then the wind dropped again, leaving him hugging the standing stone for support.

  When the Brehon's breathing had calmed he turned to face Cuimhne. But he was alone on the top of the hill, save for a strange living pinnacle of rock in his arms.

  “Stay with me,” the stone begged him in a seductive tone. “Tell me of the goings-on in the world beyond the circle. I will grant you a wish if you remain here with me. Anything your heart desires. I promise. Stay with me. I am Sarna.”

  The Brehon struggled to break free of the stone's Otherworldly grip as bolts of bright intense lightning struck the hill all about him, throwing up the turf and mud. One after another the fiery arrows descended from the heavens, each closer to him than the last, until he was sure the next would shatter the frame of his mortal body.

  Then in a breathtaking purple rage the sky lit up from horizon to horizon. Dalan looked toward the clouds, tried to free his hands once more as a bolt descended toward him with a crackling, groaning roar. The Brehon had no chance to cry out as the sky fire struck him on the crown of the head.

  His hands flew free of the stone, his body shook uncontrollably. The Raven-feather cloak dropped away from his shoulders. The Brehon screamed with all the force of his lungs until his strength was gone and he could cry no more. Then, sobbin
g like a little child, he fell back on the grass.

  “Do not fear adversity,” Cuimhne advised. Though he could not see the woman, her voice rang clear. “It is only through adversity you will gain wisdom, only through affliction you will discover that which heals you.”

  When Dalan opened his eyes again he was naked and shivering, lying on his back on the rock ledge where he had fallen asleep. The sun had set, his fire had died down and his hands clutched a heavy cloak made of Raven feathers.

  Chapter 3

  THREE HOURS AFTER DAWN THE THICK CLOVER GLISTENED with countless tiny beads of reflected light as a rainy squall petered out. Clouds melted away, caught up in the wind from the south. Then all the countryside around the two hills of the battleground was basked in cheering sunshine.

  A youth, seventeen summers old, too young yet to dress as a warrior, crouched low in the long grass on the flat summit of one of these hills. His heart beat wildly with excitement as he scoured the countryside for any sign of the enemy.

  “Aoife, where are you?” he whispered under his breath. His black hair had grown longer since the winter and he had more weight to him, but his eyes were as dark as ever. They had earned him the nickname of Brandubh, which meant Raven in the language of his kinfolk.

  No more than a dozen paces away at the edge of the hilltop lay his sister Aoife, two summers younger than he yet already wiser and bolder than her brother in many respects. Stretched out flat on her stomach on a rocky outcrop she watched intently the open plain below her. And ignored Sárán's impatient mumblings. She didn't want to be distracted for a second.

  Sárán brushed the locks away from his eyes and decided it was time the two of them made their way back to their father's camp. This adventure had been thrilling to begin with, but now he was concerned they might be discovered.

  “Aoife!” he hissed urgently, hoping to get her attention without giving away their position.

  She ignored him. The young man breathed heavily with frustration.

  “We must go now!” he grunted urgently. “Before we're caught!”