The Meeting of the Waters

by Caiseal Mor

  “I've been tracking you all morning and you had no idea.” Lom tried to laugh. “You'll make a fine pair of scouts.”

  “What hit me?” Sárán grunted as he tried to get up.

  “A Danaan who will soon be asking the same question,” Lom answered, indicating the warrior. “I would rather be elsewhere when these two regain their senses.” He moved to help his twin stand up. “I suggest we make a run for it in case there are any more about like them.”

  “We can't just leave them here!” Aoife protested. “We should take one of them back to Father's camp. The information they could provide might prove valuable.”

  “We are going to have to help our brother home. He has been badly beaten. How do you imagine we are going to carry two Danaans on our backs as well?”

  The question was never answered. At that moment the first and larger of the two enemy warriors began to stir. The huge man rubbed his head and shook it as he rolled over onto his side.

  “We must hurry!” Lom insisted. He took his twin brother by the shoulder then picked up Sárán's sword. At the same time the large Danaan warrior got to his knees.

  “Fir-Bolg!” he shouted when his eyes fell on the scene before him.

  And not far off there was an answering call. A long low howling horn blast that rose in pitch as it petered out.

  Immediately there was another call followed by yet another, blown in short sharp urgent bursts. From all along the little valley the Danaans were gathering to the aid of their comrades.

  Lom grabbed Aoife. “Run for your life!” he yelled but the words had barely left his mouth before his sister had broken away from him. By the time Lom turned his attention back to Sárán she had sprinted across the top of the hill out of sight.

  And as she disappeared from view a cold wind arose from the south hugging the top of the summit. Swirls of dust, grass and leaves sailed spiraling high into the air. Then as quickly as it had appeared the wind dropped again and Lom was left with a terrible feeling of foreboding.

  He handed the blade to his brother as a frightening sound fell on his ears. Somewhere nearby he could hear laughter. It was dark and entirely without joy. It was the kind of laughter he imagined might have suited one of Balor's legendary demons for it froze his heart with despair.

  Then the laughter too was gone and Lom was helping his brother to his feet.

  One hundred thousand paces from the battleground in barren land, where only mosses thrived, stood three circular gray-green earthen mounds perfectly shaped and finely wrought. In ancient days within these stone-lined hills dark chambers were constructed to give shelter to the gods and goddesses on their journeys through the land. In later times the chambers became the center of ritual activity. Each clanhold put a great deal of effort into enticing their deities to tarry near their settlements. But the minds of mortals change constantly. That which is considered sacred today may be forgotten within two generations.

  And so it was with the stony hills. Countless summers burned away to winters. The chambers within lay empty and neglected. Until in the end they provided sanctuary for only two restless Fomorian souls.

  The last of the Watchers.

  At the end of a long irregular rock-hewn passage deep within the largest mound there was a massive flat circular stone. A single oil-burning lamp was positioned on one side of this slab. Its slowly pulsing flame painted the chamber in a golden glow.

  Damp walls glistened, sharpening the details of countless spiral carvings. The interior of the chamber was completely covered in these motifs. Over the ceiling, across parts of the floor and on every upright stone the spirals twirled their way. And in the lamplight the designs seemed to be dancing.

  Two figures dressed in long dark traveling cloaks sat on small stones at opposite sides of the flat table rock. They both stared at the flame of the oil lamp and leaned their chins on their hands in silent contemplation. Neither spoke nor so much as moved. They could have been mistaken for rocky outcrops.

  On the table before them cut into the stone were carved bands of decoration. The pattern these straight lines described was a gaming board. And on this perfect square were laid playing pieces of bone and blackwood.

  The Danaans knew this game as Fidchell. The Fir-Bolg called it Brandubh. Raven. The dark pieces were named after the great black carrion birds because they swarmed around the edge of the board devouring any piece venturing too close.

  In the days before the flood the Brandubh was held sacred. The subtle moves, potent symbols and secret numbers crafted into the game concealed all the mysteries of the earth. So holy was the pastime that it had been preserved by every race who had ever inhabited the Islands of the West.

  The lamp spluttered a little. One of the figures twitched then touched a finger to her lips. Her opponent shifted in his seat and straightened his back. He ran the palm of his hand across the top of his perfectly bald head and yawned.

  “You play a challenging round when you have a mind to,” he said eventually.

  “Playing this game was my greatest joy in the old days,” the other figure answered in an enticing feminine voice. “That is to say, it was one of my greatest joys.”

  She looked up from under the hood covering her head. Fine brown locks fell around her face as she drew back her cloak. Her eyes were bright green and vibrant, her skin the color of buttermilk. She smiled, hoping to discern some sign of life in her companion's eyes.

  “Of course that was long before I met you,” she added. “What were you doing, Lochie, before we went to Balor?”

  “I don't think of those days,” her companion mumbled, not wishing to discuss this matter. “I find it better to stay in the here and now. If I dwell on the past I begin to suffer from remorse.”

  “What's wrong with nurturing a few regrets?”

  “They are a waste of precious energy,” he answered gruffly. “There are more important matters for me to concentrate my mind upon.”

  “I was happy then,” Isleen confided. “Before the war and all the strife that followed. In the days before Balor. I have never known such happiness since, despite all the fine promises we were made.”

  “Do not speak so!” Lochie snapped and his voice echoed in the stone chamber. “I do not regret anything I have done. That is what has kept me from falling into the Great Sleep. You would be wise to learn to put aside all remorse and might-have-beens. Such thoughts will only bring sorrow to your heart.”

  “My memories are mostly pleasant,” she sighed. “For I enjoy the sad feeling which accompanies them. It reminds me that I once was mortal.”

  “How many seasons have gone by since Balor was killed?” Lochie asked, trying to change the subject.

  “I ceased to keep a tally after three hundred,” Isleen replied. Then she reached out with long nimble fingers to lift one of the gaming pieces from the board. She held it in her palm for a second before placing it carefully on a new square. She kept her hand on the piece until she had made absolutely certain the move was safe.

  Her companion watched her intently.

  “Let's say a thousand summers have gone by,” he ventured. “Isn't it time your memory was beginning to fail you? Aren't you ready to gather in some new recollections? Why do you always talk of the days before Balor as if it were some charmed time when everything was perfect? It wasn't perfect, you know. There was a war and a famine to deal with.”

  He stared at the ceiling to avoid her eyes.

  “Lochie,” she asked, ignoring his annoyance, “are you saying you never find yourself thinking about the old days?”

  “Never.” Lochie brushed the knee of his traveling breeches and lifted a silver cup to his lips, hoping his companion would not pursue this questioning.

  “Do you ever wonder what might have become of us if we had not entered into Balor's service?”

  “Never.”

  “Never?”

  “I told you,” Lochie repeated clearly, losing his patience, “I don't think about such things. Wh
at use is there in wondering what may have been? The past cannot be changed. We are as we are. The future will unfold in its own sweet time. We must live for now, for today. And we must discover a way to avoid our fate. That's all I know.”

  “I often wonder what might have been,” Isleen pressed.

  “You and I live now according to the results of our own wishes,” Lochie reminded her, his temper already cooling. “If we had chosen otherwise it may have been different, but who's to say? Did the ones we left behind have better lives?”

  “I wonder,” Isleen replied.

  “You are a fool,” Lochie told her. “We are very fortunate. When Balor asked us for our wishes, you and I spoke the wisest of all the Sidhe-Dubh, though perhaps we didn't realize it at the time.”

  “I feel sorry for the others. Their pleasures were so easily sated. Then they had to live with them for the rest of eternity. At least you and I have something to look forward to each day.”

  “We were very fortunate.” Lochie nodded in whole-hearted agreement. Then he reached out a long bony hand and picked up one of the dark pieces from the gaming board. He held it up to the light to inspect the craftsmanship.

  “This is a fine set.” Lochie smiled. “Where did you get it?”

  “A gift.”

  “From the Danaan king?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cecht is an outstanding warrior and a just ruler,” Lochie stated. “His court is rich and his craftsmen among the best in the land.”

  “He has always had the good of his people at heart,” Isleen agreed.

  “But what reason could he have to gift you this set of gaming pieces?”

  Isleen shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

  “Don't tell me you accepted it as a reward for the granting of some favor!” Lochie hummed, delighted at the prospect of some relaxation in his companion's strict code of conduct.

  “No. It wasn't that,” Isleen countered.

  Lochie placed the black piece upon the board, Isleen watching his move attentively.

  “I was playing against Cecht,” she went on, “and the king insisted on a wager. He promised me I could have anything my heart desired if I beat him. I quickly outmaneuvered him. It wasn't difficult. I have been playing this game for a lot longer than he has. I know all the moves.”

  “Is the Danaan king not wed to a queen?”

  “His wife has been dead these seven seasons,” Isleen answered quickly, then realized she had spoken a little too warmly.

  “And if you had lost the game,” Lochie asked, intrigued, “what would you have paid the king for your wager?”

  “Cecht wanted to hear the tale of Balor.”

  “Are you saying the king knows what you are?” Lochie gasped in shock.

  “He does not!” Isleen insisted. “I am posing as a wandering Bard from the North Country. That tale is a favorite of his.”

  “You should be careful.”

  “King Cecht has no notion of my real purpose. I am certain of that.”

  “And just what is your real purpose, Isleen?”

  The woman blushed and pulled the hood back over her head.

  “You mean to wed him, don't you?”

  “Nonsense.” Isleen laughed unconvincingly. “We enjoy each other's company, that's all. What good would come of such an arrangement?”

  “If you had lost the game,” Lochie pointed out, “you would have had to tell him everything you know of Balor and the downfall of the Fomorians. You are far too honest to omit any detail. You surely know much more of the tale than any of the mortal Bards. The king would have immediately known you are not of his people. A fool could have concluded you are a Watcher. And the Danaan king is no fool.”

  “Cecht is wise but I am a much better player than he is.” Isleen smiled. “There was really no chance he could win. ”With that she picked up one of the white pieces and deftly skimmed it along the surface of the stone board until it came to rest in a new square.

  “You must have desperately wanted to possess this set.” Lochie squinted. “But you are not usually one to let desire or passion rule your life. I have never seen you place yourself in peril of discovery before. Are you beginning to become bored?”

  “Not at all,” Isleen snapped and her eyes flashed a deeper green. “I had grown tired of the old gaming pieces. I don't know how long I carried them round. They are crude and poorly made compared to these. And some of the old set are chipped and worn with all the traveling I have done.”

  “This is the start of the boredom,” her companion warned, fear obvious in his tone. “The first twinges of weariness are eating at your soul. We have both seen it too many times in our fallen comrades. It begins with something small. A wish that does not seem unreasonable. A desire to possess some unusual and interesting object. Or to bed some fascinating mortal being. But we both know how it ends, don't we?”

  “My soul is not suffering from the wasting sickness!” Isleen laughed, but she was not convincing Lochie. “I am in no danger of joining the others. I have a necessary part to play in the future of this land. And my wish will keep me from harm.”

  “That's why you're pursuing the king.” Her friend giggled. “Admit that you're bored.”

  “That is not true,” she insisted hotly. “I have learned a lot from Cecht. He has become a good friend. Beyond the sensual temptations of his company I appreciate his wit and good sense.”

  “You are a very good player.” Lochie nodded with a wry smile. And Isleen knew he was not simply referring to the Brandubh. “I am glad we have stayed friends through all the hardships and grief. Truly we have shared the bitter with the better. I don't wish to think of what it would be like to have to go on without you.”

  “I never tire of my work,” she assured him. “The wasting sickness will not take me.”

  “I feel that way now too. But how can we be sure we won't be struck down? Remember Sarna. She fell to the blight so unexpectedly that she was lost to us before we could guess what was happening.”

  “I don't want to change into that kind of a creature.” Isleen shuddered.

  “Nor do I,” Lochie cut in quickly, “so we must keep an eye on each other. We must make sure we are kept busy so the rot cannot set in. Both of us like to rest now and then to forget the troubles of the world, it is true. But we cannot risk falling into indolence.”

  Then a thought came to him. “When did Cecht's people begin to play the Brandubh again? It has been generations since they bothered to compete among themselves.”

  “I reintroduced the game to them,” Isleen replied. “It suits my purposes to have them playing and pondering the results of their actions.” She nodded toward the board. “It's your move.”

  Lochie regarded the pieces carefully then rubbed his eyes. “It seems once again I am beaten,” he conceded. “One day I'll discover your trick.”

  “It's no trick,” Isleen countered indignantly. “It is an art much more subtle than simply countering the moves of one's opponent. Over the seasons we have known each other I have learned to read you and your intentions merely by the expression on your face or the way you flick dust from your breeches.”

  She smiled with delight to be letting him in on her little secret. “I have spent so many months seated opposite you I know without thinking what strategy you are about to employ. Once in a while I let you play out your tactics, just to see if I have the skill to rescue the situation at the very last.”

  “And you usually do.” Lochie smiled. “We would be worthy opponents in the outside world.”

  “No.”

  “It would be a challenge,” Lochie argued, seeing a glimmer of interest. “No different from sitting down to a game of Brandubh. Imagine what we could achieve if we set our minds to it.”

  “Or what we could destroy,” Isleen rejoined, shaking her head. “The lives of mortals are not to be played with. They are not soulless pieces of bone or pottery we can move at our will. If we're not careful we could set in motion the b
eginnings of our own destruction. I will not take up your challenge and I beg you not to broach the subject again. We have discussed this matter many times. I cannot with any conscience turn my craft to my own petty entertainment. We have a great responsibility to endure.”

  “Shall we play again?” Lochie asked her.

  “One more round,” Isleen conceded with a smile.

  The two players reset the Brandubh pieces and played on long into the night. Lochie was determined to give his opponent a worthy challenge. But Isleen was too quick-witted for him and he often found himself desperately filling the gaps in his defense.

  “Your play has improved,” she congratulated him as the sun rose in the world outside and the latest match drew to its conclusion. “But I have won this round.”

  “It is not over yet,” Lochie countered.

  “Yes, it is.” Isleen picked up her white high-king and made her move. Then she sat back and smiled with contentment.

  “I can't believe I didn't see that move coming,” her companion marveled.

  “If you had seen it you would have done something about it. That's part of the trick,” she explained. “ Always plan effective covering moves. Hasty decisions come to nothing. Patience nurtures good strategy. Never let your opponent guess for an instant what you are really up to.”

  Lochie smiled back at her, catching a sparkle in her eyes. “We had a lot of fun together when we first met,” he remembered wistfully.

  “Yes, we did,” she agreed in a subdued tone, turning her head away so that Lochie would not be able to look into her eyes.

  “We caused a lot of havoc among the Danaans,” he went on.

  “That is true.”

  “I will always look upon those times with fondness.”

  “So will I,” Isleen sighed.

  “Then why don't we work together again? As we did when we were young. It would certainly brighten us both up to have some renewed purpose in our lives.”

  “I refuse to interfere with the fortunes of mortals just to amuse myself,” she informed him. “Those days are ended for me.”

  “If you won't do it for amusement,” Lochie countered, “then do it for your survival.”