The Meeting of the Waters

by Caiseal Mor

  “It is not Lom's fault,” Sárán pleaded. “He had nothing to do with all this. If it had not been for him, both Aoife and I would have been killed. He saved our lives.”

  Lom looked up at his twin brother and gave a quick smile of gratitude.

  “Tomorrow we fight a battle against an ancient enemy,” the king sighed. “And in my opinion we stand a very good chance of losing the day. I will not place a punishment upon my sons tonight. If we are defeated I will almost certainly not be returning home. In which case the new king will decide such matters.”

  Brocan grinned with determination. “If by the graces of the Goddess Danu I live beyond tomorrow, my boys will know what wrath is,” he promised. “For now, you are not to stray out of my sight for an instant. Not for any reason. Not to sleep. Not even to empty your bladder. Do you understand?”

  “Does that mean we will accompany you to the battleground tomorrow?” Sárán asked with excitement.

  “You will,” Brocan confirmed. “And you will go unarmed.”

  “Unarmed?”

  “Pray that we gain the day.” The king chortled as he saw the black humor in what he was about to say. “Or by this time tomorrow you may find yourself a prisoner of that fine Danaan prince you wrestled to the ground and treated so poorly this morning.”

  “So the great circle comes around again,” Lochie the Bard cut in. “I know a few fine tales along that theme,” he offered.

  “Not tonight, Bard of the North,” the king replied, rubbing the heel of his hand across his forehead to soothe his headache. “Nothing portentous if you don't mind.”

  “What about the tale of Balor of the Evil Eye?” Isleen suggested and watched the color drain from her companion's face. She gently put an arm around his shoulders. “That is one of the best tales he tells,” she informed everyone with a smug smile. “I never tire of hearing it.”

  “No,” Brocan countered.

  The Bard breathed easily and gave a relieved smile.

  “That is where this whole business began. All our differences with the Danaans can be traced back to those days,” the king reminded them all.

  “For there must be conflict in the world,” Lochie stated in his clear storyteller's voice.

  No one else but Isleen knew these had been Balor's very words to the Watchers before they were dispatched to do their work.

  “Without conflict, pain, struggle, fear, and tragedy,” went on Lochie, “the lessons of this world and the next would be worthless. Joy is the goal of all but it is bought dearly in this world.”

  “The laws pertaining to battle are what I would hear,” Brocan decided suddenly. He did not wish to hear talk of fear or tragedy tonight.

  “This should be very interesting,” Isleen whispered to her companion. “The rules of battle explained by one who never shies away from cheating at every opportunity.”

  The Bard bowed slightly to acknowledge her quip but he did not let her know just how happy her comments made him.

  “I was sure you would enjoy this game,” he whispered to himself with delight.

  Chapter 8

  SÁRÁN WAS TOO RESTLESS TO STAY SEATED AT THE FIRE all night listening to Bardic recitations. His heart was wounded by his father's harsh rebuke. No harm had been done, he told himself. The little adventure he and his sister had indulged themselves in had caused some embarrassment but no one had been hurt.

  But more than this, King Brocan had treated Mahon, the son of his enemy, with greater dignity and respect than he ever offered his children, just as he had treated Fearna with unfair favoritism. Sárán glanced across at his twin brother and wondered if Lom was having the same thoughts. But it was unlikely his brother would nurture resentment in his heart. Lom looked up to their father in a way Sárán had never understood.

  After enduring the critical gaze of the warriors for a long while Sárán managed to slip away into the shadows to look in on his sister. No one noticed him leave the gathering, or if they did they thought better of interfering in the affairs of King Brocan's children.

  When he reached her bedside Aoife seemed to be breathing lowly so he didn't stay long, instead he left the hut to wander off aimlessly for a while. Before long he found himself standing where he could observe the main fire without being seen. In the shadows he could overhear Lochie's recitation of the rules of war. Sárán leaned against a tree to listen, beginning to admit the foolishness of Aoife's adventure.

  “You shouldn't blame yourself for what happened on the hilltop,” a warm feminine voice soothed, and the young man spun around startled to see who had spoken. “Aoife led you into that terrible situation. You behaved honorably in defending her.”

  A trail of orange sparks glittered in the sea of Isleen's gorgeous green eyes. Something about her sweet comforting tone and her compassionate expression relaxed Sárán completely. The young man sighed as he turned to look toward the fire again.

  “If only my father agreed with you,” he replied. “King Cecht's sons are better treated in the Fir-Bolg court than Brocan's own.”

  “One day your father will be proud of you,” Isleen assured him, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. Now her voice was breathy and deep. “Pride is the only language the King of the Fir-Bolg understands. His respect is hard won.”

  The Seer moved closer and placed an arm around the young man. “You've made mistakes, it's true,” she conceded, her face close to his. “I know about the circumstances surrounding the death of Fearna.”

  Sárán suddenly pulled away to look into her eyes. “What do you know?” he whispered, eyes darting this way and that, fearing their conversation would be overheard.

  “I know it was not murder,” the Seer replied, taking one of his hands in hers. “It was misadventure. Though you were a party to the young Danaan's drunkenness, it does not necessarily follow you were responsible for his death.”

  “I should have seen the danger.”

  “Fearna was hopelessly in love with your sister. The poor besotted fool would have done anything she asked of him. Don't blame yourself. It's Aoife who must answer for the crime. You were merely following after her to make sure no one was harmed.”

  “If that's true, then I failed miserably,” Sárán said, biting his lip.

  Isleen drew him closer to comfort him and Sárán caught the calming scent of lavender about her.

  “You misjudged the situation,” she purred. “We're all capable of such mistakes now and then. There is no sense in blaming yourself.”

  “If my father discovered Aoife and I were involved in the death of Fearna, he would never forgive us.”

  “He might,” Isleen smiled, touching a finger to his chin as if she were talking to a child, “if I spoke to him about it.”

  Sárán frowned. “Why would you intervene on my behalf?”

  “You'll make a fine Druid one day. If you have a mind to follow the sacred path of the Ollamh-Dreamers, I would like to take you on as a student.”

  “I've always thought of myself as a warrior.” He shrugged.

  “You'd do well to consider my offer. I have been searching for a suitable student for some time. I believe you would do perfectly.”

  Sárán suddenly felt very uncomfortable. He moved away from her slightly as the scent of lavender filled his senses, overwhelming him.

  “You're a very clever young man,” Isleen continued. “One day you'll be the Chief Bard of your kinfolk and perhaps your brother Lom will be King of the Fir-Bolg of the Burren.”

  She reached over and touched a finger to Sárán's cheek. “You are much more handsome than your father. I'll wager the young women follow after you like lost calves.”

  The young man blushed and shook his head meekly.

  Isleen laughed a little to herself. “Then perhaps it's time you found yourself a woman to teach you something of such matters. A Druid-Seer must be skilled in the arts of music, poetry and dreaming, but if he is also a master of the arts of love, his name will be remembered down the generati
ons.”

  “Wh-what do you mean?” Sárán stuttered nervously.

  “We'll have to find you a good teacher,” Isleen hummed, “if you are to fulfill your destiny as a great Ollamh-Dreamer.”

  “My father doesn't share your high opinion of me.”

  “Your father is an old fool,” the Seer whispered. “He's too proud to make peace with the Danaans and too stupid to see his own kinfolk are tired of war. He's never won a decisive victory against King Cecht. Your father is weak-willed and prone to fits of temper which don't serve him when it comes to gaining the upper hand in negotiations.”

  “He'll not listen to any advice offered him,” Sárán agreed. “Unless it comes from old Uncle Fergus.”

  “The veteran is a good-hearted man,” Isleen noted. “But he is blinded by his love and devotion to your father. Between them they've crippled the Fir-Bolg of the Burren with their short-sighted strategies and their inept direction of the wars. Your clanspeople need a strong leader who's not afraid to take hard measures to gain victory. They need a man who'll lead the charge and win the battle once and for all.”

  “I should be king,” the young man cut in gruffly.

  Isleen started to laugh again.

  “I'd be a good leader!” he snapped back.

  “A king is nothing compared to a Druid. Kings only believe they wield power. But it is the Druid class who truly hold the reins. Brithemi create and enforce the law. The Ollamh-Dreamers, the Fathi, advise all rulers on all important matters. The Filidh-Bards keep history and cite precedent. The Poets among them preserve the memory of great events in their compositions. The Ceoltóiri Harpers travel the Otherworld and the future.”

  “But it's kings who go to war,” the young man objected. “The warrior class protects the king and the king leads the warriors.”

  “Any strong-arm may train as a warrior,” Isleen pressed. “It doesn't take any muscle between the ears to lift up a sword, but it takes wisdom to persuade warriors to lay down their weapons. Far easier to start a war than to stop one.”

  Sárán looked away.

  “Why are you drawn so to power?” she inquired sharply.

  “I'm not!” the lad quickly responded. “But I don't want to spend my days hauling nets, gathering seaweed for the gardens, or tending cows. I was bred for better things.”

  The young man looked into the Seer's eyes. “No one remembers the name of a fisherman, no matter how learned he was in his skill. I want my name to be spoken with respect and awe. No king's counselor will be recalled with such honor. And one day the Fir-Bolg will again rule the west from the Island of the Towers to the great rocks of Skellig.”

  “Ah, but with your brother Lom as King of the Fir-Bolg and you advising him,” Isleen countered, “I have no doubt which of you would be the true ruler of your people.”

  “Lom's soul is too pure,” Sárán conceded, “his ideas too high-minded. Our father recognized that when we were quite young. I was always the more determined of us both. The chieftainship of the kindred clans of the Fir-Bolg will fall to me. But if I'm the power which supports the kingship of Lom,” he reasoned, “he'll be praised for my actions should they succeed, but blamed should they fail.”

  “Bide the days patiently,” Isleen crooned, stroking his forearm softly. “Let's await the outcome of the fight tomorrow. Whatever happens, your life is about to change forever. Better you have some part in deciding your path than simply leaving it up to others to plot it out for you.”

  “The Fir-Bolg are outnumbered,” the young man sighed. “We can't hope to beat the enemy on the battleground.”

  “Even the warlike Danaans may be defeated by a stern eye, a stout heart, and a quick wit. If your father had the courage to charge at them without thought for his own safety or the consequences, even the Danaans would fall back in disarray. Cecht recognizes a determined attack when he sees one, and I don't believe he would stand against a warrior who seemed to throw aside all fear.”

  “My father is frightened?”

  “He's scared out of his wits,” Isleen chortled as if it were obvious. “Haven't you considered what's at stake? If the enemy win the fight tomorrow it will be the end of Brocan's reign and the beginning of a new era. The Fir-Bolg people will likely become an insignificant source of tribute to the greater Danaan kingdoms.”

  “There's nothing I can do about that,” Sárán replied in frustration. “Matters have gone too far. It's out of my hands. If I had not been forbidden to carry weapons tomorrow—”

  “Don't give up hope, my dear young man,” Isleen interrupted. “There may yet be an opportunity for you to play your part in the fight. If not, then you must watch what happens carefully. The lessons you learn will be extremely valuable in the future.”

  She took his chin in her hand and forcibly turned his face to hers. “Whatever you do, remember you are descended from a race of Poets and Seers. You have the elixir of music in your veins, and the wisdom of the Brehons guides your spirit. Through your mother's people you have Danaan blood. Her kin are famed for their Druid ancestry. Take the path of the Ollamh-Dreamers. That road will lead to a life of high office.”

  “I'll consider your advice,” the young man promised, unable to raise any further protest when looking into those beguiling green eyes.

  “It'll be a sad day if the Fir-Bolg are dissolved among the Danaans.” Isleen shook her head. “If your father can't pay the fine, you and your siblings will be ordered to marry into his people. That will be the end of our folk within a generation.”

  “I detest the Danaans!” Sárán replied in disgust. “I could never agree to such a marriage.”

  “Your sister Aoife will likely be forced to wed first. A child born of the Danaan and Fir-Bolg royal houses would command the allegiance of both peoples. Such a child would mark the merging of two old enemies and an end to conflict forever. But such a birth would also be the first of many.”

  “Aoife would never agree to wed a Danaan,” Sárán laughed. “She despises them almost as much as I do.”

  “Do not judge all Danaans by your experience of one weak-willed and feeble-minded boy,” Isleen warned him. “Fearna was not fit to rule. That was the only reason he was sent as a hostage to your people. He was of no value to his own. I have heard this discussed in the hall of King Cecht. The Danaans mean to marry Mahon to your sister to bring the wars to an end.”

  “I will not allow it!” Sárán spat.

  “I knew I could rely on you to stand up for our people,” she told him, patting him on the shoulder.

  She smiled to think of her wager with Lochie. Then she leaned close to kiss Sárán lightly on the cheek. “When the time comes and you are looking for a teacher, I would be honored to tutor you. I am no expert on the subject of law—that is my husband's talent—but I am an authority on matters of love and dreaming. I have trained as a Seer,” she added. “I know something of the future. Yours is bright as long as you make the correct decisions now. Follow your heart, not your head, and you may be surprised at the gifts which shower down upon you.”

  With that the Seer turned and walked back to the fire.

  “Isleen is a Seer,” Sárán said to himself, the last of his doubts washed away. “She has witnessed the future. If I ignore her advice I am fighting my own destiny. She told me to follow my heart. And so I shall.”

  Then he sat down in the shadows, leaning against the side of a tree.

  “Be patient,” he told himself. “Endure the troubles of today. In the morning the world will be turned upside down. And then my time will be at hand.”

  Chapter 9

  BROCAN WIPED THE SWEAT FROM HIS BROW AND SQUATted briefly by a sapling birch. Sword drawn, arrayed in full fighting gear, he steeled himself for battle and prayed to Danu that the victory would fall to him. At his side and all around him grouped tight as acorns on the oak were his band of warriors, kinfolk all.

  Slow steady-handed veterans crouched beside young untried fighters. The healer Fineen, thou
gh Danaan by birth, was there as well to lend his skill if need should summon him. And relegated to the rear were the twins, Sárán and Lom, for Brocan did not trust them out of his sight.

  No sound rose from this determined company. Faces were grim and hard, senses sharpened for any evidence of the foe. Step by careful step the warrior band crept toward the precincts of the battleground.

  There was no sign of the enemy; no Danaan scouts had ventured out this far. The creatures of the forest ignored them. Soon enough sword arms would have work aplenty. So Brocan decided they should rest to catch their breath. At the ring of ash trees which marked the outer edge of a broad central courtyard they waited, keeping cover.

  Every man and woman among the warriors fixed their concentration on the cleared space before them. For it was held sacred by the Fir-Bolg. It was an ancient meeting place named Óenach Samhain, the Samhain Assembly. On this open ground each turning of the seasons, on the eve of the first day of the new cycle, Druid kind and all the Burren folk would gather.

  Samhain is the night which marks the beginning of the cold days of cattle slaughter. Next morning the breeding stock is separated from those animals destined to feed the clan through winter. But Samhain Eve is also the time of Draoi-Songs, the prayers of thanks, spells of creation, musical expressions of the seasons turning on the great wheel of eternity. These sacred songs had been celebrated since before the Fir-Bolg gave themselves that name.

  Such holy incantations call on all the elements to rally. Winter cannot be allowed to triumph over life. Fire, water, earth and air must be summoned to bestow their influence evenly on the whole of Innisfail. To neglect the Draoi is to risk an eternal night, a frozen future. That is how it was in the days before the Islands of the West were flooded. Ice gripped the oceans, snow stifled growth, a frozen wasteland spread across the earth. But Draoi-Songs drove away the cold.

  Life was harder then when the ice-rivers ran. The survival of the clans depended on the Draoi-Craft and the wisdom of the Druid kind as much as on the experience and good sense of the king. So every Samhain Eve the chieftains and Druids faced a test of their skills.