by Caiseal Mor
The test was named Tarbhfeis, the bull feast.
A Seer of the Faidh class who had earned the title Ollamh fasted three winters without meat or fish. Then on Samhain Eve, after ritual preparation, this Druid feasted on flesh and blood taken from a newly slain bull and retreated into a darkened cave or sacred mound where light and sound were strangers. And if all went well the Seer, imbued with the soul-force of the bull and the vitality of its blood, stepped into the Otherworld to glimpse the coming winter. Spirit journeys are seldom simple matters, but they yield vital clues which guide the learned sage along the way.
All the while the king must play Brandubh against the highest Druid in the land, or against his emissary. In this manner kings were vetoed from their office or confirmed in good judgment for another passing cycle of the seasons. This tradition continued long after the ice-rivers had thawed, even into the time of Brocan, King of the Fir-Bolg.
Mopping his sweating forehead with the sleeve of his saffron shirt, King Brocan thought back to the previous Samhain Eve. The Seer had been a gifted woman of the Bretani people who had their dwelling in the northeast. Her accent had been thick and her pronouncements colored by the strangeness of her speech, but Brocan reassured himself that all would be well. The Druids would not have confirmed him in the kingship if they had perceived any hint of trouble in the future. Yet the holy ones had not foreseen young Fearna's death, nor the dispute which brought his people to this field. Suddenly Brocan began to have doubts.
Nearby the bushes shuffled, startling him. The king cocked his head and squinted. “What was that?” he hissed, spreading his arms out to silence those around him. But his signal had the opposite effect. Each warrior quickly expressed an opinion under his breath.
“Be quiet!” the king commanded.
As they waited for any further noises, a slim young man stood up. His hair was as black as the underside of a cauldron. And he pushed his way roughly past any who stood between himself and the king.
“What is it now?” Sárán spat impatiently. “What's the delay?”
“Your father heard a noise,” Fineen replied and in that instant a great shout rose up somewhere across the little valley. It was the war cry of the Danaans.
“We must make for higher ground!” the king decided. “If we can't see them, we can't fight them.”
“I'll lead some warriors to scout that hill,” Sárán declared. “We've been creeping around on our hands and knees since before dawn. How can we fight the Danaans if we don't know where to find them?”
“You'll do as you are told!” the king countered. “Fergus will lead the scouting party. You'll go with him, obey his commands, and learn from one who knows something of warfare.”
“Very well, Father,” Sárán answered, forcing a smile so everyone would see he was ready to serve the king. “I'll do as you command me!”
“No one is to attack unless the order comes from my own mouth,” Brocan added, looking at Fergus.
The old veteran silently nodded his assurance.
“If we are set upon by the enemy I am sure we will give a good account of ourselves,” Sárán cut in.
“You're only here because you deceived me,” Brocan bellowed, realizing too late his raised voice would probably attract the attention of the enemy.
“I want your brother and yourself where my warriors can keep a watch on you,” the king went on, lowering his voice again to a hoarse whisper. “I can't trust you to stay out of trouble. Just be glad I don't send you back to camp to sit with your mother. She'd surely keep you busy helping with the spinning.”
“Mother wouldn't force me to do anything I didn't wish to do,” the young man retorted.
“Riona is a troublemaker. I wish she were not your mother.”
“Why isn't she here on the field to witness the fight?” Sárán asked.
“Because I trust her even less than I trust you and Lom,” Brocan spat back. “Now do as you are commanded or I'll not be answerable for what becomes of you.”
“Lom and I captured an enemy warrior yesterday,” Sárán protested. “Let us carry weapons.”
Brocan laughed.
“Have you never any good words to say for us?” the young man shot back.
“None,” the king said. “I've done my best to toughen you both up in preparation for life. For it is almost certain one of you will become king after me. Lom at least shows some promise. He has a good head on his shoulders and knows how to follow orders. But you, Sárán? If it weren't for the fact that you and your brother are twins, I would question my parentage of you.”
“I'm not all that happy to call you my father either.”
“Be careful. I could easily disown you.”
“Do as our father asks you,” Lom cut in. He had made his way forward when he heard the king's voice raised. “We're not warriors yet. Father has been fighting the Danaans all his life.”
“That's part of the problem,” Sárán replied angrily. “The king has grown stale and timid. I have no wish to be a warrior if I am required to demean myself as he does.”
The two young men faced each other and to all who saw them they were each reflections in a polished bronze mirror. Black-haired, long-faced and wiry, with paling skins they were. And both had dark eyes as fathomless as the depths of the ocean.
Another great shout arose from across the battleground, shattering the unspoken tension between the twins.
“Lom,” the king ordered quickly, “see that your brother doesn't come to harm. You pair are a danger to my other warriors. Sárán will watch over you in your first battle and you will keep an eye on him. That way at least one of you may return home safely this evening.”
“Yes, Father,” the pair answered, though Sárán's voice lacked conviction.
“Now go,” Brocan told them sternly. “And don't cause me any further anguish. I'm already paying for the misdeeds of others. I'm compelled to fight this battle to clear a debt from my name. Don't compound the problem for me.”
Fineen watched the two young men smile at each other. Their hair fell in the same way across their faces. Their voices usually accented the same words; they laughed in precisely the same manner and often at the same time. Few folk could tell Lom and Sárán apart. But the physician decided a skilled reader of souls might perceive some differences.
“Come along, lads,” Fergus ordered. “We'd best get this job done.”
The pair nodded then followed after the veteran. But as soon as they were out of earshot of the king Fergus stopped and beckoned the lads over to him.
“I saw your sister yesterday after her accident,” he told them.
“I heard she suffered great pain,” Lom replied.
“Not as much as you will suffer if you endanger my life or those of my warriors,” Fergus replied with a cold threat. “Do you understand me? I know more about you lads than you might think, and if I were king you'd pay for your wrongdoing.”
“I've done no wrong,” Sárán scoffed.
Fergus leaned in close. “Aoife tells a different story,” he hissed. “I know all about Fearna and I intend to tell your father before this battle becomes a needless slaughter.”
The young man's face paled for a moment but then he objected defiantly, “I am the king's son Sárán, you cannot speak to me in that tone.”
“I'm your uncle. I'll speak to you in whatever manner I see fit. Would you dare stand up to me?”
“Gladly,” Sárán taunted. “Give me a sword.”
“No!” Lom begged. “Calm yourselves.”
“Give me a sword,” his brother insisted.
“Sárán,” Lom interrupted. “This is not a game. We've caused enough trouble already.”
“I want a blade.”
“Do you think I carry spare weapons around in case some young boy wants to take his first blooding in battle?” Fergus mocked. “If you want to carry a sword you'll have to return to camp and get one. I'll not restrain you. Go with my blessing.”
; “By the time I go back to fetch a sword the battle will be over,” Sárán answered in outrage.
“Very likely.” Fergus nodded.
“You call yourself a warrior?” Sárán spat. “Be good to your word and give me a blade!”
“Be quiet!” the veteran told him firmly. “Fineen is a master at setting broken bones. I've witnessed his work. I don't wish to see any more for a while but that won't stop me giving you a beating you'll never forget. So do as I tell you.”
Fergus quickly passed instructions to the other three warriors in the scouting party, who set off up the hill, then ordered Lom and Sárán to follow him. They'd not gone far up the slope when the word came that the hilltop was deserted. Disappointed, Sárán followed Fergus back to the king without once sighting their opponents.
Not long afterward the entire war band reached the hill summit, still crouched low in case the Danaans should see them. They could hear shouts and taunts coming from across the valley but there was no visible sign of the enemy.
Brocan stared down toward the flat cleared space at the bottom of the hill. His eyes strained as he watched the opposite hilltop where Aoife and her brothers had encountered the enemy the previous day. But by the time the sun was three hands above the horizon he was no wiser of the Danaans' whereabouts. The king could feel himself becoming very tense, expecting an attack at any moment.
“This could be a vicious fight,” Fergus began, knowing this might be his last chance to speak his news. Yet still he was unwilling for he and Brocan had been together since they were babes in arms. Fergus didn't want to bear any tidings which could break his brother's heart.
“I have never known the Danaans to withhold an attack in this manner unless their intention was a terrible slaughter,” he continued hesitantly.
Brocan grunted agreement.
“Let us walk away from this quarrel and make a settlement.”
The king turned his head sharply to his foster-brother. “It's too late for that!” he spat. “My honor would never—”
“My lord,” Fergus interrupted, “there is something I must tell you.”
“Not now, brother. Perhaps if we survive this battle we'll have time to talk.”
“I've foolishly tarried in bringing this to your attention,” the veteran went on, ignoring Brocan's reply. “This is not an easy subject to broach. But it'll be too late to speak to you after the fight.”
At that moment the king stood up and stared at the opposite hill. “They're coming!” he announced loudly, taking no notice of the veteran. No sooner had he spoken than a hundred naked Danaans ran to the top of the hill across the little valley. There they stood in three long ranks, spears thrust toward the heavens, shields laid flat at their feet.
“There are so many of them,” Brocan noted with quiet dismay.
A tall gray-bearded warrior stepped out from the ranks of Danaan men and women to raise a sword above his head. As he let the weapon fall to his side the Danaans began chanting. It was a slow, steady song. The men thrummed a deep haunting chorus as the women's voices danced a lively melody around it.
Lom stood up beside his father to have a closer look. “They're wild people,” he whispered in awe.
“They're savages,” the king corrected.
“They're my people,” Fineen added indignantly. “Try not to forget that when I'm tending your wounded warriors later in the day.”
Brocan ignored him, staring transfixed by the enemy, despite having faced them many times before. The Danaans were painted head to foot in blue-green patterns similar to those they chiseled out on their standing stones. Spirals swirled about the faces, zigzags snaked down their arms and legs. The hair of every one of them was caked with white clay so it stood up like the spiked grasses of the plains. The men were mostly clean-shaven. The women wild-eyed.
Brocan felt his stomach begin to turn. He had a sense some disaster was about to befall his people. Fergus was right, this would be a terrible fight.
Just then the warrior who had stepped out of the ranks put down his sword in front of him and the rhythmic chanting ceased instantly.
“I am Cecht,” the warrior declared in a strong, commanding voice. “Who are you to come to the Óenach Samhain on a day when my people would quarrel with the Fir-Bolg of Burren?”
Brocan took half a dozen paces forward so he could be seen clearly. “I am the King of the Fir-Bolg of Burren,” he declared. “I am called Brocan. I will answer your summons to fight.”
“So be it!” Cecht replied. “Only full battle will atone for the loss of my youngest son to your cowardly, irresponsible stewards.”
“Your son fell from his horse because he was not careful enough,” Brocan protested. “His death was not the doing of any of my people.”
Cecht did not speak another word. He knelt down quickly to pick up his sword from the grass and as he did so all his warriors knelt down also. When the Danaans rose to their feet again they had their shields in their hands. This polished wall of bronze caught the rays of the morning sun and dazzled the faces of the waiting Fir-Bolg. Brocan felt the hearts of his warriors waver.
“So that's why they chose that particular hill,” Fergus mused, “to catch the morning sun.”
“It is quite an impressive show,” Brocan agreed. “But it'll take more than reflected sunlight to stop my people.”
“We are forty,” Fergus reminded his king urgently. “They are one hundred. I trust you don't imagine we can defeat them. We might wound their pride or ruffle their self-esteem, but they'll surely have the day. You can stop this now with a simple gesture of peace.”
“In my heart of hearts I don't wish to fight,” Brocan sighed. “I'm weary of warfare. But I've no choice. You know as well as I do Fearna was drunk when he fell from that horse. He was a guest in our house. I admit I should have been more vigilant, but I'll not be blamed for his death. I won't pay compensation.”
“The lad was goaded on by your children,” Fergus blurted.
“What?”
“Aoife told me last night,” the veteran explained. “She and Sárán dared the boy to outdo them at drinking. It was all just light-hearted fun until the Danaan lad decided to take a midnight ride.”
“That's not the story I heard,” Brocan fumed. “I was told he had taken a bad temper, swallowed a jug of fine mead, then stolen a horse. Why didn't you tell me this earlier?”
“I have been trying, my lord. You wouldn't listen.”
From the other hill King Cecht bellowed out another challenge. “Have you lost your courage, Brocan? Come and meet my folk on the holy ground between us. Or have the Fir-Bolg lost their stomach for battle?”
Brocan felt each word strike at him like a spear point. He turned around to avoid looking across at his enemy. “Sárán!” he grunted. “Come here.”
“I am here,” the young man answered as he stepped forward.
“You and your sister enticed the Danaan prince to drink heavily?”
“We did, Father,” Sárán admitted without remorse. “I am not ashamed to admit Fearna would still be alive if he'd been sober. And it's true, Aoife and myself persuaded him to take a ride.”
“Not ashamed?”
“He was a Danaan,” Sárán said belligerently. “An enemy. He had captured your attention and he would have taken Aoife's also if he'd had the chance.”
The king said nothing. His face was reddened with a mix of rage and embarrassment.
“It's not too late to save some lives,” Brocan realized with defeat as he quickly reassessed the situation. “I'll pay the eric-fine for the Danaan prince and maybe all this can be forgotten.”
“One hundred red cows,” Fergus reminded him. “Maybe even more since we let the matter come as far as the battleground before we took action to settle damages.”
“Where will I find one hundred cows?” Brocan asked in despair. “My people will likely go hungry this year and I will have to bear the shame of it all. This'll be the end of my kingship. The chieftai
ns of the Fir-Bolg won't elect me again after this debacle.”
The king closed his eyes a moment. When he opened them there was determination on his face once more. Without hesitation he strode directly toward the hilltop where the enemy could see him. Then Brocan held his arms wide, his sword in the air.
“I am Brocan, King of the Fir-Bolg of Burren,” he shouted. “I have no wish for blood to be spilled over this matter. I would speak with King Cecht under a truce.”
“You mustn't back down to them!” Sárán hissed, recalling Isleen's words of the night before. “You can't mean to just give in! No wonder folk are saying your kingship is ended.” Sárán's eyes were two black coals lit with passionate anger.
Brocan's face emptied of emotion.
“This is your handiwork,” Fergus growled. “Do not interfere.”
Cecht was already making his way down to the cleared space between the hills, escorted by two of his warriors. The three Danaans were unarmed but in their battle paint they still seemed fierce and battle-ready.
“Take this, Sárán,” Brocan ordered, handing the young man his sword with contempt. “You wanted to bear a blade in battle. Now you shall carry my weapon for the rest of the day. I'll not be in need of it.” He turned to the old veteran. “Come with me, will you Fergus?”
“The Danaan king has two warriors for escort,” Fergus cautioned.
“You're worth two Danaans,” Brocan shot back. But when Fergus did not smile the king held a hand up to show he would take his friend's advice. “Fineen will come with us also.”
“I hope we won't stand in need of his skill at setting bones,” the veteran breathed solemnly.
Fergus handed his blade to Lom with an unspoken command to take good care of it. With that the three men started off down the hill toward the flat cleared place known as Óenach Samhain.
They'd not gone far when the ranks of Danaans began to jeer and shout insults at them. Brocan took it well, holding his head high as he walked, as if the taunts gave him all the more strength of purpose. Fergus shut the noise out of his mind completely, and Fineen was already composing a poem about the famous King Brocan of the Fir-Bolg who was the most honorable ruler in the land.