The Meeting of the Waters

by Caiseal Mor

  Dalan the Brehon began his slow breathing. His body started to relax; his mind emptied of trivial thoughts. He made a hissing noise as he exhaled air through his mouth. This was a sound which would guide him back to his body from the other side when the time came and announce clearly to passers-by that he was not to be disturbed.

  However, Dalan found he couldn't concentrate on his task. The memory of his strange vision by the stream was starkly fresh in his awareness. The details of the dream still haunted him. After struggling unsuccessfully with his consciousness the Brehon opened his eyes, and at the same time ceased his steady breath control.

  Dalan found it hard to believe that two of the Watchers of old could have survived the long generations since the time of Balor as Cuimhne had told him. Why had they not made their presence felt? He was sure the Druid Assembly would have recognized their dabbling in the affairs of Danaan and Fir-Bolg. Yet the message of his dream had been so clear. The Watchers must surely be abroad in the land, and he resolved to be wary of their meddling. Eventually, in the stillness of the deserted battleground, he was able to clear all worries from his consciousness and he felt himself drifting off into a strange half-sleep.

  It seemed to Dalan he had only just closed his eyes when he heard his name called out. The Brehon sat up straight and uncrossed his numb legs. There was no one about in the evening light so he decided to get to his feet. He threw the feather cloak off him as he rose and it fell to the ground in an untidy pile.

  “Is it time for the judgment yet?” he called out.

  “Soon enough,” came the answer.

  Dalan noticed the air was unusually warm, and knew a dream trance had come on him again. It seemed he was alone in the hillfort of Dun Burren. In the gathering mists of dusk he could not see very far but he recognized his old home well enough. Dalan had spent part of his boyhood in this place. He loved every stone in the wall and every house the defenses encircled. He was overjoyed to be in familiar territory. His visions usually took him to places shrouded in anguish and portent.

  His kindred no longer dwelled here. They had gone south soon after he had taken his vows and his family now called the lands of the Cairige home.

  As the mist lifted unexpectedly the Brehon swallowed hard in shock at what he saw. It was a scene that would haunt him for the rest of his days. And ever after he'd be unable to look on his old home again without sadness.

  The stone walls of the hillfort seemed to have fallen and they were covered in unruly grasses. The houses he knew so well were all gone. Where the courtyard had once been, wild goats grazed quietly in the fading light. It was as if a thousand seasons had passed by, leaving him alone untouched by time.

  “Where am I?” the Brehon asked, and he was surprised at the hoarse rattle of his words.

  “You've come to the hillfort of the King of the Fir-Bolg of the Burren,” a strange, disembodied voice replied. “Do you not know this place? You've spent many nights here.”

  “It's not as I remember it.”

  “It would've been better if you'd asked when rather than where,” the stranger teased.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You're looking on the future.”

  “Who are you?” Dalan gasped.

  “Can you not think of a more imaginative question?” the stranger sighed in a mocking tone.

  As Dalan turned to face the speaker a kneeling figure slowly took shape amongst a pile of broken rocks. The man stood up, shook the dust off his clothes and approached, removing the hood which concealed his face.

  The stranger was completely bald and his eyes burned with a bright green unearthly fire. His skin was a waxy white, his fingers long and bony.

  “Good morning to you, Brehon,” the man offered warmly. “I trust you're not too distressed by my sudden appearance.”

  “What in Danu's name are you?”

  “At last a question worthy of your profession!” the stranger exclaimed.

  “Give me an answer.”

  “I am the second-last of my kind,” the man replied. “Can you answer the riddle of my being?”

  “Watcher,” Dalan muttered without hesitation.

  “You are to be congratulated. Your knowledge of the legends is impressive.”

  The stranger held a palm up and a little fire near Dalan flared into a large blaze. The Brehon stepped back startled, covering his eyes from the intense brightness of it. Then he smelled roast pork and saw that a pig's carcass was cooking on a long metal spit over the fire.

  “Iron is not only excellent for making weapons,” the Watcher noted, pointing to the fire pit. “It's perfect for fashioning cooking utensils. Especially roasting spits.”

  “What do you want of me?” Dalan asked cautiously.

  “I thought we might make a little trivial conversation before we settle down to discuss business. But since you seem to be in a hurry, I'll come to the point.”

  Quick as a flash of lightning the stranger was sitting by the fire. By the time the Brehon caught up with him he was carving into the roast with a large knife. He carefully placed the thick slices in a wooden bowl.

  “Are you truly one of Balor's breed?”

  “Of course I am!”

  “How did you come to enter my meditations?”

  “Make no mistake,” the Watcher declared as he skillfully worked the meat knife. “What you see around you is not your world, nor has it sprung from your imagination or meditation. I've made it and have lordship over it all. I advise you to bear that in mind while you're here.”

  “Why have you brought me to this place?”

  “Because I respect your wisdom.” The Watcher shrugged. “I appreciate a worthy opponent. And because you are the only one of your people who even suspects my ancient companion and myself to be of Balor's making.”

  “Balor is gone. You have nothing left to fight for.”

  The Watcher held up his hand. “I've already heard that argument,” he protested. “If you'll forgive me pointing out the obvious flaw in your reasoning, I still exist. Balor is no more, it's true, but the cause to which my companion and I were sworn is very much alive as much as we are.”

  The stranger held out a wooden bowl piled with steaming cuts of choicest meat. “Though I must admit I don't have the enthusiasm I once had. Will you take some food with me?”

  Dalan shook his head.

  “I don't often have an opportunity to express generosity,” the Watcher insisted. “I'd consider it an honor if you accept my humble hospitality.”

  The Brehon bowed his head, remembering that even in the house of an enemy, tradition demanded humility of a Druid. He held out his hand to take the bowl.

  “You've no idea how much I appreciate your gesture.” His host smiled. “Is the evening too warm?”

  Dalan shook his head.

  “If it becomes so, please let me know. As I told you, I'm lord of this place. I may grant you whatever weather your heart desires.”

  The Brehon tentatively tasted the roast pork. It was sweet and strong, basted in honey, the way he loved it.

  “I've not eaten meat as sweet as this since I was a child.” The Brehon hummed as he ate.

  “Thank you.” The stranger bowed.

  As Dalan sucked the juice off his fingers he noticed there was a silver mead cup in the Watcher's hand.

  “Sample this,” the stranger offered. “It's brewed to an old Fomorian recipe with ground hazelnuts and the subtle flavors of wild herbs.”

  Dalan took the cup and put it to his mouth.

  “It's a very fine brew,” the Brehon congratulated his host.

  “The Fomor were skilled cooks and brewers. Our craftsmen were renowned also. As were our Poets and musicians. They're all gone now.”

  The Brehon chewed his meat slowly as he listened.

  “Of course you've been educated to think of us as evil.” The Watcher laughed. “But you, my friend, know better than that. The world is not so simple a place. And you're doubtless aware the tales
of your ancestors are tinged with hatred born of warfare, famine and hardship. Not everything you've been told about us is true.”

  “I'm a Brehon,” Dalan said. “I'm sworn to truth.”

  “And how do you know what truth is?”

  The Druid thought for a moment. “Truth is the essence of all things,” he replied eventually. “It is all things.”

  “Is there no such thing as untruth?”

  “Untruth is merely truth in disguise. Truth can't be hidden. It doesn't wither in the presence of untruth. Lies can't live unless they're grafted onto the truth.”

  “You're very wise.” The Watcher nodded. “But what I consider to be truth may be quite different from what you consider it to be.”

  “Truth transcends the viewpoint of the individual,” Dalan ventured. “It's not merely opinion or speculation. Truth can be proved to exist.”

  “Perhaps you've more to learn than you realize.” The Watcher smiled. “May I ask you a question?”

  The Brehon nodded.

  “Do you consider me and my kind to be evil?”

  “Your skill is in making others believe your version of the truth,” Dalan reasoned. “I've heard the tales of how you courted King Bres of the Danaans and convinced him to desert his own people for Balor.”

  “Bres thought highly of himself,” the Watcher reminisced. “It was a simple thing to present a convincing argument to him.”

  “You incited him to make war on his own folk.”

  “But does that make me evil?” the stranger countered. “Certainly not in the eyes of my own folk who were threatened with extinction by the Danaans.”

  The Brehon sighed as he considered the argument. “I suppose you're right,” he answered slowly. “I personally believe there's no such thing as evil. There's only the darker side of this world, which simple folk explain away as a demonic force. The truth is always much more complicated than that.”

  “You are a little wise. Small wonder you've been spoken of as the next Dagda.”

  Dalan smiled, realizing the Watcher wanted him to ask about his own future. However, the Brehon was not distracted by this temptation. “Your words and deeds brought suffering to many,” he stated. “You must be aware of the consequences of your actions. It follows that you don't respect your fellow beings. That's a crime under the Brehon laws.”

  “Am I an outlaw then?”

  Dalan shrugged. “You're an outlaw who's obviously capable of great achievements for you're clearly very talented. This illusion alone is very impressive. The flavors, the aromas, the sights and sounds are incredibly convincing but of course I know the dream will not endure.”

  “The invaders have come here because I inspired their queen with dreams like this one,” the stranger informed his guest.

  “To what end?”

  “My companion and I are nourished by the fear others experience. Anguish is like honey wine to us. We crave the terror of those who walk as mortals. When I smell fright on the wind it sets my stomach to growling in the same way the aroma of roast pork reminds you of your hunger. I can't say this state of being is entirely pleasant, but this was Balor's legacy to us. It is our nature.”

  “But why draw the invaders to this shore?” Dalan insisted. “Have you no feeling for the suffering that will surely result?”

  “I was a Brehon once,” the Watcher went on uninterrupted. “All of our kind were students of the Druid path just like yourself. I was dedicated to truth, to justice, to healing and to the laws of my people. When Balor offered me the opportunity to take the form I now possess I really believed the transformation would empower me to perform great good for my people. Balor was a clever manipulator. He didn't tell us we'd merely be the playing pieces in his great game.”

  “You were a Druid?” Dalan stammered. “And yet you betrayed your vows as a Guardian of the Spirit?”

  “I didn't betray anything or anyone!” the Watcher snapped. “I was betrayed. Balor lied to us. He twisted the truth and had us believe we'd bring about a new age of peace in Innisfail. He made us think we'd be the keepers of wisdom and the silent judges of the unjust.”

  The stranger took a piece of meat. He chewed it vigorously to keep his temper in check. After a moment the Watcher took a mouthful of liquor and went on.

  “In fact it was our fate to interfere in the lives of the Fir-Bolg and the Danaan. Balor never explained to any of us we'd suffer a hunger for fear.”

  “What happened to the others?” Dalan interrupted.

  The stranger's eyes glowed brightly green as he shook his head. “I believe the answer to that question has already been revealed to you.”

  As the Watcher spoke the rising moon appeared in the sky, the light of the fire died down and the wind blew into a buffeting gale that tore at Dalan's cloak. The Brehon looked to the sky to get his bearings and saw the familiar stars arrayed before him.

  In the northern part of the heavens long streaming luminescent streaks danced about, filling the dark blue sky with rainbow colors.

  “The Northern Lights?” he gasped.

  “I see you know something of the stars and the movement of the heavens,” the Watcher breathed, his own voice full of awe. “This wonder was first shown to me by Balor.”

  “Does this place lie within the bounds of Innisfail?” Dalan inquired.

  “It does.”

  “And this is where your companions dwell?”

  The stranger turned to the Druid and touched his shoulder. “They're beyond even this excuse for existence I endure,” he explained. “The seven are standing about us now silent and immortal, though they don't breathe and they no longer have any care for the world.”

  Dalan looked about him. He noticed they were standing in the middle of a grassy patch almost completely encircled by standing stones of blue granite. This place was not quite the same as the hill in his earlier dream.

  “I've seen them before,” the Brehon admitted. “But Cuimhne showed them standing on a higher hill.”

  “Everything is as I will it,” the stranger reminded him. Then he took the Brehon by the arm and led him closer to the stones. “There are two spaces left. Two places reserved for my companion and myself when we're ready to relinquish our current existence. I'm sure my old friend Cuimhne explained that to you when she issued her warning.”

  “Who is Cuimhne?”

  “She guards us. And she has a connection with you. But you have bathed in the Well of Forgetfulness. I don't expect you to remember the past. Perhaps you'll find each other in the future again.”

  “You're not making sense.”

  “You're not listening. You have no memory of her for the time being. You'd best leave it at that.”

  Dalan frowned.

  “Unless we find a way to postpone our decline until the bonds of Balor may be broken,” the Watcher continued, “my companion and I are doomed to a terrible fate.”

  “To continue as your master intended, feeding on the fear of mortals until your soul won't accept any more.”

  The stranger shrugged. “You've judged us harshly, Druid. And Cuimhne hasn't given you the full tale. But tell me true. Would you submit to such a fate without searching for another way?”

  The Brehon dropped his gaze so he would not have to meet the Watcher's eyes. “I wouldn't be able to justify my continued existence,” he replied, “if I relied on the suffering of others for my nourishment.”

  “But mortals will suffer whether the Watchers walk or not. We merely profit by fear. In some respects it could be argued we take anguish and turn it into a nurturing and life-giving force.”

  “Why have you brought me here?” the Brehon asked again.

  “To reason with you. To ask you to let us be. If we interfere in the affairs of mortals it's only to bring matters to a swifter conclusion. We don't create the conflicts, not entirely anyway. We take advantage of them. We feed from them. And we need to build our strength if we're going to escape our bonds.”

  “Do you know
of the Druid Assembly's plan to withdraw the Danaans and the Fir-Bolg into the Otherworld?” Dalan asked.

  “I know something of it,” the Watcher admitted. “And I condemn the Druid Assembly for their foolishness. They've no idea what a burden immortality will become. I was a good-hearted Brehon once. I had high ideals and dreams of making this land a peaceful place. But look at me now. This world changes slowly so that in one allotted lifetime it may seem as if nothing has altered. The body dies, the spirit passes on to new beginnings and the soul drinks from the Well of Forgetfulness when it returns home to the sun.” The stranger squeezed his fingers into Dalan's shoulder to emphasize his point.

  “That's the way of nature. The spirit must be cleansed after a time on this earth. Otherwise it becomes tainted and disturbed. My soul is not what it once was. It craves what it formerly reviled. In my depths untouched for long ages, I'm a soul not unlike yourself.”

  “You speak of the fear of others,” Dalan noted. “You speak of how you feed on that fear. And yet it's your own dread that keeps you fighting against fate.”

  “If I don't find a way to cheat Balor I'm destined to take one of those two empty places in the circle. I'll discover a way one day, but until then I must accept my nature and live on until I can be healed.”

  Dalan frowned, swayed by the Watcher's argument.

  “You're a judge,” the stranger appealed, picking up on the Brehon's thoughts. “How would you try me? What penalty would you impose if my case came before you? Would you find me guilty of wrongdoing?”

  “It's not your circumstances that condemn you,” Dalan replied. “You've been dealt with unjustly and I wouldn't wish your fate on anyone. It's your lack of compassion for others which is the crime. If you possessed any respect for the mortal kind you wouldn't involve yourself in their affairs. You profit by the misfortune of your fellow beings. If you were a mortal you would be subject to a fine for every life you have interfered with.”