The Meeting of the Waters

by Caiseal Mor

  “I have compassion,” the Watcher protested. “I suffer in my spirit for that luxury every day. I have great respect for the mortal kind. For I desire a gift which they may experience at any time but which is denied to me: the peace of a sleeping soul.”

  “If I promise to search for a way to help you,” Dalan relented, “will you guarantee that you'll cease to be involved in the affairs of mortals? The treaty between the Fir-Bolg and the Danaans must be negotiated so both parties can face the invaders with strength of purpose.”

  “I can't promise you anything since it's in my nature to take advantage of conflict.”

  “You're making excuses,” Dalan sighed.

  “I'd welcome a resolution to my soul's imprisonment,” the stranger grunted, “and I'd submit to anything in order to avoid the same end as my friends over there.” The Watcher gestured toward the standing stones.

  “How did Balor convince you to take this path?” the Brehon asked curiously.

  “I was younger. I thought myself wise enough to be able to weather the seasons. What's missing from one's life is often more powerful than that which one holds. Always remember that, my dear Brehon, and you'll have compassion for me.”

  “The tales say you were offered great riches and power in exchange for your souls.”

  The Watcher laughed aloud, obviously amused by this. “The truth is we were all granted a single wish. Yes, some of my brothers and sisters chose wealth or influence, things which only have meaning in the mortal world. Those who did were very shortsighted. I'm fortunate my wish wasn't easily satisfied. This is one reason I've not withdrawn from the world in defeat and utter boredom. My desire has not yet been sated.”

  “What did you wish for?”

  “Unquenchable passion,” the Watcher replied with a wry smile. And then he quoted from an ancient Fomorian ballad. “ ‘Passion ripens to hunger and the fruit thereof is sweet. The liquor of the fruit cures all weariness, refreshes, replenishes, renews. There is no sorrow, no regret, nor enduring sickness where Passion dwells. Don't tell me your soul is weary. Embrace your life. Drink from the Well of Passion.’ ”

  Dalan felt an aching in his forehead and he touched his fingers to his brow.

  “I must leave you now,” the stranger told him. “I've work to do and it will not wait. Consider my words. And if you should solve my problem, remember I'll reward you well for your help.”

  “I only wish you to cease your interference in the ways of mortals,” the Brehon replied through the pain of his headache. “I don't seek rewards.”

  “That's what makes you all the more worthy of a prize. And it's why I have confidence you'll be able to help my companion and myself.”

  “Where should I begin searching for an answer?”

  “It'll come to you I'm certain for I've traveled to the dark place. I've seen what was and is. And I've been shown what will be. I know you're the one I've been searching for through the generations. And I'm sure you'll have the skill to wield the power when it's in your hands.”

  “What power?” Dalan pleaded.

  But the Watcher was gone. The vision had faded. The Brehon was alone, once more seated on the Victory Stone. The sun was low in the sky now and Dalan decided he couldn't waste any more time deliberating. There were folk waiting on his wisdom. He hadn't come to a solution to the problem he'd set out to solve. He'd have to trust to his instincts. For now it was time to go to meet the two rival kings of the Danaan and Fir-Bolg.

  Chapter 13

  WHEN LOM AWOKE HE FELT REFRESHED AND WELL. The king's dry-stone hut was dark and there was a lot of smoke in the room. In the meager glow of the firelight he could just make out the shapes of three others wrapped in furs sleeping nearby.

  As he lay half awake the hut was suddenly filled with bright light as the cowhide flap covering the door was pulled aside. Lom held his hands over his eyes, but squinting through the gaps in his fingers he glimpsed two figures. One of the men held a torch just outside the door.

  “Fineen is too gravely ill to leave his bed for a few days,” one man's voice stated as Lom pretended to be asleep. “But your three children will attend the fire at the Victory Stone later this evening close to midnight. I have a role for each of them in my judgment.”

  “Very well, Dalan,” King Brocan promised. “They'll attend if I have to carry them down to the stone myself.”

  “I understand how you must be feeling,” the Brehon soothed. “The tale I've heard so far is very sad. But tonight there'll be no secrets between Danaan and Fir-Bolg. You must make an effort to be perfectly honest with Cecht. As I have told you, there's a great deal at stake here for all our peoples.”

  “We will drive the invaders away from these shores,” Brocan stated confidently.

  “I fear you're wrong,” Dalan replied. “They have a weapon which scatters all before it. It is so devastating the Druid Assembly is considering calling a Draoi-Song down upon the foreigners.”

  “That's not been done for generations,” the king remarked skeptically. “Is there anyone alive who knows how to do it?”

  “The Druids are keepers of the law and protectors of the lore. We have remembered much that others have forgotten. But these new folk are like no other invaders who have come before. We will succumb to them unless we use the knowledge that originated in the long-ago.”

  “What is this weapon which causes you so much concern?”

  “I'll tell you at the Victory Stone,” Dalan assured the king. “Now we'll meet with Cecht, you and I. It will be necessary to have peace between you both before we meet in public tonight. Once we have secured an alliance between you, it will be time to plan for war.”

  “I don't understand.” The king frowned. “I have no quarrel with these invaders. They are hardly likely to take the barren lands of the west from my people. This part of the country barely supports the Fir-Bolg and we are few in number. Perhaps you've spent too long among the Danaans.” The king had not forgotten Lochie's advice. “You'll have to present a convincing argument if you want me to commit my people to any such alliance.”

  “The invaders want this whole country for themselves,” Dalan sighed. “These warriors who have come are but a small advance party whose duty is to deal with any opposition to their conquest. The bulk of their people, and they have many kinfolk, are waiting in the Iberi lands for news of victory. Once they have secured this island they will send for their families. Then we will be hard pressed to resist their coming. And they will want every bit of land they can lay claim to.”

  “I could negotiate a separate peace with the foreigners,” Brocan suggested.

  “The Danaans and the Fir-Bolg are the guardians of this land,” the Brehon reminded him. “When you took your oath of office you promised to defend this island to the last drop of your blood. And believe me, you will have to fight if the Draoi-Craft of the Ollamh-Dreamers does not prove effective against them.”

  “I would prefer to examine the possibility of a treaty,” Brocan repeated.

  “These newcomers come from the same stock as our ancestors but they are an uncivilized folk who do not recognize the Druid laws as we do.”

  “They would surely honor a treaty sworn in good faith.”

  “I do not know if they hold such oath-taking to be valid,” Dalan sighed. “Certainly their laws differ from ours in many ways. For example, they set the penalty for the killing of a kinsman at death.”

  “A life for a life!” the king gasped, truly horrified. “That serves no purpose but to rid the land of the murderer. What of the killer's soul? Is there no path to redemption through recompense?”

  “It is a barbaric practice. And it makes it all the more difficult to imagine they are descended from our common ancestors.”

  “Let us go then.” Brocan nodded. “I will throw off my pride to do what I can to make amends. For the moment I will accept your advice. But if I can find an opportunity to avoid war, I will take it, even if that means abandoning the Danaans to their
fate.”

  “I am afraid you have been placed in a position where that is highly unlikely,” Dalan told him. “Do not expect my judgment upon you will be an easy one. You owe a great debt to King Cecht and there will be no avoiding it.”

  “I will pay my debts. I always do.”

  “This may be more than your people can afford.”

  “Will you bring a fine against me for Fineen's injuries?”

  “Of course.”

  “I beg you to consider an alternative,” Brocan ventured. “My people will be crippled by all the fines imposed on us.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “The Druid Path,” the king replied.

  Dalan sighed. “I'll consider it.” He nodded.

  “Such a judgment would be very welcome to all my folk, I'm sure. The lad has been nothing but trouble.”

  “I will require assurances,” the Brehon informed him.

  With that the orange torchlight withdrew and the flap dropped back into place, returning the hut to darkness once more. Lom lay on his back for a long while, knowing the Brehon would not let the Fir-Bolg off lightly. He closed his eyes, thinking of invaders coming across the sea, and before long he had drifted off again. Suddenly someone was gently shaking him. Then he saw Dalan's face before him.

  “Are you well enough to rise?”

  “I am,” he muttered.

  The Druid passed on to Aoife. She woke quickly and he helped her to sit up.

  Lom reached over to pull the blankets away from Sárán and as he did so he felt a sharp pain in the back of his head. He soon forgot his own troubles though when he saw the bandages covering his brother's face. “What have they done to you?” Lom exclaimed.

  “It looks much worse than it is,” Dalan stated. “Help him up, will you, while I attend to Aoife. You must all be dressed up for a feast tonight.”

  “I would rather stay in bed, ”Aoife complained. Her head was pounding and her vision blurred. “My arm is burning with pain.”

  “Nevertheless you will get dressed to go to the feast. I am to pass my judgment upon you publicly at the Victory Stone.”

  Aoife nodded, though she did not fully understand what was being said to her. Her mind was in confusion. She had no idea whether it was day or night and she was only vaguely aware of the people around her.

  When the three of them were finally ready Brocan carried Aoife while Fergus cradled Sárán in his arms. Lom followed after, head bowed, leaning against Dalan. By the time they reached the fireplace on the battleground the stars were shining brightly in the dark blue heavens and the faces of the assembled warriors were lit by orange firelight.

  Sárán was wide awake, though he was quite groggy, by the time the veteran set him down next to Aoife on furs laid out in front of the stone. Torches had been arranged around the rock where Dalan was to deliver his judgment. Lom watched his stern-faced father bow before the Danaan king and his son Mahon before moving to his place in the assembly.

  Directly opposite the Danaans stood Lom's mother, Riona, Queen of the Fir-Bolg. She was dressed in a dark green tunic of fine wool which fell to her ankles. Her hair was braided into many intricate knots held in place by polished bronze pins. Her dark rust-colored cloak was held at the left shoulder by a brooch decorated with yellow enamel work. Beside her stood Isleen wrapped in dark blue. These two red-haired women attracted all eyes to them with their quiet confidence and strength. And their expressions mirrored each other so that many wondered if they might be sisters.

  Riona didn't acknowledge her husband's arrival. She didn't so much as twitch as Brocan took his position beside her. The Fir-Bolg queen had already managed to catch Cecht's attention. The Danaan king smiled at her through the long locks of golden hair which framed his face. And his eyes were drawn back to her and her companion Isleen again and again as he scanned the gathering.

  Lochie the Bard took a place among the warriors where he could observe proceedings without attracting too much attention. There were a few folk he wanted to watch, to size up their reactions for future reference.

  When all the warriors of both camps were waiting in silence, Dalan walked off into the darkness and disappeared completely. Each man looked at his neighbor, puzzling over such behavior. But their silent questions were answered when Dalan returned a short while later carrying his harp.

  The Brehon climbed up onto the Victory Stone where everyone could see him. Then he knelt down with his instrument tucked in close beside him. When he was comfortable he ran his long, gnarled fingers over the strings to make sure the harp had kept its tuning. One wire needed a little adjustment but the waiting warriors did not show any signs of impatience.

  With a touch of the tuning key Dalan's instrument was singing in harmony again. The melody was a slow grieving lament. Some of the Danaans began humming lowly in accompaniment as they recognized the music. Everyone bowed his head in silent respect for the dead. Three Danaans and three Fir-Bolg had fallen in the fight that morning and a further twenty warriors had been injured.

  “These strings are remarkable, aren't they?” the Brehon sighed when he had finished, placing the instrument tenderly down on the stone beside him. “They were a gift from a Bard of the Milesian people,” he informed everyone.

  “Who are the Milesians?” Brocan asked, ritually inviting the Brehon to present his tale. Dalan had chosen the king to ask this question since he had already heard these tidings.

  “The newcomers call themselves the sons and daughters of King Míl of the Iberi lands. They also go by the name Gaedhals after one of their ancestors. Their fleet has sailed from the southern shore seeking a new homeland for their folk and fresh pastures for their cattle.”

  “Do they intend war?” the Fir-Bolg king cut in, just as the Brehon had instructed.

  “Their Chief Bard was sent to the court of the Dagda with a message,” Dalan explained. “They have offered us a choice. Either we enter into a treaty to share this island which we call Innisfail, or they will bring war to us. No matter which choice we make they intend to rule over our peoples.”

  Every warrior suddenly began speaking at once, protesting the arrogance of such a threat.

  Dalan held up his hand to calm the crowd. “I believe they are capable of defeating us,” he told them. “Even if we band together, Fir-Bolg and Danaan, in the strongest alliance since the days of Balor, it's plain to me we can't win against these folk.”

  “How many are there?” Cecht inquired.

  “No more than three thousand.”

  “Forgive me, Brehon,” the Danaan king laughed, “I mean no disrespect, but we could raise five thousand within one moon.”

  “Numbers will not win the day,” Dalan stated. “These folk have a weapon which we cannot match.”

  “What weapon is that?” Brocan scoffed. “If we outnumber them nearly two to one, they will not prevail. And surely the Druid Assembly has some surprises in store.”

  “Naturally we have a few remaining courses of action which could be pursued.” Dalan nodded.

  “Then why this sudden panic? We have faced off invaders before and we will do so again.”

  “They speak our language and hold laws somewhat similar to the Druid doctrines we observe,” the Brehon continued. “I told you earlier the Milesian Bard gave me a gift of harp strings. These wires are unlike any I have ever known. There is gold and bronze in their making, though I don't know the secret of it. The Gaedhals have mastered the mystery of the dark metal and the bright metal. This wire is not only sweet-sounding, it's strong.”

  “Harp strings don't win battles,” Fergus declared confidently.

  “This harp ended a fight today,” Dalan answered sharply. “But it's not the Milesians' knowledge of music wire which will prove the greatest threat to us. Their Chief Bard gave me another gift.”

  With that the Brehon raised his hand to beckon an attendant. The servant ran to him carrying a long narrow object wrapped in a thick blue woolen cloak.

 
“I see they are fine weavers also,” the veteran observed and many of the company laughed. “Perhaps they'll try to suffocate us in our beds during the night!”

  Dalan didn't take any notice of the jibe. He pulled the cloak away to reveal a strange bright sword that shone silver in the moonlight. All the assembled warriors sighed as one at the beauty of the weapon.

  “This blade is fashioned from a metal stronger than anything our smiths can create. The edge is sharper and easier to repair. These swords will defeat us.”

  “Nonsense!” Fergus huffed. “It will take a well-trained warrior to better me in a fight.”

  “Brocan,” Dalan cried, “take this blade. See if Fergus can strike you with his sword.”

  The Brehon handed the weapon down to the King of the Fir-Bolg who immediately weighed it in his hand.

  “It's well balanced,” Brocan noted immediately.

  “Spar with your king,” the Brehon told Fergus.

  The veteran took up a sword from those discarded at the edge of the field then walked calmly over to his king. Brocan waited patiently for Fergus to make the first move. When he did so the king easily blocked the stab.

  “It is a fine weapon,” Brocan commented.

  Fergus swung his sword over his head to give his king plenty of time to react and then brought it down so that Brocan could block it. When the two blades met there was a loud crack as the veteran's blade of bronze shattered in his hand.

  King Brocan stepped back. And the entire crowd of warriors held their breath as he examined the Milesian sword.

  “There is hardly a scratch on it,” Brocan stuttered in disbelief.

  “We cannot make these swords,” Dalan continued. “Our smiths know nothing of the metal. They are ignorant of the process involved in producing it. These weapons are not created from a casting, they are hammered out flat many times and folded over to toughen the edges. Then the iron is plunged into the forge and tempered in water. Such skills are exacting and a lifetime in the learning.”