The Meeting of the Waters

by Caiseal Mor

  “Yes. What have we got to lose? They can't touch us.”

  Her companion smiled. “I believe you may be right. Throughout the generations we've stayed behind the scenes, never letting any mortal see through our many disguises. To do so now would inject a sense of urgency into proceedings. It'd give Dalan a real opponent to focus on.

  “I'm tired,” Lochie continued, “I'm ready for the release of death. Let this be our last campaign.”

  “So be it,” Isleen agreed. “One way or another we can't continue this existence much longer. Going out among the mortals again has made me realize how bored I am. Let's make one last effort and then we'll retire.”

  “One last effort,” Lochie echoed. “And for the first time we'll fight our true enemy. The one who set us on this path. Balor.”

  “There's only one other matter that will have to be settled,” Isleen reminded him.

  “What's that?”

  “The business of our wager. I hope you haven't forgotten the little bet we made.”

  “I remember,” Lochie laughed. “I hope you've been working hard at winning.”

  “I have,” Isleen assured him. “I've given the matter a lot of thought. Aoife will not wed Mahon. Do you not recall the songs of our youth, when the Bards often sang of such hopeless love?”

  He smiled at her, then answered with a love poem he had heard when he was a young mortal man. “ Release your grip. Let go your desperate hold on the lesser things in life. Rush forward. No need to move your feet. Fly toward the infinite sky. Heart, fill yourself with joy. Each beat overflows with love. Risk everything. Ask for nothing.”

  Isleen brushed her hand over his as their eyes met. And there they sat in silence for a long while, each remembering the days of long ago.

  Chapter 15

  NOW PAY ATTENTION TO ME FOR I'LL TELL A TALE YOU Gaedhals have almost forgotten. Ravens don't forget. And Lom-Dubh knows many stories from the ancient days.

  Balor of the Evil Eye was an ancient, evil-minded king of the Fomor. His ancestors had tried to take Innisfail from the Fir-Bolg and failed. But he, a learned Druid of his people, had devised a plan to enslave the inhabitants of the island. And he was very nearly successful.

  The Fomor were a disfigured race feared for their cruelty and callousness. When their fleet appeared on the horizon, the King of the Danaan people and the King of the Fir-Bolg called their warriors together, though the two peoples refused to cooperate. The kings of Innisfail imagined they would easily drive the Fomor away. But they reckoned without the ingenuity of Balor. He was a gifted war-leader. His warriors were trained in subterfuge and ambush. But when they came from the sea in their first attack they were driven back into their boats by the Fir-Bolg.

  Balor demanded a share of Innisfail. The King of the Fir-Bolg granted him what he asked and gave to him the barren and rocky Island of the Tower, which lies to the north. In defeat Balor turned the Fir-Bolg's insult to his advantage. For now, instead of spending days sailing across the open sea from the Isles of the Bretani which were his homeland, he could land warriors quickly and easily on any part of the island.

  Balor built a mighty tower on that island, making use of the tall cliffs and rocky landing places. The Fir-Bolg did not realize their mistake in giving him ground for two full turnings of the seasons. In that time the Fomor fortified their island so no ship could land unless it was on Balor's command. Not so much as a seal could bask on the rocks without his leave.

  And Balor in his crafty way fashioned a weapon from the stones of the island and the skill of his wizardry. The Eye of Evil it was called. It was a stone some say, or a cauldron turned on its side. Only the King of the Fomor himself could truly tell you how it was constructed. But the nature of the weapon was that when the shields which covered it were removed, a terrible thing happened. A beam of red light swept across the land and burned all the Fir-Bolg warriors as surely as if they had been sitting in the middle of the fire. And Balor could direct this weapon wherever he willed.

  So heavy were the shields placed in front of the Eye it took four warriors to lift them, like the lid of a giant eye. And so the fearsome weapon came to be known as the Eye of Evil. Truly no such thing has ever been seen since in Innisfail for the Druid Assembly outlawed all such creations in later days.

  But the Evil Eye was only one of the many weapons in Balor's arsenal. At the same time as his craftsmen were constructing the great Eye, Balor selected nine from among his people to carry out a terrible duty. These men and women were amongst the most deformed of the Fomorians. They were known as the Watchers.

  They were descended from folk who had served as sailors to the Sea-King in the Isles of the West before that land was torn apart by war and famine. It is said their ancestors suffered poisoning when the Sea-King sent a yellow fog to stop them leaving in the last days before the great flood. Ever after strange deformities were passed down through the generations among their kindred.

  Each of these nine chosen ones was given a special responsibility and a unique gift. But service to their master involved a terrible price. They were to be cast into the Otherworld forever, their physical bodies stripped away. They became shape-shifting spirits who could take on any form they wished in the service of their king. It was their task to sow discontent and unrest among his enemies.

  The Watchers spread their discord in subtle ways so the Danaans and the Fir-Bolg could not resolve their differences and unite. This was the cornerstone of Balor's plan. He could defeat one without the intervention of the other, but if the two foes joined in an alliance he knew he would never prevail.

  As it happened the Watchers were very successful. The Fir-Bolg and the Danaans soon came to distrust one another, so much so that when the Fomor launched their attack on the Danaan people the Fir-Bolg did not come to their aid. And as a result there was much animosity between the two folk.

  At Mag Tuireadh, where generations before the Danaans had been victorious in their first battle against the defending Fir-Bolg, there was another terrible fight. The second battle of Mag Tuireadh was a narrow defeat for the Fomor but only because Balor's Eye had not been completed in time. Nuadu, King of the Danaans, lost an arm on the battlefield and afterward was forced by convention to relinquish his position as ruler.

  No king who is unsound in spirit, body or soul may continue to perform his duties. He must step down. Diancecht, the famous Danaan healer, fashioned an arm of silver for Nuadu but Bres was elected king in his place. And the day of his ascension was a sad one for the Danaans. Bres was entirely under the influence of the Watchers. He did nothing without consulting them, thinking them to be wise Otherworld beings who cared for the future of his people.

  He could not have been more wrong. The reign of Bres was disastrous. And while he dithered with the defenses of this island and with petty wars against the Fir-Bolg, Balor came closer, day by day, to completing work on the Evil Eye.

  By the time the Chief Druid of the Danaans had called a council to berate Bres, the damage was already done. In the meantime Cian, the son of Diancecht, fashioned an arm of flesh for Nuadu and Bres was immediately replaced when the council convened. Bres was so bitter at his dismissal and so completely wooed by the Watchers that he went directly to serve Balor. That was the darkest time Innisfail has ever known.

  But eventually a savior came to the Danaans. That stranger was Lugh Samildanach and he was the grandson of Balor. It was Lugh who convinced the Dagda and King Nuadu to enter into an alliance with the Fir-Bolg. Together the two armies assaulted the Island of the Tower, though they lost many warriors to the deathly glare of the Evil Eye.

  Lugh climbed the great tower while the Fomorians were fighting off their enemies. And there he found Balor. He killed his grandfather with a stone from his sling, cut the Fomor king's head off and turned the Evil Eye around to face Balor's own people. That is how they were destroyed once and forever after. And I, Lom-Dubh, can tell you humans with such brief memories, Innisfail has never known such a deva
stating war since.

  Four seasons passed after the honor fight at Óenach Samhain. Summer's warmth gave way to the cold rains of leaf-fall. Winter's white vengeance buried the land, holding off the triumph of spring for as long as possible. At Dun Burren the revitalized sun spread its warm cloak across the landscape, and the countryside bloomed into countless colors.

  Mahon stopped outside the small round dry-stone house where Aoife was taking her daily harp lesson. Enthralled by the music he waited there for a long while listening to the gentle rise and fall of the sparkling notes. And he let his thoughts drift off to other places.

  Tinkling harmonies floated out the door to fill his head with visions of far-off mountains and the steady drums of war. Even though his people had been at war with the Milesian invaders for an entire cycle of the seasons, he had never seen one of their ships, much less met any of their warriors in battle.

  Dalan's harp was renowned for its strong wires, a gift from the Milesian Bard Amergin. Mahon wondered if that was why the invaders filled his thoughts whenever he heard this instrument.

  Aoife began to sing as she played. It was an old air but Mahon had never heard the words before.

  “Your eyes are gold,” she crooned softly as her fingers expertly touched the strings, bringing the harp to life in a way that Dalan for all his skill could not. “If I am the harp, you are the hands which caress the music from me. No melody is heard but the one we play together. Let me know your beauty. Show me the warmth within. And like a bee crossing the fields at dusk I will return to you each evening and share the honey of our love.”

  She finished singing but continued to play as Mahon drifted off into his own thoughts. The young warrior sat down on the grass, untied his long golden hair and ran his fingers through it. After a few minutes he lay on his back and closed his eyes to bathe in the tingling sunlight.

  He felt trapped here in this backwater while the war raged on and the foreigners heaped defeat and humiliation upon his people. During the previous winter Mahon had decided he must leave the Burren, homeland to his foster-father the Fir-Bolg king Brocan, to return to his people and stand with them through this peril. But his heart would not let him leave.

  “Your people are here,” Dalan spoke up. “I know what you're thinking.”

  The Brehon was standing at the entrance to the house, waiting for Mahon to notice him. The music had ceased. The Danaan sat up, startled at the intrusion on his thoughts.

  “You're the hostage of Brocan,” Dalan went on. “He's your family now and his kinfolk are yours. Your duty is in Dun Burren.”

  “And what of my blood-kin? I can't just forget them.”

  “Your father can do without you. He has a good following of warriors.”

  “The Milesians haven't even been sighted on this side of the coast,” Mahon complained. “We might never encounter them. What if they give up this invasion and sail away forever?”

  “That would be the answer to all our prayers,” the Brehon noted dryly.

  “Yes, of course,” the young warrior stuttered.

  “Have you some business to discuss with me?” Dalan inquired tersely.

  Mahon shook his head in embarrassment.

  “Then go away. You're disturbing the lesson with your presence. How do you expect her to improve if you're always listening over her shoulder, distracting her?”

  “I'm sorry,” Mahon muttered and hurried off.

  Dalan watched as the young warrior made off toward the king's hall. When Mahon had disappeared inside, the Brehon pulled down the cowhide door flap and returned to the central hearth. There he sat down beside his pupil amid the smoke from the fire.

  Thoughtfully Dalan picked up a wooden cup and held it to his lips. He swallowed a mouthful of mead, then took a deep breath. “What are you going to do about him?” the Brehon demanded.

  “What can I do?” Aoife laughed, with a blush. “Can I help it if he's gone completely mad?”

  “I should have taken you back to the east far away from your home,” the Brehon told her.

  “The Dagda is relying on your wisdom in the west,” Aoife pointed out. “You're the finest judge in all of Innisfail. My father needs your advice. We can't leave Dun Burren, not yet.”

  Dalan grunted his acknowledgment. “Well, we can't have that poor young fool wandering around with those big eyes looking like a lost calf. He tripped over a goat yesterday. The shock sent the animal into a wild fury of destruction. It was last seen chewing on a pair of my best walking boots.”

  Aoife covered her mouth to stifle a giggle.

  “This is no laughing matter,” the teacher rebuked her.

  “No,” she agreed, pursing her lips to control her laughter.

  “The poor fellow's feeling so rejected by you he's talking about going off to fight the Milesians! You must do something about him before he gets himself in trouble.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Talk to him,” the Druid advised. “Acknowledge his existence. Help him catch the goat. I don't know, you think of something.”

  “I'm quite happy with the nature of the situation at the moment, thank you,” the young woman replied abruptly.

  “Do you feel nothing for him that you torture him so?”

  “On the contrary, I may have strong feelings for him,” she replied. “I think he will be a fine husband and a good father to his children some day. But I'm not sure if I want to marry him yet. As soon as I've made a decision I'll let you know.”

  “Let him know too, won't you?” Dalan told her wryly. “Whatever you do, don't let it go on until the end of summer. No one likes to have their prize dangled in front of them for too long. You may find him traveling off to the east if his net drags up empty too often.”

  “I'll make up my mind soon enough,” she snapped. “He's a Danaan in any case. Father would never allow us to be wedded.”

  “You're wrong.” The Brehon smiled. “Such a marriage would seal the alliance with the Danaans. So in principle it would be endorsed and supported by the Druid Assembly. Cecht and Brocan would have to accept it.”

  “Would they?”

  “They'd not dare reject such a proposal. The other kings would refuse to have honorable dealings with them ever again.”

  “Father would certainly fight against the idea.” Dalan thought he caught a hint of disappointment in Aoife's voice. “He has no love for the Danaans.”

  “He'll have to get to like them,” the Brehon told her. “Cecht will be arriving today to hear the latest news from the Druid Assembly. Fineen the healer is carrying word from the east and he's expected this evening.”

  “Sárán will be with him?”

  “Yes. Your brother is progressing well with his studies I'm told.”

  “I haven't seen him since he and Fineen journeyed by here before the snows.”

  “The Milesians have sent many raiders out across the island these last four seasons. They were even out at mid-winter. That proves their barbarity and their desperation to feed their people. Little wonder it wasn't safe enough for Fineen and Sárán to return to us.”

  “This must be good news then!” Aoife declared.

  “How do you come to that conclusion?”

  “You said it has been unsafe for them to travel since mid-winter. But now they are returning. The danger must have abated.”

  “It may not be as simple as that,” the Brehon sighed. “The message may be so important and the situation so desperate that risks had to be taken.” As soon as Dalan heard his own words he knew they were true. There was no question. It was bad news Fineen was bearing. Good news could have waited until the threat had passed.

  “Play me two more airs,” he instructed his student. “Then I release you for the remainder of the day to think carefully on that young warrior you have beguiled. I don't know what petty love charm you have tried on him but I warn you to beware of such things. Whatever spell you sing comes back to you nine times. Calculate the cost carefully or you
may find yourself tied to him beyond this life.”

  “I'm not sure I'd complain about that.” She smiled.

  “You would if you found out his feet had the odor of stale cider vinegar,” Dalan noted dryly. “I nearly married a woman once. By the mercy of the goddess of our people I caught her removing her boots and of course from that moment marriage was out of the question.”

  The young woman frowned, not sure whether her teacher was being serious. “Thank you, master.” She nodded politely. “If I notice any unexplained aromas in the air, I'll let you know. Perhaps I'll ask Mahon to dance with me this evening . . .”

  “I know what your game is.” The Brehon smiled. “I will be performing some dances this evening, as it happens. Brocan asked for them especially.

  “Now, let's get back to work. You talk too much and you practice too little.” Seeing Aoife's stricken face he softened. “But you're a fine harper and you have an enchanting voice, though your other studies are outstripped by your passion for music. Your arm has healed well and your fingers are nimble at the wires. You might be a competent musician one day.”

  “Thank you.” Aoife smiled, taking the best of what he told her and ignoring the rest. Then she settled the harp against her shoulder and began once more to play.

  Cecht and twenty of his Danaan warriors arrived at the fortified hill of Dun Burren at sunset. They had taken a long road because scouts had reported the presence of a Milesian ship aground in the bay. There had been no sightings of any of the invaders, though there were marks where a vessel had been dragged ashore through the wet sand. The enemy had arrived but managed to elude the Danaans.

  “It was not a large ship,” Cecht told the Fir-Bolg king as he took a Cup of Welcome from his host. “It may have had a crew of seven or eight warriors but no more than that. I guess they are scouting out good landing places in the west. The war has come to us at last.”

  “I have heard there is a shortage of food in the east,” Brocan added. “The Milesians are moving on to more fertile ground.”