The Meeting of the Waters

by Caiseal Mor

  Both kings looked at each other and shared a moment of foreboding.

  “This is the most barren part of the coast.” Cecht shook his head. Then he swallowed all the mead in the silver cup. “Things must be desperate in the east and south if the invaders are scouring these shores for food.”

  The Danaan king handed the drinking vessel back to Brocan with a slight bow of the head in thanks. “Has Fineen arrived?” he asked the Fir-Bolg king.

  “We expect him at any moment. Go and dress in your finest for the feast. This may be good news or ill but there will be music and stories this evening nevertheless.”

  “I was hoping to speak with Mahon,” Cecht retorted.

  “On what matter?”

  “He is my son.”

  “You are mistaken,” Brocan added coldly. “He is a member of my household. You may meet and speak with him at the feast as befits his position within this community and your rank.”

  “I am told Sárán is proving to be a fine student,” Cecht added, trying to be conciliatory.

  “I will wait to hear what his teacher, Fineen, has to say on the matter,” the Fir-Bolg king answered sharply.

  Cecht rolled his eyes in frustration and sighed. With that Fergus the veteran led the Danaan king to his lodgings in Brocan's hall.

  Aoife emerged from the little round house she shared with her brother Lom just as Cecht was entering the king's hall. She threw her long green cloak around her shoulders and secured it in the crook of her arm to keep it from dragging in the dust. Then she headed off toward the hall to stand beside her mother and father while they performed the formal ritual of welcoming. The night was chilly for the time of year and she looked forward to the warmth of her father's house.

  Aoife was twenty paces away from the king's hall when she caught the odor of roast boar. Her stomach began to grumble with anticipation and she quickened her pace a little. She wondered if Mahon would consent to dance with her this night and she wished with all her willpower her father would not disapprove of their match.

  These thoughts and many others flashed through the young woman's mind as she reached out to lift the leather cover which blocked the door to the king's hall. Suddenly another hand snatched hers and held it tight.

  Aoife stopped, startled by the intrusion into her daydream. Her eyes darted to the gray sleeve covering the wrist and then to the face of her assailant. A warm flush passed through her as she looked into the blue mirthful eyes.

  “Aoife?”

  “Mahon,” she whispered. “Are you coming in to greet your father?”

  “I thought perhaps you might like to take a walk along the ramparts to watch the sun set over the western ocean.”

  The young woman smiled. “Not tonight. I have duties to fulfill.”

  The young Danaan was crestfallen but he did his best to hide his disappointment.

  “But after the feast,” Aoife went on, “perhaps we could go for a walk to look at the stars.”

  “The sunset wasn't going to be that wonderful anyway.” Mahon grinned. “There's a storm front coming in from the ocean.”

  “Then we won't see any stars either.”

  “The walk will do us good.”

  “I'll see you after the dance then?” she offered, but even as she spoke the words she realized her mistake. “I mean the welcoming feast,” she amended quickly. Aoife didn't want the young warrior to think she was too eager.

  Mahon's face brightened and he held the flap up for her to enter, following after. The air inside the hall was smoky and the light dim. From the door it was difficult to recognize the faces of folk milling about the fire. But Dalan caught Aoife almost as soon as she entered the room.

  “Where's my harp?” he asked her.

  “I don't know,” she replied in confusion.

  “If you want me to play your dance, you must go and fetch it. And you must do the tuning as well,” the Brehon told her.

  She nodded.

  “And no chanting little love charms over it,” Dalan warned only half seriously. “You don't know what trouble you could cause. Remember there are mischievous spirits in this world who hear our every thought. If you desire something too much, you may find the wish is granted.”

  “What would be wrong with that?”

  “If Mahon's feet smell you will know soon enough what trouble ill-considered wishes may bring.”

  Aoife laughed at her teacher's gentle rebuke and in a moment was out crossing the courtyard, headed for the house reserved for Poets and Druids, which was just a smaller version of the king's hall. As the young woman went in she coughed. The air was stale and the fire smoldering.

  She placed a slab of turf in the coals and built up the glowing embers around it to help clear the air. Then she took up the harp which had been resting near Dalan's sleeping furs. It didn't take her long to tune the instrument, after which she wrapped it carefully in its leather case so that it did not lose its tuning.

  Before she left she couldn't resist doing something her teacher had told her not to.

  “I don't care for the consequences,” she said confidently out loud. “I would want Mahon for my own even if his feet were to smell like a sulfur pit.” Then she looked to the ceiling nervously. “I don't mean to say I want his feet to smell bad,” she added hastily in case any spirits had overheard her.

  Aoife reached into her cloak and withdrew a leather bag. She emptied the contents onto the floor in front of the fire. Nine dark red rosebuds tumbled out. She counted them quickly then lined them up in a row.

  “There's nine rosebuds in a row. Six to make your fire grow.” As Aoife spoke these words she tossed the first six buds into the coals where they slowly began to roast. “Two so you'll drink from my well,” she went on, dropping another pair amidst the glowing turf. “And the last of all seals this spell.”

  Her incantation complete Aoife slung the harp case over her shoulder and stepped out into the deepening shades of evening. In the far distance she heard the muffled rumble of thunder. Storm clouds were indeed gathering as Mahon had predicted.

  “Keep the rain off until tomorrow, I beg you,” she whispered under her breath in a private prayer to the Goddess Danu.

  “Is that your wish?” a voice interrupted and the young woman jumped with surprise.

  “Who's that?” she blurted as she turned to the speaker.

  “Perhaps you don't remember me?” The stranger laughed. “You were suffering terribly from the pain when I last saw you. You had just broken your arm.”

  The young woman shook her head. She had no recollection of this fellow. Then a vague memory came to her and she felt a wave of coldness pass through her body.

  “I am sorry,” she began but didn't have the chance to continue.

  “That's quite all right.” The stranger laughed again. “My name is Lochie. I am a Bard.”

  Just then there was a flurry of movement nearby which distracted Aoife's attention. When she looked back at the Bard a red-headed woman had appeared as if she had been concealed deep within the folds of his cloak. The woman held out her hand to Aoife.

  “I am Isleen,” she announced. “I am a Seer.”

  “And she is my wife,” Lochie reminded his companion, slapping her gently on the back of the hand.

  Aoife's gaze was drawn immediately to the Bard's fingers. He had the shaped fingernails of a harper and they were the most exquisitely formed nails she had ever seen on a musician.

  “I do know you,” Aoife gasped with relief. “Lochie, you are the Bard who composed that beautiful eulogy for Fearna.”

  “You do remember me.” The Bard smiled.

  Then he shook his head and his expression became solemn. “A sad thing it was the way that lad died.”

  “Yes,” the young woman agreed uncomfortably, feeling as though the stranger's eyes were burning into her like the fabled Evil Eye of Balor.

  “Have you been working hard to earn forgiveness?” Lochie inquired.

  “I have.”
<
br />   “Then you may be a Bard yourself one day.” Lochie smiled. “If it hadn't been for your part in his death, you might have become a warrior. That would have been a terrible waste. So it's all been for the best. Without a doubt it was your destiny to take the Druid orders as much as it was for Fearna to break his neck on a drunken ride.”

  Aoife nodded.

  “You're very fortunate he hasn't returned to haunt you,” Isleen cut in. “It's often the case when an innocent has been wronged.”

  “Are you going to attend the feast this night? ”Aoife cut in quickly, changing the subject.

  “We've just now arrived,” Isleen replied. “We'll be in presently. I have spent some time at the Danaan court. I'm well known to King Cecht and I'm looking forward to meeting him again.”

  “You're acquainted with his son, Mahon, I believe,” Lochie added mischievously.

  “He has been dwelling here for four seasons.” Aoife shrugged. “How could I ignore him?”

  “Indeed.” Lochie smiled. “A fine young man he is.”

  “Though lacking a sharp wit,” Isleen cut in. “And his conversation is tedious.”

  “I don't mind that he doesn't speak much.” Aoife smiled. “I think he's a fine young man.”

  “You'd mind his dearth of witty speech if you were locked away with him every day.”

  “You two would make a fine match,” Lochie hummed over the top of his companion. “Have you thought about it?”

  Aoife blushed a bright red that made the freckles on her cheeks vanish.

  “Husband, for a Bard you talk a lot of gibberish,” Isleen snapped.

  “I do think highly of Mahon,” the young woman admitted.

  “There you are,” Lochie hummed. “A fine match you'd both make.” Then he leaned very close to whisper. “If you sit outside the music house, no one will ask you to dance.”

  The young girl laughed nervously. “You're welcome in my father's hall,” she assured them, pulling back the cowhide entrance to the hall and beckoning for them to go before her.

  “Let us wash from the journey before we go in,” Isleen begged.

  “I'll present you to my father when you return,” Aoife agreed with a bow.

  The two Druids returned the gesture then went off to find fresh water for washing.

  “Who were you talking to, daughter?” Brocan asked Aoife as soon as she was inside the hall.

  “Lochie and his wife Isleen,” she answered.

  Dalan and Cecht struggled to suppress their amusement.

  “What's the matter? What is going on?” she begged, confused.

  “If you were speaking to those two you will make a great Druid,” Dalan told her. “For you have the gift of the sight.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Lochie and Isleen have been aiding the Dagda with the war in the east,” the Brehon explained. “They'll certainly not be returning here for several cycles of the moon.”

  Aoife frowned then shrugged, confident she would be proved right when the two Druids were washed and refreshed.

  Cecht turned to King Brocan and spoke lowly so that no one else would hear what was said. “If those two Druids are here at Dun Burren they must surely walk in the Otherworld. I often bring Isleen so strongly to mind I would swear she was with me, though I know it to be impossible. Once or twice I was certain she spoke to me in my dreams.”

  “The spoons are already being laid out,” Brocan interrupted.

  “It's time for a dance before we take seats around the fire,” declared Dalan.

  Riona, her red locks streaked with gray in long braids, entered the building at that moment. Cecht's eyes lit with joy at seeing her.

  “The Goddess Danu is walking among us!” he exclaimed.

  “This is my wife.” Brocan coughed, noticing that the Danaan king was staring at her. “You have met before.”

  “Yes, we have,” Cecht answered without moving his eyes from the Fir-Bolg queen. “You are looking very well, Riona,” he told her.

  “Thank you, Cecht. You are looking rested and content.”

  “The more so for seeing you, my dear.”

  Dalan was already strumming the harp gently to check Aoife's tuning. That was quickly done and he nodded to her to acknowledge a job well done. As soon as he had got himself comfortable the Brehon struck a chord to bring everyone's attention to him.

  Then, with a delicate run down the strings, Dalan launched into a lively dance. No one needed to be coaxed into joining the joyous rhythm of his fingers. In moments people were dancing merrily all around the room.

  Aoife stayed to one side of the hall, swaying gently, eyes closed and hands held in front of her. Once in a while she'd open one eye and sneak a glance at Mahon who stood at the other side of the fire.

  Riona went straight to Cecht and grabbed his hand. The two of them were soon swaying around the room, staring into each other's eyes as if they had known each other all their lives. Brocan danced too, but he scowled whenever he noticed his wife so close to the Danaan king.

  A drummer entered the hall drawn by the music and he struck up a beat on his bodhran, which caused a few folk to call out in admiration at his skill. Then the older folk who had stayed near the fire joined the throng.

  Fergus laughed aloud to see Brocan's old cousin kicking up his heels like a youngster. “An old pair of boots is best for a long night of dancing,” he quipped as the hall erupted with laughter.

  Aoife half-opened her eyes to take another glimpse at Mahon. But the young Danaan was gone. She searched the hall but to her disappointment he was nowhere to be seen. Then, just as her hopes were dashed, she felt a pair of strong hands move around her waist from behind.

  “Will you lift your feet with me?” Mahon asked as he moved in close.

  She laughed in surprise at his sudden appearance then wondered why she had doubted her spell would draw him in.

  “Just don't be bruising my toes like last time,” she warned him.

  “It's your lips I'd be bruising,” he answered quickly.

  “Whisht with you. Show me how you dance and maybe I'll let you kiss my bruises to make them better.”

  Mahon swung her around and the two of them stared intently into each other's eyes as the music picked up pace. Aoife's heart was beating in time with the bodhran as her feet flew on the hard-packed earthen floor. As she watched Mahon's face Aoife recalled her dancing vision.

  “I dreamed about you,” she murmured, leaning close so no one else would hear.

  “I've been dreaming of you since the first moment we met,” he replied.

  Aoife threw her head back and laughed. “I'll wager you melt the hearts of those pretty Danaan girls with your witty lies.”

  Mahon frowned again but this time there was hurt in his expression. “I'm not lying to you,” he protested and she saw that he wasn't.

  Before Aoife could whisper to him that she was joking, the music ceased and the hall erupted in cheers at Dalan's skill. Then Mahon moved to his place at the other side of the hall without another word to her.

  “That's enough for now!” the Brehon declared. “I'm a skilled judge but a poor musician.”

  “Then we'll take our lawsuits to the bodhran player and you can sit at the harp all night,” Cecht complimented him.

  The Danaan king led Riona to her seat at the fire while her husband's eyes followed them darkly.

  “It's time we took our seats,” Brocan insisted with a cough. “The food and drink will be served soon. I want to get the formalities out of the way before the messengers arrive.”

  Aoife caught Mahon's attention and he smiled at her from across the hall. She drank in the sparkling beauty of his eyes and knew he had forgiven her. Then the young woman was distracted by the sound of her mother's voice resounding through the hall.

  “My lord,” the queen began, addressing the highest ranking guest, “King Cecht of the Danaan people. Welcome to the home of Riona and Brocan. Treat this house as if it were your own. If yo
u wish for anything it will be given to you. While you are here you will have the best there is.”

  There was a smile in Riona's eyes that did not go unnoticed by Aoife. The young woman recalled what Dalan had said to her earlier, that playing the harp every day opened the senses and sharpened the instincts.

  She turned away to find Mahon seated right beside her. He had crossed the floor without her even noticing.

  “Don't you think that my mother and your father seem to be captivated with each other?” she asked.

  “As a Danaan I can understand the attraction,” he whispered just loud enough for her to hear, “for you are certainly her daughter. If your mother were not wed to Brocan she would make a fine match for my father,” Mahon added, seeing Riona and Cecht flirting across the table.

  “But she is married and she is Queen of the Fir-Bolg,” the young woman retorted sharply, shocked that her mother was behaving so in front of her father and family. “Cecht is encouraging her. Do you Danaans have no respect for the bonds of marriage?”

  “Of course we do. But we have too much respect for any woman to expect her to always honor those bonds.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If your mother was content with Brocan she would not be making eyes at my father.”

  “What would you do if you were my father?”

  “If I were Brocan,” Mahon began, working his reply carefully, “I would never have let matters come to this. I would have made sure my queen had no reason to look elsewhere for her pleasure.”

  Aoife smiled but they were soon interrupted by someone tugging vigorously at Mahon's sleeve.

  “Mahon!” Dalan bellowed. “Are you deaf?”

  “He's blinded,” King Cecht quipped. “And that kind of blindness always ends with deafness. I am not surprised he is enthralled with young Aoife. She is only a shadow of her mother's beauty yet she is breathtaking to behold.”

  Riona shook her head and laughed.

  “Let them alone,” Brocan snapped. “I know what you're up to!”

  Riona stopped laughing. Cecht swallowed hard.

  “What would we be up to?” the queen asked, derision in her voice.