by Caiseal Mor
“How?”
“The lesser moon which had been in the heavens for many generations came crashing to earth. It landed on the western edge of the islands, causing the land to spew forth hot rock and ash. The destruction was swift and brutal.” She paused. “But before it came to that the ancestors of the Gaedhals, who were very warlike, tried to force the Danaans to stop their meddling. The result was war.”
“So the Danaans and the Milesians are ancient enemies?” Sárán realized.
“Their quarrel began in those times, though few of their Druid historians would likely admit it. While they fought it out between themselves our folk were left in peace, here in Innisfail, and the ancient homeland finally disappeared beneath the waves in the great cataclysm. Before that happened the Milesians sailed off to find a new home. They traveled for many generations before they found their way here. The Danaans did not depart the Islands of the West until the last moment. To the end they clung to the belief that their Druids could alter the course of nature.”
“They believe it still,” Sárán noted. “For they have found the doorway to the Otherworld and plan to withdraw all our folk behind that veil to avoid conflict with the Milesians.”
“And they have refined their skills as herbalists so they can produce the Quicken berries as their ancestors once did,” she noted. “But they do not know the price they will pay for their immortality. They are an ignorant race.” There was bitterness in her voice.
“Make no mistake,” Isleen told him. “The Danaans are our enemies. They will misuse their limited knowledge as they did in the past, and they will drag our people into a war which we do not want.”
“We must resist them then,” Sárán said defiantly, not really knowing how that might be possible.
“You have learned much from them in the time you have been studying with Fineen,” Isleen said. “Surely you know their strengths and weaknesses. There must be a way to bring them to heel. What they are planning to do is wrong. Passing through the doorway to the Otherworld is dangerous enough. The forces such a strategy might unleash are beyond their imagination. Look at the terrible mess they made when they tried to raise a tempest.”
“The Milesian Bard, Amergin, knew of a song to dispel the storm. That is why it was defeated.”
“The tempest was ineffective because the Danaans do not understand the powers they are imposing on the world. We few are the last of our people with the will to resist. Even your sister has been drawn into their web of enchantment.”
“Aoife and Mahon are constant companions,” Sárán admitted. “I have that on good authority.”
“It is Cecht's plan to wed his son to Aoife,” Isleen whispered urgently. “Once they are joined, the Danaans will effectively rule all the folk of Innisfail.”
“And what of the Druid Assembly?” the young man asked. “Surely they understand the danger. Would they really permit such a deliberate manipulation of the peoples of this island?”
“The Druid Assembly are puppets of the Danaan kings,” she scoffed. “They are powerless to speak out against the warrior caste. That is how it was in the ancient days. Nothing has changed. Unless they are stopped, the Danaans will destroy the last remnants of our folk.”
“How?”
“They speak of withdrawing behind the veil into the Otherworld,” Isleen informed him. “But the Druid Assembly has made no provision for the Fir-Bolg to go with them. Neither have they produced enough of their famed elixir of life to share with any but their own folk. They will abandon us as they would have in the ancient days.”
“I can't believe Fineen would be a part of such a plot,” Sárán gasped. “He has been so good to me, considering the great wrong I did to him.”
“They don't hold the same laws as we do. They hold no respect for the ancient pathways of the earth energy. They do not consider the ancient monuments to be sacred. The son of the current Dagda has set up his house in the great hill at the Brugh!”
“I was told the Dagda granted his son the right to live there as long as he protects the monument with his life,” the young man countered.
“Those places are centers of the earth power,” Isleen hissed. “They are not meant to be dwelling places for Danaan Druid princes.”
She took his arm and held it tight. “Consider this. The Danaans call themselves the people of the Goddess Danu.”
“Yes. Danu is venerated by the Fir-Bolg also.”
“Do you know who Danu is?”
“She was a matriarch of the Islands of the West in the days before the flood.”
“That is correct. But her full title is often forgotten. She is Danu of the Floodwaters. Danu of the Drowned Lands. She of the High-Places and the Low-Places. Goddess of the Falling Stars.
Isleen paused to let Sárán ponder the meaning of those titles for a moment.
“Danu was the Chief Druidess of the peoples of the West before the land began to subside into the ocean. It was she who advocated the singing of powerful songs to stave off the inevitable flood. Her strategy failed so she gradually moved her Druids to the mountains until there was nowhere left to go. Then the lesser moon fell to earth, trailing its children behind it. The survivors of the ancient homeland were forced through her foolishness to sail off on a voyage of conquest.”
Sárán began to shake his head and Isleen realized she had told him too much. He was struggling to take it all in.
“Why is this tale never told?” he asked her.
“There's much for you to learn,” she said at last. “You need not hear it all tonight. You are bright and a quick student. If you would know more of these secret doctrines which are forbidden to be spoken of in Danaan circles, then I'll teach you.”
“Yes,” Sárán decided in a flash. “I want to learn. I want to know everything you can pass on to me.”
“That's my lad,” Isleen cooed and she leaned forward to kiss him lightly on the lips. “We will be a fine team, you and I.”
Sárán swallowed hard and pulled away in discomfort. “I'd like to find my mother now and bring her safely back to the hillfort,” he told her.
“Very well then.” Isleen smiled. “But she has probably already returned safely to her bed.”
Chapter 17
AFTER LOCHIE LEFT, FINEEN AND DALAN, THE TWO Druids, sat for a long while in silence, neither wishing to be the first to shatter the quiet. Both men valued their own solitude and there had been precious little of that for a long time. In the distance the low crash of thunder rumbled menacingly and both heads turned to listen.
“I heard her speak three nights ago at Mag Tuireadh,” Fineen whispered. “She sang an ancient song as she washed my hair. And when she struck her flint to light the fire, the spark killed a dozen men.”
Dalan put a hand to his chin and considered the healer's words carefully. “The answer to your riddle,” he said at length, “is thunder, rain and lightning.”
“You have it.” Fineen smiled.
Dalan laughed. “Will this brew of yours really do what you claim?” he asked, revealing what was on his mind.
“It will cure the sick,” Fineen assured his friend. “And I have seen it bring a man back from the brink of death. The knowledge of it was passed down from my Danaan ancestors.”
“Why was it never employed before?”
“Because though it heals all wounds and banishes sickness, it also has an unnatural effect on those who take it.”
“What is that?”
“Anyone who drinks this potion and continues to do so once every four seasons will not die. It holds death at bay indefinitely. There may be other unknown effects which develop in time. No one is sure. The Dagda in his wisdom has lifted the prohibition on its use, but I must admit I fear eternal life more than I do passing away to the Halls of Waiting.”
“There will be no death?”
“No more dying.” The healer nodded.
Dalan turned away to pick up his harp. “I don't wish to live forever,” he said qu
ietly.
“You will only live as long as you take the Quicken Brew,” Fineen assured him. “If you decide not to take the brew, the effects will diminish within days. The older you are at the time, the swifter the seasons will catch up with you.”
“Why take it at all in that case?”
“The Milesian Gaedhals are an unpredictable people,” Fineen explained. “We do not know whether they will respect the Druid class in war. We have been ordered to take the brew because our lives and our wisdom are important to the survival of our people. The edict of the Druid Assembly is only binding until peace has been achieved.”
“Once the Gaedhals have agreed to a treaty, we each have the right to decide whether we will continue taking the brew?”
“Correct.”
The Brehon began to pick out a little tune that would one day make a fine dance melody. For the moment he was still refining it so he did not strike the chords.
“I am uneasy in my mind,” Dalan sighed as he strummed.
“How's that?”
“I have a fear the Draoi-Craft of Balor has returned to plague the folk of Innisfail,” the Brehon told his friend. Dalan reached into his pack and retrieved a leather bottle. He removed the cork and offered the vessel to his companion.
Fineen took a long draught of the mead and then handed the bottle back. “What Fomorian Draoi-Craft would that be?” he asked.
“It is like a riddle to me,” the Brehon sighed, distracted now from his music. “The coming of the Milesians has occupied my thoughts for so long, I have had precious little time to consider there might be some greater and more dangerous force at work here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What drew the Milesians to our land?” Dalan asked.
“Their Chief Bard told me they were led here by a series of dreams,” Fineen explained. “Scota, their queen and Amergin's mother, had visions of Innisfail as a wide green but uninhabited land. The Gaedhal Bard himself was convinced they would find a country rich in game and lush pastures for their cattle. But none of them considered for a moment our people would seriously resist their coming.”
“He is said to be a wise man,” Dalan noted, “this Amergin.”
“Indeed he is,” the healer agreed. “And he is a Seer of wondrous skill, so I heard tell.”
“But a skilled Seer would have scrutinized every detail of a dream. He would have known there would be battles. Visions do not lie. A wise Bard would not have let his people set out on such an expedition without making certain there was not going to be war waiting after a long sea journey.”
“That is true.”
“And this fight between Brocan and Cecht,” the Brehon added. “It has gone on too long. The King of the Fir-Bolg is a reasonable man. He has always been able to put his personal feelings aside and work for the good of his people. It is unusual for him to be acting with such stubbornness and with no thought for the future.
Fineen frowned as he took the bottle back from his friend. “It is simply the old animosity between Danaan and Fir-Bolg coming to the surface again,” he reasoned.
“No,” Dalan disagreed. “There is more to it than that.”
Fineen took another mouthful of mead and once again handed the vessel to his companion.
“There is something about Isleen and her husband that makes me feel uneasy,” Dalan continued.
“Go on,” Fineen urged.
“Lochie told us their teacher was Cromlann. I knew the old man before he was struck down with the shaking hands and had to give up the harp.”
“But you said he had been a fine player up to the day he died!” Fineen exclaimed.
“And Lochie agreed with me without hesitation,” the Brehon pointed out. “If he had been a student of Cromlann's, he would have known the old man did not so much as touch the harp for the last ten winters of his life.” Dalan stared into the fire in contemplation.
“I must admit I myself have felt uncomfortable around them,” the healer confided.
“They are not all they appear to be,” Dalan sighed, “that is certain.”
“Are they Milesians?” Fineen pressed, eyes wide with wonder. “Sent to cause mischief among our people?”
“I do not believe so.”
“Then what do you believe?”
“I fear we may have been seated this evening in the presence of the last of the Watchers.”
The healer drew a deep breath and snatched the leather bottle from his fellow Druid. “I pray you are wrong, brother,” he whispered. And then he put the vessel to his lips and drank deep.
“There is some doubt in my mind yet,” the Brehon admitted. “And I have no experience of their kind. But all the evidence points to some interference in the affairs of our people.” Dalan turned to the healer to present his case. “Is it not strange that the Milesians should appear from beyond the seas just at a time when peace has finally been arranged between Danaan and the Fir-Bolg?”
The Brehon took his friend's arm and held it tight. “And Brocan is not the only one who is acting out of character. Sárán's crazed attack on you last summer was so strange that if you had foretold it I would not have believed the boy capable of such an act.”
“Are you saying he was influenced by the Watchers?” Fineen gasped in disbelief. “The Watchers are creatures from the legends. They have not been heard of in generations. Not since the time of Balor. The Druid Assembly established long ago that they had passed into a state of impotent limbo when their lord and master was defeated.”
“Two of them were never tracked down,” the Brehon pointed out. “The Dagda decided they could not have survived since no word had been heard of them.”
“But after all this time they cannot possibly still be trying to influence the affairs of our people . . . can they?”
“Perhaps the Watchers have been here all along, waiting for an opportunity for revenge.”
“Isn't it more likely that Lochie and Isleen are traitors?” Fineen reasoned. “Have you considered they may be working with the Milesians to cause conflict within our camp? After all, they have admitted to traveling in the Bretani lands and we both know the Bretani are closely related to the Milesians.”
“You could be right,” Dalan conceded, taking the bottle back to drain the last drops. “In future we will keep a close eye on Lochie and Isleen. From now on the Watchers will be watched.” He sighed and relaxed a little. “If they are Milesians it is only a matter of time before they show themselves for what they truly are. We will wait and be patient.”
“You should rest,” Fineen insisted. “You've been working hard to convince Brocan to change his mind and you're exhausted. As your physician I must insist that tomorrow you go to the spring and sit in the quiet of the wood for a while to refresh your weary spirit.”
“I will,” Dalan promised with a yawn. Then he returned to gently touching the harp wires.
“I've a riddle for you,” the Brehon said after a short while.
“What is it?” Fineen asked with a smile.
“In the dark we sit,” the Brehon began. “Seven lonely sisters. On the hilltop you'll see us each clutching a tallow candle. But our tiny flames don't flicker. Where we sit the wind can't touch us. Won't you come to visit us, young man?”
“Your riddle's too easy,” Fineen said with mock seriousness. “And it doesn't flow well.”
“I've not been playing this game for very long,” Dalan protested. “Riddling is not part of a Brehon's training.”
“Were you never a child?”
“Riddling was frowned upon as a waste of time in my father's house.”
“But all the world is a riddle, my dear friend,” the healer laughed. “And I'm told that when the answer to the great question finally dawns on you it keeps you laughing to yourself for the rest of your life.”
“Which could be a very long while if you have taken the Quicken Brew,” the Brehon noted dryly. “But you haven't told me the answer to my riddle.”
Dalan grunted, pretending to be disappointed that Fineen had guessed so easily, then he returned to his harp and his friend sat back to listen.
Lom woke up suddenly and stared wide-eyed at the door to the round thatched house, his whole body tense. He knew he had not been dreaming. He had been sleeping deeply and peacefully, aided by all the mead he had drunk at the feast.
He looked across at Aoife's bed and saw it was unoccupied. He guessed it was only a short while before dawn. Lom started to relax. His head was aching a little from the drink and he could hear rain spattering lightly on the thatch roof.
Lom didn't fancy going out in the cold to look for his sister and he was still very sleepy, so he rolled over and pulled the furs up around his head. He told himself with a sigh that Aoife would be back soon. Then he realized she'd want to talk until breakfast time. He must rest as much as possible before she returned.
Lom had not lain there long when he heard voices just outside the house. He threw the covers from his head, hoping to catch a snippet of the conversation. To his surprise he heard two male voices talking in low tones, but none of it made sense. Then he caught the unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn from a scabbard. This was followed by a low sinister laugh and the noise of footsteps moving quickly across the open ground outside.
His ears bristling, his senses sharpened, Lom stared at the ceiling listening hard. There were no more unusual sounds. But he sensed an unusual tension in the air that set him on edge. Something was not right. Like a harp with one wire tuned poorly or a thudding bodhran with a slackened goatskin, it nagged at him to investigate.
Lom stretched and half sat up, deciding it was time he was out of bed anyway. He threw the furs off, shivered, found his clothes and was very quickly dressed. The morning was chilly and wet so he grabbed his cloak.