The Meeting of the Waters

by Caiseal Mor

  “What do you mean?” Sárán asked nervously, something in her tone making him feel very uneasy.

  “I mean it is wise to keep your wits about you. Never go off into the forest by yourself and never trust everything you see or hear while you are passing under its dark canopy.”

  Then she noticed the cup full of water in the young man's hand. “And whatever you do,” she advised sternly. “You must never, ever drink from that spring.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because though it seems sweet in the daylight and looks remarkably fresh, this pool is poisoned. All those who drink from it are doomed to become at one with the ever-living forest.”

  Brocan lay among his salvaged clothing until the sunlight would not let him sleep any longer. It had been his intention to get the warriors moving early but he was exhausted and demoralized. And his people were faring no better.

  “It's all very well for Dalan to speak of my obligations to the Druid Assembly and to the Danaans. But what of the folk we will leave behind?” he asked himself. “Who will defend them if the Milesians should sail back into the bay to indulge in some more raiding?”

  He blessed the wisdom of his forebears who constructed storage caves near the hillfort. And he thanked the stars he had the good sense to keep them well stocked. No one would starve, he assured himself, and that was something to be proud of.

  Brocan sat up amongst the gathered remnants of his clothing and his singed furs and stretched his arms as he yawned. Dun Burren was beginning to stir. A few cooking fires were smoking with the smell of oats in great pots.

  The king stared at the empty space just beyond his feet. He puzzled for a moment, wondering who would have dared to take the Cauldron of Plenty to cook their breakfast without waking him. It was unheard of that anyone would simply neglect to ask him if they could borrow it.

  In seconds he was on his feet making his way to each of the cooking fires. But wherever he went folk were using their own salvaged utensils. The cauldron was nowhere to be found. Brocan never once considered it might have been stolen until he found Fergus seated by a fire, stirring his oats as they boiled.

  “Good morning, my lord,” the veteran greeted him. “Sit down and join me. Breakfast is nearly done.”

  “Where is the Cauldron of Plenty?” the king asked without replying to the invitation.

  Fergus looked up blankly. “I last saw it when you were cleaning it out before bed.”

  “I can't find it,”

  Brocan whispered, not wishing anyone else to know for now.

  “Can't find it?” “When I went to sleep it was at my feet. When I awoke it was gone.”

  “Someone has borrowed it without thinking.” Fergus shrugged. “Do not think ill of any of your folk if they have forgotten their manners just now. Everyone is in shock.”

  “I have searched Dun Burren from fire to fire,” the king snapped. “It is gone.”

  “Gone?” the veteran quizzed. “It must be here somewhere. Unless the Milesians crept back into the camp in the night and spirited it away.”

  His comment had only been half serious but it struck a chord with both men.

  “In the name of Holy Danu herself!” Brocan hissed. “Where are the sentries?”

  “I'll fetch them,” Fergus replied and was gone to wake the warriors who had been standing guard during the dark hours.

  When he returned two young men followed him, sleepy-eyed and confused.

  “Did you notice anything unusual in the night?” Brocan demanded immediately.

  Both men shook their heads.

  “Did anyone enter the camp after sunset?”

  Again the two warriors shook their heads with certainty.

  “But young Sárán, your son, went out after sunset and he did not return,” one man offered.

  “Sárán?” Brocan hissed. “What mischief is he playing at now?”

  The king dismissed the sentries to go back to their rest, then turned to Fergus. “Find that lad and bring him to me,” he commanded. Then the King of the Fir-Bolg sat down by the fire to stir the oats and try to clear his thoughts.

  To have lost all his cattle and livestock in the Milesian raid was enough of an insult to his pride. But the cauldron had been given into his care by the Dagda of the Danaan Druids as a peace offering. It was his duty as King of the Fir-Bolg to protect it. If the sacred vessel was missing, it would bring shame on him and all the people of the Burren.

  When Fergus returned he did not have to say anything. The look on his face told his news for him.

  “He is gone?” Brocan asked.

  The veteran nodded. “It seems so. There is no sign of him in the dun. Fineen expected him to return last night after he had finished his chores at the spring. But he has not been seen.”

  “Why would my own son steal the cauldron?” Brocan asked himself. Then he turned to Fergus and looked him in the eye. “Is it likely that Sárán may have been taken by intruders as he worked at the spring?”

  The veteran looked away to avoid the king's eyes. “The healer told me he gave Sárán the Quicken berries to guard with his life.”

  Brocan closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Send out your fastest scouts. I want him brought back immediately. That lad will pay dearly for this crime. He has shamed me and our people. And he has stolen the berries which are our only hope of saving lives in the coming battle.”

  “I have already dispatched my two fastest runners,” Fergus reported. “I sent them south toward the mouth of the great river. If Sárán is attempting to make his way to the Milesian camp, that is the route he will most likely take. At the shore he will probably find himself a boat to cross the water.”

  “He will then make the Deer Island,” Brocan added.

  Fergus nodded agreement.

  “If the scouts do not find him before he sets off for the southern shore of the Shannon's mouth, they will have no chance of finding him,” the king noted bitterly. “Then we will find ourselves in trouble.”

  “We have no hope of making a good stand against the Milesians if Fineen cannot prepare the brew in time,” Fergus agreed.

  “Yet we must go to the battle now,” the king groaned. “I have given my word. If only we could have stayed out of this fight.”

  “I am sorry for standing against you last night,” the veteran offered. “I did not reckon without the life-brew of the Druids.”

  “Find that boy,” Brocan ordered. “Bring him back to me with the berries and the cauldron. I will set out with the main body of warriors soon. But you are to take your best trackers and your swiftest runners, five battle veterans, ahead of us. You must stop that lad before he gets as far as the Shannon Waters.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Fergus bowed, turned around and in minutes had gathered his small team of warriors. Before the oatmeal had begun to burn in the bottom of the cooking pot they were off, picking their way over the rugged terrain, headed for the fishing settlement on the Island of the Deer.

  When Dalan awoke, the settlement was already abuzz with the tale of Sárán's treachery. Fineen came over to the Brehon as the news was being discussed by two warriors.

  “Is it true?” Dalan asked his friend.

  The healer nodded. “One man may be content to listen to the gentle lapping waters of the lough,” he sighed. “Another is compelled to toss a stone to hear the splash. I find it hard to believe Sárán would do such a thing, but the evidence would seem to suggest my student has proved to be a traitor.”

  “Is it possible he was taken by the invaders?”

  “The Milesians raid in large groups. It is rare for a small party of their warriors to be abroad alone. And if Sárán were taken it would have had to have been by a party of only a few warriors.”

  “Because a large group would have been seen by the scouts or the sentries,” the Brehon concluded.

  “I should not have trusted him with the berries,” Fineen rebuked himself. “But over the last four seasons I have grow
n to trust him like a friend. He is always dependable and accepts the most menial of tasks cheerfully. I don't know what could have inspired him to take this action.”

  “We both know there is no love lost between father and son.”

  “But this treachery puts every warrior of the Fir-Bolg at risk of death,” the healer reasoned. “I just can't understand it.”

  “Would you say he follows orders without question?” asked Dalan.

  “Absolutely. That is what makes his treachery all the more puzzling.”

  “If a Druid other than yourself were to give him a command,” the Brehon inquired, “do you think he would balk at it?”

  “No.”

  “I think we need look no further than Lochie and Isleen,” Dalan decided. “They are recognized as Druids and they both have an air of authority about them.”

  “You're right!” Fineen gasped. “They must have tricked him, but why?”

  “Many things have become clear to me with the destruction of Dun Burren.” The Brehon lowered his voice. “I sense that Isleen and Lochie are the Watchers.”

  “If this is true there will be panic amongst the Fir-Bolg if the news is made public,” the healer whispered.

  “Then we must not tell anyone.”

  “We can't keep it to ourselves!”

  “Brocan will surely withdraw his tenuous support if he suspects Balor's seed are still among us. We will be fortunate if his warriors join the fight as it is. When they hear the berries are gone, they will think twice about endangering their lives. And that will make our chances of negotiating a favorable treaty almost impossible.”

  “What can we do?”

  “I'll find Lochie,” Dalan declared, “and confront him.”

  “And if he has disappeared also?”

  “I'll track down Sárán and bring back the sacred berries of the Quicken Tree myself,” the Brehon declared. “I will meet you on the plain by the foot of Sliabh Mis in three days' time. It is too late to send to the east for more berries. If I have not recovered them by that time, then all is lost.”

  With that the Brehon grabbed his Raven-feather cloak, slung his harp upon his back and silently took his leave of the healer.

  “May the spirit of Danu go with you,” the healer whispered after Dalan had gone. “And may the Watchers be vanquished.”

  Then Fineen went to search for his herbs and utensils down at the stream, all the while marveling at the fact that the famed King of the Fomor had reached out a ghostly hand to strike at his enemies after generations in the grave.

  King Cecht of the Tuatha De Danaan and Queen Riona of the Fir-Bolg were taken on board Eber's ship to the south after they were captured. They spent that day and the next at sea out of sight of land until the Milesian fleet came in to shelter within view of the mountains known as Sliabh Mis.

  Scota, the king's mother and a queen in her own right, said nothing to either of them even though she recognized Riona from her dream. But she never left their company for the space of a breath unless a trusted and able guard could take her place. And the ochre-painted queen always had her spear at the ready.

  The captives were treated as befitted their rank but they weren't permitted to make a sound throughout the voyage. Eber left them to his mother's watchful eye. He didn't approach them until they were all seated in a rowing boat headed for shore.

  Ahead, beneath the mountains where the land swept round into a shelter bay, the Milesians had made camp. Smoke from many fires was drifting skyward. The wind had dropped by sunset and the rain clouds were retreating across to the western horizon.

  “We two are the rulers of our people,” Cecht informed his captor proudly. “Among our folk this sort of raiding would be considered dishonorable.”

  Eber listened carefully, discerning the meaning behind the strangely accented speech. “My people don't consider raiding a dishonorable practice,” he replied. “I'm sorry to have caused offense. I don't wish any ransom for your release. I merely intend to ensure your warriors meet mine at the appointed hour and place.”

  “You've broken with the customs of war,” Riona spat. “This is an outrage against the Brehon laws.”

  “This land is now under the rule of law of the Milesian Brehons,” Eber informed her in as polite a tone as he could muster. “My judges have advised me that as long as I release you before the battle I will be within my rights as King of the South of Eriu.”

  Cecht frowned to show he didn't understand the last part of the speech. “Eriu is a queen of the Danaan people in the north,” he said after a moment. “You use her name as if it belonged to the land.”

  “It does now,” the Milesian warrior replied. “When my brother Amergin the Bard met Queen Eriu to negotiate a treaty between our people she promised to work toward a peaceful solution if we named the land after her.”

  “Eriu is my mother,” Riona said. “She always was self-centered and rather fond of herself,” she added wryly. “But this land is and always will be known as Innisfail, the Island of Destiny.”

  “My people are the rulers of this island now,” Scota cut in sharply. “We'll call it what we wish.”

  “And you are the queen of these barbarous folk?” Cecht cut in.

  “I am a queen by right of election and appointment by the Chief Bard of our folk.”

  “Who just happens to be your son?” The Danaan sneered. “And are any of your ancestors worthy of the office of king or queen? Or is this an innovation that has recently been awarded to your kin?”

  “My father was a king of our people,” Eber snapped. “My mother is descended from a princess of the eastern countries.”

  “For one who claims royal descent,” Riona noted dryly, “you have the air of an outlaw about you.”

  “We've been fighting against your kind since the last cycle of the seasons,” the Milesian retorted. “I can't help it if I'm forced to fight running skirmishes with warriors who'll not stand and fight like valorous heroes. You should have given this land over to us long ago. It's just foolish, stubborn and wishful to cling on till the last. Why do you think I've had to force your hand?”

  “The taking of duly elected rulers in war is forbidden unless they are bearing arms,” Riona protested. “That's why we have stewards and champions, so the continued stability and safety of the people are not at risk from overzealous, uneducated, impatient brigands such as yourself.”

  “You will not speak to me like that!” Eber shouted, losing his temper. “I have seen enough good warriors fall trying to wrest this land from your control. I have had enough.”

  “Then why don't you go home?” Cecht asked quietly.

  “This is our home,” Scota replied. “My son is King of the South of this island and you'd better get used to it. My warriors will walk over yours in the coming battle and then we'll see who deserves to claim sovereignty.”

  “We won't submit,” the Danaan king laughed. “My folk won't give in to your demands just because you hold me hostage.”

  “You may be surprised,” Eber answered.

  “You are a boy,” Riona laughed. “In the land of the Burren you wouldn't be king of a cowshed.”

  “Be quiet!” Eber demanded.

  “Do you know who you are talking to?” Riona asked him in surprise. “Or is it simply too much to expect any decency from you folk?”

  “You will be quiet or I will have you gagged.”

  “Gagged?” Cecht muttered in shock. “The Brehons would demand a fortune you don't have as a blush fine for such actions.”

  “My Brehons would not make such a judgment.” Eber smiled. “Not against me.”

  “Your Brehons are not versed in the laws of this land and the customs of our people.”

  “They do not need to be,” the Milesian shot back. “You are not the rulers of this country anymore.”

  “We will still be here when your folk are quoting our laws and singing our songs.” The Danaan smirked. “You are not the first people to attempt to take our
island from us.”

  “Let him be, Cecht.” Riona sneered. “He's not worthy of our anger.”

  “Cecht?” Scota repeated, unsure if she had heard correctly. “Your name is King Cecht of the Tuatha De Danaan?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have a son called Mahon?”

  “Yes. How did you know that?”

  “He's a fine lad. You should be proud of him.”

  “You've met my son?” the Danaan king stuttered in disbelief.

  “I dreamt that a king and a queen dwelt in Dun Burren,” Scota admitted reluctantly. “And I was guided to my landing place by that same sleep vision. That's how we came across you. I've been dreaming about this country since my husband died thirteen winters ago.”

  “You've dreamt about Mahon?”

  “I have.” Scota's eyes suddenly filled with tears.

  “But it was no dream brought you to Dun Burren on the night of our meeting,” the Danaan mumbled as he drew his conclusions from all he had heard. “You came because you were informed I would be there.”

  Then the king turned to Riona. “There's a traitor among us.”

  “You're wrong!” Eber protested but he was too sharp with his indignation.

  “How did you pay the informer to betray his own kinfolk?” the king asked. “What did you give? Your folk have no laws. You're not civilized enough to hold this land.”

  Eber ignored the insult and hailed the warriors on the shore. As soon as the boat struck the soft sand of the beach he leapt out immediately and shouted instructions to his people. “Feed them, water them and lock them away where they can't observe our preparations,” he commanded. “And if I hear so much as a word from either of them I'll have the head of the sentry appointed to guard them.”

  Then he turned to his captives and bowed quickly without any pretense at concealing his contempt. “I trust your stay with us will be comfortable, and I pray to the gods of my people it will be short.”

  Then Eber, self-proclaimed King of the South, stormed off to wash and find himself some clean clothes.

  Scota was not so abrupt with the captives. She took Cecht's hand as they parted and held it while she spoke. “Your son won't be harmed in the battle,” she whispered. “I've dreamed his part in it. So let him fight in the thick of it if he so wishes. I guarantee his safety.”