The Meeting of the Waters

by Caiseal Mor

  “I have not finished my training,” he protested. “I am a student. I would not know what to say.”

  “Then you had better start thinking seriously about it. The boat will be here soon and the Milesians expect to be able to speak with you on this matter.”

  “What?”

  “That is what I have arranged for you,” Isleen told him. “If all goes well there will be peace between the Milesians and the Fir-Bolg. There will be no need for your father and his warriors to attend the battle-contest at Sliabh Mis. You will save many lives.”

  She pointed out across the water now lit by the setting sun. It was as if a goldsmith had pressed gold leaf down upon the land and the river and then held a candle to it to bring out the honey hues and sparkles. In the midst of this gorgeous expanse of light there was a black speck moving slowly toward the northern shore.

  “Here they come.” Isleen pointed. The boat was not one of the simple fishing curraghs Sárán had expected, but a wooden rowing boat such as the Milesians were famed for.

  “Why should they listen to me?” he asked her. “I am nothing more than a king's son. I am not the ruler of my people and I have no right to negotiate on their behalf.”

  “They will listen to you. Have no fear of that.”

  “But even if they agree to a separate treaty, my own folk will never ratify it,” he argued. “I am only the student of a healer.”

  “The Fir-Bolg will agree,” Isleen stated confidently. “On the one hand there is much sense in making peace before lives are placed unnecessarily at risk. And on the other hand there is this,” she added, placing a hand on her pack.

  “What is that?”

  “Last night after you lay down to your rest I went to speak with your father, hoping to reason with him. I found him in a deep sleep from which I could not wake him. I knew the situation demanded urgent action. I knew his people were already regretting his leadership in this matter.”

  “What is that in your pack?” Sárán repeated, fearing the worst now.

  “Since he would not wake,” Isleen answered, “I lifted from him the symbol of his authority and honor. I took the Cauldron of Plenty.”

  “The cauldron?” the young man cried. “That is treachery! You could be banished for such a crime. And the fine against my father's dignity would indenture your kinfolk to the seventh generation. How is this going to make the Fir-Bolg accept a treaty?”

  “If they do not favor such an arrangement”—she shrugged—“they will not see the cauldron again. In turn they will have to recompense the Dagda for its loss.”

  “You have risked your life and liberty for this?” Sárán muttered, still disbelieving. “When the Druid Assembly finds out they will hunt you down to impose their justice on you.”

  But they will not think it was me who stole the cauldron,” she sighed.

  “What?”

  “Eber of the Milesians believes that you stole the cauldron. He thinks it entitles you to negotiate with him. The word will get back to the Assembly that it was you not I who arranged this meeting with the invaders.”

  She brushed his hair again gently with her hand.

  “So,” Isleen advised him, “you had better start thinking about what you are going to say to Eber. He will be expecting nothing short of your full cooperation.”

  Dalan was the first to smile broadly.

  “I didn't recognize you,” he laughed. “What in the name of Danu are you doing here?”

  “We heard Sárán had stolen the cauldron,” Mahon replied. “We've come to find the lad before Brocan can get his hands on him.”

  “My father would kill him if he found him first,” the young woman added.

  “You must return to the Fir-Bolg camp immediately,” Dalan chided. “You have no idea of the danger that is abroad in the land.”

  “We are not far from the cost,” Mahon reasoned. “I believe Sárán and Isleen will be making for the river mouth near Deer Island. That is the only place a boat could be landed safely.”

  “What do you know of Isleen?” the Brehon snapped.

  “Only what I overheard you and Fineen discussing the other night,” Aoife admitted. “You suspect that she is one of the Watchers. You have come to find her.”

  “And destroy her if I can,” Dalan rejoined.

  “You cannot do that on your own,” Mahon noted, “and be sure that Sárán is safe.”

  “Sárán is a traitor and an outlaw. He will surely suffer banishment for this crime.”

  “You don't believe he stole the cauldron,” Aoife asserted. “You know Isleen is responsible. At the worst she put him up to it.”

  “That is yet to be proved. For the time being Sárán must be considered an enemy.”

  “We are not far from the cost and we have outrun Fergus and the warriors,” Mahon told him. “They took a track to the east on the forest road. Perhaps the old veteran knows a quicker way to Deer Island, but I think it more likely they have become lost.”

  “You saw them?”

  “They were about five hundred paces ahead of us. We heard them.”

  “And why did you not hail them?”

  “Because they will suspect the worst of Sárán,” Aoife cut in. “If my brother is fool enough to put up a fight, they will surely kill him, trainee Druid or not. There was great anger at Dun Burren when we left.”

  Dalan turned to scout the road behind them. There was no movement and the sun would soon be setting. Fergus and his warriors had almost certainly missed their chance to apprehend Sárán and recover the cauldron.

  “I am beginning to wish Fergus was with us now,” the Brehon sighed. “If we are really dealing with the Watchers, then we are going to need help. Three of us alone will not be able to overpower such a being.”

  “So we can come with you?” his young student asked eagerly.

  “It would not do if I sent you back to Dun Burren and some evil befell you. How would I explain that to your father?”

  “If we cross through the forest just ahead we will come to where the trees end and the hills roll down to the Shannon,” Mahon suggested.

  “No,” the Brehon replied quickly. “We will stick to the road. I would rather be out in the open at sunset. This forest is full of the undead spirits of the Fomor. I would not like to be amidst them when darkness falls.”

  “It will be a longer journey.”

  “Then we will have to stop talking about it and get a move on,” Dalan decided. “I trust you will both be able to keep up with me?”

  With that the Brehon picked up his harp and stepped out along the path toward the coast. Mahon and Aoife stood for a moment in surprise but before Dalan had gone ten steps they were at his heels.

  A thousand paces brought them to the edge of the forest with still enough daylight left to make the landing place at Deer Island. Here the road became a narrow cow track, rough and rarely used. But by chance they had come a quicker way than Sárán and Isleen. This path descended to the river mouth very steeply so the going was shorter.

  “How do we know they will be at the landing place?” Aoife asked.

  “We don't,” Dalan replied. “We can only hope that was their plan. But in truth there is no better place to find a boat at this time of year. The people of the island come here to collect whatever treasures the sea washes up. That storm of a few nights ago will have them out in numbers combing the shore for crabs and cuttlefish.”

  As he spoke they caught their first glimpse of the water. And out upon the river mouth they saw the dark speck of a boat making for the shore toward them.

  “That's the place.” Dalan pointed. “Down there. We must hurry now for I fear we may already be too late.”

  Chapter 21

  SÁRÁN LOOKED OUT OVER THE WIDE MOUTH OF THE River Shannon as the boat came steadily closer. He could clearly see the red face paint of several of the enemy. The man who stood in the prow had long hair painted with lime to stiffen and whiten it. All along the man's arms there were bold r
ed lines. His feet were red. His palms were painted red. And a broad stripe of red ran across his face from ear to ear so that his eyes stood out in contrast.

  Behind him at his shoulder was a woman completely caked from head to toe in a thick coating of red ochre. Her clothes were red, her hair was red, even the sword she carried had been smeared with ochre.

  “That woman is the Queen of the Gaedhals,” Isleen explained. “Her name is Scota.”

  “I'll not betray my people,” Sárán said with determination.

  “You already have,” Isleen told him.

  “When the Druid Assembly discovers what you've done they will banish you,” the young man warned. “You stole the cauldron of the Dagda and you would deliver it into the hands of the invaders.”

  “You stole the cauldron,” she sighed sadly. “No one is going to believe a young man who is already paying for a terrible crime. Not when a well-respected Seer such as myself speaks against him. If I testify I knew nothing of this whole misadventure, they will take my word for it. Everyone will assume your story to be a desperate lie invented to save your skin.”

  “Why have you betrayed your own people?”

  “I am merely trying to bring this war to an end without any further bloodshed,” she reasoned. “Can't you see that?”

  Isleen smiled in such a way that Sárán suspected she was lying.

  “You could have done this differently,” he replied. “If you really wanted peace.”

  “You must argue the case,” she explained. “You must ask yourself whether you wish to save the lives of your kinfolk who will surely fall in this coming battle. One day you'll understand that what I'm doing is for the good of everyone.”

  The boat was closer now. The warrior in the prow was standing in readiness to jump onto the beach. The woman behind him had passed her sword to him. She now held a long slender spear at the ready.

  “Please,” Sárán pleaded. “It's not too late to change your mind. Give me the cauldron and let me go.”

  “And where would you go? Half your father's warriors are out searching for you. Imagine what would happen if they found you with the cauldron? I would expect their rage to be almost uncontrollable. I don't want to put you at such risk.”

  This last comment had such a flavor of contempt about it that the young man flinched. And at that moment he remembered he carried the Quicken berries in a small bag at his belt. He had completely forgotten they had been given to him to carry. He could do nothing but curse his foolishness in believing the Seer. Then he understood the cauldron had to be abandoned if he was to have any chance of returning the berries to Fineen in time to prepare the Danaan brew.

  As those thoughts were passing through his mind the boat scraped ashore. The queen and four warriors stepped out.

  “Sárán, son of King Brocan of the Burren,” Isleen said, making the formal introductions, “this is Scota, Queen of all the Gaedhals, and her son, Eber, King of the Southern Milesians.”

  The warrior nodded but did not speak. The queen smiled and nodded. Sárán moved his head slightly in acknowledgment.

  “Do you have the cauldron of which you spoke?” Scota asked Isleen.

  “I have it here,” she answered proudly, patting her pack.

  “We'll make a good pairing you and I,” the Milesian king stated with a grin.

  Sárán's expression dropped away and his jaw slackened in surprise. “You're going to marry him?” he gasped.

  “It will help the Fir-Bolg people accept their new rulers,” Isleen explained, holding out her hand to be helped into the stern of the little vessel. “Their king will be a Milesian but their new queen will be one of their own. And so will all my children.”

  “You're no queen,” Scota scoffed. “And you're no Gaedhal. My folk won't accept you while I live.”

  “Then I'll be patient. Surely you haven't much time remaining,” the Seer retorted as she sat down beside the tillerman.

  “Enough,” Scota said in such a manner that Eber wasn't sure if his mother was ending the conversation or assuring Isleen she'd be around for some time yet.

  “Are you coming boy?” the queen asked.

  Sárán didn't answer. Instead he turned and ran as fast as he could back up the path toward the road.

  “I knew I could rely on you to do that,” Isleen sighed to herself. “You'll not escape the disgrace I have arranged for you by running away from it, young Sárán.”

  The young man didn't look back when he heard shouts behind him. Nor did he turn when these were followed by a loud horn blast. Thinking only of putting one foot before the other he was soon back up near the road, running toward the forest as fast as his aching legs could carry him. The further he went the more convinced he became that he would not be captured by the Milesians if he took shelter in the woods. Then a gut-shivering sound assaulted his ears, sending an icy rush through his blood.

  Ahead of him in the forest the answering call of another horn reverberated through the trees. It brought him instantly to a halt. Sárán was still bent double when yet another blast, this time from the left, brought him to his senses. He must hide.

  Ahead of him was a fork in the path. He ran toward it, struggling to recall which branch they had come down on the way to the river. By the time he reached it he still had no clear memory so, more out of hope than anything else, he chose the right-hand fork.

  He was soon blessing his luck for this part of the path was familiar to him. The black soil in the forest had turned to mud along this part of road. Sárán dodged between the puddles, leaping where there was no dry footing. He hadn't gone far along this difficult path when he saw three dark figures on the road far in the distance. They were running as fast as they could in his direction.

  It was too late to turn around, and Sárán had no idea who was lying in wait for him back down the path. He looked to his right. Fifty paces beyond the road's edge lay the forest planted by the ancient Fomor. The young man drew a deep breath then and, preparing himself for the worst, darted into the cover of the enveloping canopy of darkness.

  He had not walked ten paces when the world was plunged into utter black and he had lost all sense of direction. In a mood of despair he finally sat down where he was and prayed that the Milesians would not find him in this dank, heavy forest.

  As Dalan, Mahon and Aoife had descended the steep path toward the shore they had witnessed the landing of the Milesian boat. They had plainly seen Sárán standing on the sand as Isleen was helped to her seat. Her distinctive red hair had given her away immediately.

  It was Aoife who had noticed that her brother did not follow the Seer into the boat straightaway.

  “Something's frightened him,” she told the others. “I think he's going to try to escape.”

  She had just spoken those words when Sárán turned around and ran. In moments he was out of sight. One of the Milesian warriors blew a blast on a short carved cow's horn. Two of the invaders set off after him and then another horn blast sounded as if in answer. The sound came from the direction of the forest, an urgent stuttered call like that of a frightened bird.

  “There are more Gaedhals lurking around here,” the Brehon decided. “We must hide until the danger is past.”

  Mahon was about to protest when a third lowing bellow from further down the riverbank announced the presence of more warriors.

  “Get down,” Dalan demanded. “There must be ten or twelve armed Milesians looking for Sárán. We are no match for so many.”

  “We must help him!” Aoife protested. “We can't simply abandon him to those barbarians.”

  “There is nothing we can do,” Dalan repeated, “but wait until the danger is past. Then we will be in a better position to aid him.”

  “What better position than the one we are in now?”

  “We will have our lives and our liberty,” the Brehon retorted tersely. “If these invaders have such a disregard for the law that they could arrange the theft of the Cauldron of Plenty, I doubt the
y will have a care for our status as Druids. Especially not since we are accompanied by the son of the King of the Danaans, whom they also hold. I would prefer not to deliver any further prizes into their hands at the moment if you don't mind.”

  “He's right.” Mahon nodded reluctantly. “If Sárán is captured we will have a chance to rescue him.”

  “And what if they decide to kill him?” Aoife shot back. “What chance will he have then?”

  “They want him alive,” Dalan pointed out. “He is no use to them dead.”

  They all hushed suddenly as the Milesian warriors returned to their boat, pushed off from the shore and began rowing with swift strokes out into the middle of the river. The sun had almost set and a sea fog was appearing around the opposite bank.

  “Why are they running away?” Mahon gasped in surprise.

  “Because the search party from Dun Burren has been sighted.”

  “That must have been who replied to the other two horn blasts,” the Danaan surmised.

  “Come on,” Aoife begged, dragging them both to their feet. “We have to get down to the shore and follow Sárán. We cannot vouch for his safety if Fergus and the warriors come upon him before we do.”

  The two men traded glances for a moment, then followed after her as quickly as they could. By the time they reached the sandy riverbank the invaders had already rowed a good distance.

  Dalan rushed down to the water's edge. There he stood for a long while, sending his thoughts across to Isleen.

  “If you knew the trouble you have caused,” the Brehon whispered, “or the strife that is about to break out all because of you, you would probably be overjoyed.”

  As if she had heard every hissed word the red-haired woman stood up in the stern of the vessel and turned around, holding a lantern to light her face. And there she stood staring defiantly back at him until the boat passed through a drifting bank of fog and vanished into the night.

  “I will hunt this country from mountain to deepest valley until I find you, Isleen,” he promised. “I'll find a way to put an end to your mischief.”