The Meeting of the Waters

by Caiseal Mor

  “So you have deserted my brother then?” he asked one man.

  “Éremon is a good leader but he drives the people too hard,” the man replied.

  “I will drive you hard also,” Eber told him. “But I will reward you handsomely. We have barely six days to prepare for this contest. This evening I will speak with the clan chieftains and we will discuss our strategy.”

  Then the Milesian leader made his way through the crowd to a roughly built stone shelter set aside for him. Isleen followed after, hardly noticed among the adoration heaped on Eber.

  Once they were inside the stone hut Isleen spoke. “The King of the Danaans is here?”

  “He is my prisoner,” Eber told her proudly. “I give you my thanks for letting me know he would be at Dun Burren. He will prove a valuable bargaining point.”

  Eber offered her a cup of mead flavored with liquor made from hazelnuts. She took it and drank the cup down in one gulp.

  “And will you want me for your queen when you are King of the South?” she asked.

  “I am already King of the South,” he sniggered. “This battle contest is merely a formality. I have the symbol of kingship delivered into my own hand.”

  As he spoke a warrior appeared at the doorway carrying the cauldron.

  “Set it down by the fire,” Eber directed.

  The man did as he was told then left immediately.

  “So this is the renowned Cauldron of Plenty?” he said almost to himself as he ran a finger around the richly decorated rim. “I imagined such a magical vessel would be far more impressive. There is no gold adornment or silver trimming.”

  “This is not the only cauldron,” Isleen laughed. “This is merely one of the Druid vessels held by the Danaan and Fir-Bolg.”

  “And each has the power to feed a multitude?”

  “Oh yes,” she assured him.

  The king approached her so that they stood close enough to see the patterns in each other's eyes.

  “Prove it to me,” he urged softly.

  “What food would you have me cook in it?” she inquired. “What meal takes your fancy?”

  “Salmon,” the Milesian told her without hesitation. “Baked salmon.”

  “Very well,” Isleen laughed, obviously enjoying this game. “Then eat your fill.”

  Eber frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Your fish will be getting cold,” she told him gesturing with her eyes toward the cauldron.

  Frowning with disbelief the Milesian went over to the vessel to look inside. To his astonishment it contained a single salmon the size of a newly born calf. He took his meat knife and sliced away a piece of the fish to taste.

  “This is delicious,” he exclaimed. “Cooked with herbs and honey the way I have always liked it.”

  Eber reached his hand in and grabbed as much of the fish as he could hold. Then he stuffed the food into his mouth, laughing at the wondrous miracle.

  “Perhaps you would rather roast goose?” Isleen offered, and when Eber looked again the salmon had changed into a roasted goose browned to perfection. The enticing aroma filled the stone hut as Eber dropped the remnants of the salmon and took to the bird with his meat knife.

  “How is it done?” he begged her.

  “Druid knowledge,” Isleen explained. “Only one of my kind can bring such foods out of the cauldron.”

  “So I will have a use for you after all, wife.” Eber grinned.

  “Without me the vessel is useless.”

  “Beef broth,” the Milesian challenged with a hint of mischief in his voice. The words were hardly out of his mouth when thick brown soup began bubbling away inside the cauldron.

  “I can't wait to show this little prize to the Fir-Bolg king,” Eber chortled. “Now he will know who owns this land.”

  “You are not so smart as you first appear,” Isleen chided.

  “What?”

  “You will not earn his respect by showing him this prize. You will earn his eternal hatred. He will vow to destroy you for desecrating one of the most sacred treasures his people possess.”

  “But his folk no longer possess it,” Eber pointed out.

  “Show it to Cecht. Let him return to Brocan with the cauldron as a gesture of your goodwill,” she suggested.

  “Are you mad? This vessel could feed my people without the need for foraging and raiding. It will remain with me.”

  “There is a greater prize than this,” she teased. “The Quicken Tree.”

  “A tree?” Eber shrugged. “And what is so special about this Quicken Tree?”

  “It is a symbol of the law,” Isleen lied. “A powerful bargaining tool which you would be advised to use to your advantage. It is so sacred the merest mention of it will give you the upper hand in negotiations with the Danaans.”

  “I don't intend to negotiate with them,” the Milesian scoffed. “I'm going to defeat them in battle and take their country for my own.”

  “As you wish.” She shrugged. “But you will gain more if you come to an agreement.”

  “I will keep the magic vessel,” Eber decided.

  “Then I will leave and the cauldron will be useless to you. You are a fool. You've forfeited a friend, an ally and a wife in one stroke.”

  With that Isleen made for the door. The Milesian leader made no attempt to stop her.

  “Please pass on my respects to King Cecht of the Danaans,” she said as she left the hut. “My business with you is at an end.”

  Eber smiled to himself, well pleased with this prize and unconcerned by Isleen's threat to withdraw her support.

  “She will see that I am right,” he thought as he fetched a bowl to taste the soup. “And she will not leave this place. After all, how far can she get without a boat?”

  When he had found a wooden bowl he went back to the cauldron to try the broth but the vessel was empty. He reached into the depths of it with his fingers and it was cold to the touch. In moments he was outside calling for his guards to fetch the Seer to him. Eber went back inside to sip his mead.

  A long while later there was a cough at the door.

  “My lord?” the guard ventured.

  “Yes.”

  “The Seer called Isleen is nowhere to be found.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I cannot say, my lord. She is not anywhere among our people or our campfires. She has disappeared.”

  “Search again!” the Milesian bellowed. “And do not dare show your face until she has been found.”

  The guard was about to leave when Eber realized Isleen had escaped from him, and he cursed his foolish tongue for upsetting her.

  “Bring the Danaan king to me,” Eber demanded of the man. “And the Fir-Bolg queen also.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The Milesian took up a fur to cover the cauldron, deciding it would be best if he did not reveal his prize for the moment. Then Eber returned to his drink and to pondering the strange nature of the people who inhabited this land.

  By the time Cecht and Riona arrived at his hut the Milesian was beginning to understand that he would achieve nothing without the help of these people. Three summers of war had proved that he would not be able to hold the south under his sway alone. He simply did not have enough followers.

  “Welcome!” Eber offered as the King of the Danaans entered the hut.

  Riona followed after, showing her contempt by not wiping her feet at the door.

  “I beg you to sit down,” The Milesian said, ushering them both to a flat stone beside the fire. “So what do you think of my assembled army?” he asked as he handed them cups of mead from a jug.

  “We will accept your hospitality,” Cecht told him ignoring the question, “because after the cowardly manner in which you took us captive you owe us some recompense. But please do not expect polite conversation. You are an invader who has no regard for the high and sacred Brehon tradition. If you were a barbarian from the eastern lands or one of the foreigners who sail occasionally
from the west, I could excuse you.”

  Cecht took the cup and drank a mouthful of the sweet liquor.

  “But our peoples share a Druid tradition,” he went on. “We understand the same laws. We come from the same source, the sacred holy Islands of the West.”

  “You are right,” Eber agreed. “Like a great stone that has been split up, we all share a common origin. And the pieces may easily be fitted together again.”

  “That remains to be seen,” Cecht replied skeptically. “We have grown a long way apart. Our origins may be the same but the paths we have all walked since have sent us in different directions.”

  “The fact is,” the Milesian said, coming to the point, “my people are here now. We have superior weapons and skills as warriors.”

  “We have better laws,” Riona told him. “We have fine musicians.”

  “And my folk have the Draoi arts of healing and song making,” Cecht added. “So perhaps we should be speaking of sharing this land between us so that each benefits from the talents of the others.”

  Eber nodded. “I have something I would like to show you,” he said and reached over to remove the fur covering from the cauldron. “My warriors brought it to me.”

  When Riona saw the vessel she stood up in dismay. “Is my husband dead?” she cried.

  “Brocan is alive as far as I know,” the Milesian told her.

  “Then how did you manage to steal this from him?”

  “That is not important. The point is I now have this miraculous vessel. I possess some of your Draoi art. I have the power to feed my warriors endlessly without diminishing our supplies and livestock. I now possess the famed Cauldron of Plenty.”

  “This is not a Draoi vessel.” Cecht smiled. “This is a symbol granted to the King of the Fir-Bolg by the Druid Assembly. It has no Draoi about it.”

  “It produces whatever food one desires,” Eber protested. “I have witnessed this myself.”

  “Who told you this tale?” Riona laughed. “Its only value is the honor that goes with it. It represents the reputation of a king's generosity. Any who sit at his table are fed from the Cauldron of Plenty. This is a recognition of Brocan's hospitality.”

  “There is a Cauldron of Plenty,” the Danaan king went on, “but that resides with the Dagda, the Chief Druid of the Danaan folk. It is one of the four treasures my people rescued from the Islands of the West before they sank beneath the waves.”

  “Isleen showed me!” Eber spat. “You are lying. This is a trick to make me believe the cauldron is worthless. I know it can produce whatever food is called from it and I demand to know the secret.”

  “Isleen?” Cecht repeated. “She brought this cauldron to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is treachery of the worst kind,” the Fir-Bolg queen declared. “I cannot believe that one of our own people would do such a thing.”

  “She asked me which food I desired most,” Eber explained. “I requested roasted salmon. And there it was. Then she produced a finely flavored goose and last of all a thick beef broth.”

  “Isleen is a Seer,” the Danaan protested. “The Dagda himself does not have the knowledge to turn a ceremonial bronze cooking pot to such uses.”

  Riona touched the cauldron and examined the inside. “It is cold now and empty,” she noted. “Are you certain you did not imagine the whole episode?”

  “I am certain.”

  “This riddle is simply solved,” Cecht remarked. “Call for Isleen and we will see for ourselves. Where is she?”

  “My guards have been unable to locate her,” Eber admitted. “She has disappeared.”

  “You must return the vessel,” the Fir-Bolg queen urged him. “It was not yours to take. And if I know my husband, his rage will be overflowing already. There is little chance that we will negotiate any treaty if this matter is not resolved.”

  “A treaty?” the Milesian queried. “The sovereignty of the south is to be decided in battle. That is the challenge I placed before your husband. There was no mention on my part of any treaty.”

  “But a treaty makes much more sense,” Cecht replied. “Our peoples have skills which could be beneficial to each other.”

  “I will not be a party to any treaty. This land is mine by right of conquest.”

  “We shall see,” Riona sighed. “We shall see.”

  Chapter 24

  THE EASTERN HORIZON ADORNED ITSELF IN A MISTY blue-gray. At the very summit of the sacred hill at the foot of the Sliabh Mis mountains, around the spreading apple tree, ninety warriors of the Fir-Bolg stood shoulder to shoulder with twenty Danaans, awaiting an end to this adventure, one way or another. Dawn clouds announced good tidings for the defenders on this the appointed day of battle.

  Rain would surely soften the surface of the earth. Then the hillside would become slippery. By the time the Milesians were ready to storm the Fir-Bolg position they would doubtless find the going heavy. Even a light fall of rain would guarantee more than a few casualties among the attackers before they even reached their enemy.

  Brocan waited with a lightened heart as the drizzle turned to a downpour. Cloak wrapped close about his head, he blessed this change of fortune. For the first time since he accepted the battle challenge he was daring to hope for victory.

  “If I win the field today,” he told himself, “the Danaans will owe me a great debt. We will drive the invaders out of the south with their tails between their legs.”

  Pungent smoke from Fineen's fire caught at the back of the king's throat, distracting him from his thoughts. Brocan turned around and walked briskly over to the fireplace, stepping carefully to avoid the muddy patches of ground.

  The healer was stirring a great bronze cauldron not unlike the Cauldron of Plenty in its design. This one was smaller and burned black across the bottom from endless use. Fineen never seemed to have time to polish his cooking vessel properly.

  “Will the brew be ready on time?” the king asked casually, as if the answer didn't really matter to him.

  “Of course,” the healer replied in an injured tone. “Do you think I was up all night idly counting the stars? I was here with my ladle stirring the pot while you and your warriors slept soundly.”

  Brocan leaned over the pot, surprised at the small amount of liquid bubbling in the bottom.

  “Will there be enough for all my people?” he asked.

  “Enough and more.”

  “And you say this brew will keep all harm from my folk in battle?”

  “It will heal any who are injured. It will restore to life those who fall dead on the field. And it will prolong life, bestowing new vigor, sharpened senses and increased strength upon the healthy.”

  “We may not stand in need of it,” the king chortled. “The weather is on my side.”

  “You would not consider forgoing the brew?” Fineen asked in shock. “Your people have earned it. And it is freely given by the Danaan folk in recognition of your alliance with them.”

  “I've never taken charity from your folk,” Brocan snapped, mildly insulted by the healer's tone. “And my warriors don't need any Draoi tricks to help them stand against the foe. I don't believe this battle with the Milesians will be more frightening than the fight in the forest. If my warriors could defeat the very spirits of the air, then a handful of barbarians from across the sea will not bother them.”

  “If we defeat the Milesians here today,” Fineen countered, “the war will not end. They will not simply turn their backs and go home. They will continue to raid and harass the countryside until they wear us down. Do you want that?”

  “If I defeat them it will be a resounding victory,” Brocan stated confidently. “I won't leave them the strength to raid eggs from a wren's nest.”

  “The Druid Assembly spent one full cycle of the seasons planning for this fight,” the healer pressed. “They know we can't drive the enemy from Innisfail forever. Can't you see the wisdom in seeking a treaty? Don't you understand that this is the only way
to achieve an honorable peace?”

  “Honorable?” the king scoffed. “Druid trickery and potions. I don't see the honor in that.”

  “Your people will retain their lands.” Fineen shrugged. “They'll keep their own rulers. And they'll not be harangued by the invaders. All my folk and yours will withdraw behind the ancient veil which guards the Otherworld.”

  “Will we be ghosts like those spirits we battled in the forest?”

  “No,” the healer replied. “Those poor Fomor souls are disembodied creatures doomed to wander until they accept the next stage of existence. We will have life, free from sickness, pain or death.”

  “I wonder whether life would be worthwhile without those things,” Brocan mused.

  But his thoughts were cut short when a hand came down firm upon his shoulder. It was Fergus.

  “They're coming,” the veteran announced.

  “Are they alone?”

  “It seems so,” Fergus replied. “And Cecht is carrying the cauldron on his back.”

  “The cauldron?” Brocan hissed. “How in the name of Balor's Evil Eye did that Danaan get hold of the cauldron?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “And Riona is with him?”

  “Yes, my lord,” the veteran answered with bowed head. “They're walking hand in hand.”

  Brocan did not flinch at this piece of news. “I expected no less,” he said without any hint of emotion. “Let's go to the summit and wait for them. With this rain the Milesians won't start the fight before noon. We've plenty of time.”

  The king led the way to the place where he intended his warriors to stand. The two old friends sat down on their cloaks in the rain and watched as Cecht struggled up the muddy slope bearing the cauldron. Riona followed after, often helping the Danaan king to his feet when he slipped on the hillside. Brocan looked on patiently. His wife and his old enemy were still a long way from the top.

  “The Gaedhals will have as much trouble gaining these heights,” he stated to his steward. “We probably won't need the Danaans. I'll honor my obligation to Cecht. Though not perhaps in the manner he expects.”

  “And what will become of your wife?” Fergus inquired.