The Meeting of the Waters

by Caiseal Mor

  “I've just left the lough. All I set out to do has been accomplished. Now we can go about tearing their precious peace to shreds.”

  “To what end?” she grunted.

  “Are you not enjoying yourself?”

  “It was very entertaining,” Isleen admitted. “But I'm in danger of becoming bored with the petty affairs of these folk.”

  “Then we shall have to make things more interesting for you,” Lochie declared.

  “How?”

  “It's time we set to work on Dalan,” her companion informed her. “We must compel him to act on our behalf.”

  “How can we do that?”

  “The game has just begun, my dear friend.” Lochie smiled. “Now it's time for us to really cause some havoc. And we will continue to bring strife to this island until Dalan finds the way to set us free from our fate.”

  “We'll have to work hard to wear him down.” Isleen nodded, starting to feel a delicious thrill of excitement at the prospect.

  “It'll be fun. And we still have a wager to win.”

  “Aoife will marry the Danaan prince.” Isleen shrugged. “You've already won that bet.”

  “I can't in all honesty claim that,” Lochie admitted with a grin. “Anything could happen between them yet. Their fathers could hardly be considered to be the best of friends, and Brocan may need to marry her into the Milesian royal house if the safety of the Burren is to be guaranteed.”

  Isleen's eyes lit up with mischief and she smiled.

  “Now,” Lochie whispered like an excited child, “let's forget this nonsense for a while. Would you like a little game of Brandubh?”

  His companion laughed as she turned to hold him in her arms.

  “What a wonderful idea,” she sighed.

  Epilogue

  THINK ABOUT THIS, THEN I'LL LET YOU ALONE FOR A while. Wisdom is better than knowledge. An old Druid taught me that. And he should have known, he learned his lesson the hard way.

  The Watchers were cunning, there's no doubt. Mischievous, scheming, intelligent and ruthless. The least of their crimes was that they enticed the Milesians to Innisfail which brought on a terrible war.

  The coming of the Gaedhal distressed the Danaan kind and Fir-Bolg both. But the Watchers wanted a greater revenge on their ancient enemies. They had a far more subtle strategy in play.

  The Quicken Tree.

  Vengeful they were, like no other creature on earth, and that includes all of mortal kind. In equal measure they were cruel, callous and creative. They devised a manner in which to pass their own agony on to their old opponents.

  And, for all their wisdom and great learning, the Druid Assembly fell into the Watchers' trap. The bait was eternal life without sickness or pain. The trigger was the disaster of the Milesian invasion.

  No mortal tastes a hint of true pain until loneliness takes up residence in his soul. Not until he's lived long past his peers, or tarried far from his kindred for too long, does sorrow taint the spirit. But that torment is no more than a minor discomfort compared to what the Watchers suffered.

  I know something of the torture they endured.

  The first one hundred summers after the Quicken Brew I spent in joyful celebration of the bounties life may bring. The next hundred were slightly less enjoyable. The next hundred were tinged with discomfort in the spirit. And so on forever until my life has become a burden carried like a heavy stone lashed to my back.

  Without a task to keep one busy the mind fogs over, goes stale like a piece of wheat bread left forgotten on the shelf. Eventually thoughts become less frequent; memories rule the imagination, and a yearning fills the heart. I have no name for this longing of which I speak. I know not its source. And yet it rules me even now. Even in my Raven form.

  When the Watchers inspired the Dagda to use the Quicken Brew they understood their revenge would be a slow, agonizing affair. They observed the Danaans and the Fir-Bolg who had shared the brew. And they savored the steady decline which overtook so many. A fate worse than death. Unending life.

  The Milesians were but one stream issuing into the swirling lough. The Danaans and the Fir-Bolg were another. And the Watchers, they were Fomor who came from far-off times. I prefer to think the Watchers were in fact the instruments of a greater force which guided their hands, though they knew it not. There was a subtle design in all of these events that surely could not have been of their crafting. I would like to believe that Danu the Goddess of the Flowing Waters brought these folk together.

  Whatever the truth, four streams poured into Innisfail and at their confluence there was a confusing swirling whirlpool which only much later became tranquil again. The streams became a river which flows even today, though other tributaries have joined it since.

  There you have the first part of my story, named afterward in the story-poems as the Meeting of the Waters.

  CAISEAL M”R WAS BORN INTO A RICH TRADITION OF Irish storytelling and music. As a child he learned to play the brass-strung harp, carrying on a long family tradition. He spent several years collecting stories, songs and music of the Celtic lands during many visits to Ireland, Scotland and Brittany. He has a degree in performing arts from the University of Western Sydney and has worked as an actor, a teacher and a musician.