The Meeting of the Waters Read online

  Isleen screwed up her nose in disgust.

  “War is not a very subtle way to keep oneself amused.”

  “When dealing with mortals,” Lochie countered, “I have always found it best to be blunt and to the point. No room for subtlety with them. Most important of all, the quarrel is not of my doing.”

  “If it is not your quarrel, why bother?”

  “I learn a great deal observing mortals as they go about their business. Their behavior reminds me of my youth. And there is no better place to witness raw, unrestrained fear.”

  There was a pause. “I can't help myself,” Isleen admitted. “I know I should be able to restrain my desires. I know I should not indulge. But I simply have no control when it comes to witnessing mortal fear. I simply have to watch.

  “I will go with you, but just to observe your battle, nothing more. I won't commit to aiding you.”

  “Then let's be on our way,” Lochie urged. “There is all sorts of trouble brewing before evening and I don't want to miss any of it.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2000 by Caiseal Mór

  Published by arrangement with Simon & Schuster (Australia) Pty. Ltd.

  Originally published in Australia in 2000 by Simon & Schuster Australia

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Simon & Schuster (Australia) Pty. Ltd., 20 Barcoo St., East Roseville, NSW 2069 Australia

  ISBN-10: 0-7434-4433-7

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7434-4433-0

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://SimonSays.com

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Front cover illustration by Yvonne Gilbert

  For my Guardian Angel

  Acknowledgments

  I am extremely grateful to several people who gave such encouragement to me to write this novel. Selwa Anthony, my literary agent, has always been a believer in these novels and the tales I write. Without her support and friendship I would never have put a word down on paper in the first place. Thank you, Selwa, for changing my life.

  Julia Stiles has edited all my novels beginning with The Circle and the Cross. I thank you, Julia, for your magnificent patience in dealing with my often wild rambles.

  I would like to thank all at Simon & Schuster Australia but especially Angelo Loukakis who recognized the potential of the Watchers series and set about getting them published. I look forward to a strong partnership in the future.

  Finally I must thank all the readers who continue to write to me through e-mail and snail mail. These many letters convinced me to continue with this cycle of stories and reminded me constantly what a joy it is to share a tale with others. If you would like to write to me to share your opinions on my novels I may be contacted through my publisher or by e-mail at [email protected] or by following the links from my web page. The URL is: www.caiseal.net.

  May 2000

  Caiseal Mór

  Author's Note

  In the gentle glow of firelight an old man, his hands hard from a lifetime of tilling the soil, warmed himself against the winter. His eyes brightened as I opened a bottle and found a seat opposite him. He told me no one listened to his stories these days.

  By the time the whiskey was gone I had heard one or two of his tales, though I'm certain he kept the best stories to himself.

  Music and storytelling have been a part of my life since childhood. My grandmother was a talented tale-weaver who had a gift for meshing different stories together. Her style was to overlap her tales into one long legend that explained the origins of the Irish people.

  In the early 1980s I traveled to Ireland and was privileged to meet some very fine storytellers there. The legends and anecdotes I heard inspired me to record as much as possible. In my enthusiasm, I filled notebooks with wise and humorous sayings I picked up, as well as the general gist of some fascinating tales.

  When I returned to Australia I put the notes away and got on with earning a degree in the arts. It was ten years before I looked at those scribblings again. By that time I had a much better knowledge of folklore and the storyteller's craft and a fascination with all the characters who appear as the supporting cast of the great dramatic sagas.

  It crossed my mind that I might like to write a novel. Then by a remarkable chance, almost as if it had happened in one of those old stories, I met a mentor who would become my literary agent, Selwa Anthony. She suggested I write a story based on some of the tales I had collected.

  That was how the Watchers began.

  September 2001

  Caiseal Mór

  Prologue

  I MUST WARN YOU FROM THE OUTSET. RAVENS HAVE LONG memories. So tread lightly with me or you'll finish up the worse for it. And don't be thinking any threat I offer is an idle one. I never waste my breath on empty vows, nor do I fritter my life away with fools.

  I've always kept close counsel with myself. I've studied well the skill of staying silent. For I've heard it said the one who speaks with many folk may gain a trove of knowledge. But the one who knows himself is ever the wiser of the two.

  I don't share your love of books—all pretense and pretty phrases. Vellum leather is too precious to squander on the pages of a gospel. A small missal of cowhide could keep me fed throughout the winter if I rationed it aright. The tales within better nourish my body than my intellect. I care not for the wit, or want of it, inked out upon each leaf. I'm suspicious of the written word, even more distrustful of the scribe.

  But I know the time has come to briefly set my misgivings aside. I'll share with you what I recall so at least the story won't depart this earth along with me. I would speak to you of the old days before I journey on. For the past weighs heavy on my spirit. My thoughts are weary. Soon enough all worry will wash away in the cool gray depths of the Well of Forgetfulness.

  But if you would listen to me now, I'll weave my tale into a warm cloak and fold it round your soul at Samhain tide. Let your heart be a silver Cup of Welcoming and I'll fill it with the mead brew of storytelling.

  I remember everything. That's to say I don't recall if there's a part I've forgotten. Perhaps I've misplaced a memory here and there, but if so, details likely weren't important.

  So where shall I begin? Shall I tell you something of myself?

  I'm a bird of the green fields, the smooth rolling hills and the haunted forests. I'm a lover of the cold ocean spray. My friends are many. Some choose to dwell under the seething frozen ice floes; others build their bright palaces beneath the dark moist earth.

  I'm an ancient one. I've seen bright steel flash upon the battlefield. I've heard the woeful voices of the war-fallen. I've witnessed ten thousand whispered prayers, as many mumbled curses, and countless anguished pleas for forgiveness. Only the Raven kind really listen with any interest to the dying words of a warrior.

  In my long life seas have grown up from trickling springs. Mountains were transformed to gentle hills. And the once wide woods of the west were worn down to barren rocks. Through all those changes the seasons didn't touch my body. Age has not triumphed here. But there are no more like me. I'm the last.

  Across the passing generations I've nurtured an appreciation for my soul's enforced solitude. These days my isolation is a joy. I guard it as I
might a helpless child. And avoid all other living beings whenever possible.

  I've crafted a cunning mask so as to seem content whenever I am out among the Raven kind. I can't avoid their ways if the Queen demands my counsel at her Samhain Court. So I tolerate their company. I'm courteous to them all; chattering black-hearted bitter souls they are. I'm generous to most, despite the malignant misgivings some still hold of me. I love a few as if they were my own kinfolk. But I wouldn't trust a feather of any one of them.

  Ravens are carrion creatures. Count your fingers when I'm done, for I am also one of them. All scavengers know that each beating heart must take its final rest. Each bright eye will, in the end, glass over. Even you will one day cease to be.

  A Raven need only wait in patience for the spirit to depart. Then Death brings us our supper. I too will soon surrender to his hospitality. So pay attention to me while I retain the power of speech.

  In the days before I took on the fearful features of the black birds of battle I dwelt in the fortresses of the Fir-Bolg and the Tuatha De Danaan. I sat at the fireside with my siblings, soaking up legends in the same way an oatcake soaks up soup. The old stories are as much a part of me as bone, claw and feather. In my youth I sang songs about the Islands of the West. I chanted ancestral prayers first raised to the heavens when my mother's people left their home to seek out this land called Innisfail.

  I was once a mortal, you see, ere enchantment bound me. And in my youth before these damned feathers sprouted I took a small part in the calamitous events of the age. I was still young when the ships of your people breached the Ninth Wave. I recall one Druid then who told me your ancestors were as irresistible as a giant wall of water rolling in from over the horizon.

  No force could stop the Gaedhals, he reckoned. No wise Draoi-Craft, no chant, no spell-song, no poem would ever turn them away. Destiny decreed these folk must one day come. Fate had filled their sails to send them here.

  The spirit of Danu still walked amongst us then when I was a youth of seventeen summers, eager to take up weapons and make my mark in the world. Now the Goddess of the Flowing Waters has withdrawn with all her kindred. She's but a half-remembered myth. Your folk don't speak her name or sing her praises. They desecrate her wells, her streams, her holy mountains. They hold her sacred places to be haunted.

  I could talk all night on the infamy and treachery of the Gaedhal. No treaty could ever hold them to their promises. All they understood was the sword. I still can't imagine how they thought themselves honorable.

  Don't be too proud of your people. They'll turn soon enough to dust. Your voice, even the language you speak, will surely be forgotten by and by. But this tale will live, all the more surely because I've never told the whole of it to anyone until now. So listen carefully. Remember all you hear tonight for it will not be repeated.

  I am called Lom-dubh. I was once a man of the Fir-Bolg. Then I grew feathers, claws and a beak. And I became a Raven.

  Now at last my soul is preparing for its final flight.

  Chapter 1

  ON AN ICE-BLUE WINTER NIGHT FULL-MOONED AND frosty, when well-meaning folk were huddled by their firesides, a spirit of the Otherworld awoke. Roused by the scent of fear carried on a chill wind he emerged from his sanctuary in the depths of the earth.

  Around the bare rocky hills a distant wretched cry echoed desperately. A delicious shiver of excitement drove off the last vestiges of the creature's long sleep. His mind now sharply alert, the ghostly shadow tarried at the entrance to the stony hill he called home and begged for another sign.

  A horse neighed wildly on the far side of the forest. This dark spirit hummed with satisfaction. His senses drank deep after cold confinement within the ancient mound of rock. Eyes once shallow sparkled cool and green like two emeralds dropped in the bottom of a clear well.

  For countless generations this ethereal creature had haunted the west of Innisfail. He knew every field, every valley, every lonely cairn dedicated to the Old Ones. In his time he had wandered the darkest places deep beneath the earth and the lofty mountains kissed by the clouds.

  His nostrils twitched and his eyes shone bright as he tucked in his head and turned slowly around toward the fields. The midnight walker stiffened, straightened up and smiled. If he'd had a heart it would have been beating hard against his chest. A tremble took hold of him as he tracked down the disturbance that had interrupted his rest.

  Through hard-driven snow a mighty drafthorse thudded down toward a stand of sturdy oak trees. Sleet and frost flew about as the animal bellowed in dismay. On the horse's back a thin weakling of a lad clung hopelessly to the mane to save himself from falling. He was only a golden-haired boy too frightened to call out and too unsteady to bring his mount to a halt. His frail frame was buffeted about on the back of the bare unsaddled animal like a sack of oats. It was all he could do to stop himself sliding off into the snow.

  The spirit-walker watched in absolute silence. His prayers had been answered, and now all his dreams would surely come to pass. This was the moment the creature of the dark hills had so long awaited.

  Suddenly the panicked horse charged toward a small mound of snow-covered rocks. Then just as abruptly the animal leapt high just two steps off disaster. The young rider's hold weakened as his mount lurched forward on the other side. His hands ached from exertion but the will to live was still very strong in him. By some miracle when the horse came down the lad had kept his seat.

  Far behind him in the night the young horseman heard a girl call out his name. He struggled to reply but he was too breathless to speak. His head was swimming and his mind clouded as the horse turned round again to charge the trees. It was clear the animal meant to dislodge him by dragging him through low branches.

  Foam streaming from its mouth, the horse ran on, making for the first great oak. The boy clung tight to the animal's neck and whimpered. In that instant, halted by an unseen threat, the mount stopped still in its tracks, and cried out in a frantic, almost human, voice. Somehow the shaken boy managed to stop himself from slipping into the snow. The horse was perfectly motionless now, breathing wild-eyed steam in the wintry air. It grunted from the back of its throat.

  The lad made a move to dismount, but as he shifted position his sharp eyes caught a glimpse of something black flitting from beneath the trees. He did not have time to see clearly what was moving swiftly toward him but his heart filled with a dread such as he had never known. At last he found the breath to call out.

  “Help!” It was a soul-chilling shriek.

  The horse reared up, sharing the lad's terror, eyes bulging with fright. It twisted its body in one last attempt to shake off the rider, lost its footing on the icy ground and fell hard on its side. All this happened so fast the boy had no chance to jump clear. In moments the heavy animal had rolled over on top of his thin frame.

  A loud gut-wrenching crack, a painful gush of air and the poor lad was pinned beneath the fallen beast. Then just as easily as it had stumbled, the horse was on its feet again, pounding away into the night.

  A few short gasps, noisy, strained and desperate. A shadow passed across the snow. The lad looked up. The spirit halted not far off and waited.

  “Fearna!” A girl's voice, muffled by the night, drifted across the moonlit fields. The Otherworldly creature was unmoved.

  Helpless in the snow the boy uttered a dozen feeble urgent cries. He saw his own breath clouding in front of him and through the steam he glimpsed a stranger dressed in black.

  “Where are you?” the girl wept in the distance.

  There was defeat in her voice. Fearna heard it plainly.

  Among the exposed roots of the oak grove the young rider was already beyond an answer. His lips moved slightly as they formed her name but there was no strength left to make a sound. Fearna frowned as he coughed. His mouth was full of snow and blood. A shudder shook him, then the last breath left his body and the steam abruptly ceased.

  The spirit-watcher waited for a moment l
onger, searching for any sign of life. Satisfied there was none, he strode directly over to where the cold boy lay on the soft white shroud of winter. There he knelt down beside the still form where it lay partly concealed in the shadows of the mighty oaks.

  “Fearna!” came the cry once more.

  The creature turned a nose to the breeze and sniffed, instantly judging the girl and her brother were a good distance away. To be sure the stranger scanned the line of snowy hills and the edge of the distant forest. Reassured, he turned his attention back to the young corpse before him.

  The crisp white ground all round was stained red with blood. Frigid air quickly turned Fearna's skin to gray. The stranger bent over to make sure there were no stirrings of life. He caught the stench of mead on the lad's clothes and recoiled slightly.

  “Well, my dear Fearna,” the creature said in a low, rasping voice, “it seems you have not ended your life in an honorable way. What will your father say?”

  The black spirit laughed gruffly under his breath.

  “Your death has not been in vain, if that is any consolation to you. Your passing will enable me to rebuild my fortunes and save myself from an eternity of isolation and misery.”

  The creature turned his head sharply, senses alert, like a wild animal keeping watch for hunters. It was some moments before he relaxed and regarded the corpse once more.

  “I thank you for your sacrifice,” he added sincerely. “And I beg you to forgive me for taking advantage of your misfortune. But this is an opportunity I simply could not pass by. I have been waiting so long for this chance.”