The King of Sleep Page 8

  The unintelligible muttering of the spring water dancing over the rocks put all care from the Brehon and he could feel himself gradually slipping into a dream trance.

  Once in a while his conscious mind struggled to rally itself into readiness again. But there was a blackness that engulfed his senses. He had no fight left in him. His body was too weary from the journey. His spirit was free to drift up toward the treetops.

  Just as his heart settled into a slow, steady, sleepy rhythm, Dalan crossed the mysterious threshold into trance. His spirit was free of the flesh and a bright strange world opened to his imagination. The next thing the Brehon knew he was wandering down roads at once familiar and frightening. And with every step he swore to himself he would not travel unprepared to this place again.

  Led by nagging curiosity and wonder that his exhaustion had dropped away, he moved on through the Otherworldly landscape. In dreams such as this, time runs differently. Seasons may seem to pass in the span it takes the dreamer to draw a single breath.

  At length Dalan’s meandering soul came to the summit of a little rounded hill and there on the other side was an astounding sight. Before him was the most amazing and unusual tree he’d ever seen, either in this world or the other. The wonder of it snatched his breath away. A gorgeous green luminescence lit the air all about its branches, creating a thin, shimmering cloak of dull light. All the grass about its feet lay bathed in this enticing glow.

  Dalan sensed a strong spirit in the tree, an old wise soul sharply aware of everything and surely mindful of his incursion into its sanctuary.

  As the Brehon moved cautiously closer to the bottom of the hill his eyes widened in awe at what was revealed to him. The trunk of this tree was enormous, larger than anything he could have imagined. The whole surface was covered in a thick, scaly brown skin.

  Dalan walked around it, counting out his paces as he went. He put his foot down at fifty and shook his head in disbelief. He’d never known a tree to grow so large.

  In the next second he found his attention entirely captured by the elegant shape of the leaves, the little red fruit and the white flowers. The whole tree gently moved in time with the fluttering breeze.

  The Brehon frowned when he realized he couldn’t name the tree. He would have said this was a rowan but it was too high and wide. Its branches twisted about in a contorted shape he had never seen before in that species.

  With a trembling hand Dalan reached out, plucked a flower and held it to his face to feel the softness of the petals against his skin. He smelled the scent of rowan stronger than he could ever recall. Then he took a berry between his fingers and, with great reverence for the wonder contained within, broke it open with his fingernails. Inside was hidden a star shape with six points. This was confirmation enough for him.

  “Rowan,” Dalan declared.

  “Indeed it is a rowan,” a woman replied, and the Brehon wasn’t in the least startled to hear another voice.

  He turned his head in a slow, dreamy movement to look for her. But all he saw, all that filled his field of vision, were two dark, wet enticing eyes beckoning to him.

  Dalan felt the stirring of a passion deep within his being. A craving came over him such as he hadn’t felt since he was a younger man. And for all his learning, for all his mastery of the poet’s art and the musician’s craft, he could find no word to describe this sensation.

  The woman’s smile was immediately comforting. Her face recalled to him all the folk he truly loved in this life. Her hand beckoned him closer with a gentle, calming gesture. The Brehon took a step toward the woman. The shadows began to lengthen, heralding the approach of night. And above in the darkening sky a bright star shone out.

  The first star. The Evening Star. She who watches over all on Earth.

  “Who are you?” Dalan asked, his mouth dry with anticipation.

  The woman laughed. It wasn’t a mocking sound but one of mirthful, childlike teasing. And there was such an innocence and purity in it that the Brehon could not help but join her chorus of joy.

  So together they stood laughing with each other long after tears had filled the Brehon’s eyes. In those moments Dalan could have believed all the cares of the world had dropped away from his spirit. He forgot fear. His consciousness was filled with only light, warmth and hope for the future. Nothing else mattered but the delight which overwhelmed his senses.

  When the laughter passed, Dalan’s heart still thumped cheerfully in his breast. His skin tingled with pleasure. The subtle green glow around the tree intensified, demanding the Brehon take notice of it. But he could look only on the form of the most beautiful woman he had ever met.

  Her long, dark green cloak flowed over her body like the water running over the rocks from the spring into the pool. Her hair was as white as her skin, contrasting sharply with the deep dark blue wells of her eyes.

  Dalan frowned as he struggled to recognize her. He was certain he had met her many times in this fantastic vision-world. But he had unaccustomed difficulty recalling her name.

  “Curse my feeble memory,” he muttered to himself.

  She smiled at him as if she were indulging a little child who was trying to learn a new skill. “You have no need of recollections here,” she told him in a voice that was like a sweet humming sigh. “We are beyond the realm of thoughts, actions and deeds. Don’t be surprised if some things you hold in your memory refuse to come to mind.”

  Dalan grunted. His forehead wrinkled as he listened to her familiar tones.

  “I am Cuimhne,” she told him. “I brought you once to the Stones of the Watchers.”

  “The Watchers?” Dalan repeated in a daze of confused concern. “Are they here?”

  “No.”

  “Then why have you brought me to this place?”

  “You came of your own free will. No one summoned you. No one expected you. I’ve been sent to watch over you while you are here and to see to your well-being.”

  The mention of the Watchers reminded Dalan that he had a duty to perform. They were the reason he had traveled to this spring in the forest.

  “I’d like to return to where my body lies resting,” the Brehon told her. “There’s someone I should meet there. Can you show me the way?”

  Cuimhne nodded and took Dalan by the hand. Her strong reassuring presence enveloped him in love and care and he was overwhelmed with gratitude. Suddenly he was a child again and this woman was a doting parent.

  “Do not fear,” she whispered. “I am with you.”

  Then together they rose up in the air like steam rising from a bubbling cauldron. To Dalan’s delight they flew straight up into the sky and soon he was looking down on the magnificent rowan tree. It was no less awesome from high above.

  In less time than it takes to draw ten breaths they covered the vast distance Dalan had walked in his dream state. On the way they passed high mountains, sweeping valleys edged with more strange trees, and far-off silvery rivers. Below them they could see stone settlements and drifting herds of cattle grazing contentedly in the fields.

  At length Cuimhne led the Brehon back down through the treetops toward the Earth. Dalan clearly observed his own body far below, lying upon his black cloak of Raven feathers by the pond.

  “You mustn’t travel to the dream land lightly,” Cuimhne warned him as she set him down. “You must learn to know when is the best time for such a journey and when it is safer to stay at home. The Faidh is a terrible gift when it can’t be reined in.”

  But Dalan wasn’t listening. He remembered he had a question for her. “You told me the story of the Watchers once,” he began urgently.

  “I did.”

  “But you didn’t tell me how I should rid the land of their evil.”

  Cuimhne laughed and hovered closer. “They’re not evil!” she cried in amusement. “They’re the Watchers.”

  “But you warned me they were dangerous!”

  “So they are,” Cuimhne nodded, suddenly serious. “But they will
not take matters into their own hands unless the situation is desperate. Their power derives from the evil they inspire in others. They have certain skills of enchantment which they use to great effect but the most perilous art they practice is that of persuasion. Through the use of subtle argument they spread havoc among their enemies.”

  “And are they still abroad in the land?”

  “Of course they are. The one who should be chasing them down is sleeping by the side of a pool. They won’t be captured while he dallies and indulges himself in the Faidh.”

  Dalan looked to the ground in shame. “I have not been able to discover a way to deal with the Watchers,” he admitted.

  “Then you had better commence a wider search for the answer to your riddle. It’s no use wasting the hours with fruitless rest. There’ll be time enough for that later. One day you will be free to sleep your life away, but not until you find a way to deal with the Watchers. If you falter, great changes will come upon this land and Innisfail may go the same way as the Islands of the West.”

  “Where will I find the answers I seek?”

  “Ask the right person and they will be able to tell you,” she chided. “How will you ever find anything out if you don’t ask the right questions?”

  As she finished speaking she began to float slowly skyward out of his sight. The Brehon watched, still awe-struck by her beauty. Her cloak was no more than a tiny dot of green high above when a thought struck him.

  “Do you know what can be done about the Watchers?”

  But Cuimhne was already beyond his hearing. His voice fell empty back to Earth.

  Just then the Brehon heard a noise nearby that startled him. It was the spitting crackle of a fire. All around him was an orange glow, and on the rocky outcrop which jutted out above the spring there was a dark shape he had not noticed before.

  A stranger.

  In a rushing dizzying spin Dalan felt his spirit drawn back into his body. In another moment his lungs filled with air and he sat bolt upright on his cloak of feathers. The heavy sensation which accompanied his return to his cold body sobered him a little.

  For a moment the Brehon was bewildered but then he was on his knees, head jutted forward, eyes squinted down to tiny slits in their effort to focus. Despite the darkness Dalan was certain he saw the dark shape move slightly.

  “Who’s there?” he ventured cautiously.

  His voice echoed back to him as before but there was no reply. The figure edged into the shadows. Dalan listened for any sound that might identify this stranger but the constant trickle of the spring frustrated him. He couldn’t hear anything but its senseless babble.

  The Brehon leaned forward, straining all his senses. He asked himself why anyone would hide themselves in such a manner. The only answer he could think of did not reassure him.

  All the while the stranger sat above and across from him on the rock Dalan could feel eyes staring back down at him. He felt his hair shiver on end with fear and he shuddered.

  “Am I still in the dream state?” he asked himself aloud.

  Suddenly the stranger leaned forward into the light so that he could see her face. Dalan recognized the young woman instantly. Her skin was no longer pale and the wisps of hair that framed her dark eyes were changed to jet black. But he would have recognized her features anywhere.

  “Cuimhne?” he stuttered. “Is that you?”

  The woman raised an eyebrow. Then she leaned against her staff and with a gentle grace used it to help herself stand up.

  “I am called Sorcha,” she told him once she was on her feet. “This is my spring. You must be Dalan. I’ve been expecting you.”

  Goll mac Morna, chief warrior of the southern Gaedhals and leader of the Fianna, sat on the green windswept ridge and looked out toward the rounded hilltop a thousand paces away. Wattle and mud walls surrounded the summit and the circular houses clustered closely together. The style of building clearly marked this as a Fir-Bolg settlement.

  Seven small huts lay within the walls atop the manmade hill which bulged out of the surrounding fields like a half-buried river stone. The Fir-Bolg word for these isolated little communities was rath.

  With quiet excitement Goll surveyed the far-off hill, determined to discover the purpose each building served. He decided there were four main households, each with their own low round cottage. That left three buildings, any of which could be a grain store or a shelter for the cattle. Cows were cared for well by the Fir-Bolg. Often their shelters were as fine as the houses meant for the tribespeople.

  As he watched for signs of life Goll reached out through the swaying grasses until his fingers touched the rough surface of his fine leather shield. It was a wondrous piece of workmanship and his constant companion. He caressed the black, hardened hide, silently invoking the spirit of the bull that had provided it.

  Then his hand moved on to search out another friend who lay nearby. When his fingers felt a cold smooth flat surface, the warrior felt greatly reassured. He sighed as he gently stroked the long polished steel sword which lay in the grass naked, free of its sheath.

  This blade had hung from his waist for nine summers and served three generations of his family. No blacksmith made such swords any more. It was hefty, pitted and capable of cutting through a heavy bale of hay with three strokes. The younger warriors wouldn’t touch such a weapon. The wielding of it required great skill and constant practice. Only the older Fian bothered to turn their discipline to this style of blade.

  Goll, son of Morna, pronounced his own name to himself under his breath, then he added the new titles he had just been granted by his war-leader Eber. The honors still sounded strange to his ears.

  Fer-Gniae, Aire-Échta. Gearbha Sliabh Mis.

  King’s Champion, Lord of Slaughter and Guardian of the Mountain of Mis.

  His fingers searched for a piece of dried beef in the pouch at his belt. When the warrior found a narrow slice of it he put it in his mouth and chewed slowly, considering what these accolades might mean under the surface.

  The salty flavor of the leathery meat burned his tastebuds. He was tired of winter rations. Dried beef and travelers’ biscuits were all the king would give to the roving bands of Fian who patrolled the kingdom. A warrior’s lot was not always a comfortable one.

  This meat was lean and easily stored. It was light and took up only a little space in a fighter’s pack. Well-salted beef was filling, nourishing and if boiled up with some wild onions and herbs made a hearty broth. But, in time, such a monotonous diet left the bowels loosened and the warrior craving the food of a farmer.

  Smoke seeped through the thatches on the houses in the rath. Goll knew there was food cooking at each hearth. He imagined the honeyed oatcakes, herbs, butter, cheeses and vegetables placed around the fire in their pots or laid out ready to be eaten.

  “It’d suit me to have a fine hot meal right now,” Goll grumbled to himself.

  He spat out the fibrous residue of dry beef, lay back on the soft grass and stared into the blue afternoon sky. This season marked the thirtieth summer since Goll had been born into the world. By the standards of some he was as yet inexperienced, but the younger warriors in his band thought of him as a battle-hardened veteran. They looked up to him as teacher, mentor and guardian brother.

  Goll laughed half-heartedly to himself. He often felt he was just an old man in a youthful body. His spirit was tired of fighting, of training for war, of playing out the strategies of the battlefield until they came to him as easily as his own name. Yet what else was he to do?

  War, as his father had always said, was the only honorable pursuit for a strong youth lacking a talent for poetry. The Druids taught through their stories that each person must accept their place in the world. The duty of every able-bodied soul was to live out a life full of passion for the talents they had been gifted with at birth.

  “I was granted the skills of a warrior,” he said aloud, as if to reassure himself that he was following the right path. “So I mu
st make war or live without purpose, passion and satisfaction.”

  The King of the Southern Gaedhals had bestowed on him a great honor in these pretty titles, he reasoned. It was his obligation to live up to the accolades. Yet Goll mac Morna still could not entirely understand how he had earned such praise. Suspicion turned his lip into a sneer of distrust as he considered Eber’s motives in bestowing such flattery.

  Goll flicked his long brown hair from his face, then tied it back with a strip of fine leather cord. When that was done he searched in the pouch attached to his belt until he found a small drinking flask. Soon every corner of his mouth was tingling with warming honey-brewed mead. He swallowed the measure and, satisfied for the moment, carefully replaced the stopper in the top of the bottle.

  Goll shook his head to clear his thoughts. He could not see the worth of a king’s champion when there was no fighting to be done. There wasn’t any work for a hardened warrior like himself now the conquest of the country was complete. Peace was no comfort to him. And yet he was tired of fighting.

  He reached down to caress his sword again, touching it as tenderly as he might a lover. This sword was made for one purpose only—killing.

  The warrior-champion turned away from the weapon and his eyes fell on the magnificent shield which, like the sword, his father had also once carried. This thick round shield was an awe-inspiring piece of leather craftsmanship. According to his father it had taken three seasons for the master shieldmaker to create this marvel.

  In the first season the cowhide was soaked in water steeped with oak bark. In the second season the cleaned skin was hammered into shape upon a wooden mould-board carved with ridges and runnels. The leather was pounded day after day until every contour was perfectly formed. In the third season the shield was carefully dried in a house specially constructed for the purpose. By the end of the process it was a toughened board of sturdy workmanship that would withstand the blow of any weapon. It would not split under a sharpened blade nor crack from the thrust of a spear point. And Goll knew that as long as he kept the shield well rubbed with beeswax it would never let him down in a fight.