The King of Sleep (11 page)

“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 must 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.

Then a realization came to him like the sun peeping from behind a cloud to light a path for him.

He must try to be more like his sword and his shield. He would not weaken. He would do his duty as a warrior.

The champion sat forward again and scanned the lands around the Fir-Bolg settlement for any sign of life. A few farmers were out in the fields preparing to harvest their barley.

Further off toward the river some laughing women were driving their cows to fresh pasture. They were followed by a group of noisy playful children. Goll counted the cattle. There were twelve cows, a healthy number for so small a community. Elsewhere he noticed goats and long-horned sheep. A leather curragh was leaning up against the outer wall of the settlement.
Clearly these people had fisherfolk among them.

Just then Goll's attention was drawn to two men who appeared from behind a hill. They were carrying a curragh triumphantly above their heads. And they had their catch hanging between them. Goll's mouth watered at the thought of all that fresh fish baking by the fires in the warm houses. The fishermen put the curragh down by one house then went into a smaller building, which Goll guessed was their smoke house.

The warrior squinted as he tried to discern which building was the grain store. In the end he made a guess, then lay back down among the grasses to stare at the sky once more.

As his mind drifted off with the clouds Goll wondered what it would have been like to have been born into a farming family. His father, Morna the Fighter, was a legendary warrior in his day and a companion of old King Mil, father of Eber Finn.

If life had given him other chances, he told himself, he might have been content to work hard for his food and live among folk whose only care was for their children, their cattle and the coming winter. Perhaps instead of swordplay and spearcraft he might have learned to fish with a net.

Just then, Goll mac Morna heard the muffled whisper of his name not far away. The sound plucked him swiftly from his daydream.

“I'm over here!” he answered gruffly, not bothering to lower his voice. The Fir-Bolg were a long way off. They weren't going to hear him.