The King of Sleep (17 page)

“I've never asked her,” Sorcha shrugged as she placed a steaming bowl in Dalan's hand. “Would you like some oatcakes?”

He nodded.

“They'll be a little while yet. I've just laid them out to bake among the coals.”

The Raven stretched her wings out, opened her mouth wide and yawned.

“I've never seen a bird do that before,” the Brehon commented. “I've seen dogs yawn, and cats, but never a Raven.”

“When you were a child, weren't you taught that it's rude to stare?” Sorcha snapped. “That bird lives with me. She's my companion. If I knew her name I probably wouldn't be able to pronounce it to her satisfaction. It doesn't interest me. Only our kind are concerned with naming things. All the other inhabitants of this Earth use other means to identify each other.”

“Yours is an unusual name,” the Brehon ventured, trying to make up for his rudeness. “I've never heard it before.”

“It's an ancient name. It has been in my family for generations.”

“Do you live here alone?” he asked, his curiosity running unchecked.

“I just told you. That bird lives here with me. Are you deaf? This is her house as much as it is mine.”

There was frustration in the young woman's voice so Dalan did not pursue the conversation. And he promised himself he would not bring the matter up with her again. Everyone, he reasoned, is entitled to their privacy. A good guest doesn't see or hear everything in the house of his host.

The Brehon put the rim of the bowl to his lips and gently sipped the broth. It was warming and thick. And the flavoring of earthy herbs cooked into the soup reminded him of the home he had been born to and the life he'd led before he took the Druid vows.

Sorcha finished her meal quickly then ran her fingers around the bowl and licked them clean. When she had eaten every last tiny morsel she went to the water barrel, dunked the vessel in and drew it out again brimming. The bowl was drained in a few moments and she belched loudly. Dalan was a little disconcerted by this, accustomed as he was to the polite manners of King Brocan's court.

“The cakes won't be long,” Sorcha told him. “But I'm too tired to eat any more. I'm off to bed. I must be up before the dawn to attend to the rituals at the spring. Then I'll come with you wherever you go in search of the Watchers.”

“Will you not share more of your knowledge with me?” the Brehon begged.

“Bye and bye,” she yawned. “But I'll do it in the bright light of morning as we share the road. I've no mind to upsetting the restless spirits of this wood with such talk. I ask that you honor my wishes and ask no more of me while we are under the protection of the trees.”

She pointed to a pile of furs near to where he sat. “You sleep over there. I make it a rule never to share my bed with strangers. So if you get cold in the night you'll have to blow up the fire.”

Dalan nodded.

“Rest well,” she said finally, then lay down on her own furs, wrapped herself tightly and rolled away from the fire to sleep.

Dalan put down his bowl and stopped eating, compelled by the many thoughts buzzing around in his head. For a long while he stared blankly into the fire. At length he looked up and stared at the shapeless form of Sorcha breathing deeply under her furs.

Of all the wonders he had witnessed that evening none struck him so much as this woman's resemblance to his spirit guide. Her face, her eyes, her voice, even her turn of phrase were identical to Cuimhne's.

Suddenly the Druid woman stirred and rolled over. She raised herself on one elbow and said, “Do you know how difficult it is to sleep with someone watching you?”

“I'm sorry,” muttered Dalan.

“What were you thinking?”

The Brehon coughed with embarrassment. “It's so strange that I recognize your face.”

“I find it unnerving too, especially as Cuimhne chose to present himself to me in your form,” she agreed. “But we've surely never crossed paths before.”

“Other than in my dreams,” he replied wistfully.

Sorcha sat up and looked him directly in the eye, unsure whether he was serious. And then she burst out laughing.

“You'll have to do better than that, gentle Brehon, if you want to get into bed with me,” she spluttered in unrestrained amusement. “It's times such as this I'm glad I was never struck with the Faidh. It weakens the mind, to be sure. I feel much safer under the sway of the Frith. At least I know I am in control. When I call on the Frith I am the master of my own fate.”

Then, still giggling, she turned over without hearing his stuttered protests. When the laughter passed she pulled the furs about her head, wiped the tears of mirth from her cheeks and in muffled tones wished her guest a pleasant, restful sleep.

Dalan felt his cheeks flushing with shame. She had mistaken his meaning, he told himself as he took the cakes from the fire. But his appetite was gone. No one had laughed at something he'd said for a long time. Everyone took him so seriously. But a voice within whispered, “Perhaps it is you who take yourself too seriously, Dalan mac Math.”

Unsettled by this possibility, the Brehon wrapped
his furs about him and huddled close beside the fire. The bird was still looking down at him with a hard, hateful glare. So he rolled over to face the wall. With his eyes turned away from the Raven he relaxed a little, though sleep evaded him for a long time.

At length, exhausted by the struggle not to think of Cuimhne or the Druid woman, he closed his eyes. But Dalan couldn't rest. All he could think of was the forest round about. And when he remembered that the woods were peopled with savage idols carved of oaken wood, he shuddered to his bones.

A
FTER SUNSET
F
INEEN THE
H
EALER ROSE FROM THE
fireside and went outside to greet the evening star. His thoughts were somewhat clouded by the mead cup so he stood for a few moments at the door of his lodgings and tried to clear his head.

Whenever he and Sárán stayed at Aillwee, the poets' house was given to them to share with any other Druids who chanced to be visiting the Fir-Bolg. It was one of the better shelters in the settlement, certainly finer than King Brocan's own hall.

At length the healer cast his eyes to the ground and sighed. He was born of Danaan blood and now more than ever he felt like a stranger among the Fir-Bolg folk. He thought on the circumstances that had brought him to Aillwee while the rest of his kinfolk had retreated into the Otherworld.

Fineen had been a young man studying the healing arts when he had met a young Fir-Bolg woman who had ignited a passion deep in his soul. Sadly, his affections were never returned but his broken heart was soothed by the hospitality and kindness of her kinfolk, and he found himself fascinated by this strange race.

As he thought back now he was surprised to find he could not even recall the young woman's name. He had to laugh. After a lifetime's experience he understood he had been led to her so that he would one day fulfil his destiny with the Fir-Bolg.

Few of his kindred had ever bothered to study these people, but Fineen had devoted his life to learning all he could about their ways. He spent his winters among the Fir-Bolg, delving into their legends, examining their laws and customs. He built up a great assortment of herbs, tinctures and natural oils derived from Fir-Bolg tradition. Before the time of the Quicken Brew his Danaan colleagues had often drawn on his collection when searching for some new remedy in times of famine or disease.

Fineen had even gone so far as to learn old Fir-Bolg songs that had fallen out of fashion. But for all his learning, for all his ardent study and patient service to their people, he had to admit something to himself. He didn't understand any of them. Least of all their king, Brocan. He was just shaking his head in amusement at this when the king strode past him headed toward the caves.

The healer was quite surprised to see Brocan again so soon. The evening shadows were lengthening and it would soon be dark.

“Are you going back into the Aillwee?” Fineen asked, and Brocan shrugged his shoulders at the question.

“I am.”

“I'll walk with you if you like,” the healer offered.

“I'd be happy to have you along,” he assured Fineen with a sudden change of tone. “Indeed, I was going to invite you.”

“Did you leave something at the caves this afternoon?” the Druid asked, taking step by the old war-leader's side.

Brocan turned his head and frowned as if he didn't understand. Then the healer's meaning seemed to dawn on him and he laughed. “No. I'm going back to take another look at something.”

“What might that be?” Fineen inquired.

“A chamber I stumbled on in the dark,” Brocan explained.

There was a hesitation in his words the healer had never heard before, even in times of great excitement. The voice almost didn't fit the king at all. Fineen decided he must have witnessed something quite remarkable.

“What's so special about this chamber?”

King Brocan stopped dead in his tracks, seemingly trying to cobble words together to describe his experience. The healer had never seen Brocan so distracted and upset. It was almost as if he were looking on the face of a stranger.

Finally the Fir-Bolg king put a hand to Fineen's
blue tunic, grasped the linen garment and pulled him close so no one else would hear. “You'll have to wait until I show you.”

“Very well,” the healer nodded, trying to conceal his concern for Brocan.

Before Fineen had straightened his tunic the king set off again toward the caves. Even for someone of such an unpredictable nature, Brocan was behaving in a very odd manner.

“I've thought about all you said earlier,” the healer offered.

Brocan grunted in reply.

“You may be right,” Fineen added. “I hope you'll accept my apology.”

The king stopped in his tracks and turned to face the Danaan Druid, an uncharacteristic light in his expression.

“Good,” he nodded. “Splendid. I accept your apology and we'll say nothing more about the matter.”

“As you wish,” the healer frowned. “Shouldn't you be resting?” he asked, concerned by the obvious state of tension Brocan was in. “Surely you can show me this chamber in the morning.”

“It's always dark in the depths of the Earth,” the king replied, striding off once more.

“I'm rather tired myself,” the healer protested, struggling to keep up.

“Come with me,” Brocan barked.

“Are you certain it's safe to go into the caves so soon after sunset?”

“Who knows? Perhaps it is. Perhaps it isn't,” the king snapped, hurrying ahead.

“I don't think we should go in,” Fineen called after him. “Surely it would be better to wait for the new light of day.”

Brocan halted again by the entrance to the Aillwee. He picked up a few rocks, seemingly to examine them while waiting for the healer to catch up. As Fineen approached, catching his breath, the king turned around and threw a stone at him.

The missile flew wide, never really having any hope of hitting him, but the Druid was shocked nonetheless.

“My lord? What are you doing?” he stammered.

“Are you coming with me or not?” Brocan bellowed.

“Is it wise for you to be entering the caves again without sufficient rest?” the healer tried.

“I'll rest when my spirit is free,” the king sighed.

The Druid thought he'd never heard such sadness in any voice. Surely, he told himself, a great change had come over Brocan of the Fir-Bolg.

“You have a short memory,” the king went on. “I've taken the Quicken Brew. What harm will come to me?”

“No one can be certain whether the Quicken Brew will protect us from all ills,” Fineen argued. “Do not tempt fate, my lord.”

“Healer, are you going to accompany me or not?”

Without waiting for an answer the king took a rush
light, lit it on the sentry fire and nodded to the two warriors standing guard. Then, his light burning brightly, he made his way purposefully into the entrance.

“Very well then,” the king called back over his shoulder. “I'm not afraid to go alone. There is no danger I won't face for my people.” And with those words he disappeared within the cave.

Fineen ran to the entrance, calling for the guards to help him.

“The caves aren't safe,” the first one told him with a gesture that clearly indicated he should calm down.

“You must do something!” the healer pleaded.

The other guard spoke up. “Most of us Fir-Bolg didn't take the Quicken Brew. I'm not going to risk my life by following him into danger. Our king drank the Danaan potion of health and life. He'll come to no harm.”

But Fineen was not convinced. The king's behavior had been very disturbing. As a healer he simply could not let Brocan go alone into the depths in such a state. In a flash Fineen grabbed another rush light and was off after the king, following the flickering light which reflected off the walls from Brocan's light.

“Wait for me!” the healer called out.

But there was no reply. Fineen came breathlessly to a sharp bend in the passageway and suddenly there was an explosion of lights. Sparks flew in every direction. The shock nearly knocked him over.

Then out jumped Brocan with a war cry, still brandishing
the rush light he had thumped against the wall.

“What is wrong with you?” Fineen cried in horror.

Brocan smiled, pointed down the passageway. “I'll show you what's wrong.”

The healer thought for a moment the king must be playing some strange game with him. Surely Brocan wasn't being serious. Fineen hardly had time for these thoughts to enter his head when old Brocan was off again, storming down the passageway with his torch held aloft.

“Wait!” the Druid called out, but to no avail. He had no choice but to do the best he could to keep up with the king. And hope he didn't lose himself in this maze of underground tunnels.