The King of Sleep (2 page)

Your ancestors hunted out the creatures of the woodland until there wasn't a badger could leave its burrow without the taint of fear in its heart. The stag no longer ruled the mountain passes. The hare was forced to leave off journeying in daylight and nowadays they're only seen abroad at night. The great bear and the wolf were viciously pursued until not one was left alive on the whole island of Innisfail. Terrible was the bloodshed when the Gaedhals set out to battle with their own kindred, but wolf and bear suffered a worse fate. So complete was their slaughter that in
time your folk forgot they had ever dwelled upon these shores.

Through all these troubles it was the Raven kind who were most affronted by the coming of your race. My people were driven to despair by your ill-mannered ancestors. No respect for anything, that's the trouble with your lot. No care for the countryside or thought for the future.

Don't shake your head as if it isn't true. I was there. I saw what the warriors did. I watched your kindred pillage the land for food. They ignored the age-old prohibitions on cutting down trees. They didn't heed the warnings about upsetting the eternal cycles of the Earth's precious bounty.

They took whatever stone they desired to build their fortresses, showing no regard for how long the rocks might have rested where they lay. And with the ancient foundations stripped away, many hillsides washed into the sea within a generation.

The Forest of the Burren, an aged stand of venerable trees, was fashioned into ships which brought more Gaedhals over from the Iberian lands. With no roots to hold down the soil, the life-giving earth simply picked up on the wind and blew away. To this day nothing grows upon the rocky plain of the Burren. The scars can still be plainly seen after a hundred generations. And no Gaedhal among you will ever be able to put it right. The dead, stony Burren is the only enduring monument your people ever left behind them.

When your fine houses, halls and harbors are no more than memory in the minds of storytellers, the wind will still wail over the gray Burren lamenting the day your kindred came to Innisfail.

Of course your teachers never taught you all this when you were children, did they? I'll wager they filled your heads full of heroic nonsense about the brave King Eber and his brother Éremon who sailed their ships across the heaving oceans and defeated the mysterious treacherous Danaan wizards in open battle.

I've heard the foolish songs your lot sing about Amergin the Bard and his fine poems. Well the truth is, his skill was nothing compared to that of any Danaan Druid or Fir-Bolg Brehon. His music was no match for any of the Old Ones.

You probably believe all that rubbish about the warrior bands of the Fian who roamed the country around, seeking out any who dared threaten the sovereignty of the Gaedhal. And how they bent the Faerie folk to their will even when faced with their powerful and frightening sorcery.

I know quite a different story to be true. And you'd better heed it well, for the wheel of the seasons has turned and now your folk in turn have come under threat from invaders. The Danaans are but a memory. The Fir-Bolg are no more than a dim legend. But the Raven kind have not disappeared. We're still watching.

So take a careful note of what I have to say. Follow
my advice and perhaps the Ancient Ones will lend you a hand in these trying times. Brush off my tales as pure invention and you will pay the price for your foolishness.

But don't get it into your head that I care one jot about you, your tall stone churches or the cursed unceasing ringing of bells you all seem so fond of. I come because I was commanded to do so by my queen. I am but a representative of my kindred come to offer you my wisdom and a comfort no book can give you. I bring you peace in my storytelling. If you can learn from what I have to tell you, you will live a happy life and go to your death with gladness and never a thought of Lochlann Vikings to trouble your dreams.

I've already told you the story of the arrival of Eber and Éremon, how the Danaan Druids tried to raise a tempest against these invaders but were not strong enough, and how at last they resorted to a terrible enchantment in the hope of saving their people from slaughter.

If by some unlikely chance you've listened well, you'll know about the Quicken Brew which conferred a state of perfect health and unending life upon all who tasted it. And you'll recall the manner in which the wise sages of the Tuatha-De-Danaan opened the doorway to the Otherworld so that their people might find refuge in that place.

Now I'll bring to mind the next part of the story. So sit still and listen while the mood is on me. If you
value your tongues don't ask me questions and don't interrupt. Give me your silence and I'll begin.

Two lighten the road. So I've heard tell. There was a road. I knew it well. Lengthy some folk might call it. But it was long enough for me by any measure. Even though my wings are wasted and my breath comes hard, I'm still a traveler upon that wearisome path.

May the road rise to meet you, a man once said to me. I didn't understand his meaning then.

I do now.

He meant to say, follow the road. Don't concern yourself with where it's going. Don't idly daydream of your destination. You'll recognize the place you've been making for when you get there. The road will unfold itself with each dusty bend or lonely river crossing.

Be patient.

The road has many branches, some no more than well-worn tracks. But each arm of it, from the wide highway to the rambling path, is paved with joy and lined with bliss. And every cobblestone is heavy with enchantment.

This is the only thing that matters. To deny the delight of one's own private journey through life is a perilous folly. Only the wilful arrogance of a stubborn spirit dares to shun the purpose for which it was embodied on this Earth. But perhaps I am expecting too much of you to imagine you understand anything I say.

If you let the road light your soul, then you'll know
the essence of trust and the absence of fear. You'll hear your inner voices, as frightening or as soothing as they might be. And you'll also learn to pay attention to muffled whispers from beyond.

This is your challenge. For what is there really to be afraid of?

Death?

Embrace it. While you live, listen with your spirit so you will be well guided on your voyage.

That's the one thing about you Gaedhals I never understood. You are fascinated with the quest for immortality, for riches and perfect health. Foolish dreaming brought you to desire such empty pleasures.

Without the hardships of life there is no learning. Without a rest from all the cares of life there can be no renewing. Without some illness there can be no true healing. Unless there is adversity, friendship is never tested and so remains forever shallow.

Value well your traveling companions, your soul friends. And don't for a moment think of squandering your time among folk you don't deeply appreciate and respect. The enticing glimmer of a soft eye on a cold night won't always warm you against the winter.

Look deeper.

I've always said the greatest test of a friendship is a long journey. That's certainly proved true for me time and again. My dearest companions were the ones with whom I shared each burden cheerfully. Pain had no power over us when we walked together side by side and shared a laugh.

So it must be true after all that two shorten the road.

Every one of us is being tested. With every breath we take, with each passing moment. There's no respite until the end. Consider my words and you'll understand my meaning.

You may think me nothing more than a bitter old bird but I have more than a thousand winters behind me. You may think I preach too much at times, but indulge me and perhaps you'll learn something.

I'll say only one more thing then I'll go on with my story.

The many paths that make up the road of which I speak can be as hard as they are enlightening. But of all these roads the best is the road taken by the willing pilgrim. Enjoy your pilgrimage while you may. There'll be time enough for resting at the end.

Savor every footstep, every mile. Seek out that which makes your heart sing. That's what you're here for. And each night before you go to sleep say a little prayer for the quiet repose of Lom-Dubh the Raven who once walked the Earth as a man.

N
O CLOUD SHOWED A FACE IN THE DARKENING SKY
. T
HE
old fisherman looked up as he gathered the nets from his leather curragh at the seashore. The western horizon glowed red-gold and he knew from experience there would be no rain tomorrow.

He ventured a silent prayer to the Goddess Danu that she would see fit to gift him with a storm. Not a full-fledged tempest, just a squall with water on its fingertips to wash the land clean and entice the fish closer to shore.

He turned his attention to the handful of sea creatures he'd dragged from their watery home. His nimble fingers sorted the catch and he counted under his breath as each one fell into his basket.

The fisherman had tucked them all away for the journey back to his family when a strange scent wafted in on the faint breeze. It was not salt, nor the briny rotting seaweed that had washed up on the shore. This was something familiar yet out of place.

In the same instant he felt a soft thudding on the sand beneath his toes and he glanced over his shoulder at the rocks above. But there was no sign of anyone so he turned back to his nets.

But a sailor's instincts are impeccable. And this old man had been going to sea longer than anyone he knew. A nagging urgency tugged at his attention and he looked up again. Almost immediately he spotted a group of strangers running barefoot along the beach toward him. Their clothes were strange, their faces fierce and they all carried long silver swords.

“Gaedhals!” the fisherman gasped.

Without a thought for his own safety the old man drew a leaf-shaped bronze knife from his belt and stood up straight, waiting for the strangers to come on him. There was no doubt in his mind from their jeering laughter and yelping cries that they meant to take his precious catch.

A warrior with long golden hair flowing freely behind him sprinted out ahead of the others. He called out that he'd settle with the fisherman and his comrades could just sit back and watch.

But this old fisherman had not always farmed the sea. He'd been a warrior in his youth before he took to boats and nets. And he was a proud Fir-Bolg determined not to submit to some boastful foreigner.

The stranger ran directly at him but the fisherman dodged aside, tripped him up and slashed his knife
across the warrior's face. The man cried out in agony, dropped his sword and crawled around in the sand until he found the sea water. Then he sat washing his wound while his comrades came running over.

The fisherman counted a dozen well-armed Gaedhals and knew he didn't stand a chance against them. He began to regret his hasty attack.

The warriors laughed heartily at the old man's misfortune as they swiftly surrounded him, but only one among them dared to come within reach of his knife. This Gaedhal was broadly built but no more than thirty summers old. His long brown hair was carefully combed so it looked perfectly clean, an unusual style for a warrior.

“Throw down your weapon,” he commanded. “We're going to feast on your fish tonight and there's nothing you can do about it. So you might as well stand away and save yourself a beating.”

The golden-haired warrior who'd led the pack recovered himself at these words and stood up, picking up his blade in a rage. With blood streaming down his face he charged through the circle of his comrades, pushing them out of the way.

“Stay where you are, Conan,” the warrior with the brushed hair bellowed. “I don't want it said my brother wasted his foolish life for a boatload of fishes.”

“Half a boatload,” the old man corrected him defiantly.

The warrior caught the fisherman's eye and couldn't
help feeling some degree of admiration for the old man. “Half a boatload,” he smiled.

“He's right,” a woman pleaded, grasping Conan by the shoulder. “Listen to your elder brother.”

“Shut up, Mughain,” Conan shouted, blind with rage. “There'll be a bitter brew in the mead barrel before I'm bested by a bloody boatman.”

But he'd no sooner bellowed these few words than the old man lunged at him with his long knife and slashed the warrior's hand. Conan dropped his sword and screamed an unintelligible phrase. Before anyone could intervene he had knocked the fisherman down with the back of his good hand. Then he brutally kicked the defenseless old man in the face and began laying into him with both fists.

By the time Mughain and the others had dragged him away the fisherman was curled up senseless in the sand.

The warrior with the finely kept hair grabbed his brother by the tunic and dragged him to the water, where he unceremoniously dumped him into the sea.

“Cool off!” he ordered. Then he turned to Mughain. “See to the fish. My belly's empty.”

The warriors dispersed to sit on the beach and wait as the woman sorted through the basket. Just as she stood up to report there was barely half a boatful of edible seafood she was knocked off balance and sent sprawling face first in the sand.

The next thing she heard was her war-leader's voice.

“Conan! No!”

But by the time she rolled over the blond warrior had struck the fisherman in the side of the head with his sword. Such was the force of the blow that Mughain's face was spattered with the old man's blood. She had to turn away, struggling to keep down what little she had in her stomach.

She was so shocked she didn't hear the other warriors jump on Conan to disarm him. Nor did she hear the stream of abuse his brother heaped on him for the cowardly act. And she didn't notice the last strained breath of the Fir-Bolg fisherman.