The King of Sleep (41 page)

They had almost come to the line of oak trees that marked the woods when his instincts called to him again. Out of breath he dropped back behind his sister. He'd taken her word that this was a place not far from the old fortress of Dun Burren, but now that he looked about him he wasn't entirely convinced. Stunned that he could have failed to question Aoife's judgment, he stopped in his tracks to search for familiar landmarks.

Sure enough, the grove of trees directly ahead of them was a familiar sight. It certainly reminded him of the woods near Dun Burren. But the slope of the
hill behind the trees wasn't exactly as he remembered it and the fields had been turned under the plough where nothing had ever been planted.

Then he spotted a small building not far to the left of the woods. It was an unusual shape for a dwelling—squarish rather than round. Indeed he'd never seen any building constructed in that shape before.

“Aoife!” he called.

She pulled up and squinted to try and make out what he was pointing at. Then she signaled that they should make toward this strange building. Their paths met when they were less than twenty paces from the door.

The wind whipped up into a gale that tore at their clothes so they had to lean into it to make progress. As they trudged on, the snow deepened and the sunlight faded. By the time they came to the door of the unusual building it was night.

Sárán yelled to his sister to be careful but his words were swept away by the tempest. Her hand went to the door and pushed it open and Aoife was inside in a second. Her brother followed after and slammed the door behind him, leaning on it to keep the snow out.

Aoife went straight to the window to pull the curtain across but she was astounded to find that the opening was covered by a solid sheet of semitransparent glass. It was similar to the beads her mother had often worn but it had no color at all so that she could
see the world outside with surprising clarity. She shook her head as she ran her hand over the smooth surface. It was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. But it was icy cold.

It was then she noticed a roaring fire set in a hearth built into one wall of the house. Neither of them had ever seen anything like it. They were used to houses built around a central hearthstone. This was certainly a peculiar house.

But the unfamiliarity of their surroundings didn't stop them from huddling together in front of the dancing flames. Before their fingers were warm they'd helped themselves to spoonfuls of a thick barley broth that was bubbling away in a pot over the fire.

A black cat appeared and rubbed itself against their legs with a welcoming purr. It jumped onto Sárán's lap and began a long discourse in the language of its breed, with many enthusiastic mewls and the occasional nip to keep the young man's attention. He stroked the animal across the back and it arched its body in response.

While her brother was engaged with the cat, Aoife took time to observe the interior of the house. There was a bed of straw raised slightly off the floor with room enough for one. Next to this there was a little table on which were carefully placed several unidentifiable articles.

Her curiosity aroused, Aoife got up to inspect these items more closely. There was a candle made of wax so smooth and fine that it looked as if it had been
carved from bone. Beside this was a silver ornament as long as her forearm. She lifted it up to take a closer look. It seemed to be a simple cross with many knotted designs woven over its surface. As she couldn't discern any possible purpose for the item, she placed it back on the table.

Then she noticed a cloak laid out on the bed as a cover. She brushed the palm of her hand over the garment and gasped.

“It's the softest wool I've ever known!”

The words were no sooner out of her mouth than the door swung open and a short man dressed all in dark brown entered the house. He shook the snow off his boots, drew the hood from his head and turned to the fire.

And when he did he nearly jumped out of his skin with fright.

“Who are you?” he demanded tremulously, his voice filled with apprehension. “You're not robbers, are you? If you are, I've nothing of any value.”

His eyes strayed to where Aoife was leaning over his bed, her hand still resting on the cloak.

“I'll give you warm clothes if you need them, but I beg you to leave that cloak. It was a gift from a dear friend who has long since departed these shores.”

The man was not much shorter than Sárán but he was very thin. His clothes hung off him as they might if they'd been hung over a tree. And his head was shaved in a most peculiar fashion. All the hair had been cleanly shaved from his crown in a circle.

Aoife frowned to understand what the stranger was saying through his thick accent.

“We haven't come to steal from you,” her brother assured him. “We're seeking shelter from the storm.”

The man scrutinized them both carefully when he heard their speech.

“You re from the north then?” he asked. “I can tell by the way you frame your words.”

“We were born in Dun Burren,” Aoife informed him.

“Dun Burren? Can't say I've ever heard of that place. Is it near Emain Macha and the seat of the UiNiall?”

Brother and sister looked at each other with puzzled expressions.

The stranger noticed this so he decided to introduce himself. “My name is Caoimhan.”

“I'm called Aoife and this is my brother Sárán,” the young woman replied, edging away from the bed to stand by the fire.

“You're welcome in my humble home,” Caoimhan told them. “I trust you've had something to eat?”

The two travelers nodded.

“How came you to this part of the Burren?” he inquired as he took off his cloak and hung it on a peg at the door.

“We were lost in the Aillwee caves,” Sárán replied.

Caoimhan turned around sharply and looked at the young man with such intensity that Sárán took a step toward his sister.

“You can't be serious!” he laughed. “For a moment there I thought you were telling the truth. No one's been within those caves in living memory.”

Suddenly his face paled as he realized the young man was very serious.

“Your name is quite unique,” the stranger stammered, changing the subject. “I don't think I've ever heard it before.”

“I am Sárán, son of Brocan, who is King of the FirBolg of the Burren.”

Caoimhan's eyes bulged out of his head and he made a simple gesture with his right hand, touching the top of his forehead, his chest and each shoulder in turn. Then he fell to his knees with his hands clasped tightly before him.

Neither Aoife nor her brother could understand the language that now poured out of his mouth so they waited patiently for this fit to pass. It was considered impolite to ask too many questions of a host.

“This is not our country,” Sárán whispered to his sister. “We have to go back to the caves. We've crossed over into the Otherworld.”

“The Otherworld!” Caoimhan cried, catching the word. “By Brigit's holy gown I'm surrounded by Faerie folk. First there was the ghost at the woods, then the Raven and now these two.”

He stood up.

“I beg you to leave me in peace. I'm but a humble collector of tales. Whatever your quest I cannot help you. God knows I've spent months trying to aid that
poor lost soul who haunts the oak grove, and all to no avail.”

“We'll go,” Sárán assured him. “We'll return to the caves and bother you no more.”

Aoife grabbed the sleeve of her brother's tunic. “If we go back into the caves we might never find our way out again,” she hissed under her breath.

“We're going!” her brother insisted as he shook off her hold.

Then he made for the door. Aoife followed him reluctantly but she didn't forget to thank their host for the meal and his fire before she departed. Outside the snow was falling lightly now and so the near-full moon lit the landscape a pale blue.

“I know exactly where we are,” Sárán told her when she stood beside him. And then he set off down toward the woods with his sister trailing behind.

They hadn't gone far when a terrible recognition hit her. ‘I won't follow you!” she cried. “I know where you're taking me,”

“Come along,” he ordered. “I've a feeling that many things have changed in this countryside, but that wood is known to me.”

Grudgingly she continued on behind him, putting her feet in his prints in the snow so that the going would be easier. Then a stone's throw from the trees, Sárán stopped to squint at the grove.

“That tree was a sapling when we were last here,” he asserted. “And the younger ones were not even acorns in the kernel.”

Aoife caught up with him and leaned heavily against his shoulder, panting.

Her brother sniffed the air. “He's still here,” Sárán told her. “I can feel his presence as clearly as if he were touching my arm.”

“Don't speak so!” she stuttered.

But as she spoke her worst fears materialized before her eyes. In the shadow of the trees there was a movement and then a rustling of branches high in the ancient oaks. A figure clad in white like the mist of midnight took form at the edge of the grove.

“Who comes to my abode?” the figure whispered, and both of them knew the voice immediately.

“Sárán, son of Brocan,” the young man answered. “And Aoife, the daughter of the same king.”

Like a clap of thunder Aoife heard her name repeated as the wind suddenly blew into a violent gale. Branches were ripped from the treetops, twigs scattered in their faces and snow whipped up into whirlpools of white hate.

“How dare you trespass in my woodland without leave?” the spirit screamed.

And then as abruptly as the tempest rose it dropped.

“Is it really you, Aoife?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Why did you leave me here for so long? I've been waiting and waiting. I'm cold and tired. Where's the horse? Now we must be getting back to your father's fireside at Dun Burren. He'll be worried about us.”

“We were frightened,” she answered with shame in her voice. “I'm sorry that we deserted you, Fearna.”

The spirit floated toward them over the snow, coming close enough that they could recognize his face without any question.

“It's strange,” he confided. “The mead has worn off almost entirely. I'm quite sober. It must be the cold that cleared my mind.”

“He doesn't know what's happened,” Sárán whispered to his sister. “He doesn't realize he's dead.”

Aoife's breath caught in her throat. She was so terrified by the ghostly vision that bobbed before them that she could hardly breathe.

“I know you don't belong here any more than I do,” the spirit replied sharply. “A thousand summers have passed since you murdered me.”

The wind tore at Aoife's clothes and hair and she was forced to cover her head with her hands.

“Look at me!” Fearna screamed.

The young woman forced herself to look up into the wild blue-violet eyes of the lost soul.

“May you never find peace,” the spirit whispered, his voice venomous and full of vengeance. “May love elude you till the last. May you know my agony every day until you cease to live.”

“I'm sorry!” she bellowed, crying tears that turned to ice as they rolled down her cheeks. “I've already paid the price. I've been forced to pay for the terrible wrong I did to you.”

The ghost rushed closer and the wind dropped
away again as he hovered before her. “Your brother has paid for his part in my death. But you led me to this wood. I've been imprisoned here since then. I loved you and you toyed with me. You'll suffer for your crime. I promise you.”

The ghost stared silently at the sobbing woman and then smiled.

“The next man you meet who is not of your bloodline will change your life,” he stated, pronouncing his Geis slowly so as to savor every moment. “You'll fall in love with him. You'll know what it is to have true feelings for another human being. You'll treasure his every utterance; each private word shared alone will be worth more than a mountain of gold to you.”

Fearna's eyes shone with hatred.

“But the one who truly loves you will wander Innisfail searching for you until the world changes and the bellringers come to this land. The mumbling folk will be your saviors. Until the ones who follow the one god help him, you will be under this Geis. And then I'll have no further quarrel with you.”

When he had finished speaking the ghost drew back toward the trees and vanished into the shadows. The snow began to fall again and Aoife turned to make her way slowly back to the cave.

Sárán followed after her, unmoved by all that had been said. No fear had touched his heart while the spirit issued his Geis. He'd stood ready for his own punishment to be announced and yet none had come.

As Aoife trudged away her brother stopped and turned to face the trees.

“What of me?” he called out. “Don't I deserve to carry some burden for what I've done?”

Instantly the ghost appeared before his eyes, surprising Sárán so much that he started back.

“I don't know how you crossed the gulf of a thousand summers so easily,” Fearna stated. “Perhaps there is some lesson for you here. Did you meet anyone?”

“We met a man called Caoimhan,” the young man answered.

The ghostly figure laughed. “You'll always be known as the Raven. That's what they called you when you were a boy. And that's how you'll be known forever more.”

Sárán was about to ask what sort of punishment that was when Fearna faded once again before his eyes. He knew instinctively he would not be able to summon him up again so he spun around to follow after his sister.

Aoife found the cave entrance easily. She waited for her brother to catch up and as soon as he arrived she plunged back into the passage. But Sárán understood they had never really left the cave at all. The place they'd visited was just a vision of the future.