The King of Sleep (46 page)

Suddenly his head was dragged under. His nose, eyes and ears filled with water, dulling all sound and blotting out all light. In desperation he reached out for the curragh, but his hands only found sharp rocks.

It was then he knew he was in real trouble. Instinctively he curled himself into a tiny ball, tucking his head against his chest and covering the back of his neck as he tumbled onward, battered by the fierce torrent.

He caught the cries of his companions now and then but their voices seemed to grow fainter each time his head surfaced. He managed to take one last breath before his body was dragged down into a deep hollow. Above him he could see foaming bubbles where the rapids poured into this depression and he realized he must have been thrown over a waterfall. His lungs were bursting and for the first time since
he'd taken the Quicken Brew he despaired of losing his life.

The leather strap that held his matted locks in place was gone, torn off by the fury of the river, so his hair was thrashing all about him. The Brehon was terrified. He'd never felt so helpless, so completely engulfed by the forces of nature. He briefly considered giving in. It would be so easy to surrender to the will of this unstoppable force. But some inner strength took hold of him and he struggled to the surface.

It was Aoife who saw his head pop up out of the depths but by then the curragh was downstream and out of reach.

“We're not far from the mouth of the cave!” she cried. “We'll wait outside for you.”

Then the little boat disappeared behind a rise of water. Dalan was swept along until at last he did give up the fight. Instead of curling up to protect his head, he lay out flat on his back and tried to float with the current.

This proved to be the worst thing he could have done. Before he traveled the length of a curragh his neck was jolted and he felt a pain along his spine such as he'd never known before. He didn't have a chance to give voice to his agony before the world was veiled in blackness and he knew no more.

Aoife clung to the oar with all her might, refusing to surrender to the power of the river. But despite her best efforts the raging water tore at her hands until
she couldn't hold on any longer and she was thrown overboard.

As she struggled to the surface for air she caught glimpses of the sunlight pouring in through the cave opening where the river spilled out of the darkness. But she had no idea how far it was or whether the going would be any easier once they were out in the open air again.

As her head was forced under the water once more her hands were dragged along a rock and torn to shreds by the sharp edge of stone. Aoife would have screamed in agony but to do so would have filled her mouth and made it impossible to breathe.

So she let go of her hold on the oar and on the pack which contained her bear skull trophy. In seconds she'd rolled out of the curragh.

Then the river took her, smashing her head against its hidden teeth until at last she gave up the fight and let the water have its way with her. Before she lost consciousness a poem came to her mind. Dalan had taught it to her. It was an invocation of Danu.

Goddess of the Flowing Waters, hear my words. Lift me up on the tide of your being. Carry me safely to your harbor. Queen of the Tempest, quench my thirst. On the journey of life you are my guide. On the voyage to far horizons you will be my oar and my rudder. May your star light my way May your moon moisten my eye. And when I come to the other shore, hold me to your breast before I sail on.

*   *   *

That prayer was still echoing in her mind when her heart lost hope and she let go her senses. The river carried her swiftly through the worst it had to offer, as if it had some personal malice toward her. And when it was done, the torrent threw her up onto a sunlit beach formed by the first bend it traveled under the sky. There she lay for a long while on her back, barely breathing, until at length she was found.

The sand was stained red all around her from the injuries she'd taken. Her clothes were ripped and bloody, her hair all tangled with weeds, bracken and dirt. For all the world she might have been a newborn child with the river's afterbirth still clinging to her skin.

When Eber first set eyes upon her silent form his soul cried out for the loss of one so proud and so beautiful. He stood over her for a long while, silently mourning the loss of this jewel he'd never held. And he dreamed of what his life might have been like if the river hadn't snatched her away just at the very instant he'd discovered her.

They would have made a formidable alliance, he told himself. She of the flaming red locks, a young wild warrior woman, and he the High-King of all Eirinn. With this one as his queen he would have had real inspiration.

But she was beyond his reach now, a corpse without a glimmer of the fire that had burned in her
spirit. Eber bowed his head, struggling to understand his cruel destiny.

Isleen had once held this place in his affections, but he saw now that she was old and cynical and had gradually poisoned him until he could no longer see the good in anyone. Aoife had granted him a glimpse of another possibility. A life full of joyous passion; each day an adventure, every breath a taste of ecstatic laughter. What bitter fate it was that he'd seen his future in her eyes just before her body was shattered and her life wrenched away.

Suddenly he was overcome with emotion. All his selfish plans had come to nothing. He'd watched his mother perish on the battlefield of Sliabh Mis. He'd earned the contemptuous satire of a wise Druid. And soon he would have to fight a terrible war with his own brother.

Aoife's cold body, lying face up in the sand, seemed to symbolize the futility of all his hopes. He'd lost the heart to wage war since entering the caves. He'd gUmpsed a peaceful prosperous future for his kinfolk once the Danaans had been defeated but the fighting wasn't ended. Indeed he despaired as to whether he'd ever know peace in his lifetime.

The King of the Southern Gaedhals was still standing over Aoife's body when Sárán found him. The young man saw Eber's bowed head and the slump of his shoulders but he was unprepared for the sight that greeted him when he touched the warrior on the shoulder.

The Gaedhal looked up and his face was awash with tears. He'd been crying like a little child. His eyes were red, his nose was a stream of shiny mucus, and he drew his breath in great sobbing gasps.

“I've been a bloody fool,” he wept. “I've only ever thought of what I could gain from life. I've never considered what I could give to my people.”

The king wiped his nostrils with the back of his sleeve. The change that had come over him was strengthening its hold.

“Máel Máedóc was right. I've never thought of anyone but myself. I've been preparing for war in the same way another king might prepare for a feast. Now I understand what the old Druid was trying to say to me. I can perceive it in the unseeing eyes of this young woman who was just another playing piece on my gaming board.”

The young Druid was so moved by this display that he put his arms around the king and hugged him tightly until he'd squeezed the sadness out of Eber. When the Gaedhal was breathing softly once again, the young man released his hold.

“It's my fault Máel Máedóc is dead,” Eber said quietly. “I caused the death of Fergus and the loss of Brocan. My own mother fell in battle because of my ambition. How many other lives have been destroyed through my stupidity?”

“Anyone may have faults and most of us do,” Sárán soothed, and for the first time he considered himself worthy of the title Druid. “But it's true that a king
must learn to curb his lest he bring his people to ruin. Everything you've done was likely through foolishness, not stupidity.”

Sárán lowered his face so the king wouldn't see his own pain.

“You may not believe it but I know how you feel,” he admitted. “You're not an idiot. You're taking the first steps in learning from your mistakes.”

Eber wiped a hand across his eyes.

“You'll be a fine king one day,” Sárán went on. “I can see you have a good heart. It's just that you've been misguided. That's why kings must have wise and reliable counselors. Without someone well versed in tradition and law there would be constant chaos in the land.”

With a nod the king acknowledged the words.

“It's not too late to change your life for the better.”

“She's dead,” Eber sobbed. “Aoife died because of me.”

“Whatever happens to my sister is of her own making,” Sárán rebuked him. “She's headstrong and willful, and she's not exactly sinless either. And as for your assumption that she's dead, I suggest you take a closer look at her body.”

Eber glanced into the young man's eyes and then stared down at where Aoife lay. To his utter astonishment her chest was heaving gently and the cuts upon her hands were already beginning to fester.

“The Quicken Brew is very powerful,” Sárán explained. “My sister is not dead, though she may have
appeared so. She was injured very badly. We'll start a fire to dry our clothes and by the time that's done she should be wide awake and hungry.”

Eber Finn knelt down at Aoife's side and took her bruised hand in his. And there he sat murmuring a private prayer until the young woman opened her eyes. Then he smiled broadly and kissed her gently on the forehead.

“I dreamed I was waiting by the spring at the Well of Forgetfulness,” she told him. “But no one would pass me the cup. The guardians turned me away. Then I tried to follow the light into the heavens but my wings would not do their work and I fell back down to Earth.”

“You've come back to me,” Eber stammered. “Now my path is clear.”

“I've come back,” she assured him, still groggy. “It's not my time yet.”

“Nor will it ever be,” her brother cut in somberly. “We will never taste the water of that well. It is forbidden to those who have chosen the water of life.”

Sárán left them there while he went to look for the Brehon. He had not been gone long when he returned with Lom. His brother had been out with a large party of Fir-Bolg warriors searching the countryside for the place where the river emerged from the depths of the caves.

Sorcha traveled home as quickly as she could, collecting various fresh summer herbs along the way to use
in focusing herself on the Draoi skill of the Frith. In her heart she sensed that Dalan was about to face some grave danger.

She rebuked herself for allowing him to venture off into the caves under the influence of the redcaps. Even a trained Fritheoir such as herself rarely undertook such vision journeys, for the pitfalls were many and the perils incalculable.

Many vision travelers had been seduced by the sensual delights of the dreamworld and been lost forever in that place.

When she reached her home in the woods Sorcha set about sealing the house so she would not be disturbed. Just as she was closing the door for the last time the Raven came to her to give a report.

The underground-dwellers, the Sen Erainn, had passed word to the Raven kind that there were intruders in their territory. And they were much aggrieved by the coming of the strangers. But they'd agreed not to approach or interfere with any folk from the world above. As long as their presence was not a threat to the kinfolk of Sen Erainn.

Sorcha told the Raven she intended to bring on the Frith to augur Dalan's whereabouts.

“Once I know where to look for him I intend to summon the shape-shift,” she informed the bird.

The Raven cocked her head, as if only half believing what she heard. “You'd take such a risk for that Brehon?” the bird quizzed. “You don't have enough experience to know the signs of danger. Yet you
would place yourself in danger for this Druid? Willingly?”

Sorcha nodded determinedly.

“If you're to serve my people in future days you can't afford to foster any such attachments,” the Raven advised. “Remember you chose to come to us of your own free will. None among my kindred cajoled you or threatened you. It was your own decision. And you've always known the cost.”

“I understand,” Sorcha breathed. “Don't worry. I won't allow myself to become too attached to the Brehon.”

“You already have,” the bird mocked, clicking her beak to emphasize the point. “I warned you it would be difficult to follow this path, but you wouldn't listen to me. Now you're going to use the skills I've taught you for your own selfish purposes. I can't say I'm impressed with this turn of events.”

“I'm not doing this for myself. I can't solve the mystery of the Watchers alone. I need Dalan's help. And you never told me I wasn't to practice the skills I'd learned. What's the point of studying the art of the shape-shifter if I'm not permitted to put it to good use?”

The Raven clicked her beak again and raised her wings so they spread wide.

“Very well,” the bird decided. “I'll allow you to undertake this foolish venture. But I'm coming with you. And if I tell you to leave, you will obey me. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“Then go about your preparations while I try to take a rest in the rafters. You won't be ready to start your journey till long after sunset so I'll have a chance to get some sleep. I've been on the wing all day at your behest. I think I deserve a little sleep.”

It was long afterward that the bird awoke to find Sorcha deep in a trance of the Frith. The Raven stretched her wings, yawned loudly and prepared to come to the Druid's aid.

Dalan lay on the rocks with his clothes wet through for what seemed many hours. While the Quicken Brew worked healing wonder on his hurts he struggled to concentrate his thoughts on the journey he'd just undertaken.

It was almost completely dark in this part of the cave. The only light was reflected from the arch where the river poured out into the sunshine of a bright day. But the Druid could not bring himself to leave the gloom yet.