The King of Sleep (49 page)

“Then let me be known as the King of Sleep.”

The Brehon stayed on his knees as the woman crossed the lawn and stood in front of him. She held out her slender hand and he thought it was the most beautiful sight he'd ever beheld.

The fingers glowed with a golden fight that emanated from the tips and colored her flesh a deep yellow. Her eyes were bright jewels set in a halo that shone with all the brilliance of a sunset moon in summer.

“I've been searching for you,” she whispered. “Did you lose your way?”

Dalan couldn't find the words to answer her so he nodded. The woman grasped his hand and helped him to his feet. He was surprised to find that his legs were numb and that it was difficult to keep his balance.

“Can you walk?” she asked.

Again he nodded silently. With her hand still tightly gripping his, the woman led him down to the yew tree. Once he was walking the Brehon began to feel the life come back into his legs.

They skirted the huge tree and came to the crest of a grassy ridge that rolled down onto a verdant plain.
There at the foot of the rise stood another tree. It was the same one Dalan had seen the last time he'd wandered in the spirit with his guide Cuimhne.

They stood there for a little while enjoying the fresh breeze against their faces. Dalan closed his eyes, overwhelmed by a sense that he was perfectly safe with this woman. Then he noticed the intoxicating scent of lavender once again. It drowned his senses with its warm cleansing fragrance.

As he opened his eyes he realized the scent originated from the mighty tree which grew at the foot of the ridge. There were many different fruits hanging from its branches, some familiar, some utterly foreign. Its leaves were those of a rowan, painted in countless subtle shades of green. The fine branches intertwined as if woven together by some skilled craftsman. Under and over, under and over, each knotted twist of vines or branches had its own symmetry.

“Shall we go down and sit under the tree?” the woman offered. “You've come at a marvelous time. The rowan is bearing its summer crop. There's fruit upon the ground and a carpet of lawn on which to rest your head.”

“Are you my guide?” he managed to say.

The woman laughed. “No one can guide you but yourself. I'm just a companion on the road.”

“But you've guided me before,” Dalan protested.

“Your own spirit spurs you on.”

As she spoke she took his hand again and began the
long walk down a winding path to where the shade of the tree darkened the grass. The closer they came to the rowan the more Dalan was intrigued by the magnificent tree.

“I've never seen anything like it!” he gasped when he realized it was even larger than he'd remembered.

“You've never seen this tree before,” his companion assured him gently. “You may have encountered her sisters who are scattered around this country. But few folk come here more than once.”

The Brehon sighed to indicate he understood, then, with eyes ever upward, he followed on. With each step his sense of awe deepened until they were very nearly at the bottom of the hill and his heart was beating with excitement.

If he'd stood on the woman's shoulders he wouldn't have been able to reach up and pluck a leaf from the lower branches. Brocan's hall could have been carved out of the rowan's trunk and there would have been room for sleeping quarters as well. What had appeared to be a ring of shade beneath the tree proved to be something else entirely. The grass all around was Uttered with thousands of tiny rowan berries laid out in a thick, tightly woven carpet of regal red.

“Lay your head down here,” she motioned to him and the Brehon cautiously put a foot on the berries.

The rowan fruit was remarkably soft underfoot.

“Is this the Quicken Tree?” he gasped, eyes raised to the treetop.

“This is the tree which grows in the Land of
Promise,” she affirmed. “All the other Quicken Trees are her children. She is the queen of her breed.”

Dalan looked up into the branches again and a movement caught his attention. In among all the magnificently interwoven boughs was an ominous black shape.

The Raven gave a tiny cry no louder than he might have expected a robin to give. But the voice was unmistakably of the carrion kind. He took a step back as the huge bird spread its wings to dive earthward.

It seemed to Dalan that the Raven never took its eyes from him as it swooped down, and he briefly wondered if it was going to misjudge the distance and hit the ground. But he should have known that a dive from the treetops was a simple matter for one of this kind. The Raven pulled out of the dive suddenly and began instead a circuit of the tree. As it came around for the second time a remarkable transformation took place. The Brehon watched transfixed, hardly daring to breathe.

The air sparkled as if the sky were spewing specks of silver snow. And the Raven grew legs, arms and a human body. All its feathers disappeared the instant it set foot upon the ground.

And Dalan recognized the form it had taken. His heart missed a beat for joy and he ran to embrace his friend, feeling a sense of immense relief that she'd come to him.

“Sorcha!” he sang as he grabbed her in a little dance of jubilation. “I'm so happy to see you.”

“Who is that woman?” she asked him sternly. “The one who brought you here.”

“This is Cuimhne,” Dalan informed her.

But even as he spoke the name he understood he had been tricked.

“That's not my name,” the other woman protested. “I'm called Isleen.”

As he heard the Watcher's voice the Brehon felt a faintness descend upon him. And if it hadn't been for Sorcha he would have fallen down where he stood. She wrapped her arms about him to hold him up and he hugged her as tightly as he could.

“You're a Watcher,” he groaned when the power of speech returned to him.

“You're an Ollamh Brehon,” she teased.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“I don't want you to forget me,” she shrugged. “I'm hoping you've found an answer to our little dilemma.”

“I believe I've found a song that may release you both from your enchantment,” Sorcha cut in.

The Watcher's eyes lit with excitement but it was an unnatural brightness that made Dalan and Sorcha turn their faces away.

“I'm happy to hear this news,” Isleen nodded. “I've come to let you know that you have until Samhain Eve to effect your remedy. If on that night Lochie and I are still abroad in the land, you and all the people of this island will know what real havoc is. Hear me well, Ollamh Dalan the Brehon. Our patience is wearing thin”

“Why can't you give us a little more time?” Sorcha pleaded. “We want to help you. You must believe that. But this pressure is unnecessary.”

“Is it?” Isleen scoffed. “One day perhaps you'll understand how I feel. Until then you can take my word for it. Every moment has become an unbearable agony. Every breath is an eternity of waiting. My soul is wasting away. My spirit is hungry for rest. And I will do everything in my power to gain that rest. Even if it means the destruction of the Gaedhals.”

“How are the Gaedhals involved in this plan of yours?” Dalan demanded. “They have no quarrel with you nor you with them.”

“Don't I?” she spat. “I have a grudge against all those who possess the gift of death and do not value it. The Gaedhals will not escape my wrath.”

“Why can't you simply wait until we've discovered the cure for your malady?” Sorcha cried. “Why must you continue to spread such misery?”

“It's my nature,” the Watcher replied with a shrug. “I may show compassion now and then when the mood takes me, but I was commissioned to bring chaos and disorder. It's all I've ever known. You can't really expect me to change, can you?”

“What compassion have you ever shown?” Dalan retorted.

“I admit it is rare,” Isleen shot back. “Lochie is guilty of that trait more than myself. He's already offered the long sleep to the Danaans who have not gone into the Otherworld and to the Fir-Bolg.”

“The long sleep?” the Brehon repeated.

“When death cannot touch you, sleep may comfort you. Brocan and Fineen are resting deeply now in a secret place beneath the earth. And there they'll remain.”

“You've made them prisoners?”

“One day when the weariness strikes you, Dalan, you'll understand. But I suppose by that time I'll be long gone. I won't be able to help you to find the Land of Slumber.”

As she spoke, her form shimmered and she rose into the air until she could reach out to pluck a branch from the tree. Three thick interlinked vines broke off together in the shape of a staff. Once she had this in her hand she dropped back down to the ground and held it out for Dalan to take.

“Accept this gift,” the Watcher told him. “I'm unaccustomed to granting such indulgences but I want to thank you in advance for all your good endeavors.”

“I don't want a reward,” the Brehon replied, shaking his head.

“Take it, you ungrateful little nobody! Who do you think you are? To refuse a gift from one who has supped with heroes, danced among immortals and shared the beds of kings. Take it!”

“I don't need a staff.”

“That's where you're wrong,” she declared, and with a mighty swing of the branch she struck Dalan just below the knee. The knee dislocated and he fell over in agony clutching at his leg.

Sorcha was by his side in a second. Her skill in the healing arts was insignificant compared to Fineen's but she knew how to comfort such an injury. Dalan fought her off at first but then he succumbed to her insistent ministrations.

He lay down on his back in the rowan berries and it was then he noticed Isleen had disappeared.

“How did you come to be here?” the Brehon asked Sorcha as she put her hands to the collar of his tunic and untied the bindings that held it tight about his neck.

“I come here often at the command of the Queen of the Raven kind,” she answered in a formal tone.

She lifted the tunic up over his head and wrapped it into a tight ball. It was a simple pillow but Dalan was grateful of it.

“We'll be home soon,” she soothed as he struggled to keep his eyes open. “Don't let yourself fall asleep. Stay awake with me until the healing is done.”

Under the influence of the Quicken Brew it wasn't long before the pain had ceased to burn at Dalan's knee. Then he stretched out properly upon the carpet of berries, thinking that it was the finest he could remember.

He placed his hands behind his head and lay on his back, drinking in the heady fragrance of lavender as Sorcha gently stroked his hair. Now he could discern other scents mixed in with it and he struggled to identify them all. Apple was the strongest. There was a hint of rose too, but he couldn't name all the other
spicy aromas. When he opened his eyes to ask his companion she was kneeling beside him, slowly untying the binding of her own tunic.

Fascinated by the delicacy of her hands he watched her nimble fingers at their work. When the cords were free she slipped the garment over her head and Dalan felt a sudden urge to reach out to her and hold her close.

The mystical glow that had enveloped the garden was gone. Sorcha's flesh was a healthy pale pink, but he was too shy to look anywhere other than directly into her face. When she'd rolled her tunic up she laid it down beside his head and for the first time his eyes strayed down across the smooth skin of her shoulders.

Her arms were crossed self-consciously over her breasts as she stared down at him with eyes full of loving tenderness. The Brehon lifted his trembling hand to touch her lips with the tip of his finger.

She closed her eyes and gently kissed his hand. And before Dalan was fully aware of what had happened they were locked in a passionate embrace there under the Quicken Tree on a carpet of red berries in the Land of Promise.

L
OCHIE SAT HIMSELF DOWN AT THE GAMING TABLE, A
flat slab of rock lying on its side by a tall tooth-shaped standing-stone in the cleared circle at the heart of a wood. His opponent spread out the Brandubh cloth and set the pieces in their starting positions. Her eyes sparkled with merriment as she watched him fill two cups with mead. When all was ready she handed him the white king.

“You may begin when you're ready,” she told him.

He placed the piece in the central square where the High-King always commenced the game. Then he moved one of the four lesser kings into a strategic position to initiate play.

Isleen didn't hesitate. In a moment, seemingly without thought, she'd moved one of the twelve dark Raven pieces. Lochie gave a breathy snigger but didn't respond immediately. He took careful note of all the possibilities, thoughtfully determining the best course of action.

Then he picked up a piece opposite the central square and shifted it along to a new position where it could easily be taken. In a flash Isleen had surrounded this lonely white sacrifice and it was removed from the game.

Lochie was anything but disappointed.

“You're too hasty,” he told her. “You don't look at all the possibilities.” As he spoke he shuffled his High-King out from its sanctuary and moved it to the edge of the cloth. “Sometimes it's better to concede a little ground in order to achieve a long-term ambition.”

Isleen brushed the wild red hair from her eyes and stared him down.

“That was one of the quickest games I've ever played with you,” he chortled victoriously. “You slip your guard too often. You should take more care.”

“And you're just upset because I won our little wager,” Isleen countered. “Aoife will marry Eber Finn. I knew it from the start. Mahon was never right for her.”

Lochie gathered the pieces together and began setting them out for another round. “I wasn't aware our wager was settled,” he remarked casually. “Eber and Aoife haven't wed yet, have they?”