The King of Sleep (28 page)

“As you have already heard,” Brocan began, his voice cracking with emotion, “my dear friend and lifelong companion Fergus mac Roth was cruelly slain this morning at Rath Carriaghe.”

Aoife looked up at her father's face and thought she'd never seen him so utterly devastated, so completely lost. Although he had taken the Quicken Brew and usually had an air of youth and health about him, his face seemed to have aged suddenly.

“I'm told by Dalan that a gang of warriors attacked
the rath a few hours after dawn. Fergus arrived as the assault was taking place and came to the defense of the folk who lived there. He was outnumbered at least twelve to one yet he chose to stand and fight.”

The king choked back the tears. Dalan lowered his eyes as he recalled the scenes of sorrow when he and Sorcha arrived at the rath on their way to Dun Aillil.

“The barbarians slew him then took off his head. Their gruesome trophy was carried away to Dun Gur, so it is believed. I have sent a runner to Eber Finn demanding an explanation and the immediate return of the stolen article.”

Again Brocan had to stop speaking. He put his hands to his eyes to cover them as everyone kept a steady, unflinching gaze on their king. The silent support he received in that moment must have given him a little strength because he was able to raise his face again and continue.

“Fergus was on his way to give King Eber a gift from me and an assurance I would uphold my treaty with the Gaedhals. I should have listened to my old friend when he warned me not to trust the foreigners. If I had taken his advice we would not be mourning his loss.”

Suddenly the tears began to roll down Brocan's cheeks like a waterfall. His eyes blazed red with weeping and his cheeks sparkled with trails of sorrow.

“I am responsible for my dear brother's death,” he went on unsteadily. “I killed Fergus mac Roth.”

“The Gaedhals slew him,” Sárán cut in.

Dalan instantly shot a glance at the young Druid that communicated both outrage and warning. But the young man's words reverberated in every heart. The Gaedhals had murdered a champion, contrary to the rules of war. They had broken their treaty. And worst of all, they had treated the body of their slain foe with the greatest disrespect imaginable.

Dalan sensed the anger in the room and decided to focus it toward something positive, speaking up before any further outrage could be openly expressed.

“It is true that the Gaedhals have violated their bonded promise to us. They have shattered the peace between our peoples. But the only honorable way to deal with this is by imposing penalties according to Brehon law. Nothing will be gained by stirring up anger. We can't hope to defeat them in battle.”

“I will have justice,” Brocan insisted with a determined tone, and for the first time a murmur spread around the room.

Everyone was of the same mind.

“Eber Finn has broken his solemn oath,” the king continued. “He must be brought to account.”

There was general agreement again.

Dalan put up both his hands to quieten the gathering. “Clearly a terrible crime has been committed. But it would be unwise to hastily lay all blame on the Gaedhal king. How can we be certain he knew anything about this raid?”

“He's their king,” Sárán called out. “It's his duty to keep his folk in check.”

The Brehon turned to glare at the young apprentice. Then he cast a questioning eye at the man he believed to be Fineen. Lochie shrugged his shoulders at Dalan's scrutiny, confident that his disguise would not be discovered.

“Your student is a little too vocal,” the Brehon noted under his breath. “He's forgotten his place.”

Lochie looked around the room before he answered. “The boy has gauged the mood of the gathering well.”

Dalan frowned at this unexpected reply but he had no opportunity to question the healer. This situation called for firm reasoning and calm consideration. If there was no voice of moderation, this whole meeting could end in another unwanted war.

“A message has been sent to Eber Finn,” the Brehon cut in above the chorus of discontent. “If he's an honorable man he'll answer the charge brought against him and accept our judgment.”

“The Gaedhals aren't to be trusted,” Brocan bellowed. “They must be punished.”

Dalan shuddered. The situation was rapidly deteriorating into battle talk.

“There's a Gaedhal among us,” Sárán cried out. “The hostage should answer for the crimes of his king.”

The crowd stood up together, baying for blood. Lochie rolled his eyes back in his head, delighting in the rising conflict. Then he had an idea.

“Trial of the warrior!” he called out in a commanding voice, and the gathering shouted their approval.

Mahon immediately rose from his seat to stand in front of the terrified young hostage.

“Stop!” Dalan demanded. “Be quiet, all of you. You don't know what you're saying. This lad had nothing to do with the death of Fergus. How can such thoughts enter your minds?”

He turned to Lochie again, shaking his head. “Fineen, what's come over you? Have you gone mad? We are supposed to be the guardians of reason.”

It was Brocan who eventually called the assembly to silence. “Take the Gaedhal to his lodgings,” he told Mahon. “And see that no harm comes to him. He is in my care and I won't allow him to fall victim to our rage. Dalan is right. The lad had nothing to do with Fergus's death.”

There were muffled protests as Mahon led his friend out of the hall.

“This madness is not the way of the Fir-Bolg,” Brocan went on. “There will be no war. There'11 be no outpouring of anger. I was responsible for the danger my friend encountered. I will challenge Eber to a combat.”

“Wouldn't it be wiser to claim a payment in recompense?” Dalan argued.

“That is for the family of Fergus to decide,” the king shot back. “For my own satisfaction and that of our people, Eber Finn must be taught a lesson. And I ask you, Dalan, to adjudicate the fight.”

“I won't.”

“You're my adviser. It's your duty.”

“I'm a Brehon judge. My duty is to justice. I will not involve myself in a ritual blood-letting that will achieve nothing but discord and lead to counterclaims of compensation.”

“I'll arrange the contest,” Lochie offered, and for the third time that evening Dalan turned to the healer with a frown.

In that instant the Druid noticed something about Fineen he had never seen before. There was a fire in the healer's eyes that banished his air of humility. His worldly wisdom was still evident. And his features, his stance and his voice were all unchanged. But there was something unfamiliar about his old friend that put the Brehon's instincts on edge.

“I'm a neutral party in this,” the healer went on. “As a Danaan and a Druid I am best qualified to arrange a challenge.” Lochie paused, seeing he had the attention of everyone and the approval of most. “But I agree with Dalan. A trial of battle would achieve nothing. It would be more prudent to arrange a test of skill”

“A test of skill!” Brocan roared. “What satisfaction will that give? Let me fight him!”

“I have too much respect for you, Brocan,” Lochie stated. “I will not allow you to dishonor yourself in that manner.”

The king was about to explode in protest but Lochie didn't give him the opportunity.

“Eber Finn has not taken the Quicken Brew as you have. It would not be a fair fight. You've immune to injury.”

Dalan looked at Fineen and relaxed. This was the healer he recognized. Calm, clear-headed and thoughtful.

Brocan breathed out heavily as he realized there would indeed be no honor in such a contest. “What do you propose?”

“You must give me an opportunity to consider this question carefully,” Lochie replied.

But the Watcher already knew the nature of the test he would set for Brocan and the King of the Gaedhals. These folk were falling into his hands like ripe apples tumbling from a fully laden tree.

“Send another messenger to Dun Gur,” the king commanded. “Summon Eber to this place to answer for his crime.”

The gathering rose in unison. “Aye,” they answered together, and then without a word of dismissal the elders began filing out of the hall into the night.

“You have made a wise decision, my lord,” Dalan assured Brocan.

“This brew is proving to be a curse,” the king snapped. “I should never have allowed it to be administered to me. If I'd had my wits about me I would never have so much as sipped it.”

“Then you'd have gone to the Halls of Waiting,” Lochie observed with a shrug. “What use would you be to your people then?”

“I've heard enough of that argument. I seek rest. I'm tired of a lifetime of fighting, of dealing with the troubles of my people. My body may be able to go on but my spirit is weary.”

“It's true,” Lochie sighed, and Dalan was surprised at the intensity of his expression.

Sorcha came over and stood by Dalan's shoulder, intending to observe the healer close up. She felt uneasy but couldn't understand what it was about Fineen that disturbed her. As he went on she took careful note of every turn of his eye and of each syllable he spoke.

“We should not mourn Fergus. He has gone to a reward which we will only know in our dreams. We should envy him.”

Brocan reached out to grab the healer's sleeve. “Sometimes the only thought on my mind is sleep. I close my eyes at night and my body rests but that sort of slumber is unsatisfying. I awake each morning tortured by the knowledge that my soul may never find rest.”

“Think of the good your experience brings to your people,” Dalan cut in. “It is your destiny to guide them through the future.”

“Wouldn't it be better if they learned to look after themselves? Am I to be here in a hundred generations, still guiding their hands?”

The Brehon opened his mouth to speak but no words of encouragement would come to him. His life was devoted to judging, to preserving all the legal
precedents in the old tales and to passing his knowledge to those in need. A life unfettered by death and disease had seemed a marvelous gift to him, a chance to collect knowledge in unprecedented quantity.

“Did the Druids consider the burden they were placing on us all when they concocted the brew?” Brocan went on.

“They had no idea of the consequences of their actions,” Lochie replied.

A part of him was enjoying this immensely. His age-old hatred for these folk meant his twisted spirit reveled in their plight. But another voice spoke deep within the Watcher, a voice he hadn't heard in many generations.

And it was full of compassion.

Lochie chose to ignore it. He was at the helm of this conversation and he wanted to concentrate on steering his own course. The Watcher turned to face the Brehon, who swallowed hard when he caught his old friend's eye. The gold flecks which accentuated Fineen's blue orbs were sparkling with a fire the Brehon had never noticed before.

“When the Quicken berries were presented as a solution to the invasion of the Gaedhals, even the wisest Druids could only see the benefits of such a plan. We were all so enamored of the idea of long life and perfect health that no one considered the consequences for our souls.” Lochie allowed his voice to exhibit all the bitterness that had attached itself to him through the ages.

Balor of the Evil Eye, his master, had made many promises to the nine Watchers. But the crafty old warlord had never spoken of the loneliness that would be their lot. He had not once hinted at the terrible affliction which would embrace the spirits of each of them or of the hatred that would so easily consume them all.

“Those who drank of the brew have only just begun to understand the awful consequences of our decision,” Lochie went on. “We now suspect that to stop taking the brew will result in a degeneration of the body, but not in death. Who could have guessed that when the plan was first presented?”

Brocan, Dalan and Sorcha listened intently as the healer continued.

“Some of our companions have chosen to withdraw to the Otherworld and perhaps they will not suffer as greatly as those of us who have remained. But I have a notion even the Otherworld cannot hold back the burden of time forever. For everything travels through cycles of existence.”

Brocan and Sorcha nodded in solemn agreement.

“The trees understand this, so they shed their coats of leafy green in autumn and sleep through the long winter knowing even the mightiest among them cannot hope to fight against the cold. In the Otherworld the trees are said to be evergreen and loaded with fruit. The bite of winter has never been known in that land.”

Sorcha was intrigued. She hadn't ever heard Fineen
speak in such a poetic manner. He was a fine healer but he rarely expressed his mastery of words unless it was in riddles.

“I suspect, however, that the cycles of the seasons are merely slower in that place,” Lochie stated. “For now King Cecht and the Danaan folk are experiencing the glory of spring. All is well for them and they're surrounded by bliss. But for every seedling there must come a snowflake. Each apple must be bartered for a withered leaf upon the branch. And those dry leaves must return to the soil to nourish next season's growth.”

“I don't want to live beyond my span of seasons,” Brocan told him. “My heart's desire is to embrace the cycles of nature, not to avoid them.”

“I have no answer to your dilemma,” Lochie shrugged. “But that doesn't mean there isn't one. Perhaps we must all come to some peace within ourselves on this matter. It will certainly affect everyone differently.”

Dalan found he was strangely relieved to hear Fineen make this last statement. He understood that Brocan was deeply unhappy, but he himself was eager to make the most of the great gift the Quicken Brew had granted him.

Lochie coughed to signal he had said enough on this subject for now. “I will arrange a competition,” he continued after a moment, addressing Brocan. “If it's a fair contest between you and Eber, I'm sure your honor will be satisfied without the need for warfare.”