The King of Sleep (36 page)

“Then there would be no challenge to your life at all,” the Brehon noted. “I haven't been cursed with such vision except in tiny glimpses, but I don't live with as much uncertainty as you do.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you heard of the Quicken Brew?”

Eber shrugged his shoulders. “I've heard rumors of a potion that grants eternal life and health, if that's what you mean.”

“You face death every day of your life,” the Brehon
sighed. “I'm just beginning to understand what a gift that may be. It spurs you on to achieve your goals because you know you have but a short time in which to make your dreams come true. It's but three winters since I drank the Quicken Brew and I'm already growing indolent.”

“If you truly have been granted eternal life, there is no need for hasty decisions. You can approach your objectives without the necessity of hurting other folk along the way.”

“That is a very simple way of looking at the problem,” Dalan told him. “But it shows that you perhaps have a good heart beneath that warlike exterior.”

“Do you think I would be a warrior or a king if I had a choice in the matter? Don't you think I'd devote my life to music and pleasure if I was given the opportunity? It seems to me you've overlooked the finest aspects of your gift.”

“Aoife shares that gift. I'm told you have made an offer of marriage.”

Eber nodded.

“Has she taken the brew also?”

“If you marry her she will certainly outlive you,” the Brehon said. “Are you willing to risk a Fir-Bolg Queen of the Gaedhals who is undying?”

“Will our children possess the attributes granted by the Quicken potion?”

“Possibly, but I cannot say for certain.”

“I'll be content if the match secures an alliance between our two peoples. In time we shall be one folk
with common blood ties and traditions. If that is the cost of my ambitions, then so be it.”

Dalan stood up, grabbed his pack and shouldered it. “Your ambitions won't be served by sitting here on your backside. Let's get this journey over with. I have a yearning to be seated at my own hearth with my friends.”

Eber Finn was up in an instant. He took his torch from the ground where he had planted it and they set off down the long corridor of stone once again. They had not traveled far when they came to a low wide passageway that had to be traversed on hands and knees.

“Dalan!” Eber exclaimed suddenly, breathless with excitement. “What's this?”

The Brehon edged forward to where the king was now lying on his back under a smooth section of the roof. Eber was running his fingers gently over the stone and under his hands there was a beautiful drawing etched in black.

Such was the workmanship of the drawing that Dalan was breathless for several seconds, awed by its intricacy. Someone had depicted in charcoal tones two large animals standing on either side of what looked to be a diminutive human figure. The animals were completely covered in hair and they sported massive paws. Their mouths gaped open viciously and they were rearing up on their hind legs menacingly.

But despite their fury and incredible size the
human who sat cross-legged between them seemed calm and unafraid.

“Bears,” the Brehon stated with confidence. “That's what they are.”

“I had no idea there were bears on Innisfail,” Eber gasped.

“There aren't any these days. They were hunted out generations ago. There is no one living in this land who has seen such an animal in the flesh.”

But the drawing was so incredibly lifelike and seemed so fresh that Eber Finn was not convinced. “Well I've seen a bear,” he told the Brehon. “In the Iberian lands they still roam wild. They are formidable beasts and I wouldn't like to come across one without a dozen warriors by my side.”

Dalan smiled. “You won't. As I said, they haven't lived here for generations. The last of their kind was hunted down ages ago.”

But just as he finished speaking a ferocious roar met their ears, distant and faint but certainly real.

“What was that?” the Gaedhal stammered once the sound had faded.

“I don't know. But I'm sure it wasn't a bear. Let's go on and find out.”

They edged their way to the end of the passage until they were once again able to stand, and it was then that the king's torch caught a strange sight in its light.

Where the passage twisted around to the right there was an unusual shape outlined against the stone.
A huge dark creature was lying down across their path.

“That's a bear,” Eber whispered. “And there is no way past it but over the top.”

Dalan frowned, unable to believe his eyes. Certainly it looked like an enormous hairy animal lying fast asleep on its side, but something about its appearance was not quite right.

He observed the creature for a few minutes before snatching the torch from Eber's hand and striding confidently forward. When he came to where the bear was sleeping he suddenly kicked the animal hard in the stomach.

The Gaedhal could hardly believe his eyes. In a flash he'd drawn his sword and rushed forward with a battle cry to slash at the creature's head.

“I'll save you!” he bellowed as the blade fell neatly across the bear's neck.

The great hairy head lolled forward and rolled across the floor. As Eber watched, the entire animal seemed to collapse into the floor in a cloud of dust. Fur flew in all directions, making both of them sneeze uncontrollably.

But the Gaedhal wanted to be certain he'd finished this monster off. As he struggled to wipe the tears from his eyes he struck out again and again at the vanquished beast until he felt Dalan's hand restraining him.

“It's been dead longer than either of us have been alive,” the Brehon coughed. “Now stop stirring up the dust and stand back.”

It was true enough. Though the fur had more or less survived the ages, there was no flesh whatsoever on the animal's body. The head was nothing more than an empty skull. Massive and frightening it might have been, but it was also lifeless.

Eber Finn waited while the dust settled. Then he collected a large piece of the bearskin and rolled it up. He tied rope to either end and fastened the trophy to his body.

“This will make a fine cloak to present to Brocan as a marriage gift.”

Dalan nodded and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I haven't felt so frightened since Isleen led us into a battle with the owls in the Fomor Forest.”

“Isleen?” Eber shot back.

“The Watcher.”

“What is a Watcher?”

“An ancient force conjured in the days of our forefathers by the enemies of the Danaan and Fir-Bolg,” Dalan explained. “Isleen is one of only two remaining Watchers. Their sole purpose is to spread havoc among mortal kind.”

Eber was shocked. Surely the Brehon wasn't referring to
his
Isleen. But he could hardly ask—if he revealed that he'd been consorting with this Watcher, it could spell the end of any hope of alliance with the Fir-Bolg.

“Are they really all that dangerous?” he inquired, all the suspicions he'd held about Isleen starting to make sense.

“More deadly, more treacherous and more pitiful than any creature that ever walked. They're shape-shifters. They influence the world around them, the thoughts of men, the desires of women. Bless the Goddess Danu you know nothing of them.”

The Brehon sighed deeply, realizing they were wasting precious time. “Now you have your trophy, perhaps we can consider returning to the cave mouth,” Dalan begged. “I'd rather return home before the seeing herbs take their full effect.”

“Nonsense!”

And with a laugh Eber Finn was off down the passage once again, searching for more adventure. But the Brehon, following close behind, shared none of the king's joy at roaming this underworld kingdom full of long-dead monsters. For Dalan was beginning to experience an overwhelming sense of foreboding such as he hadn't known since before the coming of the Gaedhals.

Máel Máedóc had just sat down when the first effects of the seeing potion came upon him. He'd had some experience of similar brews when he was a young Druid in training, but it had been many seasons since he'd consented to partake of them. This was mainly because he had never felt entirely comfortable with the way his mind behaved under the influence of such herbs. Máel Máedóc was a man who liked his life to remain ordered and simple. If there were to be challenges to his way of thinking he preferred them to be
easily recognized and quickly dealt with. But the seeing potions opened his mind to often frightening visions.

The old Druid had seen but twenty summers when he'd had his first experience with a potion made from a flowering plant known as the gloves of the goat-headed god. The effect on him was unusually prolonged and profound, so much so that his teacher forbade him to take the potion ever again.

His next experience was ten autumns later, as part of the Samháin rituals, when he was fed a small amount of dried mushroom similar in many ways to the redcaps Sorcha had provided. His teacher had passed on by that time so his guide was a good friend who was a herbalist and well versed in the ways of seeing. He still couldn't recall much of that experience other than the long period of recovery that followed. His guide had misjudged the dose and poisoned them both. Máel Máedóc had survived, but his friend had not been so lucky.

Such were the dangers of these preparations. Anyone who took these seeing brews was changed forever; some for the better and some for the worse. Máel Máedóc's own limited experience had led to him being extremely cautious in every aspect of his life.

Yet here he was in his old age taking part in a strange journey which could end in his own death. He'd only agreed to take part because it was his duty to stand beside his king. Only a few days ago he'd been
busily composing a satire against Eber Finn. Now he was risking his life in order to honor his duty to the man.

His senses were reeling from the dank air in the cave and the unfamiliar ground they had covered. But he was not yet so groggy that he felt the need to stop. It was Brocan who had called them to a halt.

“I'm ill,” the Fir-Bolg king stated.

These were the first words he'd spoken to the Druid since they'd entered the darkness.

“Shall we rest?” Máel Máedóc inquired.

“You're the old man,” Brocan dismissed. “I'll rest when you're ready.”

“I would like to move on.”

“Very well.”

The king ignored the trembling in his guts and continued on, though his legs were unsteady and his pace had slowed. The old Druid observed the difficulty Brocan was having and was surprised that he himself was only suffering from a mild giddiness.

“I would like to stop for a while,” Máel Máedóc said finally.

He'd barely finished speaking when Brocan collapsed on the ground and curled up in a tight ball of pain. The Druid offered him a taste of water from his bottle but the king refused it and it was a long while before Brocan stretched out again and grunted in relief.

“I thought my guts were going to explode,” he gasped when he could speak again. Then the king
noticed that Máel Máedóc wasn't showing any ill effects.

“I have much experience of the seeing herbs,” the old Druid declared, though this experience was obviously unlike any other he had been exposed to.

“Have you ever seen anything like that?” Brocan asked, pointing to the ceiling.

Máel Máedóc looked where the king was pointing but couldn't at first understand what he meant. All he could see was a plain, rocky gray roof, damp in places but otherwise unremarkable.

“What have you seen?” the old man demanded, but as he spoke his eyes were opened in a way he'd never known before.

Hundreds of tiny lights of red and green and the brightest yellow began to dance around the wall to the accompaniment of the most wonderful melody that had ever met his ears. The tune was light and merry and in no time Máel Máedóc's toes were tapping in rhythm to the music. Then, as if he had no control over himself, he was on his feet, discarding his staff to step out a lively jig such as he'd hadn't danced since he was a lad. The lights grew brighter by the moment until the entire passage seemed to be alive with their vibrant presence.

And something else happened to Máel Máedóc. He experienced a great opening of his heart, a precious joy that entered his soul and rejuvenated his very being. He threw his arms out in ecstatic thanks to whatever unseen power had granted him this wondrous
gift. And as he offered up his gratitude enlightenment struck him.

His own life, everything he had ever said and done, even his eventual death, meant nothing to the greater cycle of the universe. He was just one small part of an unimaginably immense organism that followed its own patterns, rhythms and rules. But as insignificant as he was, he was still a part of that unknowable being and as such would always remain a part of it, even beyond death. After his passing his body would break down into dust and return to the Earth. But his soul would move on and change into something completely new yet positively alive.

This concept had been taught to him by various teachers all his life. He had discussed it with his learned friends and students alike, and yet he had never really been convinced of the truth of it until now.

And with this realization all the cares of his office, all the concerns of his vocation and all the accumulated regrets of his lifetime were released into the air and blew away like as much ash scattered on a dungheap.

The music was growing richer by the moment. Drums, pipes and whistles joined in the chorus with the delicate notes of the harp picked out above the other instruments. There were voices joining in also but Máel Máedóc didn't listen for the words they were singing. His entire being was lost to the melody and the ecstatic dance. Even Brocan was no longer of
any concern to him. The old Druid didn't give a thought for his duties or his responsibihty as a guide to the Fir-Bolg king.