The King of Sleep (37 page)

This uplifting sensation of Oneness with all things was what he'd been searching for all his life. Through long seclusion and meditation he'd tried to achieve this state. When that path had proved fruitless he'd turned to music and poetry. He'd glimpsed the ecstasy of being, certainly, but he'd never been immersed in it, never been swept up in the joy of living as he was now.

As all these thoughts flowed through the mind of Máel Máedóc, the Druid's body began to twirl in a dance such as he'd never attempted before. With arms still outstretched he turned around and around until everything about him, stone walls, rocks and the flames of Brocan's torch all blurred into a weird mix of color and light.

But despite this constant spinning, Máel Máedóc didn't feel at all dizzy or disoriented. In fact, if anything, the more he twirled the sharper his awareness became until he began to sense the presence of other folk milling about in the chamber.

Once or twice these strangers were so compelling in their silent observation that Máel Máedóc very nearly ceased his dance altogether to ask them who they were.

But his feet would not do his bidding.

“I don't care if I die now!” he cried out for the sheer joy of expressing an end to all sorrow. “I'll never be
unhappy again. I'll cling to this feeling for the rest of my life.”

As he spun around again he caught sight of Brocan, who had a look of genuine concern on his face. Before he'd come around once more, Brocan had his arms about Máel Máedóc.

The old Druid fought him off for a short while, then his knees began to buckle under him. Before he knew what was happening the old man had lost all sensation in his legs. If it had not been for the king's strong arms about him he would have surely fallen face first onto the rocky floor. As it was, Brocan was sufficiently affected by the seeing brew himself that he struggled to hold the old man up.

The next thing Máel Máedóc was aware of was the ceiling of the cave. This and this alone filled his consciousness, though at times he glimpsed Brocan's face. The entire chamber seemed to be spinning as if he hadn't stopped dancing.

The old man knew his body was being twirled around by the ever-moving floor beneath him. But he was not in the least sickened by the sensation. If anything he was thoroughly enjoying it.

Brocan, on the other hand, was struggling to fight off the effects of the brew, for his instincts told him there was something terribly wrong with the old Druid. The king searched around in Máel Máedóc's pack for his water bottle. His hands seemed unwilling to do as they were bid and the search went on for an interminable period. It was all Brocan could do to
concentrate on this simple task. At last he found the bottle but his fingers refused to grasp it.

It took an incredible force of will for the king to lift the bottle and remove the stopper. He placed the vessel at the old man's mouth with trembling hands that spilled the precious liquid all around. But Máel Máedóc drank deeply and for a few moments his eyes focused and cleared.

To his intense frustration Brocan could not keep his attention on anything for more than a split second at a time. Once Máel Máedóc had taken a drink the king was so exhausted from the effort of finding the bottle that he slumped back against the wall. Then his entire body began to grow numb.

All his senses were dulled. Sounds were muffled. Colors brightened. Odors strengthened. His mouth tasted salty and dry but he didn't have the energy to take a sip from his companion's water bottle. And the mere thought of taking a draught from his own mead bottle turned his stomach.

It was then that Brocan noticed his rush light was flickering. Somehow he'd managed to drop it on the ground where it spluttered dangerously close to extinction. If the light went out they would certainly be in trouble. If it was difficult to find a water bottle it would be impossible to locate a flint and tinder in the pitch blackness.

With all his strength Brocan sharpened his resolve and moved toward the torch. Though he couldn't manage anything better than a slow crawl across the
floor he soon had his hands on the shaft of the rush light. With the greatest care he propped it up against the wall so that at least it would continue burning. When he was certain the light was safe he rolled over on his back and became conscious of the sweat running down his face like a mountain stream.

And as he lay on his back he began to feel an unfamiliar and disturbing coldness spread across his body. It started in his feet then engulfed his ankles and calf muscles. Wherever it went it left behind a paralysis so devastating that Brocan could not so much as twitch a muscle.

By the time panic set in, it was already too late. His hands and arms were lumps of cold immovable stone; his heart was slowing and his breathing had become strained and irregular. Only two parts of him seemed immune to this affliction: his mind, which raced on, fuelled by fear; and his eyes which, though they would not move in their sockets, remained open and aware of every subtle movement in the chamber.

This was how, after a long while lying on his back unable to move, Brocan first noticed a small group of strange folk standing at one end of the passage, quietly observing him.

They were dressed entirely in the skins of animals. Their hair was long, brown and filthy. They were shorter than average, with large eyes and hands. And none of them spoke a single word, though Brocan sensed they wanted to communicate with him.

At length a woman came to sit beside him. Gently
she propped his head up under his pack and he felt a few drops of water pour into his mouth. The king tried to thank her but his Ups and tongue would not answer the call to speak.

The strange woman stroked his hair and stared intently at his helpless face. Her eyes were like those of a seal—large, black and wet. After a short while she motioned to her companions and there was a flurry of movement. But Brocan had exhausted his reserves of energy.

His eyelids would not remain open, no matter how he struggled against them. At last the woman closed them for him and he fell into the deepest sleep he'd ever experienced.

For all the noise of folk scurrying about him, for all the concern he held for Máel Máedóc's well-being, Brocan let himself be transported to the realm of sleep. And once his soul was floating at peace, he allowed the ship of his spirit to float aimlessly on a flat featureless sea of restfulness.

Sorcha went directly to the hall of poetry, hoping to find Fineen. But by the time she got there he was nowhere to be seen. Her suspicions were definitely aroused now. It would have been almost impossible for him to have reached the hall, collected his things and gone off in search of herbs as he had intended.

To be certain she went down to the main gates of the fortress and inquired of the sentries whether the healer had passed that way. They told her no one had
entered or departed the gates since sunset the previous evening.

To make certain her instincts weren't playing tricks with her, the Druid woman began a systematic search of the entire fortification, beginning with the king's hall, then the house of the chieftains and any place it was likely Fineen might have gone before setting out on his expedition.

She asked everyone she met along the way but no one had seen the healer all morning, which was strange since he was such a popular figure. Everywhere he went folk looked out for him either to thank him for some cure or to ask his advice with a health problem.

In the end Sorcha decided to return to the hall of poetry once more to see if he'd returned there. But there was no sign of him. His bed had not been slept in. His traveling pack had not been touched. And his clothes were still laid out for the day as if he'd not yet awoken.

In the course of her curiosity Sorcha opened Fineen's box of herbs. And there she saw something which made her blood run chill. A thin gray film of mold covered every leaf, twig and seed within the box. Nothing had been touched for days.

This was not just unusually careless of the healer. It was highly unlikely. And it convinced the Druid woman she had stumbled across the reason why Fineen had been making her feel so uneasy.

She thought back to the conversation she'd had
with him a few nights before and her mind began to race with possibilities. How did he know so many tales that hadn't been told in generations? Where had he gained his knowledge of the Watchers? He'd certainly not known so much when they'd first met.

Her heart racing furiously, Sorcha made her way back down to the cave entrance to speak with Sárán. To her surprise she found the cauldron still propped over the fireplace and the contents settling into a solid mass within.

“Where are the two trainee Druids who were sent to clean this vessel?” she asked the guards who had just been posted to ensure no one entered the caves.

The two men looked at each other and shrugged.

Now Sorcha was beginning to feel more than uneasy. She grabbed a torch from beside the fire, lit it and prepared to venture into the Aillwee by herself. She knew this was perhaps a foolish act but her concern for Dalan and the others was overwhelming.

She suspected that she had discovered one of the Watchers going about his mischief in the guise of the healer, but she hardly dared admit this even to herself, for the idea was simply too disturbing.

She intended to go as far into the caves as was safe and no further. But the sentries had been given strict instructions to stop her from entering and no amount of arguing or begging had any influence over them. At last she simply tried to push past the two warriors but they easily picked her up between them and carried
her back to the cauldron. When they set her down by the fire the larger of the two issued her a stern warning that she would not pass them as long as they had any strength.

Downcast but desperate to do something, Sorcha threw down the torch, turned on her heel and headed off toward the main gate of the fortress. Then, without so much as a water bottle or a cloak in case the night turned cold, she set off down the dusty road toward her home in the forest.

She had just entered the woods which lay directly to the south of Aillwee when a familiar voice called out to her. The Druid woman stopped in her tracks when she heard the call and waited until the huge black bird descended from the trees to stand beside her on the path.

“I've been waiting for you,” the Raven cawed in her gravelly tones. “There's terrible news on the wind.”

“Why didn't you come to the Aillwee and speak with me?”

“Not all the Fir-Bolg are friends of the Raven kind,” came the reply. “King Brocan fought a battle against my cousins the owl folk and many of them died. I won't easily forget that.”

“What's your news, my friend?” Sorcha pleaded. “I must hurry home if I'm to have any chance of saving Dalan from terrible danger.”

“Dalan is safe for the moment,” the bird assured her. “It's Brocan and the old Gaedhal Druid who are in trouble.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Watcher lured them into the caves to do away with them.”

“I don't understand.”

“The one who has been posing as Fineen to influence the King of the Fir-Bolg and his people.”

“And what of Fineen himself?”

“The healer has been sleeping in the hidden depths of the cave for several days. He likely won't awake again for many generations.”

“So that wasn't Fineen who stirred the brew this morning and sent the kings out on their quest?”

“It was the Watcher who calls himself Lochie.”

“I suspected something was awry. How do you know this?”

“My people speak to all the kindred of the sky, the waters and the Earth,” the Raven replied. “The tale passed quickly from the cave-dwellers to the bird folk.”

“And what of Aoife and Sárán? Have they gone into the caves too?”

“I haven't heard anything about them,” the bird shrugged. “But I expect they'll be safe for the time being. The Watcher has plans for them. He wants that pair kept safe.”

“Will you do something for me?” Sorcha asked.

“I'll do what I can to help.”

“Gather your kindred and search the fields all around. There must be many small and hidden entrances to the Aillwee caves. I know there are
streams which disappear underground and others which emerge from the depths. Scout them out in case there should be any sign of anyone making their way out.”

“And I will pass the word to the underground dwellers that they may keep a watch also.”

“Without your aid Brocan may be lost to us and the tide will turn in favor of the Watchers and their meddling schemes.”

“Brocan's fate was sealed when he set foot under the cave's stone roof. The Gaedhal Druid is also beyond any aid. Alas, I fear no one now living shall see either of them again.”

“Hurry off on your task,” she pressed. “I must go back to my house and I'll await your word there. I have a good store of dried herbs which may stem the terrible effects of the seeing herbs and I suspect there will be those in need of my healing.”

“I will do as you ask,” the Raven nodded as she clicked her beak. “But don't put too much hope in the herbs you've gathered. Dalan set off on this journey willingly. He may not appreciate it if you try to bring him back too soon.”

“I have much to do and little time in which to do it. I can see no other course open to me but to prepare for the worst.”

The Raven cocked her head to one side and clicked her beak again.

“I'll send out the word to all my kindred,” the bird assured her. “But don't hold too high a hope of helping
them. You are but a Druid woman. You're not as wily as the Watchers.”

The bird spread her wings and took off, soaring to the southeast in the direction of the caves. The Druid woman watched after until the Raven was nothing more than a black speck in the far distance.

Then Sorcha said a little prayer to the Goddess Danu and turned away from Aillwee toward her forest home, a plan to rescue her friends formulating in her mind.