The King of Sleep (40 page)

“There must be another way down,” the king suggested.

But they hadn't passed any forks in the tunnel. This seemed to be the only opening to the river on this side. Eber dangled his legs over the edge and sat with his chin resting in his hands while he considered their situation.

The cliff was almost sheer to the bottom. There were footholds but he couldn't be certain how secure they might be. He had a length of rope in his pack but he was sure it wouldn't be long enough. It was as he was pondering the problem that he caught a strange glimmer out of the corner of his eye. The king squinted, concentrating on the area where he thought he'd seen the little light.

Suddenly his hand was on Dalan's arm and his fingers were squeezing tight.

“Look!” he gasped. “Down there. It's a fire.”

The Brehon shielded his eyes from the sunlight and looked carefully. But he couldn't locate any fire.

“Are you sure?”

Just as the words left his mouth the Brehon caught sight of the flames. The fire was far off in the depths of darkness at the lower end of the river, but there was no mistaking the flickering reflection against the surface of the water.

“That's the direction we're headed in,” the king said. “Perhaps Brocan and my adviser have made better time than we have.”

“They've taken a different path, that's all,” Dalan corrected him. “What shall we do? Scramble down or retrace our steps and seek out another passage to the river?”

“We could wander these stone corridors for the rest of eternity and not find our way back to the river,” Eber judged. “In my opinion we should try to climb down the cliff face.”

Dalan edged closer to the brink. His heart raced at the thought of making that descent.

“Look,” he began nervously, “the truth is, I'm not very comfortable with heights.”

“What have you got to be worried about? You've taken the Quicken Brew. What possible harm could come to you if you fell?”

The Brehon looked over the cliff again and laughed at himself a little.

“I'm the one who's risking his life,” Eber went on.

With that the Gaedhal found the rope in his pack and fastened it around an outcrop of rock. He tied a sailor's knot that would allow him to slip the rope away when they had climbed down to the full extent
of the line. Then he tested that it would hold his weight.

“Shall I go first?”

“Is this a good idea?” Dalan stuttered, terrified at the thought of plunging down the cliff face suspended on such a flimsy-looking cord.

“You have nothing to fear,” the Gaedhal reminded him. “Even if you fall, no harm will come to you.”

“I've never really put the brew to the test before,” the Druid admitted. “It has only been three winters since I drank of it.”

Eber smiled. “You Druids are all the same. You steer clear of danger. You spend your whole lives learning rules and laws. You love to tell tales of the heroes of the past. But when it comes down to it you're all just hiding from life. You're afraid of what might happen to you if all your rules fell apart.”

“I'm not frightened of death,” Dalan snapped back indignantly.

“It's life that scares you,” the Gaedhal cut in.

And with that he wrapped the rope around his waist and prepared to start his descent to the river.

“There's a ledge just above where this rope runs out. It's wide enough for both of us to stand on. I'll meet you there.”

In the next second he was off, carefully finding a foothold here and there and letting out the line gently as he went.

Dalan watched from above and tried to tell himself Eber was right. He had nothing to fear. Even if he
slipped and fell he was unlikely to be killed. Yet all his instincts told him this was foolishness. Eber Finn's rebuke, however, stung his pride, and as the king reached the first ledge Dalan decided to fight off the fear that was overwhelming him.

He wrapped the line about his waist in the same manner the Gaedhal had done and, his eyes fixed firmly on the placement of his feet, lowered himself over the edge of the cliff.

The first thing he noticed when he stepped off the ledge was not fear. It was a confidence he had never known before. This wasn't nearly as frightening as he'd imagined and now that he was committed to this course of action it seemed almost enjoyable.

But then Dalan made a terrible mistake. In his new-found self-assurance he ventured to look down to see how far it was to where the Gaedhal was waiting for him. It was just a glance, no more than a glimpse, but it was enough to turn his stomach. Suddenly his heart was beating in his mouth and his hands were sweating around the rope. His fingers seemed incredibly weak and his knees were shaking as a cold dread began to engulf him.

All his former confidence was swept away on a rising tide of panic. And it was the kind of terror that would have seen him running as fast as he could in the opposite direction if he hadn't been halfway down the cliff.

“Take it easy, Druid,” the king called up to him.
“Don't rush yourself. Keep your eyes on your boots and choose your next foothold carefully. Don't think about how frightened you are. You have a job to do, so concentrate on it.”

“My hands won't support my weight.”
“I
don't understand you folk of the Draoi path,” Eber Finn scoffed. “You can stand up to kings. You can talk with confidence in front of hundreds of your kinfolk. You pronounce the law and judge transgressors as if it were the easiest thing in the world. You can even compose and play the most beautiful music without a second thought.”

The Brehon closed his eyes as he listened to the king's words. Then he pushed his forehead into the back of his hand as he desperately gripped the line.

“Yet give you a simple task and you lose your nerve,” the Gaedhal concluded. “How do you expect a warrior to respect your words if you haven't the heart to suffer the same risks and the same trials as the rest of us?”

“I'm not a warrior!” Dalan hissed. “I didn't choose to walk the same path as you. How could you know what I've suffered in order to gain my education and the respect of my peers?”

“Show me your worth, Druid,” Eber countered. “Keep your mind on the journey and drive away all thoughts of your destination. If you think too much about where you're headed, you'll be distracted and then you'll surely falter.”

Dalan heard these words and knew the king was
right. He took three deep breaths to steel his nerve and then looked down at his feet. The next outcrop of rock that appeared as though it could hold him was just a short step away.

He lowered his left foot onto the stone and transferred his weight. He took another breath before he spotted a place for his right foot. His toe found a solid support and he let out a little of the line about his waist.

In this manner he slowly made his way down to where Eber Finn was waiting for him. The king was obviously impatient. When the Brehon was finally standing at his side on the narrow ledge the Gaedhal sighed heavily and snatched the rope from him.

Then, in a practiced maneuver, Eber flicked the line with one hand and it fell down on top of them. Dalan pressed his back to the wall, his palms flat against the rock. He tried to steady his breathing, to ease the deafening pounding of blood through his body. But before the Druid had settled himself, the Gaedhal had secured the rope again and was back down the cliff face. The Brehon could only wonder at the man's determination. Little by little he felt respect blossoming for this foreigner.

In this way the two of them inched their way down the sheer rock face, relying on the rope when there was no footing to be had. Nevertheless the descent took longer than even Eber had imagined for it was difficult to judge the distance from the top of the cliff.

When at last the Brehon dropped down onto the soft sand at the very base of the rock wall he fell on his face and stayed that way for a long time, clutching at the grains with his fingers. Eber Finn coiled the rope and calmly placed it in his pack in case they should stand in need of it again.

“I'm ashamed of myself,” Dalan finally admitted when he lifted himself up off the ground onto his knees. His face and clothes were covered in sand. “I was so frightened I thought my heart was going to stop.”

The Gaedhal leaned over, grasped him by the hand and helped him to his feet.

“So was I,” he admitted. “There's nothing like a challenge to get the heart pumping. And when my blood is up I know I'm really alive.”

The Brehon looked into Eber's eyes and saw he was speaking the truth. Then the two of them fell into each other's arms and laughed.

But their relief was short-lived. As they broke from their embrace the two men realized they were not alone on the narrow sandy beach at the bend of the underground river. Dalan swallowed hard and the Gaedhal drew his sword. But before they fully understood what was happening the whole area was lit by the flames of a hundred torches.

It was Aoife who dragged herself to her feet when the sound of the harp met her ears. Her brother looked up from where he lay but wasn't keen to go off
searching in the dark for the mysterious musician. “We haven't any torches left,” he reasoned. “We'll just get hopelessly lost.”

But his sister didn't take any notice of him. The melody was compelling and familiar and it called to her like the voice of a dear friend. She took a dozen steps away from the fire while Sárán struggled to rise on his elbow.

“I'm too tired to go off searching the cave,” he told her. “Let the harper come to us.”

When she offered no answer the young man looked up. His sister was gone.

“Aoife!” he cried, panic lending a tremble to his voice. “Where are you?”

“There's a light up here,” she answered. “I think I've found a way out of the cave.”

In a flash Sárán was on his feet, running toward the rocks behind the little beach. But the shadows concealed many hidden pitfalls and he tripped on a sharp jutting stone. He was just getting to his feet again, rubbing his shin where his breeches had been torn open, when Aoife appeared at his side.

“I've found an exit,” she informed him, grabbing his hand and dragging him along between two huge boulders. Within ten steps they'd rounded one of the massive stones. There before them was a hole in the rocks worn smooth by water over thousands of seasons.

The passage beyond was lit by an eerie blue glow and a freezing wind issued forth from it. Sárán
recoiled as soon as he set eyes on the entrance to this new corridor. An inexplicable terror shook him and he knew without a doubt that it would be a mistake to enter this part of the cave system.

But Aoife was keen to explore beyond the doorway. She made a few tentative steps toward the passage, though her brother stayed where he was, frozen to the spot. As she turned to check whether he was following her, a shadow appeared behind her, and Sárán's eyes widened.

The sound of the harp met their ears again as Aoife dashed back to stand by her brother. The shadow grew as a hooded figure made its way down the passage toward them. At last the stranger stood silhouetted against the faint bluish light behind him. He was nothing more than a dark outline but he inspired such fear in Sárán that the young man could have fled there and then. And if it hadn't been for his sister's tight grip on his arm, that's exactly what he would have done.

As they watched, the stranger turned around and headed back in the direction he'd come. Aoife was off after him before her brother had a chance to object. Reluctantly he followed her, calling her name to no avail.

The passage was incredibly cold. Ice clung to the rocks, making the floor dangerously slippery. Several times Sárán fell over hard against the wall or slid along as the corridor descended. Aoife, however, had always been more sure-footed than her brother and she was soon far ahead of him. Sárán struggled along as best he
could but it wasn't long before he was out of breath, too exhausted to call out.

A wailing wind greeted him as he entered a new chamber and flakes of snow began swirling all about him as he walked. The young man was very concerned now. There was no sign of Aoife anywhere.

Just as he was wondering whether she had been set upon by the hooded stranger, his sister appeared. She ran into him on her way back down the passage, nearly knocking him over in her haste.

“You won't believe what lies beyond that stretch of corridor!” she told him. “I can scarcely believe it myself.”

Sárán frowned. “I don't want to know!” he stormed. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to be running around in these caves? We don't know what dwells down here beneath the ground. We're going back to the lake right now.”

“But that passage leads to the outside world. We're free!”

She grabbed his arm to drag him on along the corridor. Before they'd traveled far a bright light filled the cave and the wind built in intensity. There was snow all around and the ice was treacherously thick on the ground.

Moments later they were standing at the cave mouth looking out over a wintry landscape.

“It was midsummer when we entered the Aillwee,” Sárán protested. “How could it have come to winter so quickly?”

“I have no idea,” his sister replied. She pointed to a spot on the other side of the field which lay in front of them. “But I recognize that wood over there. It's not far from our old home at Dun Burren.”

“I don't understand,” Sárán breathed. “There's something terribly wrong. There can't be snow on the ground.”

“I don't understand it myself,” Aoife admitted. “But I see we're safely out of the caves and that's the most important thing. Over there is the road to Aillwee. If we run we'll make it to shelter before nightfall.”

The next thing he knew Sárán was running as fast as his legs could carry him through the heavy snow toward the woods at the other side of the field. He'd completely forgotten about the stranger they'd seen in the cave. He was overjoyed to be free of the eternal darkness.