~ Chapter XX ~
A Tale of Many Waters

Here of all places I can't afford to be clumsy, she reminded herself, raising her gaze from the entrance to the walls around her, hoping to reclaim her place among the carven stories. But her attention was arrested before she had a chance to find it by an unusually dusty swath of wall. It was close to the floor on the far side of the Leabharlann, and it stood out for the odd reason of being the only inscrutable patch in the whole library.

Frowning, Fíohra circled the room and stood before it, wondering why the maeleachlainn had forgotten to attend to this specific story. Unlike their pristine neighbors, spider-webs hung thickly from these carven figures, draping them in what seemed to be robes of disgrace. Dust had then settled in the webs, casting the entire tale a somber shade of dirt gray. Fíohra crouched down and blew on the carvings, sending up a storm of grit. She coughed and waved it away, but her curiosity was unsatisfied. With an eager hand she brushed away the remaining cobwebs, taking care to leave the delicate stone undamaged. After several minutes of cautious cleaning, the story at last became clear, and Fíohra sat back on her heels to study it.

What she saw nearly made her wish that she had left it under its dusty shroud.

It began with the building of a city—a great city, the like of which Fíohra had never even imagined. It grew tall and strong, and its people were fair. But they were cruel, too, and their hearts were black. Fíohra watched as their city was brought to an end by something she could not understand. Yet that was not the end of their evil, for many survived the fall of the great city. They spread out upon the earth and taught their cruelty to their children, so that by the time many years had passed, the world had grown utterly wicked once more.

Fíohra wanted to cover her eyes, but her curiosity was too strong. So she watched as the carvings depicted the brutality of the ancient kings as they demanded the slaughter of innocents on the altars of their strange, bloodthirsty gods. She watched too as young girls were torn from their homes and robbed of their maidenhead in the streets of the wicked cities while their neighbors passed by on the other side, jeering or ignoring them in turn.

Fíohra watched brother betray brother for a father's favor, and sister betray sister for a suitor's hand. Husbands were murdered in their beds by jealous wives, and wives were strangled in their homes by jealous husbands. Evil heaped upon evil, war heaped upon war and cruelty heaped upon cruelty until Fíohra could stand no more of it. She stood and stepped away from the wall, willing herself to leave the story incomplete.

A low sigh made her whirl around. Mórdúil had heaved himself back up into the floor of the Leabharlan, a basket clutched in one of his claws. With an unfathomably sad look he set the basket on the ground and joined Fíohra in front of the appalling tale.

"I had hoped you would not find this for a long time," he said at last, his thunderous voice muted.

Fíohra stared at her toes, ashamed. "I'm sorry, Mórdúil. I just…I wondered why you had left it so dusty." Thinking of the terrible scenes she had seen, Fíohra turned away from the wall and looked up at her companion. "I guess I understand now."

The dragon settled on his haunches and studied the carvings that Fíohra had cleaned. For a while he was silent. Then, in a cautious tone, he spoke again. "I am not sure that you do, little one."

Fíohra frowned and glanced once more at the wall. "Why not?"

"Am I right to assume you have not finished the tale?" he asked.

She nodded. "It was too horrible."

"That it is, Fíohra. That it is." He paused again, musing. "I have spent years wondering at the brutality of your kind. I have seen much in my long life, but I have not yet come to understand why you mortals love wickedness so. I see it, and I still cannot believe it."

Fíohra thought of the cruelty of the villagers of Baláirdh Drún and did not disagree with him. "Aye," she said softly. "I've seen it too."

"I know you have, child," Mórdúil replied. He made a hissing sound and gestured with a wingtip to the still-dusty portion of the story. "And so I think you should hear the rest. You may…" He stopped, and it seemed as if he was struggling to find the words. "It may help you understand things—things you will soon see. Things about the mountain. Things about me."

Fíohra was instantly intrigued, but she could sense that it was difficult for Mórdúil to speak of it. "You don't have to if you'd rather not," she tried to assure him.

To her surprise, the dragon shook his head. "No. I will be glad to know that you know of this, be it earlier than I had anticipated." He gave her a look, and there was the ghost of amusement in his eyes. "And you may sit, if you wish."

Fíohra did so.

"Now, you have seen how the people of the earth loved evil," Mórdúil began, motioning to the portion that Fíohra had already seen. She nodded and he continued. "But you have not seen how their evil grieved the Mighty One, the Síoraíaon—whose true Name mortal ears may not hear, nor mortal tongue pronounce. The Síoraíaon was filled with sadness as they reveled in their wickedness, and after many years had passed, He wished to unmake that which He had made. So He summoned many waters from above the earth and many waters from beneath it to consume the evil of the creatures He had created, to wash the earth clean of their wickedness."

"Yet one mortal He saved, with his family and all the kinds of beasts that crawl and birds that fly. These alone were spared, and when the earth was clean He gave it over to them as their dominion, to care and cultivate and grow what was good. But the waters He sent back into the earth, sealing them there forever so that His mortals would never fear the wrath of His flood." Mórdúil ended his story with a long thoughtful look at the wall. "And thus they have remained for many ages while the peoples of the earth have turned once more to wickedness."

Fíohra did not know what to say. The dragon's recitation left her mute with awe and not a little fear. After several minutes of gaping, she managed only a single question. "And this…this all happened, Mórdúil?"

Her companion nodded. "Indeed." In a lower voice he added, "I often wish I did not remember it so well."

"Oh." There was really no other response, for Fíohra's mind was spinning with the implications of his answer. How does he know these things? Is he really that ancient? she wondered. Why would he regret the memory?

But then, even more sobering—what is he, to have seen all this?

"Fíohra…" Mórdúil interrupted her musings, his tone unexpectedly brusque. "Fíohra…I have shared this room with you because I wish you to understand the history of your people. But this story, as I think you have seen by the state in which I commanded my maeleachlainn to leave it, I have not explained to anyone since its carving. Even my servants do not know the whole of this tale, and they do not ask questions."

"I'm sorry, Mórdúil." Fíohra felt guilty, though she could not see how her dragon companion fit into the ancient story. "You didn't have to."

He shook his head and heaved a hissing sigh. "No. I see now that it is a burden relieved, to speak of it again. However…I know that your curiosity is not yet appeased." Fíohra shrugged, wondering how it was that he knew. But she did not attempt to deny it, so he continued. "Now I fear I must disappoint you, for it would not be wise to share anymore."

Fíohra did not press him, though she dearly wished to know of his secret. "That's a'right."

The dragon's solemn mood lifted, and he favored her with his kindest grin. "My thanks, little one. It means a great deal to me, your willingness to forgive my reticence." Mórdúil raised one wing and gestured to the fading light of the torches. "It is late," he announced. "I should return you to your chamber." He gave the basket he had brought up a rueful nudge with his claw. "And since we hadn't time for this here, I'll instruct the maeleachlainn to bring something to your room."

Fíohra nodded. Though it was late, she was still hungry. The terrible story of the Flood had put off her appetite for the moment, but at the mention of food it came back with a vengeance and her stomach growled. "Thank you, Mórdúil."

He smiled as Fíohra climbed onto his back. "You're welcome. But considering your history with flying, you may want to wait to thank me until we're on the ground again," he reminded her as he balanced himself on the lip of the opening to the cavern below. Fíohra swallowed and he chuckled. "We'll see if you still have that appetite then."

Fíohra squeezed her eyes shut.

He leapt.