Night of the Fifth Moon (17 page)

Tirech raised his eyes. ‘Nessa!' he rumbled. ‘What do you want now?'

‘Nessa?' cried Egem, spinning round.

Ket watched hopefully as Nessa's mother bustled towards the hearth and prodded at something in the cooking pot.

Nessa placed her hands on her hips.

‘Uncle Tirech, I asked Master Faelán what to do next,' she said.

‘Haven't you meddled enough, landing your aunt Dornolla with that brat?' He jerked his chin at the snivelling toddler in his wife's arms.

Ket saw Nessa's cheeks flush.

‘You have to keep going,' she said, ‘if you want to get your compensation.'

‘You tell him, Nessa,' one of the men by the fireside suddenly joined in.

‘Yes, Tirech, you got him this far,' called the other. ‘What happened to all your big talk about stopping his bullying?'

‘Ach, he'll not be bothered with all that, now he's a champion,' growled Tirech. ‘He's talking about making himself chieftain next.'

‘Huh.' Nessa tossed back her head, and set all her braids jingling. ‘He paid you a pledge,' she said. ‘What are you going to do with that infant? Sell him as a slave?'

They all looked at the pathetic, whimpering child.

‘Of course not,' muttered Tirech. Then he startled everyone by throwing down the axe-handle and stamping to his feet. ‘I'll get my calf,' he roared, brandishing his knife. ‘You're right. He owes me a debt. And he'll pay me today! Come on. Someone go pry that brehon from his feedbag.'

Table and benches crashed to the ground as the other men jumped to their feet.

‘Get him, Tirech,' they bellowed.

‘Give him back his brat!' shouted Dornolla.

Egem cheered and waved her serving spoon, sending a spray of hot brothcán sailing through the air.

Afire with indignation, they all streamed onto Gortigern's land, the reluctant brehon in their midst. At the sight of them, a terrified herdboy tried to shout a warning and make a dash for the ringfort, but Nessa caught him by his léine and muffled his cries. The crowd surged through the gate. Gortigern and his brothers burst out of their house, eyes popping with astonishment.

‘Dadda!'

There was a shriek from the child in Dornolla's arms and he wriggled to the ground.

Gortigern ignored the little boy toddling towards him. ‘What do you want?' he snarled.

Tirech took a deep breath. ‘In the presence of the brehon, and these witnesses, I have come to claim my debt!' He took a step towards the calf-pen.

‘Don't you dare touch my cows,' roared Gortigern.

Tirech hesitated, and looked back at the brehon.

Suddenly, Nessa's voice rang out.

‘Uncle Tirech,' she called, ‘Gortigern means he wants to choose the calf himself. Of course he will pay his debt, for he knows that if he fails, he will lose all honour and respect in the eyes of the clan.'

Gortigern stared back at Nessa, and then at the circle of watching faces. Ket held his breath. Slowly, the champion straightened his shoulders, turned on his heel, and stalked towards the pen. He paused a moment, then threw a rope round the neck of a calf. It was a sturdy beast, its reddish coat grown thick and hairy for winter. Gortigern thrust the halter into Tirech's hand.

‘That's my best yearling,' he growled. ‘Now be off, the lot of you!'

In triumphal procession, Nessa and Tirech led the way from the ringfort.

FESTIVAL
OF IMBOLC

‘I'm sick of practising slingshot,' Lorccán complained, as Nessa's stone neatly smote the target again. ‘Can't we train like the fians? I bet they do more exciting things than aiming stones at apples.'

‘They certainly do,' said Maura. ‘If you want to train like a fian, I can bury you in the ground up to your waist and give you nothing but a hazel stick and shield to protect yourself. Then we'll all hurl spears at you.'

‘Do they really do that?' asked Ket.

Maura nodded.

‘I bet I could do it,' said Lorccán.

‘What else do they do?' asked Nessa eagerly.

‘Race round a tree and try to hit each other with thorn switches,' said Maura.

‘Hey, let's try that!' Lorccán sprang to his feet. ‘We can use gorse branches. They've got lots of thorns.'

‘All right.' Maura agreed. ‘But not gorse. We'll start without thorns. Willow whips will be vicious enough. We'll find some by the river.'

They hunted eagerly for young, bendy shoots, but just as Ket raised his knife to cut one down, Maura let out a cry.

‘Wait!' She glanced, frowning, at the sky.

‘It's all right,' called Ket, ‘it's the light half of the month.'

‘Yes, of course.'

Ket smiled, proud that he knew what Maura was thinking. Faelán had warned them never to cut willow on a waning moon, for it brought ill fortune. He ran the shoot through his fingers. It was smooth and pliable.

‘Yah!' screamed Lorccán, flicking his whip through the air and slapping it on the ground. ‘Watch out, everyone!'

‘We'll do this in pairs,' said Maura. ‘Lorccán, you and Nessa chase each other, and I'll try to catch Ket.'

‘Race you to the Sacred Yew,' yelled Lorccán.

‘You'll never catch me,' taunted Nessa.

‘I'll
slaughter
you!'

‘Ket, you and I can use the hollow oak,' said Maura.

Ket eyed the short, dumpy figure bouncing up and down on the other side of the tree.

‘Ready?' she called. ‘One, two, three . . . coming!'

Maura began to jog towards him and before he had taken two strides, the tip of her whip slashed the ground beside him.

‘Yowp!' he yelled. Knees pumping, he spurted forward. When he glanced over his shoulder, Maura was laughing and brandishing the whip again.

‘Hurry!' she warned.

‘Hurry yourself!' he called back, and raised his whip.

Round and round the tree they raced, shouting and jeering and cracking their whips. At last they both collapsed, laughing, against the tree trunk, their breaths puffing in and out like the bellows of a smith in a forge.

‘That . . . was fun,' gasped Ket.

‘Oooh,' groaned Maura, holding her side. ‘I've got a stitch.'

‘Where are the others?'

Ket looked round. They were still chasing each other. Lorccán had a ferocious, intent expression on his face, and kept cracking his whip, but Nessa was keeping well out of his reach.

‘All right, you two,' called Maura. ‘Enough!'

‘If I wasn't going to be a druid, I'd be a champion fian,' said Lorccán, whirling his whip around his head.

‘Who
are
the fians?' inquired Nessa, when Ket and Maura panted up to join them. ‘Where do they come from?'

Maura waved her arms. ‘Everywhere. Some are just discontented boys who have run away from foster families. Others might be outcasts from their clans.'

‘How could that happen? Who would be cast out from their own clan?'

Maura shrugged. ‘Maybe someone who did something wrong and refused to pay the fine.'

‘Like Gortigern!' said Ket.

‘Only he did pay up in the end,' Nessa reminded him.

‘No clan would dare cast Gortigern out,' said Lorccán with feeling. ‘Can you imagine? He'd probably come back and murder them all!'

That night, when they gathered by the fire, Nessa was fizzing with excitement. ‘Look!' She gripped Ket's arm as the glowing orb of a full moon appeared in the east.

Faelán smiled down at her.

‘Yes, Nessa, it is time for the Festival of Imbolc. Tonight you must sleep in the forest, beside the Sacred Spring. Maura shall accompany you, and in the morning she will prepare you to perform your part in the ceremony.'

With the two girls gone, the camp felt strange and empty. Ket watched with envy as the druid drew the anruth aside to make preparations that were too secret for the fosterlings to witness. Lorccán wandered off, and scuffed at the fallen leaves by the edge of the forest. Suddenly, he gave an exclamation, and bent down. Ket saw with dismay that he had found the flat stone inscribed with the Cormac name that Ket had cast away. Ket watched apprehensively as the other boy hurried across to the ogham rod to compare the marks. Would Lorccán guess the word that was carved on the stone?

When it came time to sleep, Ket tossed aside his bedding and laid himself straight on the ground with no cover or cushion to separate him from earth or sky. His body grew so cold he could not even feel his face, but he tried to imagine he was a rock, hard and strong.

He slept fitfully, aware all through the night of the empty space beside him. He watched the moon gradually make her way across the sky and wondered how Nessa was faring. The dew began to fall, and he burrowed his fingers into the damp, sweet-smelling soil, pretending he was a young plant thrusting out roots.

He was up before sunrise, piling wood on the fire, and constantly glancing towards the trees, though he knew it was much too early for Nessa to return. Art and Bronal were surprised to find the fire burning merrily when they groaned out of their warm coverings.

At dawn, Faelán emerged from his hut. He settled his best feather cloak about his shoulders, and shod his feet with the silver sandals.

By daylight everyone was awake. They called out excited greetings as visitors began to arrive laden with new-baked loaves, dripping honeycombs, flitches of bacon, pats of fresh, glistening butter, and pails brimming with frothy sheep's milk, the first of the spring.

‘Look who's here!' cried Ket.

Riona was peeking from behind a huge wheel of flat bread she held clutched to her chest.

‘I made it myself,' she said proudly, as Ket ran to take it from her arms.

‘This is going to be the best feast ever!' said Lorccán. ‘And I'm ravenous!'

But no one was allowed to swallow a morsel before the Spirit of Spring arrived. They milled restlessly about the camp, making disjointed conversation, and Lorccán took out his impatience by punching Ket on the shoulder whenever he passed.

At last Faelán picked up his harp, and as the first notes rippled through the air, Nessa appeared between the trees. An awed silence fell on the crowd as she advanced. Her robe was the colour of the soft spring sunshine, and starry golden celandines wreathed her head. Rowan twigs, bursting into bud, were massed in her arms. Walking by her side, Maura waved a branch of hazel on which long yellow catkins bobbed and swayed. They came to a halt beyond the ring of the fire, and Faelán ceased his strumming.

‘Bend your knees and bid welcome to the Spirit of Spring!' the druid's voice rang out.

Ket fell to his knees along with all the others and joined the fervent chant.

‘O come, Spirit of Spring, you are a hundred times welcome!'

Nessa raised her arms in blessing and the farmers held up spades, hoes and handfuls of seeds. Evergreen leaves of ivy and holly were twined around the handles of their tools.

‘May the sowing of your seed bring a fruitful harvest,' said Nessa in a clear, confident voice.

She took her place on a cushion of heather, and a bower of hazel was arranged around her.

Ket shyly kept his distance. This grand maiden didn't seem to be the Nessa he knew.

‘And now . . .' urged Faelán with a cry, ‘set your spades and hoes to work. Dig the soil . . .'

His words were drowned by the ring of mattocks, and the scrape of spades. In a few minutes a pit had opened in the earth and everyone crowded to the edge to cast in their offerings. Earrings were torn from ears, pins from cloaks, rings from fingers, and tools hacked in half. Carried away by the fervour around him, Ket tossed in his silver armband from the queen. He watched it spin through the air and drop beside a bronze brooch cast in the shape of a stag. It glittered for one last time before it was buried forever in the belly of the earth.

‘Mother Earth,' cried Faelán, raising one of the brimming buckets of sheep's milk, ‘we thank you for your returning fruitfulness.' He poured a libation of milk over the churned-up ground. ‘We offer you sacrifice and in return we beg your favour for our planting and our harvesting.'

The bucket was passed around, and Ket thought he had never tasted anything so sweet. When Riona lowered the bucket, she had a white moustache of froth on her top lip.

At last, it was time for the feasting. Everyone fell on the spread with boisterous enthusiasm. Ket wolfed down the streaky, smoked bacon, the bread oozing with butter and honey, the barm-brack cakes, and the elderberry wine. He didn't pause till his belly was too full to squeeze in another bite. He looked around, wiping his fingers on his léine, and saw someone speaking to the druid. It was Gortigern the Champion, from the clan of Ardal. Before moving away, Gortigern eased a twisted gold torque from his neck and handed it to Faelán.

As people staggered to their feet to take their leave, Nessa sat like a queen distributing sprigs of rowan. These charms, blessed by the Spirit of Spring, would hang in every barn to protect the new lambs and calves as they were born.