Night of the Fifth Moon (8 page)

There was a dull
thud
and something landed on his foot. He glanced down. A large fleshy hand, the fingers half uncurled, was lying on his brogue.

Ket gasped and jerked his foot away. The hand thumped to the ground.

And now Ket saw an outflung arm in a long dark sleeve. He saw a body spattered with blood, and a pale, tallow-coloured face beneath a bronze helmet. Beside it was another body; and another – a whole grisly heap of them. He stared at their old-fashioned shields and broken swords. The Shadow Ones! The dead of Moytura!

He tried to back away, but his legs wouldn't move, and his arms, with a will of their own, reached for the horn. The string that held it disintegrated in a puff of dust, and the treasure dropped into his grasp. It gleamed with startling newness, as if it had just been made and polished.

And now, as though trapped in a dream, Ket lifted the instrument to his lips and blew. It gave a feeble squeak. He raised his head to take a deeper breath – and froze.

One of the dead warriors was looking straight at him.

‘Is it time?' The man's voice was hollow and creaky.

Ket let out a terrified yelp, and dropped the horn. It clattered onto the stone floor as he turned and fled from the tomb.

DIVINATION

‘As if you really went inside,' scoffed Lorccán.

‘Ket doesn't lie!' retorted Nessa loyally. ‘You're just jealous.'

All the fosterlings were back inside the tree. Ket, wrapped tight in Nessa's cloak, was still shivering.

‘Tell us what you saw, then,' said Lorccán.

Ket stared at him and tried to speak. Floating in front of his eyes were images of ghastly faces with flesh like raw white fat.

‘Uh . . .' He shuddered and shook his head.

‘See, you can't tell us,' said Lorccán.

Ket clenched his fists. If only he hadn't dropped the horn! If only he could have thrust that treasure all silver and gleaming under Lorccán's nose.

‘Hey, listen,' said Riona.

From the tree above their heads came the chirrup of a wakening robin. The long night was drawing to an end.

The fosterlings crushed together in the entrance of the hollow oak and peered out. The flames of the campfire shot skywards as the anruth heaped on branch after branch.

‘O Spirit of the Sun

Accept our offering of fire

Let a New Year dawn

O Spirit of the Sun,
'

Faelán entreated.

Ket peered at the sky. Behind the flames there was nothing but blackness. The glare of the fire was so blinding, he could not even make out the grey shapes of trees or clouds. Then, with the cooing of a woodpigeon, came a faint glimmer of dawn. Ket let out a sigh.

‘Maura,' said the druid, flourishing a strip of cloth, ‘bind this about my eyes. It is time for the New Year divinations.'

Blindfolded, Faelán began to circle around the balefire. Ket watched with his heart in his mouth. Several times, the long feathered cloak almost swirled into the flames.

As the druid circled, he called on the spirits to guide him.

‘Spirit of the Sea before me

Spirit of the Wind behind me

Spirit of the Sky above me

Spirit of the Earth beneath me.'

He halted, and tore the blindfold from his eyes.

‘Stronger of sight than I

Reveal what befalls us!'

Everyone looked around expectantly, and then a redwing darted from a tree.

‘A lucky omen!' cried Bronal.

Faelán smiled and nodded.

‘Very soon we will hear good tidings,' he said.

All the anruth clamoured for a turn to wear the blindfold.

‘First you must build the balefire higher,' said Faelán.

The anruth fed the flames, till the fire roared so high it dwarfed even the tall figure of Faelán. As its blasting heat spread to the tree where the fosterlings were huddled, Ket shrank away. He was filled with terror and awe, just as he'd been all those Samhains ago, when he'd seen the balefire for the first time. Just for a brief instant he was living that scene again. His father had brought him to the druid's camp and the little Ket was staring with fright at the flames, the crowds and lowing cattle. He remembered watching his father leave, longing to call out ‘Stop!', to run after him and take his hand. But instead Ket had wrapped his arms around a tree, pressed his face into the rough bark, and willed himself to stand there with eyes clenched shut until his father was out of sight.

Now, as the sky lightened, there were mooings and the shuffle of feet among the trees. One by one, the people of the tuath, leading their cattle, emerged from the forest. The fosterlings peeked from the hollow oak, pointing with excitement at those they recognised. Ket's heart quivered when he saw his father. In memory, Ossian had been proud and tall, but here, draped in his dun brown cloak, he looked like a timid fieldmouse next to Morgor the Chieftain.

‘Druid,' called Morgor, sliding a sparkling jewel from his finger, ‘please accept another token of my appreciation.'

Everyone jostled to form a ring around the huge balefire. There were
shushes
and muffled curses as a few jittery cows pawed the ground and tried to back away. But at last they were all ready, waiting in a respectful hush.

‘Let us discover the fate of the tuath for the coming year,' declared Faelán. He turned to the oldest anruth. ‘Goll, you take the blindfold.'

Goll circled the flames, chanting just as the druid had done, and when he pulled off the blindfold a squirrel darted up a tree in front of him.

‘An animal rising – good health,' cried Goll, sounding relieved.

Everybody cheered.

‘Next.' Faelán nodded, and Goll handed the blindfold to Maura.

Bran began to giggle.

‘She doesn't look much like a druid,' he said.

‘She does so,' said Nessa.

Silently, Ket agreed with Bran. Maura had a figure like a bulging grey sack tied round the middle with string. As she bustled around the fire, she didn't look very majestic.

‘Hey.' Lorccán jabbed Ket with his elbow. ‘You're taking up too much room. I can't see.'

Angrily, Ket butted him back.

‘You sillies, we don't have to stay in here anyway,' said Nessa. ‘It's daylight now!'

She crawled out of the tree just as Maura pulled off her blindfold. There was a loud
hiss
from the anruth, and Maura looked aghast.

‘A red-haired girl – ill fortune,' said Faelán sternly.

The crowd murmured angrily. Nessa stumbled to her feet, scarlet with embarrassment.

‘Sorry!' she muttered.

‘Oooh, Nessa,' said Riona, biting her finger. The fosterlings all hurried to Nessa's side.

‘She didn't mean it,' said Ket.

‘Do not despair!' cried Faelán, turning to the people of the tuath, ‘You can yet invoke the good will of the spirits. To ensure the health and prosperity of your families for the coming year, cast your offerings on the sacrificial fire. Lead forth your beasts for saining.'

He beckoned to the fosterlings. ‘Each of you take a branch of bog pine, and follow what the anruth do. This year, you can help with the saining.'

Trembling with excitement, Ket took his branch of pine and stepped forward. The heat was so intense he felt as if he was walking into the flames. He dabbed his torch at the balefire, and the ancient bog pine immediately blazed up in a bright white flare. Ket jumped back, terrified and exhilarated.

Morgor the Chieftain turned to the crowd, ostentatiously displaying a lime-coated shield with a shining boss. He cast it into the fire to gasps of approval and wonder.

‘That boss looked like real gold,' said Lorccán in a hushed voice.

Morgor's herdboy was struggling to bring a fine brindled cow to the fire, but the creature dug in her hind legs, the bell around her neck making an agitated clanking noise.

‘I'll make her come,' offered Lorccán, but before he could move, someone in the crowd gave the cow an impatient kick.

Next moment everyone was pressing forward, waving their offerings and clamouring with excitement. Ket found himself surrounded by a crush of surging bodies.

Carved wooden statues, broken swords, armbands, and dead chickens were flung over his head into the balefire. The stench of singed feathers and flesh mingled with the scent of burning pine wood as the towering flames devoured them all.

‘Spirit of Fire, protect and purify!' The voice of the druid rose above the din.

There was laughter and shouting, lowings and bellowings as each reluctant cow, head tossing, eyes rolling, was prodded or dragged towards the flames.

Fleet-foot and nimble with happiness, Ket skipped between the crowds, his burning branch held aloft, circling and purifying the cows. He heard a howl behind him and turned to see a man being doused with a bucket of water, smoke billowing from his léine. Nath-í was backing away, his face white with dismay.

‘Oooh, poor Nath-í must have set that man alight!' thought Ket.

Ossian beamed with pride when Ket circled his small, docile cow, the heat of the saining fire shimmering between them. Ket could see his father mouthing words, but couldn't hear his voice above the roar of the crowd. Then Ossian reached to pull a burning brand from the flames. Back in the ring-fort, the cold black hearth was waiting to be kindled by this spark from the New Year fire.

Gradually the crowd began to thin. As Ket watched the hindquarters of the last few cows sway out of sight between the trees, joy was bubbling out of him, like ale from an over-filled cup. At last, he'd played a part in the Samhain ceremony instead of standing aside watching and envying.

The anruth heaved the cauldron onto the sinking fire, and crowded close, eager to break their fast.

‘Fosterlings!' Faelán's voice was hoarse. He waved a hand around the camp. ‘Attend to this disorder.'

The six of them stood, sooty, dishevelled, toes bruised by trampling hoofs, hands smarting with burns, and gaped at the chaos. The monstrous balefire had scorched a wide black scar, and the ground around it was a churned-up mess of mud. Their bedding of heather branches was trampled everywhere, and fouled with steaming heaps of cow dung.

‘Ooof, I can't, I'm too tired,' groaned Riona, plonking herself down.

‘Riona, get up.' Nath-í tried to drag her to her feet, peering worriedly over his shoulder. ‘Master Faelán says we have to tidy the mess.'

Nessa, quick and efficient as always, had already fashioned a besom from a bunch of broken twigs and was beginning to sweep.

Lorccán's face took on a purposeful gleam. ‘Bran,' he said, ‘you pile all that soiled heather on the fire. Ket, you pick some fresh bedding. Nath-í, you find something to use for a shovel.'

Bran thrust his fists on his hips and glared at Lorccán. ‘And what do you plan to do yourself?' he demanded.

But Ket was too keyed up to be bothered by Lorccán's bossiness. He had tasted what it was like to be part of the magic. Ripping up armloads of fresh heather, he raced hither and thither around the camp, all the while darting glances at Faelán. Was the druid watching him? Could Faelán see how keenly, how eagerly, Ket did his bidding?

If Ket had wanted to be a druid before, it was nothing to his longing now. He had to stay here. He
had
to!

SPELL WORDS

The days sped by. Each night the moon rose later, and grew smaller and fainter, till finally it vanished completely and the nights of darkness came again.

On the last evening before the new moon, Ket was too strung-up to sleep. He wrapped his arms around his knees, and listened to the tune rippling from the druid's harp.

‘Ket, this is the sleeping strain. Why have you not succumbed?' murmured Faelán.

Ket started, and glanced around him. Everyone else was deep in slumber.

‘I . . .'