Night of the Fifth Moon Read online

  A grey-robed girl stepped forward, her fingers strumming a harp. To the ripple of music, the druid began to sing. This time his voice was sweet as honey.

  ‘Morgor the Good

  Rich and generous

  Morgor the Good

  Fair in judgement

  Morgor the Good

  Head of the Niall clan

  And chief of the tuath!’

  Triumphantly, Morgor sheathed his dagger. The battle was over.

  Suddenly everyone was cheering – even the Cormacs. ‘Long live Morgor our chieftain!’ they shouted.

  And the little boy, alone on the ramparts, stared at the druid with awe.

  FIRST TEST

  The morning after the omen, the fosterlings waited, bubbling with nervous excitement, for Faelán to join them.

  ‘At last, we’re going to learn some magic!’

  Nath-í shook his branch of bronze bells. ‘I can’t believe it!’

  ‘When I saw that raven, I was so scared!’

  ‘Uch!’ Nath-í dived to the ground and scrabbled among the fallen leaves. ‘I’ve dropped one of my bells,’ he moaned, standing up and shaking his head.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Nessa. ‘You’ve still got all the others.’

  ‘Master Faelán will never choose me,’ said Nath-í gloomily. ‘I’m too clumsy.’

  At his words, they all fell silent, inspecting each other.

  ‘Who will he choose, really?’ whispered Riona. Her eyes were like dark pools in her small, worried face.

  Ket waited, tense and hopeful, for someone to point to him.

  ‘He said we’ll have to do tasks,’ said Lorccán. ‘Maybe we’ll have to fight a battle!’

  ‘Then Nessa’ll win for sure,’ said Riona. ‘She’s the best at swordwork and slingshot and . . .’

  ‘Rubbish,’ mumbled Nessa.

  ‘But druids don’t fight with weapons, do they?’ asked Nath-í. ‘They use magic.’

  ‘I can do that crane stance Faelán does for a spell,’ cried Lorccán. ‘Watch!’ Eagerly, he raised one leg off the ground.

  ‘Huh, anyone can do that,’ retorted Bran, lifting his leg too.

  As they both stood there wobbling, Bran wiry and freckled, with ears sticking out from the sides of his head like the handles of an ale cup, and Lorccán pink-cheeked and proud, Riona burst into a fit of giggles.

  ‘You two look like dogs, not cranes!’ she sputtered, and they all started to laugh.

  ‘Hush!’ said Nessa. ‘Faelán’s coming!’

  The druid emerged from the trees dressed like a king. His full-length robe was not of flax or wool, but soft, shimmering silk. It was dyed in woad blue, the same deep hue as a twilight sky. That was a colour that only a king or a druid was permitted to wear. The morning sun glinted off golden ornaments about his neck and wrists, and the jewelled harp in his arms. But his feet were bare, and when he walked he seemed not to disturb the grass or leaves beneath him. Ket watched longingly. It was almost as though the druid did not touch the ground.

  ‘Will I ever learn to walk like that?’ wondered Ket.

  Nessa danced impatiently, pigtails twitching and jingling, as the druid crossed the clearing. He passed the campfire, the altar stone with the dry brown stains of blood, and the heaps of heather scattered with rawhide rugs that served as beds.

  At last he reached the Sacred Yew where the fosterlings waited. He rested his harp against the tree and lowered himself beside the ogham rod. Bangles clinked along his arms as he steepled long, knobbly fingers.

  ‘Today,’ he announced, ‘you will memorise a tale.’

  ‘Storytelling?’ squawked Bran. ‘But . . .’

  The druid’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘I thought we were going to learn secrets,’ said Bran gruffly.

  ‘Words,’ said Faelán sternly, ‘are power.’

  Ket thought of the words, all those years ago, that had defeated his father in battle.

  ‘The value of stories is beyond measure,’ Faelán continued. ‘Tales hold the history of our people and our land. If you become a druid it will be your duty to pass them on to the next generation. Now, which of you has a good memory?’

  ‘Me!’ cried Lorccán. ‘I can remember anything.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Faelán raised one eyebrow. He slid off one of his bangles and laid it on the ground in front of him. ‘Watch,’ he said.

  He placed his knife beside the bracelet, then two small stones, an oak leaf, and a feather. ‘And . . .’ He looked around. ‘These.’ A half-melted candle, a limpet shell, and a wisp of tinder were added to the strange array. ‘That will do.’

  ‘What are they for?’ demanded Lorccán.

  Faelán smiled. ‘Lend me your cloak.’ He held the cape of badger skins in the air. ‘Thrice times three are the objects here,’ he said. ‘You have seen them all, but now . . .’ He lowered the cloak over the top. ‘Try to name them.’

  ‘Two stones!’ shouted Lorccán. ‘An oak leaf, a knife, a bangle, a . . . a . . .’ He screwed up his face.

  ‘A candle,’ whispered Nessa.

  ‘Some tinder,’ said Ket.

  ‘That’s seven.’

  Faelán waited.

  Lorccán glared at the lumpy cloak, then Faelán whisked it into the air and they all groaned.

  ‘We forgot the limpet shell and the feather,’ Riona exclaimed.

  ‘Ha!’ Bran punched Lorccán on the shoulder. ‘You’re not as brilliant as you thought.’

  The druid frowned. ‘Take care how you speak,’ he reproved. ‘Words of scorn or ridicule can destroy another person. We do not use them lightly.’

  ‘Sorry, Master Faelán.’ Bran lowered his head, but Ket could see a smile at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘And so . . .’ Faelán smoothed down his beard. ‘Your first tale – the legend of the Battle of Moytura. This morning the telling of the tale will be mine. But tonight you fosterlings will share it amongst you.’ The druid leaned back against the Sacred Yew. ‘When you tell a tale,’ he said, ‘always call for the help of the spirits. The spirit of this tree has existed so long, she has witnessed not only the telling but the birth of legends. She has seen the heroes, the victories, the deaths and defeats. Her roots link her to the depths of the Underworld and her branches to the height of the sky. Touch her, and feel the spirit.’

  The fosterlings eyed each other. It seemed now as if the gnarled, sinewy yew might writhe into life. The tree had three trunks, ancient and twisted, and it was so wide that if all six fosterlings had stood in a ring, they could barely have circled it with their clasped hands. Tentatively, they reached out and laid their palms against the bark.

  ‘I can feel something, I can feel something!’ yelled Lorccán.

  ‘You would,’ muttered Bran.

  Ket screwed his eyes shut. Over hundreds of years, many people must have touched this tree. For a fleeting instant he sensed their presence, as if they were around him, watching.

  ‘Now for the tale,’ said Faelán.

  One by one, he turned to each of them and spoke their names.

  ‘Nath-í?’

  Nath-í leaned earnestly forward, wriggling, so that his knobbly elbows and knees bumped the others.

  ‘Bran?’ asked Faelán. Bran was punching Nath-í’s knee and didn’t hear. ‘Bran!’ Faelán repeated.

  Bran looked up.

  ‘Lorccán . . .’

  Lorccán stuck out his chest. ‘I’m listening,’ he said.

  ‘Ket,’ said the druid. Ket stared back. He was too excited to speak. His heart felt like a trapped bird, flapping wildly against the net that held it.

  Faelán turned to the girls.

  ‘Riona?’ Riona pressed her fingers over her mouth.

  ‘And Nessa.’ Nessa smiled and smoothed her skirt over her knees. She had a heart-shaped face and when her mouth quirked up in a smile, her chin grew more pointy.

  ‘Listen well,’ said Faelán. ‘Fortune favours those who recount a tale faithfully.’ He picked up his
harp and strummed a few notes, then began, part in song, and part in chant. ‘Long, long ago, there were people called the Tuatha de Danaan who dwelt far to the north, in Falias, Gorias, Murias and Findias.’

  Faelán’s voice and the strumming of the harp had a magical power. Ket found himself drifting into the world of the story. He felt the bobbing of the silver boat, heard the sound of waves and the slapping of oars as Elatha, King of the Fomoria, sailed towards the land of the Tuatha de Danaan. He saw the beauteous Princess Eriu with her long golden hair coming out to greet him.

  ‘One day, the Tuatha de Danaan set out in a fleet of boats to capture the land of the Fir Bolg . . . this very land where we live now.’

  The druid swept out his arm, and Ket stared around, trying to see with the eyes of a stranger. The campsite was a clearing surrounded by trees. In the centre, a cauldron simmered over a fire. There was no furniture, walls or roof, though the druid and his followers had dwelled here for many years. Logs and rocks served as seats, and the beds were soft boughs covered with animal skins.

  Stretching to the south and east, a forest of birch, ash and rowan glowed with leaves of red and gold. Around the fosterlings, the trees thinned out and beyond their trunks could be seen a sward of grass with stony grey outcrops. A river meandered across the plain and trickled away in a haze of purple heather. In the distance, where the ground was low and marshy, the ringforts of Nessa’s clan were visible, but the other farms of the tuath were out of sight, beyond the forest and the hills.

  ‘The plain of Moytura,’ Faelán went on, ‘is where they fought their battle. It is drenched with their blood.’

  In silence, the fosterlings stared between the trees, trying to imagine the green grass strewn with the bodies of dead and wounded. Above their heads, the dark, brooding shape of the Sacred Yew stretched out branches of evil-smelling needles.

  ‘And that cairn,’ Faelán pointed, ‘is the burial mound for the Tuatha de Danaan who were killed in the battle. It is heaped with one stone for every de Danaan who died.’ Ket gazed at the huge pile of white stones in the middle of the plain. There were hundreds of them. Thousands of them. ‘But that mound is not only stones.’ Faelán’s voice sank to a whisper. ‘There are skulls there, too – the severed heads of those they conquered . . . and slaughtered.’

  ‘Eeuugh!’ Riona shuddered.

  Faelán paused a moment before he spoke again. ‘That tomb is an entrance to the Underworld, where all dead heroes live in immortality. The Tuatha de Danaan have not really perished. They are still there, deep inside the tomb. We call them the Shadow Ones.’

  Six pairs of eyes widened.

  ‘And that monument there . . .’ Faelán gestured to a tall pillar stone standing alone on a hillock, ‘marks the place where the hand of Nuada, King of the Tuatha de Danaan, was struck from his arm by an enemy sword!’

  Ket gulped and wrapped a hand around his own wrist.

  ‘Who won the battle?’ demanded Lorccán.

  Faelán smiled. ‘The Fir Bolg were mighty fighters, but the Tuatha de Danaan had sages who kept a secret lore, and practised magic arts. They were greater far than all other sages.’

  ‘The druids!’ breathed Ket.

  ‘The druids,’ Faelán agreed. ‘By the power of their magic arts, the Tuatha De Danaan gained victory in battle.’

  ‘What happened to King Nuada?’

  ‘Credne the Smith fashioned him a new hand out of silver, but now Nuada had a blemish and according to the laws of the Tuatha de Danaan he was no longer fit for kingship.’

  From the corner of his eye, Ket saw Nath-í touch the purple birthmark on his cheek.

  ‘A new sovereign was chosen,’ said Faelán, ‘Eochu the Beautiful, son of Eriu and Elatha. It was the Tuatha de Danaan who named our land Eriu, for the mother of Eochu. They brought us the laws of kingship. And . . .’ he rose to his feet, ‘the secrets of the druids – those secrets I propose to pass on to you.’

  He scanned their upturned faces.

  ‘To one of you,’ he corrected. ‘One of you will learn the secret of how to foretell from the stars which is the most auspicious day to travel, or harvest, or . . .’ he broke into a smile, ‘become an anruth. To one of you only will I teach the poetic strains of the harp, cures for the sick, the rules of judgement . . .’

  He broke off.

  ‘Choose your portions and learn them well,’ he said sternly. ‘Your time of trial begins.’

  THE TELLING

  ‘Here they come!’ The two anruth twins, Art and Bronal, bounced excitedly, identical mops of fair hair flopping up and down.

  Goll and Maura, the two older anruth, turned to watch as the fosterlings filed towards them. Ket held up his branch of bells, grinning proudly, but Nath-í stumbled along scarlet with embarrassment, and plonked himself by the side of the fire, his spindly arms and legs sticking out awkwardly like a bundle of twigs.

  ‘So.’ Faelán the Druid leaned forward. ‘Let us see what you young ones have managed to learn.’

  ‘All of it!’ cried Lorccán eagerly. ‘I could tell the whole story on my own!’

  ‘And perchance next time you shall,’ said the druid. ‘But tonight you are only required to say your part. Now, let us hear the tale of the Battle of Moytura. Who will commence?’

  Nath-í shifted nervously.

  ‘Ring your bells then,’ said Faelán, ‘and remember, fortune favours those who recount a tale faithfully.’

  Everyone tensed as Nath-í jiggled his branch, but none of the bells fell off. With earnest concentration, he began.

  ‘Long ago, there were people called the Tuatha de Danaan. They dwelt far to the north, in Falias, Gorias, Murias and . . .’ Panic flashed across his face, but then he grinned. ‘Findias!’ he finished on a note of triumph.

  The druid stroked his moustache.

  ‘Who’s next?’

  Nessa raised her hand and gave her bells a firm shake.

  ‘There was a princess of the Tuatha de Danaan,’ she recited. ‘Her name was Eriu.’ Nessa’s words were clear and confident. ‘One day Eriu saw, sailing out of the sea, a boat of silver. Out from the boat stepped a man arrayed in gold and jewels. He was Elatha, King of the Fomoria.

  ‘He lingered with Eriu one hour, and when he rose to leave, Eriu wept.

  ‘ “Grieve not,” said the King of the Fomoria, “for you shall bear my son.” He drew from his finger a ring of gold and placed it in her hand. “Call my son Eochu the Beautiful,” he said.’

  Nessa had barely finished when Lorccán was ringing his bells. ‘My turn!’ he yelled. He leapt to his feet and braced himself, legs apart.

  ‘The Tuatha de Danaan set out for battle!’ he announced. ‘And they had the best sword in the whole world. The Sword of Nuada. If someone drew that sword, everyone else was dead!’ Lorccán swung his arm, making a swishing noise. ‘And that wasn’t all. They had the Spear of Lug too, a spear that never missed.’ He pretended to stab himself in the chest then gurgled and jerked dramatically.

  Ket saw Bronal roll his eyes at his twin.

  ‘Get on with it, Lorccán,’ he muttered, ‘don’t be such a show-off.’

  ‘And they had this stone,’ said Lorccán. ‘The Stone of Fal. When the right person stood on it, it yelled out, and everyone knew that person must be the Ard Ri, the true High King. And they never got hungry because they had the Cauldron of Dagda, that never emptied!

  ‘There!’ He plopped back in his place, beaming. ‘I told you I could do it! Go on, Ket, your turn.’

  Ket took a breath and stumbled to his feet. His heart was pumping so hard it felt like a beating drum. All around, expectant faces leaned towards him. They looked hollowed and ghoulish in the firelight.

  ‘Go on,’ repeated Lorccán.

  Ket looked back at him in blank horror. The words were gone. There was nothing in his mind, nothing!

  ‘He can’t do it. He’s forgotten it,’ crowed Bran.

  Tears of rage and humiliation seared Ket’s eyes. He c
ast a desperate glance around, then plunged towards the blackness of the forest.

  VOICES FROM

  THE PAST

  Branches tore his face and hair, but Ket felt only the stabbing in his heart. Running blindly, he tripped on a fallen log and crashed to the ground. He sprawled there with his face in the dirt, too stricken even to lift his head. Despair surged through him. The memory of himself as a little child, pleading to be a druid, hammered at his brain. In his mind he could see himself back in the ringfort standing beside his father.

  ‘I should have died a hero in the battle,’ Ossian was muttering. ‘I should have gone out in a blaze of glory, and been worthy to join my ancestors.’

  ‘But aren’t you going to fight Morgor and be the chieftain again?’ the young boy asked.

  ‘With that druid’s spell on my head? I can never rule again.’

  ‘What about fighting the druid then?’ asked Ket.

  ‘The druid?’ Ossian lifted his doleful face, and gave a watery smile. ‘My child, I could no more fight a druid than I could take up arms against the sun or the rain or the wind.’

  ‘Aren’t you angry at him, though?’

  Ossian shook his head. ‘Do we feel anger at rain or wind when they make us cold and wet? Of course not. For they are far beyond the touch of our mortal emotions. And the druid has greater power still, for the rain and wind obey his command.’

  The little Ket stood for a moment, thinking. ‘Can druids do anything?’ he asked.

  ‘Anything,’ Ossian assented. ‘They can foretell the future. They can speak to the dead. Druids control the world.’

  Uncle Ailbe stamped up and rested a heavy hand on Ket’s shoulder. ‘This first-born son of yours is growing fast. Too old now to be living with his mother, eh?’

  Ket watched anxiously as his mother straightened her back and blew a stray lock of hair out of her eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ Úna answered, ‘he’ll be seven at Samhain; time for him to leave for his foster home.’

  ‘Aha, thought so,’ Ailbe boomed. ‘So, what are your plans for him?’