Night of the Fifth Moon Page 5

  ‘Nath-í, when we were little, before you came, we always sneaked in here to sleep when it rained,’ said Nessa.

  ‘I never did,’ said Lorccán.

  It was true. Even when he was only seven, Lorccán had always slept outdoors beside the anruth.

  ‘When I was little, I cried every night with homesickness,’ said Riona. ‘Nessa, you used to comfort me, remember?’

  ‘I remember,’ said Nessa, ‘and you made me cry.’

  ‘And me,’ said Ket.

  ‘I never cried,’ said Lorccán.

  ‘I wish Bran would hurry up,’ said Riona. ‘It’s nearly dark!’ She leaned anxiously forward.

  Peering through the slit in the trunk, they could all see Bran toiling up the cairn. He dropped the bundle of wood, and turned to scurry down again.

  They heard the pounding of his feet, and the next moment he was scrambling through the entrance, gasping for breath.

  ‘You made it just in time,’ said Riona.

  It was twilight now. As they watched, the colours of daylight bleached out of the world. The sky darkened. They could see the black shapes of the anruth huddled by the dead ashes of their fire, and the shadowy figure of the druid on the cairn. The last glow of sun, like a trickle of blood, stained the edge of the sky, and faded away. For a moment, the round, bright shape of a full moon hung above the treetops, then a bank of cloud drifted across, and they were left in darkness.

  ‘The Spirits of the Dead are rising,’ quavered Riona.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Nessa reassuringly. ‘They won’t get past our holly.’

  ‘The anruth don’t have holly!’ Riona protested.

  ‘They could if they wanted,’ said Nessa. ‘They’re not scared.’

  Ket felt a tenseness in the group around him, then suddenly Lorccán sprang to his feet.

  ‘I’m not scared, either,’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m not skulking in here.’

  Roughly, he pushed his way outside.

  ‘Lorccán, don’t! Come back,’ wailed Riona.

  There was no answer. They could hear his stumbling footsteps and then he disappeared in the darkness.

  Inside the tree there was a stunned silence. Ket could feel the blood pounding in his ears. Far in the distance, there came an unearthly cry, followed by the sound of beating wings, growing steadily louder. Suddenly, thousands of black shapes came pouring into camp, whirling and diving. They churned up a wind that screamed and eddied about the tree. The fosterlings clung to each others’ hands while the voices of the anruth rose in a rapid, nervous chant.

  ‘Protect us!

  Spirits of Earth, Sea and Sky

  Protect us!

  Spirits of Sun, Moon and Stars

  Protect us!

  Spirits of Fire, Water and Air

  Remember our offerings

  When the barrier

  Between our worlds

  Is rent asunder.

  Take pity

  In this time without time.

  Take pity

  Harm us not

  Protect us

  Till the New Year comes.’

  The beating and flapping surged and ebbed, like a rolling wave.

  Ket wanted to call to Lorccán, but no sound would come from his throat.

  ‘Look!’ breathed Nessa.

  A tiny light was flickering in the blackness. As they watched, it grew larger until they could see it was a leaping fire on the top of the cairn. For a moment, the shape of the druid showed in front of it and then he disappeared.

  There were murmurings and scrapings as they all strained forward to see what was happening.

  ‘There he is! He’s coming over here.’

  A gleam was bobbing towards the camp. They let out a wavering cheer as Faelán, carrying the flame, appeared between the trees.

  In front of the hollow oak, a sprawled figure lifted its head from the ground and rose slowly to its knees.

  ‘Ah, Lorccán, so you do not fear the spirits,’ said Faelán. ‘Come; light the first fire for the New Year, and keep vigil with us for the night of Samhain.’ He held out the torch, and Lorccán stepped forward.

  THE TOMB

  ‘Ooh, I don’t know how Lorccán dared,’ said Riona. ‘I couldn’t go out there with all those spirits around!’

  ‘Don’t see how you could ever be a druid then,’ said Bran.

  ‘Weren’t you scared climbing the mound of the Shadow Ones?’ asked Riona. ‘And walking on those skulls?’

  ‘Well . . . I didn’t look down,’ admitted Bran.

  ‘I wouldn’t go near the dead tonight,’ said Nath-í fervently.

  Ket didn’t want to either. But Bran had climbed the mound, and now Lorccán was out there with all the Spirits of the Dead roaming about . . .

  With his insides turning to water, Ket forced himself to his feet.

  ‘I’m going outside too.’ He tried to sound brave as he thrust his way out of the tree. Rain pelted his face, and the air was so frosty it made him gasp.

  ‘Ket, where are you going?’ called Nessa anxiously.

  The bright, welcoming circle of the campfire lay in front of him but Ket stared beyond it, across a world of darkness, to the small flicker of the Samhain fire high on the mound.

  ‘To the cairn of the Shadow Ones,’ he whispered.

  As he passed the campfire, curious faces turned towards him. He saw Lorccán’s astonished expression and the glint of Faelán’s eyes. He was glad they couldn’t see that his legs were as trembly as a newborn lamb’s.

  Rain ran down his hair and face as he stumbled forward. All around, in the murky night, shadows seemed to shift and quiver as if they were following him.

  The grey mound of the cairn loomed in front. He could see the crest, lit by the dancing flames. And below . . . He jerked to a halt. There was the entrance to the tomb.

  He stood in his wet clothes, teeth chattering, and stared at the low opening, half-sunk in the ground. What would he find in there? The Shadow Ones, or skeletons with bare, grinning skulls? He started to reach for the red band at his wrist, then remembered it was gone. Sweat joined the rain running down his forehead.

  ‘Go on,’ he growled at himself.

  Step by unsteady step, he stumbled forward till he reached the cairn. Now he had to climb through that black hole into the earth. He took a shuddering breath, and lowered one foot. The next moment he was slipping and sliding on wet mud, and clutching at the massive stone doorposts. Then he was out of the rain, cowering inside a tunnel, with dry walls of stone curved around him. In the faint moonlight that came through the opening, he could see a paved floor sloping downwards.

  Dragging his hands along the stonework, Ket took a few shuffling steps. Soon, his hands were patting air. It was dark in the depths of the tomb, but he sensed a chamber arching around him. He waited, ears straining, eyes trying to pierce the blackness. There were no sounds. No voices. No movements. All he could see was something glinting on the wall in front of him. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, a long, silvery shape emerged from the gloom. It seemed to be a horn, hanging by a string. Ket stretched out to touch it.

  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.