by John Ringo
"Kildar," Father Makanee said, taking a deep breath. "It is a very . . . bloody ceremony."
"Slaughtering generally is," Mike said, frowning.
"Somewhat bloodier than that," Father Makanee replied. "You . . . might want to change."
"I've got other clothes," Mike said, blinking. "But this sounds familiar, too. Every year the Gurkhas have a ceremonial slaughter of animals. One member of the individual tribe or unit, carefully chosen, does the slaughtering. Nobody but the Gurkhas, and their British officers, are allowed to witness it."
"Then we will perform the Rite," Father Kulcyanov said, nodding. "There are none in this valley who I find it ill to be present at the Rite, but I . . . recommend that some not attend."
"I can't imagine who," Mike said, dryly. "But why don't I suggest to Anastasia and the girls that they retire early."
"That would be best, Kildar," Father Mahona said, thankfully.
"It is time for the Choosing," Father Kulcyanov said, looking over at a similar deputation of women who were headed towards the barley fields. "We should go."
"After you," Mike said, gesturing the Fathers forward. "I will be along shortly."
The rest of the Keldara were headed towards the Choosing but Mike grabbed one of the young boys who was running in that direction.
"Ivar," Mike said, dredging up his name. "Go find Colonel Nielson, the master chief and Vanner and make sure they meet me at the Choosing."
"Yes, Kildar," the boy said with a gap toothed grin. "I shall."
"Good lad," Mike said, releasing him. He'd already spotted Anastasia. Some of the harem were mingling with the Keldara girls but a few were clustered around her. Good.
Mike made his way through the throng to the harem manager who was heading for the Choosing.
"Stasia," he said, smiling as he touched her arm.
"Kildar," Anastasia said, smiling back. "You have been keeping to yourself."
"I've been avoiding deputations," Mike said. "But a couple caught up with me. One concerns the ceremony this evening. I . . . strongly recommend that you and the girls not attend."
"We are not welcome," Anastasia said, nodding. "I had been surprised that we were permitted at the other festivals. We should leave."
"That's not it," Mike said, shaking his head. "It's a purely . . . It's a blood sacrifice. Animals, I'll add. But it's probably going to turn your stomach, and the girls'. The Fathers made it a recommendation. It's based purely on that. Don't go before the Choosing."
"Very well, Kildar," Anastasia said.
"In fact," Mike said, taking her arm, "I think we should both go to the Choosing. Together."
"That would probably be appropriate," Anastasia said, smiling. "By the way," she added as they made their way through the crowd, "I got a glimpse of your next Kardane girl. And you are bothered by this Rite why?"
"I'm still wondering that myself," Mike admitted, sheepishly. "But I can't think that it's a good thing. I have to have these guys at my back. I can't imagine that one day one of them isn't going to get pissed about the Rite."
"They seem to take it very well," Anastasia said. "I mean, that is unusual but not unknown. There are other societies that practice similar rituals."
"Yeah, but it still bugs me," Mike said as they got to the stone wall of the first barley field.
Mother Lenka led the deputation of Mothers. She wasn't one of the Family heads but she was the acknowledged mistress of brewing among the Keldara so it wasn't exactly surprising.
The Mothers were wandering in apparently random order through the field, fingering the heads of barley and occasionally picking some of it and tasting.
"I have no idea how long this takes," Mike said. "But it's probably a long time."
"We have time," Anastasia said as the Mothers gathered on the far side of the field. They had their heads together, fingering handfuls of barley and apparently discussing it. Mike suspected they were just making a big show.
Mike sensed someone walking up behind him but didn't turn around.
"You were looking for me, Kildar?" Vanner said.
Patrick Vanner, a stocky, blonde, crew-cutted former Marine intel geek, handled commo and intelligence. He'd started off as a linguist, ended up in intercept then analysis and finally communications security and eventually spent time working with the NSA. A whiz with any sort of electronics, communications or information technology, he filled the role of both commo officer and intelligence officer. Since he spoke more languages than Mike could count and was "into" cultures, he thought Vanner would really enjoy this evening's ceremony, bloody or not.
"I need to talk to you, Adams and Nielson," Mike said, turning around. "We'll wait until they're all here." But he could see both of the other staff making their way through the crowd.
Colonel David Nielson, USA, retired, slim, medium height with black hair gone gray and piercing green eyes, was a former infantry and civil affairs colonel, the only "professional" officer in the group. He fitted in as sort of chief of staff. Nielson juggled the operations and training schedules when things weren't "hot," relieving Mike of the tedium of paperwork that was anathema to him. When things were hot, and they often were, Nielson managed the battlefield conditions—made sure there was supporting fire, argued with any higher, got the ammo forward—while Mike went forward to lead. He was a maniac for training but admitted that he wasn't quite as happy doing the tactics.
Chief of staff, XO, whatever, he handled the details; Mike led.
The Mothers had headed for another field so Mike waved for the group to follow.
"There's a ceremony this evening," Mike said.
"The Samman Latract," Vanner said. "This is their version of the Night of the Dead. But I've been picking up on another one. The Beatai Leanah I think is what I'm catching. I've been brushing up on my Gaelic since McKenzie was here and I think the first is something like 'Calling the Dead' or 'Waking the Dead.' The second one . . . I think it's some type of sacrifice."
"Give the man a cigar," Mike said as they reached the second of six fields. The fields were not designated for any particular Family but the Keldara tended to do things in sixes. "It's a blood sacrifice, the beginning of the winter slaughtering. They haven't done it in a long time. And it's supposed to be pretty bloody."
"Like the . . . What's that Gurkha rite?" Nielson said.
"The Dushera Festival," Vanner said. "Biggest guy in the regiment cuts off the head of a bull with a big kukri. If he succeeds, it's good luck for the year. If not, bad mojo."
"I think so," Mike said. "We'll see. I've asked the girls to head back to the caravanserai, since I don't think they want to get too splattered."
"The top of the dun isn't all that big," Adams said, nodding. "Carotid blood does have a tendency to spray everywhere."
"Thank you so much for that image, Master Chief," Anastasia said, politely.
"And that, my dear, is why it's suggested you not attend," Mike said, grinning.
"And so I shan't," Anastasia replied. "I think some of the girls would take it just fine, but we'll all retire when the group heads up the hill."
"Then it's agreed," Mike said as the Mothers finished checking out another field. "And off to another field we go."
Chapter Four
Mike hadn't realized that they'd check all six fields but they did. Then, still standing in the last one, they held a meeting that involved a bunch of arm waving. Mike was surprised that Mother Lenka, who usually had an, often foulmouthed, opinion on anything was standing listening to it with her arms folded.
The whole tribe had gathered around the last field, waiting to find out which would be chosen. Some had been gathering handfuls of the grain that nodded over the stone fences, arguing amongst themselves, and Mike was pretty sure he saw some surreptitious betting on which field would win.
Mike was surprised, though, when he saw the harvester headed towards their position. He was under the impression the field for the Keldara's beer was to be harvested by h
and. But it was headed their way, driven by the farm manager, Genadi.
As the harvester neared, Mother Lenka waved to him and imperiously pointed at two fields. There were some mild groans in the crowd and Mike saw Sawn, one of the team leaders, collecting money.
As the harvester, which could rip through the five-hectare fields in a few minutes, began to harvest the definite losers, the Mothers went back through the other fields.
"This is taking forever," Adams finally muttered. "I'm gonna go get a beer."
By the time Adams got back, Genadi had started on two more fields that didn't make the cut. The Mothers wandered back and forth between the final two and finally met near Mike's position. This time there didn't seem to be any argument, just a lot of nodding.
"The barley is chosen," Mother Lenka shouted, very formally, holding up her arms. "Let it be harvested."
Six young men, followed by twelve of the younger unmarried women, entered the field. The men were carrying scythes and working their shoulders, clearly preparing for the harvest. The girls were just giggling. Gretchen was among them and she broke off with Nikolai Mahona, one of the machine-gunners from Oleg's team. Mike didn't know the girls as well as he did the guys but he was able to pick out enough names to figure out that the teams were broken down by Families. Six families, six teams.
"It's a race," Vil said, coming over to lean on the fence by the Kildar.
"Hey, Vil," Mike said. "We needed some cultural explanation."
Vil was tall, slim and dark of hair. Very handsome as all the Keldara were, he looked just a tad like Omar Sharif.
When he first formed the militia, Mike had, with some "help," chosen six of the younger Keldara to be the team leaders. He hadn't realized just how carefully he had been steered until later. The six team leaders were the acknowledged heirs of the Families, the men who, when it was their time, would almost certainly be the Fathers of each family.
They, in turn, had chosen their team members in a process that reminded Mike of teams being chosen in school. He'd insisted that the teams have members from every House, spread as much as possible, so that if one team was badly damaged in a battle no one Family would bear the brunt. But, naturally, the team leaders had chosen people that they were most comfortable with. What had resulted were six distinctly different teams. Oh, each could do any basic job, but they each had specific vocation, a set of skills that leaned to one use or another.
Oleg was a big, "bull forward" guy and he'd chosen big, "bull forward" people for his team. If you needed something flattened, Team Oleg would do it best. Sawn Makanee was one of the more thoughtful Keldara and he'd chosen people who, like him, were a tad more intellectual. They talked about international politics and philosophy rather than beer. Oh, they could flatten stuff, too, but they would rather figure out if it really needed to be flattened. And so on.
Vil was a rapier to Oleg's battle-axe. His team specialized in raid and ambush, hit and run, maneuver and feint. He had the faintly aristocratic air usually associated in old movies with British fops. But Mike would rather have him on a raid mission than any two of the other team leaders. And the guy was strong as hell; Mike had seen him lift twice his own weight in unwieldy rock.
"When we used to do all this stuff by hand," he continued, waving around the valley languidly, "the Chosen field would be left for last. The field is then harvested by six teams, chosen from unmarried men and women. When the last stalk is cut we make a sort of puppet which we call the sanbahn."
"Old woman, probably," Vanner said.
"That's what we call it, yes," Vil said, smiling faintly. "More books, yes?"
"Yep," Vanner said. "Gotta love 'em."
"The sanbahn is carried up the dun," Vil continued, pointing to the hill, "and at the end of the ceremony it's thrown in the bonfire. Then we get down to the real purpose of the whole thing which is drinking all of last year's beer we possibly can. Can't have old beer hanging around, can we?"
"Who carries the sanbahn?" Mike asked.
"Oh, the oldest girl of the losing team," Vil said. "Why?"
"Just wondering," Mike said, glancing over at Vanner and shaking his head as the intel guy started to say something.
Mother Lenka had reached the point where the six teams waited, the other Mothers leaving the field, and now raised her hands. She looked at each of the men then dropped her arms.
The harvesters already had their scythes back and swung downward as one, cutting a swathe then stepping forward. As soon as they were clear the girls moved forward, gathering up armfuls of the grain and binding them in their own stalks.
To shouts of encouragement, and in some cases derision, from the Keldara the six teams raced down the field.
"Nikolai is going too fast," Vil said, gesturing to the machine-gunner. "Mahona is likely to lose."
"He's ahead of two of the other teams," Adams argued.
"I know Nikolai and while he has plenty of strength and lots of strength in his legs, he doesn't have much stamina for this sort of thing. He'll start tiring about the last third. Bet you a hundred rubles he comes in second to or dead last."
"You're on," Adams said.
But, sure enough, as they got into the last part of the cutting, Mike could tell he was flagging. His cuts were getting ragged and he, twice, had to overcut to get all the grain. That put him second to last and Georgi Makanee, who was last right up until the end, managed to cut his stand just as Nikolai was raising his blade.
"Halt!" Mother Lenka called. She'd gotten behind the team towards the end and now walked over. "Mahona is last," she cried.
"Nikolai's in for it now," Vil said. "Oh, not as bad as the caillean, but he'll be teased a good bit. And now Gretchen will be the ogbahn, the carrier of the sanbahn." He frowned at that.
"And that means?" Mike asked.
"Oh, nothing," Vil replied. "Nothing at all."
"Come on, Vil, give," Vanner said.
"Well," Vil said, frowning. "It's said that the ogbahn can never be the sanbahn."
"The sanbahn is a puppet made out of straw," Mike said. The last sheaf had been cut and Mother Lenka was already binding it into the figure. Mike shivered suddenly in the chill wind. You could smell the storm approaching.
"It also, as Mr. Vanner so astutely pointed out, means old woman," Vil replied. "It's the term for . . . someone. An old woman." He turned and looked at the Kildar, frowning still. "It means Gretchen will never be old. If you believe in that sort of thing."
"Of course she'll never be old," Vanner said after Vil had wandered off. "She used to be sacrificed."
"Yep," Mike said. "A sacrifice to the old gods. The daughter of spring given to the god of the dead, the god of the underworld."
"That's terrible," Anastasia said. "I can't believe anyone would perform human sacrifice!"
"Oh, not these days," Mike said. "Probably. But it used to be really common, even up to the time of the Romans. They got rid of most of it, after they gave it up. And that was by a vote of the Roman Senate not long before Caesar was born. They were the ones who stopped the sacrifices in Gaul, France now, and Britain. The Germans took longer. And even the Romans kept it up in some remote areas, right up until they started to become Christians. And the Russians only stopped around the time of the Mongols when Christianity finally had a firm hold. Outside Europe it was common right up until the colonial period. Given how . . . traditional the Keldara are, I figure they probably stopped around the same time as the Russians. Say . . . the 1300s."
"They wouldn't . . . start again?" Tinata asked. She'd been listening avidly.
"No, they won't," Mike said. "First of all . . . times have changed. I don't think they could stomach it. Second, I'd put a stop to it if I even suspected it. But the choosing of the caillean at Beltane or whatever they call it, and this thing with the 'old woman' and the 'young woman,' those are all vestiges of human sacrifice. Be glad they only sacrifice animals now."
"They're headed to the dun," Vanner pointed out.
/> "Well, then, we are headed for the caravanserai," Anastasia said. One look at the gathered harem girls stifled the beginnings of protest. "I leave it up to you to ensure that your Kardane is actually alive tomorrow, Kildar."
"Guaranteed," Mike said, giving her a peck on the cheek. "And . . . you might make sure there are some clothes ready in the foyer. I suspect that we'll have a bit of blood on us when we get back."
"Kildar," Father Kulcyanov said, as the Keldara began to gather at the base of the dun, "I would ask a favor of you."
"Anything I can do," Mike said. The old soldier had smoothed things over a lot and Mike knew it.
"We must Feed the Dead," Father Kulcyanov said, sighing. "But I am aged. I have all I can do it make it up the hill and chant the words. I would ask you to take my place as Eater for the Dead. One of the other Fathers could do as well but . . . You are the Kildar."