Night of the Fifth Moon

by Anna Ciddor

  ‘I . . .’ Ket had planned to tell Nessa anyway. And maybe Nath-í and Riona. But as for Lorccán and Bran . . . Ket pressed his lips together. If those two found clues, they would never dream of sharing. But Bran had a point. Faelán had just told them that being a druid was all about helping others.

  ‘He’s going to tell! He’s going to tell!’ squealed Riona as Ket knelt on the ground and began to brush some leaves aside. ‘Careful, don’t hurt the woodlice!’ she warned.

  ‘I need a clear space,’ said Ket.

  Everyone hovered over him as he scraped the shape of a feda in the dirt.

  ‘That’s an n sound, for Nuada.’

  ‘Is it in the message?’ blurted Lorccán. ‘I’m going to see.’

  ‘Bet you’re tricking us,’ said Bran.

  The two of them leapt to their feet and raced towards the ogham stick.

  ‘But . . .’ Bemused, Ket leaned back on his heels. ‘They should have waited,’ he said. ‘I know another one too.’

  Riona squirmed excitedly.

  ‘Show us. Quick!’ she said. ‘Before they come back.’

  She gathered up the leaves again, and as soon as Ket had drawn huathe, she covered it up, glancing over her shoulder. ‘Don’t let them see, don’t let them see!’

  ‘Hey, I didn’t see it properly,’ Nath-í complained.

  ‘Come on.’ Riona grabbed Nessa’s hand and tugged her to her feet. ‘Let’s move away from here. Before they guess what we’re doing.’

  The girls hurried away, giggling, while Nath-í poked at the pile of leaves.

  ‘Watch out!’ Ket had spied a frightened woodlouse scurrying for cover. He tried to coax it onto his finger as Faelán had done, but the instant the creature felt the touch of a hand it curled into a ball.

  ‘It didn’t do that when Master Faelán picked it up,’ said Ket ruefully.

  ‘It wasn’t afraid of Master Faelán,’ said Nath-í. Ket lifted the tiny grey ball onto his hand and they both peered at it closely. All they could see was the hard shell. The delicate feet and soft underside were tucked safely inside. ‘I wish I had a shell like that,’ said Nath-í. ‘Imagine! Even if it fell from the top of a tree it wouldn’t hurt itself.’

  ‘Faelán told us to study them and learn from them,’ said Ket. ‘Maybe . . . maybe if we curl up when we fall . . .’

  ‘Like this!’ cried Nath-í excitedly. He jumped up, hunched his shoulders, folded his long arms against his chest and bent his knees. Ket thought he looked more like a grasshopper than a woodlouse. ‘Okay, push me,’ ordered Nath-í.

  But when Ket gave him a shove, Nath-í crashed to the ground with a yowl and sat up rubbing his elbow.

  ‘It didn’t work,’ he grumbled.

  ‘You didn’t keep your arms tucked in!’ said Ket.

  ‘You try keeping your arms in when you’re falling,’ retorted Nath-í. ‘It’s not possible. We can’t learn anything from stupid beetles.’

  He stood up and hobbled off.

  ‘Faelán says we can,’ muttered Ket.

  He tipped the woodlouse back among the leaves, wrapped his arms around his knees and waited to see what would happen. He could hear the others tramping through the trees. From deep in the forest came the bellow of a stag. Then, just in front of him, a blackbird landed on the ground, and cocked its head.

  Ket froze. The bird hopped closer, took a stab at the leaves, tilted its head again, and then, deciding Ket was no threat, began to search busily.

  Ket watched intently as the bird burrowed with its beak, flipping and tossing leaves, every now and then lifting its head to gulp something down. It was so close, Ket could see the specks of soil and insect legs sticking to its beak. He could almost feel he had a beak himself. If he wiped his face he would find crumbs of insects on his lips.

  Twinges of pain began to pluck at Ket’s shoulders. Cautiously, he unlaced his fingers to ease his back. Instantly, the bird let out a peal of alarm, and flew away.

  Ket unfolded, and rose stiffly to his feet. As he crossed the clearing he glanced at his reflection in the bucket of water. He almost expected to see a beak growing out of his face. Instead, he saw a boy with hair and eyes the same dusky brown as a skylark’s wing.

  ‘And there’s dirt all over my clothes and face,’ he muttered ruefully. ‘That blackbird probably couldn’t even see me among the brown bracken.’

  Squatting down to wash his face, he paused first, eyeing his reflection, and tried to imagine how he would look wearing a silver circlet round his head, and a long grey robe, like an anruth.

  ‘Hey, what are you gawping at?’ Lorccán came sauntering over.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Ket splashed water on his face, and jumped up. He scowled at the tall boy with hair of pale, shining gold. It was easy to imagine Lorccán dressed in the garb of an anruth.

  That night, when they sat around the fire, Lorccán was bursting with pride.

  ‘Guess what I found!’ he said. ‘I saw an otter! And I watched how it used its legs in the water. When the weather warms up, I’m going to be the best swimmer of everyone.’

  ‘I looked in the river too, and I searched all over the woods but I didn’t see anything,’ grumbled Nath-í.

  ‘That’s ’cause you crashed along like a herd of cows!’

  said Bran. ‘I found a squirrel and you scared it off.’

  ‘Animals are too hard!’ sighed Riona. ‘If you try to get close, they run away. I just gave up and looked at the trees. What did you do, Ket?’

  ‘I . . .’ Ket was embarrassed. He didn’t want to sound boastful like Lorccán. ‘I was lucky. A blackbird came feeding right up close to me. I watched it for ages. But I don’t think I learnt anything.’

  ‘You probably learnt how to eat worms,’ chortled Bran.

  ‘A blackbird!’ Riona exclaimed. ‘How did you get it to come so close to you?’

  ‘I curled up like this.’ Ket hugged his knees. ‘And kept still.’

  ‘Like a woodlouse,’ said Nath-í.

  Ket stared at him. Of course! It wasn’t the bird who had taught him a lesson at all, it was the woodlouse. While Nath-í had been crashing around frightening the animals, he, Ket, was learning how to watch without disturbing them. Maybe next he would learn to walk like Faelán!

  SAMHAIN EVE

  It was the eve of Samhain – the last day of the year, a time of danger and powerful magic. Tonight the Spirits of the Dead would rise from their tombs and search for living bodies to possess.

  At the druid’s camp, preparations for Samhain were very different from the panic and fear Ket remembered in his father’s household. Here there was no frantic gathering-in of crops and livestock, no hiding behind high stone walls. Instead, Faelán ordered the anruth to open the doorway to the burial mound and lay out gifts of nuts and apples to welcome the Spirits of the Dead.

  ‘Now,’ he said, addressing the fosterlings, ‘go gather some aspen branches.’ He hurried away to check that the apples were washed and polished and all the nuts perfect.

  The fosterlings eyed each other. Aspen was used to measure the dead for their graves. The scent of its burning would help to lure their spirits.

  Lorccán was the first to speak.

  ‘I’m not afraid. I know where to find an aspen,’ he cried, and bounded towards the forest.

  The others followed reluctantly.

  ‘I don’t like Samhain,’ whimpered Riona.

  ‘Here!’ called Lorccán. ‘Over here!’

  He was waiting in front of a tree with a tall, silvery trunk. Above his head, bright yellow leaves trembled and whispered. Dutifully, Nath-í bent to scavenge for fallen twigs. Bran took hold of a lower branch and gave it a tug.

  ‘Bran!’ said Nessa. ‘You’re not allowed to do that!’

  Bran snorted. ‘Old Feather-cloak can’t see me.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Are you going to tell on me?’

  ‘No, of course not. But you’re hurting a living tree.’
r />   ‘So?’

  When Bran ripped the branch from the tree, Ket felt uncomfortable, as if he was watching someone tear out another person’s hair. He fumbled for the red band Auntie Mell had tied around his wrist all those years ago, that last Samhain before he left home. He rubbed the worn, frayed strands between his fingers and felt comforted. The red dye, colour of fire and blood, would bring him protection.

  ‘I’m going to find some holly,’ said Nessa. ‘Come on, Ket, come and help me.’

  The fosterlings would spend the dreadful night of Samhain cowering inside the hollow oak, hoping that red berries and spiky leaves hung around the tree would ward off evil spirits.

  As Ket and Nessa threaded their way through the forest, they came upon a man from the ringforts lopping branches from a holly tree.

  Nessa called a greeting, and then her face lit up as the man turned. ‘Uncle Tirech!’ She ran towards him. ‘How’s everyone at the ringfort? How’s Mother? And all my cousins?’

  ‘Nay, no time to gossip now, Nessa!’ The man shook his head. ‘I’ve lots to do before sunset!’ He glanced at his basket of holly. ‘That’ll do,’ he muttered, and looking harassed, he tramped off through the forest.

  Nessa watched his departing back with disappointment.

  ‘Come on, Nessa. Look at all the leaves and berries he’s dropped on the ground,’ said Ket, gathering them up.

  As the fosterlings headed back to camp, loaded with boughs of aspen and holly, the scent of baking barm-brack cakes wafted towards them. Ket and Nath-í looked round for Goll. As eldest sons, they were obliged to carry cakes as offerings to the tombs of their ancestors.

  Goll met them by the fire, where Maura was laying lumps of dough to cook on a heated stone. Her cheeks were red as the holly berries from the effort of kneading, and her stiff, straw-coloured hair stuck out in all directions from the silver fillet that circled her head. She flipped the cakes over, then lifted two and laid them on pieces of bark.

  Nath-í rubbed his belly wistfully. ‘Can I eat one now?’ he asked. Spindly and fast-growing as a foxglove flower, he was always hungry.

  Maura shook her head. ‘When you come back.’ She slapped another lump of dough on the stone. ‘I’m making plenty.’

  Nath-í held the fresh-baked cake to his nose and gave a longing sniff, then set off holding it gingerly.

  ‘Try not to drop it!’ Maura called after him.

  Nath-í headed for the hills, for his clan lands were in the north, and Goll took the path across the plain down to the marshes.

  Ket waited impatiently for the next cake, his stomach gurgling as the hot, sweet aroma filled his nostrils. At last his offering was ready. He curled the bark carefully around it, and hurried into the forest. The sooner he returned, the sooner he could sink his teeth into one of those golden rounds sticky with dark chunks of bilberry.

  The Cormac ancestors lay buried in a clearing in the forest. The tall stone pillars that circled their mound cast long shadows. As Ket stepped into the clearing, he saw that the flat slab of stone set in the side of the grass-covered mound had been pushed aside.

  ‘Father!’ he called in a loud whisper.

  Ossian emerged, and waved. He was stooped now, and almost bald.

  ‘Fáilte!’ he replied. ‘Still no anruth robes?’ He gestured at Ket’s short brown tunic.

  ‘No, but soon, maybe.’ In an eager undertone, Ket told Ossian about the challenge. ‘Master Faelán is going to judge us, and choose one of us to be an anruth.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll choose you,’ said Ossian, patting his shoulder. ‘But if he doesn’t, no matter, Ragallach will still take you. Now . . .’ He held out a hand. ‘You’ve brought the offering, I see.’

  Ket hesitated. ‘Should I do it myself?’

  ‘Time enough when you’re older,’ said Ossian.

  Ket nodded with relief. ‘When I’m a druid, nothing will frighten me! And I’ll know all sorts of spells to protect me.’

  ‘But you must pay your respects to your ancestors out here,’ his father reminded him.

  As Ossian crouched down to ease his way back through the low portal, Ket turned reluctantly to the white stones standing sentinel around the grave. Slowly, he began to move around, resting his hands on each pillar. The stones were cool and moist and it seemed to Ket as if the coldness and heaviness of death were seeping inside his own skin.

  The tallest and broadest pillar was Grandfather Cormac’s memorial. Orange lichen dappled the bleached surface, and marks, half worn away by age and weather, were etched up one side.

  Ket stretched out his hand, then stopped, trans-fixed. Of course! Those marks were feda, just like Faelán had carved in the birch rod!

  ‘Ogham,’ he whispered, shaking with excitement. He looked round wildly for something to copy them on. There was a flat stone near his foot, half-buried in the earth. He scrabbled it out, and using a piece of sharp rock, started to scratch the word on its surface.

  ‘Well, that’s done then.’ Startled by the sound of Ossian’s voice, Ket almost stabbed his own hand. ‘Better get home . . .’ Ossian’s voice sharpened. ‘What are you doing, Ket?’

  Ket scrambled to his feet. ‘Sorry, no time to tell you now!’ he blurted. ‘Got to go!’

  Hugging the precious clue to his chest, he turned and sped back to camp.

  SAMHAIN

  Nearing the sound of voices and the scent of aspen smoke, Ket forced himself to slow down and saunter into camp. Lorccán and Bran must never guess his secret.

  ‘Hey,’ called Nessa. ‘What took you so long?’

  The fosterlings were clustered around the hollow oak, draping it with holly to keep out evil spirits.

  ‘Yes, hurry, it’s getting late,’ cried Riona. She was on her knees, laying a ring of prickly leaves and red berries around the roots of the tree.

  ‘Coming,’ said Ket. ‘I’ll just . . . I’ll just . . .’

  At that moment, there was a loud hiss and billow of smoke and Art and Bronal staggered away from the fire, coughing and flapping their hands. Ket grinned with delight. On Samhain Eve every flame in the land had to be extinguished, and the two anruth had just poured water over their campfire.

  Masked by the pall of smoke, Ket crept over to the Sacred Yew and squatted beside the ogham rod. He laid his stone on the ground and examined it eagerly.

  The word had to be Cormac, his grandfather’s name, so the four strokes at the top, pointing left, must be C, and the next was o . . . He peered from his stone to the message on the birch rod. The C wasn’t there. But the next feda was! And the two after that! He thrust his knuckle in his mouth and bit hard to stop himself crowing with excitement.

  ‘Hey, what are you up to?’

  Ket jumped with shock, and threw himself on top of his stone. But it was too late. Lorccán had already reached out to grab it.

  ‘Don’t!’ cried Ket. ‘That’s mine!’

  ‘Not now, it isn’t!’ Lorccán waved it in the air.

  Blazing with fury, Ket launched himself at Lorccán. The other boy twisted and struggled, but Ket hung on, clawing at his arm, till the stone was back in his grasp. Triumphantly, he spun round and flung it towards the trees.

  ‘There!’ he panted. ‘It’s gone!’

  ‘Ha, I can find it,’ retorted Lorccán. He tried to step away, but Ket seized his léine. There was a loud ripping noise.

  ‘Ket!’ It was the shocked voice of Faelán. ‘What is this rough behaviour?’

  Ket dropped Lorccán’s sleeve as if it were burning his hands and turned to face the druid.

  ‘Young man, this is not the behaviour I expect from someone who aspires to be a druid.’

  Ket’s cheeks flared. From the corner of his eye, he saw Lorccán sidle towards the stone. He clenched his jaw.

  ‘You have disappointed me,’ the druid continued, shaking his head. Then he glanced up at the sky. ‘Now, it is getting late . . .’

  Lorccán stopped moving and all the fosterlings stared with dismay a
t the setting sun. Soon, the Spirits of the Dead would begin to stir.

  Ket’s eyes fell to the cairn. In the sunset, the rocks glowed pink.

  ‘And they’re not all rocks,’ Ket remembered, his stomach twisting, ‘some of them are skulls.’

  He felt for the comfort of the red string at his wrist, and found nothing. He looked down. The string was gone. It must have been torn off when he struggled with Lorccán for the stone. He was gripped by a feeling of panic.

  ‘I must start my vigil,’ Faelán announced.

  Tonight the druid would stand waiting and watching on the peak of the cairn, with the dead beneath him and firewood laid ready at his feet. Far off in Uisnech, when the Old Year ended, the leader of the druids would light the first spark to signal the New Year. Then a message of fire would spread across the land from peak to peak as every watching druid lit a flame.

  ‘Who will carry my firewood up the cairn?’ inquired Faelán.

  ‘Not me,’ whimpered Riona, backing away.

  A taste of fear filled Ket’s throat, but the druid’s eyes came to rest on Bran.

  ‘Bran, gather some wood and bring it up the mound for me,’ said Faelán, and he strode across the Plain of Moytura towards the cairn.

  Nessa hurried to Bran, her face creased with concern.

  ‘Oh, Bran . . .’

  ‘Pah!’ Bran stuck out his chin and looked round defiantly. ‘I’m not scared by ghost stories.’ He picked up an armload of wood and marched off.

  Nessa let out a sigh and turned to Ket.

  ‘What were you and Lorccán squabbling about?’ she asked.

  ‘I—’

  Before Ket could answer, Riona came bustling up like a herd dog scenting danger. ‘Come on,’ she urged, ‘we have to get inside the tree!’

  Nath-í’s sleeve caught on the holly as they squeezed through the opening.

  ‘Uch, this stuff scratches,’ he complained.

  ‘Careful, don’t pull it down!’ warned Nessa.

  They all crowded in. Lorccán took the space in the middle and the others squashed around the edges, with bits of rotting tree trunk showering down on them. Ket could hear Riona breathing nervously beside him.