by Anna Ciddor
Ket grabbed Nath-í by the sleeve before he could move. ‘I’ll carry it,’ he whispered. ‘You might spill it!’
Conscious of everyone watching, he reached into the tree and closed his hands around the smooth, yellowed horn. He lowered it slowly, careful not to let it brim over. With firm, proud steps, he moved towards the cauldron, tilted the vessel and let the water trickle in. There was a lull as everyone waited for it to heat and simmer, and then, to his astonishment, Nath-í began to chant.
‘Spirit of the Water
Spirit of the Fire
When the lots are cast
Reveal who is the liar.’
The song ended, and Ket backed towards the yew.
‘Hey, Nath-í, that was really clever,’ whispered Nessa. ‘Did you make that up?’
Nath-í grinned. ‘Was it all right?’
Ket looked at his friend’s glowing face, then at Faelán nodding approval, and a dismal, sinking feeling sucked at his stomach. This task had been a chance to prove his worth, and all he had done was carry water. While Nath-í – fumble-fingers Nath-í – had composed a poem, and cloaked himself in glory.
As Ket struggled to look delighted and admiring like everyone else, Bran slid up beside him. Ket braced himself for a jeering remark.
‘How can you smile like that?’ demanded Bran under his breath. ‘If I was you, I’d want to clout him.’
Ket was dumbfounded. Bran was offering sympathy instead of scorn.
‘It’s my own fault,’ muttered Ket. ‘I should have let him carry the water.’
‘If you’d let him carry the water, he would have spilt it!’ protested Bran. ‘You stopped him making a fool of himself and now look, everyone’s fawning over him instead! That’s not fair.’
Ket sent his surprising ally a glance of gratitude, then they both turned to watch as the druid opened the pouch at his belt and rummaged inside.
Faelán drew out two carved birch rods and lifted them into the air.
The five fosterlings looked at each other.
‘It’s ogham!’ hissed Lorccán.
‘These lots represent Gortigern the defendant and Tirech the accuser.’ The druid crossed to the fire and held the rods above the steaming water. He looked sternly at the two men. ‘I shall cast them into the Cauldron of Truth. If your lot floats on the surface, you are speaking truth. If it sinks, then you are guilty of lying.’
The lots landed with a splash, and everyone crowded forward. Ket stretched on his toes and craned his neck, trying to see what was happening.
‘They’re both floating,’ said a disappointed voice.
‘Ha,’ said Gortigern.
At that moment the water bubbled more violently, and one of the rods tilted and began to sink. The crowd rumbled with excitement.
‘Which one is it? Which one?’
Faelán leaned over the cauldron and plunged his arm into the boiling water. With no sign of pain, he stepped back, holding the lot aloft so everyone could see.
‘Gortigern mac Ardal,’ he boomed.
Gortigern glowered and crossed his arms.
Ket stared at the black strokes then glanced round eagerly for Nessa, but she was gone, wriggling through the crowd to Tirech’s elbow. Ket closed his eyes, burning the shape of the feda into his memory.
‘It must be G,’ he thought, ‘G for Gortigern! And the other is T for Tirech.’
Brehon Áengus clapped his hands. ‘Gortigern mac Ardal, I pronounce you guilty. If this judgement be false, may the Collar of Truth tighten and choke me!’
There was a quivering, expectant pause. Everyone pressed closer, trying to see the gold torque around his neck. Ket felt a sharp elbow in his ribs, and someone’s noisy breathing filled his ear. The brehon waited, his arms spread out dramatically, then Faelán’s voice broke the silence.
‘The spirits have spoken,’ he cried. ‘The judgement is made and proven.’
Excited murmurs rippled through the crowd.
The lawgiver held up his hand. ‘The penalty for entering a dwelling without permission is a fine of one heifer-calf.’
‘Gortigern, step forth to accept your penalty,’ ordered Faelán.
The press of bodies shifted to make way for the glowering Gortigern, but Ket had seen enough. He wormed his way out of the crush and burst free, his eyes flying to the Sacred Yew. Lorccán and Bran were there already, crouched beside the ogham rod. When they saw him coming, they ran off laughing.
Nath-í sat in a forlorn huddle a short distance away.
‘I didn’t see,’ he moaned. ‘I got pushed out of the way, and those two won’t tell me anything.’ His eyes flicked in the direction Lorccán and Bran had taken.
Ket looked into the doleful face and sighed resignedly. How could he refuse to tell?
‘Wasn’t that exciting!?’ cried Nessa, running to join them. ‘When Brehon Áengus called out that challenge about the Collar of Truth, I almost died. What if it had really tightened and choked him? Imagine having a magic neck torque like that!’ Her eyes were as sparkly as the gold beads in her hair. ‘Do you think Gortigern will pay his fine? I bet he refuses. And then what will happen?’ She twisted round to watch her clan march off down the path. ‘Oh, I wish I could go home with them and see!’
Ket stared at her in astonishment.
‘Aren’t you interested in the ogham?’ he asked. ‘We found out two more.’
‘The ogham!’ Nessa swung back towards him. ‘I nearly forgot. Let’s look at the message.’
As they crouched by the rod, Nath-í leaned over their shoulders.
‘Look!’ Ket exclaimed. ‘The second feda – it’s the T from Tirech. That means the first word starts with h-t . . .’ He stopped, bewildered.
‘That’s silly,’ said Nessa. ‘There isn’t any word that starts with h-t.’
‘There must be. Wait, if we put in the other feda . . . We don’t know the one with three flat strokes, but then . . .’ He sounded out each feda as he pointed. ‘There’s m-n-o. And the second word is r-o . . .’ His voice trailed away.
‘Ro isn’t a word either.’
They glared at the ogham rod.
Nath-í brushed back his long fringe and peered earnestly at the markings.
‘I don’t get how you worked out any of it,’ he muttered. ‘How did you get ro? And ht?’
Nessa threw up her hands in exasperation ‘It doesn’t matter. They’re not right anyway. We must have made a mistake.’
As Ket slumped back on his heels, Lorccán came sauntering over.
‘Well,’ he grinned. ‘Bet you can’t work it out. Bet I read the message first.’
FIANS
The Spirit of the Sun was weakening. Every day the hours of light grew shorter. Ket watched the druid anxiously as he scanned the skies. Surely soon Faelán would call for the ceremony of Midwinter to coax back the departing sun. Hunger loomed over the druid’s camp. The offerings of oxflesh, cheese and bread were long gone. There were no more apples on the trees and the birds had eaten the last of the blackberries.
‘What are you all lolling about for?’ Maura demanded. ‘Take your slingshots and go find something for the pot, or we’ll all be eating boiled water for dinner.’
‘Take care!’ warned Goll, when he saw the fosterlings headed for the forest. ‘I hear the fians are about.’
‘Hey, I want to see them!’ yelled Lorccán, sprinting forward.
Nath-í faltered.
‘Maybe we shouldn’t go in then,’ he said.
‘They’re not stopping me looking for my dinner,’ said Nessa, not slowing her stride.
Ket halted next to Nath-í.
‘Do you think they’ll attack us?’ asked Nath-í.
‘We don’t have anything to steal,’ said Ket.
They both hesitated, remembering stories they’d heard of the wild young outlaws who roamed the forests, thieving and raiding.
‘Scared, little minnows?’ jeered Bran from the edge of the trees.
‘No,’ sna
pped Ket. ‘We’re coming.’
As soon as they entered the forest, Nath-í crouched down and began to poke among the fallen leaves. ‘I think I’ll just look for nuts,’ he said.
‘I don’t want acorns for dinner again,’ said Ket crossly. ‘Where are the others? Why didn’t they wait?’ He paused, listening, but all he could hear was the gentle gurgle of the river. He started through the trees, calling their names. ‘Nessa? Bran? Lorccán?’
A crow flew upwards with a screech of alarm, ‘Gaug! Gaug!’
Dense thickets of gorse and blackthorn flanked the path, and overhead, the bare, wintry branches of oaks and hazel trees curled like claws.
Ket looked round for something to eat. Maybe he could find a few leaves of chickweed. Even the bitter sloes of the blackthorn would be better than nothing. He followed the eager chat chat of a field-fare, hoping she had found a last bunch of blackberries they could share. But he found her pecking at bright red holly berries, and shook his head in disappointment.
‘Those you can keep for yourself,’ he muttered.
From beyond the bushes, came the thud of hoofs, and then the whinny of a horse. Ket jerked round in panic. Only chieftains and fians rode horses. He began to run, but a stallion burst out of the trees, rearing and crashing, and blocked his path. The rider was a boy not much older than Ket, with gleaming eyes in a filthy face.
‘Hand over your silver,’ he demanded.
‘I . . . I don’t have any,’ stammered Ket.
The boy hooted.
‘This fine young lord claims to have nothing!’ he shouted.
Ket heard other fians whistling and jeering among the trees.
The boy slid from his mount and sauntered forward. Hot animal scent emanated from the strips of untanned, bloody fur he wore as clothes. ‘What’s that, then?’ he demanded, thrusting a finger at Ket’s cloak pin. ‘Give it.’
Ket felt a surge of fury. He lifted his knee and aimed a kick right into the boy’s stomach.
‘Ooof!’
The young fian reeled back, his eyes wide with astonishment.
Ket whirled round, looking for a way to escape. There were shouts from the other riders, and he could hear their horses crashing towards him. Another horse lunged out of the trees.
Ket dived at the river. He gasped as he hit the cold water, and sank. His feet touched bottom, and he burst up, gulping for air, his long wet hair streaming over his face. A horse leapt in after him as he plunged for the opposite bank. He was slithering and scrambling up the side when a whip thwacked the ground beside him, and mud shot into his eyes. He hurtled forward, threw himself under a gorse bush, and burrowed among the branches, ignoring the spikes clawing at his clothes.
‘Spirit of the Gorse,’ he panted, ‘hide me, protect me!’
He hunched there, soaked and shivering, and, just for a moment, above the noise of the fians’ angry thrashing, he thought he heard the tinkle of bells.
One of the outlaws heard it too.
‘Hey, listen.’
‘It’s the druids. They’re coming.’
‘They’ll cast a spell on us.’
‘I’m leaving.’
There were a few scuffles and grunts, a stifled whinny, and then the thud of hoofbeats fading into the distance.
The ringing of bells grew louder and Ket crawled from his hiding place just as Goll and the other anruth marched into view on the far bank.
‘Ket, are you all right?’ Nath-í burst out of the group. ‘I saw the fians attacking you and I ran for help!’ He skidded on the muddy slope and Goll grabbed him by the tunic.
‘Hey, Ket!’ The anruth pointed to a dead birch tree fallen across the water. ‘You don’t have to swim back, you can cross there,’ he called.
Ket edged his way along the slippery trunk, his teeth chattering with cold. ‘Th-they ran when they heard your bells,’ he stammered.
As he reached the other side, Bran, Nessa and Lorccán bounded out of the trees. Nessa’s face shone with triumph. She was twirling her slingshot and dangling two dead hares across her shoulder.
At the sight of Ket’s bedraggled figure, the three hunters stopped short.
‘What happened to you?!’
‘The fians,’ said Nath-í, ‘they—’
‘Oh Ket, did they hurt you?’ cried Nessa.
Ket felt more pathetic than a wet feather. His cheeks flamed.
‘Where’d they go?’ demanded Lorccán, scanning the forest in frustration.
‘They’ll be far on their way now,’ said Goll.
‘If I’d been here, I would have shown ’em!’ Lorccán dropped his slingshot and began to punch an imaginary opponent.
‘I did show them!’ said Ket. ‘I—’
Lorccán spun round and made a feint at his jaw. Ket blocked it and skipped backwards.
‘Hey!’ squawked Nath-í as Ket stepped on his toe.
‘Enough horsing around,’ said Goll. ‘Lorccán, did you catch something for our dinner?’
‘Huh.’ Lorccán snatched up his weapon. ‘I saw this really big juicy badger, and I would have got it, only Nessa was hogging all the good stones.’
There was a spluttered exclamation from Nessa.
‘I found some hazelnuts,’ said Nath-í.
‘Anyway, I bet the fians don’t hunt with silly old slingshots,’ said Lorccán. ‘I bet they have big long spears. And bows and arrows. If I was a fian I’d have a spear as long as that tree, with five spikes on it. And I could kill anything.’ He snapped a branch off the fallen birch, and as they headed back to camp he whipped every bush and fern that grew along the path.
LESSONS
It was three days until the next new moon. The camp lay sodden under winter rain. The fire was reduced to a pile of smouldering wood, where only a few embers glowed under the shelter of the cauldron.
The fosterlings, waiting for their morning lesson, huddled beneath the dense, spreading branches of the Sacred Yew. They were bundled in every scrap of fur they possessed and their breaths hung in the air in white clouds.
Nath-í wiped his streaming nose with his sleeve.
‘I’ve thought of a poem,’ he snuffled. The others turned to him in surprise. ‘See if you can guess who it’s about.’
‘Fleetest of foot
Bravest and bold
Keenest of mind
When tales are told . . .’
Ket saw Lorccán draw himself up expectantly.
‘Hair of fire
With beads of gold!’
Nath-í finished.
‘It’s Nessa!’ cried Ket.
Lorccán tossed his head.
‘Nath-í, thank you!’ Nessa’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling. Ket wished he’d been the one to compose a poem for her.
‘Hey, listen to this one!’ Lorccán flung back his fox-fur cloak and took up a stance, arms flexed. His fair hair shone, and the raindrops on his cape glittered like jewels.
‘Muscles so strong
And hair so long.’
He thumped himself on the chest. ‘How’s that?’
‘You’re not supposed to make up poems about yourself,’ said Ket.
Bran jumped to his feet.
‘Here’s another stanza.’ He copied Lorccán’s pose.
‘Writer of
The worst song!’
He squealed and ducked as Lorccán aimed a blow at his shoulder.
Nath-í chuckled, then doubled over with a hacking cough. Nessa rubbed his back anxiously.
‘Nath-í isn’t tough enough to be a druid,’ said Lorccán. ‘Look at me!’
He strutted into the rain and held out his arms, tilting his face to the sky.
‘Ah, Lorccán, I am pleased to see you participating in the Greater Harmony,’ said Faelán.
Ket, swinging round, realised that Lorccán had spied the druid approaching. The druid’s eyes were grey as the clouds, his hair and beard dripping with rainwater. The feathered cloak was spiky and bedraggled.
Abashed, t
he other fosterlings shuffled out from the shelter of the tree.
‘Feel the elements,’ cried Faelán.
‘I feel them all right,’ muttered Bran in Ket’s ear. ‘They’re cold and wet.’
‘Master Faelán,’ said Nessa. ‘I think Nath-í needs one of your cures.’
Faelán turned his attention to Nath-í, who was holding his chest and struggling to breathe. ‘You must place an oak log on the fire to draw off your illness. While to soothe your cough, grind some hazelnuts and mix them with nectar from those blooms . . .’ The druid gestured to the hollow oak. Shining like a crown in the winter gloom, a cluster of greenish-white flowers sprang from the ivy that clambered over the bare branches. ‘Now, how about the rest of you? What did you observe, skulking there under the trees? Have you learnt anything about the Greater Harmony?’
Lorccán looked smug while the others glanced at each other.
‘Uuh . . . the leaves have fallen off some of the trees,’ said Nessa, ‘that oak tree, and the birches, and the aspen . . .’ Her voice tailed away and there was a pause.
‘And what else?’
‘Some of the birds have gone away,’ offered Ket.
‘But now there are different ones,’ Lorccán burst in. ‘I saw the wild geese arriving. I saw them first, before anyone else!’
‘And you tried to get one with your slingshot, and missed,’ hooted Bran.
‘Bran, I have told you before, we do not point out others’ errors or failings unless it is necessary,’ admonished the druid. ‘Have you a useful contribution to make? What changes have you observed?’
‘I’ve seen fieldfares, and redwings about.’
‘That is so,’ said the druid, ‘but what else has changed, apart from the birds and the leaves? Nath-í, what have you observed?’
Nath-í bit his lip and looked baffled. ‘It’s got colder!’ he blurted out at last.
This time, they all started to giggle, until the druid held up a finger.
‘That is not to be scoffed at,’ he said. ‘Never take the weather for granted. An oddity out of season – a warm night in winter, or a frost in summer – is a message from the spirits. An omen. If you become a druid, if you want to foretell the future . . .’ His voice grew deep and solemn. ‘You must be alert for omens.’