by Anna Ciddor
Behind the druid’s back, Bran crossed his eyes and pretended to tug solemnly at an imaginary beard. Hurriedly, Ket averted his gaze. The druid was pointing at two fieldfares squabbling over holly berries.
‘Those tiny birds have travelled over the sea from far-off lands,’ he said. ‘Every year they fly here, knowing that in our forest they will find berries to sustain them through the winter. If a tiny creature like a fieldfare can detect and use the pattern of the seasons, so can you.’ He looked down again. A spider was crawling up his robe, spindly legs wavering and wobbling. When it was halfway up, Faelán coaxed it onto his finger, and gently transferred it to the trunk of the Sacred Yew. ‘So . . .’ He looked around at the upturned faces of the fosterlings. ‘You must learn the pattern, the natural order of all things, in such intimate detail that you will recognise the unusual – the omens. Then, if you are chosen to be an anruth, I will teach you what those omens mean.’
They watched Faelán glide away, to vanish into the mist.
‘You’re right, Ket,’ murmured Nessa. ‘He doesn’t make any sound when he walks.’
She took a few steps, trying to copy, but her rawhide brogues rustled the leaves, and a twig broke with a loud snap. ‘It’s impossible!’ she said. ‘Only a druid can do it.’
‘Huh, it’s just ’cause he has bare feet,’ said Bran. ‘Anyone could do it without these big flapping things on their feet.’
‘Big flapping things!’ Nessa protested. ‘I spent hours sewing those pelts into brogues for you!’
‘Bran,’ said Ket, ‘if you don’t believe the druid has special powers, what are you doing here? Why do you put up with all this?’ He gestured at the thick pall of mist, and the huddle of wet, cold figures with rain trickling down their faces. ‘You could be living in a proper house somewhere, and sleeping in a real bed.’
Bran snorted. ‘You think you can trick me into leaving.’ His tone was scornful. ‘Well, I’m staying right here. I want to be the one who tells people what to do just as much as you do.’ Ket opened his mouth to object but Bran went on speaking. ‘Anyway, when I’m a druid, I’m going to build myself a palace like a king. People will come there to bring offerings and worship, not to some mouldy old tree.’
‘But . . . but . . . you have to live with the trees and the creatures, and sleep under the stars. You have to be part of the Greater Harmony, otherwise you won’t see the changes, the omens . . .’ Nessa’s voice faltered and her forehead puckered worriedly.
Bran laughed. ‘You really believe that stuff, don’t you? Well, don’t worry. I’ll learn all the right moves from old Feather-cloak. No one will even dare to breathe unless I tell them to. I can wave my arms around and scrape ogham on bits of wood as well as anyone. Only I’m going to do it in comfort!’
THE NEXT
NEW MOON
‘Nessa, do you think Bran’s right? Do you think everything Faelán does is just pretence?’
Nessa stabbed with her bone needle, yanked angrily on the rawhide thread for two more stitches, then tied a knot.
‘There.’ She tossed the mended brogue to Nath-í and turned to Ket. ‘Of course not!’ she snapped. ‘You told me yourself how he cast a spell on your father. And he worked out that Gortigern was lying. You saw him use the ogham sticks, and plunge his arm into boiling water.’ She stood up, brushing dead leaves from her skirt, and flounced off.
‘Ow!’ Nath-í hastily drew his foot out of the brogue. ‘Nessa, you left the needle in!’ But Nessa was gone.
The camp simmered with unease, for tonight it was the new moon again, and one more of them would be sent away. Even Nessa was grumpy.
‘Here, Nath-í.’ Ket tugged off his own shoes. ‘Take mine. I want to try going barefoot like Faelán and the anruth.’
‘You’ll freeze,’ said Nath-í.
‘They manage.’
Ket took a tentative step, trying to be as light as possible. Putting his weight on a heel first, he was rolling very carefully onto his toe, when he sensed eyes watching. He turned to catch Lorccán grinning at him. Burning with embarrassment, Ket scurried from the camp. He sped past the cairn of the Shadow Ones, haunted by the memory of dead, white faces, and only slowed his pace when he reached the far side of the plain. Here, masked by mist and drizzle, he tried again.
Casting a glance over his shoulder, he began to tread cautiously, tilting forward, straining intently to hear his own footfalls.
A hare was propped on its haunches in the long heather ahead of him. Step by cautious step, Ket crept towards it. He could see the whiskers on its twitching nose, and the black hairs on the tips of its ears. He was nearly close enough to touch it before the creature bounded away.
Elated, Ket straightened up and saw Faelán heading up the hill from the bog. ‘Did you see?’ Ket called out in excitement. ‘Did you see how close I got to that hare?’
The druid smiled and stooped to remove a tiny wisp of feather down caught on a leaf. As he spoke, he stroked it gently with his fingers.
‘So, you are studying the natural order. What else do you observe?’
Ket felt a rush of anger and disappointment. Would he never win the druid’s praise?
Somewhere to his right, a bird let out a trill, and in the distance another answered.
‘Those are wrens!’ said Ket, proud he could recognise their call.
‘Good. And what are they saying?’
Saying? What are they saying? Ket gaped at Faelán in disbelief.
The druid cocked his head, listening. ‘They are sending each other messages of alarm,’ he said. ‘You must have frightened them. Try to move more surreptitiously.’
Ket stared after his retreating back, feeling deflated.
Now, when he tried to move, he could only stumble. Every muscle in his back and legs was tight, and his feet were numb and clumsy.
The fosterlings poked morosely beneath the dripping trees, seeking out rowan boughs for the evening ceremony. The clouds hung low, spreading through the forest and matching their mood. The only sounds in the muffling greyness were the occasional snap of a twig or a subdued murmur. Ket, taking hold of a fallen branch, felt someone tugging the other end.
‘This one’s mine!’ hissed Lorccán. ‘I found it first.’
When the fosterlings trailed back to camp, Maura surveyed them, hands on hips. ‘What a gloomy bunch you are!’ she scolded. ‘Well, I’ve got something to stir you up. Master Faelán says you’re to have a lesson in spear-throwing.’
‘Spear-throwing!’ cried Lorccán, tossing down his rowan branch.
‘Oh no,’ moaned Nath-í.
‘Your target’s over there.’ Maura pointed at a rotting tree stump.
‘Can I go first?’ asked Lorccán.
‘All right, there you are.’
She handed Lorccán a stick with a pointed stone tied to one end.
‘This isn’t a real spear,’ he objected.
‘It’s fine to learn with,’ said Maura. ‘Now, watch how to throw it.’
Her own spear had a long ash handle and a gleaming bronze head. She took a few bouncing leaps on the balls of her feet, balanced, and let fly. The spear made a whirring sound, then crunched into the heart of the target.
‘Easy! I can do that!’ said Lorccán. He thumped forward and flung his stick, but instead of flying through the air, it twanged into the ground at his toes, spattering him with mud. He stared down in surprise. ‘Stupid stick!’ he exclaimed.
‘You didn’t hold it right,’ said Maura. ‘Rest it in your fingers like this.’ She held out her hand to show them. ‘That’s right, Nessa. You have a go.’
Plaits swinging, Nessa ran forward. She stopped, adjusted her stance, and hurled the stick. It thudded into the base of the trunk.
‘Yes!’ cheered Ket.
‘Well done,’ said Maura. ‘Now, Nath-í, how about you?’
Nath-í backed away, stumbling over his own feet.
‘If I try, it’ll probably fly in the wrong direction and kill some
one,’ he said.
‘You can’t hurt anyone with that spear,’ said Lorccán. ‘Go on, try.’
The fosterlings forgot the rain, the cold and their looming fate. They raced backwards and forwards, hurling the spear, shouting encouragement and laughing at each other. The tree stump grew more and more splintered as everyone’s aim improved. At last, even Nath-í managed to hit it, though when he shouted in triumph and pulled the spear from its target, the stone tip snapped off the end.
‘I’ve broken it!’ said Nath-í ruefully.
Lorccán spun round to Maura.
‘Can we use the real spear now?’ he demanded.
Maura, picking up the damaged one, shook her head. ‘Not now,’ she said. ‘Look.’
They followed the direction of her gaze and saw Faelán and the anruth gathering by the fire. The day was ended and it was time for the new moon ceremony. Instantly, the joy and excited banter were snuffed out. ‘Come on,’ said Maura.
In sober silence, the fosterlings followed her across the clearing.
Dense clouds still covered the sky. Faelán, lifting his arm to chant, added an extra plea.
‘Spirit of the Moon
Hid from our sight
Arise from darkness
And pity our plight.
Spirit of the Moon
Return and guide us.’
Everyone peered up anxiously, hoping for a break in the clouds. Ket blinked as raindrops spattered into his eyes, but, if the moon was there, it remained hidden.
The druid fingered his beard. ‘Art,’ he said, in a slow, meditative way, ‘fetch me a branch of broom.’
The anruth hurried across the clearing, and his footsteps faded away as he was swallowed up by the forest. The fosterlings drew together, silent and watchful. Darkness crept over them.
At last there came a rustling among the trees. A figure moved in the murk and a moment later, Art burst into the firelight brandishing a long, bushy branch.
‘Ah.’ Faelán grasped it and raised it above his head. ‘Spirits of the Air, dispel these clouds and let us see your guiding light!’ he commanded. He turned, sweeping the air with the branch.
Ket felt a puff of wind dance around his legs and curl the hem of his léine. The flames in the fire flickered and crackled. A murmur started in the woods and rose to a howl then the next moment a gale came tearing through the camp. Ket’s arm flew to shield his eyes as spiky bits of leaf and twig blew into his face.
‘Calm, be calm.’ The tall figure of the druid loomed up beside the fire. ‘Hear me, Spirits of the Air and cease your fury!’ With a sharp movement, he cast the branch of broom onto the fire. ‘Burn! Burn! Consume all anger!’
For a moment longer the spirits raged, and then, as fast as they had come, they faded away. Cautiously, Ket lowered his arm. The air felt as if it was holding its breath.
All eyes turned to the sky. The clouds had been swept away and there, shining and clear, was the new moon.
The anruth and the fosterlings cheered. Laughing and chattering, they scrambled for their places around the fire.
Gratefully, Ket sat down and thrust his frozen feet towards the flames. Immediately, he let out a squawk, and jerked them back. It felt as if his toes were on fire.
‘Hey, what have you been up to?’ said Goll. ‘Where are your brogues?’
‘I took them off.’ Ket gulped, trying not to cry. ‘Druids don’t wear shoes. You don’t wear shoes.’
Goll chuckled. ‘Yes, but I didn’t start by leaving them off in the middle of winter. You’ll get chilblains. Here, give us a look.’ He pried Ket’s hands away and tutted at the red, throbbing toes. ‘Wrap them up now, and don’t put them too close to the fire.’ He tucked a corner of his squirrel-fur cloak around Ket’s feet. ‘In the morning I’ll make you a poultice of mullein leaves.’
Faelán lifted his finger for attention, and Ket glanced worriedly at Goll.
‘If I’m still here in the morning,’ he muttered.
‘I’m sure you’ll be fine.’ Goll patted his shoulder.
All eyes turned to the druid as he began to speak. ‘Tonight is the second new moon, and once again, one of you fosterlings must be sent away.’ There was no sound in the camp. Even the fire seemed to have ceased its crackling. He looked at the five tense figures in front of him. ‘Lorccán . . .’ he said.
Lorccán?! The blood pounded in Ket’s head. ‘You have shown you are a strong, confident leader,’ Faelán continued, nodding approval and Ket felt a flood of disappointment. ‘And Nessa, you are a highly capable and reliable young lady. As for Nath-í . . .’ The druid shook his head, but he was smiling at the same time. ‘Nath-í, I am impressed by your skill with words,’ said Faelán.
Ket clenched his hands. His palms were sweaty. There was only himself and Bran left. He held his breath as the druid spoke the next name.
‘Bran . . .’ he said.
Ket felt the air whoosh from his lungs. He was the last! He was . . . A roaring filled his ears, almost blocking out Faelán’s voice. He was vaguely aware of Goll grabbing him as he swayed.
‘Bran,’ said Faelán, ‘you do not have the temperament to be a druid.’
Bran hurled his bells at the fire, his face livid. He sprang to his feet, shooting darts of hatred at the other fosterlings.
Ket watched in shock as he stormed away. ‘But . . . but . . . what about me?’ croaked Ket. ‘Faelán forgot about me.’
NESSA’S CLAN
Next morning, Ket was still anxious and bewildered.
‘Faelán left me out,’ he railed. ‘He praised Nessa, and Lorccán and Nath-í, but he didn’t have anything nice to say about me.’
‘So?’ Goll was peering into the bronze cauldron used for brewing remedies. ‘Probably, there were so many good things to say, he didn’t know where to begin.’
Ket scowled. ‘There isn’t anything special to say about me. I’m not best at anything.’
‘Don’t be so dismal. You’re good at listening, and you try hard, and . . . and . . .’ Goll dropped some large furry mullein leaves into the pot, and stirred them with a stick. ‘And you’re good at sharing,’ he finished lamely.
Ket picked up a stone and stabbed angrily at the ground. ‘None of those things are special. I know I’ll be the next one he sends away.’
Goll was concentrating on his potion. He lifted the steaming leaves out of the cauldron, and let them drip for a moment off the end of the stick.
‘All right, hold out your toes.’
Ket flinched as the hot poultice was slapped onto his bare feet. ‘Now, leave it there all day,’ ordered Goll, binding a length of twine around. ‘And keep your brogues on too.’
Then he was gone, following the druid between the trees, and Ket watched moodily as the two of them glided off over the plain. When they passed the cairn of the Shadow Ones, Ket fancied he heard murmuring from the grave. He turned with a shudder and crossed the clearing to the Sacred Yew to lour at the ogham rod with its baffling message.
‘We need more clues!’ he exclaimed in frustration as Nessa strolled over to join him.
But Nessa seemed uninterested in the rod. She eyed Ket, chewing her lip, and tugging one of her braids.
‘Ket, I . . . I made up a poem about you.’
He stared at her.
Nessa puffed out her cheeks. ‘Well . . . Here it is. It’s not very good.
Brave as a spear
He’s straight of aim.
He faces fear
And dares shame.
He joins a fight
With all his might . . .’
Her voice trailed away and she cleared her throat. ‘That’s all, so far.’
Ket tried to answer. He swallowed.
‘Hey, what have you found out?’ Lorccán came rushing over and looked down eagerly at the birch rod.
Nessa blinked at him. ‘We weren’t talking about the ogham,’ she said.
‘Huh.’ Lorccán raised his eyebrows disbelievingly and stalked off.
<
br /> Nessa shrugged and turned back to Ket. ‘Master Faelán says I can visit my clan and find out what’s happening with Gortigern and Tirech. Do you want to come with me?’
A bitter wind was driving across the plain, and howling around the cairn, but Ket felt warmed inside by a glow of pride and happiness. As the wind gusted them along, he kept glancing at Nessa, wanting to say thank you, but too shy.
Where the rocky ground gave way to bog, the first ringforts came into sight. The trackway of logs was half submerged in the soft mud, and Nessa caught hold of Ket’s hand. Her fingers were icy. He clung tightly, still not speaking. But as they picked their way through the mire, he tried to send her a message with the pressure of his grasp.
Mosses and lichens grew like a woolly fleece of grey and green all around them. They could hear the trilling of skylarks and meadow pipits, and the occasional plaintive wheep of a golden plover. Here and there were high tufts of heather and deer grass, the russet leaves of bog cotton, and the golden seed heads of asphodel.
Suddenly, a snipe exploded under their feet, flying up in a blur of wings.
Ket and Nessa jumped in fright.
‘I nearly trod on it!’ Ket exclaimed.
‘We haven’t been paying proper attention,’ said Nessa. ‘We’ve been forgetting to look and listen the way Faelán told us to.’
Now, with earnest eagerness, they kept stopping to examine things. They ran the long stalks of heather through their fingers, feeling the softness of the tiny pointed leaves.
‘And aren’t the flowers pretty?’ said Ket. Though their vibrant hues had faded, the dead flower heads had dried into delicate, almost transparent bells.
The two friends stopped to peer into a pit, where peat had been gouged out of the bog for fuel. The scar, with its straight, cut edges, glistened dark brown. From the centre, protruded a jagged, silvery tree stump.
‘Pity we don’t have an axe,’ said Nessa. ‘Master Faelán would have praised us for bringing back some of that wood.’