by John Ringo
“There are four major festivals that we celebrate,” Father Makanee said. “One for each season. There is another in midsummer, then a harvest festival and the winter festival. They are called Balar, Laman, Samnan and Imbol.”
“Crap,” Mike muttered. “Do you burn fires at the summer festival?”
“At each, with the largest being at Imbol,” Father Makanee said, looking at him askance. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing,” Mike said, frowning. “Okay, let’s just say that it reminds me of something, strongly, and that something doesn’t add up. Plenty of societies have… festivals at each of those points. But the specific practices vary and the names vary a lot. The names you just gave, and some of the practices, match closest to the Celts. Which has one of two reasons: Either you’re displaced Celts or originals. The Celts came from somewhere in Eastern Europe back in the Neolithic.” He looked at Father Makanee and shrugged. “I’m not making any sense, am I?”
“Who are the Celts?” Father Makanee asked.
“Wow, ask an easy one,” Mike replied. “The Celts were a tribe that probably exploded out of Eastern Europe back when people used stone tools. They spread through northern Europe as lords over the population that was originally there and founded various separate tribes. The Gauls were Celts, as were the Irish and the Scottish. There’s some argument that the Germanic tribes, including the Norse, were a Celtic offshoot. They’re best known, though, in Wales, Scotland and Ireland. The point is that when people got around to studying their seasonal festivals, they found that they had four major ones: Imbolc, at the point between the winter solstice and the spring solstice, Beltane, around May first or now, Lammas, between the summer solstice and the fall solstice and Samhain, what’s celebrated these days as Halloween, between the fall solstice and the winter. Imbolc, Beltane, Lammas and Samhain. And yours are Imbol, Balar, Laman and Samnan. That can’t be coincidence. For that matter, the fires in Scandinavia at Lammas are called ‘Baldur’s Balar.’ Baldur’s Balefire. Of course, by the time anyone got around to recording things like that, they’d converted to Christianity and the old reasons for the fires had faded.”
“You speak of Baldur?” Father Mahona asked, curiously. “What do you know of Baldur?”
“Baldur was the Norse god of the spring and summer,” Mike said, dredging out his memory of the Norse mythology. “His symbol was the mistletoe because it was the one plant that could kill him. Loki tricked… someone, Frey maybe, into throwing a spear made of mistletoe at him and it killed him. His mother was so grief stricken that she turned her face from the world and brought winter. The gods bring him back for six months every year, though, and that is spring and summer. When he is in the underworld it is winter. The Celts had a slightly different take on it, but the Norse and Celts celebrate similar rituals at similar times. Heck, there are similarities to the Adonis myth, for that matter, and Persephone.”
Father Mahona and Father Makanee traded a look for a moment which Mike caught but couldn’t interpret. The locals were regular Sunday church goers at the small church in Alerrso and there was no reason for them to celebrate Norse or Celtic rituals. The similarities had to be coincidence. Practically every society in the Northern Hemisphere had similar seasonal rituals. Of course, most of them dated back to prehistoric rituals involving the old gods. But none of the societies maintained the actual religion.
“How is the training going?” Father Mahona said, clearing his throat.
“Too early to tell,” Mike replied, willing to change the subject. “The guys are just getting zeroed today. Ask me in a couple of months.”
“Much like the planting,” Father Makanee said. “The seed is in the ground. Ask us in a couple of months if there will be a good crop.”
“Well, the seed is good and the planting went well,” Mike said, smiling. “The crop should be excellent.”
“There could be a late frost,” Father Makanee said. “Or a sudden storm as it is about to be brought in. Many things can happen to ruin the crop.”
“I was actually talking about the militia,” Mike said, smiling again.
“So was I,” Father Makanee replied.
“I’m worried about the actual crop,” Father Mahona said, unhappily. “I know that Genadi thinks we’ll get more from these new hybrids, but we haven’t planted as much land as last year…”
“With the new plows we planted nearly as much,” Father Makanee replied, shaking his head. “And we were able to leave more fallow, which is good. You know we’ve been overusing the Sardana field. It’s just not producing like it did once. Let it lie for a while…”
“But we put a crop in the Sardana,” Mahona snapped. “Bloody clover if you can believe it! What’s wrong just turning the cattle out on it?”
“Genadi says we will later in the season,” Makanee said, soothingly.
“We’ll never get enough food in for winter, you’ll see,” Mahona said, balefully. “What with all that junk he had us spray the fields with…”
“Weed killer’s only going to help,” Mike said. “We’re trying to grow wheat and oats and barley and peas, not thistles. What do you think the barley crop will do?”
“Well, the barley’s our own,” Father Makanee said. “Not a hybrid. We’ve used the same barley for generations and the women won’t let us change. So we’ll have to see what we see with that. But I think the wheat and peas will do well. Next year, we’re going to see about soybeans.”
“And what can you do with soybeans?” Father Mahona said, throwing up his hands. “Eat them? I don’t think so.”
“Make tofu?” Mike said, smiling, then shook his head when both the farmers looked at him in question. “It’s a… not particularly good food that can be made from soybeans. I was joking.”
“Normally we understand your jokes, Kildar,” Father Makanee said, smiling. “That one we were lost.”
“At least I’ve avoided the farmer’s daughter’s jokes,” Mike pointed out.
“The ones with the traveling salesman?” Father Mahona asked, frowning. “I’ve heard them.”
“What all of them?” Mike asked. “Did you hear the one about the traveling former SEAL who got caught in a snowstorm?”
“No,” Father Mahona said, puzzled.
“That’s because we’re living it,” Mike replied. “When we get to the punch line, I’ll tell you.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Here come the youngsters,” Father Makanee said a few minutes later, gesturing to where the troops were walking up from the range. They’d turned in their weapons and were obviously discussing the zeroing with enthusiasm. Mike thought they’d probably be less enthusiastic by this time next week.
“Oleg,” Mike said, shaking the hand of the Kulcyanov family militia leader. “It was going well when I left.”
“Oh, it went well, I think, Kildar,” Oleg replied, nodding at him. “I’m not sure about Shoka. He had trouble hitting the mountainside.”
“There are things to be said for simply being a pack mule,” Mike pointed out. “And later we’ll see how he takes to heavier weapons. Some people do better with machine guns than rifles. If he’s one of those, he’ll be perfect.”
“Are you here to watch the competition, Kildar?” Sawn asked, walking over to the axe range. There were four ranges set up but it was still going to be a while before everyone could be run through.
“The Kildar wishes to participate,” Father Mahona said, formally. “He would be one of the woodcutters. If he can throw well enough.”
“He got the axe in the target,” Father Makanee pointed out. “For one who is not a Keldara, to get the axe in on only three tries is a feat.”
“On the short range,” Father Mahona responded. Mike noticed that everyone was backing up and gulped as Sawn took a position that was twice as far as the previous line.
The Makanee militia leader spun the axe with the fingers of his right hand for a moment and then in one continuous motion brought it up to shoulder lev
el and let fly. The axe spun hard and true, making a series of turns that were a blur, and then buried itself in the wood. The head was very near the center of the top log, the one painted in white as a target.
“Crap,” Mike muttered. He never wanted to fight a Keldara with just an axe, that was for sure.
Some of the young men lined up to contest the throw while others simply gathered around and shouted encouragement. Mike noticed that all six of the militia leaders participated. He’d mostly talked with Genadi about who would be a good potential leader of the militia, but the six were, effectively, the designated heirs in their generation for the Families and the Keldara were careful about that. You had to show intelligence and wisdom and physical prowess to be considered for the spot of a Father of the Family. And the six had all three in abundance. Hell, most of the Keldara had all three, the six were simply exceptional.
And they all turned out to be exceptional with the axe throwing. Mike wasn’t sure to what extent they were simply showing off for the Kildar, however. He had to consider that when Oleg ended up breaking the axe handle and burying the head so deep that it took a few minutes to work it out.
It took about an hour to run all the men who were contesting through the course and Mike had to admit that he didn’t have a chance. Even the regular Keldara were very good at the skill while the leaders were fucking masters. That meant the six Families were all represented of course. There were a few misthrows, Shoka in particular had hit the target so hard, and at such a bad angle, that the axe bounced back practically to the onlookers. But Mike was easily going to be in the bottom ten percent.
“Kildar, will you try your hand, now?” Father Mahona said, smugly.
“I’m not nearly as good as any of these fine young men,” Mike said, nonetheless taking the axe from a slightly smirking Sawn. “But I will give it a try.”
He considered the range as he spun the axe in his hand, much as Sawn had. The distance was about twice what he’d thrown before, so if he simply kept the same spin and threw a bit harder, it should at least hit. He spun the axe a bit harder and then brought it up, hurling it as hard as he could at the target.
It had to be luck. He knew it was luck. But luck had been with him more than once and She smiled on him again. The axe ran true to the target, the handle impacting hard enough that it came damned near breaking as Oleg’s had, and the head buried itself in the target. It was slightly to one side, but deeply embedded. And instead of being in the bottom rank of throws, the toss was very near the top.
“Lucky,” Mike said, shrugging, as the Keldara applauded by slapping their thighs.
“A very good throw,” Father Makanee said, glancing at Mahona. “I think that the Kildar has proven his worth.”
“For poplar, perhaps,” Father Mahona replied.
“Poplar would be a good choice,” Father Kulcyanov said, having overheard the exchange. “The tree of spring, the fire that we burn upon the hearth, the tree of quicklife.”
“The rites must be explained,” Father Makanee pointed out. “May I?”
“It is yours to explain,” Father Kulcyanov said, nodding.
“Kildar,” Father Makanee said, formally. “Choose nine young men to accompany you. You should go to the poplar stands along the river. Choose three trees that are crowding the others, trees that are high and straight but unlikely to cause damage if removed. They must be cut by the light of the moon only and you have until dawn to finish the task. Only you must swing the axe. When the trees are cut, you and the other nine return them to the tun along with the top cuttings. In the meantime, the other young men will scour the woods for branches for kindling. The branches of kindling must be gathered and not cut. At dawn, the nine who cut the trees must make the first cuts of the turf for the fire, but they do not have to complete the building of the pit. After cutting out the circle, they can retire and rest until noon, when the rest of the competitions begin. No one is required to participate in any of the competitions, so you can feel free to rest as long as you’d like. In fact, you don’t have to do the cutting, although it would be an honor.”
Mike hadn’t realized he was being set a task that would take all damned night. But at this point, he really didn’t see a way to back out.
“I’ll do the cutting,” he said, mentally kicking himself. “I can tell a chainsaw is out, but can I use a regular axe? One of the ones I had brought in? They cut better.”
“The axes to be used are not these,” Father Kulcyanov said. “They are kept by the Families, forged upon our fires and remade as necessary. We would… prefer you use those.”
“Can do,” Mike said, nodding. “Father Kulcyanov, I have lived among the Keldara for only a short time. I would have you choose the nine men to accompany me.”
The detailing didn’t take long and before dark had settled, Mike and his group, along with several others, had gathered in front of the Kulcyanov house. Father Kulcyanov entered and returned in a few moments with four axes; he was apparently the keeper of the spares. Each of the axes was subtly different; one was fairly light with a single, broad, edge, one was single sided and much larger, the third was about the same size with a pick back and the third was a monster with two heads. He set all four on a table by the door and then picked up the smallest.
“This is the axe Camaforn,” the father said, formally, handing it to one of the winners. “Bear it with pride.”
“I bear it with pride, in the name of the All Father,” the young man said, bowing.
“Your tree is the pine, the evergreen, the fragrant boughed,” Father Kulcyanov said. “Bring three logs, of the size of a man’s thighs, to the tun by morning, that the blessing of the Father of All may be upon us.”
“I shall in the name of my Family,” the Keldara said, nodding and turning away.
The ritual, and there was no question that it was a ritual, continued through the other two groups. Oleg got the second to the largest axe, leaving the monster to Mike. He wasn’t sure he could swing it for any time at all, much less cut down three trees “of the width of a man’s thigh.” His thigh? Vil’s? Father Kulcyanov’s? He guessed, however, that questions were not encouraged at this point.
“This is the axe Culcanar,” Father Kulcyanov said, holding out the axe across outstretched hands. “Bear it with pride.”
“I bear it with pride in the name of the All Father,” Mike said. He wasn’t particularly religious, but he’d come to the firm conclusion that they weren’t talking about a Christian god.
“Your tree is the poplar, the tree of spring, the tree that burns upon our hearth, the quick lifed,” the Father continued. “Bring three logs, of the size of a man’s thighs, to the tun by morning, that the blessing of the Father of All may be upon us.”
“I shall in the name of the Keldara,” Mike said, formally. He’d thought about what he should swear by as he watched the ritual, and decided that, as the Kildar, he could only support the whole group. He’d thought about doing it in the name of the SEALs, but if Adams heard he’d never give him a moment’s peace.
Father Kulcyanov nodded in approval, so apparently he’d chosen right.
Mike gathered his group up and headed down to the stream. The nearest serious stand of poplar was about a kilometer and a half away. The night was a tad cold for how he’d dressed, but he figured he’d be warming up in a bit.
The axe was not nearly as heavy as it looked; the head was actually fairly thin. But it didn’t look like an axe for cutting trees, it looked like an axe for lopping off heads. If it was actually a battle-axe, the light weight made sense. You’d have to swing it for a long time in a fight; having a super heavy axe would make you wear out faster than your opponent.
The moon was past halfway and there was enough light to examine the axe, to a degree. It looked, hell it felt, old. It might have been reworked, but it had probably been reworked over centuries. And the original design appeared to be intact, as if each craftsman that had worked on it had been careful not to chang
e a line. The whole festival was making him furiously curious about the origins of the Keldara.
“Okay, guys,” he said to the group as they approached the stand of poplar, “I’m new here and I haven’t been fully briefed. Hell, I’ve never chopped a tree down of any size. What the hell am I doing?”
There were chuckles from the mostly faceless group in the darkness, but one stepped up next to him and pointed at the poplars.
“There is one that is of a size,” the Keldara said, stepping forward. “The limbs will make it heavy to the north, yes? It has grown out that way for light. Cut here,” he continued, pointing to a spot on the side where there was a barely visible discoloration. “Cut into it about halfway. Then cut on the other side. When you start to hear it creak, drop the axe and run like hell.”
“This is a special axe,” Mike pointed out, spitting on his hands in preparation. “Should I really drop it?”
“Culcanar will understand,” the Keldara said, cryptically.
Mike stepped up to the tree and started cutting as the young men in the group spread out through the trees, picking up fallen limbs.
Mike considered the ritual as he cut. The poplars along the stream were obviously kept there as erosion control and a ready source of firewood. They had been thinned out from time to time, there were stumps visible, but they’d been treated with care. He wondered how much the ritual had to do with care of the trees and how much to do with spring planting. Even the gathering of the wood from around them was a form of care, since it reduced the possibility of a wild fire. And cutting out certain trees, each of the cutters had been given a different wood to gather, meant that the clearing was widespread.
The entire festival had a very old feel to it. There were touches of Norse, touches of Celtic, but very little that he recognized from Georgian or Russian. “All Father,” for example, was a name for Odin, the Norse father of the gods. But certain names, the name of the axe for example, Culcanar, sounded more Celtic. And very unchanged. There was no “ov” or “ich” to it. Culculane was a Celtic warrior myth. He seemed to recall it meant “Dog of Culan.” So the axe’s name, if it was from Celtic, would be something like “Dog of Canar.” But the Keldara had referred to it in first person. That might refer to the axe or the original owner. He simply had to get to the bottom of “the mysteries.” It was like an itch he couldn’t scratch.