Night of the Fifth Moon (14 page)

Ket turned his face to the sun, but there was no warmth in its rays. He looked at the leafless trees. He thought of Nessa's hollow cheeks, of the brambles stripped of berries, of the bare, muddy riverbanks without a shoot of watercress or brooklime. Suddenly, he could be patient no longer.

‘Master Faelán,' he called, ‘the sun is dying. The trees are dying. When . . . when are you going to do something?'

Around him, the sleeping figures stirred and groaned. Nessa's head popped out of her cover and she blinked at Ket with wide, shocked eyes.

Lorccán sat up, grinning. ‘Well, you've really done it now,' he whispered. ‘Master Faelán is going to
eat
you!'

There was a rustling inside the hut, and Ket watched the doorway nervously.

When Faelán appeared, there were dried stalks clinging to his clothes, for his floor was padded with rushes. To Ket's relief, he was smiling.

‘Ah, you are observant, my Ket. And yes, you are right. Winter has become king. It is time for us to intervene. Today we must sacrifice the wren.'

‘Why a wren?' asked Lorccán. ‘Why not something bigger, like an eagle? Or what about a stag, with those huge antlers?'

‘The wren is the voice of winter, and winter must be vanquished.'

Ket glanced at the creature singing happily on the gorse bush.

‘They're such fragile little birds,' he said.

‘Yes,' Nessa agreed. ‘They don't
look
important.'

‘Maybe not, but the wren is king of the birds. Do you not know the tale of the wren and the eagle?' asked Faelán.

The fosterlings shook their heads.

‘Then that will be the tale you learn today.'

When Maura brought her master a bowl of breakfast gruel, Faelán faced the fire and intoned, ‘Thank you, Spirit of the Hearth, for your heat.' He looked towards the woods. ‘And thank you, Spirit of the Forest, for our sustenance.'

Ket peered into his own bowl and grimaced. It was hard to feel grateful for a few sprigs of chickweed floating in boiling water.

The druid took a sip, and steam wreathed his face as he told the tale.

‘Fortune favours those who recount a tale faithfully,' he began, as he always did. ‘One day, all the birds of the forest gathered to choose their king. The birds agreed that the one who could fly highest would be their sovereign.' Faelán cocked an eyebrow at his listeners. ‘Which bird do you think that will be?'

‘The eagle!' they all answered together.

Faelán smiled and set down his bowl.

‘Well, the eagle strove his utmost. He beat his wings with all his might, and he rose wellnigh to the sun. “See me”, he called, “I am the king!” But when all the other birds were looking his way, another tiny head peeked out from the eagle's crest. It was the wren, riding on the eagle's back. Then the wren flapped his wings and raised himself above the eagle. The wren was king!'

‘Clever!' said Nessa.

‘Tonight, as you know,' said Faelán, ‘we hold a mock battle between the wren and the robin. The robin, with its fiery red breast, will take the part of the sun, and the robin will conquer the wren.'

‘This year, can I be the robin?' asked Lorccán.

The druid regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Why not? And you, Ket, can be the wren. You can show me what you've been learning in your weapon-training with Maura. Now, finish your breakfast quickly. You must carry the message around the tuath.'

In a flurry of excitement, the four fosterlings wound holly sprigs through their hair. They looked at each other admiringly. The berries glowed in their hair like tiny crimson suns, and the lushness of the evergreen leaves was a promise of the rebirth that would come to the land with the strengthening of the sun.

Art and Bronal plunged among the gorse bushes and when they emerged, Bronal was clutching a brown, feathered shape in his fist. With solemn ritual, the druid laid it on the altar and called for the blessing of the spirits.

‘Now, Ket, I entrust this into your keeping,' said Faelán.

The fosterlings hurried off, Ket proudly bearing the sacrificial wren, still warm, in his hands. The pathetic little bundle was a sign to all that today would see the death of winter. Every household they reached sent messengers to other ringforts and, in the brief hours of daylight, the word spread throughout the tuath.

Returning at nightfall, the fosterlings found the anruth stacking a mountainous heap of firewood on the plain. Goll fetched a flame from the druid's fire and thrust it into the heap. For a moment, the little flame burned brightly, then it burrowed its way into the deep, dark mass of branches, and disappeared. Everyone held their breaths.

‘Come on, fire, come
on
,' urged Nessa.

They waited in a tense, expectant circle.

‘It's no good. It's gone out,' said Nath-í.

But Lorccán let out a shout. ‘Look!' he cried, pointing. Then they all saw a tongue of flame licking the side of the pile.

Beyond it, a blaze of yellow crackled up, then another, and another. Lorccán was dancing around in excitement. ‘Look . . . look!'

A branch fell in a sputter of sparks, and now at last the whole, huge bonfire roared into life.

The druid joined them. He wore a massive gorget of flattened gold, crescent-shaped and wide as a hand span. Brilliant in the leaping flames, it looked like a sun hanging around his neck.

Dots of light, like fallen stars, pierced the distant darkness, and suddenly, from all around, a galaxy of tiny bobbing flames was flowing towards them. The people of the tuath were gathering. Ket felt excitement and pride blaze inside him, as fierce as the burning bog pine in his hand. As they reached the circle of firelight he could see the children, clinging to their mothers' hands, or riding on their fathers' shoulders, all wide-eyed with wonder, and every one of them carrying a torch or candle to coax back the sun.

When the whole tuath was assembled, Faelán heaved an oak log into the heart of the flames. A shower of bright red embers swirled through the air. The throng fell silent.

‘May the log burn

May the wheel turn

May the sun return,'

chanted the druid.

And so the vigil for the longest night of the year began. Hour upon hour the people sang, talked and kept watch. The lights of their torches and candles slowly dwindled, but the fire still burned bright.

‘Ket!' Nessa exclaimed, coming to sit beside him. ‘I asked Uncle Tirech what happened. And you'll never guess! Gortigern wouldn't let him take a calf – of course – but he paid a pledge instead, and do you know what that bully used for a pledge?'

Ket blinked with tiredness. ‘Tell me.'

‘His own baby! Can you imagine? Gortigern handed over his two-year-old son!' Nessa's eyes glittered in the firelight.

Ket tried to look interested, but before he could prevent it, his jaws stretched open in a huge yawn. He glanced at Nath-í curled up on the ground asleep, and his own body sagged. Propping his head against Nessa's shoulder, he closed his eyes.

‘Just for a moment,' he murmured.

When he opened them again, Nessa was asleep too, and the singing had stopped. There was darkness all around, except for the bonfire. The anruth were busy stoking up the flames, and Ket saw, with a pang, that Lorccán was helping them. Lorccán was the only fosterling who had not fallen asleep.

‘Here, Ket, spread the light,' said Maura. ‘I was just about to wake you.' She handed him a bundle of peeled rushes soaked in grease. ‘Kindle these, and hand them around. And rouse the others. They can help.'

In a few minutes, there was a ripple of light spreading through the crowd, and a stir of anticipation. Ket was alert now, taut and on edge.

‘Lorccán and Ket, it is time for your battle,' said Faelán.

Ket watched with envy as Lorccán, the robin, was dressed in a red léine. In one hand he carried a shield gleaming with white paint, and in the other a shiny new sword. When Lorccán pranced into the cleared space by the fire, the crowd roared its approval.

Now it was Ket's turn. He pulled a face as a torn, faded tunic was tugged over his head. The wren was supposed to look feeble and old. He was given a battered shield, the wood split and unpainted, and a rusty, bent sword with a wobbly hilt.

When Ket stepped into the light, and heard the hisses and boos of the audience, he wanted to throw down his arms and run. Instead, he tightened his grip and turned to his opponent.

Lorccán grinned. ‘You've got to lose, remember.'

Ket scowled and clattered his sword against his shield, the way the real warriors did. It rattled loudly, then half the shield broke off and dropped to the ground.

The crowd erupted into laughter and Ket felt his cheeks burning.

‘Yah!' yelled Lorccán. He flourished his sword and stabbed at Ket.

‘Watch it!' Ket skipped to the side, and took the impact on his broken shield.

‘You lose!' screamed Lorccán, thrusting again.

Ket just managed to parry with his wobbly sword.

‘Hey, this is just pretend!' he cried, but Lorccán laughed, and lunged again.

Their swords clanged and the next instant they were pressed together, Lorccán's shield against Ket's chest.

The crowd was screaming.

‘You're dead!' roared Lorccán. He stepped back and raised his sword.

Ket took one look at the fervour in Lorccán's eyes and threw himself on the ground. ‘All right, I'm dead!' he screamed, as Lorccán's blade plunged towards him. It shuddered to a halt, the point almost piercing his neck.

Ket lay rigid, staring into Lorccán's triumphant face, and remembered his father, sprawled on the ground at Morgor's feet.

Lorccán's shield reflected the red of the fire, and his sword flashed gold as he hoisted it in victory.

The crowd stamped and cheered.

‘Well done, boys,' said Faelán, as Ket rose unsteadily to his feet. He wrapped an arm round each of their shoulders. ‘That was very convincing. Now, Nessa . . .' He turned to look for her. ‘Cast the wren into the fire.'

Nessa stepped forward and in a few minutes the small feathered body was devoured by the flames.

Faelán looked at the dark sky and they all followed his gaze.

‘May Winter die

May the Sun be free

Bring life to the land

And leaf to the tree,'

he called.

The anruth and fosterlings repeated his words.

‘Bring life to the land

And leaf to the tree
.
'

Around the fire, others took up the chant. Somewhere,
a drum began to beat.

‘May Winter die

May the Sun be free

Bring life to the land

And leaf to the tree.'

The words rose louder and faster, pouring towards the sky. Then the darkness split, and a shimmering line of light burst along the horizon. There was a triumphant tremolo from a wooden whistle, and suddenly everyone was clapping their hands, stomping their feet, twirling, singing and dancing.

The druid beamed at Ket.

‘Now, every day, you will see the sun grow stronger,' he promised. ‘And soon the green of spring will cloak the land.'

Ket gazed on the multitude of rejoicing people, his heart swelling. It was Faelán, his master, who had brought this outpouring of hope and happiness.

‘But some day,' vowed Ket, ‘
I
will be the one to make them dance!'

KING'S VISIT

Ket gazed enviously at the druid's garb: the feathered cloak, the gold fillet binding his hair, and the bronze snake with garnet eyes that coiled up his arm. He gave a disgruntled tweak to his own knee-length tunic, roughly stitched from undyed wool, and wished he had something more suitable to wear for visiting a king. If he'd been an anruth now, he'd have a long grey robe and a circlet of silver around his head. He knelt by the river, scooped some of the freezing water over his head, and tried to comb the tangled mass of his hair with his fingers.

As they set off for Morgor's ringfort, he glanced at the rest of the retinue. Nessa was dressed in a new robe she'd made for herself, dyed yellow with apple bark. As usual, her hair was neatly braided and beaded in gold. Her nails were coloured with berry juice, and earrings of crimson rowan berries hung over her ears. She looked like a princess. Lorccán's shimmering fair hair always hung smooth, and he looked so proud no one noticed what he wore. As for Nath-í . . . Ket grinned and felt better. At least his own garments were less torn and stained than Nath-í's.

They took the route over the plain and through the bog. Crossing the marshy ground, there were squeals and laughter as everyone hopped from plank to plank, trying not to splash in the mud. Nobody was surprised when Nath-í, with a rueful cry, slid knee-deep into the mire.

Only the druid walked with dignity. Ket watched him, intrigued. Even when his feet touched the mud, they left no mark on the moist, yielding surface. He led the way with sure, steady tread, until he stopped abruptly, cocking his head. They all listened. From somewhere to their right came three short cries of a raven.