Night of the Fifth Moon (16 page)

‘I thought you didn't like Gortigern,' he said.

Nessa tilted her chin. ‘He's my kinsman!' she said.

‘But . . . he didn't fight fairly,' protested Ket.

‘The main thing was, he won!' crowed Lorccán.

‘And Faelán's prophecy came true already,' said Nessa. ‘Battle and bloodshed!'

Everyone was relaxed and laughing now. The attendant carried a thigh portion of boar to the preening Gortigern, and another to the queen, then moved down the room with the rest of the meat. Other serving lads hurried around, bringing more platters filled with tasty delights: small round mulach cheeses, intestines stuffed with minced flesh, blood and herbs, boiled goose with apple sauce, and cranberry tarts.

‘Bet I eat the most!' said Lorccán, piling his plate with food.

The queen rose from her seat and drifted around the room. Ket glanced up from sucking on a neck bone, to find her looking down at them.

‘You children did very well with your poetry. Keep up your efforts.' Three slender silver bangles were slid from her wrist and dropped on the table in front of them. As Ket picked his up, he couldn't help thinking of the heavy band of gold now adorning Nath-í's arm.

A wooden mead cup, bigger than Ket's head, was passed down the table towards them.

‘Mm,' said Lorccán, smacking his lips, ‘that's a man's drink.'

Nessa took a sip and made a face. ‘Yuck, you can have it.'

Ket took a big gulp and almost choked. Secretly he agreed with Nessa, but he took another swallow and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand the way the men did. He wondered how honey and apples could be made to taste so disgusting.

A sulky-looking boy was working his way down the table, serving sauce from a bronze jug.

‘Hey, look at that, it's Bran!' grinned Lorccán.

‘Oh no, he's going to
hate
being our serving boy,' said Nessa.

‘How are you?' she asked brightly, as he reached their end of the table.

There was a shock of envy in Bran's face as he spied her silver bangle. Instantly, Nessa pulled it off and held it out to him.

‘Here, I don't want this, you have it,' she said.

Ket saw Bran flinch, and felt the other boy's pain. Their eyes locked and Ket remembered Bran's unexpected sympathy the day of the brehon's visit, the day Nath-í had made Ket look a fool.

‘But Bran would hate it if I showed
him
pity,' thought Ket.

‘Hey, Bran!' he exclaimed. ‘You're so lucky; this place is just like a king's palace. And look at all the food! Do you get to eat like this all the time?' He babbled on, watching Bran anxiously. ‘Do you sleep in here at night? And . . . Nessa, Lorccán, did you see his clothes? Look at all that gold embroidery!'

At last, to Ket's relief, Bran lifted his chin and threw a disparaging glance at Nessa's bangle.

‘Silver trinket,' said Bran in his old scornful way. ‘Here, you'd better eat as much as you can while you've got the chance!'

With gusto, he emptied the contents of his jug over their plates, drowning their food with sauce, and stalked off.

FIRST SNOWDROP

‘Hey, look what I found!' Lorccán charged into camp brandishing a stalk with a white flower bobbing at the end. ‘A snowdrop!' he yelled. ‘Look! I found the first snowdrop!'

‘Aha.' A smiling Faelán strode forward to meet him. ‘You shouldn't have picked it, but well done.' He ruffled Lorccán's hair. ‘You are a fine observer.'

Ket clenched his fists. Days ago he had seen tiny green tips of new shoots poking through the soil. He'd been watching and waiting for the buds to open. It wasn't fair that Lorccán had spied the first flower.

Lorccán swanned around the camp, showing his find to everyone. ‘Hey, Nath-í, make up a poem about me!'

Obediently, Nath-í sat down and began to mutter behind his fringe.

Ket wandered across to the Sacred Yew and scowled down at the ogham rod. The message was almost as mysterious now as when Faelán had first inscribed those black marks in the birchwood.

‘Got you beaten, hasn't it?' said Lorccán behind him. ‘I've found lots of clues. I'm going to be the first one to read it.'

A large black rook glided past with slow, leisurely wingbeats. There was a twig clamped in its beak.

‘The rooks are nesting!' cried Nessa. ‘That's another sign that spring is coming.' She looked round eagerly for the druid. ‘It'll be the Festival of Imbolc soon, won't it?'

The druid nodded. ‘At the next full moon.'

Ket saw Nessa glance meaningly at Maura, and the older girl opened her mouth.

‘Master, why don't we have Nessa as the Spirit of Spring this year?' asked Maura.

Ket held his breath. Imbolc was after the next new moon.

‘Why not?' said Faelán.

Ket looked at his best friend, struggling desperately to conjure up a feeling of joy instead of the envy and dismay that was creeping over him.

Then Nath-í struck another blow.

‘I've done it, Lorccán, I've made up a poem about you,' he called eagerly. ‘Listen. “The Finding of the First Snowdrop!”'

As he recited it, with Lorccán preening and everyone else listening admiringly, Ket found himself sinking into a sea of gloom.

That night, when they gathered for storytelling, he could barely mumble his way through his part.

‘Ket, why didn't you learn your words?' Nessa scolded him afterwards. ‘What's the matter with you?'

‘There's no point any more,' he growled.

‘What do you mean?'

‘You know why.'

‘Ket, don't be silly. Master Faelán won't send
you
away.'

‘No? Then who's he going to choose? Nath-í the brilliant poet? Or Lorccán, his golden-haired pet?'

Nessa stared at him, her face whitening. She couldn't answer.

Next day, Ket's secret clump of snowdrops burst into bloom. ‘You're too late,' he said with a lump in his throat. He felt like crushing them flat, but the glowing white flower bells and the fresh green stalks were too beautiful.

He fingered the silver bangle at his wrist, thinking of Bran. ‘He's been sent away,' he whispered. ‘And so has Riona. And now . . .' He looked at the bangle, twisting it round and round, his eyes burning. ‘In a few days, I'll be next.'

On the eve of the new moon, Ket sat alone in the forest with his head buried in his arms. He tried to plan what he would do when he was sent away.

‘I suppose I'll go to Ragallach's,' he thought, miserably. He pictured the florid man he'd seen at the king's banquet, his bulbous nose and thick, moist lips. ‘I guess he'll send me off on fighting raids. All I can do is use a slingshot or a sword. I don't know how to care for crops or animals. But I don't want to kill herdboys and steal cows. I want to be a druid!'

Into his head flashed an image of the stately, powerful Faelán gently transferring a woodlouse to Riona's hand as he imparted his words of wisdom. Ket saw again the circle of fosterlings pressed forward, all with the same hungry eagerness to learn. Pain filled his chest, and tightened his throat. This time tomorrow he'd be at Ragallach's, where there'd be nobody to share his longings and dreams like that.

Now he would never learn the secrets of all the ogham, or how to read the signs in the stars and clouds. And never again would he have the chance to earn the warm approval of the druid's smile.

Faint in the distance, he heard the call of Faelán's bells. It was time.

Sadly, he rose to his feet.

DISTRAINT

Ket halted at the edge of the trees, his heart lurching at the sight of all the people who'd become his family gathered at the fireside. There was tall Goll peering anxiously around for him. There was the chunky figure of Maura beckoning him to hurry. There was Master Faelán, Druid of the Forest, waiting patiently, the feathers in his cloak rippling and changing colour. Even Lorccán, yelling at him to hurry up, was suddenly dear to him. And Art and Bronal and Nath-í. And Nessa . . .

He walked towards them, his branch of bells clutched tight. Nessa handed him a stick of rowan, and as he tossed it into the fire and watched the flames leap up, ‘This is the last time,' he thought. ‘This is the last time.'

‘Spirit of the Moon

Arise from darkness
.

Spirit of the Moon

Return and guide us
.
'

The words rose around him, but Ket's eyes were too blurred with tears to see the new moon in the sky.

When they sat by the fire, Ket was shivering. Nessa, without speaking, wrapped her cloak around both of them. He felt the warmth of her arm across his shoulders as Faelán began to speak.

‘Tonight,' said the druid, ‘I must sing the praise of one whose talent was hidden for most of his sojourn with us. Nath-í, behind his shy façade, has the spirit of a true poet. Let this be a lesson to all of you to seek below the surface for concealed treasure. I foretell that Nath-í will compose epics that will live throughout the generations, keeping alive forever the memories of our heroes and their achievements. And Nath-í himself will be remembered as the man with the tongue of gold.'

Nath-í's head was bowed, his face concealed by his lank black hair. Lorccán had a confused, wary look on his face.

‘Nath-í, I am sure that your skill with words would make you a powerful druid,' said Faelán. ‘Nevertheless . . .'

Everyone was completely still, completely silent. A log toppled into the fire with a loud crackle, and Ket jumped.

‘Nevertheless,' repeated Faelán, ‘that is not to be. Nath-í, King Breasal has requested that you join his entourage to compose more poems in his praise. That is an honourable calling, and one that is eminently suited to your talents. So, tonight you will be the one to leave us, not in disgrace, but to accept the position of the king's bard.'

Nath-í raised his head, looking startled and wary, like a fawn.

‘But . . . what about my blemish,' he stammered, touching his cheek. ‘Doesn't the king mind?'

‘Blemish?!' cried Faelán. ‘By oak, ash and thorn, Nath-í, that is no blemish. It is a sign to distinguish you. As your fame grows and spreads, tales will be told of you, and wherever you go, people will recognise you by the sign on your face. “There goes Nath-í of the golden tongue!” they will declare.'

Nath-í's face glowed so fiercely with pride it was as if a fire had been lit behind his eyes.

‘And
now
,' said Nessa next morning, ‘you can stop sulking, Ket, and come help sort out that problem for my Uncle Tirech.'

Ket laughed. He felt like singing and dancing and flinging things into the air. He felt that if he jumped off the top of a cliff he would float through the air with happiness.

As they headed for Nessa's ringfort, there was a flurry of snow. Ket tilted up his face and caught the snowflakes on his tongue. His feet kept wanting to run and hop. He raced to the top of the cairn without a thought for the dead beneath, let out a wild whoop of joy, then hurtled down again, skittering and sliding, sending stones – and skulls – cascading.

‘You're mad,' chuckled Nessa.

They could hear Gortigern's baby wailing as they approached the ringfort. The buntings on the ramparts no longer billowed in colourful celebration but hung limp and sodden. The yard was deserted except for the animals huddled in their pens. A lone dog tied to a post yapped half-heartedly but nobody paid attention. Everyone was indoors, sheltering from the weather.

Nessa and Ket stooped to enter the house. There were two men seated by the firepit playing a board game while children swarmed over them, clambering on the benches and bumping the low wooden table. Nessa's mother had her back to them, working at her loom. Tirech sat by the door, whittling a rowan branch for a new axe-handle while a woman paced beside him trying to soothe the crying baby.