Night of the Fifth Moon (4 page)

Nessa had barely finished when Lorccán was ringing his bells. ‘My turn!' he yelled. He leapt to his feet and braced himself, legs apart.

‘The Tuatha de Danaan set out for battle!' he announced. ‘And they had the best sword in the whole world. The Sword of Nuada. If someone drew that sword, everyone else was
dead
!' Lorccán swung his arm, making a swishing noise. ‘And that wasn't all. They had the Spear of Lug too, a spear that never missed.' He pretended to stab himself in the chest then gurgled and jerked dramatically.

Ket saw Bronal roll his eyes at his twin.

‘Get on with it, Lorccán,' he muttered, ‘don't be such a show-off.'

‘And they had this stone,' said Lorccán. ‘The Stone of Fal. When the right person stood on it, it yelled out, and everyone knew that person must be the Ard Ri, the true High King. And they never got hungry because they had the Cauldron of Dagda, that never emptied!

‘There!' He plopped back in his place, beaming. ‘I told you I could do it! Go on, Ket, your turn.'

Ket took a breath and stumbled to his feet. His heart was pumping so hard it felt like a beating drum. All around, expectant faces leaned towards him. They looked hollowed and ghoulish in the firelight.

‘Go on,' repeated Lorccán.

Ket looked back at him in blank horror. The words were gone. There was nothing in his mind, nothing!

‘He can't do it. He's forgotten it,' crowed Bran.

Tears of rage and humiliation seared Ket's eyes. He cast a desperate glance around, then plunged towards the blackness of the forest.

VOICES FROM
THE PAST

Branches tore his face and hair, but Ket felt only the stabbing in his heart. Running blindly, he tripped on a fallen log and crashed to the ground. He sprawled there with his face in the dirt, too stricken even to lift his head. Despair surged through him. The memory of himself as a little child, pleading to be a druid, hammered at his brain. In his mind he could see himself back in the ringfort standing beside his father.

‘I should have died a hero in the battle,' Ossian was muttering. ‘I should have gone out in a blaze of glory, and been worthy to join my ancestors.'

‘But aren't you going to fight Morgor and be the chieftain again?' the young boy asked.

‘With that druid's spell on my head? I can never rule again.'

‘What about fighting the druid then?' asked Ket.

‘The druid?' Ossian lifted his doleful face, and gave a watery smile. ‘My child, I could no more fight a druid than I could take up arms against the sun or the rain or the wind.'

‘Aren't you angry at him, though?'

Ossian shook his head. ‘Do we feel anger at rain or wind when they make us cold and wet? Of course not. For they are far beyond the touch of our mortal emotions. And the druid has greater power still, for the rain and wind obey his command.'

The little Ket stood for a moment, thinking. ‘Can druids do
anything
?' he asked.

‘Anything,' Ossian assented. ‘They can foretell the future. They can speak to the dead. Druids control the world.'

Uncle Ailbe stamped up and rested a heavy hand on Ket's shoulder. ‘This first-born son of yours is growing fast. Too old now to be living with his mother, eh?'

Ket watched anxiously as his mother straightened her back and blew a stray lock of hair out of her eyes.

‘Yes,' Úna answered, ‘he'll be seven at Samhain; time for him to leave for his foster home.'

‘Aha, thought so,' Ailbe boomed. ‘So, what are your plans for him?'

Úna glanced at her husband.

‘He was due to join his cousin Ross.' Ossian's words were slow and harsh. ‘Ragallach's a kind foster father. He'd promised Ket a fine silver scabbard, fit for a chieftain's son, and his own pony. But now . . .'

He spread his hands in bewilderment.

‘Ach, Ragallach'll still make him welcome.' Ailbe's voice was loud and hearty. ‘And you'll enjoy being with your cousin, won't you, young Ket?'

But little Ket didn't want to leave his family at all, and move to a strange ringfort.

‘Why can't I just stay here?' he mumbled.

Auntie Mell patted his head. ‘Don't worry, Ket, every child of seven leaves home to be a fosterling. You'll be fine.'

‘We've all done it.' Uncle Senach was talking now. ‘You'll learn to split wood, mend fences, do the weeding . . . it'll make a man of you.'

Ket stared at him in dismay. Weed? Chop? Then it dawned on him. Now he was no longer a chieftain's son, he would have to do all the chores of a commoner.

‘You'll learn to be a brave, strong man, and one day you can go a-hosting and regain the lordship for the Cormacs.' Auntie Mell beamed at him. ‘One day you'll wear the red cloak of a chieftain.'

As she spoke, Ket saw in his mind the puddle of cloak beneath his father's fallen body, and the leering face of Morgor. But clearest of all, he remembered the awe-inspiring figure of the druid.

‘But I don't want to be a chieftain,' he said. ‘I want to be a druid.'

‘You funny little fellow!' Uncle Ailbe let out a chuckle and gave Ket a playful clip on the ear.

Auntie Mell chortled too, her round cheeks wobbling. ‘And how would you do the magic?'

Everyone in the room was laughing now. Ket could feel his face growing hot. ‘The druid will teach me,' he growled. ‘I'll go and live with the druid and be
his
foster son. Then I can learn to do magic instead of stupid things like herding pigs and chopping wood.'

‘Enough of this foolishness.' Úna gripped his shoulder and began to drag a comb through his hair. ‘It is all arranged. Tomorrow you go as foster son to Ragallach. You'll learn to be a fine farmer, and when you're old enough he'll teach you how to wield a sword and go on hostings.'

Ket wrenched his head away and stamped his foot. ‘Swords are stupid!' he cried. ‘They weren't any use to Father! He lost the last battle,
and
his lordship . . .'

‘Ket !'
Úna's voice was sharp, her face white and shocked.

Guiltily, Ket glanced over his shoulder and saw Father standing with his head bowed. Ket's stomach twisted in shame.

But Ossian was not angry. ‘Ket is right,' he sighed. ‘The best champions and the finest swords are no defence against magic.'

Ket flew across the room and threw his arms around his father.

‘Then you'll let me go as foster son to the druid?!'

Ossian held his son in front of him. ‘It is true, a druid is more powerful than a chieftain. More powerful even than a king. For no one can rule unless a druid wills it.' Ossian turned to his wife. ‘Úna, why should our son not learn to be a druid?'

‘Because druids live in the forest like wild beasts,' Úna expostulated. ‘They don't even have houses!'

Bríd was capering around, squealing in delight. ‘Ket's going to sleep on the ground, and eat leaves off the trees!' she chortled.

Was that true? Ket glanced anxiously at his father.

‘My boy doesn't need cosseting,' Ossian growled. ‘He can stand a bit of cold and hunger. He's tough.'

The little boy looked at the warm blankets heaped on the beds, the steaming cauldron, and the cosy flicker of the fire. He listened to the muffled sound of rain outside, pattering against the thatch.

There was a scared, cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he stuck out his jaw and looked back at his father.

‘Yes, I can do it,' he vowed.

OGHAM

‘And I did!' Ket raised his face from the forest floor and cried out in anguish. ‘For five years I've slept on the ground, and eaten leaves. But what is the use of it, if the druid is going to send me away?'

Above him, the tall shapes of the trees towered silently.

‘Draw out the strength from the Spirit of the Tree,' he heard the words of the druid.

Ket flopped against the nearest trunk, and waited, but all he could feel was the hardness of the bark.

Then the ground tremored; he heard feet tramping through the undergrowth, and a voice calling his name. The bobbing flame of a torch came and went between the trees, and the next moment Goll was standing in front of him. The anruth's earnest face and long, sandy locks shone in a circle of light, but the rest of him blended into the shadows.

‘I did learn it,' said Ket defensively. ‘Really I did. I knew it off by heart.'

‘I know,' said Goll.

Ket gazed at the tip of his shoe in the flickering pool of torchlight.

‘I remember it perfectly now.'

‘Go on then, say it.'

‘The Tuatha de Danaan, led by their king, Nuada, set out in a fleet of boats to capture the land of the Fir Bolg. In the battle, the hand of King Nuada was struck from his arm; and though Credne the Smith fashioned a new hand of silver, Nuada had a blemish and was no longer fit for kingship.'

‘Well done!'

‘But I couldn't say it when everyone was watching me. I failed the first test! At the next new moon . . .' He saw himself cowering, shamed, under the druid's gaze. ‘Faelán will send me away.'

‘Would that be so terrible?' asked Goll. ‘If you go back to your clan you can polish up your fighting skills and one day you can lead the Cormacs into battle. You can become a chieftain like your father was.'

‘But chieftains don't have powers like the druids!' protested Ket. ‘Chieftains can't talk to the dead, or . . . or read the stars, or
any
of the things that Faelán can do. My father thought he was special when he put on grand banquets, and sat and watched while everyone else did the dirty work, but . . . but . . . all the time he was just an ordinary man. And
now
. . .' Ket thought of Ossian, lined and weary, fingernails grimed with dirt, and his voice cracked in despair. ‘It's only the druids who have real power.'

Goll rubbed his chin.

‘Well then,' he said at last. ‘You'd better go back and say your part of the tale. They're all waiting for you. Maura served out the muck-weed stew to keep them occupied. But Bran,' he grinned, ‘is getting impatient.'

Ket had a momentary image of that freckled face with its derisive grin and wild mop of hair the colour of a flaming sunset.

He eyed Goll worriedly. ‘What if I forget again?' he asked in a small voice.

‘You won't. This time I'll show you some feda to help you remember.'

‘Feda?'

‘You know, ogham signs.'

‘But . . . you're not allowed to do that, are you?'

‘Why not? Faelán gave you permission to learn them if you can find them out. And as an anruth I'm obliged to be helpful and sharing. So . . .' He shrugged. ‘I'll only show you a bit, though, just enough to help you with the story. These ones might not even be in the message.' Goll pulled out his knife and scratched a line on the trunk of a tree. ‘That's a stemline,' he said. ‘You can draw a line like this or you can just use the edge of a stone. Some feda go left of the stemline, and some go right.' Moving upwards from the bottom of the tree trunk, he started to draw little marks on each side of the line. ‘And some go right across, and some slope like hills . . .' Ket watched in bewilderment as scratches appeared all over the trunk, white against the grey-green of the bark. ‘But now let's do the ones you need to know.' Goll looked at Ket and frowned.

‘Nuada,' he said. ‘That's the first important word in your story. You need
nuin
, the
n
sound, for Nuada. Five strokes pointing right.' He drew
n
on the tree.