Skaaha cupped them between both hands and shook. She didn't understand this game – an elaborate arrangement of carved wooden pieces on a chequered board. Not that it mattered; Lethra would win. The crone won every game they played. ‘Tosk floats,’ she said. ‘Maybe he drinks this.’ She threw – a two and a one – and moved her pieces. ‘Do you know him?’
‘Of course. Too well.’ Lethra scooped up the dice. ‘That was a stupid move.’ She threw and captured three of Skaaha's pieces in one hopping jump.
Nights drew in, the warriors long gone back to Ardvasar. Jiya had stayed, buoyant and joyful, sticking close to Skaaha until the third full moon of harvest. As it waned, her agitation grew again. Fully armed, she sat cross-legged in the middle of the playing ground, chanting all night, sleeping in snatches. Sowen approached, festival of the dead, and blood harvest. The oldest woman in the village, Lethra would play the goddess, who appeared this time as Carlin, the blue hag of winter. She was confined out of sight till the time came.
‘Who will you be?’ she asked.
‘A druid, like Tosk.’ Skaaha stood and tried to walk around the bed without bending her knees or bobbing. Because the dead might come, no one should be recognized at Sowen. Everyone dressed up, dyed their faces, tried to look frightening or funny. Thum would play Kerrigen, with black horse-tail plaits. She had made Tosk's grey beard with goat hair. ‘I have a long stick and a hammer.’
‘Be careful what you conjure,’ Lethra warned. ‘It may come to you.’ She scooped up the dice.
Skaaha frowned. ‘I have the sacrifice to make.’
The old woman considered her. ‘Aye, it's time. You've ghosts to lay if you're to settle.’ She held the dice out. ‘Your mind is elsewhere. It's your go, though if you'd any sense, you'd concede.’
Soundly thrashed, Skaaha left for bed, heading down the slope. Below, in the dusk, Jiya sat, chanting on the green. Ruan walked towards her with a cup. Her aunt reared back, hand raised to shield her eyes from seeing the druid. The priest hesitated, sat the cup down and returned to his lodge. Skaaha ran to the disturbed warrior.
‘What did Ruan want?’ she asked, crouching down.
‘To stop me,’ Jiya moaned, tipping the drink into the grass. ‘Says he'll take me back’ – rocking – ‘can't. I can't go.’ She resumed her chant, staring out to sea.
Skaaha ran home, prepared a travel pack, and stuffed it below her bed. At Sowen, they could slip away unnoticed. Ruan wouldn't take Jiya anywhere.
‘Is that for my costume?’ Thum hovered in the forge doorway, not sure if he was interrupting. Next the glowing furnace, bellows puffed and blew.
Skaaha squinted at him, her attention on the piece she worked. ‘Have you been cuffed by a bear? It's gold.’ Ard had given her just enough to make the bracelet, and a lot of help. He engraved a triskele on the flat-ended keepers, while she had twisted the fine strips into ropes then twisted them together for thickness.
‘It can't be for you,’ Thum said, coming in. ‘Druids don't wear armlets.’
‘It's for Eefay, my sister,’ she said, showing him the keepers. ‘Don't tell anyone,’ she confided, lowering her voice. ‘But I'm going back to Glenelg with her. Jiya will be wanted there, and me.’ Her aunt provided refuge from the bear, a debt of honour Skaaha would repay. ‘You too, if you like.’
‘What,’ the boy exclaimed, ‘you're leaving?’
‘Shh!’ Skaaha glanced around in case Ard had overheard, but he was busy at the fire, melting bronze. ‘Is any of your family coming for Sowen?’
Thum nodded. ‘Erith, Calum, my father maybe.’
‘Erith? But she's here anyway, and Calum.’ The boy was Erith's son by Gern, the toddler fostered at Lunasa now his mother carried Ard's child.
‘She's still my blood mother, and Calum my brother.’
Skaaha was shocked. She'd never have guessed. ‘But you live with…’
‘My foster-mother, of course.’ Thum arched his eyebrow, cheekily. ‘Is it you has been cuffed by a bear?’
Skaaha plonked the bracelet down and chased him out of the forge, catching him easily despite his longer legs. ‘Swear you won't tell Erith!’
‘I swear,’ Thum promised. They wrestled with playful seriousness, both wanting to win yet submitting whenever the other had the upper hand. Jiya exercised around them, obsessively repeating her routine. As she leapt on the boy's prostrate body for the third time, Skaaha saw a familiar figure glide down the hill path.
‘It's Tosk,’ she cried, shoving away the arm Thum had jammed across her throat.
The boy rolled over to look as the old druid, rod tapping the ground, reached the foot of the slope. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘it's my father.’
Skaaha ran to her aunt. ‘Go somewhere else,’ she hissed. ‘Hide!’
As Jiya glanced, wild-eyed, towards the master druid, Skaaha and Thum followed him into the forge-keeper's house. Erith settled the old man by the hearth with a horn of ale and a dish of mussels to refresh him after the journey. Ruan and the other two druids came to greet him. Tosk had come for the festival, to prepare the sacrifice of Kerrigen's honours, still stored in Ruan's lodge.
‘Then I'm going south,’ he said, ‘to end my days at Ynys Mon.’ The island grove was a druid sanctuary. ‘But first, Sowen.’ He glanced at Thum, who hopped about, too shy to speak. The boy was the result of Erith's coming-of-age, a service she'd asked Tosk to perform, much to his, even then, aged surprise and pleasure. ‘Have you something to say, my son?’
Standing beside Skaaha, Thum tried. His tongue tangled itself.
‘He wants to be a warrior.’ Skaaha spoke instead. ‘I've been training him.’
‘Have you indeed?’ Tosk studied her. ‘You've grown well. It suits you here?’
She nodded, lying. Erith barely tolerated her. Lethra thought her a fool. The people saw her and Jiya as odd. ‘What about Thum? It doesn't suit him.’
Tosk glanced at Erith. The forge-keeper's baby was not far off. ‘If Mara will teach him, Thum can go to be a warrior,’ he said.
The boy whooped, punching the air. Skaaha frowned. She'd forgotten about Mara, and since the school taught women, that Tosk wouldn't consider Glenelg. The old priest turned to Ruan.
‘Perhaps you'd take him to Bracadale? Jiya might be ready to go with you.’
‘Jiya likes it here with me.’ Skaaha stared at Ruan, daring him to contradict. ‘She's been calling down the moon for Sowen, and practising new feats.’
‘I made her a cordial,’ Ruan said, smoothly. ‘Chanting is thirsty work.’
‘The ground is thirstier,’ Skaaha replied. ‘That's where it went.’
*
Jiya watched the druids gather in the forge-keeper's house. Blood harvest was a dangerous time. Robbers often sought to fill their winter bellies from the larders of other tribes. But these priests would rob her. While they plotted, she sat cross-legged among gorse bushes above the cavern, rocking herself, spear at the ready, murmuring to dark shadows in her mind. What was dream, what was memory, what was vision, she couldn't tell. Pictures buzzed like bees in her brain. A bright chariot raced past. Darkness came down. A horse screamed. Silence descended. There was blood, a shattered wheel. She clucked her tongue.
‘Tluck-tluck-tluck.’ It was the only sound she could recall. Someone looked for it. She saw the broken weapon tucked in a safe place. It was herself doing it. Someone searched. The fine blue cloth stained red. It wasn't here.
‘Tluck-tluck-tluck.’ Something she knew couldn't remember itself. Enemies plotted. She saw it happen. Time ran out. The priests came to make her silent, put chains on, head opened, light shone in dark places. Ard rejected then betrayed her.
‘Tluck-tluck-tluck.’ She couldn't remember forgetting. There was blood. More blood spilled. She must tell, warn Skaaha. The priests made her forget remembering. The dark earth opened. Light came in. The Ban Shee stirred. She heard them whisper below the sod. Stay with us, they hissed. Remember. See.
‘Look, look!’ Skaaha d
anced excitedly, pulling at Ard's arm, pointing across the narrow strait to Alba. At the crossing on the opposite coast, a group of people climbed into coracles, among them a little girl with golden hair. ‘It's Eefay!’
‘Is it?’ Ard peered. ‘Won't they come as guisers?’
Skaaha wore her druid outfit. The goat-hair beard tickled her nose. She tried to pick out features as the small boats moved off westwards before turning into the fast-flowing current that would draw them rapidly back down to the landing at Kylerhea. It wasn't far. She ought to know her sister. Only five moons had passed since they last saw each other. But, at Sowen, it was hard to recognize anyone. Even Ard looked strange, with breasts, corn-coloured wig and blue face dye, his bulky muscles bulging inside the sleeves of a dress. She would miss him, and the forge, but no one else.
The first coracle arrived, the boatman in it splashing through the shallows, dragging it ashore. The little girl with golden hair was not Eefay. It was a boy brought by his foster-mother to visit his blood-mother. Sowen was a time of family reunions. Overland visitors came through the hills. Several villagers left by the same path days before. Some waited to cross to Alba. The second coracle arrived. The small person in it wore a warrior's helmet, tattered tunic, a face stained with bloody wounds.
‘Eefay?’ It had to be. Skaaha pulled aside her grey beard. ‘Look, it's me!’
The battle-scarred face lit up with recognition. ‘Skaaha! You look funny.’ Eefay drew a short broken sword. ‘See my blade. I'm a dead warrior.’
‘So you are.’ Skaaha hugged her close. ‘I've got a surprise for you.’
‘It is a present?’ Eefay asked. ‘I've got one for you.’
‘More than just a present,’ Skaaha answered, grabbing her hand. ‘Come on, we've got loads to eat, and lots to do first.’
At sunset, they laid offerings of food on the mound so the ancestors might join the festivities, a superstition from the old faith. Jiya had disappeared. Darkness fell. Village fires were doused. The torch-lit rites began. Dressed as beasts, the priests invoked the goddess. Erith, in Telsha's autumn-yellow dress, swollen with child, was led to the cavern. As she vanished inside, the slow drumming surged like thunder. The pipes changed to eerie urgency, calling the Carlin. Hoping her aunt stayed hidden, Skaaha stood at the front of the crowd with Eefay, grasping her little sister's hand.
The broom that screened the cavern entrance didn't stir. The drums softened, pipes soared and wept, haunting the night. No one appeared. Something was wrong. Skaaha gripped Eefay's hand tighter. Maybe Jiya was in the cave. Maybe the Shee had taken Lethra. Maybe it was her. Did she let her mother down? The spirit dead took revenge if wrong was done them, and the Carlin brought death. But without it, there was no birth; without winter, no spring. If the goddess abandoned them, the world would end, and life was over, for everything, for ever.
Tension grew in the crowd. There was no moonlight. Sowen began when the last crescent of old moon died in the rising sun. It ended three days later when the new moon was born at sunset. Darkness deepened, lit by stars and the flames of thirteen torches. Music soared. Beside the cavern mouth, the torch bearers whirled. A frantic roll beat from the drums. All the torches came together, held aloft in a blaze of light. The broom screen swept aside. The Carlin, the blue hag of winter, strode out. Dressed in black, wearing the pointed hat of lost-time, she raised her long-handled bessom.
‘Aye-yie-yaa!’ the crowd shrieked, relieved. Skaaha sagged against her sister.
The Carlin swung her broom, chasing the fire-bearers ahead so she was stalked downhill by her own giant shadow. As she walked she struck at boulders, each one turning white, edging her path with frost. In the darkness behind her, a straw effigy in Telsha's yellow dress danced grotesquely.
Skaaha's spine shivered with a delicious tremor of fear. Eefay's fingers dug into her arm. The music became a breathless whisper. Barely recognizable in their disguises, all the girls stood in a row fronting the adults. Bending to peer at each in turn, the hag shuffled along it. She would touch just one – the one who would succeed her when spring came – gifting them the sprig of mistletoe at her waist.
Some children darted behind their foster-mothers. Others squealed to be lifted into safe arms as the crone bent and breathed her chill breath on their faces. Skaaha held her ground, hanging on to Eefay. It was Lethra. She was sure it was still Lethra. Nippy though the old chief was, she was human. But when the haggard blue face thrust into hers, she stared into eyes rimmed red as the bloodiest harvest moon.
‘You,’ the Carlin said, and put her wizened hand on Skaaha's head.
‘Aye-yie-yaa!’ the crowd roared. Drums boomed. The hag put the sprig of mistletoe in Skaaha's hand and turned towards Loup hill, where the unlit bonfire waited. Skaaha stared, stunned, at the sacred plant with its ghostly white berries. The shadow behind the crone reached out, like night shifting, to grip her arm.
‘Come on,’ it urged. It was Erith, hidden in voluminous black, carrying the effigy of Telsha. Up the hill they went, following the Carlin. Her emotions in disarray, Skaaha saw the frosted boulders were crouching villagers. Last Sowen, at Doon Beck, she had believed the Carlin trailed real ice and snow. Now, the magic of this night was for children. Her childhood was over. She'd been chosen.
Disguised villagers and visitors surged after them, cheering. On the hilltop, the effigy of Telsha was hooked over the fire-post. The Carlin seized the offered torch.
‘In death, we live!’ she screeched, before plunging it into the kindling hole. Autumn ended. The veil of time lifted. Their dead walked among them. This world and the otherworld were one. The remaining twelve torches, signifying the moons that had passed since last Sowen, were tossed into the stack.
As the fire consumed Telsha, the Carlin joined Skaaha for the first blood harvest. Dressed in a hide cape and stag antlers, Tosk straddled an old sheep. A blade flashed in his hand. Blood spurted, gushing from the beast's throat into the bronze cauldron held by Ruan, disguised as a hare. Mixed with oats, it would be cooked on flat stones by the fire. Nothing was wasted. The dead ewe would provide the spit-roast for tomorrow's feast. Pungent, the smell of iron filled Skaaha's nostrils. Dedicating the death to the continuance of life, Tosk smeared the blood-mark on her forehead.
Beer horns filled. The dead were praised and liberally toasted, just in case. Songs began the entertainment. All over the island and across the water, bonfires glittered on other hills as the whole druid world celebrated.
‘I wanted to be chosen,’ Eefay complained. ‘I should be Bride.’
‘You're too young,’ Skaaha said, spitting aside goat hair from her beard. Not that it mattered. She wouldn't be here to play the goddess in spring. She'd be in Glenelg, with Jiya. Bride, in all her guises, was druid anyway. ‘And you were scared.’ Her arm still hurt where Eefay's nails dug in.
‘Was not,’ Eefay denied. ‘I'm a warrior.’
‘A heroic warrior too,’ Erith said, pushing back her black hood to admire the child's outfit. ‘And a wonderful singer, so Skaaha is always telling us.’
‘Is she?’ the little girl asked.
‘Night and day,’ Erith lied. ‘Why don't you go next?’
Eefay was a good singer. Her clear childish voice lilted through the night, backed only by the crackle of flame. Hearty applause followed. Skaaha and Thum made a little play of Kerrigen and Tosk arguing about the queen's disposal. Laughter rippled round the watchers as the protesting druid fought off the irate corpse with his rod before being given a thorough drubbing with his own hammer.
‘Hyaaa-aaaaa!’ A terrifying shriek ripped through the night, silencing both performers and their laughing audience. Everybody turned from the bonfire to stare down at the village below. Flames licked the thatch of the forge-keeper's house. The flickering light illuminated a screeching figure running across the playing ground, sword glittering in hand. Skaaha froze. She knew that howl, that stride. It was Jiya.
10
From the slope above the ca
vern she saw them rise from the ground, growing out of the dark – shapes that shifted where nothing should, in and out of houses, through the deserted village. One came from the druid's lodge, a shimmer of light on its back like a half moon. Kerrigen's voice cried out to her. Training took over from the swirling fog in Jiya's brain. Twisting dry grass around an arrowhead, she sparked it alight with her flint and fired the flaming missile down among the shadows. That moon was a shield, one that called with her dead sister's voice. These were not Shee, not the dead rising for Sowen. They came to rob, seeking what she knew.
Before the arrow stabbed into the roundhouse thatch, Jiya's spear followed. She didn't wait to see it slice into the nearest moving shape, bringing it down, but was off the slope running, sword drawn. Shadows scattered as she screamed towards them. The shield bearer turned, pulling the circle of metal round to ward off the attack, white eyes staring from blue-painted skin. Jiya leapt and spun around, behind the man before he realized, her sword slicing in where neck joined shoulder. His body crumpled to the ground, but she was already gone, chasing others.
As the robbers reached the jetty, stumbling, splashing and falling into their boat, the slowest of them heard her feet close behind. Dropping his haul, he reached for a sling at his waist, loaded and swung it above his head. His hand flew off into the rocks, still gripping the cord. Jiya's blade glittered. The man stared in horror at the stump, at blood he couldn't see in the murk, not yet feeling pain he would never feel. Jiya thrust her sword into his middle and drew back before his dead weight pulled her weapon down. She was still too late. The boat was out into the current, rapidly carried away, blotted out by dark sea.
There were voices behind her now, running feet. ‘Water, fetch water!’ shouted from among the houses where a roof was on fire. Turning, she saw more shadows rush towards her, lit from behind: the great long ears of a giant hare, antlers. She squared up, balanced the weight of her weapon. The advancing beasts halted, eye to eye with her. She must have shrunk, small as a rabbit.
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