by John Ringo
"I will not take the honor of Ondah," Mike said. "With the other tests, frankly, I had hoped I would fail. But I strongly doubt, even against Oleg, that I will fail the test of the man. I have seen the Keldara in fights, I know my own ability and I doubt that I will lose. But I refuse to take the position of Ondah. What does Ondah mean to the Kildar?"
"If you do not, you take the honor of the position from the one who it goes to," Father Mahona said, angrily. "I have been Ondah. I knew that I was the best. You would take that from your people, Kildar."
"Yes, Kildar," Mike pointed out. "You have said before, is it not good that you have a 'true Kildar' again? Is it not good, correct, that the Kildar be the best? But why should he take the Ondah from such as Oleg or Vil? What is such an honor to the Kildar? And, understand, when I fight, without rules, damage is done. I'm a trained fighter. I am a trainer in hand-to-hand combat. SEAL hand to hand, which is dirty, brutal and short. If you wish, when the others have fought, I will either demonstrate with Chief Adams, who I know will not be seriously hurt, or I will fight against the winner. But if I fight against an untrained Keldara, they will be in Doc Forgate's care. Trust me on this."
"We must discuss this, Kildar," Father Kulcyanov said, formally. "The elders."
"Very well," Mike said, nodding. "I'm going to get a beer."
"What's going on?" Adams said when Mike walked over to the group of trainers.
"I'm in the running to win the medal or whatever," Mike said. "I don't want it. It's for the Keldara. I never should have been in the competition. I assumed that I'd get beat at some point. But I didn't. Hell, I even managed the bull."
"You were wonderful," Anastasia said, her eyes glowing. "You were much better than the others. Is this bull jumping an American thing?"
"Nobody, not even rodeo clowns, is stupid enough to do that," Killjoy interjected. "Were you fucking nuts?"
"I didn't mean to do it," Mike said. "I was just trying to stay alive. It was luck and some training in other stuff. But the point is, if I fight the Keldara—"
"You're going to kick their ass," Adams said, nodding. "And take the medal or crown or whatever."
"And not only is that their prize," Mike said. "But you know how I fight."
"You'd put them in the hospital," Adams replied.
"So I don't want to," Mike said. "I told them I'd demonstrate with you."
"What, you want to get your ass kicked?" Adams asked, grinning.
"You're out of shape and getting old, fuckwad," Mike replied. "I'd put you in the hospital. But you I can lose for a while; the Keldara start training on Monday."
"I'd put you in the hospital," Adams said. "You've been out of the teams too long to be any good anymore."
"Bets?" Mike asked. "The point is, I probably wouldn't put you in the hospital or vice versa. But I don't want to fight a damned Keldara. He doesn't know how to block for shit."
"There's that," Adams admitted.
"Here they come," Mike said as the huddle among the elders broke up.
"The Kildar has said that he does not want to take the title of Ondah," Father Kulcyanov said, facing the gathered groups. "The Ondah is a title for the Keldara. But to show that he is not fearful of the test of man, he has agreed to fight the winner. Not for the title, but simply for honor. As he has said, the Kildar should be the best. But the Ondah is a title for the Keldara."
"Thank you for this ruling," Mike said, waving at the elders. "Let's continue."
Two circles had been marked out on the ground in front of the Keldara houses. The competition was double elimination, with the losers facing losers and the winners facing winners until one person was victorious. The rules were rather basic, no kneeing of the balls and no gouging. Anything else, up to and including biting, seemed to be allowed. A fall was counted as any point other than the feet or hands on the ground, best three falls won. Anyone stepping out of the circle stopped the competition and twice out of the circle counted for a fall.
The Keldara were brawlers. In general, the two contestants would close, punch for a bit and then get into a grapple. They used backing and hip throws in the main. Oleg had a tendency to just pick up his opponent and toss him down on his back. Vil and Oleg were the last two fighters after about an hour of competition. Oleg got a good hold on Vil a couple of times and tossed him but the lighter Keldara was quick and landed on feet and hands. Oleg finally got him down three times, one on a hip throw and the other two by literally throwing him to the ground so hard it overcame Vil's ability to keep himself up.
"Oleg is the winner of the test of man," Father Kulcyanov said. "Oleg is the Ondah. But before he is crowned, he must face the Kildar."
"Crap," Mike said, stepping in the ring. "Oleg, you up for this?"
"I am well, Kildar," the Keldara said, crouching with hands half closed and his feet spread in what Mike would call a cat stance. He had a bleeding lip from a previous blow and a shiner forming on his eye. And his nose was bleeding. And he still had a slight limp from the fire. But he seemed pumped rather than battered. The guy just liked to fight.
"Well, try not to hurt me too much and I'll try not to hurt you too much," Mike said, standing on the balls of his feet in a horse stance. "Let's get this over with."
Oleg charged the Kildar and Mike let him come. The Keldara threw a strong roundhouse, which Mike blocked and then leaned into, grabbing him by one wrist and his shirt and continuing the rush over his outstretched leg. Instead of putting him facedown, though, Mike pulled back hard on the wrist, pressing down into the throw so the Keldara landed, hard, on his back. At the last minute he caught himself as he was about to break the arm across his leg. It was hard not to; it was a conditioned response, but he managed it. Oleg hit the ground, hard.
"Point to the Kildar," Father Kulcyanov said.
"Someday I'll show you what just happened," Mike said, helping the winded Keldara to his feet. "And how to fall."
Oleg waved his hands for a moment to get his breath and then got into his crouch again, closing much more slowly. He jabbed at Mike a time or two, which Mike easily blocked, and then closed.
Mike reacted automatically with a forekick to the Keldara's abdomen, following it up with a round kick that snapped Oleg's head to the side in a spray of blood and then a full flying kick to the back of the head that put the Kulcyanov on his face.
"Jesus," he said, darting forward. "Oleg, you okay?"
"I have never been beaten, Kildar," the Keldara said, getting up to his knees and hands and shaking his head as blood poured from his mouth. "But I am now. You hit worse than a bull. Where did you learn to kick like that?"
"I'm a damned SEAL instructor," Mike said, helping Oleg to his feet. "SEAL hand to hand isn't about fighting for fun. It's about doing so much damage to the other guy, he can't fight anymore. I was pulling my blows and not following through; you should be in the hospital with broken bones now. Or dead."
"And we will be taught this?" Oleg asked, wiping at his mouth.
"As much as I can," Mike said.
"Then next year, Kildar," the Keldara said, "I will purely kick your ass, as the instructors say." He spit out a mouthful of blood and worked his tongue in his mouth. It was obvious there were some loose teeth.
"Look forward to it," Mike said, laughing.
"I don't feel right taking the position of Ondah," Oleg admitted as the Keldara pressed forward. "You are the better."
"I'm the Kildar," Mike said. "I should be better."
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The sun was setting by the time the last test was complete and the Keldara gathered in the yard of the houses, setting out tables and bringing out an evening feast. Mike had been smelling the steer roasting all afternoon and he was looking forward to the dinner.
The men and women sat separately, with the women doing the serving. The whole steer was brought into the space among the tables and set on a separate table to be carved. It had been roasted, whole, in a pit and looked an
d smelled wonderful.
The elders handled the carving with the help of the Burakan, Mike being excepted. The senior women, Anastasia being included in them as the de facto "woman of the Kildar" were actually served first with choice cuts from the ribs. The butt and withers were served to the younger men and women, the men getting the choicer cuts, the rest of the rib portion was served to the Burakan and the trainers. Last the elders, Mike and the senior trainers were served from the tenderloin. Each of the Burakan, including Mike, had their designated axes in front of them.
Mike was actually served dead last, which he found odd, but it was a huge hunk of the center of the tenderloin. There were potatoes and huge loaves of heavy bread as well as boiled cabbage and choice spring greens gathered from the woods. To drink there was the inevitable Keldara beer in pitchers. Mike was thirsty but he went light on the beer.
"You need to introduce broccoli," Nielson said as he dug into his own filet. "It grows fast and it's packed with vitamins."
"I'll talk to Genadi about it," Mike said, looking around for the farm manager. He was with the younger men, just below the married males in pecking order.
When most of the diners were finished, Father Kulcyanov stood up and raised his hands for silence.
"The tests of spring are complete," he said. "The Ondah has been chosen, Oleg of the Family of Kulcyanov. He is crowned the King of Spring," the elder said, simply.
He had carried a bag to the table and now dipped into it, removing a laureate that appeared to be made of some yellow vegetation.
"Crap," Nielson said.
"The Golden Bough," Mike replied in English, shaking his head as he recognized the distinct outline of dried mistletoe. "How fucking old is this ritual?"
"What are you talking about?" Adams whispered in English, leaning across Father Ferani as Father Kulcyanov placed the laureate on Oleg's head.
"Too long to explain," Mike whispered back. "There's a whole damned book about it. But we might be watching the oldest—"
"And most original," Nielson interjected.
"And most original spring rite in the world," Mike finished.
"What do you talk about?" Father Ferani asked suspiciously.
"This is a great honor," Mike said in Georgian, gesturing at Oleg who now stood up and held his hands up to applause. "This ritual is written of in books, but it was thought to be lost in time. The Keldara seem to have kept it, with some additions that might be . . . I don't know. But this is something that I never thought I'd see."
"Where did you hear of the mysteries?" Father Mahona interjected, sharply.
"There is a book," Mike said. "It lists many of the rites of spring around the world. But the giving of the Golden Bough has not been done, as far as the book is concerned, for centuries. The King of Spring, is he also called the King of the Wood?"
"This is something we do not speak of," Father Mahona snapped, sitting up rigidly and turning away.
"Sorry," Mike said, shrugging. "Shit," he added, closing his eyes.
"What?" Adams asked, ignoring the frown on Father Ferani's face.
"The rock pickers," Mike said. "The chant they used. It had something about Sybellios in it, I think."
"The Cebellian Mysteries?" Nielson said, excitedly. "You don't think . . . ?"
"I think we should stop talking about it," Mike said, looking at the expression on the elders' faces.
Oleg had left the high table and now walked down among the women, rubbing his chin in thought. He deliberately walked right past Lydia, looking over the young women and pausing by Irina, who was seated near her friend, then darting back and seizing Lydia, pulling her to her feet and kissing her in front of the whole group.
The girls gathered around Lydia, covered her in necklaces made from wildflowers and put a wreath on her head of flowers to match the one on Oleg's head.
This appeared to be the signal for everyone to get up from the table. As the women, with Lydia being the exception, started to clear the feast, Lydia and Oleg were led back to the main table and given a place of honor next to Mike.
"Congratulations," Mike said to the grinning Lydia.
"Oleg has tried for the last two years to win the Ondah," she admitted, beaming. "Last year he was beaten by Vil."
"That's hard to believe," Mike said.
"He did better on the test of the stone and the test of fire," Oleg said, leaning over to explain. "I always overestimate how far I can jump. Last year I was so badly burned, I had to stop."
"After I teach you how to walk on the fire, it will be a test of distance," Mike said, smiling.
"Everyone was amazed," Lydia said. "No one had seen anyone walk on fire. We'd heard of it, but . . ."
"It's really not that hard," Mike said. "Anyone can do it, even the women."
"That would make the test interesting," Oleg said, grinning.
"When do we light the bonfire?" Mike asked. "No, let me guess. At midnight, but the fires in the houses have to be extinguished first."
"You know our ways," Oleg said, his brow furrowing.
"I'm having a lovely time watching them," Mike admitted. "When your reading is a little better, I'll show you why. But . . . are there things that happen after the bonfire is lit?"
"There are mysteries that we don't even share with you, Kildar," Oleg said, formally.
"That's okay," Mike said. "I'd be surprised if you did."
When the feast was cleared, the group got up and headed for the hill with the bonfire laid on it. The other Burakan picked up their axes so Mike did the same.
"Kildar," Oleg said, walking beside him in the darkness. "We must bring the fire from the wood."
"Do you use the drill method?" Mike asked. "Or flint and tinder?"
"The drill," Oleg said, looking over at him in the moonlight. "Your reading again?"
"The needfire," Mike said. "Teigin something?"
"Yes," Oleg said, shaking his head. "I see the mysteries are not so mysterious."
"There are some," Mike said. "How do you do it?"
"There is an axletree set up," Oleg said, "with the drill protruding from it and into a plank of oak. Two of the Burakan hold the drill steady while the other six turn the axle. The Ondah is supposed to blow the fire to light. I think that you should do it. You are the true Ondah."
"Forget that," Mike said. "Getting the fire started is important and you're probably better at it than I am. You do it."
"As you wish, Kildar," Oleg said, clearly unhappy.
"You've started a fire with a drill before," Adams pointed out as the Keldara continued up the hill and Mike slowed down.
"Let him have his moment," Mike said.
A circular theater of turf benches had been set up around the fire, with four openings to let people through. Mike took a quick read on the stars and was pretty sure they were at the cardinal points of the compass. The axletree had been set up to one side and as the whole group filed into the area the nine Burakan stepped forward to bring the fire. Mike looked over at the caravanserai and, sure enough, somebody had turned off all the lights; the valley was in total darkness save for the moon. The duty squad was probably pissed as hell. On the other hand, Vanner had ended up wiring the whole cellars so they were probably down there playing cards and watching TV on the satellite.
The women had arranged themselves on the north side of the circle and the men on the south. As everyone settled into position, Father Kulcyanov carefully aligned the spokes of the axletree with what Mike assumed was ritual significance. But Mike, frankly, was ritualed out. He'd had a good meal and a long day. At this point, all he really wanted to do was sleep.
He took his designated position, however, and started turning the spokes on command. The drill was supported by a plank laid across two mounds of cut turf, drill held by Sawn and Vil, with Oleg crouched waiting for the fire.
Turning the spokes was boring at best. Mike wanted to get into the game but he was just too worn out to care. Finally, though, there was a flare of l
ight from under the plank and Oleg waved for the whole assembly to be removed.
The fire was small, but Oleg carefully built it up with twigs until there were a few solidly burning brands. Then he transferred it to the kindling of the bonfire. In moments, the kindling had caught and started to work on the main logs.
"The taigon-tar is come," Father Kulcyanov said, raising his hands to the sky. "The Father of All looks upon us with kindness and will bring us good crops and a well people for the year. Let the bannach caillean be chosen."
"Dead on," Nielson said as Mike settled on the turf next to him. "Even the same pronunciation, which is surprising."
The older women went around among the men, passing out cakes. There was a brief discussion with Father Kulcyanov and a cake was given to Mike, but not to the trainers.
"Nine knobs," Mike said, showing it to Nielson.
"Bet you get the black bean," Nielson replied, grinning.
When all the cakes had been distributed to the men, Father Kulcyanov raised his hands again and then lowered them.
Mike followed the actions of the rest of the men and raised the cake to his mouth, biting into it. In ancient Scotland and England, each year a person would be chosen among the people for ceremonial purposes. There were various methods of choosing, but a bean in a cake, a "bannock," was one of the most common. The term that was used, the "bannach caillean," was just about dead on to what he recalled from reading about the ceremony lo those many years ago. Originally, the person had probably been sacrificed to propitiate the gods. Later they were simply subjected to various humiliations and mock sacrifices, such as being cast in the river or mock thrown in the fire. He hoped the Keldara weren't absolutely authentic; he wasn't about to stand by and allow an actual human sacrifice.
He fully expected a solid bean to be in the middle. But he didn't encounter anything on the first bite so he kept munching. It wasn't hard, the oat cake had been made with a sweetener, probably honey, and covered with a sweet coating; it was quite good.
