The five-year-old, shocked at what he had witnessed, could only hang on to the side of the cart until the horse, winded at last, slowed to a trot, then a walk and finally stopped and began grazing, deep in the forest.
Night came.
* * * *
Culann was holding his toy sword with both hands to ward off the Goblins & Demons that prey on young boys in the night forest
Breuse through his contacts in Kerhanagh's camp, heard about the Smith's death that very afternoon. He immediately sent his followers out to search for the cart carrying Culann. They found it well after midnight. The small boy was still standing, wide eyed with fright. His toy sword held high to ward off all the goblins and demons that prey on young boys in the night forest.
Just before daybreak Culann was brought to Breuse. Wrapping his huge arms around the lad in a big bear hug the Fianna Chieftain spoke with his deep soft voice to calm the boy who was still shivering in shock.
"There, there, lad, I won't let anyone hurt you. You are safe with me." Culann clung to the big man as Breuse gently stroked his head for some time. Breuse then held him at arm's length and looked him straight in the eye. "Well now, we have to give you a name. What did your father call you?"
"B . . B . . Boy".
"Hmmm " mused Breuse half smiling " we'll have to do better than that." He paused for a few moments thinking hard. "I know. Your father once told me you were born near that huge circle of mountains in Northern Ireland called the Ring of Gullion. We'll name you after the famous Fairy King and Irish hero who lived there - Culann. We'll call you Culann."
"What then should I call you Sir?" asked Culann.
"Why, you should call me Breuse, just like everybody else." smiled Breuse.
The rock-hard Fianna leader then carried the young boy to a stream nearby. He knelt on the bank and with one hand scooped water and splashed it on Culann's head.
"You are hereby known as Culann, a great warrior and defender of the downtrodden." The Celts regarded fresh water as sacred and its use in naming rights stretched back into the dim past. The other warriors, who had all gathered around, smiled and applauded.
So it came to pass that Breuse, a rough, uneducated Fianna, but a fine leader of men, raised the son of the slain Smith, as his own. There were no women in the Fianna camps.
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* * * * *
1.1 The Fianna
Breuse watched his ward Culann with a father’s pride.
Culann could hold his own against Fianna twice his age.
The Fianna was seen as a means of social advancement for youths wishing to improve their potential fighting expertise. Their raw talent was shaped to produce skillful warriors through an exhausting training program lasting years. Only the best succeeded. The Fianna comprised mainly young men who were not in service to any of the great lords.
It included some bandits who thought it better to belong to a larger group than try to survive on their own; also some sons of nobles, sent to hone their fighting skills. Membership was subject to rigorous tests, and many failed. Those who gained admittance to this effective fighting force, were in demand from Kings, Warlords and Chieftains, who hired their collective services from time to time. Payment was usually by apportionment of plunder, so there was great incentive to win battles.
Culann entered the Fianna world at the age of five. Most other novice males were at least in their early to late teens. By the time he was seven summers old, whether because of the prolonged vigorous exercise or the plentiful food, particularly meat, Culann began growing. By the time he was twelve summers old, he was as tall or taller than those lads five or eight years older. As such, he was treated as an equal by those young men. This meant he mentally reached manhood much earlier. The disadvantage however was his childhood, so crucial in developing into a well-balanced adult, was limited or non-existent.
Culann had to try much harder just to keep up with his peers. Many nights he lay on his sleeping skin, body aching, silently wiping tears in the dark, vowing not to let those older boys outdo him again.
Breuse closely watched his young adopted son. Initially with concern as the boy was pitted day after day against much older youths, deliberately not interfering. He judged young Culann would attain the skills a man needed in this dangerous world, more quickly if he solved life's problems himself, rather than rely on the protection of a full grown father figure. Of course Breuse never doubted for one moment that Culann would eventually succeed.
Culann continued to ask many questions as he grew up. He noticed one big difference between his father and Breuse. Well two actually. First, his father had rarely physically touched him, except to muss his hair occasionally, or more often, slap his bottom if he misbehaved. Breuse however delighted in wrapping his large hairy arms around the boy and giving him a big hug, particularly when he noticed Culann was upset or sad.
Secondly, Breuse delighted in answering Culann's many questions. Sometimes when he didn't know the answer, Breuse always said he would find out. And he did. What Culann didn't know was, Breuse tried to encourage his young ward to develop an enquiring mind.
By the summer of his twelfth year it was becoming obvious to all who saw him, that Culann had developed superior skills with the sword. Whether he inherited his fast eye-hand co-ordination from his father, or the fact he spent day after day in real life contests with weapons against much older boys, couldn't be answered.
The fact remained he could more than hold his own against Fianna twice his age. Of course it did no harm that Breuse, watching his young ward with a father's pride, afterwards would give him private lessons. Particularly on how Culann could more easily disable an opponent or correct some technical skill.
But the mantra Breuse would repeat over and over were his four rules of engagement;
i) don't fight unless you absolutely have to;
ii) where possible, you pick the time and place;
iii) most important, always attack from the high ground;
iv) don't stand and fight against an opponent longer than a few strokes, and certainly not against more than one opponent. It's better to retire, and live to fight another day.
“Run away?" asked Culann wide eyed.
"No, retire. Perhaps a better description would be 'strategic withdrawal' " said Breuse.
"But if I make a 'strategic withdrawal' " said Culann "the bards won't sing songs about me when I'm dead."
"Listen lad, the bards wont sing songs about you if you stay and get yourself killed. They'll be busy singing songs about the warrior who defeated you." advised Breuse wisely.
Breuse was the successful leader of a small group of warriors. He was successful because his basic ideology was to protect the lives of the men who looked to him as their leader. This was the direct opposite to the male Celtic outlook, which valued valor and glory above life itself.
Culann while thriving in his new environment with the Fianna, still had problems. Night time would bring nightmares about his father's death. Culann developed a deep seated feeling of guilt, because he did nothing to help his father in his final few moments. At times the gruff Breuse, and some of his warriors, would be awakened by Culann thrashing about. He was reliving those moments during dreadful dreams. The warriors and youths all slept together in cow hide tents or rough huts.
Breuse would try to comfort his young ward, explaining it was unrealistic to expect a small boy of five years to defend his father in those circumstances. "There is plenty of time to avenge your father."
The second problem was night itself. Culann was fearful of the night. This was something Breuse could address. On nights when there was no moon or the sky was overcast and no light came from the stars, Breuse would take Culann outside and they would walk together through the dark forest. They would take their weapons in case they met some stray demons. But the demons were clever and stayed out of their way.
Eventually wise Breuse suggested to Culann, that because th
e cold effected his old bones, Culann might wish to try finding the demons by himself. So Culann on the next dark night ventured out alone. Breuse sat up all night, in a state because Culann did not return until dawn. He came back smiling broadly. He had conquered his demons of the night and thereafter ventured out by himself every moonless night.
Although Breuse was illiterate, as were almost all the Irish Celts at that time (with Celtic Monks the exception), he was a shrewd judge of men - and boys. He was aware of the burning hatred young Culann had for the man who had murdered his father.
That could be a problem. For no matter how adventurous and brave the young lad was, as he grew up, sooner or later, he would try to avenge his father's death.
No doubt he would try before he was skilled enough to succeed. And he would die. And that would break Breuse's heart.
So Breuse, according to his own code of honor, on the third anniversary of the Smith's death, [Celts had a thing about the number 3. It was regarded as especially good] waited until the unprincipled Kerhanagh had gathered a large number of warriors and was hosting a grand feast in his great hall. Breuse, with ten Fianna, marched into the meeting hall. His warriors fanned out inside the entrance.
Breuse strode to the top table where Kerhanagh was drunkenly pounding the table in time with the bard singing next to him. The room fell silent, save for the table pounding Kerhanagh. Eventually even he stopped when he focused on Breuse standing before him, sword in hand.
Breuse declared in his deep loud voice, that Kerhanagh had killed an unarmed Smith, just so he could steal the man's wares, and he, Breuse, on behalf of that slain Smith, challenged him to a duel - to the death.
Kerhanagh looked on in amazement. That a single man would enter his hall, insult him, and then challenge him, was unbelievable. He was surrounded by his warriors. He stood, pushed the table over, mead, meat and all, and bellowed for his followers to kill this upstart.
But the Celtic code of honor was upheld by most, if not all those present. Kerhanagh had been challenged, personally. He would have to respond, personally. The warriors all stood, but none reached for their weapons.
Kerhanagh noticing this, backed away. A great gasp went up within the hall. Their Chieftain was retreating.
Kerhanagh realizing his mistake, drew his sword and cursing loudly launched a frenzied attack at Breuse. The Fianna chieftain deftly stepped aside, driving his weapon into Kerhanagh’s ribs as he plunged past. Kerhanagh staggered, dropped his sword, looked in disbelief at his wound, then collapsed, arms and legs spread-eagled. Blood quickly stained the straw covered floor.
Breuse stood over the fallen man, and while the body was still quivering in its death throes, grabbed the head. He hacked it off and held it high. No one moved.
He then walked calmly out of the hall, holding the head. The Fianna warriors fell in behind him.
Next morning, a new head was displayed on a pole at the Fianna camp in the forest. Culann walked past it, stopped for a moment, spat on it, then walked away. The episode was never mentioned again.
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* * * * *
1.2 The Cattle Raid
Medros called to his companion Art, who was sleeping in the sun as usual. The Fianna raiding party appeared out of the tree line.
It was time for the Fianna to obtain more cattle. They did not look to acquire cattle as a form of wealth, as did the local kings. It was more practical. They couldn't keep large herds of any animals in the forest - but they needed the food. So they did what all tribes did - they raided a neighboring tribe - one they did not have a current affiliation with. This was also a good way to 'blood' the more youthful Fianna.
The trick was to acquire the cattle without killing anyone, if possible. That way there was less chance of reprisals or revenge killings.
After discussing the potential target with the other senior warriors, Breuse told Culann they would be raiding a tribe two-days march to the west, the Slieve. Culann, who was now in his twelfth summer, would be allowed to come, but only as a lookout, armed with a horn to sound warnings and a wooden staff. He would not be allowed to be part of the attack.
Culann said nothing but Breuse could see he was thinking hard.
"Don't try to do anything foolish Culann. You are going because I told the senior warriors you could be trusted. Don't let me down." warned Breuse. Culann nodded but still said nothing.
Breuse preferred taking only a small raiding force. Eight warriors plus Breuse and Culann, each carrying rations for five days, moved out through the forest at daybreak.
* * * *
The morning sun highlighted the shortening shadows cast by the cows as they all faced uphill grazing. Medros was sitting with his back to one of rocks just below the tree line. He shaded his eyes as he watched two old hunchbacked peasants approaching from the valley floor. He reached for his spear, but then relaxed as they turned toward him waving and hobbling closer. He didn't recognize them at that distance but perhaps they were from the new clan he had been told would join them for the Beltain celebrations. [Beltain meaning ‘good fire’ was celebrated on 1st May. It was connected with the sun’s warmth & fertility of crops and cattle]
He called to his companion Art, who was sleeping as usual. Art lay on a large rock about twenty paces away. The lazy fellow simply snorted and rolled over. Medros shrugged in exasperation and gathering his spear and pack, stood up and walked over to Art. He looked up at the sun to gauge the time. The hunting party for Beltain should be returning shortly. They will want to take some of the cows with them for the feast.
He glanced again at the two figures who were now closer. They were coming from the direction of the village further down the valley so couldn't be part of the hunting party.
As Medros reached over to shake Art awake, the two peasants suddenly threw off their cloaks, stood up to their full height and started running, swords in hand, toward Medros and Art. Within a heartbeat another seven warriors suddenly materialized out of the tree line just behind him.
Their leader in a deep voice said softly "Leave your weapons lad. Don't do anything silly. We just want some of your cattle." By the time Medros had realized what was happening the deep voiced leader had taken his spear and was holding a sword at the throat of Art who was still shaking his head. The two peasant / warriors also arrived. Nine.
"Where is the hunting party?" blurted Art to Medros.
"Quiet." hissed Medros between clenched teeth.
"What's this about a hunting party?" queried one of the warriors to the deep voiced leader.
"I don't know " said the leader quietly "but if there is one, our young lookout will spot them." nodding toward the wooded crest of the hill.
Quickly he instructed several of the men to cut out several cows. "Only ten and no calves."
"They've done this before." thought Medros as he watched the smooth way they worked the cattle.
* * * *
Culann had climbed one of the tallest trees on the crest of the mountain. He had a good view over the valley and surrounding countryside. He watched as two of the Fianna slipped out of the tree line on the far side of the hill and dressed as peasants quickly made their way to the bottom of the valley. Then they turned toward the two cattle herders who appeared to be asleep. Hunched over with capes covering their weapons, the two Fianna made their way up to the herders. They were the decoys.
Culann was so engrossed in watching this play acting proceed, he almost didn't see the hunting party approaching from the far side of the hill. There were about thirty hunters in two groups. All were heavily laden with their kill, some hung on poles, some slung over their shoulders.
Culann quickly slid down the tree. He grabbed his wooden staff and made his way to the edge of the tree line immediately in front of the approaching hunting party. He was about to blow his signal horn when he noticed two large pine trees felled, and stripped of their branches laying at the edge of the clearing. No doubt awaiting transport t
o some building site in the valley.
The ground in front dropped away sharply. It was covered with grass and small shrubs. The first group of hunters were now passing below. Culann put away the horn and tried to lever the first tree trunk over the small restraining stones with his staff.
It didn't move.
* * * *
"We have company." quietly called one of the Fianna, nodding to a line of men just appearing into view from a dip in the hillside about 200 paces away and just below them.
The leading group of about 20 waved at Medros and Art and changed direction toward them. As they came closer it became clear four of them were carrying what appeared to be the carcasses of two deer slung on poles. Others had carcasses of smaller animals draped over their shoulders.
"What do we do now Breuse?" asked one of the warriors looking at their leader.
"No names." hissed the leader.
"Sorry Chief." muttered the man shamefaced.
"You, boy on the rock," nodding to Art "wave to your friends." Art looked at Medros but did not move.
The leader standing behind Medros placed a firm hand on the lad's shoulder and placed his sword in the youth's back. The approaching party could not see this. "Do as I say, or your friend dies - now!"
Art turned and waved at the approaching line of men, some of whom waved back. When they were about 100 paces away the small leading group suddenly stopped and pointed at them. They at last noticed there were more than the two lads they had expected near the rocks.
Just then a second group of ten came into view
"That's torn it." muttered Breuse. "Leave the cows and move back quietly uphill into the trees. We can't take on thirty."
"Look out!" suddenly yelled Art, who was immediately knocked senseless by the Fianna warrior standing next to him.
The two groups below had by now merged and were holding an animated discussion as to what was happening above them. The front pair put down their deer carcass and drew their swords.
Suddenly an ear-splitting war cry came from high up on the mountain followed by the long blast from a battle horn, seemingly directly above the hunting party. Everyone looked in that direction. Abruptly the nearest group dropped their burdens, some even their weapons and frantically began running downhill.
Culann, Celtic Warrior Monk Page 2
