Night of the Fifth Moon

by Anna Ciddor

  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 dr
ew n on the tree.

  ‘What did Nuada do?’ he asked.

  ‘He led a battle.’

  ‘Good,’ said Goll, ‘and what happened in the battle?’

  ‘He lost his hand.’

  ‘Then here’s huathe, h, for hand.’ Above nuin, Goll drew another feda, just one stroke to the left. ‘There.’

  He leaned back on his heels. ‘Now, show me how the feda tell the story.’

  Ket pointed to nuin. ‘N is for writing Nuada,’ he said. ‘Nuada led the Tuatha de Danaan in a battle. And . . .’ He grinned and pointed excitedly to the other feda. ‘And h. That’s for hand. Nuada lost his hand so he couldn’t be king any more! Now, I’ll draw the feda.’ He grabbed the knife and tried to scratch a sign in the trunk. It was harder than it looked, but at last he achieved five flat strokes. ‘There! Nuin!’

  ‘Don’t forget to put the stemline in. On the left,’ warned Goll. ‘Otherwise it could be quert or iodo.’

  But Ket was impatient to return to the others. ‘Come on!’ He bounded to his feet. ‘I can go back and tell the story now. If we draw the feda on . . . on a stick or something . . .’

  Goll chuckled. ‘It’ll be quicker to write them the secret way,’ he said.

  ‘What secret way?’

  ‘Watch my hands.’

  Ket looked down. Goll’s hands were curled in fists. Then his right hand flicked open for a moment and closed again. ‘How many fingers did I point?’ he demanded.

  ‘One.’

  Goll nodded. ‘One stroke pointing left. Which feda is that?’

  ‘Huathe! H for hand. And here’s n for Nuada.’ Ket opened and closed his own hand, pointing all five fingers.

  ‘Look who’s back,’ Art announced, as Ket, following Goll, stepped sheepishly out of the forest.

  ‘Don’t worry, Ket. We waited for you. We didn’t finish the tale without you,’ called Riona.

  There was a stir of expectation as everyone set down their bowls and turned to face him. Nessa’s eyes were anxious and encouraging.

  ‘Have the trees brought you wisdom?’ inquired Faelán.

  ‘The trees? Uuuh . . .’ In his mind’s eye Ket saw the ogham carved into the bark. ‘Yes, the trees, of course!’ he replied. He stooped and picked up his branch of bells. Goll was holding out five pointing fingers. Ket grinned, and gave the bells a shake. ‘Nuada!’ he announced. ‘King Nuada led the Tuatha de Danaan in a battle. And then . . .’ He glanced at Goll’s single pointing finger. ‘H . . . hand!’ He looked round the circle, light-headed with relief. ‘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. There!’ He turned to Bran. ‘Now your turn.’

  But as Bran began to speak, Ket’s eyes drifted to the ogham rod Faelán had stuck in the ground. At the very top there was one straight line pointing left. Huathe! H for hand! He already knew the first feda in the message!

  THE GREATER

  HARMONY

  ‘So,’ said the druid next morning, ‘Ket has already benefited from my first instruction, to gain strength and inspiration from the trees.’

  Ket squirmed as the others turned to look at him.

  ‘Well,’ he mumbled. ‘I . . .’

  ‘Now you must build on that lesson,’ Faelán continued. ‘You must all build. You must study and communicate with everything around you, from the tallest tree to the smallest insect. Open your eyes and your ears. Be receptive to the spirits around you. See, listen, hear what they have to tell you. Come with me now, look around. Tell me what you see.’

  He strode towards the forest and the fosterlings hurried after him.

  ‘Trees!’ called Lorccán.

  ‘Ah.’ The druid paused below the hollow oak. ‘But what are the messages from the trees?’ The fosterlings looked at each other blankly. ‘How do they tell us the end of the year approaches?’ probed Faelán.

  ‘Their leaves are changing colour.’

  ‘And falling off!’ cried Bran, holding out his hand to catch an oak leaf as it floated down. Before it could reach him, Lorccán dived forward and plucked it from the air.

  ‘Got it!’ he yelled.

  ‘Ah, Lorccán,’ Faelán chuckled, ‘you have just won yourself good health during the coming months of cold. Now, what other signs tell us that winter is approaching?’

  They stared round for inspiration ‘If it were summer, what would you see?’ asked Faelán.

  ‘Green leaves,’ said Lorccán quickly.

  ‘Flowers.’

  ‘Pigs rooting for acorns,’ said Nessa, ‘and the swineherds who bring them from the ringforts.’

  Ket closed his eyes and pictured the woodland in the month of Beltane. The trees and bushes would be festive with bloom – cascades of white on the hawthorn and rowan, bright sprays of yellow on the gorse, golden catkins dangling from the oak tree, bluebells nodding their heads. He could feel the sun warm through the branches and hear the buzz of insects.

  ‘Bees and butterflies,’ he murmured.

  ‘And what else can you hear?’ asked Faelán.

  ‘Pipits, reed warblers, swallows.’

  ‘Good.’ Ket opened his eyes and Faelán nodded, pleased. ‘But now . . .’ The druid swept out his arms. ‘All those signs of summer have gone. What do you see now in the forest?’

  ‘The blackberries are ripe,’ said Lorccán.

  ‘And the sloe berries, and the dark purple elderberries.’

  ‘Hazelnuts,’ said Nessa. ‘The squirrels are gathering their winter hoards.’

  ‘But that stuff’s all obvious,’ Bran broke in. ‘Everyone knows trees lose their leaves in autumn, and berries are ready to pick. You don’t have to be a druid for that!’

  ‘Ah, so that is why you seek further.’ Faelán stooped and patted the rotting leaf litter. ‘Search beneath these leaves . . .’ He thrust his hand under the leaves and when he drew it out, a grey, scaly woodlouse was crawling across his palm. ‘Hold out your hand,’ he instructed Riona.

  She pulled a face as he eased the insect onto her reluctant finger.

  ‘What can you feel?’ he inquired.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘This insect is so small, so light, we cannot feel it exists. Most people would crush it, and not even be aware they did so. But in spite of its tiny size, it plays an important part in the cycle of life. By nibbling the fallen leaves, it will gradually break them down till they become part of the soil. In turn, the dead leaves will nourish the tree that bore them, so that new leaves can grow.’ He looked up into the branches of the oak then back at his listeners. His tone changed and he snapped a question. ‘What are the lessons in this?’

  Nessa gestured in excitement. Her green eyes shone, and her red-gold hair was the same glowing colour as the birch leaves.

  ‘We can all do something to help others, even if we are small and weak,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And . . . and we should respect all lives, even the lives of insects?’ asked Ket.

  Faelán nodded. ‘Insects, trees, even leaves. Ordinary mortals smash through this world, disturbing and destroying for their own needs. But a druid tries to be part of the Greater Harmony.’

  ‘I’ve seen that when you walk,’ said Ket excitedly. ‘Your feet don’t even disturb the grass. Are you going to teach us to walk like that?’

  The druid tugged his beard. ‘That is something you must work out for yourselves,’ he said. ‘It is learnt through observation. Between now and the next new moon, I advise you to open your eyes and look around you.’ He spread his arms. ‘Study the insects; the birds; the buds on the trees. The river. The sky. Respect them, and learn what they can teach.’

  ‘But . . .’

  The druid dropped his hands. ‘Yes, Bran?’

  ‘We’ve already got all those stories to learn!’

  ‘If you memorise the tales, the poems and the songs, and learn nothing more,’ chided Faelán, ‘then you will on
ly reach the level of a bard. Is that your desire? It is an honourable calling, but a bard has not the powers of a druid.’

  ‘I want to be a druid,’ mumbled Bran.

  ‘Well then, keep your eyes and your ears open. Look around you – in daytime and at night, in sunshine and in rain – and you will learn many important things.’

  Gently, he returned the woodlouse to the leaves, and straightened up.

  ‘Ket . . .’ He turned. ‘You have already shown an affinity with the trees. Which tree was it that gave you support when you needed to complete your story task?’

  ‘Uuh . . .’ Ket saw all the others watching him, jealous and curious. He closed his eyes and pictured the ogham signs scraped into the smooth, grey-green trunk. ‘It was an ash.’

  ‘An ash?!’ The druid’s voice rose inquiringly. ‘The ash is a warrior’s tree. Its strong wood makes fine spears, but I would not have expected . . .’

  He gazed at Ket, one eyebrow raised, and Ket felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment.

  ‘It wasn’t the tree that helped me, exactly,’ he mumbled. ‘It was Goll. He showed me some ogham. He carved it on the trunk.’

  ‘Aaah!’ Faelán nodded, but Ket could feel the indignation of the others around him.

  ‘Is . . . is Goll allowed to help?’ burst out Riona.

  ‘Why not?’ responded Faelán. ‘When I challenged you to search for ogham clues I did not tell you where or how to look. It is your good fortune if one of the anruth chooses to teach you. But now . . .’ The corner of his mouth curled. ‘Ket has a difficult choice. He must decide if he will share his knowledge with the rest of you.’ In the strained silence that followed, he turned to leave.

  The moment he was out of sight, the others rounded on Ket.

  ‘You cheated,’ cried Lorccán indignantly.

  ‘Ooh, Master Faelán, the trees helped me,’ mimicked Bran.

  ‘You are going to share, Ket, aren’t you?’ pleaded Riona.

  ‘Will you?’ asked Nath-í.

  ‘Of course he won’t,’ scoffed Bran.

  ‘Hey, everyone, stop pestering him,’ scolded Nessa. ‘We’re all competing, remember. He doesn’t have to tell.’