by Anna Ciddor
But Ket was too keyed up to be bothered by Lorccán’s bossiness. He had tasted what it was like to be part of the magic. Ripping up armloads of fresh heather, he raced hither and thither around the camp, all the while darting glances at Faelán. Was the druid watching him? Could Faelán see how keenly, how eagerly, Ket did his bidding?
If Ket had wanted to be a druid before, it was nothing to his longing now. He had to stay here. He had to!
SPELL WORDS
The days sped by. Each night the moon rose later, and grew smaller and fainter, till finally it vanished completely and the nights of darkness came again.
On the last evening before the new moon, Ket was too strung-up to sleep. He wrapped his arms around his knees, and listened to the tune rippling from the druid’s harp.
‘Ket, this is the sleeping strain. Why have you not succumbed?’ murmured Faelán.
Ket started, and glanced around him. Everyone else was deep in slumber.
‘I . . .’
Hastily, he stretched out on the ground, but his mind was seething. Why had the music failed to enchant him? What was wrong with him? He pressed his eyes shut and desperately tried to sleep.
‘Ket?’
‘Mmm?’ Ket mumbled drowsily and opened one eye. It was still dark.
‘Ket, it’s the last day.’ Nessa pulled the cover away from his chin. Immediately, the cold night air rushed in. He groaned and sat up, hugging the rawhide around him.
‘It’s not even dawn yet.’ Casting his eyes upwards, he saw the sparkle of stars against the black sky, but no moon.
‘Tonight it will be the new moon,’ whispered Nessa. ‘And I’ve been thinking. If Faelán sends me away . . .’
‘He won’t send you away!’
‘If he does,’ repeated Nessa firmly, ‘then I want you to win.’
Ket reached out from his warm cover and took the hand she held towards him.
‘And if he sends me away . . .’ He stopped. There was a lump blocking his throat so that he could barely croak out the words. ‘I want you to win.’
She squeezed his hand and lay down again. In a few moments he felt her fingers slacken as she drifted back to sleep.
Ket stayed sitting where he was, growing colder and colder, as if all the blood was draining out of his body. From somewhere among the trees came the tentative trill of a robin. The figure of Faelán glided across the clearing, his arms raised, beginning to call up the sun.
Ket looked at him imploringly. ‘Please don’t send me away. Please!’ he prayed.
Art and Bronal yawned noisily and rolled out of their covers to stoke up the fire. As the warm, yellow flames crackled into life, Ket straightened his stiff legs and stumbled to his feet.
Maura was propping lumps of dough against the three-pronged sticks in front of the fire, and the smell of toasting oatmeal filled the air.
Ket pulled a face. ‘I’m too nervous to eat.’
‘Me too!’ Riona agreed.
Lorccán smiled and patted his belly. ‘All the more for me, then.’ And he stuffed the food in his mouth as if he had not a care in the world.
When the fosterlings gathered under the Sacred Yew for their morning instruction, Faelán regarded them solemnly.
‘It is time to set you a more challenging task,’ he said. Ket swallowed nervously. ‘You have all shown competence at learning the tales, so now you can progress to the next level – the composition of poetry. This is a skill you will need in order to cast a spell.’
‘Spells! We’re going to learn magic!’ said Riona.
‘Here is a spell you might cast on a king or chieftain to improve the prosperity of his kingdom,’ said Faelán.
‘May the harvest of your fields be bountiful
May the harvest of your trees be bountiful
May the harvest of your rivers be bountiful—’
‘But . . .’
The druid stopped reciting. ‘Yes, Bran?’
The red-haired boy had screwed up his face. ‘Fruit and crops don’t grow in rivers,’ he protested.
‘Ah.’ Faelán breathed a smile. ‘I expected you to say that, Bran. The secret of the best poetry and the most potent magic is to use words that your listener has to interpret. It is not really fruit that grows in the rivers, but—’
‘I know! It’s fish!’ said Lorccán. ‘When you harvest a river, you catch fish!’
The druid nodded. ‘Well done, Lorccán. Instead of using a simple word like fish, a poet says the harvest of the river or the cattle of the sea.’
‘Cattle!’ giggled Riona.
‘And now, this is your task: I will give each of you a simple word and you will think of a poetic description. Bran, see what you can do with the word snow; Riona, your word is hazelnut; Lorccán, yours is dead; Ket, yours is yew tree; Nath-í, see what you can do with the sun; and Nessa . . . take the word shield. I will give you a few minutes to think of your answers.’
He leaned back and began to strum softly on his harp.
Ket was too nervous to think. Tonight it was the new moon. Tonight the druid was going to send one of them away. He had nearly failed the first test. If he failed now . . . He swung round to the Sacred Yew and pressed his hand against one of the three ancient trunks, pleading for help. He screwed his eyes shut, listening, feeling. At first, his senses were filled with useless, irritating noises: Riona’s anxious breathing, Nessa’s pacing, the twittering of chaffinches and tits in the branches over his head. Then gradually the sounds faded, and he felt as if he were sinking into the heart of the tree.
Faelán stopped strumming.
‘Reveal your answers,’ he said.
Ket blinked, as if he were rising out of sleep.
‘I’ve got a good one!’ said Lorccán. ‘Can I go first?’
The druid inclined his head. ‘Your word was dead.’
‘Feast for crows!’ said Lorccán, with relish.
‘Ah, well done,’ said Faelán.
Lorccán beamed with pride.
‘I don’t get it,’ said Riona.
Nath-í made a face. ‘You know, when there’s a dead lamb, and the crows all come and feast on it,’ he said.
‘Eugh.’
‘What did you think of for hazelnut, Riona?’
Riona looked proud. ‘Cattle of the hazel tree!’ she announced.
There was an uncomfortable silence, then Bran choked back a laugh.
The druid turned to him sternly. ‘Bran? What is your description for snow?’
‘White cloak,’ said Bran.
‘Ooh, that’s good,’ said Nessa.
‘And Nessa, what is yours, for shield ?’ queried Faelán.
Ket saw Nessa ball her hands into tight fists.
‘Protector of the heart?’ she asked anxiously.
Faelán nodded. ‘That will do.’ He looked around. ‘Anyone else?’
Ket took a deep breath. ‘Me,’ he whispered.
‘Ah yes, what did you think of for yew tree?’
‘Old One of the forest,’ said Ket. To his annoyance, before Faelán could respond, Lorccán broke in.
‘Nath-í,’ Lorccán pointed. ‘Nath-í hasn’t done his yet.’
Ket bit his lip and turned. Had Nath-í managed to think up something for sun?
‘The sun is a gleaming shield boss in the sky,’ said Nath-í calmly.
Ket was startled. The druid stroked his beard.
‘For your first attempt, you have all done well,’ he said. ‘This winter, when the king pays his visit to the chieftain, I think you fosterlings may accompany me as my retinue. You shall all compose poems of praise for the king.’
‘The ones who are still here,’ said Lorccán under his breath.
THE FIRST
NEW MOON
‘Will this day never end?’ moaned Nessa. ‘The suspense is killing me.’
‘What are you so worried about?’ said Riona. ‘Master Faelán will never send you away.’
Nessa sighed. ‘I wish I could see into the futu
re.’ She stripped some berries off a branch and trickled them through her fingers.
‘Harvest of the yew tree,’ murmured Nath-í, his eyes following the berries. ‘If you were a druid,’ he added, ‘you could probably tell by the way those fall what’s going to happen tonight.’
The fosterlings all stared at the small rosy fruit in Nessa’s hand.
‘Here, give them to me,’ said Bran. He took the yew berries and tossed them into the air. One of them plopped into Lorccán’s lap. ‘Ooh look, Lorccán’s going home tonight!’
Lorccán’s face blanched with fury. He picked up the berry and flung it at Bran.
‘It’s not true!’ he yelled. ‘You just made that up!’
‘Of course it’s not true,’ Bran scoffed. ‘All divination is drivel.’
There was a shocked silence.
‘But . . . but . . .’ Riona stuttered.
‘What do you mean?’ growled Lorccán, crossing his arms.
Bran looked round at their startled faces.
‘You’re all so gullible,’ he chortled.
He picked up a fallen feather and held it in the air. ‘This is an omen!’ he intoned, mimicking the druid.
Ket glanced over his shoulder, half hoping half fearing the druid would notice Bran’s antics.
‘I predict that a bird is going to fly past,’ continued Bran.
He paused, and at that moment a fieldfare darted over their heads. He let out a snort at the expressions on their faces. ‘Of course it came true,’ Bran mocked. ‘There are always birds flying around. Divination is just a trick.’
The others backed away from him, and glanced at each other.
‘It’s true if a real druid does it,’ said Nessa firmly.
Shaking their branches of bells, the fosterlings marched to the fire, where Faelán and the anruth were waiting. The first pink of sunset was tingeing the sky as each took a rowan branch and cast it on the flames. Then, slowly, with Faelán leading the way, they circled the fire. Ket felt so proud he thought his head might start chiming like the bells.
‘Spirit of the Moon
Arise from darkness.
Spirit of the Moon
Return and guide us,’
they chanted together.
The druid raised his arm and there, just where he pointed, Ket made out the faint, ghostly shape of the new moon. There were cheers around the fire. But while the anruth hoisted the cauldron on the flames, and tossed in herbs, laughing and chatting, the fosterlings drew together in a tight, nervous cluster.
‘What do we do now?’ whispered Nath-í.
They all looked at Faelán and saw that he was watching them. The anruth’s babble died away, and they too turned to the druid. Ket could hear the tiny tinkle of the beads in Nessa’s hair as she quivered beside him.
‘Fosterlings,’ Faelán’s voice boomed out, ‘your time of reckoning is upon you. Tonight I must choose the first of you to send away.’
Ket felt a tightening in his chest.
‘The demands on a druid are arduous and challenging,’ continued Faelán. ‘Since the last new moon, I have observed that one of you does not have the strength to face those challenges . . .’
Ket felt as if someone was twisting his insides, wringing them till he couldn’t breathe. The night he’d run away, too speechless and terrified to tell his part of the tale – was that what the druid meant? The tight feeling spread to his throat.
‘It is not merely a matter of learning. As a druid, you must be able to lead others, to impress them with your power and ability.’
The druid paused. From the corner of his eye, Ket saw Lorccán lift his chin.
‘However,’ Faelán went on, ‘though you cannot be a druid, I am sure you will make a fine wife and mother.’
Suddenly, Ket’s legs were almost too wobbly to hold him up, but Nessa, standing beside him, went rigid, her gaze glued on Faelán.
Then the druid turned to the smaller girl, with the dark curls and the frightened eyes.
‘Riona, I fear you do not have the strength to lead others, as a druid must. Your clan will find you a new foster home where you can learn to spin and weave, to dye cloth, brew ale and bake bread.’
Ket could see the utter relief in Nessa’s body as she clasped an arm around the other girl.
Riona reached up to lay her fingers over Nessa’s. ‘You’ll make a better druid than me,’ she gulped.
‘Now . . .’ Faelán held out his hand. ‘Your branch of bells.’
Ket felt as if his heart was being wrenched from his chest as Riona, with tears trickling down her cheeks, surrendered her branch.
‘The rest of you,’ said the druid, ‘shall remain until the next new moon.’
CAULDRON
OF TRUTH
Next morning, Bran and Lorccán were restless and noisy, shouting and sparring with each other, while Ket, Nath-í and Nessa moped under the Sacred Yew.
‘I wonder what Riona’s feeling now,’ said Ket.
‘Ashamed and embarrassed,’ muttered Nath-í.
Ket and Nessa glanced at each other. They both knew Nath-í was remembering his own feelings when he’d been cast off by a wood-turner for his clumsiness and sent to the druid’s camp in disgrace.
‘There’s nothing to be ashamed about,’ said Nessa stoutly. ‘Every person has to find the path that suits them. The druid’s path just wasn’t right for Riona. She thought she wanted to learn magic, but really she’ll be much happier being a farmer’s wife, doing cooking and spinning and all that womanly stuff.’
‘Would you prefer that too, Nessa?’ asked Nath-í.
‘Me?! Can you see me standing at a loom and weaving all day? Or cooking? I hate cooking! I don’t mind hunting for game, but someone else can cope with the feather-plucking and pot-stirring, thank you very much. No, I’d much rather be a druid.’ There was a moment’s uncomfortable silence, and she flushed. ‘That’s if Master Faelán chooses me,’ she added. ‘But of course, he’ll probably choose one of you.’
Nath-í shook his head gloomily. ‘He won’t be choosing me. I always fail at everything.’
Ket felt sick. He hated wishing that his friends would be sent away so that he could win.
Bran and Lorccán rolled to the ground, punching and yelling, just as Faelán appeared in the clearing.
‘Maura,’ called Faelán, ‘these twigs are in need of some exercise. Time for a session of weapon-training.’
‘Weapon-training?’ squeaked Nath-í. ‘But . . . but . . . I thought we wouldn’t need that any more.’
The look of dismay on his face was so comical, they all burst out laughing.
‘Young man, I would be failing as your foster father if I neglected your training in arms,’ Faelán replied. ‘Only one of you is destined to be a druid, and even he, or she, should have a knowledge of weapons. Maura, are you ready?’
Maura was balancing an apple on top of a pole.
‘Oh no, we don’t have to try to hit that, do we?’ moaned Nath-í, as Maura headed purposefully towards them, slingshots swinging from her hand.
‘I’ll show you how to do it,’ said Lorccán, already casting around for a suitable stone. But as he straightened up, weighing one in his hand, Nath-í pointed.
‘Look!’ His face lit up with relief. ‘Visitors!’
Sure enough, through the gap in the trees, they could see a procession of people crossing the plain.
‘They’re from your clan, Nessa,’ exclaimed Ket.
In front plodded the lawgiver, Brehon Áengus, face shining, belly bulging, and the gold Collar of Truth gleaming around his short neck.
‘Fáilte,’ he called. ‘Good health to you.’
‘Good health to you,’ replied the druid.
The visitors halted.
‘Welcome to the Sacred Yew,’ said Faelán.
‘We bring offerings.’
Brehon Áengus was puffing as he bowed over his fat belly. Two young boys staggered out of the crowd, balancing a basket betwee
n them. They laid it down and the fosterlings’ eyes widened in rapture. They could see the yellow rind of a hard cheese, the crust of a loaf, and a fresh, bloody haunch of oxflesh.
‘We’ll eat well tonight,’ whispered Bran.
‘Druid of the Forest,’ said the brehon, ‘the clan of Ardal are come to ask the spirits for guidance in settling a dispute.’
‘What is your dispute?’ queried Faelán.
‘Well, this farmer here . . .’ Brehon Áengus indicated the man beside him.
‘Uncle Tirech!’ breathed Nessa.
‘Tirech,’ continued the lawgiver, ‘makes a claim against Gortigern.’
Nessa gave a little gasp.
‘He claims that Gortigern entered his house without permission—’
‘You liar!’ A huge, brawny man thrust his nose into Tirech’s face. ‘You invited me.’
‘Invited you?!’ Tirech’s voice rose to a squeak. ‘Not likely.’ He shook his fist under Gortigern’s nose. ‘You insult my wife, you kick my dogs, you knock over my lamps, you deliberately leave my gates open so my animals wander out. You . . . you . . .’
Gortigern burst out laughing. ‘You snivelling weakling,’ he jeered.
Tirech’s face grew purple, and he ripped his sword from its scabbard.
‘Show him, Tirech!’ yelled a voice, but the druid stepped between them.
‘Enough,’ he said.
‘Oof!’ Nessa stamped her foot in frustration. ‘Gortigern deserves it,’ she growled. ‘He bullies everyone!’
‘Gortigern of the clan of Ardal,’ said Faelán sternly, ‘do you deny the charge?’
‘Pah,’ snorted Gortigern.
The druid turned to Tirech. ‘Tirech of the clan of Ardal, are you prepared to submit your claim to the Cauldron of Truth, and abide by the decision of the spirits?’
Tirech thrust his sword into its sheath and nodded.
‘Very well, we shall prepare the Cauldron of Truth,’ said Faelán. He turned to the fosterlings. ‘Nath-í and Ket . . .’ Ket started with surprise. ‘Bring me the water from the Sacred Spring.’ Faelán gestured to the ox horn, traced in silver, suspended from the branches of the yew. Every morning he took the vessel and refilled it in a secret ceremony at the Sacred Spring deep in the forest.
