by Anna Ciddor
‘Oh no, he’s going to hate being our serving boy,’ said Nessa.
‘How are you?’ she asked brightly, as he reached their end of the table.
There was a shock of envy in Bran’s face as he spied her silver bangle. Instantly, Nessa pulled it off and held it out to him.
‘Here, I don’t want this, you have it,’ she said.
Ket saw Bran flinch, and felt the other boy’s pain. Their eyes locked and Ket remembered Bran’s unexpected sympathy the day of the brehon’s visit, the day Nath-í had made Ket look a fool.
‘But Bran would hate it if I showed him pity,’ thought Ket.
‘Hey, Bran!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re so lucky; this place is just like a king’s palace. And look at all the food! Do you get to eat like this all the time?’ He babbled on, watching Bran anxiously. ‘Do you sleep in here at night? And . . . Nessa, Lorccán, did you see his clothes? Look at all that gold embroidery!’
At last, to Ket’s relief, Bran lifted his chin and threw a disparaging glance at Nessa’s bangle.
‘Silver trinket,’ said Bran in his old scornful way. ‘Here, you’d better eat as much as you can while you’ve got the chance!’
With gusto, he emptied the contents of his jug over their plates, drowning their food with sauce, and stalked off.
FIRST SNOWDROP
‘Hey, look what I found!’ Lorccán charged into camp brandishing a stalk with a white flower bobbing at the end. ‘A snowdrop!’ he yelled. ‘Look! I found the first snowdrop!’
‘Aha.’ A smiling Faelán strode forward to meet him. ‘You shouldn’t have picked it, but well done.’ He ruffled Lorccán’s hair. ‘You are a fine observer.’
Ket clenched his fists. Days ago he had seen tiny green tips of new shoots poking through the soil. He’d been watching and waiting for the buds to open. It wasn’t fair that Lorccán had spied the first flower.
Lorccán swanned around the camp, showing his find to everyone. ‘Hey, Nath-í, make up a poem about me!’
Obediently, Nath-í sat down and began to mutter behind his fringe.
Ket wandered across to the Sacred Yew and scowled down at the ogham rod. The message was almost as mysterious now as when Faelán had first inscribed those black marks in the birchwood.
‘Got you beaten, hasn’t it?’ said Lorccán behind him. ‘I’ve found lots of clues. I’m going to be the first one to read it.’
A large black rook glided past with slow, leisurely wingbeats. There was a twig clamped in its beak.
‘The rooks are nesting!’ cried Nessa. ‘That’s another sign that spring is coming.’ She looked round eagerly for the druid. ‘It’ll be the Festival of Imbolc soon, won’t it?’
The druid nodded. ‘At the next full moon.’
Ket saw Nessa glance meaningly at Maura, and the older girl opened her mouth.
‘Master, why don’t we have Nessa as the Spirit of Spring this year?’ asked Maura.
Ket held his breath. Imbolc was after the next new moon.
‘Why not?’ said Faelán.
Ket looked at his best friend, struggling desperately to conjure up a feeling of joy instead of the envy and dismay that was creeping over him.
Then Nath-í struck another blow.
‘I’ve done it, Lorccán, I’ve made up a poem about you,’ he called eagerly. ‘Listen. “The Finding of the First Snowdrop!”’
As he recited it, with Lorccán preening and everyone else listening admiringly, Ket found himself sinking into a sea of gloom.
That night, when they gathered for storytelling, he could barely mumble his way through his part.
‘Ket, why didn’t you learn your words?’ Nessa scolded him afterwards. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘There’s no point any more,’ he growled.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know why.’
‘Ket, don’t be silly. Master Faelán won’t send you away.’
‘No? Then who’s he going to choose? Nath-í the brilliant poet? Or Lorccán, his golden-haired pet?’
Nessa stared at him, her face whitening. She couldn’t answer.
Next day, Ket’s secret clump of snowdrops burst into bloom. ‘You’re too late,’ he said with a lump in his throat. He felt like crushing them flat, but the glowing white flower bells and the fresh green stalks were too beautiful.
He fingered the silver bangle at his wrist, thinking of Bran. ‘He’s been sent away,’ he whispered. ‘And so has Riona. And now . . .’ He looked at the bangle, twisting it round and round, his eyes burning. ‘In a few days, I’ll be next.’
On the eve of the new moon, Ket sat alone in the forest with his head buried in his arms. He tried to plan what he would do when he was sent away.
‘I suppose I’ll go to Ragallach’s,’ he thought, miserably. He pictured the florid man he’d seen at the king’s banquet, his bulbous nose and thick, moist lips. ‘I guess he’ll send me off on fighting raids. All I can do is use a slingshot or a sword. I don’t know how to care for crops or animals. But I don’t want to kill herdboys and steal cows. I want to be a druid!’
Into his head flashed an image of the stately, powerful Faelán gently transferring a woodlouse to Riona’s hand as he imparted his words of wisdom. Ket saw again the circle of fosterlings pressed forward, all with the same hungry eagerness to learn. Pain filled his chest, and tightened his throat. This time tomorrow he’d be at Ragallach’s, where there’d be nobody to share his longings and dreams like that.
Now he would never learn the secrets of all the ogham, or how to read the signs in the stars and clouds. And never again would he have the chance to earn the warm approval of the druid’s smile.
Faint in the distance, he heard the call of Faelán’s bells. It was time.
Sadly, he rose to his feet.
DISTRAINT
Ket halted at the edge of the trees, his heart lurching at the sight of all the people who’d become his family gathered at the fireside. There was tall Goll peering anxiously around for him. There was the chunky figure of Maura beckoning him to hurry. There was Master Faelán, Druid of the Forest, waiting patiently, the feathers in his cloak rippling and changing colour. Even Lorccán, yelling at him to hurry up, was suddenly dear to him. And Art and Bronal and Nath-í. And Nessa . . .
He walked towards them, his branch of bells clutched tight. Nessa handed him a stick of rowan, and as he tossed it into the fire and watched the flames leap up, ‘This is the last time,’ he thought. ‘This is the last time.’
‘Spirit of the Moon
Arise from darkness.
Spirit of the Moon
Return and guide us.’
The words rose around him, but Ket’s eyes were too blurred with tears to see the new moon in the sky.
When they sat by the fire, Ket was shivering. Nessa, without speaking, wrapped her cloak around both of them. He felt the warmth of her arm across his shoulders as Faelán began to speak.
‘Tonight,’ said the druid, ‘I must sing the praise of one whose talent was hidden for most of his sojourn with us. Nath-í, behind his shy façade, has the spirit of a true poet. Let this be a lesson to all of you to seek below the surface for concealed treasure. I foretell that Nath-í will compose epics that will live throughout the generations, keeping alive forever the memories of our heroes and their achievements. And Nath-í himself will be remembered as the man with the tongue of gold.’
Nath-í’s head was bowed, his face concealed by his lank black hair. Lorccán had a confused, wary look on his face.
‘Nath-í, I am sure that your skill with words would make you a powerful druid,’ said Faelán. ‘Nevertheless . . .’
Everyone was completely still, completely silent. A log toppled into the fire with a loud crackle, and Ket jumped.
‘Nevertheless,’ repeated Faelán, ‘that is not to be. Nath-í, King Breasal has requested that you join his entourage to compose more poems in his praise. That is an honourable calling, and one that is eminently s
uited to your talents. So, tonight you will be the one to leave us, not in disgrace, but to accept the position of the king’s bard.’
Nath-í raised his head, looking startled and wary, like a fawn.
‘But . . . what about my blemish,’ he stammered, touching his cheek. ‘Doesn’t the king mind?’
‘Blemish?!’ cried Faelán. ‘By oak, ash and thorn, Nath-í, that is no blemish. It is a sign to distinguish you. As your fame grows and spreads, tales will be told of you, and wherever you go, people will recognise you by the sign on your face. “There goes Nath-í of the golden tongue!” they will declare.’
Nath-í’s face glowed so fiercely with pride it was as if a fire had been lit behind his eyes.
‘And now,’ said Nessa next morning, ‘you can stop sulking, Ket, and come help sort out that problem for my Uncle Tirech.’
Ket laughed. He felt like singing and dancing and flinging things into the air. He felt that if he jumped off the top of a cliff he would float through the air with happiness.
As they headed for Nessa’s ringfort, there was a flurry of snow. Ket tilted up his face and caught the snowflakes on his tongue. His feet kept wanting to run and hop. He raced to the top of the cairn without a thought for the dead beneath, let out a wild whoop of joy, then hurtled down again, skittering and sliding, sending stones – and skulls – cascading.
‘You’re mad,’ chuckled Nessa.
They could hear Gortigern’s baby wailing as they approached the ringfort. The buntings on the ramparts no longer billowed in colourful celebration but hung limp and sodden. The yard was deserted except for the animals huddled in their pens. A lone dog tied to a post yapped half-heartedly but nobody paid attention. Everyone was indoors, sheltering from the weather.
Nessa and Ket stooped to enter the house. There were two men seated by the firepit playing a board game while children swarmed over them, clambering on the benches and bumping the low wooden table. Nessa’s mother had her back to them, working at her loom. Tirech sat by the door, whittling a rowan branch for a new axe-handle while a woman paced beside him trying to soothe the crying baby.
Tirech raised his eyes. ‘Nessa!’ he rumbled. ‘What do you want now?’
‘Nessa?’ cried Egem, spinning round.
Ket watched hopefully as Nessa’s mother bustled towards the hearth and prodded at something in the cooking pot.
Nessa placed her hands on her hips.
‘Uncle Tirech, I asked Master Faelán what to do next,’ she said.
‘Haven’t you meddled enough, landing your aunt Dornolla with that brat?’ He jerked his chin at the snivelling toddler in his wife’s arms.
Ket saw Nessa’s cheeks flush.
‘You have to keep going,’ she said, ‘if you want to get your compensation.’
‘You tell him, Nessa,’ one of the men by the fireside suddenly joined in.
‘Yes, Tirech, you got him this far,’ called the other. ‘What happened to all your big talk about stopping his bullying?’
‘Ach, he’ll not be bothered with all that, now he’s a champion,’ growled Tirech. ‘He’s talking about making himself chieftain next.’
‘Huh.’ Nessa tossed back her head, and set all her braids jingling. ‘He paid you a pledge,’ she said. ‘What are you going to do with that infant? Sell him as a slave?’
They all looked at the pathetic, whimpering child.
‘Of course not,’ muttered Tirech. Then he startled everyone by throwing down the axe-handle and stamping to his feet. ‘I’ll get my calf,’ he roared, brandishing his knife. ‘You’re right. He owes me a debt. And he’ll pay me today! Come on. Someone go pry that brehon from his feedbag.’
Table and benches crashed to the ground as the other men jumped to their feet.
‘Get him, Tirech,’ they bellowed.
‘Give him back his brat!’ shouted Dornolla.
Egem cheered and waved her serving spoon, sending a spray of hot brothcán sailing through the air.
Afire with indignation, they all streamed onto Gortigern’s land, the reluctant brehon in their midst. At the sight of them, a terrified herdboy tried to shout a warning and make a dash for the ringfort, but Nessa caught him by his léine and muffled his cries. The crowd surged through the gate. Gortigern and his brothers burst out of their house, eyes popping with astonishment.
‘Dadda!’
There was a shriek from the child in Dornolla’s arms and he wriggled to the ground.
Gortigern ignored the little boy toddling towards him. ‘What do you want?’ he snarled.
Tirech took a deep breath. ‘In the presence of the brehon, and these witnesses, I have come to claim my debt!’ He took a step towards the calf-pen.
‘Don’t you dare touch my cows,’ roared Gortigern.
Tirech hesitated, and looked back at the brehon.
Suddenly, Nessa’s voice rang out.
‘Uncle Tirech,’ she called, ‘Gortigern means he wants to choose the calf himself. Of course he will pay his debt, for he knows that if he fails, he will lose all honour and respect in the eyes of the clan.’
Gortigern stared back at Nessa, and then at the circle of watching faces. Ket held his breath. Slowly, the champion straightened his shoulders, turned on his heel, and stalked towards the pen. He paused a moment, then threw a rope round the neck of a calf. It was a sturdy beast, its reddish coat grown thick and hairy for winter. Gortigern thrust the halter into Tirech’s hand.
‘That’s my best yearling,’ he growled. ‘Now be off, the lot of you!’
In triumphal procession, Nessa and Tirech led the way from the ringfort.
FESTIVAL
OF IMBOLC
‘I’m sick of practising slingshot,’ Lorccán complained, as Nessa’s stone neatly smote the target again. ‘Can’t we train like the fians? I bet they do more exciting things than aiming stones at apples.’
‘They certainly do,’ said Maura. ‘If you want to train like a fian, I can bury you in the ground up to your waist and give you nothing but a hazel stick and shield to protect yourself. Then we’ll all hurl spears at you.’
‘Do they really do that?’ asked Ket.
Maura nodded.
‘I bet I could do it,’ said Lorccán.
‘What else do they do?’ asked Nessa eagerly.
‘Race round a tree and try to hit each other with thorn switches,’ said Maura.
‘Hey, let’s try that!’ Lorccán sprang to his feet. ‘We can use gorse branches. They’ve got lots of thorns.’
‘All right.’ Maura agreed. ‘But not gorse. We’ll start without thorns. Willow whips will be vicious enough. We’ll find some by the river.’
They hunted eagerly for young, bendy shoots, but just as Ket raised his knife to cut one down, Maura let out a cry.
‘Wait!’ She glanced, frowning, at the sky.
‘It’s all right,’ called Ket, ‘it’s the light half of the month.’
‘Yes, of course.’
Ket smiled, proud that he knew what Maura was thinking. Faelán had warned them never to cut willow on a waning moon, for it brought ill fortune. He ran the shoot through his fingers. It was smooth and pliable.
‘Yah!’ screamed Lorccán, flicking his whip through the air and slapping it on the ground. ‘Watch out, everyone!’
‘We’ll do this in pairs,’ said Maura. ‘Lorccán, you and Nessa chase each other, and I’ll try to catch Ket.’
‘Race you to the Sacred Yew,’ yelled Lorccán.
‘You’ll never catch me,’ taunted Nessa.
‘I’ll slaughter you!’
‘Ket, you and I can use the hollow oak,’ said Maura.
Ket eyed the short, dumpy figure bouncing up and down on the other side of the tree.
‘Ready?’ she called. ‘One, two, three . . . coming!’
Maura began to jog towards him and before he had taken two strides, the tip of her whip slashed the ground beside him.
‘Yowp!’ he yelled. Knees pumping, he spurted forwar
d. When he glanced over his shoulder, Maura was laughing and brandishing the whip again.
‘Hurry!’ she warned.
‘Hurry yourself!’ he called back, and raised his whip.
Round and round the tree they raced, shouting and jeering and cracking their whips. At last they both collapsed, laughing, against the tree trunk, their breaths puffing in and out like the bellows of a smith in a forge.
‘That . . . was fun,’ gasped Ket.
‘Oooh,’ groaned Maura, holding her side. ‘I’ve got a stitch.’
‘Where are the others?’
Ket looked round. They were still chasing each other. Lorccán had a ferocious, intent expression on his face, and kept cracking his whip, but Nessa was keeping well out of his reach.
‘All right, you two,’ called Maura. ‘Enough!’
‘If I wasn’t going to be a druid, I’d be a champion fian,’ said Lorccán, whirling his whip around his head.
‘Who are the fians?’ inquired Nessa, when Ket and Maura panted up to join them. ‘Where do they come from?’
Maura waved her arms. ‘Everywhere. Some are just discontented boys who have run away from foster families. Others might be outcasts from their clans.’
‘How could that happen? Who would be cast out from their own clan?’
Maura shrugged. ‘Maybe someone who did something wrong and refused to pay the fine.’
‘Like Gortigern!’ said Ket.
‘Only he did pay up in the end,’ Nessa reminded him.
‘No clan would dare cast Gortigern out,’ said Lorccán with feeling. ‘Can you imagine? He’d probably come back and murder them all!’
That night, when they gathered by the fire, Nessa was fizzing with excitement. ‘Look!’ She gripped Ket’s arm as the glowing orb of a full moon appeared in the east.
Faelán smiled down at her.
‘Yes, Nessa, it is time for the Festival of Imbolc. Tonight you must sleep in the forest, beside the Sacred Spring. Maura shall accompany you, and in the morning she will prepare you to perform your part in the ceremony.’
With the two girls gone, the camp felt strange and empty. Ket watched with envy as the druid drew the anruth aside to make preparations that were too secret for the fosterlings to witness. Lorccán wandered off, and scuffed at the fallen leaves by the edge of the forest. Suddenly, he gave an exclamation, and bent down. Ket saw with dismay that he had found the flat stone inscribed with the Cormac name that Ket had cast away. Ket watched apprehensively as the other boy hurried across to the ogham rod to compare the marks. Would Lorccán guess the word that was carved on the stone?
