Night of the Fifth Moon

by Anna Ciddor

  When it came time to sleep, Ket tossed aside his bedding and laid himself straight on the ground with no cover or cushion to separate him from earth or sky. His body grew so cold he could not even feel his face, but he tried to imagine he was a rock, hard and strong.

  He slept fitfully, aware all through the night of the empty space beside him. He watched the moon gradually make her way across the sky and wondered how Nessa was faring. The dew began to fall, and he burrowed his fingers into the damp, sweet-smelling soil, pretending he was a young plant thrusting out roots.

  He was up before sunrise, piling wood on the fire, and constantly glancing towards the trees, though he knew it was much too early for Nessa to return. Art and Bronal were surprised to find the fire burning merrily when they groaned out of their warm coverings.

  At dawn, Faelán emerged from his hut. He settled his best feather cloak about his shoulders, and shod his feet with the silver sandals.

  By daylight everyone was awake. They called out excited greetings as visitors began to arrive laden with new-baked loaves, dripping honeycombs, flitches of bacon, pats of fresh, glistening butter, and pails brimming with frothy sheep’s milk, the first of the spring.

  ‘Look who’s here!’ cried Ket.

  Riona was peeking from behind a huge wheel of flat bread she held clutched to her chest.

  ‘I made it myself,’ she said proudly, as Ket ran to take it from her arms.

  ‘This is going to be the best feast ever!’ said Lorccán. ‘And I’m ravenous!’

  But no one was allowed to swallow a morsel before the Spirit of Spring arrived. They milled restlessly about the camp, making disjointed conversation, and Lorccán took out his impatience by punching Ket on the shoulder whenever he passed.

  At last Faelán picked up his harp, and as the first notes rippled through the air, Nessa appeared between the trees. An awed silence fell on the crowd as she advanced. Her robe was the colour of the soft spring sunshine, and starry golden celandines wreathed her head. Rowan twigs, bursting into bud, were massed in her arms. Walking by her side, Maura waved a branch of hazel on which long yellow catkins bobbed and swayed. They came to a halt beyond the ring of the fire, and Faelán ceased his strumming.

  ‘Bend your knees and bid welcome to the Spirit of Spring!’ the druid’s voice rang out.

  Ket fell to his knees along with all the others and joined the fervent chant.

  ‘O come, Spirit of Spring, you are a hundred times welcome!’

  Nessa raised her arms in blessing and the farmers held up spades, hoes and handfuls of seeds. Evergreen leaves of ivy and holly were twined around the handles of their tools.

  ‘May the sowing of your seed bring a fruitful harvest,’ said Nessa in a clear, confident voice.

  She took her place on a cushion of heather, and a bower of hazel was arranged around her.

  Ket shyly kept his distance. This grand maiden didn’t seem to be the Nessa he knew.

  ‘And now . . .’ urged Faelán with a cry, ‘set your spades and hoes to work. Dig the soil . . .’

  His words were drowned by the ring of mattocks, and the scrape of spades. In a few minutes a pit had opened in the earth and everyone crowded to the edge to cast in their offerings. Earrings were torn from ears, pins from cloaks, rings from fingers, and tools hacked in half. Carried away by the fervour around him, Ket tossed in his silver armband from the queen. He watched it spin through the air and drop beside a bronze brooch cast in the shape of a stag. It glittered for one last time before it was buried forever in the belly of the earth.

  ‘Mother Earth,’ cried Faelán, raising one of the brimming buckets of sheep’s milk, ‘we thank you for your returning fruitfulness.’ He poured a libation of milk over the churned-up ground. ‘We offer you sacrifice and in return we beg your favour for our planting and our harvesting.’

  The bucket was passed around, and Ket thought he had never tasted anything so sweet. When Riona lowered the bucket, she had a white moustache of froth on her top lip.

  At last, it was time for the feasting. Everyone fell on the spread with boisterous enthusiasm. Ket wolfed down the streaky, smoked bacon, the bread oozing with butter and honey, the barm-brack cakes, and the elderberry wine. He didn’t pause till his belly was too full to squeeze in another bite. He looked around, wiping his fingers on his léine, and saw someone speaking to the druid. It was Gortigern the Champion, from the clan of Ardal. Before moving away, Gortigern eased a twisted gold torque from his neck and handed it to Faelán.

  As people staggered to their feet to take their leave, Nessa sat like a queen distributing sprigs of rowan. These charms, blessed by the Spirit of Spring, would hang in every barn to protect the new lambs and calves as they were born.

  It was not till the crowds were gone, Riona waving till she was out of sight, that Nessa left her bower to join her friends. As she tore the crown of celandines from her head and plonked down beside them, she was just their Nessa again.

  The druid eyed them all, lounging contentedly around the fire.

  ‘Imbolc is a time for visions,’ he proclaimed. ‘And last night I had a prophetic dream. I saw the chieftain walking through his fields. The harvest was so bountiful there were two ears of grain to every stalk, and the branches of the trees were so laden with fruit they bowed to the ground.’

  There was a stir of excitement among his listeners.

  ‘And that is not all,’ continued the druid, ‘in my dream, the chieftain was not Morgor, grandson of Niall, but Gortigern mac Ardal!’

  Ket jolted upright and Nessa let out a squeak of surprise.

  ‘But . . . but it was you who helped Morgor win the lordship,’ Ket protested.

  ‘Do you question my vision?!’ thundered Faelán. Everyone reeled back at the unexpected snarl of anger. ‘I am the kingmaker!’ He sucked in his breath, and smoothed his ruffled feathers like a bird. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse and low. ‘Gortigern is the most deserving,’ he growled. ‘He is a champion, young, handsome . . . and wealthy. And so, we shall assist Gortigern to wrest the lordship from Morgor.’

  He strode away, his sandals going clinkthud, clink-thud into their stunned silence.

  Ket’s mind was a whirl of confusion.

  Lorccán snatched up a stick and bounded to his feet.

  ‘We’re going to be in a fight!’ he cried. He began to skip around, stabbing the air.

  ‘A druid doesn’t fight with swords,’ Maura rebuked him. ‘Faelán will use his magic.’

  ‘One of those word spells?’ inquired Nessa, glancing at Ket, ‘where he stands on one foot and closes one eye, and points his finger?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ scoffed Lorccán. ‘Morgor knows about those. He’s built big stone walls to hide behind. We’ll have to fight our way in.’

  ‘Not us,’ said Goll. ‘A druid must live to tell the tale of the battle. He can’t risk going into danger.

  ‘But we’re not druids yet,’ objected Lorccán, ‘we’re just . . .’

  Goll shook his head. ‘None of his retinue will join in the fight. That’ll be up to Gortigern and the other men in Nessa’s clan. We’ll just be doing healing potions. And maybe we’ll make brain balls.’

  ‘Brain balls? What are they?’

  Goll grinned. ‘When they kill someone, we mix the brains with sea sand and let it harden into balls. With one of those in a slingshot, they can smash down anything.’

  ‘Yah!’ yelled Lorccán, whirling an imaginary slingshot.

  BATTLE

  PREPARATION

  ‘Nessa . . .’ Ket spoke hesitantly. ‘Do you think Gortigern is worthy of being a chieftain?’

  ‘Of course. The druid had a dream.’

  ‘That’s what he told us. Only . . .’

  Nessa stared at him. ‘You sound like Bran! Are you saying he made it up?’

  Ket chewed his lip. ‘No, of course not.’ He pushed away the memory of that new torque of solid gold coiling around the druid’s neck.

  ‘D
ruids don’t make things up,’ said Nessa firmly.

  Ket forgot his doubts in the fever of battle preparation. The people of the tuath were always raiding each others’ cattle or skirmishing over land, but it was only in struggles for power that the druid became involved. Ket had never taken part in a real fight, never even seen a battle, except that once, standing on the ramparts, witnessing his father’s humiliation.

  ‘And now Morgor is going to get a taste of his own treatment!’ he thought exultantly.

  To his pride and excitement, Faelán taught them the rituals for gathering the different healing plants. He instructed them which plants could only be picked after a day of fasting, or gathered with the left hand. He told them when they had to rise before the dawn, and pick while the dew still hung from the leaves. Jubilantly, they brought him the elm branches to make into healing wands, the marsh plants, rowan berries, holly leaves, and willow bark for poultices and potions. They climbed hills to find scarce trees or berries, waded through treacherous bog, and picked till their nails were torn and their fingers bruised.

  All around them, the forest rang to the clangour of men chopping wood for shields and weapons. Gleefully, Ket pictured them pouring over Morgor’s ramparts, hewing their way through his army, and reducing Morgor to a cowering wreck.

  Day after day, the men of the Ardal clan came stamping into camp, huge and noisy, to thrust long ash branches into the flames and harden them for their spear shafts. They brought their swords and daggers too, for Faelán’s blessing, till the whole camp was a dazzling array of shining blades, bronzed sheaths and gleaming golden hilts.

  ‘Hey, look at this one.’ Lorccán dropped a bundle of willow bark to reach for the silvery sword, engraved with twirling leaves and flowers, that was propped against the Sacred Yew.

  ‘Lorccán, don’t,’ protested Nessa.

  Lorccán, ignoring her, lifted it and flexed it in his hands.

  ‘Huh!’ he said in disgust. ‘Look how soft it is.’

  To Ket’s dismay, he bent the blade, then dumped it down where he had found it. Anxiously, Ket pressed it back into shape.

  ‘Nessa, come and give me a hand,’ called Maura.

  Gortigern’s men were standing in a row, slingshots at the ready, and Maura was about to teach them some of her tricks. Nessa, tall and lithe, took her place and swung her slingshot. Ket caught his breath. Nessa was like a red-gold flower swaying and twirling in the wind.

  ‘Hey, Ket, if you’ve got time to stand around gawking, you’ve got time to help me,’ called Art. He staggered past, his arms loaded with wood. ‘Come on, we need more rowan branches. It’s new moon tonight.’

  New moon?! Ket felt the blood drain from his face. He’d been so busy and excited he hadn’t noticed the passing of time. What if he was sent away tonight? He probably wouldn’t even be here for the battle!

  As he gathered branches in the forest, he felt as if he was preparing the coverings for his own burial shroud.

  When he stumbled back to camp, Nessa flew towards him, her face shining.

  ‘Did you see me?’ she cried. ‘Did you see me teaching Gortigern and Uncle Tirech, and all the others?’

  Ket couldn’t answer. He threw down his pile of branches and stared at them glumly.

  ‘Hey, what’s the matter?’ Nessa tried to peer into his face.

  ‘Tonight . . .’ He raised his eyes. ‘It’s the new moon.’

  To his amazement, a look of elation filled Nessa’s face. She reached out to grip his hands. ‘Don’t worry.’ The rod of her slingshot bit into his knuckles. ‘You won’t be sent away. I know. I promise.’

  THE SACRED

  SPRING

  Ket’s feet almost danced around the fire as they called up the Spirit of the Moon.

  ‘I’m staying, I’m staying!’ The words sang in his head. He watched Nessa circling in front of him and wondered how she knew. He hurled his rowan branch at the flames with such enthusiasm, it soared over the top, and almost missed the fire, and when they settled down for the druid’s announcement, he knew he was wearing a huge, foolish grin.

  But when he turned to face the druid, he saw that Nessa, instead of taking her place with the fosterlings, was standing at Faelán’s side, solemn-faced and rigid.

  A jangle of alarm shot through him.

  ‘Master Faelán,’ said Nessa, ‘I have something to say.’ She sent Ket a brief, reassuring smile. ‘I know that Ket . . . and Lorccán . . . still passionately want to be druids,’ she went on. ‘But, as for me . . .’ She cleared her throat. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’ Ket’s jaw dropped. ‘I want to be apprenticed to Brehon Áengus. The law is supposed to be for everyone, from servant to chieftain, and I want to make sure that all the people in the tuath know their rights and privileges. Brehon Áengus doesn’t . . . er . . .’ She coloured, tugging one braid with her fingers, then went on in a rush. ‘He doesn’t have any assistants, and if I’m there to help him we can make sure that every person gets a fair hearing and a fair compensation. And then, one day, I will be the brehon!’

  ‘So,’ said Faelán, looking down at her, ‘slowly, the stars are revealing their designs for all my fosterlings.’

  No! No! Ket wanted to cry out the words, as he watched Nessa hand back her bells, but his mouth was too dry to make a sound.

  ‘Nessa, you can’t leave!’ he wailed, a few minutes later, when Nessa was taking her last meal by the druid’s fire. He leaned close to make himself heard above the racket. ‘You always wanted to be a druid. And . . .’ He paused, gathering the courage to say something he’d never wanted to admit. ‘And . . . and you’re the best at everything.’

  Nessa pried a limpet out of its shell and swallowed it before she raised her head.

  ‘Ket, I always wanted to be a druid, but . . . there’s not room for all of us, so now I’ve found something else to do. I’ll be just as happy being a brehon. But you . . .’ She looked at him earnestly. ‘You only want to be a druid.’

  ‘Yes, b—’

  She pressed a finger over his lips. It smelt of fish. ‘But you have to promise me to win,’ she said. Her face was fiercely determined. ‘Don’t you dare let yourself get beaten by that gilded heap of conceit!’

  She glanced at Lorccán.

  Ket stared at her blazing green eyes, emotions whirling inside him. ‘I’ll win!’ he vowed.

  ‘And now . . .’ Nessa stood up, brushing off her long skirt. ‘It’s time for me to go.’

  ‘Nessa!’ Ket scrambled to his feet and clasped her hands. They stared at each other, not speaking. Then Nessa turned her head and looked around the camp.

  Ket followed, stumbling, as she crossed to the hollow oak and rested her hand on the trunk.

  ‘Remember,’ she said, and her voice was low and shaky, ‘remember at Samhain, when we all hid in here together, and you were brave and went to the burial cairn?’

  Ket nodded.

  ‘Goodbye, tree,’ whispered Nessa. Her eyes swept the clearing. ‘Goodbye, fire. Goodbye, Sacred Yew.’

  ‘Coming, Nessa?’ Maura and Goll strode up and stood each side of her, like guards. ‘Time to leave.’

  Nessa brought her gaze back to Ket. Her eyes were brimming with tears. He stared at her, not trusting himself to speak.

  ‘Goodbye, Ket,’ she breathed. ‘Goodbye.’

  Next morning Ket prowled the camp on his own, head lowered, kicking at stones. He had not felt so lonely, so desolate, since his father had left him here more than five years before. His toe struck a wreath of ivy and he came to a halt. Slowly, he stooped to pick it up and a shower of faded celandine petals fluttered through his fingers. He stared. It was the head-dress Nessa had worn for Imbolc. The flowers were dead, but the leaves were still green.

  Footsteps crunched behind him.

  ‘So, it’s you and me, Ket,’ said a voice.

  Ket’s hands clenched convulsively as he rose and turned.

  ‘Yes, Lorccán, it’s you or me.’

  Lorccán was wearing his usua
l confident smirk.

  ‘Can you read that ogham message yet?’ he demanded.

  Ket glared at him, breathing hard. ‘Can you?’ he asked.

  ‘Almost.’

  But just at that moment Ket didn’t care who could read the ogham. All he could think of was the expression on Nessa’s face as she’d said her goodbyes.

  With a clatter of their shields and swords, the warriors of the Ardal clan swept into camp. For once, Ket didn’t turn to watch, but Lorccán scowled at them.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t see why we can’t have real swords too.’

  Ket felt a slow grin spreading across his face.

  ‘Nessa will have a sword,’ he said. ‘I bet she’ll be fighting in the battle now.’

  ‘Come on, you two,’ called Goll, ‘we’re going to the Sacred Spring.’

  ‘What for?’ Ignoring each other, they galloped to join him.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Ket’s words tumbled out in excitement. This would be his first time at the Sacred Spring.

  ‘Gortigern wants to make a sacrifice to ask for success in his battle,’ said Goll.

  Lorccán glanced, appalled, at all the shiny new weapons the men were carrying.

  ‘Not those . . . they’re not going to sacrifice those, are they?’ he cried.

  Goll shrugged.

  ‘But that’s such a waste!’ Lorccán protested.

  ‘It is never a waste to please a spirit.’ Faelán’s words rasped out reprovingly as he strode up behind them, the ornaments on his silver sandals tinkling. ‘The Sacred Spring is the most powerful spirit of all. Water is both creator and destroyer of life.’