Night of the Fifth Moon

by Anna Ciddor

  Lorccán looked abashed, and Ket felt a secret glee.

  They made their way in single file along the riverbank, weaving among the willows and alders, with the river thundering over the rocks to their right. All around them the forest was wakening from the gloom of winter. The rain which had swollen the river had also washed the trees. The dark holly leaves were polished and gleaming, while green, hairy mosses draped wetly along the branches of the oaks. Song thrushes poured out their tunes, cawing rooks darted from tree to tree, and primroses, colt’s-foot, snowdrops and starry blackthorn flowers lit up the undergrowth. Here and there, bare branches were breaking into leaf, and Ket caught a glimpse of a single fragile butterfly perching and fluttering among the trees.

  The ground rose gradually steeper so that they bent forward, their breaths coming in quick pants. Then suddenly the trees opened into a clearing and there was the spring, shadowed by an outcrop of rock, stretching at their feet. The noise of the rushing river and the calls of the birds faded away. Here was a stillness, and a waiting.

  With barely a rustle of clothes or clink of weapons the warriors crept to the rim of the pool. They stared at the water that welled straight from the depths of the Underworld, from the home of the dead, from the world of the spirits. But all they could see in the still, black surface was the reflection of their own faces, their shining swords and their shields.

  Faelán took Gortigern’s sword and raised it in the air.

  ‘Spirit of the Sacred Spring, accept these offerings and bring Gortigern victory and protection in his coming battle.’

  He swung his arm. The sword flashed upwards, then sliced into the pool. It vanished instantly, but at the point where it entered the water, rings rippled outwards, silvery and shimmering, and merged together, like an orb floating on the blackness.

  ‘A sign!’ cried Faelán, pointing. ‘The most auspicious day for your attack will be the next full moon.’

  As the watching men broke into excited exclamations and began to hurl in more offerings, Ket stared transfixed at the pin on Faelán’s cloak. It was bronze, moulded in the shape of a stag. The last time he had seen that brooch, it was buried in the pit at Imbolc, sacrificed to Mother Earth.

  ‘Look at that beautiful gold hilt! And that jewelled sheath. And that brand-new shield!’ wailed Lorccán, as weapon after weapon tumbled into the pool.

  ‘Don’t you go getting ideas,’ warned Goll. ‘No sneaking back when everyone is gone. Anything that is given in sacrifice must remain forever where it lies.’

  ‘I know,’ groaned Lorccán.

  ‘What about a druid?’ asked Ket. ‘Could he take a sacrifice out again?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Goll. ‘That would anger the spirits.’

  Ket threw another bewildered glance at the pin on Faelán’s cloak. ‘It can’t be the same brooch,’ he thought. ‘I must be mistaken.’

  Everyone was leaving the spring now, tramping noisily around the edge and disappearing into the trees. In a few minutes, Ket was the only person left in the clearing. He stood, listening to the buzz of an insect, the drip-drip of water, and stared into the pool. There was no sign, no glimmer at all, of the treasures sunk in her depths. The spirit had accepted the offerings, and now she was silent again.

  ‘And waiting,’ mused Ket.

  He felt as if the Sacred Spring was calling to him. Asking for one more sacrifice.

  ‘But I don’t have anything,’ said Ket out loud.

  He looked down at his clothes. He had no armbands, no silver ornaments on his laces, not even a buckle on his belt. And then he remembered the simple iron pin holding up his cloak. Slowly, he reached up and unclasped it. His cloak slithered to the ground and he stood there, the brooch clenched in his fist. He knew the iron would rust and dissolve in the water, but he had nothing else to offer. He raised his arm.

  ‘Spirit of the Sacred Spring, accept this humble offering. Please help me win against Lorccán. Please, please let me be an anruth.’

  There was a tiny splash, and the brooch was swallowed up in the blackness.

  THE EVE

  OF BATTLE

  It was the eve of the full moon. The Ardal clan was mustered for battle before the walls of Morgor. Up on the ramparts, Morgor’s men watched with bows drawn.

  On a flat stone in the centre of the Ardal camp lay the body of a sacrificed deer. Tirech and his brother lit a roaring fire nearby, and began to dig a cooking pit. Water seeped into the pit from the wet ground, and the two men rolled in hot stones from the fire. Splash, splash, splash.

  Steam wafted from the pit.

  ‘Druid, what are the portents?’ called Gortigern.

  The druid clumped towards the sacrifice on the makeshift altar, his cloak billowing and his long silver hair streaming backwards.

  ‘I must re-e-ead the entrails.’ His voice was quavering and hollow. It sounded like the voice of the wind.

  He gazed at the bloody heap of innards spilled on the stone. There was silence except for the whisper of the wind and the crackle of the fire.

  ‘Commence your attack at daybreak,’ said the druid at last, ‘from the direction of the rising sun. Morgor thinks he has nothing to fear from you. He will keep his main force within the ramparts.’ Faelán’s voice was scathing. ‘He will leave his herdboys with their sticks and clods of earth protecting the cattle. He will send only his champion to challenge you in single combat.’ The druid turned. His face glowed in the light of the fire and his tone rang with excitement and triumph. ‘But you will annihilate these paltry defences! With the help of my magic arts, you will broach those high stone walls . . .’

  The crowd exploded, shouting and thumping each other on the back. Ket had a glimpse of Nessa among the big burly men but when he tried to catch her eye, she vanished among the rabble. Tirech and his brother lifted the carcass of the deer and heaved it into the simmering water. Tirech’s forehead gleamed with little beads of perspiration. A mead cup began to make its rounds. Gortigern broke into a loud, belligerent battle song, and the others joined in at the top of their voices, clapping and stamping in rhythm.

  Ket felt a tug at his sleeve and turned to find Nessa by his side, her face flushed. He grabbed her by the arms as the crowd jostled around them, almost sweeping her away.

  ‘Nessa! Are you all right?’

  Nessa nodded vigorously. ‘Brehon Áengus is teaching me the laws already. Did you know that girls are not supposed to inherit land or . . .’ Ket could see the eagerness and enthusiasm in her eyes though her voice was drowned by the clamour of the crowd. She leaned towards him and he caught her final words. ‘When I’m a brehon, I’m going to change all that!’

  The wind rose in a sudden gust. Nessa’s braids whipped across her cheeks, and the Ardal banner, with its white hound on a red ground, snapped and flapped on its pole.

  There were worried shouts from behind, and Ket glanced over his shoulder. The anruth were grabbing at the pile of green rowan branches they had brought for the druid, catching them before they blew away. Art beckoned frantically at Ket.

  ‘You’d better go,’ said Nessa. She slid from his grasp and he had a last glimpse of gold beads dancing on the end of braids before she vanished into the mob.

  ‘It is time to light the rowan fire,’ Faelán declared. ‘Ket, you may do the honours.’

  Self-consciously, Ket drew a burning brand from the campfire. The wind almost blew it out, and he hastily bent double to protect it.

  The anruth huddled close as he thrust the flame at the pile of green branches. He waited for long anxious moments with the wind whistling about his ears. At last, the rowan began to smoulder, and pungent smoke billowed outwards.

  Faelán lifted his arms to mutter an incantation while Ket backed away, holding his hand over his nose and trying not to cough.

  ‘O Rowan tree

  O bringer of life and protection

  Bring victory to the Ardal clan

  Bring victory to Gortigern,’

  cha
nted the druid.

  Lorccán staggered through the smoke, carrying the cauldron, and lifted it onto the flames.

  Soon, the fumes of healing herbs and burning rowan mingled with the smell of boiling deer flesh. Someone unsheathed his sword and began to sharpen it on a whetstone. The menacing swish swish swish sliced the air. The warriors crowded around the fire to paint their faces with soot and stiffen their hair with ashes and water. As Ket looked at the whitened locks twisted on their heads, and their eyes ringed in black, he felt his pulses quicken. In a few hours, they would be going into battle.

  ‘Wish I could see Bran’s face when they all come pouring through the gate,’ said Lorccán.

  ‘Bran?’ Ket looked at Lorccán blankly, and then he remembered. Of course, Bran was one of Morgor’s herdboys. He would be out there in the fields, trying to protect the cattle, when Gortigern struck.

  ‘He’ll be sorry he was always so nasty,’ said Maura.

  ‘Sorry?’ chuckled Art. ‘Bran doesn’t know what sorry means.’

  ‘He’s going to be furious,’ said Ket. ‘He’s cross enough being herdboy for a chieftain. Imagine what he’ll think when Morgor becomes a commoner!’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll be worrying overmuch,’ said Goll, ‘he’ll most likely be dead.’

  ‘Dead?!’

  ‘It’s a battle, remember, and if he’s out there in the fields, well . . .’ Goll shrugged. ‘You heard what Faelán said, the defenders will be annihilated.’

  Ket felt as if someone had poured icy water down his back.

  ‘Yay!’ crowed Lorccán. ‘Then we can mash up his brains and turn him into brain balls!’

  FULL MOON

  Alone before the fading embers of the fire, Ket gazed around the sleeping camp. By the full moon, he could make out the ghostly peaks of the tents where the men lay snoring, their feasting and drinking over. He could see the lookout guards nodding off, slumped against their halberds; and Faelán with his retinue, asleep in a huddle on the ground.

  He peered beyond the black outline of a drystone fence into Morgor’s fields. Was that dark patch a cluster of cows, or just bushes? Was that sound the shuffle of hoofs, or the pacing of a nervous boy? Was Bran sleepless too, staring back at the fires and the warriors, watching and afraid?

  Ket rubbed his hands against his chest. He felt as if someone was squeezing it, making it hard to breathe. He’d never liked Bran. Nobody liked Bran. But still . . .

  Ket closed his eyes and clenched his fists, trying to rekindle the fighting fever that had simmered inside him for the past month. He reminded himself that Morgor was the one who had stolen the lordship from his own father.

  ‘Morgor deserves to be overthrown,’ he growled.

  But it wasn’t true. In the years of Morgor’s lordship there had been no discontent, no failure of crops, no terrible diseases, no burdensome taxes. And Morgor shared his wealth with generosity. They had all taken pride in the banquet he held for the king.

  While as for Gortigern . . . Ket opened his eyes and scowled at the champion’s tent, ringed by burning candles with big, bushy wicks.

  ‘Just like the candles of a king,’ he scoffed. ‘He thinks he is such a grand, important personage.’

  He thought of Tirech’s struggle for compensation, he thought of Gortigern at the king’s banquet striking his unarmed opponent with a dagger. Despite Nessa’s words, despite the druid’s declamations, Ket could not believe that Gortigern was worthy.

  ‘He doesn’t deserve to win. He doesn’t deserve the druid’s support. And Bran doesn’t deserve to die!’

  A picture of the deer’s entrails, spattered and bloody on the altar stone, rose in Ket’s mind. He leapt to his feet, trying to escape the nauseating image, but now other pictures kept flashing into his head, imaginary pictures of Bran with dead unseeing eyes like the deer, Bran with his head chopped off, and his brains all . . .

  Ket clutched his belly and vomited into the fire.

  He sank down and buried his head in his hands.

  ‘I can’t let it happen,’ he thought, ‘I can’t let it happen!’

  There was a sourness in his mouth and it was not just from being sick. It was the taste of loss, of fear, of bewilderment. In his race to be the chosen anruth, he had thrown himself into every task that Faelán had set him, followed every command with blind faith. But this . . . he couldn’t do it. Bran had been part of his life, part of his family. Ket couldn’t stand by and let him be killed, just to glorify that bully Gortigern.

  Ket stood up, his legs shaking. He would creep across to the fence, call out to Bran and warn him.

  But even as the plan crossed his mind, he knew it wouldn’t work. Even if Bran were awake, and heard him, he would scoff at Ket and refuse to believe, as he always had.

  ‘Bran! Bran!’ Ket groaned the name in frustration. ‘What else can I do?’ He gazed round helplessly at all the tents. So many of them! Every man and boy from the Ardal clan was there, and they’d even gathered supporters from other clans. ‘There must be a hundred men here! If they attack, Bran doesn’t stand a chance.’

  Ket beat his fists despairingly against his thighs. What could he do? What could he do?

  He longed to just turn and run, away from this terrifying threat, away from the battle. He wanted to run to the druid’s camp, to the Sacred Yew and the hollow oak, back to a life that was familiar, and safe.

  And suddenly, though he knew the clearing would be dark and deserted, he could resist no longer. Nobody stirred or called as he fled along the path, dodging between the tents. He stumbled into pools of mud, lurched out again and ran on. He reached the solid ground of the plain, his lungs struggling for air, and there, rearing in front of him, was the mound of the cairn, ghost-coloured in the moonlight.

  He slowed, gasping for breath; and the next instant his mind was ablaze with a wild, impossible idea.

  Ket threw himself at the boulder blocking the entrance to the tomb and, with all his desperate strength, heaved it out of the way. A wave of icy air, like the breath of death, poured over him. Ket recoiled, then, gathering his courage, he thrust himself into the narrow opening, slithering on the stones, and striking his head against the low ceiling. His forehead throbbed as he stumbled forward, running his hands along the walls.

  He reached the place where the tunnel opened into a chamber and straightened up, heart pattering wildly, ears filled with the rasp of his own frightened breathing. His eyes raked the darkness, seeking along the grey blur of stone walls for a glimmer of the silver horn.

  It wasn’t there.

  His throat tightened as he took a tentative step, haunted by the memory of a dead white hand thudding onto his foot.

  His toe clanged against something hard, and he stopped, frozen. Slowly, fearfully, he ran his gaze downwards. At his feet lay something faintly shiny. He let out a cry. Of course, the horn was lying on the floor, where he’d dropped it. He bent and scooped it up, but as he cradled it in his arms he saw that the silver no longer gleamed with newness. The long curve of metal was covered with holes and dints, the brightness tarnished.

  Feverishly now, he plunged outwards, searching for the warriors. Dust billowed as he swept aside fragments of embroidered hangings. Rusty spears clattered to the stone floor. Bare bones rattled under his feet. For the first time, he noticed the grave goods arranged in the chamber – drinking horns studded with jewels, a wine flagon in a tarnished bronze stand, coloured beads in a circle with their thread rotted away.

  But there was no sign of the Shadow Ones who had been here at Samhain. The warriors who might have protected Bran and led a charge against Gortigern were at last crumbled to dust. There was nothing left but their skeletons.

  Ket sank to his knees.

  ‘I destroyed them,’ he said in an anguished moan.

  For endless, agonising moments, Ket knelt there, the horn clutched in his arms, crushed with disappointment.

  Then, as before, his hands, of their own volition, lifted the horn t
o his lips. This time, the sound when it came, was a plaintive note like the call of a plover.

  The darkness around him stirred as if taking a breath. Dust clouds rose and swirled, though here under the ground there was no wind. The hard, gleaming whiteness of a bare skull wavered and softened. A luminous, transparent face hovered over it. For a moment, the bone still showed, then the flesh thickened and the skull faded. The next instant Ket was staring into a pair of dark, living eyes.

  ‘Is it time?’ asked a voice.

  Ket couldn’t speak. In front of him, the jumble of bones and rusty metal had disappeared. In their place, the warriors with shining swords had returned. They were groaning and stretching as if waking from a sleep. One of them struggled upright, and Ket gaped at the dagger hilt protruding from his chest. Then, as they all began to stand, he saw that each bore the marks of battle, though none seemed disturbed by their ghastly injuries.

  They were tall and bearded, clothed in rough fabrics and animal pelts. Over their long blond hair they wore strange bronze helmets decorated with animal horns, or even whole heads of wolves and eagles. Their shields were long, covering them from knee to brow, and made not of wood and iron, but of wicker or leather.

  In a few minutes they were all standing. Watching him.

  Ket rose, stumbling, to face them, and licked his dry lips.

  ‘I . . . I have called you for battle,’ he croaked.

  They all nodded.

  ‘We are the Tuatha de Danaan, and we will follow where’er you lead us, Master of the Horn,’ said the first warrior. His voice was deep, resonating inside the stone chamber of the tomb.

  Ket glanced down. The instrument in his grasp was now shining and new again. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Uh . . . thanks. Well, er, let’s go then.’

  He turned to lead the way and felt the Shadow Ones close in behind him. His hands, gripping the horn, were sticky with sweat.

  BATTLE LINES