Night of the Fifth Moon

by Anna Ciddor

  The cheerful peep peep peep of a robin broke the stillness. Ket tensed and lifted his head. He was so nervous he felt as if his body was on fire. Beside him, in the darkness, he was conscious of his band of warriors drawing themselves to attention.

  There was a stirring in the battle camp in front of them, and as the dawn broke, the Ardal clan came charging up the slope, shields gleaming, spearheads glinting. ‘Victory for Gortigern!’ they yelled, in full-throated battle cry.

  Then they skidded to a halt.

  Standing in a row along the boundary of Morgor’s fields, caught in the first beam of golden sunshine, were Ket and his band of warriors.

  There was uproar from the clan of Ardal, and Gortigern pushed his way to the front, shaking his fist. He showed no sign of recognising Ket as he began to bawl, ‘Who are you?! Morgor’s nose-pickings? I am the champion of King Breasal! I am the one who brought Cellach o Muiredaich to his knees. I am the one who conquered Eochaid of the Seven Spears. Morgor is not even fit to wipe my backside! If you try to resist me, I will raze your walls and burn your homes and mash you into pulp!’

  He paused to catch his breath and Ket flung back a retort.

  ‘You can’t! These warriors are the Tuatha de Danaan. You can’t defeat them. They are dead already.’

  Trembling, he held Gortigern’s gaze. Around him, the men of the Ardal clan pressed close, muttering threats. Ket could almost feel their angry breaths.

  All of a sudden, the mob parted, and Ket saw the druid moving through their midst, the smoke of the rowan fire wafting up behind him.

  Ket felt a rush of guilt. Faelán’s face was drained of colour and when he reached the front and pointed at Ket, his arm was trembling.

  ‘What . . . is the meaning of this?’ Faelán sounded old and bewildered.

  Ket stood there, mute with agony. He wanted to protect Bran and defy Gortigern, but he hated to pit himself against his master. An agitated figure burst out of the crowd in front of him.

  ‘Ket! ’ Nessa’s face was distorted with shock. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I . . . I had to stop the battle,’ Ket spoke at last, his voice quavering. ‘So I fetched the Tuatha de Danaan.’ He lifted his chin defiantly. ‘Gortigern is not worthy to be chieftain.’

  Nessa stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘Druid!’ Gortigern spat the word as he whirled round. ‘Get rid of these . . . these . . .’

  Faelán had not taken his eyes from Ket. Now, slowly, very slowly, he lowered his arm and shook his head.

  ‘I am afraid that is not possible.’ His voice sounded hollow and distant. ‘My magic arts will be of no avail against the Shadow Ones.’

  He turned, tottering slightly, so that the anruth rushed to support him, and the crowd parted to let them through. Lorccán cast a triumphant glance in Ket’s direction before he followed in their wake.

  ‘But . . . wait . . .’ Gortigern sputtered.

  In a fury of spite, the champion spun round and hurled his spear at the Tuatha de Danaan. Ket dived out of the way but it thudded into the man beside him. As the Ardal clan let out a roar, the Tuatha de Danaan warrior glanced down, tugged the spear from his chest and dropped it disdainfully on the ground.

  Taking a breath, Ket raised the horn and blew a short, rousing blast.

  As one man, the Shadow Ones lifted their swords. With one voice, they let out a bellow.

  The Ardal clan turned and fled, Gortigern in the lead.

  Ket lowered the horn and stared at their retreating backs. In a moment the battleground was deserted. The Tuatha de Danaan were once more silent and motionless.

  ‘Well, well,’ mocked a familiar voice behind him. ‘Aren’t you the big hero?’ It was Bran, standing by the fence, hands on hips and a derisive expression on his face. ‘I suppose you expect us to fall down and kiss your feet?’

  ‘I . . .’ Ket felt his cheeks flush. ‘It doesn’t matter what you think,’ he muttered.

  Bran raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Well, and what are you going to do now? I don’t reckon Old Feather-cloak is exactly going to welcome you back with open arms.’

  Ket couldn’t reply. He had been carried away on a wave of bravery and defiance. But now . . . Faelán and the anruth would despise him. By his one desperate act he had made himself an outcast. He could never return to the druid’s camp. That last image of Lorccán’s face, lit by an exultant gleam, rose to taunt him. He turned his back on Bran.

  ‘Come on,’ he mumbled to the Tuatha de Danaan. ‘I’ll take you home.’

  They followed, silent as they had come. No footfalls, no clatter of weapons. They flowed back into the tomb. When he came to a halt in the dark chamber he could feel them clustered around him, waiting and watching.

  ‘Thank you,’ he whispered. He peered into the gloom, trying to see the faces of these men who had risen from the past and obeyed his command, but all he could distinguish was shadowy outlines and the glimmer of helmets. ‘Thank you,’ he repeated. ‘You may rest again now.’

  He bent and laid the horn on the ground. It clinked as it touched the cold stone. He waited a moment, his head bowed. When he raised his eyes, the warriors had sunk to the floor, and already he could see the white of their bones. Without looking back, he groped his way to the door.

  ALONE

  Ket was so still, sitting with his back against an oak tree, that the squirrel paid him no attention. She scuttled down the trunk, used his shoulder to launch herself to the ground, then picked up an acorn in her front paws and began to nibble. Her coat was brown with a russet tinge along her back and tail, and as she moved, the sun seemed to tip every hair with gold.

  ‘Like Nessa’s hair,’ thought Ket.

  As the squirrel twitched her head from side to side, eyes constantly shifting, ears twisting, he felt his own senses sharpen. Slowly he became aware of the sounds she was listening to: the rain trickling through the branches, the busy chirrup of birds, the rustle of beaks prodding for insects. He smelled the damp earth and imagined he could taste the nut she was nibbling. When she turned it in her paws, he felt it was his own hands moving.

  Then suddenly a wave of anger swept through him, and he sprang to his feet.

  ‘I don’t need to watch you any more,’ he yelled. As the startled squirrel bounded for cover, he shouted after her. ‘There’s no point now! I’m never going to be a druid!’

  Ket swayed, dizzy with hunger and weariness.

  For three days he’d been running away. Running from Morgor’s high stone walls, from Lorccán’s smirk and Nessa’s bewilderment, running from the fury of the Ardal clan, the champion Gortigern, and the memory of the hurt reproach in Faelán’s eyes.

  ‘But I had to do it, I had to!’ Ket cried out loud.

  His words, swallowed up by the trees, sounded futile and pathetic. The animals were silent now, as if shocked by his betrayal. The air filled with the scent of wet leaves and the splish splosh of rain. Ket began to shiver in his clammy clothes. He wrapped his arms around himself and squatted down, his teeth chattering.

  His virtuous defiance was trickling away. In its place, a misery of shame was creeping over him. Who was he, a mere fosterling, to have questioned the wisdom of the druid? Faelán knew everything in the world, and could foretell the future. If Faelán had seen a vision that Gortigern should be chieftain, then it must be true.

  ‘But,’ queried a small, insidious voice in his head, ‘did Faelán really have that vision?’

  Ket tried to push the doubt away. His master was a man of honour; he would never lie about a vision, he would never abuse the trust that people placed in him.

  Or would he?

  All of a sudden, images, searing and hideous as vomit, poured into Ket’s mind: the druid crawling into his hut to escape the wind and rain, the druid counting his gifts of gold from Gortigern, the druid clumping around in silver sandals, the druid wearing a bronze brooch stolen from the sacrifice . . .

  Questions and doubts whirled in Ket’s hea
d. Had Faelán become so puffed up with his own importance that he no longer respected the spirits, no longer respected his own teachings? Or . . .

  A worse thought struck Ket. It was like a physical blow, making him cry out.

  Maybe the teachings were a lie! Maybe the rituals were a sham. Maybe . . . maybe Bran was right. Ket buried his face in his hands. For five years and more he had yearned to be a druid; he had worshipped Faelán with blind, unswerving faith. But now . . . if druids were ordinary people, if none of their teachings were true, then he had wasted all those years of his life. He had nothing. Nothing! Desperately, he tried to conjure up a fury of indignation, but all he could feel was loss. He felt as if someone had torn out his heart and left a great, gaping hole.

  He sat, unable to move, while the dank and dark of evening wrapped around him.

  With the first light of dawn, the squirrel poked her head up from her drey. She gave herself a vigorous scratch, and glanced round with bright, inquisitive eyes. Ket still huddled motionless at the foot of the tree. Keeping a wary eye on him, she ventured down the trunk to her secret hoard of nuts.

  Ket was hollow with hunger. The sight of the squirrel nibbling broke through his fog of misery. He swayed forward.

  ‘Please, Squirrel, may I have some of your acorns?’

  The squirrel hardly paid attention as he inched towards her, eased his hand into the hollow and drew out a few nuts.

  ‘Thank you,’ he breathed.

  The damp had caused the acorns to sprout, and leached out some of their bitterness. Ket and the squirrel chewed together in companionable silence. Ket felt a tiny flicker of pride. A few weeks ago, the squirrel would have fled if he’d tried to come so close. It was only by watching, as Faelán had instructed, that . . .

  Ket stopped in mid bite.

  ‘It’s all true!’ he squawked, struggling to keep his voice soft so he wouldn’t frighten the squirrel. He felt light-headed with relief. Faelán had strayed from his own teachings, but that didn’t mean those teachings were false. ‘No ordinary person could have taught me how to make friends with a squirrel!’

  Suddenly he could see the druid again in the full glory of his power: sweeping away the wind with a branch of broom, casting Ossian down with a pointed finger, and passing across the earth with footsteps as light as the tread of a butterfly.

  Ket was elated, his agony of doubt swept away. He straightened up and looked at his surroundings for the first time.

  Spring had clearly arrived in this little wood. The willows and ash trees were green with new, young leaf, and there were bluebells and primroses everywhere. He scrambled to his feet and began to pluck primrose heads, stuffing the yellow petals ravenously into his mouth. Led by the sound of running water, he pushed through a thicket of alder trees, and fell to his knees on the bank of a brook. He scooped water in his hands and gulped thirstily.

  The stones of the river were encrusted with long black mussels. Seizing a sharp rock, Ket hacked one free, then glared at the tightly closed shell in frustration. With no fire for cooking, how was he supposed to open it? He slammed it against the rocks, and attacked it with his sharp stone. Finally, with bruised fingers, he pried it open, scraped out the yellow, rubbery flesh, then closed his eyes and let it slide down his throat.

  ‘Thank you, Spirit of the River,’ he murmured, ‘thank you for this sustenance.’

  His eyes flew open again and he reached forward to attack another mussel. The sun rose above the tree tops, the birds twittered, an early dragonfly hummed across the water, and the scent of primroses wafted from the warming earth.

  At last, Ket rocked back on his heels. He could not endure the taste of one more raw mussel. He gazed down at his hands, seeing, not the empty shell in his fingers, but the druid’s camp. He was imagining the warmth of the campfire, with Goll, Art, Bronal and Maura gathered around. He was smelling the scents of hare stew boiling in the cauldron, and burning rowan branches. He was watching the druid gaze up at the sky, reading the omens in the clouds.

  Ket heaved a deep, regretful sigh. Never again would he be part of that scene. Never again would he have the right to carry a branch of bells. And never, now, would he learn how to read the omens. He would live with Ragallach, just as his family had always planned. He would grow up to be an ordinary man, with no knowledge of spells, or the making of wands, or the art of healing. Just an ordinary farmer going on raids, ploughing fields, mucking out pigsties.

  Mournfully, he tossed aside the mussel shell and rose to his feet. It was time to go.

  There was a path of broken branches where he had battered his way through the alder thicket. When he emerged on the other side, he cast around for other signs that would show him the way he had come. Slowly, he began to pick his way along an elusive trail of snapped twigs and trampled grass, back through the unfamiliar woodland.

  ‘At least, with all that training to notice things around me, I’ll never get lost!’ he mused.

  Somehow, the thought seemed to make him more miserable.

  For four days he tramped, sustaining himself with raw buds and leaves, and sucking the sweet spring sap from birch twigs. This time he moved stealthily, hiding if he heard voices, for only a druid could venture beyond the borders of his tuath without fear of attack.

  At night he lay alone on the ground, staring up at the stars, wondering what future they foretold for him.

  On the fifth morning, as he lay listening to the dawn chorus, still half-asleep, he was startled by a crashing through the undergrowth. In a flash, he was scrambling up the trunk of a yew tree to hide in its branches. He waited for a stag to come flying through the trees pursued by hunters, but instead, it was a bunch of fians who sprang into view, galloping and hallooing on their horses. To Ket’s dismay, they drew rein beneath him. They were young, lithe and brown as fawns, their hair matted with mud and leaves, and so close he could smell the sweat from their unwashed bodies. He stared in alarm at their beasts, snorting, stamping and swishing their tails at the foot of his tree, muscles rippling in their huge rumps.

  The fians were holding nets in their hands, with stones tied to the corners. They laughed and pointed at the birds darting around in alarm. Then they slid off their horses’ backs and sprang up into the trees, whirling their nets in the air, and trapping the fluttering creatures.

  Terrified, Ket cowered in his hiding place, almost suffocated by the acrid smell of the yew needles. He saw one fian find a blackbird’s nest, toss the three tiny eggs into his mouth, and crunch them up, shell and all.

  When they had a pile of thrushes, pigeons and blackbirds lying dead with their necks wrung, the fians began to tear the living branches off the trees to make a campfire. They kindled a flame with flint and steel, and skewered the birds on stripped hazel sticks. Ket’s mouth watered as the smell of broiling bird flesh reached his nostrils.

  ‘Hey, look at that strange bird, there!’ yelled a voice, and Ket’s heart stopped beating as a dirty hand pointed up at him.

  Ket flung himself out of the yew, landing on all fours, but as he leapt to his feet to flee, a net crashed over his head and shoulders, and jerked him backwards.

  ‘What shall I do with this one?’ asked his captor, hauling Ket over to the fire.

  ‘Not much of a catch. Doesn’t look like he has any gold.’

  ‘Might have a bit of meat on him though.’

  The boy pinched Ket’s arm.

  Ket kicked out, wriggling desperately. They all laughed in derision.

  ‘Ach, stop your teasing. Leave him be. He’s no use to us.’ The last speaker was the only one old enough to grow a beard. He stretched, scratched his belly, and stood up. ‘Come on, let’s be on our way.’

  A moment later, the horses had pushed through the bushes and vanished, and Ket was left alone, staring at a few quivering leaves.

  Falling on his knees, he rummaged hopefully among the powdery ashes of the fire, but there was not an ember left, nor a morsel of meat. The fians had picked every bone cle
an. He flopped back, almost weeping in disappointment.

  Later that day, as dusk was falling, Ket reached the walls of Morgor’s fort. Emotions of pride, defiance and regret all surged inside him. This was the place where he had defeated his master.

  From here, he could cut through the forest and reach his old ringfort before it grew dark. Or . . . He hesitated, staring across the marsh. He could take the route through the bog and up onto the plain. He could feast his eyes on the druid’s camp one last time, before he started his new life.

  Ket waited for the cover of night. It was the dark half of the month and the moon would not rise for several hours. Moving as quietly and gently as a mist, he crossed the Plain of Moytura. He circled the cairn, no longer afraid of the dead within, and slipped into the forest. Creeping to the edge of the trees, he peeped through the branches.

  The camp was spread before him. He could see the sprawling outline of the Sacred Yew with the pale shape of the ogham rod at its roots. He could see the campfire, and everyone gathered around it. Faelán had his back to Ket, telling a tale and the others were listening, faces golden in the firelight.

  Ket craned forward, aching with yearning. He wanted to be with them, part of that circle. But he couldn’t even hear Faelán’s words. He was an outsider now. Just an onlooker.

  The druid threw his arm around the figure beside him, and the boy turned. It was Lorccán. Ket clutched the tree beside him, shaken by a wave of anger and envy.

  THE OGHAM

  MESSAGE

  Ket lay in the darkness, eyes closed, but he couldn’t sleep. Images kept tumbling through his mind: Faelán in his feather cloak, Lorccán grinning, the battle encampment, the walls of Morgor’s fort . . . He shot upright, feeling that every hair on his body was standing on end.

  Morgor’s fort! He saw it again as it had looked this evening. Only now, the quiet and peace of the scene struck him as sinister. Why had there been no sounds or movements? Why had he seen no archers on the ramparts? A dreadful realisation crept over him. Of course, as soon as he and the Shadow Ones had left, Gortigern’s men had returned! With the aid of the druid they had defeated Morgor. And . . .