Dalkeith had become an immense inferno with countless pyres that blazed under the stars. In this brilliant light, the fort seemed to be under attack by orange shimmers, flickering like unreal chimeras. Smoke billowed above the noisy city.
Midnight struck, May began, and the festival of Bealltainn was in full swing in honor of spring. The town had never been so full. Hundreds of people from the surrounding areas had traveled for the event. On every street corner, beer flowed in the euphoric atmosphere; not a second went by without someone bursting into laughter.
Everyone was dancing, singing, hugging, eating, and getting drunk in the firelight to the sound of the musicians playing rousing melodies on their clarsachs* and their lutes. Ever since the first fire was lit, Fergus had likewise lit up with joy, running through his entire repertoire and surprising the other players with his otherworldly musical experimentation.
Fillan had been wandering the streets, trying to enjoy the festivities. He had already drunk two beers, but he didn’t feel any lighter, unable to lower his guard. All these flames awoke painful memories he tried to fend off. The permanent tension gripped him and prevented him from letting go.
For the second time, he found himself in the main square around a bonfire that was so big it almost seemed like the sunrise. Around twenty people held hands in a circle around it. A young redheaded girl asked Fillan to join them, but he blinked and turned on his heels.
He saw Deorsa heading towards him.
“Fillan! What a pleasure to see you here!”
He couldn’t even pretend to smile.
“Such a shame we haven’t gotten the chance to chat these last few days,” lamented the spy. “I would have liked to exchange words with you!”
Judging by his slight wobble, the man was tipsy—though Fillan wondered if that might be an act, because he still had the usual glint in his eyes.
“I heard you killed a man during the raid?!” he whispered in his ear. “Well done, you, that’s a big step!”
Fillan almost choked on his beer. Firstly, because he’d never imagined he’d be congratulated for taking a life, and secondly, because the feeling of the sword slicing into the English soldier’s body still gave him cold sweats.
“In many places,” continued Deorsa, “it’s a rite of passage to become a man. I’ll always remember the first time I killed! Snake and dagger. The dagger was only because I’d forgotten to choose a poisonous snake,” he said with a laugh that spilled his beer. “What, cat got your tongue?”
“Sören had to help me do it,” admitted Fillan, even though he was sure the spy already knew.
“So what? You didn’t run away or piss your pants. That’s something.”
They drank and silently observed a spark from the fire rising into the sky.
“What does the Brotherhood want with me?” asked Fillan, pretending like it was nothing.
“Not so loud,” said the man, returning to stone, as though he’d never had a drop of alcohol. “This isn’t the time or the place.”
“You send me all over the place, and I’m not even allowed one question?”
“You’re special to the Brotherhood, but I’m not permitted to tell you why.”
“But…” started Fillan in annoyance.
“A bit of advice for you,” interrupted Deorsa with a conspiratorial air. “If I were you, I’d get away from the mercenaries tonight. Enjoy the party and the beer, go dance, and empty your head a bit!”
He gave him a malicious smile before laughing as he walked away. Fillan hated him more than ever.
“What was that old snake telling you?” asked Kyle as she joined him.
She had traded her leather armor for simpler clothes, though they were still masculine. All around them, the women wore dresses and flower crowns. Kyle stood out, but it didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest. The only thing she’d done was let down her hair, which tumbled down her back. Fillan thought she looked magnificent.
“To get away from you tonight,” he said, trying to get a reaction from her.
“Sounds like something that old codger would say.”
“You don’t like him either?”
“The first time Sören introduced me to him, he called me ‘honey.’”
Fillan grimaced as he pictured what must have happened to the spy after that.
“You get it. I kicked him in the nuts. Why do you think his voice is so high?”
They burst into laughter.
“Come on,” continued Kyle as she took him by the arm. “I’m taking you to meet someone much nicer.”
She led him with a skip to a cottage. Curious bones adorned the walls, and the skull of an auroch was displayed in one of the windows. There were more garlands here than anywhere else, and the majority of those that wound around and through the village seemed to start from this specific point.
Fillan had spotted this strange building the day they arrived, but it had been closed up until tonight. The door was open now and a mountain of flowers were spread around the entrance. Inside sat an old woman in a dark dress embroidered with flowers.
“A druid?” asked Fillan in surprise,
“Shhh,” replied Kyle, hitting him in the side.
The elder must have been more than fifty years old and was waving a wand around a cow held by a peasant with a string around its neck. She was saying indecipherable words with her eyes bulging. She finished her sermon and traced a symbol on the animal’s forehead after dipping her finger in a bowl of blood. The cow gave a moo under the joyful eyes of its owner.
Fillan couldn’t help but tut, throwing a look over at Kyle, who seemed fascinated.
“Tilda!” she cried once the peasant and cow had left.
“My little Kyle! And you brought someone with you!” enthused the old woman. “Get over here, you!”
He found himself a few inches away from her wrinkled face and had no time to utter a word before her milky eyes were taking in his features.
“I was wondering if you might take a little look into this mule boy’s head.”
“I would, it’s just that I’ve got a crowd,” she said, indicating the large queue of donkeys, horses, chickens, and pigs all accompanied by their owners. “Plus, I’ve got a feeling that your mule-headed friend doesn’t align with the old ways. Am I right, tutting boy?”
Fillan nodded, annoyed. Unlike his sister—and Kyle, obviously—he didn’t believe in all these superstitions.
“Oh, stop sulking,” said Kyle. “It’s Bealltainn!”
“So, what should I do?” said Tilda, wiggling her nose like a rabbit. “Look into him? Don’t look into him? Other mules are waiting for me.”
A donkey eeyored.
“Fine,” grumbled Fillan as he met the insistent look of his friend.
“Just in time! All the rest of you can wait a little longer!” called Tilda down the line of peasants and beckoned the young people into the tent.
The inside was just one room and very surprising. Everywhere hung bones, jars, plants, and indescribable things. An old hay bale lay in a heap, which must have been the bed.
“The little one’s not wrong,” said Tilda as she invited them to sit around a table. “It’s Bealltainn! A magical night where you can’t help but believe.”
She held the skeptical teenager’s hands and stared into his eyes.
“This festival is more important to you than anyone, tutting boy,” she whispered. “I can feel it. Do you know why we do all these rituals?”
“I don’t think so,” frowned Fillan.
“It’s the end of the shadows!” the elder practically shouted. “Every year on this night, things become clearer, and the truth rises. In the fires of Bealltainn, the lies we tell ourselves burn along with the bouquets of flowers. What is it you tell yourself?”
Fillan tried to hold back from tutting again up against the druid’s fervor.
“Yes, Bealltainn is important to you because there’s a fire inside you. Do you feel it burning you up? That’s because you’re trying to run away from it. And the more you flee, the more it devours you.”
His skepticism cracked a little. He felt a bubble of anguish in his chest.
“Guilt,” concluded Tilda as she pressed her thumbs into his palms. “That’s your fire. That’s what makes you doubt yourself, and freezes you instead of letting you spring into action.”
Fillan gave a furtive glance at Kyle, because she was the only one who knew how much he suffered from losing his sister.
“The little one didn’t tell me anything! It’s not hard to see in you,” said the old woman, tapping on Fillan’s face. “It’s so clear, even if you don’t want to see it. Don’t look so shocked. You know I’m right: the urge to run away from your emotions is strong. You have to face them or you’ll never grow up. But I sense that your guilt is double-edged. One part recent, and one older. You’re just at the start of your path,” concluded the druid, “but sooner or later you’ll have to face your fire. And better sooner rather than later.”
When they left the cottage, Fillan felt awful.
“Oh, come on…” said Kyle as she saw the look on his face. “Tilda really helped me a few years ago. I thought she could do the same for you.”
Fillan shrugged and didn’t respond.
“Damn,” continued Kyle with her hand to her head, “I should have asked for a blessing for the ass you are! Let me know if you start to eeyore and I won’t attack!”
He couldn’t help but smile.
“See, that’s better.”
She drew him to a corner to drink the Bealltainn mead, a honey beer brewed with bees and their venom. Fillan found the nectar delicious, slightly bitter, sweet and terribly spicy. Once they’d finished their pints, they danced for more than an hour. Kyle even taught him a new jig and he wondered how the warrior knew how to dance so well. She was as graceful as a hawk.
It must have been past three in the morning when they finally made their way back to the training ground. Only a few dying fires remained as Dalkeith was lulled to sleep by ever-quieter music. Fillan breathed in the cool air that blew through his hair; he hadn’t felt so alive in weeks. When Kyle grabbed him and kissed him, he was lost in himself, forgetting everything. After a few seconds, the warrior whispered in his ear.
“Remember what Tilda said: better sooner than later. Let go.”
Fillan looked at her without understanding. He was about to kiss her back, but he was plunged into darkness as a hood suddenly covered his face.
“Kyle!” he yelled, afraid that something would happen to her.
Strong arms picked him up and dragged him to the ground. He tried in vain to fight. After several long minutes, he was thrown somewhere and hit his head. He heard the sound of a stone scraping another stone, then fainted.
* The clarsach is a Celtic triangular harp dating from the eighth century, the time of the Picts (the Irish who populated Scotland).