The Meatae Capital. Summer 75AD.
The view from the battlements of the hill-fort was every bit as spectacular as Finlass had described it. The wide river Clyta flowed past serenely at the base of the steep slopes, reflecting in deep blue the cloudless sky above them on this glorious summer morning. It seemed to the young visitors that the whole of the flatlands rolled away to the south before them. Their host leaned over the stone palisade and drew their attention to the landscape immediately below.
There was a short stretch of woodland which extended from the base of the cliffs to a high rocky up-crop of land, directly adjacent to the north river bank. Finlass was pointing out the small fort which encompassed most of the upper areas of the grass covered rock.
“That’s our battle fort.” Finlass pointed at the lower fortification. “From its walls we command the river at everything but high tide. The deep channel runs near the fort, so only at high tide can anyone passing avoid our arrows.” Finlass spent considerable time acclaiming the strategic advantages of their defensive system, but Calach lost interest almost instantaneously. He was drinking in the panorama like the sweetest apple juice. In his own lands, they had tree-cover in the south and the purple heather covered moors in the north, but beautiful as they both were, they could not compare to the vista before and below him. The variety of colors, the greens, the blues, the deep tan of the wet sandy beaches either side of the meandering river. The panorama was as varied as it was beautiful.
After they had arrived, they had been met by Morro and Cam’bel, visiting to see Ma’damar. The party stood on the ramparts, waiting Ma’damar’s summons. It had been decided that when Ma’damar’s summons came, they would enter as a group and meet the chief together, safety in numbers being the main concern.
He was brought back to reality by a sharp dig in the ribs.
“An’ you’re in a world o’ your own!” Finlass drew Calach’s attention to the two other visitors as they climbed back down into the main town area. “It’s time to meet with Ma’damar. He’s waiting in the main hall.”
“Sorry about that, it’s such a great view.”
“Aye, you’ll not get one much finer than that.” He gestured to the steps. “We’d better get a move on; no chief likes to be kept waiting.”
“Aye.” Calach turned to his brother. “Come on Lachlin, don’t lag behind, and when you go into the hall, keep by me. But don’t stay behind me, Ma’damar will see that as a weakness.”
In moments, they waited outside the hall.
The huge circular main hall was a fitting centre-piece to the town. The circular walls were pine trunks driven into the earth, so close to each other that no gap was visible and the roof was a conical construction of pine planking covered in turf. The whole roof was supported by a series of thick pine pillars, carved in circular patterns, some old, some newly carved. Around the walls inside were raised tiers of pine benching; stained and worn. The floor was simply the hard earth, packed after years of frequent use.
Conrack strode across the hall, climbed the steps to Ma’damar’s huge carved chair, and stood behind it watching the group.
Finlass led them across the floor till they stood at the foot of the steps rising to Ma’damar’s chair.
“Welcome Calach, son o’ Ranald!” Ma’damar growled. “An’ to your brother too.” The pair inclined their heads. “Did you have an uneventful journey?”
“Not quite Ma’damar.”
At the chief’s insistence, Calach quickly told him of the meeting with the Roman centurion and thanked him both for the invitation to visit and the talisman.
Ma’damar listened with interest, scratching his beard. “We’ll have to see about stepping up the patrols in the north Finlass!”
“Aye Faither!”
“You too Conrack!”
“Aye, we’ll see to it Faither.”
Ma’damar straightened himself up in his chair. “Well Calach lad, you’ve come here once, you know the way!” The chief laughed heartily and slapped his thighs hard. “Maybe even persuade that devil o’ a faither to travel wi’ you next time?”
“That may be Ma’damar.” Calach’s grin never reached past his lips. “That may be.”
Ma’damar turned abruptly to Morro. “So you want to marry my daughter, eh?” His voice bellowed, ringing around the hall. Morro almost stepped backwards.
“Speak!” Ma’damar had drawn himself erect, and was almost pushing himself out of the chair and over the room to the petrified group.
“How....” Morro’s question died on his lips.
“How do I know? Come on lad, let’s not play games here!” Ma’damar shook his head patronizingly. “It’s a fathers right to know these things!”
Ma’damar narrowed his gaze and spoke to Finlass directly. “An’ you can hold your tongue an’ let the islander speak for himself. “You’ve known about this before now, you should’ve told me this was going to happen.”
“Aye Faither.”
“Instead I have to get the story from your brother.” He inclined his head towards Conrack, standing behind his chair. “As if I needed telling, of course. The Cerone’s been sniffing around Llynn for long enough to make his intentions plain to everyone.”
Conrack was beaming from ear to ear at his brother being put down publically.
The exchange between Father and son seemed to give Morro a moment to gather himself, and when he again addressed Ma’damar, his voice was clear and loud.
“Chief Ma’damar,” He began.
“Oh it can talk can it?” The chief settled back into the large chair. “Morro, son o’ Nevish can talk. Alright then, let’s hear what clan Cerone’s got to say for itself.” He folded his arms and stared at Morro.
“Chief Ma’damar, over the last year, I’ve visited Bar’ton a few times.” He glanced at Finlass, steadying himself. “Llynn an’ I have grown close. Very close in fact.”
“An’ that’s something to boast about to her faither?” Ma’damar roared. He grabbed the arms of the chair and brought his weight forward. “Just how ‘close’ are you talking about?”
Morro shuffled his feet. “Chief Ma’damar, we feel that we want to marry. To marry an’ settle down an’ raise a family.”
“Do you now?”
After getting the first words out, Morro seemed to settle. “We know that it’s not accepted practice to marry outside the clan, but we feel so strong when we’re together, that we think we can be happy.”
“Oh do you now.”
“Aye, Chief. We both do.”
“Oh you both do, do you?” Ma’damar took a deep breath. “Finlass! Go an’ fetch the women.”
“Aye Chief.” Finlass ran through the archway to find his mother, Tamoira standing close with Llynn and Elenin.
“The chief wants to see Ma’ an’ Llynn.”
Tamoira nodded.
Finlass thought she had tears in her eyes. He followed the three women as they joined the group in the hall.
“What does your faither Nevish say to this?” Ma’damar asked Morro, as they approached.
“He doesn’t know yet, Chief Ma’damar.” Morro replied, “I thought that since you were the senior chief, an’ Llynn’s father, that it was only right that I should ask you first.”
Llynn had elbowed her way through the visitors to stand by Morro’s side. She surreptitiously slipped her hand into his.
Ma’damar smiled for the first time that morning, “I’ve seen Llynn going around like some half asleep puppy for a while now. She’s a bonny lass, but suitors have been few an’ far between.”
“Da’!” Llynn stamped her foot.
“Hush! Any man who’s came close to you has left damn quickly again. Maybe Morro’s proposition will be a favorable one.”
Proposition?
Finlass had not forseen this, he had expected a simple yes or no.
“Proposition?” Morro asked quickly. Llynn clutched his arm tighter.
“Aye. You’ve got a fair bit to learn my lad.” Ma’damar’s voice had taken a softer tone. “A daughter who’s not wed is two things to a Father. She is a pain in the backside, having a’ the eligable lads on their toes a’ the time, an’ bringing strangers into the clan.” Then he smiled. A dark, knowing smile which Finlass, in all his years had never seen before. “But she’s also a bargaining tool. Since winter Llynn’s been the painful part. Now it’s time to turn her into the bargain.”
~ ~ ~
In the end, a bargain was struck. When the autumn turned and winter was beginning, they would feast the quarter day of Samhain with a wedding by the shores of the long loch. In the next summer, Morrow would deliver a ship to Ma’damar, the greatest ever seen, and they young Cerone had promised the use of his warriors if the Meatae ever needed help against the Romans.
Finlass thought about the building of the ship; a great undertaking for one so young. But there was the reputation and pride of the Cerone clan at stake now, Calach was certain that Morro would not let them down. He stole a lingering look at the bride to be, as her father received congratulations from the clan, and knew that whatever price Ma’damar had asked, Morro would have paid.
Morro and Llynn walked away, hand in hand. The others let them go without comment. It had been a long day already, and it was still only early afternoon.
Tamoira, Finlass’ mother, put her arms round his waist. “When will you decide to marry son?”
He rocked back into her embrace, and in the corner of his eye, saw Calach talking to Elenin. He turned quickly, and made to go to the pair, but Tamoira held on to him.
“Your sister has chosen her man. Soon she will give the clan Cerone heirs for Nevish.”
“Mother!”
“Young Morro is younger than you, and he has chosen to settle.”
The rest of the group were now converging on them.
“But at what price?” Finlass exclaimed.
“Who can determine worth, when the heart aches.” Tamoira let Finlass go. “Perhaps my son, you’ll feel the same about someone someday. Or perhaps you’ll have to battle wi’ seven brothers to win your loved one.”
Calach joined them. “Maybe seven brothers will be an easier time than poor Morro had today!” He laughed, slapping Finlass hard on the back.
“Aye, he did get a hard time from your faither!” Cam’bel said quietly.
“No more than a faither should, Cam’bel.” Tamoira grinned. “Maybe you’ll all change when you have daughters o’ your own.”
“Well he certainly got a deal!” Calach laughed. “He wins a great ship.”
“Aye.” Finlass grinned. “We all know what good shipbuilders the Cerones are.”
“Aye.” They chorused together. “The best!”
“Is anyone hungry?” Tamoira asked, and was deafened by a louder chorus still.
~ ~ ~
Winnie watched the old vendor as he put the last items back in his cart, his days trading finished. Hamble’s market square had been busy for most of the day, but now trade was slackening, there were only a few stalls still trading. The sea breeze rippled the thick covering on his cart as he tied the edges down. The thin, old man turned in alarm as Winnie tapped him on the shoulder.
“Whaaaa!”
“I’m sorry.” She said, stepping back as he took in her appearance. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Just a fright, s’all.” The Norland words sounded strange in his thick southern accent. “What can I do for thee?”
“I would ask you a few questions about the places you’ve been, s’all.” Winnie easily mimicked his speech mannerisms. “There’s a few things I need to know.”
“I doesn’t answer questions from strangers.”
Winnie’s shoulders slumped. She had travelled far to the south, almost to the limit of Venicone lands, just to see this man. She had to get the man to talk to her.
“I needs to know your name first!” The old man smiled, showing the stumps of his old, decayed teeth. “Then we wouldn’t be strangers anymore. I doesn’t answer questions from strangers.”
Winnie smiled as she gave her name.
The trader looked at her. “Yep, you be telling the truth at least. The name fits you.” He held out his hand. “Pearly Jak’s my name. I’ll do any kind of trading for a pearl. People in the south love pearls.”
Winnie shook the offered hand, then pulled it free of his grasp as he held on just a fraction too long. “Questions?” She insisted.
“Ah yes. Winnie, my love, you would ask Jak some questions.” He scratched his chin. “Questions come cheap. Doesn’t cost you a coin. Answers, however, may cost you some coin, maybe not. Would depend on the questions, and on how long the answers would take.”
“Sounds fair.”
“Alright then love, you ask me the questions and I’ll tell thee if I actually knows the answers. Then if I does know, you make with the coin, and I make with the answers. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Now we’re getting somewhere!
“Here or somewhere quiet?”
He gave her a look that she did not entirely relish, a sneer coming over his face.
“Here will do fine.”
Jak pulled a sad face, then smiled again. “Suits yourself!”
The trader pulled two stools off his cart and set them on the ground, he indicated to Winnie that she should sit on one, then sat down himself.
“Right then love, question one?”
Winnie pulled the stool away from the trader and sat down. He had placed them a little too close to each other for comfort.
“You’re Iceni, aren’t you?”
“Oh!” A saucy smile played across Jak’s lips. “I know the answer to that one! You’ll need coin.”
“That wasn’t a question for money. I need to know that before I ask you the rest.”
“Oh now she asks questions and wants the answers for free!”
“Jak!” Winnie barked. “That question was not worth a coin, and you know it.”
“Only joking Winnie, my love, only joking.”
Winnie did not entirely like this ‘Pearly Jak’, but she had no choice. His use of her name was wearing already.
“Iceni?”
“Iceni, yes. All my life. Iceni, and proud. There’s not many’s of us left after the good queen had her day.”
“Are you from the same town?”
“Is this a coin question Winnie, my love?”
“No Jak, I’m just establishing your credentials.”
“Oh, ‘establishing my credentials’ are we? Maybe I should get a coin then, if you needs to see my ‘credentials’!”
The sneer which had swept over his face unsettled her again. She pondered if that was his purpose, using his seediness to upset her, but came to no quick conclusion. By now Winnie was glad that she had seen reason earlier and wanted the meeting out in the open. Although the market square was quiet, it was nowhere near deserted.
“Are you from the same town as the ‘good queen’?”
“Aye, that I am. I’ve traded pearls for the good queen and for her husband before her. When they wanted pearls, they came to Pearly Jak. I was younger then, mind you.”
Hoping that her facial expression would not give her away, she felt elated inside. This was beyond what she could have hoped for. She had the traders monitored for the last year, and when word of an old Iceni had come to her, she hoped that he would have the knowledge she was seeking.
“Did you know the queen well? Boudicca?”
“Ah, now Winnie. Is that a coin question, or no? You’ve come a talking with your coins mentioned, but you’ve never let me have one in my hand, even tho I’ve answered all your questions correctly so far!” He cocked his head to one side and grinned. His open hand was held steadily in front of her.
She opened a small bag and took a small coin from within. When she placed it on his open palm he abruptly stopped grinning.
“This is Roman!” He blurted. “And silver!”
Pearl Jak bit down on it hard, and closely examined the head on the coin.
“Where did you get this?”
Winnie grinned at his question and held her hand out. “Now Pearl Jak, is that a coin question or no?” Her attempt at his accent was very convincing.
“No.” He pocketed the coin faster than was polite. “Not a question at all really. Just wondered how a Votadin woman would have access to Roman coins is all.”
Winnie continued. “Did you know the queen well?”
“Well Winnie, considering that you’ve gave me a coin, I think I’ll answer the question. Queen Boudicca was my first love really.” He smiled ruefully at the shock on Winnie’s face, “Not that she saw me, you know. I did a bit of trading even then. But the queen was the sun in the life of all her people; she was just, regal, and proud. Pride did for her in the end. But that didn’t stop us all loving her.” Jak’s eyes took on a slightly glazed look, and just then, for a moment, Winnie felt the sorrow he felt for his lost queen. “It was probably our love for her done for us really. If we hadn’t loved her as much as we did, maybe more would be alive today to answer your questions.”
“What of her children?” Winnie asked. “What became of all of them?”
Jak’s eyes came together, furrowing his brow. “Why does you wants to know?” Then he looked at the ground and shook his head. “No. I doesn’t wants to know your reasons. You’re asking the questions and you’re paying the coin.”
“Jak, I’m a storyteller. I’m just getting my stories right before I tell anything that’s not true.”
The suspicion which had crossed his face was gone in an instant.
“That’s alright then.” He smiled again, “And storytellers get well paid!” He pulled his stool closer to Winnies and glanced around them.
“I can tell you all about the queen’s children. I knew them see; not to talk to personal like. But they came to me for some things from time to time.”
Winnie’s heart raced.
“Jak, she had six children didn’t she?” Testing him.
“No lass, she had seven! Well, seven that made it through to the end with her. A couple died as babies, but they died years before the troubles. Three boys, and four girls.” Jak seemed distant for a moment. “Mayhap if it had been the other way around, she’d have been alright today. Sons to keep the line.”
“Eldest?”
“Eldest was Rulen; she did for herself when the Romans came that last day.”
“What?”
“She took her own life rather than have the same fate as her sisters. Tore her innards out with a knife.” He looked up. “Hey! Coin? I answered a coin question and no doubt!”
“I thought I’d already paid for that question!”
“Oh. Mayhap you did, but without coin, I might not remember as well as I used to. Memory’s going bad you see.”
She placed another silver piece on his palm.
“Thankee Winnie my love. I like doing business with you.”
“Next eldest?”
“That’d be Deenal, the eldest son. He died on campaign with his mother. They decapitated her you know. My Queen Boudicca. Took her parts to the four corners, left her head on the gates to Londinium. They had to guard it until it was picked clean by the birds, otherwise we’d have taken it back with us.” Jak looked upwards at the evening sky. For a moment, Winnie thought that was as far as he would go. “Deenal died on campaign, along with his two other brothers, and little Gawrcus was only twelve. They never stood a chance.”
At the mention of the youngest brothers name, Winnie gasped, her pulse quickened, all her foreboding came swimming to the surface. She felt faint, but forced herself to become calm again, knowing she could not show anything to the trader. Somewhere she had heard the name ‘Gawrcus’ before.
“The girls?” Winnie said quickly, hoping that she could get the piece of information before Jak stopped talking. She placed a third coin in his hand, which he took absent-mindedly.
“The girls, Yes, the girls... the princesses!”
“Yes Jak, they were princesses.”
“They all died at the hands of the Romans. Never seen the act myself, but by the time I’d got back home from the wars; I took my time you see? Romans weren’t going to catch me; not Pearly Jak! By the time I’d got back, there wasn’t much left of them to identify, hanging on the walls like that. Their bodies were picked clean of flesh, bits of bone fell every day. Their bodies were guarded, they even smashed the bits that fell.”
“All the princesses died?”
“Yes all of them.”
“There were no babes?” Winnie insisted. “No babes to carry the line?”
“No none.” Jak shook his head slowly, as if returning from a trance.
Winnie was unable to control her composure any longer.
No babies. None to carry the line. The dream must be false then, but that is impossible.
She realized that Jak was still speaking.
“The line of Boudicca died with her and her daughters. Rulen, the eldest daughter was the only one to marry, and she killed herself and hers when the Romans came. I told you that already.”
Winnies heart skipped a beat.
“Her and hers? You never mentioned Rulen having a child.”
Jak seemed to ignore her.
With all her mental resolve on keeping calm, Winnie watched Jak’s face.
“Jak!” She insisted. “You never mentioned the baby.”
“Oh sorry Winnie love, must have been suffering from no coin at the time.”
Winnie fished in her small sack and pulled out her last coin. She upended the sack to show Jak that it was empty. As she placed it in his hand, she folded his fingers around the piece of silver.
“Jak.” She asked. “The baby. Boy or girl?”
“Little girl.” He said. “Well, when I say little, I’m joking. I remember when Rulen showed her to the people, I was near the front. The baby girl was long... she was going to be a big girl.” His face went sad again. “If she’d have made it through. But Rulen killed her before she killed herself. I heard the talk from the servants. Messy it was. Blood everywhere. Folks said that Rulen must have been crazy when she killed her daughter, she made a right mess of her. Quartered the baby herself, to stop the Romans doing it.”
“Can you remember the baby’s name?”
“You’re not going to tell this part of the story are you? I don’t want this part told, it would be a crime on Rulen if this were part of the story. They raped her, you know, they raped her, then threw her into her rooms to get ready for more. That’s when she did for herself and the baby. Promise you won’t tell her story Winnie. Rulen was a beautiful girl, she’d still be fine now. I don’t want to sully her name or that of the baby.”
Winnie was still holding Jak’s hand closed. She shook it gently, getting his attention.
“I promise I won’t tell of Rulen and the baby Jak.”
But I have to know the child’s name. I’ve came too far to stop here.
“I’m glad Winnie. I trust you.” For once Jak looked absolutely sincere. “There’s something about you that makes a man trust, do you know that?”
Winnie got to her feet, thanked him for his information and began to walk away.
“Can I not interest you in a drink somewhere?” Jak said to her back.
She turned to him. “No thank you Jak, I must go north tonight, back towards home. Although this is still in Votadini territory, Hamble is too close to the south for me.”
“I understand Winnie.”
She half turned away. “Oh Jak?”
“Yes?”
“The baby’s name?”
“You’re full of questions Winnie love. You get this one for free. Baby’s name was Dalain. Named after Boudicca’s mother.”
Dalain.
Winnie managed to hold herself together long enough to say ‘thanks’ and ‘goodbye’, then she walked in a trance through the town directly north.
“Dalain” She repeated to herself time and time again. Sometimes under her breath, sometimes out loud.
When she was out of the town proper, she fell to her knees and held her face in her hands.
What a story this is! Just a pity I cannot tell a soul about it.
Rulen, daughter of Boudicca. She’d had her mother’s guile and bravery to the end. When she knew that there was no chance of saving herself, she’d bundled the baby off, and substituted it with another. The babe had been taken out of the Roman lands, fleeing to the north, to safety. The Romans had been duped. They had found Rulen dead, she had killed her baby, then done the same to herself. Brave woman. But then disaster struck; on the journey north, the baby’s guardian had been killed, leaving the baby to die. Then the hermit had found her, crying, and taken her in. It all made perfect sense. Rulen’s baby; ‘a long child’ Jak had called her.
It was a fine story.
Just a pity I’ll never be able to tell it.
It was then no wonder she, Winnie of the old ways, Bannith, had been drawn to look after Kat’lana. No wonder that Calach and Kat’lana had been drawn together, just at her sexual awakening. It all began to make sense. Winnie had sensed something strong in Calach, even as she helped him to his feet that fateful day. Calach was going to be a powerful man in the Norlands.
And Kat’lana was Queen Boudicca’s grand-daughter; probably the lone descendant of the Iceni royal family.
A fine story indeed.
~ ~ ~
Calach struggled up the loose scree slope. Every step was an effort, every step pushing a wave of stones down the hillside as he reached for his next foothold. He had travelled the way many times in the past and had found the optimum route, small hollows in the pebbles evidence of his previous journeys. As he made his steady progress up the slope, he was aware of eagles, circling in the blue sky; their cries coming faintly to his ears.
Eventually, warm and sticky with the effort, he made the top of the rise, where the rocky scree gave way to short, wind-beaten grasses and clumps of aromatic heather. He saw his destination; a lone pine tree, gnarled with age and weathering, standing alone in a small hollow on the side of the summit of the hill.
From his approach, it was clear that the meeting place was deserted, and he felt loneliness, and a longing for the familiar face which usually awaited his arrival.
This time, as he walked into the depression in the hillside, he was alone. His attention was drawn to a sprig of herbs, jammed into a break in the bark of the tree. He pulled the dried fronds from the tree and raised them to his nose. Inhaling deeply, he felt the smell fill his senses, almost immediately he saw an image of the object of his journey. In the picture Kat’lana smiled and said she was sorry to have missed him, then faded from view, leaving him once more alone on the hill.
Calach’s woke with the dream vividly imprinted on his mind; the third time in as many nights. He wondered if it was just the air of Bar’ton, or perhaps some magic was being wielded against him here, but dismissed the thought immediately. He rose quietly from his bed and crossed the strange room to the open door, where he stood breathing deeply; trying to re-create the feeling of warmth he had had in the dream. He looked back into the hut and made out Lachlin’s sleeping form. He took a step outside and gazed up at the cloudy, night sky, lit from behind by a hidden moon, and wondered what Kat’lana was doing, pictured her looking at the same sky.
He shook his head slightly and started off in the direction of the battlements, determined to see the great river Clyta in the filtered moonlight. His eyes soon became accustomed to the grey-dark and he traversed the town easily.
~ ~ ~
Winnie lowered her hands to her sides, her work done, and began the walk to her hut, at the edge of the town. The same type of cloud formation was above her head, but a little lighter, as dawn threatened from the east. The Votadin capital got the best unrestricted view of sunrise in the Norlands, unencumbered by obstruction, looking over the sea. As she passed Kat’lana’s hut, she stole a glance inside, and reassured that the still form under the coverlet was in peaceful slumber, carried on to her own dwelling.
Kat’lana Dalain.
She mused over the work she had been performing, and smiled. It was easy for her to direct the two young people together; there was enough initial physical attraction to enhance her workings. She felt good trying to bring happiness to her young friend, but she felt power in the workings of Iceni and Caledonii.
What a combination!
With a sigh of resignation, Winnie knew that Kat’lana needed to leave Votadine lands in order to grow on her own, free from the direction and assistance which she herself felt obliged to give. Winnie felt strongly that Kat’lana needed room to mature, to expand her grasp of the ‘old ways’, they were not taught as the dhruids taught their rituals. Each proponent of the ‘old ways’ found their own path, and Winnie was sure that Calach was the catalyst the Votadine girl required.
Soon Winnie reached her hut, where she soon settled down to sleep.
~ ~ ~
“Can you no’ sleep?” Calach looked round to see Conrack climbing the steps to join him on the ramparts.
“Conrack.” He said dryly. “It seems as if I’m not the only one.”
“It’s my turn on watch.” The Meatae replied. “We Meatae still take our turns, even the chief’s sons!”
“As do in Lochery.”
“But here it’s different; this is the border. This is the frontier; we’re looking over a conquered neighbour. The Damon clan look up at us and know fear. They fear Meatae iron. Meatae swords.”
Calach knew that Conrack was provoking him, taunting him with the same criticism that Ranald had at the ‘great gaither’. One day diplomacy would win where brute force could not. Although he did not agree with some of Ranald’s policies, this one was clear.
The Meatae drew level with Calach and turned to look at the river, far below.
“It was a fine deal you an’ Finlass set up.” Conrack smiled.
He’s fishing for something.
“What deal are you talking about?”
“The wedding.”
Calach had spoken to Conrack a few times during the last three days, but never alone.
“It was a good deal set by Ma’damar.” Calach corrected. “Finlass an’ me were just witnesses, as you were.”
“Aye, Calach, but a good deal just the same.”
“Aye it was good for the Meatae anyway, you’ll have a fine ship out o’ it!” Calach turned to watch the young warrior.
“Aye. Good for ‘all’ of us, Calach.”
He then turned on his heels and walked away, leaving Calach wondering why he had entered into discussion with him in the first place.
“Questions!” Calach said quietly into the night air, as he turned once more to watch the river, glinting far below.
“So many questions.”
Their return to Lochery, although a pleasant trip, was uneventful, and in the late summer they arrived home.
Ranald immediately sent for his son.
“You have been to Bar’ton.” Ranald paced the room as Calach stood. “An’ seen Ma’damar an’ a’ his greatness.”
“I have.”
He came in close, his voice spiting into Calach’s face. “Well lad, I canna stop you from doing such, but I will make it more difficult. Every time you leave this village, you’ll have two of my men with you.”
“That’s no’ fair!”
“It’s fair, or I’ll nominate someone else to be chief after me.”
Calach immediately shut up. The whole of his plan involved him being the chief’s second.
It was going to be a long winter.
A Wasted Year. Autumn 76AD.
The harvest was particularly easy to bring in that year, but the easy work only gave Calach more time to think out his grievances. The summer had been warm, and the beginnings of autumn had brought no rain to flatten the wheat. As Calach worked, he cursed his father with every sweep of his short, curved blade. He looked up at Aysar, cursing and cracking a whip over a heavy oxen team. He watched the animals, yoked and pulling hard, their muscles straining against the tree stump they were trying to uproot.
“That’s how I feel!” He muttered. “Chained to this place!”
He bowed once more to his task. Every slender dry of stalk of wheat bore the curse as he thrust the blade. The woman behind him bundled the stalks together, tying the bunch tightly. She knew better than to ask Calach to explain his anger. She had received the sharp side of his tongue more than once that day. Calach had not even bothered to ask her name.
“I should have been there!” He fumed under his breath, as he stepped forward past the felled wheat. “I should have been there, an’ he knows it!”
He forced his blade into the earth and straightened his back with a grimace.
“Time for a break, Lud?” The woman asked.
Calach turned in anger, then after a swift intake of breath, nodded to her.
With a smile, she shouted to either side.
“Lud Calach says it’s time for a break!”
He looked as the workers gratefully downed their tools and relaxed. Some stretched themselves, some just collapsed on the ground, sitting, and too tired to return to the side of the field for their food. Calach realized with growing certainty that he was farther ahead of everyone else in the work party. All were well behind him, and a definite channel of cut wheat ran back to the others. With a hand shielding his eyes, guilt swept over him as he noticed the late position of the sun.
“Have we had a break today?” He asked the retreating woman.
She turned and wearily shook her head.
It was now well past midday, and Calach could remember working from early morning.
All that time with no break? Have I really been so wrapped up in myself?
Resolutely, he determined to counter the wrong done to these innocents.
I’m angry at Ranald, why should the people suffer?
“Hey, everybody!” He shouted, walking back through the channel he had cut, back to the rest of the workers. “Gather round.”
Most of the clansmen and women came to him without complaint. He waited until the last had walked over to him.
“I’m sorry.” He said, watching their faces as he spoke. “I didn’t realize how long we’ve worked without rest.”
“You’ve worked harder than anyone, Lud Calach.” One of the men said.
Heggie, I think he’s called.
“Aye, we sort o’ slowed down after a while!”
Their humor sparked through their tiredness, and most laughed.
“Well, there’ll be no slowing down tomorrow!” Calach said, and their laughter died abruptly. “We’ll finish the field then. We’ve done enough for today.” The relief on some faces was clearly visible. “Settle yourselves down an’ get something to eat. I’ll go back to Lochery and negotiate us some ale.”
There was a slight cheer.
“I may not be able to get much, but it’s better than nothing!”
He stalked off in the direction of town, the stubble of the fields hurting his feet through his heavy leather boots. As he walked, he noticed the heat on his shoulders and back; bare for most of the day, they had caught the autumn sun.
My shoulders will be hot and sore tonight!
The walk gave him time to reflect and re-focus himself, and his guilt at his hard driving of the harvesting party had cleared any anger remaining.
Yes! Ranald had forbidden him to attend Morro’s wedding. And yes! Ranald had forbidden him to travel west in any direction without taking one of his men with him, but that was no reason to take his temper out on the innocent clanspeople.
He opened the door to the storeroom and selected a small barrel, which he tucked under his arm. Smiling he carried it back to the grateful workers in the field.
With a wave of his hand, he left them to their rest. He needed time on his own.
He had seen Sharra three times since his visit to Bar’ton, three times on the full moon, when he knew that Finlass would be waiting for him at the next village. Each time he had journeyed with Ranald’s man, each time hoping for a chance to get through to Finlass, and each time he had been watched like a hawk.
He had been forced to commit Aysar to the main secret, and to send him forward to contact Finlass in his stead.
On Aysar’s return, some days after the full moon, his friend sat and recited both Finlass’s greetings and news.
After Morro and Llynn had been wed, they had settled in the Cerone capital of Malig and, according to Morro, the ship was under construction supervised by Nevish, Morro’s father. Cam’bel frequent trips with Morro, to give some support to him, had taken a real shine to Nevish’s niece, and although she was not a chief’s daughter, it was a good thing for an alliance in the islands to the west. Finlass had told Aysar that Roman galleys were frequent raiders there, and a union of the islanders could only be good for all concerned.
Finlass had sent various messengers to Neall of the Damon clan, requesting that he could be granted a chance to meet with the chief, but they had returned. All requests had been rejected out of hand by the chief, and had been venomous with his replies. Without travelling through Damon lands, Finlass had ridden to the Selgove and had met with the chief there (Aysar had forgotten his name, and Calach had not fared better), where he had been treated well, and had pledged his own support for the southern clan if they were attacked. At this point Aysar handed Calach a necklace with a snake; the Selgove sigil, this was for Calach’s safe passage, if he needed it.
With a shake of his head, he strode through the main gate, making for the central brochs. He knew there were many barrels of ale in Mawrin’s storerooms; Calach knew that she would neither miss one, nor care if he took it without her consent.
But at least I’ve not been idle in my year of semi-imprisonment. Ranald said I couldn’t travel west! He never said anything about going in any other direction!
Calach had done so extensively, both last year, and since the spring this year.
With Aysar as a constant companion, Calach had spent last summer riding round the nearby towns and villages. It had been time for Calach to make the Caledon people aware of his existence.
With the Caledons aware of his feelings of the Roman threat, he and Aysar had then set out on a visit to the Venicone, where Calach renewed his acquaintance with Mauchty, and been introduced to his father, chief Gillaine. Although the chief had made a brave show, it had been obvious to both Calach and Aysar that the old man had not long to live.
At the ‘great gaither, the year before, when Calach had questioned Mauchty regarding his convictions towards the ideas of clan unity, it had been obvious to Calach that he was firmly on their side. Calach had decided that it was time to introduce the Venicone warrior to the secret side of the plan. When Mauchty realized that inter-clan marriage was part of the new order, he had told Calach of his sister Anne’s dalliance with a minor chief in the Taexal clan to the north. They had been seeing each other “in secret” for two moons, and it seemed to Mauchty that perhaps an official union between the two was the ideal solution for everyone.
It had been an opportunity too good to miss.
With Calach and Aysar, Mauchty had ridden north to the southern part of the Caledon lands, then east along the coast of the Tayme river estuary into the farmlands of the Taexals. In a town by the sea called Deddia, they soon found the town’s head man; a warrior called Eorith, the subject of Anne’s affections. When Eorith was told of the plan to let them marry, he was overjoyed, and agreed to accompany Calach to meet Ter’eak, his chief.
That night, Calach and Mauchty had celebrated another clan alliance, and parted to convince the appropriate chief’s to allow the union; Mauchty to see his father, Gillaine, and Calach to see Ter’eak of the Taexal clan.
With Eorith, the bridegroom-to-be in tow, Calach and Aysar had ridden north to Staven, the largest town of the Taexals to meet with Ter’eak. Calach had no fear of the meeting; the Taexals had always been the closest to their own clan in family ties. At the campfires of the Taexals on the way north, they had met old friends; clansmen who had traded in Lochery or Blair. At each camp and town, Calach had told the warriors of the Romans gathering for an invasion of the Norlands, and had been amazed at how many had actually seen the Roman Galleys sailing past the coast.
The Caledon lands were entirely land-locked; and Calach had begun to see why his father had closed his mind to the idea of Roman invasion. Perhaps if he had travelled outside Caledon lands, he might have got a clearer understanding of the situation.
When the small party had reached Staven, the meeting between Calach and Chief Ter’eak was short. Because of past ties with the Caledons, the chief had quickly agreed to send warriors if needed to bolster the Caledon force, and nodded an unconcerned assent to the minor matter of his main chief in the south to marry as he saw fit. Calach had reminded an elated Eorith that Gillaine still had to agree to allow his daughter to marry. As they parted outside Staven, the Taexal warrior rode south, shouting over his shoulder a promise to send an invitation to the wedding.
It had been another wedding Calach would miss. The couple was married quickly, and Anne’s belly had begun to show before winter had set in.
Spring arrived early, with a false summer, then more frost. But by the feast of Bealtan; the first day of Summer, when the cattle and sheep were driven to the higher pastures, Calach and Aysar were on their way again.
With Ranald’s men shadowing them for the first few days, they had travelled north.
The northern borders of the Caledon lands were held by the Vacomags and the Decants, and both showed Calach every respect as Ranald’s son. It was more difficult to persuade these northern clans about the necessity for unity, but Calach had been content with the progress that had been made. The thought that if the Caledon clan were to fall, they would be in immediate jeopardy, made their argument slightly easier.
Calach might have been forbidden to travel west, but it had not stopped him advancing the plan.
And Ranald did not suspect a thing!
~ ~ ~
Uwan sat cross-legged with Sewell in the circle. The sun had set not long before and Uwan knew that they were beginning one of their deep learning sessions. His first year under Sewell’s tutelage had gone quickly, and his progress had been swift; he had heard Sewell say as such. There had even been hints that his year of solitude would come quicker for him than any other Sewell had ever known.
“You strip the bark from the willow in short thin pieces, like this.” Sewell rubbed at a piece of bark with a jagged shaving of sharp flint. “The scraps of willow bark must be very thin and almost wafer-like.”
As he worried at the length of willow, Uwan looked at Sewell’s work carefully and made mental notes of all his teacher’s movements. He was not allowed to speak unless he first raised his hand and was granted permission. He had taken to the dhruidic training really well, and he knew that Sewell was pleased with his progress. Under his elder’s guidance, Uwan had developed his senses to such a stage that he could tell the emotion of most of the dhruids at will. Sewell said that a deeper knowledge would come later, like so much of the other, more difficult, disciplines.
“When you’ve gathered enough of the shaved willow bark,” Sewell continued. “You mix it with the same amount of rowan bark, gathered from in or near a sacred circle. If you can gather from within the circle, more the better.”
Sewell took a leather satchel from his belt and began to place smaller leather pouches from inside on a flat recumbent stone which lay between them.
“Pick out the willow and the rowan, Uwan. You may speak.”
Uwan examined the knots which tied the various pouches closed, then chose two and handed them to Sewell. “These are the two you need, master.” He indicated one of the chosen pouches. “This is the willow.”
With no written language to help them, the dhruids used a system of knots to identify the different dried herbs, and other useful materials. Uwan had learned all of the knots shown to him, and exhausted the knowledge of all his teachers at most of his other subjects.
Sewell opened the two pouches carefully and placed a handful of each bark in a hollow on the flat stone, carefully mixing the two together.
“We now need some fire.” Sewell said.
A young dhruid appeared at Sewell’s side with a small lit taper. Uwan feigned fright at the other man’s sudden appearance, it was good to keep some secrets. Uwan had known of the young dhruids approach long before. He had even ‘watched’ him, as the young dhruid had knelt and waited for Sewells supposedly secret summons. Uwan had felt the summons too, though he knew that he should not have.
Sewell had used a simple ‘come now’. Uwan could understand much more complex thoughts than that, but he smiled inwardly at the younger dhruids limitations. He watched as Sewell smiled, a condescending smile to Uwan’s reaction that he had not anticipated the newcomer’s sudden arrival. Next time Uwan would be less surprised. He must show Sewell that he was learning.
“Thank you Travaile,” Sewell nodded to the other dhruid. Then, taking the burning, wooden taper. “You are no longer needed.” With a small bow to both Sewell and Uwan, Travaile, turned and silently moved out of the circle.
Sewell placed the lit taper into the mix of dried bark; the fluffy strands caught alight instantaneously, burning fiercely in a red, almost pink glow. Sewell reached into another pouch and sprinkled a dust into the flames, which turned a deep purple and blue as the powder descended into the fire proper.
“This is elderberry sand, Uwan.” Sewell said in answer to the boy’s unasked question. “Over-ripe elderberries, dried and ground to a fine sand. They purify the flames and add the colour of the sky to the ashes.”
Uwan watched as Sewell let the bark burn, turning the red, glowing embers with the end of the taper so that it all would burn, leaving only the ash behind. Uwan had seen the process before, and probably could conduct the ritual, but every time in the past, the ash was for someone else. This time it was for him.
The realization hit him before he knew it.
Solitude. Sewell’s going to send me away.
“Hand me the staff, Uwan.” Sewell held out his hands, into which Uwan placed his staff. A straight core of rowan wood, almost as long as Uwan was tall, stripped of its bark, and dried carefully to avoid splitting. There was a carved grip at one end. “Cup the ash in both hands.” continued Sewell. “It’s time to begin.”
The dhruid watched as Uwan lifted up the still glowing ash and rubbed it into the staff, which the older man held tightly. As Uwan neared his hands, he shifted his grip until the whole staff was coloured a dusky grey from the ash.
“Say the litany with me Uwan. You may speak.”
They chorused together. “Lugh, from the earth to the sky. Lugh from the flames to the air. Lugh, from the flames in the air to the sky.”
After they had repeated the chant four times, Sewell gave the staff to Uwan.
“You have completed the first part of dhruid training. You must take pride in the fact that you have completed this faster than anyone I have witnessed. Let not your pride weaken your resolve with false knowledge. You have your staff. Go forth into the moors and return one year from today.”
Uwan slowly stood up, still holding the staff horizontally.
“You know the counting, Uwan. You know the times of the seasons and the festivals. You will not talk to anyone, you will not enter any place of habitation other than those built near the sacred circles for the specific purpose.”
Uwan began to pace backwards, retreating from both Sewell and the circle. Sewell spoke louder.
“You know the counting of the days. You will mark your staff accordingly. You must return one year from today. Any deviation from these rules and you will cease to exist.”
Uwan nodded.
“Open your mind to me Uwan.”
The young Caledon dhruid closed his eyes. He let Sewell speak into him, but kept part of his mind back. The part which Sewell did not know.
Go now.
(Sadness)
Go now. Come back.
(Pride)
Uwan knew that he should not feel the emotion behind the words. He knew that Sewell was not giving him that information; Uwan was taking it; and taking it without the older dhruid’s knowledge.
“Go.” Sewell said after a long pause. “Go Uwan, and return one year from today.”
Uwan knew that Sewell watched as he drew the hood of his cloak over his head.
I am a dhruid!
“One last thing Uwan.” Sewell said. “There is a collection of utensils at the north gate. Calach, your birth-brother is guarding it for you. These tools will help you through your year.”
It is a test! He’s testing me to see if I say “goodbye” to my birth-brother!
With a smooth swing of his newly consecrated staff, Uwan turned and left the circle. The smile which crossed his face from ear to ear did not diffuse as he neared the north gate.
~ ~ ~
Calach had been surprised earlier that day when Sewell approached him. He had not seen much of the Caledon dhruid during the years of Uwan’s training.
With piercing eyes, Sewell had told him to prepare a small food bag, a dirk, an axe, and a roll of blankets and leave them outside the gate to the north pasture. He instructed Calach that he could wave to the dhruid as he passed, but not to try to talk to him.
It was the first time Sewell had asked him to attend to such a duty; innately Calach knew that the bundle was for Uwan.
Calach had bid his younger brother farewell, before his trip to Bar’ton, and had been surprised when, on his return, he had found him to have been initiated. Calach had not said a word to him since. By law, he could not. He had glimpsed Uwan from time to time, but he always followed another dhruid. Now it was his brother’s time for solitude. The final test.
With a start, he saw the staffed figure approach in the dark.
Definately Uwan.
Calach walked backwards away from the bundles on the ground as Uwan advanced.
Even in the darkness, Calach could see Uwan’s smile. It was almost as if he could feel his brother’s happiness.
He watched as the dhruid gathered the dirk and axe and slip them into his belt. The bundle, he placed under his arm and then Uwan paused, looking at him.
Then with a wave of his staff, he wandered into the night.
~ ~ ~
With a bundle of blankets on his back, an axe and dirk in his belt, and his staff swinging in front of him, the grey-robed Uwan wandered north. He walked past the Caledon forests, up into the moors, then farther north again; across crag and mountains. He continued across the barren wilds until the land became dotted with trees and bushes again. Then he began to look for a place to stay. He had determined that he would either find a cave, or spend the first few days building a wooden shelter. As he walked through the thickening forest, he glimpsed a deep black as the ground rose abruptly.
A cave!
He gave thanks to every conceivable god, and examined the cave until his fingers could not reach any further. The cave was, in actuality, little more than a deep crevice in the bare rock, but it extended twice the length of his body before tapering to a crack. It would keep him dry through the winter.
With his small axe, Uwan fashioned a framework to hang one of his blankets on, and finished the waterproofing at the top of the entrance with pieces of cut turf. The blanket curtain would keep most of the cold autumnal wind and rain from entering.
He slept cold that first night, and made plans for a fire which would be kept burning near the curtain, both for the heat and to ward off bear and wolf; both of which could be unwelcome visitors for a dhruid who was, with the exception of his dirk and axe, unarmed.
Uwan quickly set himself into a routine which was structured and orderly; he considered it the only way that he could make it through the next year. Each morning he would bank up the fire, and fix something to eat. He would gather more wood for the fire which he would pile near the door behind the curtain to dry. Each day he would gather mushrooms, tubers, nuts and berries; he stored some for drying, and washed the others, ready for cooking. Each afternoon he would walk the forest, both in contemplation and to explore the surrounding area.
His staff never left his side. The staff may not have been the key to his survival in the coming year, but Uwan knew that without it he would perish at the end of his trial.
The staff was his means of counting the days. Every morning he carefully took the staff, and sitting cross-legged on his bracken and blanket bed, marked a new groove. There had been three grooves when he had discovered the cave; three days of walking. There would be twelve groups of thirty grooves and a single small group of five grooves cut into the staff when he would return to Sewell.
Twelve groups of thirty grooves; the days of the year for the people, and five separate grooves; the five festival days for the gods. One day each for Lugh, the god of the earth, Brigit; the goddess of creativity, Yanus; god of the summer, and Aretha; goddess of the winter, and Lugnas, god of the moon. This was the dhruid’s way of counting through the year.
After each groove was cut, he would carefully count them, making sure in his mind of the progress of the calendar. He would not hear the feasting of the villagers to make sure he was on track; the nearest village was too far away. He would not hear the bells of Bealtan, nor would he hear any of the other feasting days. This was his ‘time of counting’ and for the sake of his life, he ensured that he would count accurately.
On his fourth day at his cave, he had noticed clansmen in the wood, near a tall pine tree. Their garb and weapons gave their purpose as a hunting party, probably out looking for deer or boar. Uwan quickly pulled his hood over his head and froze, if the hunters came nearer or attempted to make contact with him, he would run away, and find another place to stay.
“Oh Lugh.” He mouthed quietly. “Let them see me and leave.”
Seemingly in accordance with his wishes, he heard one of the hunters saying something to the other, then they moved back into the forest the way they had come.
Thank you Lugh, and all who are looking over me.
He took his knife and went to the tree where he had seen the hunting party. Against the rough, hard bark he scratched one circle, then another, then joined them with a line. A mark of the dhruid order. He stepped back to admire his efforts; if the party returned, they could not fail to see his work.
Two days later, as Uwan made his way past the same tree, he could not fail to notice a course linen bag, hanging from one of the lower branches. He advanced on the bag as if it contained the greatest poison, and when he reached the spot, he prodded it with his staff. Something hard and lumpy inside. He carefully opened it and found it full of fruit and vegetables; things he could neither grow nor find in the wild.
He smiled openly and thanked the gods again for their guidance to choose this site, then returned to the cave with the food. He wondered if they would fill the bag again if he returned it. Then deliberations over, he decided that he would replace the empty bag after a few days, there was no need to burden himself with more than he could eat.
Again he said words of gratitude to Lugh for his good fortune in finding such a bountiful place.
As he became accustomed to the solitude, and with less time needed for the finding of food, he began his studies in earnest. He spent most of his days and some nights in quiet contemplation, either high on nearby hill or deep within the forest. During the day, he recalled the teachings of Sewell and watched nature unfold around him. He meditated both on his insignificance in the vastness of the country, and on how powerful his talents made him. He contemplated on how and where his arts and talents could be used. The ethics of spell-casting, (considering how he had been caught by Sewell that night long ago), were high on his list of priorities. He practiced his spells; his ‘magic’s’.
In idle moments he carved intricate patterns into the branches of the trees nearby the cave, marking his own personal territory. In time, he hung dried bones from the tree branches which made sounds as they clinked together in the breeze. He was making the forest his own territory.
It was on one of his walks, early that first Autumn that he encountered the stone circle. He had wandered high up on the treeless moor, above the forest where his cave lay, and the discovery had brightened him considerably. From the length of the grass within it, and the lichens on the stones themselves, Uwan assumed that it was no longer used by the local dhruids. This made it permissible for him to use; there was no chance of meeting members of the brotherhood here.
There were eleven stones in all, one of which was on its side flanked by two standing stones. This was the altar stone. The eight other stones, although the circle was neglected, were still standing straight. Uwan decided that it was good fortune again to have his own private circle to attend and practice in. One stone was different in colour from the rest; a deep red granite, hard and beautiful. This was the ‘eye stone’, the stone from which the measurements of the stars and the sun and moon would be taken. Every day he would cut some of the grass within the circle with his dirk; it was hard work, but only a moon later, the grass was short and even.
He watched the weather; how the sky changed before the rain, how the air in the forest smelled different before and after a heavy rainstorm. He watched the forest’s reaction to a few days of sunshine; how it became dry and barren, how some plants thrived in the dryness, and how some waited expectantly for the rain. Gradually, methodically, he catalogued all the things he saw into places in his mind where he could recall them later. He became an expert on the world around him.
Many nights he spent watching the stars, he lay on his back in the stone circle watching their slow passage across the night sky. He watched the constellations, recalled their names; the bear, the fox, the eagle and the cat. He watched the ‘travellers’, the erratic stars, some bright, some dark and dim as they travelled through the constellations. He wondered why the constellations had never changed. They had been the same since the beginning of time. When he saw one of the stars dart quickly across the sky, he knew that another light in the sky had died; that a small star from between the constellations had gone forever. He gave thanks to Brigit for his birth, and hoped that he would never see the day when all stars in the sky would dart across and die. Some nights he would count two or three darting stars. Some nights they would move all night, never ceasing. Somehow the main stars in the constellations never died, just the small ones too numerous to count.
He watched the lights in the northern sky as they danced, seeming to almost touch the earth. He looked upon the lights in wonder and remembered the teachings. The dancing lights in the night sky were the forges of the gods themselves, making new stars for the sky. The dancing lights in the north were the reason why the Norlands was such a sacred place; nowhere else in the dhruid world were the lights seen as much as in the far north. The gods lived in the north, and Uwan took in the evenings with child-like fascination.
From the notches in his staff, Uwan recognized and celebrated the feast of Samain. He gave thanks to all the gods and welcomed the arrival of Aretha; god of winter. He carved one of the turnips into a crude head, and hung it outside his cave to ward off the unwelcome attention of Kernos. Uwan intended to make it through the winter, and made sure that he took every precaution to enable him to do so.
At night Uwan watched the stars, but mostly he watched the moon. He watched it as it changed from crescent to full. He looked closely at the markings on it; watched how the face changed, sometimes angry, sometimes sad. He watched it on cloudy nights, and he watched it in a clear sky. He observed it in the evening, and he examined it as it rose and set in the blue morning sky.
He became impatient when clouds covered the sky for days, taking the moon away from him, then watched in satisfaction when the sky cleared and the moon shone over the forest again.
Uwan watched the moon’s reflection in a salver of drinking water. He watched its reflection in the rivers, and on the nearby loch. He watched the moon’s reflection on the ice which covered the puddles when the frost came in the night. In his concentration and meditation, Uwan became the moonchild.
When the first of the snows came, he built a packed snow wall outside the cave, with an arched opening for access. On the evening after he had finished the last part of the wall, he had settled for the night satisfied, deeply content with his lot. He cooked a broth of tubers, turnip and barley in his small lone cooking pot and slept well and deep.
One morning when Uwan counted the grooves on his staff for the second time, he made the realization that it was the day before the shortest day. He fasted all day, sometimes sleeping inside the cave, resting for the night ahead.
That evening, Uwan let the fire go out. He carefully took the warm ashes outside and prepared a new fire in its place, but did not light it. After it had gone dark, he made his way to the stone circle, hoping to watch the stars again, but it was a cloudy, wild windy night. Instead he sat beside the ‘eye stone’ and listened to the wind. Just before dawn, the wind abated, and the brightening sky cleared. Uwan walked to the furthest stone from the altar, and waited. Then, just as the sun was rising, the sky at the horizon cleared. Uwan checked the alignment of the rising sun over the standing stone next to the altar stone.
“Perfect.” He said, conscious that it had been his first spoken word for quite some time.
He stepped quickly to the next stone. Again the alignment was correct. Twice more he checked the rising sun from across different combinations of stones. There were only two days in the year in which this happened; shortest and longest days. Uwan smiled, confident again that he had counted the days on his staff correctly.
When the sun had rose past the horizon, Uwan returned to his cave. As he prepared the flint and iron, he knew that all over the Norlands, dhruids and clansmen would be doing the same. All fires extinguished, and lit anew. The new flame from the rock of the earth was the correct way to start the new year.
In the spring of the next year, well past the feast of Imbolc, approaching the feast of Bealtan, Uwan was lying on his back in the centre of the stone circle. As he lay, Uwan recalled one of Sewell’s teachings; ‘you will learn your calling in the counting year’. As the words came into his head, he was watching the moon.
“I have been called by the moon.” Uwan said softly upwards into the night sky. “I am the moonchild.”
With this realization, the moon became a passion; if he was not in direct contemplation, staring at its milky-whiteness, he was in deep meditation, trying to solve the phases, drawing its shape in trees, chipping the crescent into the standing stones with his dirk. It was his mark, the mark of the moonchild. From within the circle, he watched the rise and set of every moon he could. He checked alignments which had been taught to him, and found many more on his own. He wondered if Sewell or the other dhruids had spent so much time watching the moon from within such a circle. Although he kept a tight rein on such thoughts, he wondered if any dhruid alive knew as much as he about the alignments of the moon.
When the summer solstice came, he was in the circle again, feverishly making observations and cataloguing the results in his mind. He watched the rising of the moon, checked the rising sun as it rose on the horizon from a cleft in the mountains. As the sun climbed higher, and the moon set in the clear, deep blue sky, Uwan realized that he knew the circle intimately. Every surface of every stone had been lovingly caressed by his fingertips. He had made so many observations that he knew each stone from any angle. This was his circle. As he looked around the stones with tired eyes, he knew that he knew more than any dhruid alive about this circle.
It seemed to Uwan that he had been in the cave for most of his life; he knew every crevice, every outcrop and every damp mossy patch. Moon symbols were etched into the rough rocky walls, bleached bone moon carvings hung from the roof. It was with some sudden surprise that he counted the marks on his staff again.
Twelve groups of thirty notches, two other notches, separate from these.
He counted the notches again, then counted the groups; there had been no mistake.
He had three days left on his own, and it would take him three days to return to Lochery.
With a mixture of sadness and elation he stood up, and looked around him. This was home. Deliberately, he packed up his few belongings and went outside. Before he let the curtain back, he looked with regret at the cave. There had been happy times inside its confines. He walked to the circle and lay some of the moon carvings on the altar stone. There was a light misty rain on the wind which would be in his face as he travelled south. With a grim expression, he straightened his back and began to walk.
~ ~ ~
“The moon?” Quen’tan’s hook nose made a violent shadow as it played on the broch wall. The central fire’s flames blazed in green and purple tips as the powder was thrown onto it. “The moon, is it?”
Sewell picked up more powder between his fingertips. “It does not surprise me at all to learn that he has chosen the moon as his symbol.”
“Nor me.” Replied the Meatae dhruid. “It seems to fit his deep understanding of the power.”
“Yes. The moon, the symbol of the ‘old religion’.”
Quen’tan sipped some ale from the copper tankard. “We have to divert his attention from the old ways.”
“I agree.” Sewell’s face was deadly serious. “We need a new challenge for him.”
“One which will take all his time, stop him from watching the moon.”
Quen’tan smirked.
Sewell was never sure if he liked Quen’tan’s smile. He watched as the idea formed in his colleague’s mind, watched the words form on his lips.
“But a task which we can utilise later for our benefit.”
Sewell may not have liked the smile, but he did enjoy the workings of Quen’tan’s mind.
“And you know of such a task?”
“Yes.” Quen’tan said quickly. “As well as his studies, which you will speed up, giving him more of a workload than the other young dhruids. As well as his studies, you will give him one year to become fluent in Brigante.”
“What?”
“You never know when that might come in useful.”
“And he will learn that where?” Sewell asked.
“From the honour guard of the Brigante boys! Not only will it engage Uwan’s mind, it will also keep the ‘black guard’ out of Ranald’s hair for a time. Make it plain to Ranald that it is of paramount importance that Uwan learns Brigante.”
“Consider it done.”
“We’ll chase the moon out of his head!”