Chapter 1.

Circal Rosich (The Rose Red Circle).

Summer 74 AD.

 

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

Conrack could sense the doubt and instinctive mistrust within the clansman’s question. The sentry’s eyes took in the details of his clothing; the faint red hatched pattern on his trews had definitely labeled him as a stranger.

I’ve come this far. I’m not letting this man stop me.

“No.” Conrack answered as he walked his horse towards the man. “I’m from the Selgove, I’m late for the great ‘gaither’.” The lie came easily to a youth, well-versed in the art. “I thought my horse had broken a leg, an’ fell behind the main party.”

“It seems alright now.” The clansman looked carefully at the horse’s gait.

“Aye, he’s walked it off.” Conrack advanced as he spoke.

“You’re Selgove, you say?” The man frowned. “You’re a bit off the trail then. It’s over towards the east.”

Conrack kept closing the distance between them, pulling on the reins of his mount. His only weapons were a sharpened staff and the dirk he had cut it with. No use for distance work. He cast his eyes quickly over the clansman’s weapons; he held a spear in his hand, and had a sword thrust through his belt.

I have to get closer. I have to be certain of the outcome.

“To the east?” He was closing fast. “That way?”

Conrack gestured with the staff, keeping his hand firmly over the point, masking the true danger.

Almost there.

“Aye.” the clansman turned his head, indicating the direction. “If you kept going along here, you would find a glen to the east soon enough.”

Fool!

It was just the opening he needed. Dropping the reins, he lunged quickly forward, and with a swift upward sweep of his staff, he caught the unsuspecting clansman squarely on the underside of the chin. There was a loud ‘crunch’ as his jaw and teeth were shattered, then his body went limp and he fell to the ground.

In an instant he stood above the prone clansman, the pointed end of the staff raised to quickly finish the encounter. But it was unnecessary. His opponent was unconscious, blood already pouring from his mouth. He looked around him, scanning the glen and hills on either side, but could see no one else.

With a sickening sound, Conrack drove the sharpened end of the staff into the man’s skull. He spat to one side and stamped the spittle into the grass. “This one’s for you Baal!”

After another long look around, he dropped his staff and quickly searched through the man’s clothes.

“Food would be good!” he said, as he rummaged through the clansman’s pockets. Finding nothing, he grabbed the man’s arm, pulling him upright and hoisted the corpse over his shoulders. He picked up the spear and started up the hill. It only took a few moments to reach the side of the escarpment; a scree slope leading down to the slow flowing river. With a heave, he dropped the man to the ground then kicked him roughly over the edge. He watched as the body tumbled and twisted on its way to the river’s rocky bank. Reluctantly he tossed the spear after him.

Nothing to connect me to this; not even the sword.

“He must have slipped.” he said, smiling, as the body came to rest, half submerged in the river far below. He looked about him again, searching the surrounding slopes for witnesses. Finding none, he retraced his steps to his waiting horse, retrieved his staff and continued on his way.

“A glen to the east,” he mumbled, “Thanks for the directions.”

As he made way, he laughed at his own joke.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Calach heard the bowstring’s release, felt the arrow’s impact in the grass beside him.

“Very funny Aysar!” he called, his patience being tried to the full. “Now quit mucking about an’ concentrate on the job?”

He glanced to his left, where the arrow had impacted. The brown feathers were arm’s length away, the arrow forced almost horizontal through the turf by its low trajectory.

Aysar was undeterred. “Was that close enough for you?” The muffled call drifted from across the glen.

Calach was determined not to encourage more horseplay. He adjusted his tone sternly. “We’re here to keep watch, no’ to play games!”

“Aye, but I’m bored. We’ve been here a’ day!”

“Come on Aysar, let’s not make this more difficult than it is!”

“Calach! I’m bored!” The shout, this time held no effort to remain quiet.

“There still could be one group to pass this way.” Calach lowered his voice. “Ma’damar could still come through here, an’ I’m not being held responsible for missing him if he does!”

“If Ma’damar’s coming through here, he’s leaving it pretty late!”

“Look Aysar, just shut up!” Calach hissed, just loud enough for his friend to hear.

“Bugger off.” Came the muffled whispered reply.

Calach settled back down, pressing his body hard into the ground, his bow in the grass in front of him. They had planned their position days beforehand, and were hiding in an area of rocks and long grass on either side of the long glen which was the main route north into their clan’s territory; the perfect place to keep watch over its full length. In parts the floor of the glen was quite wide, but at the end where they lay, the walls narrowed dramatically.

It was the perfect sentry position.

He had matted his long brown hair with dried mud and ash, carefully mixed to the same grey colour as the surrounding rocks, and pulled the grey tendrils forward over his eyes to camouflage his face. With the mix through his hair and rubbed into his shoulders, he was undetectable.

Damn him to Lugh; he’s interrupted my concentration. Now I have to start all over again.

He let the view of the glen go slightly out of focus and “felt” forwards and outward with what the dhruids had called the ‘hunter’s eye’. As he let his senses drift, he tried to take in every detail; the grasses shifting slightly in the breeze, the droning and clicking of the insects, the smell of the heather and the earth beneath him. He took stock of the birdcalls, the scratching of a hare. With his hunter’s eye, every living creature became almost incandescent to him. He could see their positions in his mind. When he brought all the visions together, they worked in harmony.

Such a skill did not come naturally to everyone; some could not perfect the art at all. In Calach it had almost become instinctive.

In a hunt, this extra sense was a huge advantage. Calach had even loosed his arrows with eyes closed, and found the mark.

Calach repeated the dhruid’s mantra; “Become a part o’ Baal the Earth Spirit. He’ll shield an’ protect you. Feel the Earth Spirit, feel his hands moving over you, pulling you down into the earth. Feel Baal making you part o’ the earth, part o’ the rocks.”

As he recited the litany, he had the distinct feeling that he could feel the Earth Spirit’s icy hands wrench on his gut pulling him down onto the rock and grass where he lay. A lock of his hair lay scattered somewhere in the grass just beyond his bow, a sacrifice to Baal. The words were familiar, comforting and gave him confidence; helped him concentrate on his task.

He knew, however, that his feeling of chill may just as easily have been the cold air; evening was approaching and Calach could already perceive the moisture begin to drift down from the rocky peaks above. Even though spring was almost over, with the feast of ‘the long day’ not far off, the deep glens still held a cold air after the sun had fallen behind the mountains and even in the heights of summer, a frost was not uncommon.

The lingering winter retreated slowly and reluctantly from the lands of the Caledonii. If you listened to the older clan members, it seemed to return quicker and colder every year.

Two of the clan chiefs had passed by the sentries already. They had been visibly startled when the two sentries rose as one.

“Who travels to the land of the Caledon?” Calach swept his hair back as the words echoed across the narrow glen.

The delegations of three men had announced themselves as Clan Damon and Clan Novant, both from the far south; the lands known as the ‘flatlands’. Calach had welcomed them, checked them for weapons, and indicated the way to Circal Rosich.

As each delegation rode north, the two sentries settled themselves back into their concealed positions.

Only one chief expected to take this route remained; Ma’damar, chief of the mountain clan Meatae from the west of the Caledon lands. Calach had been given Ma’damar’s description, and none of today’s travellers had looked remotely like him. It was Calach’s allotted task; as the Caledon chief’s son, to escort Ma’damar to the stone circle where the gathering was to take place. This was why Calach had been positioned here, and he knew it. That way, it would be the chief’s son of the Caledon clan who would meet the chief of the next largest clan, thus giving the important visitor no reason to think that he had been slighted in any way.

“There’s something wrong,” Came a sudden, alarmed call from Aysar.

Never moving his head to acknowledge the warning, for a few moments Calach could see nothing, then, as his eyesight adjusted, he could discern a thick, misty, grey area at the far end of the glen. The thick cloud seemed to blend in to the mountain sides, Calach couldn’t see what was in or around it.

“It’s just mist!” He shouted across the ravine to Aysar.

“I don’t think so!”

The haze seemed to spread slowly up the glen, but as it got closer Calach slowly realized that the scene was wrong; the slight evening breeze was in the opposite direction.

“It’s blowing the wrong way!” Calach snapped. “It’s dhruids’ work!”

Someone is already in the glen! It must be dhruid’s mist!

Having such a firm grasp of the hunter’s eye, it was an easy jump for Calach to envisage the dhruid’s having more power than him. Sewell, the senior Caledon dhruid, had told Calach and the other elder boys that such a power existed, and the litany to repel it. Now Calach was seeing it manifested for the first time.

“Aysar?” Calach half whispered, half shouted. “It’s Dhruid’s mist.”

It took a few moments before Calach recalled the exact words to attempt to disperse the mist, and called across to Aysar to add weight to the chant.

“Winds blow, the enemy show. Winds blow, the enemy show.” Even as Calach spoke, he heard a similar mumble from Aysar, catching his phrasing, chanting together

After a few moments the grey mist began gradually to clear until Calach could distinguish two, then three figures on horseback riding very slowly through the mist at the far end of the valley.

“Ah see them Aysar!” called Calach quietly across to his friend, “There’s only three, I think it’s alright. It must be Ma’damar.”

“Are you sure?”

“Aye. The gall of the man; endorsing the powers.” Calach had better eyesight, and easily identified Ma’damar from Ranald’s description. He rode proudly in front, not looking to left or right, his thick red beard and mustache dominated his face, even at a distance. Ma’damar wore a red and green flowing robe with matching trews. On his head was a simple conical silver helm.

Next was a dhruid, dressed in the customary drab grey. He rode slowly, head bowed in concentration, the cowl of his cloak pulled forward over his face hiding his features.

In the rear, rode a young warrior, his long reddish hair thrown back from his face. He wore simple jacket and trews, and looked warily from side to side at the rocks and heathers around the glen. He was the only one of the party to pay any attention to their surroundings.

Although both Ma’damar and the warrior had shields slung low on their horses, they carried no weapons that Calach could see.

Ma’damar and his warrior companion exchanged comments as the horses picked their way ponderously over the valley floor, but the chief resolutely kept his eyes looking forward to the defile between Calach and Aysar. The young warrior seemed to examine every crevice in the sides of the glen, offering minute direction changes to his chief as they advanced. Calach could visibly see the restraint shown by the party as they neared the end of the glen where the sides were steeper and came much closer together.

Suddenly the dhruid lifted his head, sweeping his hood back with his free hand. His shaven head and large hook nose would make him recognizable anywhere. He stared directly at Calach, reining his horse to a halt, with a word to the others to do the same. Ma’damar and the warrior followed the dhruid’s gaze to Calach’s position and all three sat upright in their saddles looking towards the series of rocks in which he lay concealed.

Fighting panic, Calach calmed himself with the knowledge that at best the dhruid could only sense him. He knew that he was physically invisible from that part of the glen, his camouflage was complete. That, however, did not remove the feeling of discomfort as he felt the dhruid’s eyes staring into his.

It might be a good idea to just get up now.

The thought, coming unbidden into his mind, was a shock. Calach fought for breath.

“Baal protect me.” He whispered repeatedly. Quickly the Earth Spirit’s power calmed him as the dhruid fought for influence.

We could just stand up now; it wouldn’t make much difference.

Again, hearing the voice in his head, Calach railed against the action, and fought against it. They would remain hidden until the group came nearer.

Stick to the plan.

The dhruid said something to Ma’damar, and after a short conversation, the three continued on their way up the glen. When at last they had come within hearing distance, Calach gave a quiet whistle to Aysar, and both stood up slowly, leaving their bows lying on the ground. Calach swept his matted hair back over his head and extended his hand, palm forward, in the universal gesture of friendship. The horsemen stopped as one.

“Who travels to the land of the Caledon?” Calach spoke the protocol clearly, never moving from his position.

 

~ ~ ~

 

From far above, Conrack watched in alarm as the sentries stood up. Even from his elevated position to the south, he had not seen the two Caledons until they had moved. There was an initial moment of alarm as he realized that the three horsemen were in danger, then, as the exchange took place, he relaxed.

“Calm down.” He said aloud into the slight breeze. His words comforted on his lonely outpost. “It’s normal sentry stuff, and I’m too far away to do anything about it anyway!”

He had caught sight of the trio in the afternoon after killing the clansman. It had been hard work, keeping up with the three horsemen, maintaining his surveillance and keeping hidden, high on the slopes, but he had relished it. It was a chance to put years of training to the test.

From his vantage position, far above the glen’s floor, he could see the trail easily. He saw the path go onward, to the north. Above the hills behind the sentries, he could make out the faint wisps of cooking fires. Even the sight of them made his stomach protest. His meager breakfast of berries seemed a long time ago.

Tonight, he would catch himself a hare or quail, and risk a small fire.

Tonight, when the sentries have been relaxed.

A deep, wicked smile spread slowly over his face. “Maybe I’ll sneak into the camp and get myself some of that food. They’re bound to have too much!”

 

~ ~ ~

 

It was the young warrior who answered, indicating the leader. “It is Ma’damar; chief o’ the clan Meatae, who rides on Caledon land.”

“All welcome Ma’damar, chief o’ clan Meatae. Welcome to you an’ your people.” said Calach, clearly and strongly. He had rehearsed this part, if anyone was going to ruffle the feathers of this important guest, Calach was determined that it was not going to be him.

“I am Calach, son o’ Ranald, chief o’ clan Caledon. I welcome you to the land o’ the Caledon.” Calach and Aysar bowed together, keeping their eyes locked on the mounted trio.

Ma’damar smiled, and called over the intervening space. “I recognize your faither in you, Calach, you’re Ranald’s son a’right!” He kicked his horse to a slow walk, the others following his lead. “You’ve grown a bit from the last time we met.”

Calach frowned.

“It’s a’right, lad.” said Ma’damar, sensing his discomfort. “We met when you were but a wee boy, no’ even three summers old; there’s no reason for you to remember.” Although Ma’damar smiled, Calach felt the tension creep into his speech. “Your faither an’ I had a wee argument about where the border actually was. But in the end there was no harm done; no blood spilt.” Ma’damar smiled in recollection, then brought himself back to the present with a little shake of his head. “How is your faither? It’s been at least ten summers since that day.”

Calach let Ma’damar’s jibe pass; he knew that he looked older than thirteen. He sensed the bad feeling between the two clans building already, and they had just met. “My faither, an’ his family are well, Ma’damar. He welcomes you an’ your people to our heartland an’ asks if you’ll follow me to Circal Rosich.”

Ma’damar looked back, half turning in the saddle, indicating his companions. “This is my firstborn son, Finlass, who will be my second here, an’ the senior dhruid o’ the Meatae; his name is Quen’tan.”

Both men bowed their heads slightly as they were named and Finlass raised his hand, smiling.

“My welcome, Finlass, I hope you had a good journey.”

“We did Calach.” said Finlass smiling. “I am pleased to be attending this great occasion.” His smile seemed genuine.

“Dhruid Quen’tan,” Calach acknowledged simply.

“Calach; yes. Calach; ‘the bristly one’.” said the dhruid in return, pronouncing the words carefully, delighting in Calach’s obvious dislike of the literal translation of his name. He gave a wry smile, which came closer to a sneer.

Calach’s mother had named him because of his spiky, bristly hair at birth but it also had a second more subtle meaning; ‘the one with the sharp points’. Calach always thought that this was a more fitting name for one skilled with the sword and bow.

Ma’damar smiled at the exchange as the three rode nearer.

Aysar intercepted the trio, and quickly looked over the visitors and their horses. A single nod told Calach all he needed to know. No weapons at the gaither; the dhruids were the guarantee of neutrality.

“We’re here to escort you to Circal Rosich, to join wi’ the rest o’ the clan chiefs,” Calach nimbly bounded down to the glen’s floor. “There’s a camp set up for everyone. If you’d like to follow us, we’ll lead you in.”

“Our thanks.” Ma’damar bowed graciously from his saddle.

Calach and Aysar unstrung their bows, and silently led their visitors up the glen to the camp.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The stone circle of Circal Rosich was only a short walk, a large arrangement of eighteen red granite stones, hence the name; the Rose Red Circle. The number of stones in the outer circle was significant; six stones for the clanspeople themselves, six for the dhruids, and six for the gods they worshipped. One larger stone, lay collapsed in the centre; the altar stone.

The ‘great gaither’ for the clan chiefs had been arranged by the dhruids to take place at Circal Rosich, in an almost deserted area in the southern part of Caledon lands. Whilst the dhruids agreed that it was a place of great sanctity and power, it had also been chosen for its neutrality. Although it was considered to be within the Caledon boundary, the area was only lightly populated and the chiefs had reluctantly agreed to its suitability for such a meeting. The dhruids had guaranteed neutrality and safety for all who attended, the power they held over the clans would ensure no one would break such a pledge. The agreement between clan chiefs and the dhruids was that no weapons would be taken to this ‘great gaither’ and clan chiefs were limited to two of an entourage; one dhruid and one other.

Today Calach was a sentry.

Tomorrow when the clan chiefs walked with the dhruids into Circal Rosich, he would be proud to be his father’s ‘second’; in his first official clan engagement.

Calach halted within a stone’s throw of the camp perimeter, and motioned Aysar to continue into the camp.

The sun had somehow managed to squeeze its last rays of light between two mountain peaks and the stone circle was radiant, each stone seeming to burn with an internal pink-red fire. On the north of the circle was a collection of thirty animal hide tents. This would be their home for the next two days. The large broch behind the standing stones was to be used for the cooking and storage of food for the ‘great gaither’.

“We’ll wait here for Sewell, our dhruid, to welcome you properly, Ma’damar,” Calach said to the bearded chieftain,

The three Meatae dismounted.

“You play your part well, Calach,” Ma’damar said as Finlass gathered the reigns of all three horses. “Your faither would be proud, ‘You honor your teachers an’ your clan.’” He said, citing the old ritual praise.

Aysar ran towards Ranald’s tent, and almost immediately chief Ranald Sewell emerged. They walked briskly to the edge of the camp. The two opposing groups of clans looked at each other for a moment, then, as one, both dhruids started to walk alone towards each other.

When the dhruids reached each other, they embraced like old friends. They laughed and spoke for a moment, then Quen’tan walked to Ranald, while Sewell approached the visitors.

“Welcome, Ma’damar!” The Caledonii dhruid said, embracing the Meatae chief. “You are ensured the safety of the brotherhood at all times at this meeting which we have called the ‘great gaither’.”

“Sewell,” Ma’damar held the dhruid at arm’s length. “Now you’ve not changed at all!”

“Hardly likely in just two summers, Ma’damar.” Sewell smiled. “I must ask you, though, if you or the members of your party carry any weapon of any kind. Only by your declaration can we safeguard you and your clansmen.” He bowed and waited for a reply.

Calach witnessed the whole exchange open mouthed.

Sewell knows Ma’damar; they’re acting like old friends.

“As Chief o’ the clan Meatae, I say to you, Sewell, that we carry no arms to this circle,” said Ma’damar deliberately. “Although it’s my feeling that we’ll regret leaving them behind. Anyway, how are you? The last time we met, you were resting on a long journey from the south. You had stories of invading armies.”

“I am fine Ma’damar, and a lot more has happened in those distant lands.” Sewell began to walk back to the camp leading Ma’damar by the arm. “The invading armies are still there, creeping north every day.”

“Aye,” replied Ma’damar, “I daresay they are!”

“Follow me and meet chief Ranald.” said the Caledon dhruid, “He wishes to let old grudges lie buried deep and perhaps begin to try some form of peace between the two great clans.”

“I come to meet Ranald again wi’ open hands, an’ old grudges put well an’ truly aside,” said Ma’damar grimly, “I only hope that he can do the same.”

“He has given the same assurances.” Sewell led Ma’damar to the assembled camp. Finlass followed, leading the horses. Calach brought up the rear.

From the centre of the camp, they heard the sound of the hunting horn being sounded. Three long clear blasts marking the end of the day.

As Ranald had predicted, Ma’damar had been the last to arrive.

Calach was mulling over their conversation. He had no idea that Sewell knew Ma’damar, never mind had stayed with him at Barton. He exchanged glances with Finlass, who was looking around, taking in the whole scene.

Calach waited for a lapse in the conversation, then spoke to his father, “Chief Ranald, can we be excused to wash?” He ran his fingers into his matted hair to emphasize the need for cleaning.

“Aye, son. Off you go.” Ranald smiled. “We’ll see you again when you’re more presentable.”

Calach bowed slightly to the assembly. “Back in a wee while.”

Sewell turned to the two of them. “Remember and place your bows in the broch; there’s no place for them in the camp.”

“We’ll do that first, Sewell.” Calach turned in the direction of the broch, Aysar by his side. They chatted easily together, being firm friends since early childhood.

As he stripped to the waist, and washed in the cold water, Calach thought that whatever happened over the next two days, it would be important. Never before had all seventeen clan leaders met in a single place.

 

~ ~ ~

 

From a safe vantage point, hidden in the shadows of a tent doorway, Neall, the chief of the Damon clan watched his old enemy walk across the grass to the camp. It had been only a year since he had last seen Ma’damar, and that was during the Meatae chief’s latest cattle rieve into Damon lands. On that occasion, the pair had parted with curses shouted from afar, and a wave of swords. Neall had been outnumbered three to one, and as Ma’damar’s warriors had led the Damon cattle away, two of Neall’s men, still bleeding and warm, lay between them. He could still remember Ma’damar’s sneer as he had turned away. There was no love between these clan leaders.

He watched as the two most powerful men in the Norlands embraced and went through the formalities of greeting. The dhruids beside them then began to talk and gesture to the camp and the stone circle. Neall grimaced at the sight of the two men in long grey robes. He had no time for anything that the dhruids had ever done, he considered them an unnecessary part of clan life. His clan only had a dhruid for formalities sake, and to keep the grey-robed dhruids and their gods off his back. Strange things happened to clans who had no dhruid, or who fell out with the dhruidic order for any reason.

But, although he may not like the grey-robes, Neall was not stupid enough to openly cross them.

He made no effort to disguise his opinions though, and arrogantly took no notice of anything that Pell, his dhruid, said. He was glad that after his old one had died he had been assigned a young inexperienced dhruid, and felt good that in his eyes, in one year, had already brow-beaten the poor lad to his own ways. Pell had come to the Damon clan with a quiet enthusiasm but Neall had soon put him in his place.

Neall was here because he did not want to miss anything, there was no one whom he could trust to accurately recount the outcome of the meeting, and had been forced to attend in person.

Neall shouted over his shoulder into the tent, “Pell, that’s the last o’ your grey robes here, perhaps now we can get on wi’ whatever you’ve planned for us.” When there was no answer from within, Neall turned round to see the young dhruid asleep on one of the wooden framed beds.

“Typical o’ those lazy stone worshippers!” He hissed under his breath, and went out with the prospect of looking for someone friendly to talk to. With most of the chiefs knowing Neall’s reputation, that task might have taken him a while to accomplish. The third member of the Neall’s party, his brother Wesson, was also fast asleep, one of the few in his clan that Neall felt he could fully trust.

Pell opened his eyes and grinned. He had heard all Neall’s barbed comments. The dhruids were fasting to gather power for their rituals in the ‘great gaither’; there would be no meal for them. He had also known for the last few minutes that Quen’tan had arrived; in fact he had felt him approach for quite some time. Each dhruid had an individual aura; more of a ‘feeling’, and another dhruid could detect it quite easily, even at a distance.

Pell had known that assignment to clan Damon would be difficult; Neall’s reputation preceded him even to the dhruidic council in the far south. As a young boy, Pell had been brought up by clan Votadin in the eastern lowlands and after he had been chosen to join the dhruidic order by Kheltine, the arch-dhruid. Pell spent many years with the dhruids of the south, where he had studied under the grand-mage; a high honor indeed.

Although in his clan assignment he purposely gave the appearance of the downtrodden, powerless dhruid, he was, in fact, a strong willed, clever young man and had been chosen for this task because of his incredible grasp of the power.

It was thought that Neall could be more influenced by psychical methods rather than any other. In the year that Pell had been with clan Damon, through his telepathic administering he had guided Neall to allow one of his daughters to marry to a more suitable clansman than expected, and to allow around a hundred Brigante survivors to be housed and incorporated into the clan proper. Considering Neal’s belligerent ways, it had been quite an achievement, but Pell was very conscious that his efforts were only a small part of the firm hold that the dhruids had over the clanspeople in general. It was the biggest secret the dhruids had and was guarded by the lives of all dhruids.

If the idea that the grey-robes could influence clan affairs ever became common knowledge, the dhruidic order would cease to exist overnight.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Conrack cut deep into the turf, his dirk working quickly and efficiently. In a pouch at his side was the powdered ash from his fire, mixed with thin flakes of tree bark.

The turf he cut was the same colour as the grass near the rocks above Circal Rosich; the powder the same shade of grey as the rocks he was going to hide in.

Tomorrow I’m going to get a much better view.

And he continued his work. A long ‘v’ shaped groove in the earth could hide a man. But if the groove was cut a little deeper, and the man lay the length of grass above him, it gave him an advantage.