Caledonii: Birth of a Nation. (Part One: The Great Gather) Page 3

  “So Finlass, if you were Ma’damar, sitting wi’ your cronies in the middle of enemies an’ strangers, what would you talk about?”

  “Nothing important. Just small-talk. Anything to let me get through the evening.”

  Calach tryed to imagine the tension the clan chiefs were under; glad for the first time that he was not actually at the tables eating with them.

  “Even small-talk could lead to other things.”

  In the light of the camp fires, Calach could see Finlass smile.

  “Aye, an’ they a’ know it!” Finlass began to laugh. “So they’re taking the only way out, by saying nothing!”

  By this time Finlass was guffawing, clamping his hand over his mouth. Soon the tears were falling openly down his face. His mirth was soon caught by Calach, as the humor in the improbable situation spread.

  “They’re like kids again!” Finlass babbled, still laughing. “They’re just like wee boys; terrified in case they say the wrong thing!”

  Calach wiped his tears away with his sleeve. “Aye, or in case whatever they say’s taken the wrong way!”

  Gradually the laughter subsided, and they quietly watched the chiefs for a few moments; Calach’s new understanding changing the way he viewed the situation.

  Finlass broke the silence abruptly. “What do you think Kheltine will be talking about tomorrow?”

  Calach was taken aback by the inquiry, and was instantly on his guard.

  Is Finlass asking me a personal question, or trying to gauge the general mood of the Caledon clan for his own chief’s benefit?

  “Oh, I don’t know.” said Calach, eventually, giving nothing away. “It could be one o’ many things.” The reason for the gather had been discussed around the Caledon camp for days and there were various thoughts on the subject. “It could be the Roman advance; it’s been mentioned already. It could be a political move. It could be some dhruid matter that we know nothing about.”

  “Aye sure it could be,” Finlass interrupted, looking Calach straight in the eye. “It could be about the common barter price for fish and cheese!” The smile was back on Finlass’s face. “But they could’ve told each clan individually if it was. There was no need to risk this ‘gaither’ if it was something small. Let’s face it, we both know that they’ll be talking about the Romans tomorrow.”

  Calach stalled for a moment before answering, marshaling his thoughts. “Aye, you’re probably right.”

  Finlass looked up at the dark sky for a moment.

  Calach looked at the Meatae. Even in the dim firelight, he was certain he could see something in Finlass’s eyes. Whether it was truth, honesty or honor, he could not decide, but it was something. Against what Ranald would have called ‘his better judgment’, he felt that he could trust this person.

  “There’s never been a gather like this before.” Calach said. “A time when a’ the chiefs have been called together.”

  “Never.”

  “Exactly. So, as far as I see it, I can’t really believe that the clans were summoned a’ the way here to talk about anything other than the Romans.” He gulped his next breath of air, glad that he had finished; that his own opinion was out in the open.

  Finlass nodded and gazed at the chiefs again. “An’ I believe that if that lot actually thought about the situation, instead of their petty bickering an’ clan rivalries, then they would see it too.”

  Calach followed Finlass’s stare. “Maybe they do. Maybe they a’ realize it, but are just too scared to voice it openly.”

  “Aye Calach, maybe they do. But I doubt it!”

  Finlass smiled, and with his hand on Calach’s shoulder, began to walk towards the camp. “When you come to the table to eat, Calach o’ the clan Caledon, sit beside me. We’ll talk some more.” Finlass began to laugh again. “Maybe our Da’s will see us, and mirror us.”

  ~ ~ ~

  There was a low, almost inaudible hum from the cowed heads. One by one, each kneeling dhruid murmured his own name, adding his strength to the cadence. The sound did not carry out of the circle, but within, it was a roar.

  Kheltine’s voice, his tone hoarse, whispered the name “Calach” over and over again, keeping rhythm with the others.

  Then, abruptly, seemingly without command, the sound stopped.

  Kheltine, the only dhruid whose face his cowl did not cover, knelt low on the damp grass, the entrails of the chicken still warm in his hands, the blood dripping. His sharp ceremonial knife had been wiped clean and hidden within his cloak.

  “Strength, my brothers.” Kheltine’s voice was strong and clear for one of such an advanced age. “We need your strength now; more than ever before.”

  We need your strength and your courage and your loyalty to the brotherhood.

  There were a few gasps from the dhruids as the old dhruid’s words rang loudly in their minds. Some had never been spoken to so clearly before. It was like the insides of their heads acted like a bell, with Kheltine’s words echoing loudly.

  Kheltine grinned.

  The power of Circal Rosich is indeed great.

  He bowed his head; his long white hair fell on either side of his face.

  “Kernos. Hear us.”

  “Hear us!” The other dhruids gave a whispered reply.

  Gradually the group chant began again.

  “Finlass, Finlass ...” began Kheltine’s hoarse voice.

  When the chant ceased, Kheltine motioned inside the stone circle and the assembled dhruids stood up serenely. If anyone had been watching them, in the darkest part of the glen, it would have seemed as if these new grey stones thrust themselves out of the ground. They pulled back their hoods from their faces one by one. The leader Kheltine spoke softly.

  “The plan proceeds well. Go and get what rest you can before the gather starts in the morning.”

  The dhruids left the circle and made their way to the tents. This was the end of their fourth day of fasting, and the third without any sleep. Fasting was an essential part of the dhruid culture, it made the dhruids stronger, their spiritual power increased as the lack of food broke their physical bodies down. Going without sleep encouraged pure thought; it made it easier to focus their minds on the task at hand. They could go without food or sleep for ten days if the need occurred. There would be plenty of time for both when the clansmen had gone back to their own lands; time to sleep when their task was completed.

  ~ ~ ~

  Conrack furtively worked his way towards the camp. The evening had been long, and his hunt, high up on the surrounding hills had proved futile. His empty belly had forced this new, daring act. He had chosen to approach the camp unarmed. If he was discovered here, his punishment would be enough without bringing weapons to the gaither. But still he relished the danger, the possibility of discovery, the smell of his own fear.

  Know fear and bind it close to your heart. The words of Quen’tan, the dhruid.

  As he paced silently towards the broch where the food was stored, he cringed at the chorus of snores from the nearby tents.

  It’s a wonder they can sleep at all with all this racket!

  Standing by the high curved stone wall, he took another look at the positions of the sentries.

  Incompetents. They guard nothing. A child could have got this far!

  He listened at the door, and hearing nothing, unlatched it and gave it a tug.

  Noisless. Good, that would have given the game away.

  With an effectiveness which a blind man would have been proud of, he felt his way inside. He felt bowls, on a shelf, then his thighs bumped into a table. There was meat on the table, covered in damp cloth. Sliding his hand inside, he quickly located a large joint and some smaller portions, which he slipped into his tunic. The belt round his waist held them firm.

  Wouldn’t want to take too much. Don’t want them to notice.

  Retracing his steps to the door, he bolted it shut and turned for the hills again.

  He had timed his raid perfectly, as he walked up the
slope, shifting his feet erratically, leaving no easy trail; he felt the morning dew descend. It would soon cover his tracks completely.

  The perfect raid.

  ~ ~ ~

  Calach woke early. He had thought that after his conversation with the others at dinner that he would toss and turn, thinking about the political issues which had been discussed, but he had been asleep as soon as he had lay down. His coverlet lay crumpled on the ground. He looked at it and tried to remember if he had slept fitfully, but he had no memory of waking during the night, or his sleep having been disturbed in any way.

  At the evening meal Calach had introduced Finlass to Mauchty; the son of the chief of the neighboring Venicone clan. Mauchty would be the only non-Caledon attending who Calach had ever seen before, although he did not know him well. Mauchty’s father was ill and he was attending the gather as his father’s representative.

  Mauchty had tried to eat with the chiefs, but had felt an outsider; taking the somber atmosphere as a personal affront. After the sons joined the meal, Mauchty sought them out.

  Although the torch lit meal had passed without event, it had at the very least answered one of Calach’s questions; how old Finlass was. He had one finger bare of tattoos; he was nineteen years old.

  The Norland people did not, as a whole, have a system of counting, and had developed a simple way of keeping track of the age of a person under twenty. The system was run and supervised by the dhruids in all the clans, and based upon the Norland custom of body tattooing. Every year at the midsummer feast, everyone below the age of twenty was taken aside, and beginning with the toes and moving on to the fingers, one digit was dyed with tattoo paint every year. The style of tattoo varied from a simple dipping in the colour, to intricate designs, colors and textures. In general, the poorest had simple coloring, and those children with some form of barter currency in the clan paid tattooists to perform the task in a more intricate form. Anyone could then tell the age of every child and young adult in the clan.

  In a system which would have found it difficult to keep track on ages, the tattooing made a system of rites of passage, dependent on age, easy to enforce. When the child had every toe painted, and was then judged officially ten summers old, they were allowed to take up apprenticeships in any trade, begin dhruid training, or in the main start warrior drills. Only at ten were they allowed a proper sword, anyone younger practiced and played with wooden ones. The tattooing of a child’s tenth toe was a celebration in the family.

  By the time a warrior had five of his fingers tattooed, (fifteen summers old, or ‘showing five fingers’) they had to have completed their hunting ‘trials’; have stalked and killed a boar, and a hawk. Boar teeth and hawk claw necklaces were a status symbol among the young.

  At fifteen, any clan warrior who did either not have a trade or been assigned any special duty was eligible to be drafted into farming, building or other clan activities. They could also be recruited for hunting or raiding parties. At fifteen, with the permission of the respective families, clan members could marry and start families of their own. After the wedding ceremony, they were considered fully independent of their parent families and completely incorporated into clan life.

  The ultimate accolade came at twenty. When the clan member had all his fingers and toes tattooed, they could be involved in clan politics, even on the lowest levels. They could take up positions of power within their clan, they could petition the chief to start a new settlement, and they could marry and travel without their parent’s consent. They could also tattoo other parts of their body. This body and facial tattooing was the status symbol wielded by the warrior’s caste, and although by now this practice usually only concerned the male warrior, many women made no effort to start raising children and became full members of the clan fighting force. The Norlands clans’ warrior contingent consisted of as many as one woman in four.

  The tattoo artist, therefore, was one of the trades held in the highest esteem, and wandering traders with new designs, patterns, pictures and colors were in great demand. Most warriors only tattooed their torso, leaving their faces untouched, but some had fantastic designs, drawings, and even stories covering the whole body.

  When a warrior went into battle, he went almost naked, with the full intention of showing off his or her tattoos. It was considered an event of great honor, and they engaged the enemy with just a wrap round their waists. The tattoos were then augmented by the liberal use of body painting, and great pride was taken in the content and originality of their body illustrations. The colour in the ‘war paint’ was predominantly blue, coming from the heavily fermented woad leaves. The woad served the double purpose of painting the body and congealing the blood in any wounds received. Many lives had been saved by the liberal painting of woad.

  Calach was showing five fingers. As a chief’s son, he had access to more wealth than others, and had paid for an intricate criss-cross patterns on all fingers of his right hand; his sword hand. Calach had long harbored plans of the individual tattoos joining on the back of his hand and running up his arm in an interweaving design till it stopped with a tattooed armband. He would have to wait another four years to begin the extended tattoo up his arm. At the feast of the long day, which was less than one moon away, he would have another finger tattooed, the first of his left hand.

  He lay pensive, looking at the intricate pattern of knots, tattooed on the fingers of his right hand, wondering what the day would bring.

  ~ ~ ~

  Pell was suddenly alert. The morning sun was shining through holes in the tent wall.

  Pell? It is time.

  Pell smiled at Kheltine’s gentle summons. Stretching, he got steadily to his feet. He had been in meditation, feeling the early morning sunshine warm up the air inside the tent, blocking out the snores of Neall and Wesson. He glanced back at the sleeping chief as he parted the tent flap.

  My time will come chief Neall.

  In his mannerisms toward the chief, Pell was deferent. In his thoughts, however, he allowed himself the luxury of sneering at the overbearing man. With a smile, he walked out into the morning to start the real business of the gather. Neall and Wesson still snored loudly.

  As Pell walked up the slight incline to Circal Rosich, other dhruids emerged from their tents and soon a large group of grey robed figures were striding together to the edge of the stone circle. As they came to the stones, the assemblage broke into two groups and edged round the stones making a semi-circle. They then turned in unison to face the centre of the circle and bowed their heads.

  Kheltine’s voice began with a falter, then regained strength.

  “Kernos the Spirit of the Underworld, you hear our unspoken words.”

  Pell felt the silence descend on the circle.

  “Lugh the Earth Spirit, you hear our unspoken words.” Kheltine said in a monotone. Dhruids repeated the mantra in unison. There was then a pause in which each dhruid mumbled one of their own personal phrases.

  Pell took a breath. “Carry me to the special place.” he said. He concentrated on the chant.

  Kheltine’s voice rang out. “Aretha; goddess of Summer, you give us the power to carry out your will.” Again the encircled dhruids added their own quiet part of the ceremony. Pell asked again to be carried to his ‘special place’.

  The dhruids then walked into the circle of stones and, joining hands, made a smaller circle. With bowed heads they meditated for a few moments, then raised their heads together.

  “Give us the strength and the power to accomplish this task.” said Kheltine quietly. The other dhruids nodded their heads in assent. “We did well last night. I feel the beginnings of great things here.”

  He looked around the circle.

  “Lugh the Earth Spirit, you hear our unspoken words, and now we would ask you in person.” said the old man.

  Pell felt his body lighten, as if he could fly, then found himself noticing the tingling in his legs.

  The power of the circle rises within me
. I can feel Lugh rising through my bones!

  The column rose through his body, making him feel giddy. He held down an attack of panic as he felt the stirrings of an erection. Never in his life had he felt so good.

  This is what power really is!

  Pell sailed over the camp, till he was above Ranald’s tent.

  Yeild today. Yield.

  He drifted to Ma’damar’s tent and repeated the spell.

  Full of euphoria, he circled the camp, faster and faster, till he was giddy.

  “Pell!”

  This is my destiny!

  “Pell!”

  The dhruids on either side shook his hands as Pell suddenly snapped out of the trance. His legs collapsed from underneath him, and the dhruids were forced to hold him upright

  “What happened?” he croaked. He looked around in confusion. The dhruids had now abandoned their circle, and were standing round him.

  “Like before, you went too deep.” Kheltine looked on with concern. “Look at the sun. It is time.”

  Pell nodded to the dhruids holding him, and stood on his own. Noticing that the sun was appreciably higher than before, he acknowledged that he had been in the trance for more than a few moments. Time had passed so quickly.

  “Leave the circle and return with your clan chiefs and their seconds.”

  He shook his head to clear it, as he turned for the camp.

  As Pell walked back to Neall’s tent, he hummed a dhruidic chant in the warm morning sun. Unlike the clansmen, who did not usually meet each other at all, there was nothing new or unusual in dhruids from different clans meeting together. They met every seven years, in a remote Norlands glen, and once every fourteen years with the dhruids of the south at the Great Circal in the far south. This southern gather was called the ‘Dhruids Torch’. On the last such two occasions, the ‘Dhruid’s Torch’ had been a nervous event, with each group of dhruids threading their way through the Roman occupied south to attend.