Caledonii: Birth of a Nation. (Part Three; The Coming of Age) Read online

  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!”

  Chapter 12

  The Calm. 77AD.

  “Finlass is offering our men to our enemies!”

  Ma’damar seemed to ignore Conrack’s outburst. He tore at a piece of ham with his yellow, broken teeth and chewed the pink meat carefully.

  “Da’! Finlass is offering your men to defend their lands!” He fell silent when Ma’damar turned to look at him.

  “You don’t like your brother, do you son?”

  The question took him completely by surprise and he could see his father studying his reaction.

  “I just don’t like him trading wi’ our men’s lives.” Conrack breathed deeper, having at least got an answer out. “It’s Meatae blood he’s trading.”

  “An’ his own too.”

  “Aye, Da’, he’s trading wi’ his own blood as well.”

  “An’ if he loses his blood, who’ll be chief o’ the Meatae after me?”

  Conrack reeled again; this conversation was not going to plan. Finlass was off on their new ship, bound for Novantae territory. An ‘envoy’ he had called himself, and Ma’damar had just let him go. Conrack had started this conversation to let Ma’damar see the underlying motive for his meeting with the Novant chief. Conrack had wanted Ma’damar’s permission to accompany Finlass on his trip, to witness for himself Finlass’s deceit, but now it was too late; Finlass had sailed this morning. Conrack had realized that he had been too late, but still he had forced the issue.

  This was a loaded question, and Conrack knew it.

  Ma’damar continued to chew, then took a lager mouthful of ale from a battered tankard. “Well?” He wiped his beard with his sleeve. “You’re eldest after Finlass. You’ll be chief after him! What have you to lose by your brother’s death? Why do you bother me wi’ this when I have everything in hand?”

  He has everything in hand? It doesn’t look like it!

  “Conrack, my boy. You need to take the red clouds away from your eyes before you open your mouth.”

  “Sorry Da’.” The apology was out of habit more than contrition.

  “It’s time for a wee talk son.” He leant over the table and motioned that Conrack do likewise. When their heads were almost touching, Ma’damar quickly grabbed Conrack by the hair and brought his temple crashing down on the table.

  “Do you think I’m stupid?” He hissed at his son. “Well?”

  “No Da’.” Conrack croaked, flinching from Ma’damar’s hold.

  “Do you think I’m slow?”

  “Never Da’.”

  Slow? Never! I never even saw him coming!

  “Red clouds is what you see son. Red clouds.”

  As quickly as he had seized him, Ma’damar let him go, and Conrack abruptly sat down again.

  “Listen son, and listen good. I’m sick o’ this rivalry between you two.” He leant back over the table again. Conrack did not do so.

  “Your brother is on an important mission. For himself, an’ for us; the Meatae people. But at this stage, it pleases me that he thinks it’s for himself. When he contacts the Selgove and the Novants and the Damons and the Votadine, he acts for me in this; we’ve talked at length about it. He’s letting the southern clans know that we’ll send help to them if the Romans attack them. Correct?”

  “Aye, that’s right enough.”

  So Ma’damar knows what Finlass is up to!

  “An’ he does it in my name? Ma’damar o’ the Meatae?”

  “Aye.”

  “So through your brother, Ma’damar o’ the Meatae is promising to aid them when the Romans advance.”

  “That’s what he’s telling them, I’m sure o’ it!”

  “It’s a long way south son, a long way to the Selgove, an’ the Novants. If the Romans invade, it’ll take days for word to get here. Days for word to get to us. Days for us to mobilise any amount o’ men. Days to ride south.”

  Ma’damar stopped and looked at him.

  “Do you take my meaning?”

  “Aye Da’.”

  He actually wants us to be too late to help them!

  “How can we get there quickly son?”

  “I don’t follow Da’.”

  “Well lad, it’s not a difficult question. How can we get men to quickly aid the flatlanders?”

  “By horse?”

  “Aye, that’s right Conrack! Our men have to travel on horseback to get there quick, but even then it’ll take three, four, maybe even five days to get there. An’ how many horses have the Meatae got son, that we could spare for this venture?”

  “I don’t know Da’. A hundred, maybe more.”

  “Correct, when our wee force arrives, an’ it will be wee, an’ it finds we’re too late to do anything we win both ways!”

  A malicious grim spread over Ma’damar’s face. Conrack’s took a similar turn.

  “If the Romans have been pushed back, we are the force that’s not needed, but they will owe us for our efforts! Ma’damar o’ the Meatae has provided men to tidy up the Roman stragglers.”

  Conrack was rapt, waiting for the other alternative.

  “If the Romans have won, we ride back here as quickly as we can. The surviving Selgove and Novant men who want to continue fighting will come where?”

  At last Conrack could see where this was going. “They’ll come here!”

  “Right boy!” Ma’damar thumped his tankard on the table. Slops of his ale splashed over the rough wooden surface. “They’ll come here and fight wi’ us! Either against the Romans, or against Ranald. Either way we win. Either way we become the most powerful clan in the Norlands.”

  Why the wily old bugger!

  Conrack beamed with pride that his father could be so cunning. “An’ whether we fight the Roman scum, or the Caledons, we can let the flatlanders die for us!”

  It was Ma’damar’s turn to beam with pride. “Now you’re thinking like a chief son!”

  Like a chief.

  And if Finlass dies in his little scheme, I get to be one for real!

  ~ ~ ~

  It had taken Finlass longer than he had expected to achieve some form of alliance with the Selgove. For almost a year he had made himself a regular visitor in the houses of Torthor at Shiels and Loch’rabie. The trips were short, taxing affairs; his responsibilities at home dictated most of his time.

  After seeing to the unions of the three western clans; Meatae, Cerone and Epidd by marriage, in the next year Finlass had turned his head to the harder task; the Damons. He had tried many times to get messages through to Neall, but had been rebuffed in the extreme. Then Quen’tan had suggested that he try Wesson, Neall’s brother. He was waiting for the first of the messengers to return when Ma’damar’s ship had been delivered.

  As Bar’ton did not have a natural harbour, Morro had sailed her into the sea loch and landed her at the small town of Lensbluff, where he and a very pregnant Llynn had handed the ship over to Ma’damar.

  The whole town came out to see the ceremony, and most of Bar’ton moved north for the day. As Morro had promised, the ship was indeed a beauty, and on his first look at her, Ma’damar had called her ‘Tamoira’ after his wife. Tamoira herself, clinging to Ma’damar’s arm, had flushed with embarrassment for days afterwards. Although the Tamoira was not as large as a Roman galley, with her large square sail, with the painted boar’s head on it, she was very impressive.

  At Ma’damar’s insistence, Finlass and Conrack had learned to sail her with the Cerone crew, they spent much of their time learning the new rigging and rudder; it was much bigger than any of the Meatae seamen were used to. The two boys had then had assisted in the training of the new Meatae crew, and although the change in duties had been enjoyable, it had made Finlass miss one of his trips east to meet Calach.

  Finlass had been quietly happy when Ma’damar had kept Conrack out of his sea voyage to the Novant chief, Daglass
. His younger brother had been asking far too many questions lately, and had been near to the mark with his shrewd guesses as to what Finlass was up to. The separation would do them both good.

  Finlass had irked at Ma’damar’s instruction that they sail slowly past the Damon coastline on their way to meet Daglass. This enforced show of strength, with the large boar on the sail, would undo any of the good Finlass was trying, but he had his instructions, and sail close to the shore he did. At many of the rocky outcrops, he saw warriors with raised arms, brandishing spears and shields, they even sailed close to a few of the Damon ships, but none approached the Tamoira, she dwarfed even their largest ship.

  After four days of sailing, and three nights at anchor in the shallower waters, the Tamoira sailed up the long sea loch towards the Novant town of Straer. It had been unknown territory to most of the sailors, but at least one or two had known where they were headed.

  Daglass, the Novant chief had journeyed from his capital of Witton to meet them there; the precise day had been unable to be predicted, but the dhruids had arranged it to within a day or two. As Finlass watched the ship being tied to the wooden moorings, and the welcome party walked down the shingle beach, he again wondered at the dhruids abilities.

  Unlike the Damon chief, Neall, Daglass of the Novants was more responsive to Finlass’s overtures of peace and aid in time of war. He listened with gratitude as Finlass offered the Novant clan aid if they were attacked by the massing Romans, but Daglass hinted that they had seen nothing more of the prospective invaders than he had told the ‘great gaither’ three years before. With a quiet acceptance, the Novant chief thanked the young Meatae when Finlass offered the lands of the Meatae and the Caledon as safe havens if the Romans should conquer the smaller clan.

  “Such a dispensation from both Ma’damar and Ranald is accepted in the spirit it has been given.” Daglass said. Finlass could not tell the older man that the offer was from both himself and Calach, and that the respective chiefs knew nothing about it; he had a job to do, and the other Meatae were watching him do it. But Daglass thanked Finlass for his offer of support, should they be attacked and pledged his warriors to do the same for Finlass and the northern clans, if the need should arise. It had been an empty promise, and both men knew it, but it had been said anyway.