Night of the Fifth Moon Read Free Page A

Battle of Moytura. This morning the telling of the tale will be mine. But tonight you fosterlings will share it amongst you.’ The druid leaned back against the Sacred Yew. ‘When you tell a tale,’ he said, ‘always call for the help of the spirits. The spirit of this tree has existed so long, she has witnessed not only the telling but the birth of legends. She has seen the heroes, the victories, the deaths and defeats. Her roots link her to the depths of the Underworld and her branches to the height of the sky. Touch her, and feel the spirit.’
    The fosterlings eyed each other. It seemed now as if the gnarled, sinewy yew might writhe into life. The tree had three trunks, ancient and twisted, and it was so wide that if all six fosterlings had stood in a ring, they could barely have circled it with their clasped hands. Tentatively, they reached out and laid their palms against the bark.
    â€˜I can feel something, I can feel something!’ yelled Lorccán.
    â€˜You would ,’ muttered Bran.
    Ket screwed his eyes shut. Over hundreds of years, many people must have touched this tree. For a fleeting instant he sensed their presence, as if they were around him, watching.
    â€˜Now for the tale,’ said Faelán.
    One by one, he turned to each of them and spoke their names.
    â€˜Nath-í?’
    Nath-í leaned earnestly forward, wriggling, so that his knobbly elbows and knees bumped the others.
    â€˜Bran?’ asked Faelán. Bran was punching Nath-í’s knee and didn’t hear. ‘Bran!’ Faelán repeated.
    Bran looked up.
    â€˜Lorccán . . .’
    Lorccán stuck out his chest. ‘ I’m listening,’ he said.
    â€˜Ket,’ said the druid. Ket stared back. He was too excited to speak. His heart felt like a trapped bird, flapping wildly against the net that held it.
    Faelán turned to the girls.
    â€˜Riona?’ Riona pressed her fingers over her mouth.
    â€˜And Nessa.’ Nessa smiled and smoothed her skirt over her knees. She had a heart-shaped face and when her mouth quirked up in a smile, her chin grew more pointy.
    â€˜Listen well,’ said Faelán. ‘Fortune favours those who recount a tale faithfully.’ He picked up his harp and strummed a few notes, then began, part in song, and part in chant. ‘Long, long ago, there were people called the Tuatha de Danaan who dwelt far to the north, in Falias, Gorias, Murias and Findias.’
    Faelán’s voice and the strumming of the harp had a magical power. Ket found himself drifting into the world of the story. He felt the bobbing of the silver boat, heard the sound of waves and the slapping of oars as Elatha, King of the Fomoria, sailed towards the land of the Tuatha de Danaan. He saw the beauteous Princess Eriu with her long golden hair coming out to greet him.
    â€˜One day, the Tuatha de Danaan set out in a fleet of boats to capture the land of the Fir Bolg . . . this very land where we live now.’
    The druid swept out his arm, and Ket stared around, trying to see with the eyes of a stranger. The campsite was a clearing surrounded by trees. In the centre, a cauldron simmered over a fire. There was no furniture, walls or roof, though the druid and his followers had dwelled here for many years. Logs and rocks served as seats, and the beds were soft boughs covered with animal skins.
    Stretching to the south and east, a forest of birch, ash and rowan glowed with leaves of red and gold. Around the fosterlings, the trees thinned out and beyond their trunks could be seen a sward of grass with stony grey outcrops. A river meandered across the plain and trickled away in a haze of purple heather. In the distance, where the ground was low and marshy, the ringforts of Nessa’s clan were visible, but the other farms of the tuath were out of sight, beyond the forest and the hills.
    â€˜The plain of Moytura,’ Faelán went on, ‘is where they fought their battle.