Night of the Fifth Moon by Anna Ciddor

try.’
    The fosterlings forgot the rain, the cold and their looming fate. They raced backwards and forwards, hurling the spear, shouting encouragement and laughing at each other. The tree stump grew more and more splintered as everyone’s aim improved. At last, even Nath-í managed to hit it, though when he shouted in triumph and pulled the spear from its target, the stone tip snapped off the end.
    â€˜I’ve broken it!’ said Nath-í ruefully.
    Lorccán spun round to Maura.
    â€˜Can we use the real spear now?’ he demanded.
    Maura, picking up the damaged one, shook her head. ‘Not now,’ she said. ‘Look.’
    They followed the direction of her gaze and saw Faelán and the anruth gathering by the fire. The day was ended and it was time for the new moon ceremony. Instantly, the joy and excited banter were snuffed out. ‘Come on,’ said Maura.
    In sober silence, the fosterlings followed her across the clearing.
    Dense clouds still covered the sky. Faelán, lifting his arm to chant, added an extra plea.
    â€˜Spirit of the Moon
    Hid from our sight
    Arise from darkness
    And pity our plight.
    Spirit of the Moon
    Return and guide us . ’
    Everyone peered up anxiously, hoping for a break in the clouds. Ket blinked as raindrops spattered into his eyes, but, if the moon was there, it remained hidden.
    The druid fingered his beard. ‘Art,’ he said, in a slow, meditative way, ‘fetch me a branch of broom.’
    The anruth hurried across the clearing, and his footsteps faded away as he was swallowed up by the forest. The fosterlings drew together, silent and watchful. Darkness crept over them.
    At last there came a rustling among the trees. A figure moved in the murk and a moment later, Art burst into the firelight brandishing a long, bushy branch.
    â€˜Ah.’ Faelán grasped it and raised it above his head. ‘Spirits of the Air, dispel these clouds and let us see your guiding light!’ he commanded. He turned, sweeping the air with the branch.
    Ket felt a puff of wind dance around his legs and curl the hem of his léine. The flames in the fire flickered and crackled. A murmur started in the woods and rose to a howl then the next moment a gale came tearing through the camp. Ket’s arm flew to shield his eyes as spiky bits of leaf and twig blew into his face.
    â€˜Calm, be calm.’ The tall figure of the druid loomed up beside the fire. ‘Hear me, Spirits of the Air and cease your fury!’ With a sharp movement, he cast the branch of broom onto the fire. ‘Burn! Burn! Consume all anger!’
    For a moment longer the spirits raged, and then, as fast as they had come, they faded away. Cautiously, Ket lowered his arm. The air felt as if it was holding its breath.
    All eyes turned to the sky. The clouds had been swept away and there, shining and clear, was the new moon.
    The anruth and the fosterlings cheered. Laughing and chattering, they scrambled for their places around the fire.
    Gratefully, Ket sat down and thrust his frozen feet towards the flames. Immediately, he let out a squawk, and jerked them back. It felt as if his toes were on fire.
    â€˜Hey, what have you been up to?’ said Goll. ‘Where are your brogues?’
    â€˜I took them off.’ Ket gulped, trying not to cry. ‘Druids don’t wear shoes. You don’t wear shoes.’
    Goll chuckled. ‘Yes, but I didn’t start by leaving them off in the middle of winter. You’ll get chilblains. Here, give us a look.’ He pried Ket’s hands away and tutted at the red, throbbing toes. ‘Wrap them up now, and don’t put them too close to the fire.’ He tucked a corner of his squirrel-fur cloak around Ket’s feet. ‘In the morning I’ll make you a poultice of mullein leaves.’
    Faelán lifted his finger for attention, and Ket glanced worriedly at Goll.
    â€˜If I’m still here in the morning,’ he