Night of the Fifth Moon by Anna Ciddor Page B

‘We weren’t talking about the ogham,’ she said.
    â€˜Huh.’ Lorccán raised his eyebrows disbelievingly and stalked off.
    Nessa shrugged and turned back to Ket. ‘Master Faelán says I can visit my clan and find out what’s happening with Gortigern and Tirech. Do you want to come with me?’
    A bitter wind was driving across the plain, and howling around the cairn, but Ket felt warmed inside by a glow of pride and happiness. As the wind gusted them along, he kept glancing at Nessa, wanting to say thank you, but too shy.
    Where the rocky ground gave way to bog, the first ringforts came into sight. The trackway of logs was half submerged in the soft mud, and Nessa caught hold of Ket’s hand. Her fingers were icy. He clung tightly, still not speaking. But as they picked their way through the mire, he tried to send her a message with the pressure of his grasp.
    Mosses and lichens grew like a woolly fleece of grey and green all around them. They could hear the trilling of skylarks and meadow pipits, and the occasional plaintive wheep of a golden plover. Here and there were high tufts of heather and deer grass, the russet leaves of bog cotton, and the golden seed heads of asphodel.
    Suddenly, a snipe exploded under their feet, flying up in a blur of wings.
    Ket and Nessa jumped in fright.
    â€˜I nearly trod on it!’ Ket exclaimed.
    â€˜We haven’t been paying proper attention,’ said Nessa. ‘We’ve been forgetting to look and listen the way Faelán told us to.’
    Now, with earnest eagerness, they kept stopping to examine things. They ran the long stalks of heather through their fingers, feeling the softness of the tiny pointed leaves.
    â€˜And aren’t the flowers pretty?’ said Ket. Though their vibrant hues had faded, the dead flower heads had dried into delicate, almost transparent bells.
    The two friends stopped to peer into a pit, where peat had been gouged out of the bog for fuel. The scar, with its straight, cut edges, glistened dark brown. From the centre, protruded a jagged, silvery tree stump.
    â€˜Pity we don’t have an axe,’ said Nessa. ‘Master Faelán would have praised us for bringing back some of that wood.’
    But Ket was glad they couldn’t. He gazed uneasily at the frozen, contorted shapes of the roots. Faelán had told them that pine trees no longer grew in Ireland. This one had lain in the bog for thousands of years, and now here it was, exposed. To him, the pit seemed like a grave that had been broken open. Caught on one knotty protuberance was a brass earring and Ket hoped it was an offering to appease the angry Spirits of the Marsh.
    â€˜Hey!’ yelled a voice.
    A strip of crimson cloth came dancing towards them on the breeze. Nessa jumped up to catch it and turned to look. ‘That’s come from my place,’ she cried, waving excitedly to a ringfort where women were tying coloured buntings to the palisades that crested the ramparts.
    â€˜Fáilte, fáilte,’ called the women.
    As the two friends crossed the ditch and entered the yard, dogs leapt and barked in greeting.
    â€˜Nessa!’ cried her mother, bouncing towards them. Nessa stood stiff and awkward while Egem embraced her. ‘My, you grow taller every time I see you! But look at you, you’re too thin.’ Ket eyed his friend and saw that Egem was right. Nessa’s cheeks were hollow, her chin almost as sharp as a knife point. ‘You don’t get enough to eat at that place,’ tutted her mother.
    Nessa shrugged. ‘It’s winter,’ she said. ‘We’ll find more to eat when the warm weather comes. But tell me, what are you hanging up all those coloured rags for?’
    â€˜The king, of course. He’ll come past here on his way to the chieftain’s,’ said Egem, stroking Nessa’s arm. ‘Come inside, both of you.’ She began to shepherd them towards the house.