Celtika (16 page)

Urtha seemed amused. ‘Would we all had that choice. But you know, in
our
land, when we die, it all starts again. Don’t fear age, Merlin.’ He laughed quietly. ‘Let me foster you!’

*   *   *

The journey of lakes south from the land of the Pohjoli was behind us; and the freezing sea, with its floating ice and sleek, dark pirate ships, was also behind us; and we were about to enter the land of ghosts.

The land of Urtha’s birth had been known by many names, most of them referring to the rugged coastline or the treacherous estuaries of the great rivers that led into its interior, or to the whiteness of the towering cliffs which the sea had carved along its southern reaches. Five-river-land was how a trading people, the
phoaniki,
had known of this northerly and inhospitable island, though there were many more rivers than that. I had met one intrepid trader of that race who had sailed its circumference and whose tales confirmed the well-attested belief that the land went down into the sea on its farthest edge, and that the inhabitants of that part of the island moved between the realm of ocean and forest as if there was no boundary.

Urtha called his realm Alba, and this was a familiar enough dialect name for what various peoples of the south called Albos, Albon, Hyperalbora and so on, invariably meaning ‘Whiteland’, though the name was not necessarily derived from the chalk cliffs so easily visible from the territory of the Nervii on the mainland itself. Long before Urtha’s time, Alba had been shrouded in mist for more than fifty generations, a cloying, brilliant cover of cloud that had made navigation around its coastal waters a nightmare. That endless, timeless mist had concealed great storms that pounded ceaselessly at the deeper forests and mountains. The island had been a rain-land of terrifying darkness, and there were accounts of ‘ancestor trees’ reaching high above the stormclouds, whose canopies were home to whole clans.

It was at the end of the age of the huge stone sanctuaries, however, those massive circles in the wildwood, that the most enduring name for Alba arose: Ghostland. I had journeyed on by then, back on the Path after helping with the building, but I learned later that this Otherworldly land had suddenly risen in the heart of Alba, an enormous realm of forested hills and deep, twisting valleys, connected to the clan territories that surrounded it, such as Urtha’s, by mist-shrouded rivers and narrow passes.

In Ghostland, the shades of the ancient dead ran, played, rode and hunted with the spirits of those yet to be born, bright elementals who always took adult form and dreamed of the adventures and fates to come in their own far futures. For this reason, Ghostland was also known as the Land of the Shadows of Heroes.

Urtha’s stronghold was a few days’ ride to the east of this Otherworld.

‘I’ve seen it from a distance,’ he explained one day as we rested from rowing. ‘And I’ve seen some of the Shadow Heroes, when they come to the edge of their world, close to ours. They have their sides of the rivers, their edges of the forests, their own valleys, which we leave well alone. They ride mostly by night. Some are like my own
uthiin,
bound to one leader, bound by their own codes of ghostly honour. But they are drawn from strange places, and they are mostly unrecognisable, though my wife’s father, Ambaros, claims to have seen ancestor signs on some of them. We keep the border between their territory and ours as taboo. To cross the wrong river, take the wrong forest path, is to disappear as completely as a puff of smoke on a windy day, not even a footprint remaining. Though to be honest, it’s an almost impossible task to enter their realm. They come into ours, though.’

Urtha made the crossed finger gesture that indicated both protection and danger.

No such concerns occupied Urtha now as he stood at Argo’s prow, screaming greeting to the craggy cliffs of Alba. His
uthiin
rowed hard, the Germanii and the Volkas sang rowdily, the Cretan looked worried. Urtha could think of nothing but his wife and daughter—and his two fine sons (potential return had finally made his heart grow slightly fonder towards the boys he had described as ‘twin demons’). Jason stood with him, while Rubobostes held the tiller, and as Argo rocked on the rising swell of this grey, grim sea, so they discussed where along the island’s shores we had arrived. Gebrinagoth of the Germanii was helpful, having once rowed with a war party through the channel between island and mainland. He hadn’t stopped to raid, he assured Urtha nervously. It was agreed we were too far north. To reach the small river inlet that led to Urtha’s land would take two days, either rowing or sailing.

In fact, we hoisted the sail, since the wind suddenly got up, a useful northerly, and there was a great sigh of pleasure as the oars were shipped. Argo listed heavily in the current, but rode her way quickly south, standing off from the shore to avoid the rocks. At times, figures lined the cliffs, and where we passed the beaches, long-haired, masked riders galloped in parallel with us. There was often a clamour of horns and drums, distinct warnings. When Argo dipped too close to land, slingshot showered towards us; during the night, torches burned on high or on the shoreline.

Urtha was not happy with the omens, though he would not specify the nature of his concern. I had noticed, however, that many of the spear-shaking, horn-blowing guardians of this part of Alba were women, children and older men.

Then, in the dark of the night, a while before the dawn, we saw a burning figure in the distance, in fact two great wooden effigies in the shape of men, which appeared to be wrestling with each other across the mouth of a narrow river. As they burned they showered fire on to the water below. We could hear the screaming of animals, caught in these figures, being slowly consumed by the conflagration.

‘Is this a sacrifice?’ Jason asked.

Urtha agreed that it probably was. ‘And a discouragement. Something has happened. Something has changed…’ He seemed very worried, very confused.

‘Why do you say that?’ I asked.

‘Because this is my river. My territory is a two-day haul along it. These people who live at the inlet are my allies at the moment. We trade cattle and horses and foster our sons. You’ll remember me telling you, Merlin. I’ve never known the local king, Vortingoros, to use cage-burning. Something has happened.’

Jason dismissed Urtha’s immediate worries, demanding, ‘If that’s the way to get to where you live, to fetch these great knights of yours you’ve promised me, how do we pass below this burning bridge?’

There was a long silence, then all eyes turned to me.

Elkavar shouted genially from his bench, ‘I have an excellent suggestion. Let’s back-row and forget all about it.’

Ullanna and Rubobostes cheered, and there was a ripple of laughter among the other argonauts.

‘Is there another river entrance?’ Jason asked. Urtha shook his head.

‘None that I would trust. Besides, I need to know what has happened here. Have you noticed the strange thing?’

We all stared at the burning giants, their arms locked around each other’s shoulders, fire dripping from their wood and wicker frames as metal pours from the cauldron. I realised, then, what Urtha meant.

There was no sign of Vortingoros or his elite; no horsemen, no chariots, no screaming women hoisting bloody spears, no raging druids calling down the fury of Taranas, no curious children waiting for the slaughter, no howling, foaming hounds.

There would always have been hounds, wherever there was fire and the presence of men, waiting with the shedding of blood on their minds. The element of surprise, second nature to Jason, did not feature in the thinking of the warrior castes of Gallia and Alba.

‘There is something wrong,’ Urtha said again. ‘We should wait until those effigies have finished burning, then row fast through the mouth and into the river. I have a bad feeling about this.’

Jason was still contemplating Urtha’s suggestion when Niiv whispered in my ear, ‘Ask them why they’re struggling. Tell them to stop the fight.’

‘They’re effigies in wood. Talking to trees is not a speciality of mine.’

‘But not beyond your ability,’ the devious Niiv whispered, quickly adding, ‘But were they built by man or charm?’ I sensed the point she was making. There was something about the sheer size and ferocious combustion of these giants that pointed away from the mere sacrificial. I had seen such structures burned before, and they quickly exhausted the wood and animal fat, dulling down to embers, which might glow for a season but without any real fire. These figures had been lighting the night sky for all of our approach.

I stared hard at the fire then passed through the flames and entered the wooden skulls of these embracing figures. The raging hearts of birds and the terror of rams made the place stink of fear; most creatures were already dead; a raven was tethered, calmly waiting for its passing. Crows screeched around the hollows as tongues of flame licked for them.

I came back. I had found no sign of charm, save, perhaps, for that quietly watching, tethered raven. And the pure size of these giants, vaster than any clan-made effigy that I had seen before.

Jason had called Cucallos to the prow; this was the man’s land, and silent though he was, Jason had soon discovered he had the sight of a hawk; ‘far-seeing’, the
keltoi
called it. His cousin Borovos had a similar talent to do with hearing. At once Cucallos confirmed what should have been obvious: that the falling fires were burning carcasses. He also saw crouched figures some way up the river, beyond the giants. They were by the water’s edge, quite motionless. Cucallos was sure they were by the landing stage, close to the village and high-walled stronghold which was his home.

Urtha was still inclined to wait, despite his concerns and curiosity as to what might be happening further along the river. He felt a sense of dread, he explained, and of terrible danger. It would be wise to wait. Manandoun and Cathabach agreed. They too felt they were being warned away.

Jason was in no doubt that this was exactly the intended effect of this monstrous display, and he quickly made the decision:

‘Lower sail, lower mast, get ready at the oars! Remember the clashing rocks, Merlin? We raced through those, didn’t we? With no more than a dove-tail clipped!’

‘You had a helping hand, I seem to remember.’

‘Did we?’ Jason challenged with half a smile.

‘Hera herself summoned help to hold the rocks apart.’

‘Or we dreamed she did! But it was oar-strength and courage that got us through the danger and on to that black ocean! This is just a night roast. Tairon, take the drum … a steady beat, then a fast one. Niiv, Elkavar, stand by with blankets to smother flames. Ullanna, prepare to treat burns on the arms. The rest of you, to your benches.’

We took up our oars and the beat began. As the mast was lowered the oar-rhythm was struck above the waves, then the blades dipped and Argo moved across the ocean. Pragmatic Jason found a boat hook, held it ready: ‘I’ll hook us a roast that will last this crew for seven days!’

Surging forward, Argo crested the waves, then cut more strongly. The drum rhythm pounded faster, oars dipping, Jason urging, the arch of fire rising over us, flame and burning beasts falling like thunderbolts. A ram struck the deck and Niiv quickly smothered it. Burning wood showered us and the argonauts set up a noisy howl, a protest at their scorching, but they kept heaving on the ash shafts and we passed below the burning giants with the speed of a swallow.

A great flaring carcass plunged into the sea to our side, a bull of enormous proportion. Roast flesh and fat was a welcome scent to men half starved and sick of fish. Jason swept the boat hook over the side, caught the bull below the jaw and shouted to me for help. We dragged the beast half out of the water to reduce the drag, then held firm until we were past danger.

Rubobostes added a third pair of hands and we pulled our supper into the ship, lowering it into the hold away from his restless horse, which was not happy with the smell of burning but which had remained secure in its harnessing.

The bull, I noticed, had discs of bronze sewn through its hide. Its throat was cut and its flanks were impaled with the burned shafts of arrows. It was one of the biggest of its breed that I had ever seen, and had almost certainly been both sacred and sacrificed.

Urtha agreed with me, then added, ‘But this is not the work of the Coritani.’

Jason was also staring at the smouldering bull, at the blackened bronze. ‘I’ve seen this sort of thing in my own land,’ he said in a strange voice.

He let the thought fade away as Argo moved with the stroke and left this fiery gate behind.

Not long after, we came to the mooring place where Cucallos had seen the crouched figures. The bank had been cleared at this point to make a landing, a wooden jetty stretching out into the river, and shallow-drafted Argo could tie up against it allowing us easy access to the shore. The only boats to be seen here were three broken and rotting hulks among the reeds. A high palisade kept the forest at bay around this small and muddy haven, but its gates were now open to reveal a wide track leading inland, to where the tall thatched roofs of a village could be glimpsed.

The figures made an eerie sight, five at the river’s edge, down on one knee, spears held forward, shields raised against chests. Every detail of face, beard, armour and clothing was clear to the eye, but these were oak effigies of men, stained dark and already blooming in patches with green moss and ivy.

One was shown wearing the ornate helmet of a chief, its crest carved in the shape of a small hawk, its wings spread. When Cucallos saw this one he gasped with shock and distress. He was staring at an image of his father.

Elkavar called to us. He had found more kneeling statues up against the palisade. Tairon, who had passed cautiously through the gate, came back to report that, ‘They are everywhere. I count twenty in the trees, all different. It’s as if a whole army had been turned to wood.’

He added, ‘A funny thing: if it was not for their clothes, they might almost be Danaans, from Jason’s land. They remind me of Danaans.’