“They wouldn’t… start again?” Tinata asked. She’d been listening avidly.
“No, they won’t,” Mike said. “First of all… times have changed. I don’t think they could stomach it. Second, I’d put a stop to it if I even suspected it. But the choosing of the caillean at Beltaine or whatever they call it, and this thing with the ‘old woman’ an the ‘young woman’ those are all vestiges of human sacrifice. Be glad they only sacrifice animals now.”
“They’re headed to the dun,” Vanner pointed out.
“Well, then, we are headed for the caravanserai,” Anastasia said. One look at the gathered harem girls stifled the beginnings of protest. “I leave it up to you to ensure that your Cardane is actually alive tomorrow, Kildar.”
“Guaranteed,” Mike said, giving her a peck on the cheek. “And… you might make sure there are some clothes ready in the foyer. I suspect that we’ll have a bit of blood on us when we get back.”
“Kildar,” Father Kulcyanov said, as the Keldara began to gather at the base of the dun, “I would ask a favor of you.”
“Anything I can do,” Mike said. The old soldier had smoothed things over a lot and Mike knew it.
“We must Feed the Dead,” Father Kulcyanov said, sighing. “But I am aged. I have all I can do it make it up the hill and chant the words. I would ask you to take my place as Eater for the Dead. One of the other Fathers could do as well but… You are the Kildar.”
Mike smiled and nodded, his face blank. He wondered if that meant he was really supposed to be high priest. Pass, thank you.
“I hope you won’t mind if I ask a few questions,” Mike said. “I’ve learned, through painful experience, to ask about the hidden details of Keldara rituals.”
“Kildar,” Genadi said, coming up at his elbow, “there is no hidden trap. You must simply… eat your way to the top of the hill. Father, indeed all of us, will chant the dead. A girl will be by your side carrying a big platter filled with all good foods. Another will be by your side, carrying beer. At a certain point in the chant, you will take a sip of beer or eat some of the food. You take a bite of the food and then throw the rest to the side. You take a sip of beer and then pour some upon the ground. I will warn you, however, that we circle the mound three times. I hope you stopped eating a while ago.”
“I think I can do that,” Mike said. “As long as I don’t take big bites.”
“Thank you, Kildar,” Father Kulcyanov said. He lifted his eyes to the mountains and then nodded. “Soon, we will begin.”
The Keldara had gathered near the trail up the dun, a winding beaten down path that was reinforced with slabs of rock. It might have been a bad day for a festival but Mike was pretty sure it was a great night for a ceremony like this one.
The Keldara called the night Samman, very much like the Celtic Samhain. For them it was the time of ending, when the spirits of winter rose, the night when the unquiet dead could walk free. Many of the Keldara had made masks for the evening, most out of woven barley straw. Samhain was the origin of the holiday called Halloween in the US and England but it wasn’t always about children gathering candy. It was a time when the summer was dying and winter’s power rose, a time to battle the power of death and the old gods of evil and darkness. The masks were designed to frighten away spirits as was the chanting, dance and songs.
Father Ferani walked through the throng, carrying a large wooden case. Father Kulcyanov took a massive battleaxe from the case, turning to the trail and holding it in front of himself, upright in a two handed grip, the head at the level of his nose, as if in salute. Then he looked to the sky again, clearly checking the light level, and gave a great shout:
“Ay, Samman seaol Latrach! Uraim Na Mair Imakt!”
With that the drummers began tapping on their drums, a slow, asyncopated rhythm as Father Kulcyanov began ascending the hill.
Behind him walked Gretchen, carrying the barley effigy of the “Old Woman.” Stella and Lydia appeared at his elbows, quite suddenly, and Lydia nudged him to fall in next.
“Each third time that Father Kulcyanov says ‘Imakt,’ ” Lydia whispered, handing him a shallow bowl of beer. “Drink or eat then pour the rest on the ground. Try to get it off the path for the Father’s sake.”
The bowl was fired clay, with a handle on either side. Mike had read of one similar somewhere, probably the Golden Bough. He took a sip and tossed the rest to the side, narrowly missing Stella.
“Careful, there,” the tall brunette said, grinning and handing him an oat cake.
Mike took a bite out of the cake and tossed the rest down the hill.
“This seems awfully wasteful,” he whispered.
“The dead are hungry,” Lydia shrugged, handing him the refilled bowl. “Would we fail to feed hour honored dead?”
Mike took a sip at the appropriate point in the chant, poured it out a bit more carefully, then looked over his shoulder. All the Keldara had formed up in something like a conga line. At the front were six drummers, keeping the pace. The rest were repeating the refrain of the chant and on the “Latract” they’d stamp down, hard. The whole massive hill rumbled with it.
“Wake the dead, indeed,” Mike said. Bite, toss. “Father Kulcyanov normally eats, too?”
“Someone feeds him,” Stella whispered. “But it’s so hard for him to keep in time, now. And when the cake is dry… ”
It was all Mike could do to keep up with the eating and drinking; he couldn’t imagine leading the chant as well. But the two girls kept him supplied in time and he kept up with the group, eat a bite, toss, drink a bit, pour.
But even eating a “bite” — and they got smaller and smaller — and drinking a bit -and the sips got to where he was barely touching his lips — he had a hard time managing the entire climb. By the time they got to the top it was full dark, the wind howling, and he was more than a bit drunk. And, oh yeah, stuffed to the point of throwing up.
The turf on the top of the dun had been carved into seats and the two girls led him to one on the north side, directly behind where Father Kulcyanov was standing and still leading the chant. Gretchen, with the barley figure, was on the east, Mother Lenka with a flagon of beer was on the west and as the group gathered, still chanting, Oleg appeared out of the darkness on the south. He was barechested in the cold and probably appreciating the roaring bonfire in the center.
Mike’s senior team leader was a bull of a man, standing over two meters and broad of body with flax blonde hair cut into stubble. He looked, at that moment, very much like a Viking of old.
“… Imakt!” Father Kulcyanov roared, stopping the chant by raising his axe over head, still vertical. “The time has come. Let the Rite begin!”
He turned to the right and, marching in the goosestep he had undoubtedly learned as a young man in the Red Army, walked to Oleg’s position.
“Do you accept the responsibility of dummart?” Father Kulcyanov roared. “Do you stand ready to face the Gods?”
“I do,” Oleg answered.
“Then face the Gods in the name of the Keldara!” Father Kulcyanov said, handing over the axe.