the Spirits of the Dead roaming about . . .
With his insides turning to water, Ket forced himself to his feet.
âIâm going outside too.â He tried to sound brave as he thrust his way out of the tree. Rain pelted his face, and the air was so frosty it made him gasp.
âKet, where are you going?â called Nessa anxiously.
The bright, welcoming circle of the campfire lay in front of him but Ket stared beyond it, across a world of darkness, to the small flicker of the Samhain fire high on the mound.
âTo the cairn of the Shadow Ones,â he whispered.
As he passed the campfire, curious faces turned towards him. He saw Lorccánâs astonished expression and the glint of Faelánâs eyes. He was glad they couldnât see that his legs were as trembly as a newborn lambâs.
Rain ran down his hair and face as he stumbled forward. All around, in the murky night, shadows seemed to shift and quiver as if they were following him.
The grey mound of the cairn loomed in front. He could see the crest, lit by the dancing flames. And below . . . He jerked to a halt. There was the entrance to the tomb.
He stood in his wet clothes, teeth chattering, and stared at the low opening, half-sunk in the ground. What would he find in there? The Shadow Ones, or skeletons with bare, grinning skulls? He started to reach for the red band at his wrist, then remembered it was gone. Sweat joined the rain running down his forehead.
âGo on,â he growled at himself.
Step by unsteady step, he stumbled forward till he reached the cairn. Now he had to climb through that black hole into the earth. He took a shuddering breath, and lowered one foot. The next moment he was slipping and sliding on wet mud, and clutching at the massive stone doorposts. Then he was out of the rain, cowering inside a tunnel, with dry walls of stone curved around him. In the faint moonlight that came through the opening, he could see a paved floor sloping downwards.
Dragging his hands along the stonework, Ket took a few shuffling steps. Soon, his hands were patting air. It was dark in the depths of the tomb, but he sensed a chamber arching around him. He waited, ears straining, eyes trying to pierce the blackness. There were no sounds. No voices. No movements. All he could see was something glinting on the wall in front of him. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, a long, silvery shape emerged from the gloom. It seemed to be a horn, hanging by a string. Ket stretched out to touch it.
There was a dull thud and something landed on his foot. He glanced down. A large fleshy hand, the fingers half uncurled, was lying on his brogue.
Ket gasped and jerked his foot away. The hand thumped to the ground.
And now Ket saw an outflung arm in a long dark sleeve. He saw a body spattered with blood, and a pale, tallow-coloured face beneath a bronze helmet. Beside it was another body; and another â a whole grisly heap of them. He stared at their old-fashioned shields and broken swords. The Shadow Ones! The dead of Moytura!
He tried to back away, but his legs wouldnât move, and his arms, with a will of their own, reached for the horn. The string that held it disintegrated in a puff of dust, and the treasure dropped into his grasp. It gleamed with startling newness, as if it had just been made and polished.
And now, as though trapped in a dream, Ket lifted the instrument to his lips and blew. It gave a feeble squeak. He raised his head to take a deeper breath â and froze.
One of the dead warriors was looking straight at him.
âIs it time?â The manâs voice was hollow and creaky.
Ket let out a terrified yelp, and dropped the horn. It clattered onto the stone floor as he turned and fled from the tomb.
DIVINATION
âAs if you really went inside,â scoffed Lorccán.
âKet doesnât lie!â retorted Nessa loyally. âYouâre just jealous.â
All the fosterlings were back inside the tree.
With his insides turning to water, Ket forced himself to his feet.
âIâm going outside too.â He tried to sound brave as he thrust his way out of the tree. Rain pelted his face, and the air was so frosty it made him gasp.
âKet, where are you going?â called Nessa anxiously.
The bright, welcoming circle of the campfire lay in front of him but Ket stared beyond it, across a world of darkness, to the small flicker of the Samhain fire high on the mound.
âTo the cairn of the Shadow Ones,â he whispered.
As he passed the campfire, curious faces turned towards him. He saw Lorccánâs astonished expression and the glint of Faelánâs eyes. He was glad they couldnât see that his legs were as trembly as a newborn lambâs.
Rain ran down his hair and face as he stumbled forward. All around, in the murky night, shadows seemed to shift and quiver as if they were following him.
The grey mound of the cairn loomed in front. He could see the crest, lit by the dancing flames. And below . . . He jerked to a halt. There was the entrance to the tomb.
He stood in his wet clothes, teeth chattering, and stared at the low opening, half-sunk in the ground. What would he find in there? The Shadow Ones, or skeletons with bare, grinning skulls? He started to reach for the red band at his wrist, then remembered it was gone. Sweat joined the rain running down his forehead.
âGo on,â he growled at himself.
Step by unsteady step, he stumbled forward till he reached the cairn. Now he had to climb through that black hole into the earth. He took a shuddering breath, and lowered one foot. The next moment he was slipping and sliding on wet mud, and clutching at the massive stone doorposts. Then he was out of the rain, cowering inside a tunnel, with dry walls of stone curved around him. In the faint moonlight that came through the opening, he could see a paved floor sloping downwards.
Dragging his hands along the stonework, Ket took a few shuffling steps. Soon, his hands were patting air. It was dark in the depths of the tomb, but he sensed a chamber arching around him. He waited, ears straining, eyes trying to pierce the blackness. There were no sounds. No voices. No movements. All he could see was something glinting on the wall in front of him. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, a long, silvery shape emerged from the gloom. It seemed to be a horn, hanging by a string. Ket stretched out to touch it.
There was a dull thud and something landed on his foot. He glanced down. A large fleshy hand, the fingers half uncurled, was lying on his brogue.
Ket gasped and jerked his foot away. The hand thumped to the ground.
And now Ket saw an outflung arm in a long dark sleeve. He saw a body spattered with blood, and a pale, tallow-coloured face beneath a bronze helmet. Beside it was another body; and another â a whole grisly heap of them. He stared at their old-fashioned shields and broken swords. The Shadow Ones! The dead of Moytura!
He tried to back away, but his legs wouldnât move, and his arms, with a will of their own, reached for the horn. The string that held it disintegrated in a puff of dust, and the treasure dropped into his grasp. It gleamed with startling newness, as if it had just been made and polished.
And now, as though trapped in a dream, Ket lifted the instrument to his lips and blew. It gave a feeble squeak. He raised his head to take a deeper breath â and froze.
One of the dead warriors was looking straight at him.
âIs it time?â The manâs voice was hollow and creaky.
Ket let out a terrified yelp, and dropped the horn. It clattered onto the stone floor as he turned and fled from the tomb.
DIVINATION
âAs if you really went inside,â scoffed Lorccán.
âKet doesnât lie!â retorted Nessa loyally. âYouâre just jealous.â
All the fosterlings were back inside the tree.
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