‘The Mad Bear,’ chided Feradach, ‘plays with a sword of snow; the sword will melt in strong sun; as with the Mad Bear, the time of the sword is very short. Both will soon drain life into the earth. The sun will take the sword, and Feradach will slit the throat of the Bear when he is allowed to change his practice sword for a weapon of carboned iron, with a bronze hilt studded with the finest green gems. Such a sword. Mad Bear, such a sword has not yet been fashioned for there has not yet been a warrior – save Cuchulainn – who could have the strength and stamina, nor even the skill and determination, to use it. Dread that day, brother; fear it. You shall be my first head.’
He ran back to his friends, and they continued their game. Niall the Mad Bear stared at his brother for a long time, and Cathabach, a few paces away, sheltered from the bitter wind beneath a leather canopy, saw the terrible emotion that passed through Niall’s face, and guessed what was in his mind.
He wrapped his white fur robe about him, made sure his tall boots were well bound, and waded through the snow to where the snow sword lay before the strange boy. Niall lifted his gaze to regard the Druid as he came to kneel beside him.
‘It’s a proud sword,’ Cathabach said, ‘But so short lived.’
The snow sword was indeed a proud weapon. Every detail was right, and the edge was as fine as the finest seven-forged iron, sharp as the golden dirk that Amalgaid used to cut the heads from the girls sacrificed to Lug at Lugnasid and Beltaine.
Niall smiled, the first time for hours that his sallow, pale-skinned face had broken from its fixed expression. His green eyes sparkled, and blond, clay-greased hair fell across his features as he looked down and ran his finger along the ice blade. ‘This is my sword,’ he said. ‘There is no other sword for me.’
Cathabach stared at him, noticed the tears forming in the corners of his eyes. Niall pulled back his long hair and tied it in a loose knot behind his neck, staring at the antics of his brother. Cathabach stared at the sword again. ‘You have put your soul into the snow sword; you have put your heart into the fashioning of the pommel, your strength into the cutting edge of the blade. This is the sword of a great man, who is destined to great feats, and to a great death.’
Niall slapped his hands together and began to tremble, staring at the white sword, his breath frosting and filling the air before him. The tears ran freely from his eyes. Cathabach touched the tears and smeared them along the blade of the snow sword.
‘Does it frighten you to believe in death?’
‘I believe in death,’ said Niall. ‘I am frightened only of the darkness in my mind.’
Cathabach was surprised by this sudden confession. For ten years the boy had said virtually nothing of his bizarre possession, save to scream on occasion of the Bear in his head, the great black Bear that took control of him at times, and made his hands its hands, his heart its heart, his teeth its teeth. Most of the warriors in the fort had never seen a bear, those great beasts being confined to certain of the northern forests, and the name Mad Bear was often used to cover their ignorance of what made the boy scream so; but from that ignorance came fear, and his possession was fearfully regarded.
‘What darkness is this, Niall?’
Niall let his gaze fix upon the prancing, scrapping boys of the fort. ‘Sometimes a Bear calls me,’ he said. ‘Sometimes my mind is filled with darkness, and I hear strange words, coming as from the darkest night, where no stars or moon shine, and no sun rises to scatter the darkness. I hear a name, and it shouts at me, mocks me.’
‘What name?’ Cathabach felt his excitement growing.
Niall shivered violently and huddled deeper into his clothes, looked down at his sword. ‘Odin,’ he said. ‘The name is Odin. And a voice calls me …’ he looked at Cathabach, and his eyes were filled with terror. ‘A voice calls me Berserker! And that name terrifies me more than any other thing. I don’t know what it is, but the voice says I am Berserker. And then it mocks me with its laugh again.’
The names meant nothing to Cathabach, save that ‘Odin’ was vaguely familiar. Druidic lore spoke of an ancient demonic force, known as Wutaan, that had fallen to earth from a distant star and escaped the confinement imposed upon it by the elder gods. No doubt the similarity of the names was accidental …
A large, dark-furred hound raced about the fort, pursued by the boys; its howling was pitiful to hear. A weak dog, its legs and body emaciated by some peculiar ailment, it was for the spit, and the boys had been given the task of killing it.
It ran to Niall the Mad Bear, and baleful eyes stared at him, but he reached out to slap its muzzle away from him, and a moment later Feradach drove his wooden dirk into the beast’s neck, hanging on as it whimpered and whined, staggering for a few paces more before keeling over and kicking its last.
Feradach rose and wiped the blood from his mock dagger. He had pulled on a short kirtle, but was otherwise naked. He seemed unbothered by the cold as he taunted Niall. ‘This dog was my father’s choice for our low feast. It would not have been mine.’
‘He should have been fostered before now,’ said Cathabach quietly, as Feradach turned away. ‘And so should you, for that matter. It goes against the way of things to have two sons remaining in their father’s house during the training years.’
‘No house would have me,’ said Niall. ‘Not even Ailill with his fifty foster sons. No house will shelter Niall the Mad Bear.’
‘I know,’ said Cathabach tiredly. ‘I was just wishing aloud. This is the root of Feradach’s hatred for you. He should have been taken to the house of Cellach, warlord of the Ui Maine, in the east. But Cellach’s wife would not have him since his blood was mixed with yours. It was a great opportunity missed, for the warlord has seven daughters, all as fair as the snow, and green-eyed like emerald. His friends have gone there, and these boys he plays with are from Cellach’s great stone fort, and the stories they tell him make him wilder with frustration.’
Niall grinned, watching his brother hacking the paws from the slayed hound.
‘He will try and kill me soon, unless I kill him first.’
‘Your father will kill you if you do,’ said Cathabach. ‘Besides, Feradach is as experienced with weapons as the greatest warrior here. You would be hard put to the task to take his head. And at ten years of age, with just two years between you, such a thought is strangely horrid.’
‘If I could wield my snow sword,’ said Niall, brushing the gleaming ice blade. ‘If I could wave this above my head, so that its snow iron gleamed in the sun, flashed from the sun as it struck at my tormentors, if I could do that, I should be invincible.’
For a moment Cathabach was silent, and the silence was filled with his fight to come to a decision. Niall turned his bright eyes upon the old man, and then slowly smiled. Cathabach reached out and, by touching his shoulder, silenced him. He glanced towards the house where the boys could be heard whooping at the curing of the dog.
‘You must not kill him,’ said Cathabach, ‘You must make that pledge. You must not kill him.’
‘I pledge that,’ said Niall, and he could hardly contain his excitement as he realised what Cathabach was about to do for him.
‘Then stay silent while I remember the spell. And never repeat this spell that you shall hear, for the words, coming from your lips, will turn you to snow where you stand. Pledge it.’
‘I do,’ said Niall the Mad Bear.
The old man closed his eyes and Niall tried to control his great excitement, but his breath came fast and frosted in the cold air, as he watched the struggle within the old man to recall one of the ancient spells that he and his kind had once used as often as the scattered forest dwelling wizards who would do few favours for the warlike tribes of Ireland.
Suddenly Cathabach spoke, his voice as cold as the snow, a voice out of time, not really from the old man’s mind, but from the memory of a time when magic was a great art, and all aes dana, all the many men of art, could use magic to inspire their particular skill.
&
nbsp; This is what he spoke:
Dawn chariots racing to the river ford
Sun on helmet
Sun on spear
Sun on sword
Men scatter before the racing chariots
Blood on the plain
Blood on the rich tunics of the dead men
Blood on the sword
Heads cut, proud life, proud men hang from the belts of proud warriors
Life goes to Earth
Life goes to strength
Life goes to the sword
Red on the snow, blood on the white breast of Earth
Blood in the snow
Heads in the snow
Sword in the snow, strong as iron, keen as wind, bright as sun, swift as birth, sharp as claw.
He looked at Niall then. ‘Pick it up.’
Niall reached for the snow sword. It was heavy in his hand as it lifted from the ground. Green jewels sparkled in the pommel; bright bronze rested comfortably in his hand, overlaid with ivory and sweat-gripped with thin strips of tough leather; each contour moulded to his grasp. The blade shone bright, iron bright, but through it he could see Cathabach, and the round-house that was his father’s house. But when he struck the ice blade against the stone wall behind him, it rang loud, rang sweet, the summons to battle of a great warrior. Stone chipped and flew, sparks raced and died across the snow. The ice blade was stronger than anything that the Earth could produce, save snow tempered with the blessing of this ancient spell.
Niall rose to his feet.
Feradach, hearing the sound of a sword being struck in challenge, had raced from the house, and now stood staring, puzzled but angry, as Niall the Mad Bear walked towards him.
‘Get your wooden sword, Feradach,’ said Niall loudly, undoing the leather bindings that held his fur jerkin across his chest. He cast the coat aside and faced his brother, wearing just his short, purple-dyed kirtle, and high cowhide boots. ‘Get your wood sword, do you hear? And we’ll see how my snow sword melts.’ He waved the sword above his head, grinning and sweeping back his long yellow hair as the knot unravelled and the wind caught it. Brightness flashed from the ice blade. Feradach stared at the sword, and at the Mad Bear, then darted into his father’s house.
And came out with his father’s sword!
Long, broad and jewelled with red and black stones in the brilliant yellow hilt, its pointed blade defied the eye to follow its wavering motion as Feradach, unbothered by the consequence of his action, came towards Niall, the look on his face leaving Cathabach in no doubt that this would be no boyish contest but a blood duel, with one head forfeit at the end.
‘You will both be killed,’ the Druid shouted angrily, but Feradach waved him silent.
‘I have a Mad Bear to cure and place on the spit,’ he shouted. His father heard this and raced from the small house where he had been warming himself with one of the younger women.
Naked and breathless, he stood in the doorway, his excitement visibly waning as puzzlement filled his face. He watched the slowly circling youths, his two sons, and he saw the flash of bright light on the extended blades. He seemed unable to talk, and it was not the cold that froze his tongue, but fear of the outcome of this duel.
‘No longer a Mad Bear,’ cried Niall, ‘I am your Sneachta Doom, Feradach, your Snow Destroyer. My snow sword is ten times sharper, ten times faster than your heavy metal blade, and your neck will part under the edge of it like thin butter that yields to a child’s finger.’
Tualaith, their mother, raced into the snow-filled compound and saw the confrontation. ‘Stop them!’ she screamed at Amalgaid. The Warlord looked at her, looked down. Tualaith realised he had been with another woman and turned, shocked and silent, to stare at her sons. She knew her husband enjoyed the bellies of all the women of the fort (as was his right) but she was content not to see it, merely to suspect it. To observe the man standing before the woman’s house, undressed and flushed from his exertions, was something she preferred not to notice.
‘Spill blood,’ called Amalgaid, ‘But death I shall reward with death. Note that well, you angry cubs.’
Feradach leapt at his brother and his blade swept down towards Niall’s head. The ice sword flew between Niall’s hands, and the blades met and held, and Feradach drew back his arm so that sparks flew where the two surfaces ground so hard together.
Niall attacked. His snow sword travelled like lightning as it cut through the air and drew a line of blood across Feradach’s thin chest. The boy tensed and roared and then attacked back. His sword stopped a finger’s breath from Niall’s neck, held there by the snow sword for a moment before it was eased back, away and down, pushed by the suddenly greater strength of the younger lad.
They struck at each other again, and blood flew from Niall’s shoulder where his arm did not support the swiftness of the blade it held and the edge of Feradach’s sword knew the taste of blood for the first time. The circle of fostered boys yelled their pleasure at this and Feradach cried his triumph, cheered by the support of his friends.
He struck with all his strength!
But Niall calmly smashed the blow aside and Feradach staggered, his sword arm limp, the sword clutched in his fingers still very firmly, but his body weakened by the sudden shock of the deflection. Niall swept up his sword and grabbed Feradach’s long hair, pulled him down to his knees in the same motion that he used to expose his brother’s neck. He made ready to take his trophy.
Tualaith screamed, and Cathabach shouted, ‘If you take the head, the spell is broken! I shall break it, though it will kill me to do so.’
As the Mad Bear struck, as some supernatural force took Niall’s body and made him hack at his brother, so Niall managed to wrench his arm aside and the razor sharp edge of the blade cut down across Feradach’s sword wrist.
The boy screamed as his hand was hacked away from his arm. It lay limp and bloody on the snow, the fingers gradually uncoiling from the sword it still held.
Feradach collapsed screeching, and where his bloody stump lay on the white blanket beneath him, the snow boiled and red steam formed a cloud above his body.
The fort fell silent, all eyes watching the Mad Bear as he raised his snow sword to his lips and licked his brother’s blood, laughing all the time – laughing.
CHAPTER FOUR
Feradach Aonlamh, Feradach the One-handed, was driven from the fort, for no physical imperfection was tolerated in a warlord or his son, or in a chief, or a king or a High King, or in the eldest son of any of these. With his horse and gifts of weapons and with a full leather pouch of gruel made from nuts, some berries and the ground wheat that had been stored for the winter, Feradach rode across the white plain and up the low foothill to what was called Tobar na Mathair or Mother’s Well. There he knelt before the tall wooden carvings of Danu and Lug that stood in their secret cists of stones, guarding the magic well that spoke with the voice of the Earth Mother. Watching, distantly, was Amalgaid mac Eochu, untearful and yet desperately sad at the loss of his eldest son. Beside him, grinning broadly, delighted with what he had achieved, was Niall the Mad Bear, the Snow Destroyer.
What Feradach asked the icons no one could know, but light flashed on his newly forged sword as he stood and waved it about his head in defiance. All men in the fort ducked as Feradach’s childish wooden javelin was seen to rise from his grip, four miles distant, and flew into the compound, burying itself half way along its shaft into the earthen bank.
There was no doubt that Feradach Aonlamh would return. He had not yet finished with Niall, the Mad Bear, only son now of Amalgaid mac Eochu.
Three wet summers fled, rain and sun so swiftly taking each other’s place that Niall and the fostered boys of his father’s house, took to playing a game: to run to the distant magic well, four miles off, and back before the sun gave way to rain. Only Niall could do this at the summer’s height, and he alone remained dry as a bone, but none of the others minded their soaking because from Niall they gained an unusual strength: an un
derstanding of how a man and a sword fall together in richer, more heartfelt love than a man with his green-eyed wife, or the yellow-maned son of her womb.
Niall grew tall, reaching his father’s height, though his limbs were still thin and wiry and his chest bulged with ribs that had not yet become sheathed in the thick muscle of a powerful man. He took to wearing his bleached hair tied back in a double plait and painted black, radiating lines across his face to demonstrate the manful power he felt assuming control of his body. His friends, the boys who had once mocked him, were in awe of this. Though they played and tussled with him during the day, in the evening they were careful of his green-kirtled figure as he raced about the palisade, often screaming, often waving his bizarre, translucent sword; often moaning in a strange language. The fits tended to be short-lived and unbloody, but it was known that Cathabach was doing much to drain the animal power from the Mad Bear, son of the chief.
And Amalgaid mac Eochu discovered love for his strange son, perhaps because he forgot his grief over the lost honour of Feradach, and perhaps because, now that the animal fury was lessened in Niall, the ageing chieftain could see the powerful warrior that was emerging as his heir.
Like the rest of the fort’s population, when Niall threw one of his fits Amalgaid stayed in his house, listening to the violence outside and the screeching of animals that found their lives blunted by the sharp edge of Niall’s possession. When the sound of the boy’s sobbing testified to the demon’s having left him, the fort’s people emerged from safety. Then they comforted him, for his strength was in no question, and his value to the stronghold, as the forces of the Ui Neill grew hostile again and threatened invasion, was greater than ten warriors of the community.
On the first daybreak of each six-night period, Niall the Mad Bear would rise with the first glimmer of light in the east and run across the land between the mountains, and then across the hills and beyond the Tobar na Mathair, and then to the deep channel that separated this extremity of the province of Connacht from the mainland. This channel he would jump at a single bound, and the worst he ever fared was to miss his footing on the far side of the forty-foot leap and slip half into the cold waters, laughing and still bragging to the skies that not even Cuchulainn could have made such a leap, although he knew this was not so.