Kildar

Chapter Twenty

The weapons issue and zero was going well.

Each of the Keldara had been issued a weapon and taught to find and memorize the serial number. After that they were run through a brief class on aiming and trigger control, then taken down to the range. There they were taken to the line and walked through zeroing the weapons. Since the leaders had already been issued and zeroed, they acted as firing coaches when the militiamen actually fired. Since they hadn’t really been drilled in safety, Mike had insisted on a trained firer at each position. But between the team leaders and all the trainers assisting the Keldara were being run through the firing quickly.

“We’ll be done before noon,” Adams said, looking at his watch. “A couple of hours for training in stripping and cleaning and we’ll be done.”

“Just as well,” Mike said. “They’re going back to the family bosom for the weekend, so they should get off early today. Plenty of time to stress them after the festival.”

“Kildar,” McKenzie said, walking over. “The lads have asked about getting off early today, something about this festival that’s coming up. Apparently there’s a bit of work to get ready.”

“We were talking about that,” Mike said, nodding. “Figure we’ll cut them loose at sixteen hundred.”

“I can live with that,” the Scot said. “What is this festival anyway?”

“You know about as much as I do,” Mike said. “I just got here in the winter. All I’ve picked up is that it’s a planting festival, more of a spring festival. Not Easter, that was a couple of weeks ago and they barely noticed it except to go to church. And apparently the Sunday celebration this week will be at the homes.”

“Mayday was two days ago,” McKenzie said, frowning. “But this falls in the time of Beltane. That can be any time from Walpurgis to May Third or so.”

“Beltane?” Adams asked.

“Celtic celebration,” Mike said. “Falls between the spring equinox and midsummer. It’s going to be interesting to see how they celebrate it.”

Over the sound of the firing, Mike heard a heavy truck in the distance and turned to see the cement mixer headed over to the gravel pit.

“Been a while since I looked at the dam,” he said, waving at Adams. “They don’t get released until the weapons are clean. Then they can go.”

“Works,” the chief said.

“I’m going to go check on Meller and Co.,” Mike added, getting back in his Expedition.

The small stream was dry, a combination of the lack of snowmelt and a small dam and channel that had been cut to divert it to the main stream to the south. Later the channel would be reversed to bring the heavier stream over.

Where the stream had been there were now wooden forms, marking out the weirs that would control the flow of the water. At the moment it was just the wooden outline and a small amount of concrete poured into the bottom. Some of the older Keldara were moving the concrete around so that it would be even across the bottom while the mixer went back for another load.

Meller was down in the form with the others, spreading the concrete with a wide metal shovel. They had to work in and out of the reinforcing metal rods that had been laid down in the bottom of the foundation trench.

“Hey, Kildar,” the engineer said, grinning. He had been standing on a platform to keep out of the knee-deep concrete, but he’d still managed to cover himself in concrete splatters. “Going good.”

“How long to fill the first forms?” Mike asked.

“At this rate, a few days,” Meller replied. “No problem with layering, though. Unfortunately, we’re going to have to keep going during the festival. The concrete truck drivers aren’t from around here so that’s no problem. But I’m going to have to hire a few laborers from town to help while the Keldara are off.”

“Not an issue,” Mike said. “Since we’re paying the Keldara for this, paying laborers isn’t that big of a deal. The militia are getting off early. Any problem with letting the guys go?”

“Nope,” Meller said. “I’d already arranged for shifts through the night. We’ll have to keep pouring until this section is done so we don’t get layering. But the guys to replace them are standing by. They’re going to get here at seventeen hundred.”

“What about you?” Mike asked. “You’re not going to work straight through the pour are you?”

“Prael and I are trading off,” Meller said. “I’ll be around for part of the festival. Did you know there’s a bonfire?”

“No,” Mike admitted.

“They’re gathering the wood for it tonight,” the engineer said. “That’s why they want to leave early.”

“I wonder if I should help?” Mike mused. “Kildar and all. Or do I sit up on my throne and watch?”

“Only one way to find out,” Meller pointed out. “Ask.”

Choosing who to ask was the question on Mike’s mind as he drove over to the Keldara compound. Father Ferani was oldest but there was more deference paid to Father Kulcyanov, which was why Mike always addressed him first. However, in this case, he probably wanted to talk to Father Makanee. He just got along with the guy better than the others, maybe because he was a tad younger. Or maybe it was just that they looked alike enough to be brothers.

He pulled into the compound and got out, digging in his safari jacket pocket as the children gathered around. He’d ordered a bunch of bags of hard candies and made it a habit to pass them out to the Keldara kids whenever he came to the compound. He’d pointed out that it was only once a day, and one per kid, but it made him popular with that segment of the Keldara, at least, and something of the effect wore off on the older Keldara.

“No, Varlam,” he said, shaking his head at one of the kids as he tried to grab a piece of candy Mike had been handing to one of the younger girls. “This one is for Khava. This one is for you,” he continued, handing the boy a candy.

The ritual took about ten minutes every time he arrived at the compound, but he considered it time well spent. And Mother Savina always made sure he had pockets full of candy when he went out the door.

“Justinas,” he said, as he handed out one of the last pieces. “Do you know where Father Makanee is?”

“By the barn with the others,” the boy replied, stripping off the wrapper of the candy and shoving it in his mouth. He pocketed the scrap of wrapper since Mike had been furious the first time the kids scattered the ground with litter. “I’ll show you.”

The boy led him through the tangle of small gardens that now littered the compound and around a couple of cow biers to the Ferani barn. There Mike found the elders and most of the males that weren’t with the militia or working on projects gathered in one spot. At the moment, two of them were throwing axes at a target.

The axes the two were throwing were the standard wood-cutting axes that the Keldara used before he got replacements. They were a traditional European design, much lighter than the standard wood-cutting axe that was familiar in the U.S. Europeans had used the axes from time immemorial since most of the woods of Europe were relatively soft. It was only after arriving in the new world that a heavier axe became a necessity to cut the massive oaks of the American woodlands.

These axes had a thin, light, head and a round barrel connection to the haft, which was circular instead of oval as in most American axes. With the exception of the haft being longer, they looked a good bit like tomahawks and could be thrown like them.

“Father of All be with you this day,” Father Kulcyanov said when Mike approached the group. Mike was surprised by the sight of the elder. He had on what Mike would call “Sunday-Go-To-Meetin’ ” clothes, a fine pair of pants and shirt that he usually wore to church on Sunday. But what really got Mike’s attention was the tiger skin. The head had been hollowed out to make a sort of hat and a portion of skin trailed down the elder’s shoulders like a short cape. Both the head and the cape showed signs of wear, but it was apparent they had been kept carefully; there was much less motheating to them than the occasional heads and skins he’d seen in the houses. Kulcyanov wasn’t the only one so dressed, for that matter. All of the elders had their best clothes on and similar hats and capes. Father Shaynav was wearing a bull’s head and cape, Fathers Mahona and Devlich were wearing wolf heads, Father Ferani was wearing a stag’s head and Father Makanee was wearing a boar’s head. It was pretty apparent that this was part of the rites of spring. The first test, probably.

“Father of All be with you all,” Mike replied. “I would take a moment of Father Makanee’s time, if he is available.”

“Of course, Kildar,” Father Makanee said, walking over from the group. “How can I assist you?”

“A word,” Mike said, walking to the far end of the barn. “I wanted to ask about the festival,” Mike continued when they were out of sight. “I should have gotten more information earlier, so I could plan to participate. Tell me about what is going on, if you would, please?”

“Tonight the wood for the fire is gathered,” Father Makanee said, frowning slightly and apparently choosing his words. “And it will be gathered on the tun,” he continued, pointing out into the fields at one of the small hillocks that dotted the valley. This one was near the road, just north of the turnoff for the caravanserai. “Tomorrow morning the turf will be cut to make seats and the fire constructed in the middle. That will take most of the morning, but other things will be going on at the same time. The children will play games and the women will cook special foods. Starting at midday, the men will compete for the Ondah and that will take until in the evening.”

“The Ondah,” Mike said. “The test of strength? Wrestling?”

“There is wrestling,” Father Makanee said. “And tests of strength. There are five tests: the test of the stone, the test of the wood, the test of the bull, the test of the fire and the test of the man. The test of the stone is carrying a heavy stone as far as you can. The test of the wood is picking up a large log and throwing it as far as you can. The test of the bull is how well you can first taunt and then throw a bull in a ring. The test of the fire is how high you can leap over a fire pit. And the test of the man is wrestling.”

Mike blinked for a moment and then shook his head.

“That’s interesting,” was all he said. He realized that at least part of it fitted well with what were now called “Highland Games.” Certainly the rock carrying and the log throwing, what was called the cabar toss if he recalled correctly. But the bull and the fire jump were different and he didn’t know if wrestling was in the highland games. “Can anyone participate in these events?”

“Yes, Kildar,” Father Makanee said, frowning in turn. “But the men prepare for them all year and the only ones who can truly compete for the Ondah are chosen by the axe toss. You are speaking of the trainers?”

“And I might want to try a couple,” Mike said. “The reason I ask about the festival is to find out what I can do to be a part of it. Can I contribute food? Can I participate in the events? The wood cutting?”

“There are nine wood cutters,” Father Makanee said, wrinkling his brow. “They are chosen from among the young men, at least one from each family. They throw the axe to see who can throw the hardest and most accurately. But one must be from each family.”

“I don’t want to interfere in that,” Mike interjected.

“But if you want to cut the wood, that would be acceptable,” Father Makanee replied. “You will be the ninth cutter. It would be an honor. It is a long time since we had a true Kildar, but the tradition is that the Kildar often was a wood cutter. It would be good. But… do you know how to throw an axe?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Mike said, smiling faintly. “But not like those. I would have to practice with them.”

“Come practice with us,” Father Makanee said, drawing him back to the group. “We are only waiting for the young men on the range to join us.”

Mike was drawn back to the group and handed one of the axes amid some half-hidden smiles. The range was about ten meters long, with a point at which you had to stand and throw at a target that was constructed of large logs set up in a pyramid with the flat ends facing the thrower.

Mike did, in fact, know how to throw an axe. It was one of those oddball SpecOps methods for silent takedown, popular with Russian Spetznaz especially. The weapon of choice, however, was much shorter than the axe he was holding, with a much heavier head and a flat, hammer, back. And Mike had only learned it enough to get proficient, not expert. He’d met some Spetznaz on a training mission and only learned it to the point of “well, I can do it, too.” American SpecOps were firm believers that the best way to take down a sentry, silently, was to shoot him in the head with a silenced weapon.

So he stepped up to the line and swung the axe for a moment, thinking. The important thing about axe throwing was to get the spin of the axe just right. It had to spin a certain number of times so that the head was lined up with the target when it arrived. It was best if the handle touched the target just moments before the head impacted, to impart more emphasis. But this longer axe was going to rotate slower than the one he was used to using, both because the head was lighter and because the handle was longer.

He tossed it once, lightly, just to get a feel for the rotation. The handle hit the target instead of the head. So he retrieved the axe, knowing the Keldara were judging him carefully, and tried again. That time was just about right with the head impacting backwards. A bit more emphasis on rotation would get it.

The third time he threw the weapon lighter than he could, but got the spin just right. The handle hit with a distinct “bong” and the head thunked in an inch or so. He knew he could do better, but no reason to show that off, yet.

“Good throw, Kildar,” Father Ferani said, frowning. “You have thrown axes before.”

“Not like this,” Mike said, going downrange to retrieve the weapon. “I will try again when the young men get here.”

He gave the axe to one of the Keldara and waited with them for the younger men. In the meantime, he listened as the men talked about the festival. There would be games and competitions during the day, then a feast in the evening.

“There are oxen that are supposed to be stalled for the Kildar, aren’t there?” he asked Father Makanee. “Would it be appropriate to donate one to the feast? There are not just the Keldara to be fed, but the trainers as well.”

“Yes, Kildar,” the elder said, smiling. “That would be excellent. We could slaughter it in the morning and then have it cook all day for the feast in the evening.”

“Do it,” Mike said. “If I’m going to be the Kildar, I should be the Kildar all the way. What are you doing with the other oxen that are no longer being used for work?” Oxen were male cattle that had been gelded, effectively steers. They made for the best beef if properly fed up.

“They are turned out to pasture,” Father Makanee said, gesturing towards the pastures on the east side of the valley.

“I’ll get Genadi to get some feed for them,” Mike said. “We can partially graze them and partially feed them up, then slaughter what we don’t eat this year in the fall. I like a good steak. And with all this unused beef trotting around, it seems a shame not to have plenty. Not to mention contributing to other festivals. Are there more I should know about?”

“There are four major festivals that we celebrate,” Father Makanee said. “One for each season. There is another in midsummer, then a harvest festival and the winter festival. They are called Balar, Laman, Samnan and Imbol.”

“Crap,” Mike muttered. “Do you burn fires at the summer festival?”

“At each, with the largest being at Imbol,” Father Makanee said, looking at him askance. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” Mike said, frowning. “Okay, let’s just say that it reminds me of something, strongly, and that something doesn’t add up. Plenty of societies have… festivals at each of those points. But the specific practices vary and the names vary a lot. The names you just gave, and some of the practices, match closest to the Celts. Which has one of two reasons: Either you’re displaced Celts or originals. The Celts came from somewhere in Eastern Europe back in the Neolithic.” He looked at Father Makanee and shrugged. “I’m not making any sense, am I?”

“Who are the Celts?” Father Makanee asked.

“Wow, ask an easy one,” Mike replied. “The Celts were a tribe that probably exploded out of Eastern Europe back when people used stone tools. They spread through northern Europe as lords over the population that was originally there and founded various separate tribes. The Gauls were Celts, as were the Irish and the Scottish. There’s some argument that the Germanic tribes, including the Norse, were a Celtic offshoot. They’re best known, though, in Wales, Scotland and Ireland. The point is that when people got around to studying their seasonal festivals, they found that they had four major ones: Imbolc, at the point between the winter solstice and the spring solstice, Beltane, around May first or now, Lammas, between the summer solstice and the fall solstice and Samhain, what’s celebrated these days as Halloween, between the fall solstice and the winter. Imbolc, Beltane, Lammas and Samhain. And yours are Imbol, Balar, Laman and Samnan. That can’t be coincidence. For that matter, the fires in Scandinavia at Lammas are called ‘Baldur’s Balar.’ Baldur’s Balefire. Of course, by the time anyone got around to recording things like that, they’d converted to Christianity and the old reasons for the fires had faded.”

“You speak of Baldur?” Father Mahona asked, curiously. “What do you know of Baldur?”

“Baldur was the Norse god of the spring and summer,” Mike said, dredging out his memory of the Norse mythology. “His symbol was the mistletoe because it was the one plant that could kill him. Loki tricked… someone, Frey maybe, into throwing a spear made of mistletoe at him and it killed him. His mother was so grief stricken that she turned her face from the world and brought winter. The gods bring him back for six months every year, though, and that is spring and summer. When he is in the underworld it is winter. The Celts had a slightly different take on it, but the Norse and Celts celebrate similar rituals at similar times. Heck, there are similarities to the Adonis myth, for that matter, and Persephone.”

Father Mahona and Father Makanee traded a look for a moment which Mike caught but couldn’t interpret. The locals were regular Sunday church goers at the small church in Alerrso and there was no reason for them to celebrate Norse or Celtic rituals. The similarities had to be coincidence. Practically every society in the Northern Hemisphere had similar seasonal rituals. Of course, most of them dated back to prehistoric rituals involving the old gods. But none of the societies maintained the actual religion.

“How is the training going?” Father Mahona said, clearing his throat.

“Too early to tell,” Mike replied, willing to change the subject. “The guys are just getting zeroed today. Ask me in a couple of months.”

“Much like the planting,” Father Makanee said. “The seed is in the ground. Ask us in a couple of months if there will be a good crop.”

“Well, the seed is good and the planting went well,” Mike said, smiling. “The crop should be excellent.”

“There could be a late frost,” Father Makanee said. “Or a sudden storm as it is about to be brought in. Many things can happen to ruin the crop.”

“I was actually talking about the militia,” Mike said, smiling again.

“So was I,” Father Makanee replied.

“I’m worried about the actual crop,” Father Mahona said, unhappily. “I know that Genadi thinks we’ll get more from these new hybrids, but we haven’t planted as much land as last year…”

“With the new plows we planted nearly as much,” Father Makanee replied, shaking his head. “And we were able to leave more fallow, which is good. You know we’ve been overusing the Sardana field. It’s just not producing like it did once. Let it lie for a while…”

“But we put a crop in the Sardana,” Mahona snapped. “Bloody clover if you can believe it! What’s wrong just turning the cattle out on it?”

“Genadi says we will later in the season,” Makanee said, soothingly.

“We’ll never get enough food in for winter, you’ll see,” Mahona said, balefully. “What with all that junk he had us spray the fields with…”

“Weed killer’s only going to help,” Mike said. “We’re trying to grow wheat and oats and barley and peas, not thistles. What do you think the barley crop will do?”

“Well, the barley’s our own,” Father Makanee said. “Not a hybrid. We’ve used the same barley for generations and the women won’t let us change. So we’ll have to see what we see with that. But I think the wheat and peas will do well. Next year, we’re going to see about soybeans.”

“And what can you do with soybeans?” Father Mahona said, throwing up his hands. “Eat them? I don’t think so.”

“Make tofu?” Mike said, smiling, then shook his head when both the farmers looked at him in question. “It’s a… not particularly good food that can be made from soybeans. I was joking.”

“Normally we understand your jokes, Kildar,” Father Makanee said, smiling. “That one we were lost.”

“At least I’ve avoided the farmer’s daughter’s jokes,” Mike pointed out.

“The ones with the traveling salesman?” Father Mahona asked, frowning. “I’ve heard them.”

“What all of them?” Mike asked. “Did you hear the one about the traveling former SEAL who got caught in a snowstorm?”

“No,” Father Mahona said, puzzled.

“That’s because we’re living it,” Mike replied. “When we get to the punch line, I’ll tell you.”