Kildar

Chapter Twenty-Four

The sun was setting by the time the last test was complete and the Keldara gathered in the yard of the houses, setting out tables and bringing out an evening feast. Mike had been smelling the steer roasting all afternoon and he was looking forward to the dinner.

The men and women sat separately, with the women doing the serving. The whole steer was brought into the space among the tables and set on a separate table to be carved. It had been roasted, whole, in a pit and looked and smelled wonderful.

The elders handled the carving with the help of the Burakan, Mike being excepted. The senior women, Anastasia being included in them as the de facto “woman of the Kildar” were actually served first with choice cuts from the ribs. The butt and withers were served to the younger men and women, the men getting the choicer cuts, the rest of the rib portion was served to the Burakan and the trainers. Last the elders, Mike and the senior trainers were served from the tenderloin. Each of the Burakan, including Mike, had their designated axes in front of them.

Mike was actually served dead last, which he found odd, but it was a huge hunk of the center of the tenderloin. There were potatoes and huge loaves of heavy bread as well as boiled cabbage and choice spring greens gathered from the woods. To drink there was the inevitable Keldara beer in pitchers. Mike was thirsty but he went light on the beer.

“You need to introduce broccoli,” Nielson said as he dug into his own filet. “It grows fast and it’s packed with vitamins.”

“I’ll talk to Genadi about it,” Mike said, looking around for the farm manager. He was with the younger men, just below the married males in pecking order.

When most of the diners were finished, Father Kulcyanov stood up and raised his hands for silence.

“The tests of spring are complete,” he said. “The Ondah has been chosen, Oleg of the Family of Kulcyanov. He is crowned the King of Spring,” the elder said, simply.

He had carried a bag to the table and now dipped into it, removing a laureate that appeared to be made of some yellow vegetation.

“Crap,” Nielson said.

“The Golden Bough,” Mike replied in English, shaking his head as he recognized the distinct outline of dried mistletoe. “How fucking old is this ritual?”

“What are you talking about?” Adams whispered in English, leaning across Father Ferani as Father Kulcyanov placed the laureate on Oleg’s head.

“Too long to explain,” Mike whispered back. “There’s a whole damned book about it. But we might be watching the oldest—”

“And most original,” Nielson interjected.

“And most original spring rite in the world,” Mike finished.

“What do you talk about?” Father Ferani asked suspiciously.

“This is a great honor,” Mike said in Georgian, gesturing at Oleg who now stood up and held his hands up to applause. “This ritual is written of in books, but it was thought to be lost in time. The Keldara seem to have kept it, with some additions that might be… I don’t know. But this is something that I never thought I’d see.”

“Where did you hear of the mysteries?” Father Mahona interjected, sharply.

“There is a book,” Mike said. “It lists many of the rites of spring around the world. But the giving of the Golden Bough has not been done, as far as the book is concerned, for centuries. The King of Spring, is he also called the King of the Wood?”

“This is something we do not speak of,” Father Mahona snapped, sitting up rigidly and turning away.

“Sorry,” Mike said, shrugging. “Shit,” he added, closing his eyes.

“What?” Adams asked, ignoring the frown on Father Ferani’s face.

“The rock pickers,” Mike said. “The chant they used. It had something about Sybellios in it, I think.”

“The Cebellian Mysteries?” Nielson said, excitedly. “You don’t think… ?”

“I think we should stop talking about it,” Mike said, looking at the expression on the elders’ faces.

Oleg had left the high table and now walked down among the women, rubbing his chin in thought. He deliberately walked right past Lydia, looking over the young women and pausing by Irina, who was seated near her friend, then darting back and seizing Lydia, pulling her to her feet and kissing her in front of the whole group.

The girls gathered around Lydia, covered her in necklaces made from wildflowers and put a wreath on her head of flowers to match the one on Oleg’s head.

This appeared to be the signal for everyone to get up from the table. As the women, with Lydia being the exception, started to clear the feast, Lydia and Oleg were led back to the main table and given a place of honor next to Mike.

“Congratulations,” Mike said to the grinning Lydia.

“Oleg has tried for the last two years to win the Ondah,” she admitted, beaming. “Last year he was beaten by Vil.”

“That’s hard to believe,” Mike said.

“He did better on the test of the stone and the test of fire,” Oleg said, leaning over to explain. “I always overestimate how far I can jump. Last year I was so badly burned, I had to stop.”

“After I teach you how to walk on the fire, it will be a test of distance,” Mike said, smiling.

“Everyone was amazed,” Lydia said. “No one had seen anyone walk on fire. We’d heard of it, but…”

“It’s really not that hard,” Mike said. “Anyone can do it, even the women.”

“That would make the test interesting,” Oleg said, grinning.

“When do we light the bonfire?” Mike asked. “No, let me guess. At midnight, but the fires in the houses have to be extinguished first.”

“You know our ways,” Oleg said, his brow furrowing.

“I’m having a lovely time watching them,” Mike admitted. “When your reading is a little better, I’ll show you why. But… are there things that happen after the bonfire is lit?”

“There are mysteries that we don’t even share with you, Kildar,” Oleg said, formally.

“That’s okay,” Mike said. “I’d be surprised if you did.”

When the feast was cleared, the group got up and headed for the hill with the bonfire laid on it. The other Burakan picked up their axes so Mike did the same.

“Kildar,” Oleg said, walking beside him in the darkness. “We must bring the fire from the wood.”

“Do you use the drill method?” Mike asked. “Or flint and tinder?”

“The drill,” Oleg said, looking over at him in the moonlight. “Your reading again?”

“The needfire,” Mike said. “Teigin something?”

“Yes,” Oleg said, shaking his head. “I see the mysteries are not so mysterious.”

“There are some,” Mike said. “How do you do it?”

“There is an axletree set up,” Oleg said, “with the drill protruding from it and into a plank of oak. Two of the Burakan hold the drill steady while the other six turn the axle. The Ondah is supposed to blow the fire to light. I think that you should do it. You are the true Ondah.”

“Forget that,” Mike said. “Getting the fire started is important and you’re probably better at it than I am. You do it.”

“As you wish, Kildar,” Oleg said, clearly unhappy.

“You’ve started a fire with a drill before,” Adams pointed out as the Keldara continued up the hill and Mike slowed down.

“Let him have his moment,” Mike said.

A circular theater of turf benches had been set up around the fire, with four openings to let people through. Mike took a quick read on the stars and was pretty sure they were at the cardinal points of the compass. The axletree had been set up to one side and as the whole group filed into the area the nine Burakan stepped forward to bring the fire. Mike looked over at the caravanserai and, sure enough, somebody had turned off all the lights; the valley was in total darkness save for the moon. The duty squad was probably pissed as hell. On the other hand, Vanner had ended up wiring the whole cellars so they were probably down there playing cards and watching TV on the satellite.

The women had arranged themselves on the north side of the circle and the men on the south. As everyone settled into position, Father Kulcyanov carefully aligned the spokes of the axletree with what Mike assumed was ritual significance. But Mike, frankly, was ritualed out. He’d had a good meal and a long day. At this point, all he really wanted to do was sleep.

He took his designated position, however, and started turning the spokes on command. The drill was supported by a plank laid across two mounds of cut turf, drill held by Sawn and Vil, with Oleg crouched waiting for the fire.

Turning the spokes was boring at best. Mike wanted to get into the game but he was just too worn out to care. Finally, though, there was a flare of light from under the plank and Oleg waved for the whole assembly to be removed.

The fire was small, but Oleg carefully built it up with twigs until there were a few solidly burning brands. Then he transferred it to the kindling of the bonfire. In moments, the kindling had caught and started to work on the main logs.

“The taigon-tar is come,” Father Kulcyanov said, raising his hands to the sky. “The Father of All looks upon us with kindness and will bring us good crops and a well people for the year. Let the bannach caillean be chosen.”

“Dead on,” Nielson said as Mike settled on the turf next to him. “Even the same pronunciation, which is surprising.”

The older women went around among the men, passing out cakes. There was a brief discussion with Father Kulcyanov and a cake was given to Mike, but not to the trainers.

“Nine knobs,” Mike said, showing it to Nielson.

“Bet you get the black bean,” Nielson replied, grinning.

When all the cakes had been distributed to the men, Father Kulcyanov raised his hands again and then lowered them.

Mike followed the actions of the rest of the men and raised the cake to his mouth, biting into it. In ancient Scotland and England, each year a person would be chosen among the people for ceremonial purposes. There were various methods of choosing, but a bean in a cake, a “bannock,” was one of the most common. The term that was used, the “bannach caillean,” was just about dead on to what he recalled from reading about the ceremony lo those many years ago. Originally, the person had probably been sacrificed to propitiate the gods. Later they were simply subjected to various humiliations and mock sacrifices, such as being cast in the river or mock thrown in the fire. He hoped the Keldara weren’t absolutely authentic; he wasn’t about to stand by and allow an actual human sacrifice.

He fully expected a solid bean to be in the middle. But he didn’t encounter anything on the first bite so he kept munching. It wasn’t hard, the oat cake had been made with a sweetener, probably honey, and covered with a sweet coating; it was quite good.

When he was about half way through the cake he heard a voice cry out on the left side of the fire and saw a Keldara he couldn’t quite place spit out something on his hand.

“Gurun has the bean!” Vil called, laughing. He and another of the Keldara grabbed the sheepish man by the arms and pulled him to his feet. “Into the fire with him!”

“Into the fire!” the rest chanted as the man was dragged to the edge of the blazing bonfire.

“Kildar,” Nielson whispered, seriously.

“Wait,” Mike said. Everyone was grinning at the man’s evident discomfiture; he couldn’t believe even the Keldara would be grinning if Gurun was really going to be sacrificed.

As it turned out, Vil and the other Keldara simply pushed him at the fire, three times Mike noticed, and then pulled him back. After that they sat back down, with Gurun ruefully shaking his head.

“A year of bad luck,” Father Mahona said, leaning over and pointing at the man with his chin. “That’s the fate of the caillean. Do your books speak of this as well, Kildar?”

“Yes,” Mike replied. “And that in the very old days the caillean was sacrificed for the promise of a good harvest.”

“So it is said,” Father Mahona said, sitting back with a blank look on his face.

“I’m glad to see that you’ve dispensed with that practice at least,” Mike said. “I need every militiaman I can get,” he added with a disarming smile.

The choosing of the caillean seemed to be the signal for the party to really commence. The two kegs that had been set on the hilltop were broached and as the younger men lined up on one, the women poured mugs from the second and started to serve the seniors, including the trainers. Mike, naturally, was served first and he used the first mouthful to wash out the last of the oat cake. It had been good, but it was a bit of a mouthful to eat without anything to wash it down.

After everyone had a beer, Sawn, Vil and two Keldara Mike didn’t know gathered between the men and the women. Sawn was carrying a musical instrument that looked something like a small bagpipe while one of the unknown Keldara held a harp and the other a drum. Vil stood between them as they began to play.

“I wonder what McKenzie makes of all of this?” Mike asked. “Get him.”

By the time the Scottish NCO had made his way over to Mike, the players had started to play.

“That’s not a bagpipe, is it?” Mike asked. The instrument was softer and sweeter than any bagpipe he’d ever heard, but had the same continuous undertone.

“Uillean pipe,” McKenzie said crouched behind him. “Similar but it hasn’t got the full throw of a bagpipe. It was for playing indoors. The reason the Scots stuck to the bagpipe was the English outlawed both. You could play the pipe on the moors, get the damned Brits in an uproar and then run away.”

“Or ambush them,” Adams said.

“That too,” the NCO admitted, grinning, as Vil began to sing. “The drum’s a classic bodran, though.”

“What the hell language is that?” Mike asked. He couldn’t catch a word of it.

“It is very old,” Father Makanee said from beside him. “We don’t even know the words anymore. But it is traditional to be sung on the festivals.”

“I wish Vanner was here,” Mike mused. “He might be able to get something from it.”

“He doesn’t have to,” McKenzie said, his voice low and sad. “It’s the Gael. Oh, it’s corrupted, but I recognize the Gael. Even some of the words.” He hummed for a moment and then sang along. “Far is this land we come to, held in thrall by our king. We have followed the flight of the birds and come to this land of mountains. Our duty to guard the something something against the enemy. We only want to go back I’d guess is that word, to our land of water and green.”

“They’re Irish?” Mike asked, aghast.

“I wonder how old the term ‘follow the wild geese’ really is?” Nielson mused. “Most people place it from around the potato famine. But these guys—”

“They’re bloody damned Irish?” McKenzie said, amazed.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Nielson said, shaking his head. “They didn’t come here in any history I know. That means they probably go back far enough that they’re Scots. Remember—”

“We mostly changed places, I know,” McKenzie growled. “You mean they’re Scots?”

“They’re Gael for sure,” Nielson said. “Scots and Irish is quibbling at that antiquity. But how long ago? And how in the hell did they wind up in Georgia?”

“Wait,” McKenzie said, holding up a hand as the song continued. “They traveled from their homes through… I don’t get that part. Into heat and darkness? Many fights they were in, ever victors, and they took much gold. But they were defeated and… I think that’s enslaved but it’s not a Gael word. Their lord was cast down and they were sent here by… someone to be guards. Now they await the day they can return. They are the Keldaran, the homeless ones. They are… I don’t recognize that one.”

“Varangi,” Nielson whispered, having caught the word clearly. “They’re God-be-damned Varangians.”

“What the hell had you and Nielson so worked up last night?” Adams said, sitting down across from Mike.

“Something God damned interesting,” Mike replied.

After the song, the ritual had broken down into party including more singing, but most of that had been in Georgian. He’d ended up with Katrina and Anastasia on his knees, holding a conversation that he tuned out. Probably a bad idea, and Anastasia hadn’t liked it when he more or less ignored her on getting back to the caravanserai. But it had been a long day and he passed out as soon as he hit the bed.

“You were completely checked out last night,” Adams continued. “You and the colonel. You going to give?”

“Yeah,” Mike said. “Call a meeting for around eleven. I’ll try to get you guys to understand it then.”

“The Keldara are the last remnant of the Varangian guard,” Mike said when the whole group of trainers were gathered at the table.

“You’re sure?” Vanner said, excitedly.

“Positive,” Nielson replied, nodding. “Absolutely positive.”

“Fucking cool!” Vanner spat.

“Okay, somebody going to explain what’s got Vanner so excited?” Sergeant Heard asked.

“I think you guys should understand,” Mike replied, nodding. “But you need to really understand. Okay, who’s heard of the Selous Scouts?” He nodded when practically every hand went up. The Rhodesian group was a legend in the special operations community. “Okay, how about the battle at Thermopylae?” Fewer hands at that. “Spartans?” More hands. “Vikings?” Every hand shot up.

“I want you to think in those terms,” Mike said. “But I gotta lecture, so try to stay awake. After the Western Roman Empire fell, it more or less moved to Constantinople, what’s currently Istanbul, and the Byzantine empire was founded. One of the problems of the original Roman Empire, towards the end, was that the guards of the emperors, the Praetorian Guard, ended up picking and choosing who was going to be emperor. And they didn’t always do a good job.”

“Sort of like coups?” Russell asked.

“Sort of,” Mike replied. “They were the kingmakers. To keep that from happening, the Byzantine emperors hired foreign mercenaries as their guards. The Vikings had started to move into Russia, conquering it, and they were in contact with Byzantines. The Byzantine emperors hired those guys, ‘fierce fighters from the north,’ to be their guards. They were called the Varangi, which meant foreigner. They formed the Varangian Guard.”

“We come from the land of the ice and snow,” Adams half sang. “From the midnight sun where the hot springs blow, the hammer of the gods. So you’re saying the Keldara are Vikings?”

“That’s where it gets weird,” Mike said. “McKenzie was able to translate one of their songs and, no, they’re not Norse. They’re Celts, Scottish or Irish, back then it didn’t really matter. There is a lot of Norse in there, that’s probably where the blonds and redheads and such come from.”

“There are plenty of Irish redheads,” Meller interjected.

“They got that from being repeatedly invaded by the Norse,” Vanner said. “Back then, they were all dark hair and eyes.”

“So what probably happened was that this group of foreigners was wandering around the Mediterranean,” Nielson said. “Doing the usual rape, loot, pillage and burn. And they ran smack dab into the Byzantines, somehow. The survivors were probably given the choice of working for the emperor as Varangians or death.”

“And since they weren’t quite right to actually defend the emperor,” Vanner continued, nodding, “he sent them up here to guard the toll booth. Along with a smattering of real Varangi. Ergo the blond hair and blue eyes.”

“Keldara,” McKenzie said. “The Kelts. Sawn, Padrek. Hell, Kulcyanov is probably a corruption of Culcyan. Maybe even Culculane.”

“The point is that it’s like running into a fossilized group of Spartans,” Mike said, looking around at the trainers. “These guys, their stock at least, are warriors who descended on civilization, so far back there’s not even many records, and ended up stuck in this valley as guards. They came from Ireland or Scotland—”

“Ireland,” McKenzie said, firmly. “But before the Irish invaded Scotland, so they’re Scots as well…”

“Following the wild geese. And now they’re here.”

“And this changes the training… how?” Russell asked.

“Don’t think in terms of farmers,” Nielson said. “You guys watched those contests. And you missed the axe throw. Think in terms of… Gurkhas.”

“That good?” Sergeant Heard asked.

“That good,” Nielson said. “I’m going to up the rate at which they train, based on it. Put it that way.”

“But they’ve been here for… how long?” Russell asked.

“Say a millennium and a half,” Vanner said.

“So we’re changing the training schedule based on that?” the former Ranger continued, surprised.

“Yeah, they’ve been here that long,” Mike said. “But they’ve kept the warrior tradition that long. These aren’t Iraqi sheep. These guys are like the Gurkhas and the Kurds. You can just push them harder. They’ll respond. Treat every single one like a potential Ranger or SEAL candidate. And I bet you’re amazed how fast they catch on.”

“I don’t want just a militia anymore,” he continued, looking around at the whole group and catching each of their eyes. “I don’t want a decent company of American quality light infantry. I don’t want just fighters. By next fall, I want a company of commandoes.”