Caledonii: Birth of a Celtic Nation. 5. A Druid's Work

By Ian Hall

Caledonia, 83AD. As the Romans press their advantage in Scotland, Calach of the Caledonii clan must ready his forces for the Roman invasion of the highlands. His brother Uwan, a young druid has a plan to end the war with little bloodshed, and must embark on a dangerous voyage to the heart of Rome itself. Between the two, they hold the very future of their country in their hands.
A Druid's Work is the fifth installment in the series... Caledonii: Birth of a Celtic Nation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian Hall
• Release date: Nov 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310112942

Ian Hall

Ian Hall is a former Commander Officer of No. 31 Squadron (1992-4), as well as being the editor and writer of the Squadron Association's three-times-a-year 32-page newsletter. He is the author of Upwards, an aviation-themed novel currently available as a Kindle download. This is his first full-length historical study, having previously penned a 80-page history of No 31 Squadron's early Tornado years.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012. Ian Hall. Hallanish Publishing, thru Smashwords Inc.

This edition © 2014

ISBN; 9781310112942

All rights reserved, and the author reserves the right to re-produce this book, or parts thereof, in any way whatsoever.

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Caledonii; Birth of a Celtic Nation

5. A Druid’s Work

By Ian Hall

Chapter 17… Winter AD 80... Neal’s Capital; Ayra

Chapter 18… 81 AD… The Pause Before the…

Chapter 19… Spring 81 AD… The Roman Way

Chapter 20... 82 AD... Guerillas of the North

Neal’s Capital; Ayra

Early Winter AD 80

Winnie finished her story with her usual surprise ending and watched as the children jumped with shock at the heavily accented finale. The flickering of the fire inside the hut lit their faces and exaggerated their facial expressions. Frightening young children with stories of kelpies and goblins was one of the things she loved most about being a storyteller. Winnie would admit it was a little perverse, but the raw energy that flowed from the children at the story’s climax felt wonderful.

If she concentrated on her ‘old magic’, she could almost see the colors which emanated from the children’s bodies. To counteract this little flaw in her character she always ensured that every story she told had a hidden deeper meaning to it. Most of these would be picked out of the story and understood by the adult audience, but the children sometimes had to be told the moral of the story at the end. Sometimes she included a warning within the tale, sometimes just a repetition of the moral at the end of the story seemed sufficient.

Right! A gruff voice called from the dark doorway as the children settled for another tale. It is time for bed!

The Novanti children cried their usual dismays, but dutifully got to their feet and filed out. Each child thanked her for her stories as they passed, some even bowing to her; a Storyteller ranked high in the clan system, and Winnie was the best.

Thank you from the village too, Storyteller. the man bowed slightly.

Thank you for giving me food an’ lodgings. she replied.

The clansman shuffled his feet nervously. I have a request from the chief.

Yes? Winnie tried to hold down the excitement she felt within.

Chief Neall would like to hear a tale or two before he sleeps.

It would be my pleasure.

Perhaps this is why I have felt drawn to the Novanti.

At the dark of the last moon, she had detected a definite need to visit the clan in the far west. Used to such unusual forces, she had simply followed the instruction, certain that reason would present itself eventually.

The clansman motioned to Winnie that she should follow him, and he walked out into the grey-dark. Winnie shivered and drew her cloak about her as she shuffled briskly, following the silent clansman to Neall’s broch. A light dusting of powdery snow had fallen, whisked by the wind into nooks and crannies as she walked. When he reached the doorway of the chief’s broch, he held aside the thick animal hide curtain, and entered the small hallway. Dark openings on either side led to the internal spiral staircases which led through the walls. The clansman began to hold the inner curtain open too, and motioned that she should enter quickly.

Close the infernal curtain you idiot! came the muffled cry from within the dimly-lit room beyond, and Winnie quickly ducked through. She felt the outer curtain dropped behind her and the inner one opened fully. As she entered the broch’s ground floor room, she heard the clansman’s footfalls outside as he ran away to the comfort of his own hut.

Oh it’s the Storyteller! Neall’s voice boomed from the far side of the room. Although he smiled, the chief’s voice held neither warmth nor welcome. You took your time.

Winnie’s eyes quickly became accustomed to the braziers light inside and walked into the room proper. The children were especially intent tonight, Chief Neall.

She found the lower floor room of the broch sparsely decorated; no embroidered hangings, no colorful clan emblems, not even furs. The bare stone walls were a cold austere environment to live in, and when she compared this room with the other clan chiefs’ dwellings, Neall’s looked sorely wanting.

Chief Neall sat bent over a small fire, his brother Wesson by his side. Both watched Winnie as she made her way confidently forward. Her back against the stone wall, Neall’s wife sewed industriously, apparently oblivious to her entrance; her eyes did not stray from her work. Winnie had spent two nights in the village of Ayra, and although she had been introduced to Neall on arrival, she knew his wife and brother by sight only.

Come in, and sit at the fire! Neall said loudly.

Winnie moved over to the fire and sat cross-legged on the floor, opposite Neall. She raised her hands to the embers, warming her chilled fingers, watching the chief.

Rayna! Neall shouted, turning to his wife. Pour some ale for the Storyteller. She’s going to send us a’ to sleep tonight wi’ bad dreams! He laughed heartily at his own joke, and slapped Rayna’s behind as she passed him. Look at her! She’s beautiful! Neall wiped his wet mouth with his sleeve and returned his gaze to Winnie. We’re just hand-fasted this year! She’s got less than a year to prove her worth to me, or I’ll try another.

Winnie knew that ‘her worth’ would be proven by getting pregnant; the only reason for her hand-fasting marriage to the boorish chief. It was common knowledge even outside the clan that chief Neall had been as yet unlucky in begetting an heir. The two pregnancies from past wives had been marred with miscarriage, although if you listened to the talk within the clan, you would hear that the women had carefully found pleasure elsewhere, and the babies had not been his at all. His last three hand-fasting marriages had all ended barren, and Neall had long lost patience. Such a situation bred gossip like wildfire, and every version of the chief’s inability to father an heir undermined Neall’s authority. Winnie could see the pain behind his eyes, and wondered to what extent it drove his obvious anger.

The sullen look on the retreating Rayna’s face told Winnie that perhaps the elevated position of chief’s wife was not worth the hardship she bore whilst there. Winnie averted her gaze from the young woman and turned to Neall. The fact that neither Rayna nor Wesson had spoken since she had entered had not escaped her.

What would the chief like to hear? Winnie expecting some old favorite to be asked for, or perhaps some tale once heard in childhood.

Oh you decide Storyteller. Neall took a large swig of ale from his dirty tankard. He left the wet ale glistening in his beard and moustache. You would best know what’s in fashion these days.

Winnie smiled and slowly began to tell the story of The Kelpie, an old story told to her when she was very young. She was given a cup of warm ale, which she sipped as she spoke. Every sip was taken at a period of suspense in the story, every inflection of her voice part of the story’s magic.

Winnie told the tale of a young man who wished to cross a wide river and had been persuaded by a kelpie; a river demon, to let it carry him across. The kelpie turned on the man halfway, and killed him out of sheer wickedness. The story was short and to the point, intended to relax the chief. The important story would be the second one; a new story she had prepared earlier in the year for such an occasion.

She watched the reactions of the chief and his brother to the moral and ending of the first story and observed the interplay between the room’s occupants. She cleared her throat gently, not waiting for Neall’s permission to start a new tale. Her impropriety was not noticed by the ale-sipping chief.

The next tale is of a family of seven brothers. Winnie watched as her description of the brothers and their predicament was registered by the chief. One day they were out hunting in lands very close to their own village. They hunted together for strength, in case they came across a wild boar or a pack of wolves. They hunted together, but one brother was always a little apart from the others; he counted himself better than them, although he always kept his thoughts very much to himself.

Wesson gave her a questioning glance, then glanced at his brother. Seeing no response from Neall, he turned to continue listening to the story.

The brothers were surprised by a band of marauding sailors; men from the far west, across the great ocean. At first the brothers fought, but when they realized that the numbers against them were too great, they decided to flee. Even the brother who though himself better agreed, and they turned and ran for the river which bordered the village. After crossing the river, they would be safe.

Winnie sipped her warm ale, watching her audience. She noted with satisfaction that Rayna had stopped her sewing and although her eyes were downcast, she