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Stonehenge: A Novel of 2000 BC. Bernard Cornwell
Читать онлайн.Название Stonehenge: A Novel of 2000 BC
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780007338771
Автор произведения Bernard Cornwell
Издательство HarperCollins
Galeth could have cried for pity at the boy’s pathetic boast. Camaban’s bed was a pile of soaking bracken, beside which lay his few belongings: a fox’s skull, a broken pot and a raven’s wing. His only clothing was a rotting sheep’s pelt that stank like a tanner’s pit. ‘So no one knows that you live here?’ Galeth asked.
‘Only you,’ the boy said trustingly. ‘I haven’t even t-t-told Saban. He brings me food sometimes, b-b-but I make him take it to the river.’
‘Saban brings you food?’ Galeth asked, surprised and pleased. ‘And you say Slaol talks to you here?’
‘Every d-d-day,’ Camaban stuttered.
Galeth smiled at that nonsense, but Camaban did not see for he had turned and reached further into the leaves where, from a hiding place, he brought out a short bow. It was an Outfolk bow, the stranger’s bow with its wrappings of sinew lashed about the strips of wood and antler. ‘L-L-Lengar used it last night,’ Camaban said. ‘The m-m-man was d-d-dying anyway.’ He paused, looking worried. ‘Why does H-H-Hirac want me?’ he asked.
Galeth hesitated. He did not want to say that Camaban was to be sacrificed, though there could be no other reason for Hirac’s demand.
‘He wants to k-k-kill me,’ Camaban said calmly, ‘doesn’t he?’
Galeth nodded reluctantly. He wanted to tell his outcast nephew to run away, to go west or south into the woods, but what good would such advice do? The child would die anyway, caught by beasts or captured by slavers, and it would be better if he were given to Lahanna. ‘You will go to the goddess, Camaban,’ Galeth said, ‘and you’ll become a star and will look down on us.’
‘When?’ Camaban asked, seemingly unmoved by his uncle’s promise.
‘Tomorrow, I think.’
The boy gave Galeth a mischievous grin. ‘You c-c-can tell Hirac that I’ll b-b-be at Ratharryn in the morning.’ He turned to push the precious bow back into its hiding place. Other things were concealed there: the stranger’s empty quiver, a snake’s skin, the bones of a murdered child, more bones that had small marks scratched on their flanks and, most precious of all, two of the small golden lozenges that Camaban had retrieved while Lengar had pursued Saban. Now he took those lozenges and held them tight in his fist, but did not show them to Galeth. ‘You think I’m a fool,’ he asked, ‘don’t you?’
‘No,’ Galeth said.
‘B-b-but I am,’ Camaban said. He was Slaol’s fool, and he dreamed dreams.
But no one took any notice, for he was crippled. So they would kill him.
Next morning Neel had two men dig a shallow grave in Lahanna’s temple, just beside the outer ring of poles. It was, the men agreed, an auspicious day for the sacrifice for the clouds that had trailed the storm were thinning fast and Lahanna was showing her pale face in Slaol’s sky.
A few darker clouds appeared as the crowd gathered about the temple’s five rings and some feared that Hirac would delay the sacrifice, but he must not have been concerned about the clouds for at last the dancers appeared from the high priest’s hut. The dancers were women who carried leafy ash branches with which they swept the ground as they capered ahead of the seven priests whose naked bodies had been whitened with the slurry of chalk in which finger patterns swirled. Hirac wore a pair of antlers tied to his head with leather laces and the horns tossed dangerously as he danced behind the women. A ring of bones circled his waist, more bones hung from his mud-crusted hair, and a shining talisman of amber dangled at his neck. Neel, the youngest priest, played a flute made from the leg bone of a swan and its notes skittered wildly as he danced. Gilan, who was next oldest after Hirac, led Camaban by the hand. The boy had been allowed back into Ratharryn for this one day, and while he was inside the embankment the women had woven flowers into his black hair that had been untangled with bone combs so that it now fell straight to his thin waist. He too was naked, and his washed skin looked unnaturally clean. The red mark of Lahanna showed on his flat belly. Like Hengall’s other two sons he was tall, though each time he stepped on his left foot his whole body made a grotesque twisting dip. Hengall and the tribe’s elders followed the priests.
Four men began to beat wooden drums as the procession approached, and the tribe, ringing the temple, began to dance. At first they just swayed from side to side, but as the drummers increased the speed of their beating they stepped sunwise about the circle. They paused only to make way for the priests and the elders and, once the procession had passed through them, the dancing ring closed up.
Only the priests and the victim were allowed through the gap in the shallow bank that ringed the temple. Hirac was first, and he went to the newly dug grave where he howled up at the faded moon to draw the goddess’s attention while Gilan led Camaban to the circle’s far side as the other priests capered about the temple rings. One held the tribe’s skull pole high so that the ancestors could see what important thing was being done in Ratharryn this day, while another carried the massive thigh bone of an aurochs. One end of the bone was a gnarled and knobbly mass that had been painted with red ochre. It was the tribe’s Kill-Child, and the watching children, who danced with their parents to the beat of the drums, eyed it warily.
Hengall stood in the temple entrance. He alone did not dance. At his feet lay gifts for the goddess: a stone mace, an ingot of bronze and an Outfolk jar with its pattern of cords pressed into the clay. The priests, who did no work in the fields and raised no flocks or herds, would keep those gifts and trade them for food.
The tribe danced until their legs were tired, until they were almost in a trance induced by the drums and by their own chanting. They called Lahanna’s name while the sweepers, who had driven away any spirits that might try to intrude on the ceremony, dropped their ash branches and began to sing a repetitive song that called on the moon goddess. Watch us, they sang, see what we bring to you, watch us, and there was happiness in their voices for they knew that the gift would bring pleasure to the goddess.
Hirac danced with closed eyes. The sweat was making runnels through the chalked pattern on his skin and it seemed, in his ecstasy, as though he might fall into the newly dug grave, but he suddenly became still, opened his eyes, and howled again at the moon that still glimmered between the white clouds.
A quiet dropped on the temple. The dancers slowed and stopped, the song faded, the drummers rested their fingers and Neel let the swan-bone flute fall silent.
Hirac howled again, then reached out with his right hand and took the Kill-Child. The priest with the skull pole moved close behind the high priest so that the ancestors could see all that happened.
Gilan urged Camaban forward. No one expected the boy to go willingly, but to their surprise the naked youth limped unhesitatingly towards the grave and a sigh of approval sounded from the tribe. It was better when the sacrifice was willing, even if the willingness did come from stupidity.
Camaban stopped beside his grave, exactly where he was supposed to stop, and Hirac forced a smile to soothe any fears the boy might have. Camaban blinked up at the priest, but said nothing. He had not spoken all day, not even when the women had hurt him by tugging at the knots in his hair with their long-toothed combs. He was smiling.
‘Who speaks for the boy?’ Hirac demanded.
‘I do,’ Hengall growled from the temple’s entrance.
‘What is his name?’
‘Camaban,’ Hengall said.
Hirac paused, angry that the ritual was not being observed. ‘What is his name?’ he called again, louder this time.
‘Camaban,’ Hengall said, and then, after a pause, ‘son of Hengall, son of Lock.’
A cloud covered the sun, casting a shadow over the temple. Some in the tribe touched their groins to avert ill luck, but others noted that Lahanna still showed in the sky.
‘Who