CHAPTER VII.
INTO THE ARMS OF MOLOCH!
“All hail! all hail! Son of the House of Tuathal! Twig from the tree of Tara!”
These words were cried in Cormac’s ear next evening; as he and Ethne gave their horses drink at a running stream.
The cry was followed by a shout of victory as a Druid—the horse beneath him wet with sweat—leapt across the stream; his beard and garments streamed in the wind as he disappeared in the smoke of a circle of fires.
“Behold! behold!” cried Ethne, leaning forward and pointing to the circle of fires. “You have seen the winner!”
With a wild cry, she struck her horse—the creature bounded forward and she disappeared after the Druid.
A great wave of excitement passed over Cormac. He knew enough of the rites of the Druids to realise what this meant to Ethne. He had seen the winner of the Snake’s Egg—the Anguineum; the most prized of all druidical charms; believed to be thrown in the air from the frothy striving of entangled serpents; and eagerly sought after by waiting Druids who stood around with outstretched cloaks ready to catch it as it fell. The lucky Druid who caught it would forthwith ride at full speed on a waiting horse to gain security by the placing of running water between himself and the pursuing serpents—for it was believed the vipers turned immediately in pursuit.
As far as Cormac could see, the country was dotted with wreaths of smoke. As the evening fell, innumerable fires twinkled under the smoke; tongues of fire leapt on every hill, on every peak and granite column; they lit up the tracks in the swale and heath before him. He knew that to the Druids they were sacred fires.
As he looked around it seemed to him that all Hibernia was ablaze. Again the same wave of excitement passed over him—a strange, savage thrill as of some unknown instinct awakening within him. As though he, like the world around him, had been set on fire.
Other wild spirits had taken fire, likewise. The sight of the leaping flames worked like mead on the Hibernians. Those who still professed the ancient faith plunged, intoxicated, into all the sacrificial rites of the Druids. Many who professed Christianity, threw it, for the time, aside—as they might have thrown aside a mask; or mingled the fierce and bloody orgies of Beltane with the rites and ceremonies of their own Easter.
Suddenly a band of Druids, in shimmering white robes, circled around Cormac; the setting sun sparkled on their golden harps and ornaments.
One of their number sprang forward with cries of praise and greeting. At his call the other members of the band grouped themselves around the young prince in attitudes of extravagant joy and homage.
“Cormac of Fail! Stealer of men’s hearts! Maker of ravens’ food—and shedder of blood! Hail, then, to Banba—great son of thy fathers!”
These words were cried in the monotonous chant of bards accustomed to attune their voices whenever occasion required it. They paused; then smote a full chorus from their harps.
“From sea to sea, in this circle of Tuathal’s carving, every heart is full with joy at thy return and with sorrow at thy losses. Ahoi!” The voices rose to a battle-cry. “Ahoi! for Tuathal of Tara’s hosts! Ahoi, for Tuathal—maker of Ravens’ food—Tuathal of war horses, foam-pale! Ahoi, ahoi! We have lost the Egg—we have missed the sacred thing—but we have found the child of Tuathal—Tuathal from Tara of Fail!”
The bards paused—the earth around Cormac was covered with white-robed Druids, prone before him. The blood mounted on the boy’s cheeks. Again they smote upon their golden harps.
“Welcome to Hibernia! Welcome—thrice welcome! Behold us at thy feet! We—the mouthpiece of thy country! We offer thee all—all that Fail hath to give! Her gold, her honey, her white-toothed daughters, her swift racers, her fair, spotted trout, her sloes, and apples and brown nuts—her blood for thy sword to drink. Take all, take all—only let us worship thee. For art not thou from Tuathal’s loins? Tuathal Teachmar? Who armed his hosts with spears—who placed his steward over Ceara and built wattled towers on the hill tops to protect the land! Tuathal from Tara of Fail!”
They rose to their feet; dropped their harps, and held out their arms to him, circling about him.
“Come back to us, for we love thee—come back to us! For art thou not of us, brother of Ethne? Brother of Ethne, Ethne, our Druidess!”
Again they broke into wild battle-cries. Some of them, leaping on their horses, galloped in a ring around Cormac, followed by their great barking hounds.
Darkness was falling on the land; but the lurid light of the myriad fires lit it in a strange, unearthly fashion. The noise, the glare, the mad movement of the circling horsemen confused Cormac.
The frenzy of their sacred rites was upon the Druids. Golden sickles flashed on high. A storm of song and shouting followed the battle-cries. Sharp chords came, crashing from fiercely smitten harps.
The band led Cormac, with horse and hound, towards one of the blazing fires; the horses shying and leaping, terrified at the blaze, and smoke, and moving shadows; the dogs showed their white teeth as they snarled with fear of the fires.
The clamour increased. Cormac’s heart beat harder; his face burned.
On the heights above the simple folk were driving their cattle through the fires—they received the stir and spirit of the movement; and, flocking forward, soon swelled Cormac’s little band to a frenzied host. They stripped themselves of their garments, and thrust them before the young man’s horse.
Every step of his advance added fresh satellites to the ring in which he moved; as they circled about him with wild faces and frenzied shouts, they sprang through fire and the mazes of sword-dances till their bodies were singed and bleeding.
Cormac was ascending one of the hills that dot here and there Ireland’s stretch of central plain. From far and wide the people were flocking to a long, sloping hill-side, leading to the great Dun of Tlachtga that his ancestor had erected near Athboy. It was the holy place of the Druids where, on all great festivals, the sacred fire was made from which all the hearths in Munster were lit.
On the hill-side the flocks and herds mingled with the people; driven through and through the smoke and between the fires, till half mad with fear. A thousand beast-eyes caught the red of the flames, and added to the glitter of the scene; the jagged horns of oxen bristled in the close masses; the wind from their nostrils played a full accompaniment to the babel of tongues. Night seemed lighter than day in the full glare of the fires—and the moving black shadows seemed full of points of light, in glittering pike and knife.
The masses of men, women, and beasts swayed and spread, like a sea, on the hill-side; and, above them, flashed like foam the white dress and limbs of Druid and Druidess—leaping and bounding on the stone monuments with which the hill was dotted.
Highest of all a band of chanting Druids was grouped, motionless, around a great white bull breathing his last on the stone of sacrifice—his blood staining their golden knives and white robes and his own white skin.
Suddenly, in the midst of a surging mass, a small hand, strong as iron, seized Cormac’s bridle and wild eyes flashed into his.
It was Ethne; her saffron garments torn and singed. The white fell of her stallion splashed with blood.
“Choose!” she cried. “Come to us, child of the sun, and worship with us, or depart to the saints! They will give you caves to fester in and cold stones to do penance on—mast and acorns for hermits’ food—go, Christian!”
The supreme contempt in her tones had little sting for Cormac. He hardly heard her words; with all his might he was struggling against the overwhelming desire to enter in upon this scene of fire and danger. The natural desire of a youth to join in the dancing, wrestling, and horse-racing; and joined to this was a fierce desire for further excitement and danger.
The horrible fascination was growing.
In a hush, in the storm, the voices of the chanting Druids came to his ears—silver sweet. He could see them raise their sacred symbols. The beatings of his heart grew faster.
“You have the Christians’ symbol!” he said. “The Cross!”
The Druid at his horse’s bridle borrowed the silver tone of the sacrificial chanters.
“We have their symbol,” he said, “because we have all symbols—the symbols of all eternity—reaching to the very limits of the darkness behind us, to the uttermost limit of the light before us. We are the sons of the Sacred Tree—and all knowledge is with us, and all desire, and all ecstasy!”
Beside them was a group of frenzied worshippers cutting their naked bodies with flints; their cries broke in upon the silver of the Druids’ voices in notes of brass.
The youth upon the saddle had closed his eyes; he swayed a little as though he had already drunk of the mead which the people were spilling and drinking.
“You are ours,” cried the voice of the Druid, “ours! But you reel and sicken at our incense as the bee, fresh from the cell, reels and sickens at a field of clover!”
The young warrior opened his eyes. His face was as white as the Druid robes around him. He leant forward in his saddle—his eyes were wide with hunger—the hunger of fierce, stifled excitement. With one sweeping glance he took in all the scene before him—the struggling hosts that seemed to circle to the far horizon—the smoke blending with the dark sky above—the stars blending with the distant fires—the distant fires that brought the dull glitter of far bog and quagmire into the play of universal flame. Burning flame that added crimson to the flowing blood—flesh to the glancing steel—gold to the poured-out mead—and snow to the naked limbs of the frenzied dancers.
His ears were deafened by savage yells, screams of pipes and cries of terror-stricken brutes.
Suddenly he leapt to his feet on his saddle—the flame danced on his brandished sword and on his eyes—fire seemed to fill his veins.
A battle-cry rang from his mouth. Something fiercer than love of battle came upon him—bloodshed, and steel, and mead, and women, and danger urged him forward into what looked like a whirlwind of fire and weapons.
He sprang with a savage cry to the arms of those awaiting him. He drained the horn of mead held to his lips. The jewelled fastenings of his robe were unclasped—and seizing sword and shield he flew, naked limbed and quivering, into the mazes of sword and fire.