Classical Studies
Year 4 writing set in the Iron Age
By N Richards
May 13, 2008 - 8:52:14 AM

                                        Arrival at Danebury

As I saw the river I smiled.   I jumped down and prayed to the water god.   Then I drank.   Ardice drank as well. (She is my dog.)  

Then I saw a very aggressive man.   I slipped my knife out, but I did not want to fight with him.   I sprinted hard.   All I heard was anger, and Ardica jumped up and down on me.

I saw the hill fort.   But there was no gate: they had blocked the entrance…

                                                                                                Robert

I walked through the gate and we climbed up the hill.   I was amazed by the view.   You could see for miles and miles.   Next I saw two horses and five buckets of water…

                                                                                                Poppy

Kemloc keeps walking with his horse up to the shrines.  He eventually gets to the shrines and makes a prayer.

"Please, Taranis, please may my tribe be safe.

Then he goes to meet the king...                                            Sam

I came through the gate.   Everybody was staring at me.   I got off my horse and started walking.   It was freaky with all those people looking at me.   I didn’t stop and say, “Stop looking at me!”   I kept on walking until someone came up to me.   I did not know who it was, but it was as if they glided.   They were wearing something dark, so I was quite scared.   He asked who I was and I said, “ My name is Gertrude, daughter of one of the Ancalites, child.   And this is my horse, Giflyn.

Once he knew who I was he said, “Well come on in: this is your home.”

Whilst he was talking to me I kept on looking around me at the people and the hill fort.   Some were freaky, some had blue tattoos, and some had dark hoods, but I did not look too long.   Most were holding spears so they were mostly warriors – or that’s what I thought.

                                                                                                Melissa

My horse Kemloc lumbered after me.  

“Before I get you some food we have to pray to the gods.”

Kemloc brayed impatiently.  

“But it was a good journey,” I said.

Kemloc huffed dissatisfied.   I led him on.   We got past the guards, went into the shrine and prayed to Esus.   Then we went to my father’s friend, Tredach.   Tredoch gave Kemloc a blanket and some wheat chaff.   He lithe fire and gave me a slice of freshly baked bread.   Once I had eaten my bread I stopped and looked for a second.   There were shields and axes attached to the walls.   Then I looked at Tredach.   He had blue spirals on his cheeks.   I said,” Hang on a second.   Why don’t you eat any bread?”

“Because I’ve recently had these spiral tattoos done so I have to eat through a straw.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s so painful!”

I heard hoofs of a familiar horse.   I ran outside.   It was my father, Bredax, and his lovely horse Epona.   Bredax went inside to talk to Tredach, whilst I went to put Epona in the stables so she could see Kemloc….

                                                                                                Millie L-P

…Suddenly a passage formed.   Kemloc walked through the east gate.   He looked beside him.   A woman with a mad face!   She was mad because Kemloc had interrupted Samhain… The woman went back to her house ...

Everybody knew Kemloc was not from Kochue because he had no tattoos. The guards seized him as they thought having no tattoos was an insult.

The guards brought him out again – but with a difference.   Kemloc had some tattoos on him!

                                                                                                Noam

I walked out into the cold, misty night.   At least I would have something to keep as a secret. I hoped the tribe they attacked was not the Dumnonii.   That was where my dad lived.   A great warrior he was!   He killed Mordac, King of the Coritani.

I couldn’t see.   I stumbled, fell and banged my leg on a rock.   It throbbed with pain.   I tried not to scream or shout.   I tried to see the dangers, but it was too dark.   If I went on I would get lost.   I had to wait till dawn...

I heard footsteps.   There was no way I could hide in such a place.   Kemloc was running, but there was no Belloc.   Kemloc ran past me.   I gave chase.   He knew the way home..

Finally I saw the fort that was home.   Everybody turned and saw Kemloc.   He shouted:

“Everyone prepare for battle!”

                                                                                                William

Festival of Fire

            It had been a long journey, but now at last as the narrow track emerged from the thick beech woods Kemloc saw to the north the hill of Ennadun like a bulky monster slumbering in the early morning mist.

            “There we are, Cyflym,” he said to his horse as he dismounted.   “That’s where we’re going.   And we can’t arrive like scruffy vagabonds, you know.   So first: a wash and a drink.”  

            Kemloc led his horse through beech and alder down a shallow slope to a river which was full and busy.   They both quaffed deep draughts from the chilly water.   Kemloc found a still pool to the side and looked for his reflection – to see if he looked as weary as he felt.   But the water was murky and mysterious; and with a prayer to whatever water-god lived there he cupped his hands and washed his face.   Was there a spring at Ennadun? he wondered.   With future thirst in mind he filled his leather flask and lay down on the mouldering leaves for a few minutes rest, maybe a little sleep.   He wanted to look as presentable as possible when he arrived at the fort.   After all, he was ambassador for his tribe – and first impressions mattered.   His father often used to say that while first words may win the head, the first look can capture the heart.   He remembered well his father’s sayings – chiefly because his father said them every other day, as old folks do.   Perhaps he would do the same – repeat his wise words and his jokes, and grumble about new fashions and the young – if he, Kemloc son of Orthwin, lived to see forty summers.

            It was deliciously quiet by the water under the trees, and pleasantly warm in his travelling cloak on a bed of leaves.   He could hear Cyflym spluttering his appreciation at this welcome water-rest, backed by a steady gurgling from the river and a cawing of crows; and far off and very faintly some voices from the direction of Ennadun; and he felt the sounds blend and transform into his village in Dumnonia.   His little brother and sister were nagging him to play in some game but he kept telling them no, he had an urgent journey to make to a hill-fort far away in the land of the morning; and the dogs joined in, and his brother became a whinnying horse … And then a rude, harsh voice broke through:

            “Gwai da!   Gwai leod!”          

            Not a dream, this.   A human form was looming over him and a dog was growling and snarling in his ear.   It was a tall man with an even taller spear.  Kemloc felt for his knife in case things got hot; but not too obviously: he was not going to start a fight he would surely lose.

            “Tawel, cyllod!” grunted the tall man and his dog came grumbling to his heels.   He glared menacingly at Kemloc.   “Curweyn da?   Pwell n’aid na tor?   Dhrub memech y gach.”   Kemloc could recognise a few words: Who are you?   What are you doing here?   You’re on my land.   But the accent was thick, the dialect strange.

            Yes, the man was foreign, very foreign, and very unfriendly, with his tall, heavy frame, reddish hair and moustache and his broad, sneering face.   He was not one of his mother’s tribe, the Ancalites, nor of the Durotriges nor the Cassi.   Perhaps he was one of those invaders he had heard about from across the southern sea.  

            “Gwyon Kemloc,   My name is Kemloc.   I have come from the land of the Dumnoniau.   You understand me?   I have come in friendship – on a visit to the Rig – the king.”

            Kemloc stopped.   The man’s face had clouded over.   Perhaps he had said too much.   Who was this man, anyway?   He could not be local – yet hadn’t he claimed that this was his land?  

            “Cwyfail.” Kemloc declared.   “A friend.”

            “Cwyfail?!”   The man’s face creased into a scornful grin.   “Pwy byll Cwyfail?   Whose friend?   Friend to the Rig?”

            “The Rig is my… ” No, better be discreet.   “Yes, the Rig is my friend.”

            The man laughed.   “The Rig of the Ancalites needs every friend he can find.    Even a scrawny whelp like you.   Why are you come now?   Are you here for Samhain?”

            “I hear that Samhain at Ennadun is a very special time,” said Kemloc by way of reply.

            The red moustache broadened.   “It will be!   By Esus it will be!”   Something made his nasty dog bark at Cyflym, who snorted in alarm.

 “How old are you, Kemloc?”

“Old enough to look after myself,” said Kemloc meaningfully.  

“Really?   I wonder.   And I wonder why you really are here.   I can see and hear that you have come far, and I think you have a mission.”   He fixed beady eyes on Kemloc.   “And I think you will tell me now, little worm.”

Kemloc tried to keep his cool.   “I’ll tell you nothing.   Now I and my horse will leave you and your dog and your manners and your menace.   The Rig will be interested to know how I was treated on my journey.”

He took Cyflym by the bridle and went up the slope back to the track trying to look unhurried and unconcerned.

“Then go, Kemloc – and tell your friend, the Rig, that the gods have abandoned Ennadun.   You will be a good bringer of bad news”

An angry heat rose to Kemloc’s head.   “Curse you, whoever you are!   I may not yet have the strength of a man, but I have the muscles of an army.   For know this: I am the Rig’s grandson!”

And with that he mounted, shaking, and rode on towards the fields and chalk slopes on the way to Ennadun. Behind him he heard fragments of threats and insults, and he was ashamed at his own fear. What a coward! The wide-faced bully had not laid a finger on him and yet he was trembling throughout his body. Why was he so unnerved and unmanned? Who was that man? Why was he so hostile? And what did he mean by saying the gods have abandoned Ennadun?

Yet as they made their way along a comfortably trodden track between ploughed fields which became ever busier as he neared the fort, the knot in his stomach eased; the rising sun was burning through the mist and he recovered his usual cheer. He passed pigs rooting happily in the stubble, peasants fussing up and down the long fields with hoes and spades – perhaps in preparation for winter sowing. – while the air was filled with the constant bleating of herded sheep. Tomorrow was Samhain! and he felt a thrill of excitement at the thought of the festival. In his village it was a time of feasting and festivity with contests and story-telling, and young men would put on animal masks and jump out from the darkness. But at Ennadun, so his mother said, it was a wild and thrilling and crazy time with all manner of ghostly goings-on. Children would carry turnips hollowed and carved and with candles inside to look like spirit faces; but then (and she swore this was true) they would see glowing faces looking on from the woods – and these no one was holding, no human hand had made.                                                                                                        Well that was his mother’s story – she had a rich imagination. But he had no doubt that at a big place such as Ennadun Samhain would be high fun. And with such thoughts his worries lifted with the autumn mist. There was certainly excitement in the air. People looked at him with a mixture of curiosity, friendliness and suspicion, and he smiled awkwardly back. Some greeted him with waves and calls, which he returned, but he did not get too close: he had no wish to get involved in endless questions of peasants only too eager to break from their work; and, while he knew something of the Ancalitic tongue form his mother, he would struggle to understand the mangled dialect of the labouring folk. No – no idle talk now: he was nearly there, and he wanted to see his grandfather before noon, before the fort was swept up in the fever of Samhain. And now he was actually outside the great fort of Ennadun.                                                                                                                                     “Yu mwa be clwyd?” he called up to a figure atop the steep earth rampart. “Where is the gate?” The man’s reply was inaudible, but his gestures directed Kemloc around the south of the fort. As he rounded the fort he saw a track leading from the east, busy with carts and animals; and then he came to the gateway and his heart beat faster. As he and Cyflym joined the traffic and walked respectfully between a pair of huge wooden gates a voice from behind made them both start.                                                                                

“Gyll pen!” Of course. He should dismount before entering the fort. Only a crisis brings a mounted man through a gateway. How impolite to forget!                He got down from Cyflym with a reassuring pat as a youth not much older than himself and carrying a spear strode towards him.

“Pwyll to dry?  Who are you?”

“Gwain Kemloc.”

The youth seemed impressed and pleased. “Kemloc?! Kemloc map Orthwin?”

Kemloc nodded, and noticed that others were paying him attention. “Kemloc map Orthwin map Tredach,” he affirmed, enjoying the effect. “And on my mother’s side …”

“Yes,” said another youth. “We know you are of our tribe.  Curwan, Kemloc!” And he called up to his fellows on the rampart. “Andratu Kemloc Dumnonuth!” With smiles and cheers Kemloc and Cyflym were escorted through the convoluted ramparts and the inner gateway with its wooden bridge – and on into the great fort of Ennadun, the ancestral home of his mother’s family, the fort that had stood impregnable for generations; and they made their way up a wide chalk path as a crowd gathered and lined his way and studied him with quiet expectation. A warm feeling of embarrassment spread from the back of his neck as he walked solemnly up the slope towards a group of buildings, and he wondered if Cyflym felt something of the same. He realised that his arrival was as significant to the folk of the fort as it was exciting for him. And there before him were the sacred shrines of the gods of Ennadun, the gods of the Ancalites, his mother’s gods: three sturdy rectangular buildings of oak, decorated on the roof beams with bronze faces and horse designs nailed into the wood. Someone took Cyflym’s bridle from him and he was led on to the central shrine; when he was only a few yards from its door a hooded figure appeared from nowhere and glided towards him.

Now what?

What was expected of him? Was this priest about to address him? Or was he meant to introduce himself? The man stood like some shapeless, faceless figure from the spirit world, and Kemloc wished someone would speak.

“Kemloc! Kemloc – Gwydna’s son! Kullaigh min! It’s good to see you at last!”

A tall, richly dressed man in his thirties strode out from the crowd.  He wore a thin gold torc and his face was tattoed with blue spirals; his eyes looked familiar.

“Yes, I’m glad to see you! You will have heard of me: Radnor, your mother’s brother.” He hugged Kemloc warmly.

“Uncle Radnor!” Kemloc gasped and laughed. So, Uncle: you exist!  I thought mother made you up. You were forever going to visit us, and I would practise my spear throw to impress you. But you never came.”

“I’m sorry, Kemloc. Dumnonia is a long way.” Underneath a droopy moustache that was streaked with early white hairs Radnor smiled wryly. He seemed kindly but sad. “Perhaps I shall visit soon. Perhaps soon I shall have to. But now you must make the Visitor’s Prayer.” And Uncle Radnor gestured to the mysterious priest. “And then I shall take you to your grandfather.”

Kemloc briefly wondered why the Rig had not come to meet him as the priest took him by the arm towards the building to the right. He hoped he would not have to go into the dark interior with the priest, and felt relieved when they stopped at the door. Beside the door was a waist-high stone panel carved with curious figures. The priest went inside, leaving Kemloc smiling awkwardly at the onlookers. Where had Radnor gone? Then the priest emerged, holding a wand which he handed to Kemloc with a solemn look. The wand was entwined with mistletoe and had a copper tip in the shape of a bird’s head. To show willing Kemloc began a prayer that they would recite in his village whenever a stranger arrived.

“Okran ti bel teragh cwm!  Dhva ti gor dahl errya …”

“No,” Said the priest dismissively. “That is not our prayer. Listen as I say the prayer of this tribe, the prayer for new arrivals and beginnings, and repeat each verse.  Hold high the wand as you speak.”

Kemloc felt a hundred pairs of eyes fixed on his face.

“Kra ta vohl Bherasi muir meeni tra meeni gwal …” began the priest.

“Great Taranis!” thought Kemloc. “How am I to remember that? I don’t even know what it means.”

“Purh tri gwllr landr yon ser mwill pumee drafur …”

As the priest finished each long verse Kemloc desperately muttered whatever syllables he could remember so quickly and vaguely that, as he hoped, the priest would not notice any mistake. What sort of memory did it take to be a correct and holy visitor, he wondered.

“The prayer is finished,” the priest declared finally, and took back the wand. A murmur of approval rumbled around the crowd.

“What language was that?” asked Kemloc.

“It is the oldest of languages,” replied the priest haughtily. “Raven-speech, from the times when men spoke the same language as the birds and the beasts.”  He then slipped into the darkness of the temple. Kemloc was puzzled. His mother had said nothing about Raven-speech prayers – although she had told him as much as there was to know about life at Ennadun.  Perhaps this priest had made it up to sound impressive.  In his young opinion priests – at least the new Druid kind – could be so self-important and unreal. This man was no doubt a stranger, a foreign priest, who had insinuated himself into the tribe’s favour with fancy charms and spells and hoods and long, mysterious faces.

Still he had done what was expected. It was surely time to see his grandfather. Now where was his uncle? And where had they taken Cyflym?

*                  *                   *

 "I hope the gods smiled on your prayer," said Uncle Radnor as he led Kemloc on a tour of the fort.

Well if they did smile it was because I made such a mess of it.  Who was that priest anyway?"

"Oh ... he came here not long ago from ... Actually I don't know where he came from.  But he's close to the gods."

“I should hope that the gods would choose better friends.”   No, he should not have said that.   Who was he, fifteen years old, in the first hour of his visit, to speak ill of their priest in front of the king’s son?   They came up onto the rampart on the north side, and looked down to where sheep were being corralled into pens.   Kemloc was not especially squeamish about the bloodiness of Samhain – but something about the anxious jostling of the sheep unsettled him.  

Radnor seemed to read his thoughts.   “Our tribe is like these sheep – hemmed into the pen with the butcher’s knife glinting above us.   We need the help of any priest and any god that will take our side.   And we need your help, Kemloc , and the help of the Dumnoniau.   The Rig will explain.”

“But why then …?”   Kemloc did not want to sound impertinent but he was puzzled.   “ Why has my grandfather not …?”

“Not yet welcomed you?”   Radnor frowned gravely.   “The Rig has been asleep.   He sleeps as much as he can at present, for he is ill.   Very ill.   Indeed I am never sure if each new morning will find him alive.”

They now walked more purposefully back to the middle of the fort, picking their way through the excited hubbub around them as adults barked commands and children shrieked and tumbled between the round houses.   An old woman had put her leg through the cover of a grain-pit, and there was much laughter as they tried to get her out.

“Next time you stay there, grandma,” a young man joked; “You can scare the mice away - and we’ll take you out next Spring to put you on the fields.”  

Well! thought Kemloc: you wouldn’t get away with ribbing your elders like that in Dumnonia.   And then a stray, frightened goat was running straight at them, pursued by a hollering boy.   There was blood on the fleece and it had clearly good reason to be running away.   Did the yelling boy imagine that the goat would say to itself: “Of course, that’s why the lad is shouting!   I ought to go back to where all that knife-work is going on.   Don’t want to spoil the party: after all, Samhain comes but once a year!”

The billy goat gave the boy the slip around a large granary.   Radnor noticed Kemloc smile.    “You are lucky to be young, nephew, and find humour in this troubled world,” he declared solemnly.   “Now here we are: the house of the Rig.”

They stood before the grand portal of the largest of the houses.   The door-posts were made of huge oak trunks and a niche in both posts held a polished creamy-white skull – trophies from some heroic battle – and Kemloc made a quick wish that it would be a long time before his own skull grinned stupidly from some chieftain’s doorpost.

It was dark inside the Rig’s house.   As his eyes slowly adjusted he made out in the gloom a matronly woman moving softly and busily around a mattress on which lay the scarcely visible and barely living figure.   This was the Rig; this was Treclan, his mother’s father.

There was silence and a smell of musty illness.   Radnor stood by, saying nothing.   Was the Rig awake – or alive?   At home it was not polite to address an elder first; and he waited awkwardly.   At last a frail voice from the coloured blankets broke the silence.

“Cwai, Kemloc map Tredach map Cerwyn op Treclan!   Welcome, my grandson!   I am happy that you have come.   How fares your mother?”

“Greetings, Grandfather!   I am pleased to say that my mother is well and sends you her love and honour.”   He noticed through the dark that there was something unearthly about the Rig’s face: it was like a mask with bluish stains.

“And how are things with the Dumnoniau?” quavered the invalid.

“All is well,” said Kemloc, trying to conjure up some cheer in the dismal dwelling.   “We have had a good harvest and the hunting up on the moors has been excellent – everyone says so.   I stuck my first boar,” he added with pride. And he thought sadly that the wraith beneath the blankets had himself once been a vigorous youth, exulting in his own exploits with the spear and the sling.

“Grandson Kemloc: time is short – both for me and for the tribe – so hear me quickly and straight.”   The voice seemed to gather strength and urgency.   When we heard that you were coming to visit us we were delighted - delighted that we should see the son of my daughter Cerwyn; joyous that our stock had taken root in the West.   And a new hope came to my mind and to the future of the Ancalites…”   He coughed weakly, and the woman came with a cup of some drink and a cloth to wipe his brow.   “You see we are in trouble.   And when one is in trouble one looks to one’s family…”

“What trouble, Grandfather?”

“I ask you, because you are my kin - and through you I ask the Dumnoniau for help.   We need warriors: good, well armed warriors … fifty, maybe one hundred.   I ask you to return west – I know the journey is long, I know how weary you surely are now.   Stay and enjoy Samhain with us; then depart with dawn.   The attack will surely come soon.   I know they are gathering not far to the east, I know they scout and spy all around Ennadun …”

This was sudden and bemusing talk.   Was the old man delirious?    No: Radnor’s grim expression confirmed that it was all true and grave.  

“Who will attack you, Grandfather?   I thought that the tribes here lived in peace and had done so for many years.”

“The people from across the South Sea.   They are sometimes called …” and he spluttered as if with hatred, “ Belgae.”.   One of the tribes -   the Atrebates – is moving towards us.   And ahead come small groups, well armed and fierce and arrogant; and they demand land and if we refuse they talk of hosts of countless warriors who will soon come and destroy everything we have.”

“I think that I may have met one of these Belgic forerunners, to the west of the fort.   Definitely foreign.   And rude.”

Radnor showed interest.   “Tall, red-haired with a scar above his left eyebrow…?”

“Yes.   Who was it?”

“Bredax – a nasty type.   He came in the summer, asking for a plot of land for his family...”

“We said no,” continued the Rig.   “All the land here is spoken for – from the chalk downs to the woodland.   There is no spare land for another tribe …”

“But he stayed, of course,” said Radnor.   “Skulking around the woods like a prowling dog, marking us out.   He has not brought any family, but he has been joined by some other Belgic thugs.   We know their game: they are preparing …”   Radnor broke off, looking searchingly into the distance.

“Preparing …?”  

Kemloc was beginning to sense that with the Rig’s illness the tribe had become dangerously passive.   “But surely you could go out this very day before dark and the fires of Samhain and drive him and his gang far from Ethandun?”

Radnor shook his head.   “No, Kemloc,” he sighed, “I admire your fighting spirit – but you see we have done a deal.   We have let him and his friends stay for the winter …”

“Why?”

“…on condition that no more warriors come from the East to trouble our land.”

This sounded foolish and weak to Kemloc. “But why should they keep their word …?”  What had happened to his grandfather’s tribe?!

“And also …” added the Rig.   “Also … Well, Kemloc, you are young: you may not understand … But the god Belenus himself has declared that we should allow Belgic settlers a place in our territory.”  

Kemloc was growing more impatient and outspoken.   “But how …?   How do we know what Belenus or Taranis or Lug or … whoever … thinks about our earthly quarrels?”

“Careful how you speak, young man!” said the Rig sternly.   “We have a new priest – a Druid – who has expounded to us many secrets of the other world.   Secrets of which we had been ignorant.”

That priest! Surely a charlatan, with his Raven-speech and his oak wand and mummery.   But of course he couldn’t say that to his ailing grandfather or his solemn uncle.

“So, Kemloc,” resumed the Rig, “we have Belgae here – and that was the will of the gods.   But now more – many more   (for they have broken their word) are infiltrating our domain.   And if there is to be a fight – and I feel sure there will be – then of course the gods will allow us to defend ourselves.   But we are short of men – and I am not the only one to be brought low by disease.   We therefore need you to fetch young warriors from amongst the Dumnoniau to help defend Ennadun.   In return we shall stall the Belgic advance across our island; and we pledge help to the Dumnoniau if they are in need.”

This was some mission for a fifteen-year-old boy who had just wanted to pay a visit to his grandfather!   High time all these gods mad up their minds and did something useful!

“Will you do this for us, Kemloc?”

“Of course, Grandfather.   Though I am but fifteen summers I shall do my best to persuade the best of my people; and my mother will add her voice to mine.   And I am sure there are many brave and eager young warriors who will relish the chance to win battle honours and comradeship in the land of the Ancalites.”

At this stout declaration the Rig seemed pleased, but also sad – even despairing.   “Let us hope it is not too late, noble grandson.”   Then Radnor said he had to go and oversee preparations at the great bonfire – the centrepiece of Samhain.   “Stay with the Rig awhile, Kemloc.   Come and find me shortly.”   And Kemloc stayed and talked of family history and of his grandmother who was now on the other side, and of the hunting dogs in Dumnonia and of his mother and his brothers and sisters.   Sometimes the Rig would fall into sudden silence as if asleep; and the flame-light from the hearth-fire would play around the room like a ghost; but then a quiet question would rekindle the talk.   Eventually – and Kemloc felt as if he himself had drifted into a sleep – he realised that the silence was lasting. The fire was dying into feeble embers and he could no longer see the Rig in the murky house.   From the shadows the old woman said: “Go now, Kemloc: find your uncle and enjoy Samhain.   He sleeps now.”   She drew open the door-hanging and he left the house, emerging somewhat uneasily into the grey-blue foggy twilight and the gathering excitement outside.

Samhain was upon them: the night when summer passes into winter, when the world of the living shares briefly a frontier with the world of the dead.   His grandfather already had one foot in the Otherworld, thought Kemloc – already stepping across the border.   Perhaps indeed it had been a ghost who had been talking to him in the house; a ghost who had asked him to help the tribe…

But the surge of excited folk – some in masks, some holding torches, some singing wild songs – put such thoughts out of his head as he joined an impromptu procession to the bonfire.   And just as his mother had described there were children holding glowing ghoulish faces made from hollowed-out turnips lit from the inside with flickering candles.   Haunting big glowing eyes and evil jagged teeth: fantastical!   No wonder some Ennadun folk claimed to see ghostly apparitions at Samhain.

A hooded figure scuttled past.   It was the mysterious priest, Kemloc felt sure. He called out a greeting but the figure strode on with its own purpose.   Kemloc watched him curiously as he glided down the road to the gate.   Well perhaps the god of the gate needed a sacrifice or two.   But then the great bonfire at the top of the hill would surely also need some fancy Raven-speech …  

“Burat tal byri!” someone said.   “They are about to light the fire!”   So Kemloc pressed on and reached the throng forming a circle around the bonfire near the West Tower.   The bonfire was perhaps six yards high, a confusion of logs, branches, leaves and dry grass, and speckled with little effigies of the enemies of the tribe.  Dangerous to have such a large fire inside, thought Kemloc.   Still, they must know what they are doing.    And there was Uncle Radnor.

“You are come just in time: I am about to cast the brand of Belenus into the fire,” he said with some pride.   “Of course it is normally the Rig who performs this function, but today – as his only surviving son – it is my duty …”   Folk were gathering around in anticipation, looking from Radnor to Kemloc, exchanging low murmurs.   “Was the Rig … Did you leave him asleep?”

“Yes,” said Kemloc.   “Though I think he is on the edge of the Otherworld.”   Then he thought suddenly of Cyflym.   “Uncle: where is my horse?”

“Your horse?   Oh, he will have been taken to a paddock not far from the gate.   With the other mounts.   It is a frightening time for horses.”

“Yes – but I expect he will be anxious without me in a strange place.   Oh, and Radnor …? About that priest…”

But his uncle’s attention was now on the solemn office of fire-lighting.   Some acolyte   handed him a long, lit torch, smoking with pitch; and with a cry of “Gwillem na Samhainu!” Radnor hurled it into the pile.   Kemloc expected the whole bonfire quickly to kindle and flare; but the brand must have fallen into damp grass.   It spluttered, tried its best to spread its flame, but then died with a gasp of smoke.

Radnor looked shaken.   This was a clear and ill omen.   He tried to cover up his disappointment and asked for another brand; but before one could be prepared a tall figure pushed through the crowd towards him.

“Yes …?”

“Your father the Rig …”

But the messenger was interrupted by alarmed cries.   “Tana!   Tana!”   Fire!   Fire!

                        *                       *                       *

Days, months and years pass by in orderly, predictable progression. And then the gods shake up the world and everything happens in a confused fit.   As the sacred bonfire had failed to ignite, news of an unwanted fire at the other side of the fort coincided with report of the death of the Rig.    The life of the Rig, the tribe, the fire that should be and the fire that was: were they all connected?   .All now was alarm and confusion, movement and yelling.   Kemloc followed Radnor, who was running to find a better vantage to see what was happening.  

“It is the gate,” said Radnor.   “Come, Kemloc – fast!”

As they pushed through the throng Kemloc became aware of the taste of smoke in the air, and then they could see flames from the palisade and the gateway.   Some foolish youngsters must have been careless with their torches.   But then he realised that there was fighting: earnest, hand-to-hand fighting.   And Kemloc came face to face with the head of a bull.

“Out of my way!   Stop fooling around!” snapped Kemloc, trying to sound confident, but his voice was unsteady.   And the bull-headed figure was holding a knife.   Where was Radnor now?   He looked around desperately among the swirl of figures and the gleam of fire.   In his fifteen years Kemloc had already known danger and fear – but this was the worst; and for a moment he was paralysed. Then action: a high running kick – which caught the bull-head in the chest.   But Kemloc lost his balance, tottered and fell; the bull-head was coming at him with knife held forward. The end? Then Kemloc heard a scream – and with the scream the bull-head was suddenly jerked back, the mask twisted, and his assailant fell like a tree to the ground.   Behind stood Radnor – still holding one of the horns of the mask which he had used so lethally.    

“On!” said Radnor.   Through the gate and out!”  And they ran to the blaze of the inner gateway.   There was fire and shrieks and turmoil and fighting.   One of the inner gates had been torn down; the other was burning.

“You have a knife, surely?” gasped Radnor.   “We must fight our way out now.”

Kemloc did have a knife   – but it was no fighting knife.   He took it from its leather holder on his belt.  

“Seem brave,” said Radnor. “Look as if you know what you are doing.   And keep moving!   Through the gate, beyond the copse to the left where the horses are.   Go!”

Kemloc now felt deep respect for his uncle.   In the Rig’s house he had been so gloomy and lifeless; but now he was brave and decisive.

“Move, Kemloc – or you’ll never move again!   Come on: I’ll come with you till you’re outside.”

They ran zigzag to the gateway and through the winding channel between the ramparts and the hornwork.   There was battle behind them now; the invaders had breeched the gates and occupied the ramparts, and seemed more concerned with what was happening inside the fort; and perhaps there were too few of them to block the gateway.   Radnor knocked two men out of the way, but otherwise they successfully rounded the ramparts; and then amid the smoke and the dark just as they were clearing the outer gateway they ran straight into a group of the enemy standing guard.   Among them was that red-headed man he had met outside the fort, with his huge spear firmly planted on the ground.    Kemloc nudged Radnor.

“Yes,” murmured Radnor.   “Bredax.”

Perhaps they could still slip past without trouble.    But it was almost as if Kemloc had wanted to be seen, as if he wanted to prove himself.   And Bredax then spotted Kemloc.   He shouted something incomprehensible and aggressive at them, and lowered his spear towards them.   Without a word, and as if with a shared family reflex uncle and nephew charged straight at the enemy band.   Kemloc made for Bredax, swerving and dodging nimbly, taking the initiative so that it was too late for Bredax to hurl his spear, forcing him to jab defensively like a man scared by a savage dog.   Kemloc was dimly aware that Radnor was busy in some sword-slashing way around the rest of the gang, and that there were gasps and cries and screams.

And he eyed Bredax – Bredax who was levelling two-handedly his spear, looking for a chance to fell him; and Bredax quickly glanced behind him as Radnor was doing his work – and in that instant Kemloc, small and agile,, slipped past the spear and stuck his knife into Bredax’s leg.   Bredax yelped and staggered backwards with an astonished expression.   Radnor let out a wild battle cry, Kemloc echoed it and lunged again at Bredax who stumbled away towards the rampart. He was badly hurt and had lost his nerve.   His companions, wounded and bewildered, also fell back.    Had he and Radnor really taken on those thugs and won?  

“No, Kemloc, don’t even think of it!” growled Radnor.   He could tell that Kemloc’s hackles were up, that he wanted to go after Bredax and finish him off.   “Just go!”

And they sprinted with all the energy that excitement and fear can give.   Beyond a line of tall trees, stark against the moonlight, they came to the horses, which were whinnying and stamping with alarm.   As if by instinct Kemloc came nearly straight to Cyflym – Cyflym, with the white patch above his eyes and clearly pleased to see his young master.  

“”Praise be the Full Moon of Samhain, the Moon of Cernunnos!”   whispered Kemloc, “Or I would not have found you in the gloom, Cyflym.”   And he put his arms around the snorting horse. They were both ready to go.   In the distance were shouts and cries and screams.

“What now, Uncle?   Will you take a horse and come with us?”

“No, Kemloc .   You must go - as the Rig asked you.   I cannot leave. ”

“But, Uncle … you cannot stay here!    All is lost for Ennadun, surely?   The Rig is dead, the fort is in flames … We’ve seen scores of Belgae swarm around your homes… ”   And they both looked towards the fort, glowing and crackling beneath the Moon, an unearthly Samhain nightmare.   “Come to Dumnonia, Radnor: there is safety in the West.”

Radnor smiled sadly.   “I have family not far from the fort.   And what’s more: with the death of your grandfather the tribe needs a leader.   Perhaps they shall choose me as Rig.   I shall ask the Druid what he thinks …”

“The Druid is a fraud – and you know it!” Kemloc spat on the ground.   “An impostor, a Belgic spy…!”

Radnor was taken aback by this expostulation.   “Actually I didn’t mean that … the new priest … But come, let us deal with the urgent.   It is time for you to fly with your horse and your youth and the wings of Lugus … and perhaps to come back soon with strong help.   Enough now.    Farewell, Kemloc!   I don’t think you will forget your visit to Ennadun.”

With that Radnor slipped away, back to Ennadun and its fiery Samhain, back to the Ancalites and their distress.    Yes, Radnor had to stay; he, Kemloc had to go.   This is what the gods wished, perhaps.   And if the gods ordained that the Belgic Atrebates were to take Ennadun and subjugate or exterminate the Ancalites – if that was really what the gods wanted – then he and his family would keep something of the Ancalitic ways and blood alive in the West.

He would tell his mother of this night, for sure he would – though her eyes would grow round and red with horror and sadness.   And then he would come back, for sure he would, with as many men of the Dumnoniau as he could muster.

“But really, Cyflym …” he sighed, as they cantered along the track to the west with the Moon of Samhain dropping in front of them.   “I think this is the end of Ennadun.”   Deep in the woods an owl hooted with a desolate tone, as if in confirmation.   “I shall tell the story to the bards at home; and they will make a great poem so that this night at Ennadun is remembered; and so Radnor and my grandfather and the Ancalites will be saved from oblivion.”   And Cyflym shook his head.

Ennadun is Danebury hill-fort in Hampshire.   [Danebury has nothing to do with burying Danes: it comes from words meaning’ fortified hill’.]   The East Gate at Danebury was burned down in about 100 B.C.   During the First Century B.C tribes from the Continent (often called Belgae) moved into south-east Britain.   One of those tribes was the Atrebates.   Caesar said of the Belgae on the Continent that they were a mixture of German and Gaul and were especially warlike. But until the Romans made contact with Britain our island has no history – only archaeology.    No one knows who attacked Danebury and why.   No history or poem or folk memory survives – even if someone like Kemloc had asked the bards to compose a poem.   If only they had been able to write …