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.