“This is the axe Camaforn,” the father said, formally, handing it to one of the winners. “Bear it with pride.”
“I bear it with pride, in the name of the All Father,” the young man said, bowing.
“Your tree is the pine, the evergreen, the fragrant boughed,” Father Kulcyanov said. “Bring three logs, of the size of a man’s thighs, to the tun by morning, that the blessing of the Father of All may be upon us.”
“I shall in the name of my Family,” the Keldara said, nodding and turning away.
The ritual, and there was no question that it was a ritual, continued through the other two groups. Oleg got the second to the largest axe, leaving the monster to Mike. He wasn’t sure he could swing it for any time at all, much less cut down three trees “of the width of a man’s thigh.” His thigh? Vil’s? Father Kulcyanov’s? He guessed, however, that questions were not encouraged at this point.
“This is the axe Culcanar,” Father Kulcyanov said, holding out the axe across outstretched hands. “Bear it with pride.”
“I bear it with pride in the name of the All Father,” Mike said. He wasn’t particularly religious, but he’d come to the firm conclusion that they weren’t talking about a Christian god.
“Your tree is the poplar, the tree of spring, the tree that burns upon our hearth, the quick lifed,” the Father continued. “Bring three logs, of the size of a man’s thighs, to the tun by morning, that the blessing of the Father of All may be upon us.”
“I shall in the name of the Keldara,” Mike said, formally. He’d thought about what he should swear by as he watched the ritual, and decided that, as the Kildar, he could only support the whole group. He’d thought about doing it in the name of the SEALs, but if Adams heard he’d never give him a moment’s peace.
Father Kulcyanov nodded in approval, so apparently he’d chosen right.
Mike gathered his group up and headed down to the stream. The nearest serious stand of poplar was about a kilometer and a half away. The night was a tad cold for how he’d dressed, but he figured he’d be warming up in a bit.
The axe was not nearly as heavy as it looked; the head was actually fairly thin. But it didn’t look like an axe for cutting trees, it looked like an axe for lopping off heads. If it was actually a battle-axe, the light weight made sense. You’d have to swing it for a long time in a fight; having a super heavy axe would make you wear out faster than your opponent.
The moon was past halfway and there was enough light to examine the axe, to a degree. It looked, hell it felt, old. It might have been reworked, but it had probably been reworked over centuries. And the original design appeared to be intact, as if each craftsman that had worked on it had been careful not to change a line. The whole festival was making him furiously curious about the origins of the Keldara.
“Okay, guys,” he said to the group as they approached the stand of poplar, “I’m new here and I haven’t been fully briefed. Hell, I’ve never chopped a tree down of any size. What the hell am I doing?”
There were chuckles from the mostly faceless group in the darkness, but one stepped up next to him and pointed at the poplars.
“There is one that is of a size,” the Keldara said, stepping forward. “The limbs will make it heavy to the north, yes? It has grown out that way for light. Cut here,” he continued, pointing to a spot on the side where there was a barely visible discoloration. “Cut into it about halfway. Then cut on the other side. When you start to hear it creak, drop the axe and run like hell.”
“This is a special axe,” Mike pointed out, spitting on his hands in preparation. “Should I really drop it?”
“Culcanar will understand,” the Keldara said, cryptically.
Mike stepped up to the tree and started cutting as the young men in the group spread out through the trees, picking up fallen limbs.
Mike considered the ritual as he cut. The poplars along the stream were obviously kept there as erosion control and a ready source of firewood. They had been thinned out from time to time, there were stumps visible, but they’d been treated with care. He wondered how much the ritual had to do with care of the trees and how much to do with spring planting. Even the gathering of the wood from around them was a form of care, since it reduced the possibility of a wild fire. And cutting out certain trees, each of the cutters had been given a different wood to gather, meant that the clearing was widespread.
The entire festival had a very old feel to it. There were touches of Norse, touches of Celtic, but very little that he recognized from Georgian or Russian. “All Father,” for example, was a name for Odin, the Norse father of the gods. But certain names, the name of the axe for example, Culcanar, sounded more Celtic. And very unchanged. There was no “ov” or “ich” to it. Culculane was a Celtic warrior myth. He seemed to recall it meant “Dog of Culan.” So the axe’s name, if it was from Celtic, would be something like “Dog of Canar.” But the Keldara had referred to it in first person. That might refer to the axe or the original owner. He simply had to get to the bottom of “the mysteries.” It was like an itch he couldn’t scratch.
Poplar was a soft wood, but he could feel himself wearing out by the time he’d cut halfway through the tree. And he had two more to go. He felt sorry for Oleg, who had gotten oak, which was much harder. Presumably, someone was cutting maple which was hard as rock. That person was in for a hell of a night.
He’d gotten seriously warmed up on the first half, but he didn’t stop as he moved to the other side of the tree. He was on a time limit and the moon was well up. He started in on the other side, getting into the rhythm again, one cut down, one up, chopping out a wedge in the side of the tree. But before he’d really gotten in the zone he heard a creaking sound and, taking the advice of the Keldara, he dropped the axe and ran like hell.
The tree seemed to be puzzled for a moment, swaying slightly as all the Keldara backed away hurriedly. Then it bent over and crashed to the ground with a slight twist, easily missing everyone.
“Do I top it now, or do that later?” Mike asked.
“Now,” the same Keldara answered. “If you will, Kildar.”
“Trim it up?” Mike asked, picking the axe back up and walking to the end. “Cut it in half or what?”
“Just top it, Kildar,” another Keldara said. “We can carry it, topped, to the tun. And others will drag the top up. Later it can be cut in half.”
Mike chopped the top off, leaving a log that was about twenty-five feet long. As big around as it was and filled with sap, it was going to be a fun time carrying it.
“Next tree, if you will,” was all he said.
He was well into the first cut when he heard a group approaching and looked up. From the shapes in the moonlight, he saw that the girls had arrived with food and beer. What he really wanted was some water and the river was right there. But he knew better than to drink unfiltered river water; damned gyardia cysts were everywhere and caused a rather raging case of Montezuma’s Revenge.
“Kildar,” one of the women said, walking over to him. “The cutting is going well.”
“I guess,” Mike replied, taking the beer bottle that she handed him and flexing his hands.
“I have brought you gloves,” the woman continued.
“Thank you,” Mike said, taking them from her and tucking them in his belt. “Is it Irina?”
“Yes, Kildar,” the girl replied, smiling.
“Sorry, didn’t recognize you at first,” the former SEAL said. “How’s the scar?”