ALPHA
CHAPTER 1
THE BOY
THE ANCIENT WORLD, 58 B.C.
It was the sixth day of the moon. A ring of men stood solemn, the crisp air of approaching autumn rippling their pale robes. A fire roared in the middle of their circle, flames licking the starless sky. The blaze illuminated the figure of an old man who stood prominently amongst them, an elaborate circlet of antlers on his head. His face, weathered by age and the wisdom it brings, arched upwards towards the brilliant half moon, his eyes pressed firmly in concentration, his mouth moving in silent prayer. Against the surrounding woods, shadows danced as if enchanted by sorcery.
Beyond the group of men stood two white bulls bound to an altar made of crude stone. They were unusually massive, broad muscles stretching their taut skin, enormous brown horns reaching up out of their skulls towards the heavens. Long, flat stones lay at their feet.
The high priest turned to greet his cloaked tribesmen, continuing his invocation aloud. They echoed his words as the fire grew brighter, throwing ghostly shadows across their bodies. Their chants grew louder and more feverish as a solitary man approached from the forest. His robe was stained deep red, a circlet of tusks barbing at his forehead. He approached the circle, slowly unsheathing a miniature gold sickle from his waist. He lifted it high and brought it down fast, severing a single branch of mistletoe that had been woven around the branches of an ancient oak. Another cloaked man lunged forward to catch the fallen plant, the dark green sprig falling gracefully onto the blanched cloth he held taut in his hands. The man lifted the retrieved branch to the skies and with a sudden howl, the men released their knives.
The bulls roared and twisted in a blur of crimson. The men moved quickly, slaughtering with such inhibited ferocity that the bulls’ cries ceased within moments. Slabs of their flesh materialized on the stones laid out before the altar.
Throughout all of this, he was silent.
His youthful body was concealed easily behind the brush, a child’s eyes absorbing the ritual before him, watching as the once mighty beasts were reduced to empty bones landing in the dust. Nothing remained of their majesty, save for the steaming red meat that soured the autumnal air.
He shivered in the wind, the plain cloth he wore useless against it. He was supposed to be resting under heavy furs near a dying fire, but he had left his dwelling in secret. He imagined his mother’s disapproving look upon the discovery of her missing son, who had crept away once again to covertly behold their sacred rituals. As much as it displeased her, she had long accepted his powerlessness when it came to the call of the gods, understanding the rites of their people were too enticing for him to forbear.
The boy’s father was one of the Druid Elders, a title that filled his son with pride. He yearned to follow the path of his father, the shamanic bloodline that ran through his family very much alive in his veins. As customary, he stayed with his mother, far removed from the High Priest who dwelled with his brethren deep in the northern woods. His tender age forbade him from joining his father to begin his apprenticeship, but the sacrificial violence that followed each ceremony proved far too intriguing for him to ignore. So, the perpetual voyeur, he remained.
He had watched the bulls slaughtered as part of Lughnasadh the year before, the ritual initiating the harvest season and the many autumnal celebrations to follow, honoring their god, Lugh. He had also witnessed a wickerwork constructed into the shape of a man, which his people used to imprison those who threatened their tribe. When the prison reached capacity, the wicker man was set ablaze, serving as an offering to the Tuatha De Danann, the gods who protected the Celtic people in their many territories from harm. Great festivity ensued as it burned, resonances of merriment eclipsing the captives’ agonizing screams.
Now, the tribal men began to roast the tender meat over their great fire in similar joviality, their laughter echoing throughout the forest. They seated themselves along the flat stones, feasting on the charred bull mutton as they passed a jug of spiced wine between them. The woods were alive with their celebration.
The boy withdrew from his hiding place, for there was nothing left for him to see. After he was convinced that his movement went unnoticed, he broke into a sprint, his small but sinewy legs easily catching speed. From the distance, his slumbering village appeared, the smoke from dying fires drifting into the air. Its women and children had long retired, resting up for the continued Lughnasadh festivities that would resume at daybreak.
He crept into the dwelling where his mother slept, his hut welcoming him with warmth and the aroma of herbs drying near the hearth. His place on their shared bed, a heap of cloth and furs, remained undisturbed in the corner. He slipped under the coverings, keeping a careful eye on the steady rise and fall of his mother’s turned back.
“You snuck out to watch your father again, sweet babe?” her murmur startled him.
He bit his lip, awaiting reprimand.
She turned sleepily to face him, a gentle smile painted across her face. She reached her hand up to stroke his long, fair curls. “Go to sleep, young one. Tomorrow will be long and full of adventure.”
He returned her smile, closing his eyes and giving in to slumber.
It was the last memory he would ever have of his mother.
Their clan was destroyed, his people and his home devoured by flame. Powerful men appeared in the night, covered in metal, straddling armored horses. They swarmed down upon the village with roaring torches and menacing swords. They were unlike anything the boy had seen, their metal hats glinting in the moonlight, their faces obscured by the angry diadems. They moved in unrelenting annihilation, shouting to each other in foreign tongues. The few Celtic warriors who called the small Druid village home fought back in desperation, but their meager numbers were no match against an army of soldiers.
He lost his mother as soon as they struck, swept away by torrents of frantic villagers. He barely glimpsed her face, contorted by screams, as her life ended abruptly with the swift lash of a sword. He bolted from the camp in a frenzy of emotion, running as fast as his legs could bear towards the village temple, searching desperately for his father. He reached the mossy enclave where he knew he would be, his heart thumping wildly in his throat, lungs burning for air.
He made his way towards the cave that served as their sacred temple. “Father?” he cried out into the hollow emptiness.
“I am here, son.”
He crept deep into its bowels to find his father sitting cross-legged upon the floor, encircled by blazing torches. His lips moved fervently as sweat dripped from his furrowed brow. The boy recognized tools of alchemy spread out around him, his father mixing, grinding, burning herbs, and blending potions at a furious pace. The stench of blood and metal stung his nose, the air around them vibrating with energy.
“Father…can I help you?”
His father shook his head wearily. “Oh, my son,” he lamented without pause from his toils, “how I wish I could stay alive to see you flourish.”
He lifted both his arm and his athame, severing his flesh deep enough that his blood rained down into the concoction below. “Gods,” he cried out, “accept the sacrifice of my flesh at your spear, for I have failed you. Though he is not ready, may you fill him with your power.”
The boy suddenly recognized the tools his father had laid out before him as the precious relics of the Celtic people. The Daghda’s Cauldron, the Spear of Lugh, the Stone of Fal, and the Sword of Nuada were four treasures passed down from their ancestors, the Tuatha de Danann. He had assumed they were myths until now.
Suddenly, his ears picked up the sound of approaching horsemen, drawing closer towards their safe haven.
“Father, they are coming,” he pleaded.
His father lifted a fiery bundle of herbs so that its smoke billowed around the boy’s shivering body. “Hush, boy,” he replied, his eyes glinting feverishly in the dim light. He fingered the seeping blood from his wound to spread a sigil tenderly on the boy’s chest. The intimacy of the moment struck the boy as he realized it was the nearest he had been to his father since his birthing celebration, when he was lifted up before the tribe. He had never been close enough to see the lines of his face or notice how light his eyelashes were, stretching almost to the rim of his silvered brows. How bright his eyes were against his weathered, alabaster skin, and how sweet and warm his sage-sweetened breath was as he heaved. For a moment, it was as if the impending calamity had ceased, and he was alone with his father at last. A rising sob began to threaten the boy’s stoic bearing, tears pooling to the surface.
The shrill neigh of horses quickly broke his trance, and he blinked the emotions away.
His father remained unaltered, sprinkling him with dried earth he’d retrieved from a clay bowl resting upon the glowing Stone of Fal. He spoke a few words in the old tongue before telling the boy, “Remember well what you witnessed from afar. Forget not our ways, no matter how the world changes around you.”
“Father, are you going to save us?” the boy whispered.
“No,” his father replied. “But you will.”
