THE DRUID KING

by Norman Spinrad

Chapter I

The country of the tribes of Gaul extends from the sere and rugged cordillera of the Pyrenees in the west to the grandeur of the snow-capped Alps in the east, from the dank fogbound coast of the northern sea to sunny southern reaches where the balmy tang of the Mediterranean can be smelled drifting up through the mountain passes.

But in truth, the lands of the Edui and the Arverni, the Carnutes and the Belovaques, the Turons and the Santons, and all the rest, their farmsteads, their cities, their pastures, are but islands in an ocean of trees. For it is the mighty green forest, cresting over hills and rolling down valleys, that fills the greater part of their world; it is the oak that reigns supreme, not man.

Deep within this endless oak forest is a round clearing, its grass sprinkled with wild flowers, mushrooms, mossy rocks. Waiting silently just within the ferny undergrowth fringing its margin is a circle of leaders of a score and more of the tribes of Gaul, wearing pantaloons in their tribal colors, woolen shirts, leather jerkins, their scabbards empty of swords. Each of these vergobrets stands beside a pole bearing aloft the sigil animal of his tribe--boar, hawk, bull, bear, stag, wolf, and the like--roughly carved in wood or cast in subtly modeled bronze or silver.

In the center of the clearing, illumined by the bright noonday sun, stands Guttuatr, Arch Druid of all Gaul, a tall, slightly stooped man in early old age. His hair and neatly trimmed beard are silvery gray. He wears a white robe with no tribal colors. The cowl of the robe is drawn over his head, but does not hide his face, with its hawk-beak nose and its deeply set green eyes that seem to look through this world and into another. He bears, but does not lean upon, a gnarled oaken staff as tall as he is. Atop the staff is fixed a fallen star, a roughly spherical piece of dark-gray pockmarked iron twice the diameter of an apple.

He looks up at the sun, then down at his own shadow, severely foreshortened as the sun passes through its zenith. Then he raises his staff one-handed, the fallen star now a quarter of a man's height above his head.

From the four quadrants of the wind, their white robes trimmed in the many colors of the tribes of Gaul, druids emerge silently past the vergobrets and into the clearing.

They form an inner circle around the Arch Druid, then stand immobile. Guttuatr grounds his staff once more upon the earth. No one moves. No one speaks.

And then the ghostly-pale midday moon begins to move across the face of the golden sun.

The vergobrets gasp as a shadow begins to cross the clearing and the forest beyond, as the sky slowly turns a deeper blue.

The Arch Druid Guttuatr speaks.

"As in the heavens, so upon the earth. The gods of night seek to conquer the day. Those who serve the dark war against those who serve the light. As upon the earth, so in the heavens."

The moon, like a mouth open wide, swallows an ever-growing portion of the golden sun, as if bent on devouring it entire.

The tribal leaders moan and shuffle their feet in distress. The druids stand silent, knowing eyes fixed upon Guttuatr, as if waiting for some signal.

Nothing is to be heard but the shuffling feet and softer and softer moans of the vergobrets, then the confused cries of day birds returning to roost and night birds awakening and the faint far-off baying of dogs and wolves, as the blood-red light of false sunset falls upon the forest.

Then the night itself descends. The sky turns black and the stars appear, but the sun is still visible, its face a void of darkness, but rimmed in a gauzy light like hair and beard aflame or the fiery crown of a celestial god.

"The night destroys the day!" Guttuatr shouts, and brings forth cries of terror from the men beside their tribal standards. "The dark devours the light!"

And the druids begin a stately circling round him.

Guttuatr begins a slow chanting.

"But the Great Wheel turns and we turn with it...."

The circling druids answer.

"That which is eternal, that which passes..."

"As in the heavens, so upon the earth..."

"As upon the earth, so in the heavens..."

"Let the Great Wheel turn with us!" Guttuatr shouts, raising his staff high above his head as if to command the heavens. "Night into day! Darkness to light! Let the Great Wheel--"

Suddenly vergobrets and druids alike cry out, a great collective shout not of terror but of wonder. The druids abruptly cease their circling, and turn to stare at something above and behind Guttuatr. All at once the solemn spell is broken, and an unruly crowd is pointing at the sky, shouting and babbling.

Guttuatr himself whirls around, looks up to see--

A point of light emerging from nothingness, growing brighter, and brighter, and brighter.

A new star being born.

Guttuatr's jaw drops slack, and his eyes widen in awe, as those of a man beholding the visage of a god.

"Once in a thousand years...," the Arch Druid whispers.

The vergobrets do not move, but the druids crowd close to him, and one of them dares to speak.

"What means this, Arch Druid?"

With enormous reluctance, Guttuatr slowly turns from this mighty portent.

"This is the sign of a Great Turning," he tells his fellow druids uneasily. "This Great Age will die to give way to the next."

"But what will--"

"No man of the age that is passing can see clearly into the age that is to come," Guttuatr says quickly and more firmly. "We have conjured more than those of the world of strife should know. We must finish the rite before the heavens finish it for us!"

And he raises his staff aloft once more.

"Behold!" he shouts. "The heavens themselves declare their favor! Light from darkness! Day from light! The Great Wheel turns!"

The druids hastily and somewhat clumsily resume their circling and chanting. The vergobrets draw back.

"We turn round, and round, and round...."

"Let the Great Wheel turn with us!" Guttuatr commands.

And, as if to obey, the moon begins to disgorge the light it has eaten, and the sky begins to brighten in a gloriously luxurious purple-and-gold false sunrise. The forest awakens, and blue skies and bright sun once more look down upon a world of verdant green. The rite has succeeded.

Or so it might seem.

Half a dozen roasting boar and as many sheep dripped their fat on crackling log fires, perfuming the air with deliciously pungent smoke. Boys pulled planks of steaming loaves from the ovens and set them out to cool. Peasants brought in wicker baskets overflowing with ripe red apples, white turnips, and dark-green nettles, savory and freshly picked. Bards toyed with their harps, and here and there servants sang with them.

It was the happiest day of Vercingetorix's young life, trotting to keep up with the mighty strides of his father, Keltill, as they crossed the outer courtyard of the family homestead in the bright afternoon sunshine. It was the day of the great feast to be given by Keltill to celebrate the inauguration of his year as vergobret of the Arverni.

Though robust and brawny, Keltill was but of average height for a Gaul, yet, in the eyes of his fourteen-year-old son, he was a giant.

His lands and his riches and his rule might have been passed down to him by the will of the gods, as the druids proclaimed, but what Vercingetorix saw in the eyes of his father's people was something no god could bestow. Nor were the smiles that greeted him bought solely with the gold coins he tossed with gay abandon into the air, as if they were so many sprigs of mistletoe.

Keltill was loved by his people.

Keltill grinned and made a great show of smacking his lips as they approached the brew master's cart. Seeing this famous enthusiast of his wares, the balding, fat-bellied fellow drew two foaming horns of beer from two different barrels.

"This one I would say has rather more flavor, Keltill," he said, offering the horn in his left hand, then raising the one in his right. "But this one has a bit stronger spirit."

Keltill quaffed the first, then the other.

"Well, which one do you favor?" asked the brew master.

"When did I ever taste a brew I didn't favor?" said Keltill. He laughed, then grinned at Vercingetorix. "What do you say, Vercingetorix, would you care to favor us with an opinion?"

Like any boy of Gaul, Vercingetorix was familiar with watered-down beer, given when hot weather made milk curdle or cows went dry. But this would be his first taste of the full-strength manly brew. He took a hesitant sip of the "more flavorful" beer. It was thick and sweet. Under the watchful eye of his father, he took a more manly gulp. Now a bitter aftertaste emerged, which he found less than pleasant.

"Well?" asked Keltill.

"Uh...good. Nice and, uh, foamy."

Keltill handed him the second horn. This time, Vercingetorix took a full adult mouthful straightaway, and made a show of rolling it around in his mouth thoughtfully before he swallowed. Less bitter, less sweet too, and not as thick.

"Even better!" he declared sincerely.

"Like father, like son!" Keltill said, fetching him a mighty clap on the shoulder. "My sentiments exactly! You heard our beer-taster, we'll have twenty barrels--of each of them!"

"Of each?" said the brew master, eyeing Keltill skeptically. "About the money..."

"Name your price! I'll pay you double whatever it is when we've both died and gone on to the next world in the good old Gallic fashion!"

"Very generous, Keltill, but if I, my family, and my brewers don't eat in this world, we'll find ourselves there for a good long while before you, so, if you don't mind..."

"Well, if you're going to be that way about it..." Keltill said impishly, reaching into the leather pouch from which he had been so freely dispensing largesse, and extracting but a single coin.

The brew master was not amused.

Keltill laughed at his sour expression.

"Come along, then," he said. "There's plenty more where that came from!"

He held the coin, which Vercingetorix knew bore Keltill's own portrait, closer for the brew master's inspection. "Handsome, are they not?"

They passed through a gate in the wooden palisade that enclosed the inner courtyard. Within was the great round house, with its well-hewn plank walls caulked with wattle, its tall conical roof freshened with newly cut thatch for the occasion, and still redolent of earth and hay. The roof, as always, was crowned with a carved wooden bear, sigil animal of the Arverni, but now a bear cast in bronze stood on a pole before the doorway--the standard of their new vergobret.

At the front of the house, trestle tables had already been set up and servants were setting out benches, dressing the tables with platters, and piling up logs for a bonfire.

Keltill crossed the courtyard to a wooden shed. Vercingetorix had been inside and so knew what to expect, but the brew master didn't. Two artisans were beating lumps of soft gold into sheets with heavy, broad-faced iron-headed mallets, and two more were stamping out coins from the sheets with round-faced dies and tossing them into big leather sacks already brimming with the fruit of their labors.

Keltill led the gaping brew master to one of the sacks. "Take what you consider just," he said. "No more and no less."

The brew master gave Keltill a look of amazement, which transformed to greed. He dipped both hands in the sack and came up with as much as he could carry.

He froze. He looked at Keltill.

Then he slowly dribbled half his load of coins back into the sack and departed.

"You just trusted him to take what he would!" Vercingetorix exclaimed.

"I trusted his honor. This is our way, Vercingetorix. Honor is to be trusted. Fortune is to be shared. Else what are we?"

He scooped up a great handful of coins and stuffed them in the leather pouch tied to his belt.

"Of course, it does not diminish a man's reputation for generosity that his likeness appears on his largesse, so that those who receive it never forget whence it came," he said. Then he laughed. "Not every notion of the Romans is foolish."

Keltill picked up another handful of coins and held it up before Vercingetorix's eyes. "On the other hand, the way they whore after this stuff to the point where they will even let it buy their honor is pitiful!"

"Pitiful, Father?"

"Indeed! They forget what gold is for. Do you know, Vercingetorix?"

Vercingetorix could only shake his head.

"Consider," said Keltill. "You cannot eat it, you cannot drink it, you cannot ride it, you cannot even forge a sword from this pretty but otherwise useless metal."

"But you can buy food and drink and horses and swords and more with it!"

"Exactly!" cried Keltill. "Life is not to be spent in the making and hoarding of money! Meat is to be eaten! Beer is to be drunk! Horses are to be ridden! A year as leader of your tribe is to be celebrated freely!"

With a wild laugh he tossed the whole handful of coins into the air. "Money is to be spent on the pleasures of living!"

By the time the sun had set, the festival had begun, and it could fairly be said that much money had indeed been spent on the pleasures of living.

A horde of guests had arrived. Most were Arverne nobles, their families, and warriors, and the ordinary folk of Keltill's holdings who had been favored with admission to the outer courtyard for the feast. Some few were invited nobles from other tribes of Gaul; some fewer still were druids, who had the right to invite themselves to any feast, anytime, anywhere, in the lands of the Gauls.

The drinking of beer was already well under way. Everyone had a foaming mug of copper or pottery, open barrels had been set out everywhere, and the fumes alone were enough to make the very old and the very young lightheaded.

Not that they were relying on their noses to get the beer to work its happy magic. Nor, having savored his first true taste, did Vercingetorix fail to quaff his fair share and then some. The torches seemed to him haloed, the final handful of coins tossed by Keltill cascaded through the syrupy air like flurries of golden snow, and the music and voices melded into the wordless song of a burbling stream.

Keltill's entry was greeted by a collective cheer. And though this was not lacking in wholehearted affection for the man himself, stomachs spoke as loudly as hearts when Keltill strode up to the bonfire.

A warrior handed Keltill a torch. Keltill made a grinning show of hesitation. "Surely, my friends, you have not yet drunk enough beer to truly whet your appetites?" he said. "Best we wait a bit longer before going on to the meat."

This was greeted by a mighty collective groan.

Keltill shook his head disapprovingly. "When Brenn was king and we were all heroes, Gauls would not even remember they had bellies until enough beer had passed down their throats and through their bladders to wash Ariovistus and all his Teuton tribes back across the Rhine on a river of piss!" he declared to a roar of laughter.

He shrugged. "But now I can hear your guts rumbling even over my own mighty words of wisdom, and so...."

Keltill tossed the torch through a gap in the loosely built pile of seasoned logs into the kindling at its core, which burst into flame with a whoosh of air and puff of smoke. Logs then caught fire, and the piney aroma mingled with the odors of roasting meats and the effects of beer to drive all present into a state of joyous famishment.

Vercingetorix wobbled behind his father to the host's table, his knees performing a clumsy dance, his head reeling, his belly growling, his vision glittering with sparkles drifting starward from the torchlight and the bonfire.

The table was an oaken top set on trestles in front of the house with a bench on one side only so that those seated behind it faced the festivities. Upon it were laid loaves of bread, knives, and planks laden with roasted fowls, bowls of turnips, carrots, boiled nettles, apples, ribs and joints of mutton and boar, and for this special feast, whole roast suckling boar, obtained at great expense and with no little difficulty.

Vercingetorix had not yet achieved such an exalted state that he could fail to recognize his own mother Gaela among those seated behind the table, and was even able to discern his uncle Gobanit and his wife Ette seated to her right. To Gaela's left were the
empty spaces reserved for his father and himself, and to their left was a stern-looking woman in middle age who seemed vaguely familiar, and to her left--

Once Vercingetorix's gaze fell upon the girl who sat there, it had no interest in lingering elsewhere.

Pleasurable stirrings had of late arisen in his loins, and Vercingetorix, growing up on a farmstead, knew full well what bulls and rams did to relieve themselves of such delicious itches. But this was the first time they had found an object of desire. She looked to be about his age, with long golden tresses held off her fair rosy face with a garland of flowers, and slim graceful neck arising from the bodice of a yellow dress gathered tightly enough to reveal budding breasts. Her eyes were of that elusive hue that seems green one moment and hazel the next, her lips seemed made for kisses, her nose was straight, her chin was strong, and both were elevated to send a haughty challenge to Vercingetorix's manhood that set his teeth on edge and his blood aflame.

Something in his eyes must have betrayed his state, for she met his gaze with a look that was enough wilt crops in the fields and make him feel as if he were standing there with his tongue hanging out like that of a panting dog. It was certainly enough to banish any notion of summoning up the courage to speak to her. The feasting began with a will. The legs of fowl were ripped off with bare hands, ribs of pork and boar torn into individual morsels, everything else carved up with knives, and all was conveyed straight to devouring mouths as efficiently and quickly as possible, washed down by endless mugs and horns of beer kept full by servants.

Vercingetorix gobbled up his fair share of food and swilled at least that much beer, but throughout kept stealing long glances at the blonde girl, who displayed an admirable appetite, a sign that her appetite for other pleasures might prove equally hearty. But he wished she would sip less daintily at her beer, for the drunker she got, his fantasies proposed, the more likely they would pass from the realm of dreams into this one. The only thing he could think to do was set her a proper example.

Thus, by the time Keltill banged on the table for attention, Vercingetorix was feeling no pain, or not much of anything else either.

"Is there enough meat?" Keltill bellowed. "Is there enough beer?"

The drunken roars and collective table-thumping of approval went roused Vercingetorix from his dosing torpor. "It is the tradition for the new vergobret upon beginning his year as leader to praise the wisdom of the Arverni nobles in electing such a hero as himself," Keltill declaimed, "but as you all know, my single flaw is that I'm far too modest to do my own proper boasting--"

Howls of good-natured laughter and amused hoots and jeers erupted from his audience.

"--so I'll let a better man do it for me--my noble son, the silver-tongued Vercingetorix!"

Vercingetorix, who had never made a speech before, whose head was reeling, and whose tongue, far from being silver, felt like a piece of dead wood in his mouth, sat there stunned and quite terrified.

But Keltill yanked him to his feet, and there he stood, the glow of the torches gauzed by his drunkenness, the bonfire nearly blinding him, staring into a field of faces, eyes sheened red by the firelight, as all sound died away into a dreadful expectant silence.

He found himself glancing sidelong at the blonde girl, who met his gaze for an instant with eyes as blank and impenetrable as polished jewels and an expression of amused contempt. And then it was that the magic happened.

He looked away, his gaze following the sparks from the bonfire skyward. The roaring firelight washed away the glow of all but the brightest star, which in turn seemed to be gazing down at him, bestowing, so unlike the girl, its favor. And when he looked back earthward into all those eyes glowing like embers which a moment before had terrorized him, the silence behind them had been transformed into an invitation to speak.

And so he did.

"As...as Keltill is my father, so now is he yours, Arvernes, for the vergobret is the father of his people. And to have such a man as Keltill as your father makes you the most fortunate tribe in all Gaul. But I am more fortunate still. I am the most fortunate boy in Gaul. For you will have him as a father for but one short year. I will have him always."

He paused, lifted a horn of beer in a toasting gesture, a horn of beer that seemed to have been magically placed in his hand by the same gods who had given him this moment.

"To Keltill! To the vergobret of the Arvernes! To honor that is to be trusted and fortune that is to be shared and a life that is to be spent on the pleasure of living!"

The roars and cheers as everyone drank were gloriously deafening. They seemed to grow even louder as Vercingetorix gulped down his entire horn of beer in five continuous swallows.

This, however, finally proved too much for him, and the last things he heard before collapsing unconscious into the arms of Keltill, were good-natured laughter, and the affectionately amused voices of his mother and father.

"Like father, like son!"

"My sentiments exactly!"

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