Stonehenge by Bernard Cornwell Read Free Book Online Page A

seemed, in his ecstasy, as though he might fall into the newly dug grave, but he suddenly became still, opened his eyes, and howled again at the moon that still glimmered between the white clouds.
    A quiet dropped on the temple. The dancers slowed and stopped, the song faded, the drummers rested their fingers and Neel let the swan-bone flute fall silent.
    Hirac howled again, then reached out with his right hand and took the Kill-Child. The priest with the skull pole moved close behind the high priest so that the ancestors could see all that happened.
    Gilan urged Camaban forward. No one expected the boy to go willingly, but to their surprise the naked youth limped unhesitatingly toward the grave and a sigh of approval sounded from the tribe. It was better when the sacrifice was willing, even if the willingness did come from stupidity.
    Camaban stopped beside his grave, exactly where he was supposed to stop, and Hirac forced a smile to soothe any fears the boymight have. Camaban blinked up at the priest, but said nothing. He had not spoken all day, not even when the women had hurt him by tugging at the knots in his hair with their long-toothed combs. He was smiling.
    “Who speaks for the boy?” Hirac demanded.
    “I do,” Hengall growled from the temple’s entrance.
    “What is his name?”
    “Camaban,” Hengall said.
    Hirac paused, angry that the ritual was not being observed. “What is his name?” he called again, louder this time.
    “Camaban,” Hengall said, and then, after a pause, “son of Hengall, son of Lock.”
    A cloud covered the sun, casting a shadow over the temple. Some in the tribe touched their groins to avert ill luck, but others noted that Lahanna still showed in the sky.
    “Who has the life of Camaban, son of Hengall, son of Lock?” Hirac demanded.
    “I do,” Hengall said, and opened a leather pouch that hung from his belt and took from it a small chalk ball. He gave it to Neel, who carried it to Hirac.
    The ball, no larger than an eye, was the token carved at the birth of a child which was destroyed when the child became an adult; until then it was the possessor of the child’s spirit. If the child died the ball could be ground into dust, and the dust mixed with water or milk and then drunk so that the spirit would pass to another body. If the child vanished, snatched by the spirits or by an Outfolk hunting party seeking slaves, then the ball might be buried by a temple post so that the Gods would offer the missing child protection.
    Hirac took the ball, rubbed it in his groin, and then held it high in the air toward the moon. “Lahanna!” he cried. “We bring you a gift! We give you Camaban, son of Hengall, son of Lock!” He threw the ball onto the grass beyond the grave. Camaban smiled again, and for a moment it looked as though he might lurch forward and pick it up, but Gilan whispered at him to be still and the boy obeyed.
    Hirac stepped over the grave. “Camaban,” he shouted, “son of Hengall, son of Lock, I give you to Lahanna! Your flesh will be her flesh, your blood her blood and your spirit her spirit. Camaban, sonof Hengall, son of Lock, I cast you from the tribe into the company of the goddess. I destroy you!” And with those words he raised the Kill-Child high over his head.
    “No!” a frightened voice called, and the whole astonished tribe looked to see that it was Saban who had spoken. The boy seemed aghast himself, for he placed a hand over his mouth, but his distress was plain. Camaban was his half-brother. “No,” he whispered behind his hand, “please, no!”
    Hengall scowled, but Galeth put a comforting arm on Saban’s shoulder. “It has to happen,” Galeth whispered to the boy.
    “He’s my brother,” Saban protested.
    “It has to happen,” Galeth insisted.
    “Quiet!” Hengall growled, and Lengar, who had been sullen ever since his loss of face the previous morning, smiled to see that his younger brother was also out of favor with their