Authors: Whitley Strieber
“Are you succeeding?”
“No.”
“It’s that much harder for us, Father. For me, I loved her, you know.”
“The rector told me how important she was to you. Still and all, that nude ride—”
“That’s our way!”
“Okay, let’s not get into that. Just know that it sure upset the Catholics. You oughtn’t do things that violate the town ordinances.”
“We had a parade license.”
“The nudity—”
Robin really didn’t want to have an argument with Father Evans. “I doubt if you’ll see another Wild Hunt.
This Covenstead will probably disband.”
“If I’m ever needed—”
“Thank you, Father.”
The procession straggled along, a bobbing line of lights, an occasional murmur of song. Up front the pallbearers were chanting quietly to keep themselves going. The Rock Coven was determined to carry her all the way. They were a heavy work team, building and maintaining roads on the estate, rooting stumps, making wattle and erecting cottages, hauling beams. Still, there was a weight in that box that must drag them down more by far than the heaviest stump.
As they marched they drew more and more people from their homes, until it seemed as if all the town that was not with Brother Pierce was in the procession.
“Are there any more candles?”
“Dad!”
“Connie called me. It’s a terrible thing, son.”
Robin couldn’t answer. His mother had come down from the house as well. She and Ivy were walking together just behind.
They entered the main gate of the estate, which had been thrown open for the occasion. “Who was she, son, really?”
“She’d been coming to us for a long, long time. We belonged to her.”
The great old forest that separated the estate from Maywell was filled with the peace of nature. Some small creature screamed among the trees, and great wings swept away. By the time they passed the house the procession was more tightly packed, in part because there were more people and in part because the Rock Coven, struggling at the front with the coffin, was slowing down. The house was totally dark.
It was some little time before Robin saw Constance standing on the front porch. Around her the ravens clustered in unaccustomed silence. In her black cloak and hood she might have been a statue, faintly sinister in the light of the moon. She raised her head and Robin thought she might be about to speak. But then she came forward. She joined her people, and Robin was very glad—
The coveners had laid a way of hooded candles up the mountainside, each one carefully placed among stones to avoid the danger of fire. Even so, it was rough going, and not everybody was prepared for the journey. Even some of the town witches fell by the wayside. They joined others gathering in the fields, and as Robin negotiated the rough path he heard them beginning to sing together. Ahead the Rock Coven struggled mightily with their burden.
When Robin reached the Fairy Stone, the coffin was already placed upon it. People made a ring of candles around it, which guttered in the wind, flickering reflections of the mourners in the polish of the casket. The witches formed a circle. Behind them the townspeople who had made it this far. Stood or sat.
A deep silence came. Far off the wind moaned, its voice echoing through all the Endless Mountains. The moon stood bright and high amid the stars. Robin looked up at it, and the living intensity of its gaze awed him. This night, he thought, the old moon is an eye into eternity.
REQUIEM FOR A WITCH
There had never before been a funeral like this in the Covenstead. In the deep silence there was a black flash of movement, then Tom jumped up and stood on the lid of the coffin.
His eyes were so fierce that Robin literally could not meet them for more than an instant. They burned green and they challenged, almost accused.
Constance Collier walked forward until she stood before the coffin, face-to-face with the huge, glaring creature that crouched upon it. The wind whipped her cloak. She spoke in a clear, soft voice, directly to Tom.
“O Great Irusan, King of the Cats, keeper of the doors of death, take this daughter of life safely through the shadowed abode. Keep her in your timeless kindness, lead her into the cleansing water. Smile upon the descent of the living, O Great God, as they go in thy lands of dark and laughter.”
She turned. “Robin. Come here.”
He forced himself to approach her, and thus also the cat Tom seemed to have become twice his normal size, the tips of his fur glowing blue, his claws digging into the lid of the coffin. “We want you to invoke now, young man,” Constance said.
“Invoke?”
“Call Ama. The Dark Mother.”
Constance stood behind him, a trembling wraith, her breath rattling, her right hand steadily rustling the cloth of her cloak. The wind had been rising since they had arrived on the mountain. Now it seemed to gather itself and pour down upon them in a great, cold breath. Their candles sputtered and guttered out, the flames driven away by its enormous force.
Robin was not dressed for this; he was cold Jeans and a sweater were never meant to keep out the breath of such things as were approaching this circle.
He searched his mind, but he could recall no familiar form for calling Ama. She was the aspect of the Goddess associated with empty fields and winter’s waiting. She was also the mistress of secrets.
As best he could, he invented an invocation. “I call to you, sterile Mother. I call to you, Ama of the empty fields. I call to you, mystery Mother. Take your daughter through Death’s cold pleasure, lead her, gentle Mother, all the way to the Land of Summer.” His voice was snatched and harried by the wind.
Without the candlelight the faces of those around him had been transformed by the moon, which hung more than half full, high over the mountains. Very faintly, from down in the valley, Robin could hear the others singing.
The Song of Sorrows. It had not often been sung in this place.
Suddenly Father Evans began to speak. “May I add something, Connie, on behalf of your visitors?”
“Of course, Al.”
“This is from Ecclesiastes. Take it as a message from my God to yours.” He bowed his head. “In the day when the keepers of the house shall tremble, and the strong men shall bow themselves, and the grinders cease because they are few, and those that look out of the windows be darkened, and the doors shall be shut in the streets, when the sound of the grinding is low, and he shall rise up at the voice of the bird, and all the daughters of music shall be brought low:
“Also when they shall be afraid of that which is high, and fears shall be in the way, and the almond tree shall flourish, and the grasshopper shall be a burden, and desire shall fail: because man goeth to his long home, and the mourners go about the streets:
“Or even the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern.
“Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was; and the spirit shall return to whom gave it.”
There was silence then, for a very long time Constance spoke again: “Let us tell the story of the descent of the Goddess. Heed it well, for each of us shall go also upon that bourne.”
Always before Robin had heard this story in the joyous context of the Sabbats. He gave the opening:
“The Lord of the Flies, Godfather and Comforter, stood before the door into silence.”
All the witches responded: “And the Lady came unto him, and sought the matter of the mystery of death; so she journeyed through the portal on behalf of those who had to die.”
“Strip thyself, Bejeweled Lady, for the cold is cold and thy bones are bones.”
Softly, gently, Tom began to howl. Only at the rarest of moments will a cat do this, in high sorrow and in the night.
Constance continued, her voice cast low beneath his keening cry. “So she gave her clothing to the earth, and was bound with the memory of summer, and went thus with open eyes into the empty voice of the pit.
“She came before Death in the nakedness of her truth, and such was the beauty of her nakedness that Death knelt himself down, and lay at her feet as a gift the Sword of Changes.”
The witches sighed in unity with the wind, and one spoke for them all, “Ours is the faith of the wind, ours the calling in the night.”
“Then Death kissed the feet of Summer, saying, ‘Blessed be the feet that brought you in the path of the Lord of Ice. Let me love thee, and warm myself in thee.’ ”
The witches made a sound as of whispering snow.
“But Summer loved not the purple hour, and asked of him, why do you pin frost to my flowers?”
The witches were humming a wordless inner song. Behind them the townspeople glanced at each other in wonder, for they had never heard such a sound. High and yet vibrant, deep and yet full of laughter, and sorrowing with the sorrow we all know, but which is not named in any human language.
” ‘Lady,’ Death said, ‘I am helpless against me dropping web of time. All which comes to me, comes.
And all which departs, departs. Lady, let me lie upon thee.’ ”
The humming grew louder, merging with the cat’s voice.
“The Lady said only, ‘I am Summer.’ ”
“Then Death scourged her, and there were storms and ashes.”
The humming stopped. Tom crouched as if ready to spring at Constance’s throat. She stood before him, her head high, the wind billowing her cloak.
“And she gave voice to her love in the fertile voice of the bee, and death was glad before her.”
“Now the mystery of mysteries: love death, ye who would find the portal of the moon, the door that leads back into life.”
All together: “Upon us, O Summer, leave the five kisses of resurrection. Blessed be.”
Constance had thrown back her hood. “Blessed be.” She glanced around. “Cemnunos blows his horn this night, my children. Rocks, in the morning take her and bury her back in the mountains.”
“But the
Leannan
doesn’t let us go beyond the Stone.”
“The law is lifted for this burial. She is wanted there.” She took Robin’s hands in hers. “You Vines, will you watch over her tonight?”
“I will,” Robin said. The other Vines joined him. They stood close together as the rest of the procession wound its way down among the rocks. Soon the last sound of the departing crowd was absorbed by the night.
All became silent but for the wind and the rustle of Tom puttering about in the dry brush. The coven joined hands.
It was not until Wisteria said in a soft voice, “Look over by the rowan,” that Robin even thought of the fairy. But they had been here of course, observing everything. He saw them now, dark small shapes stealing forth from the great shrub. Their jackets and caps hardly reflected the moonlight at all.
Robin’s heart began to pound. A chill swept his body. He reached out, and found the hands of other coveners waiting for his own.
The fairy came close, at least a dozen of them, pausing not ten feet in front of the coven. They had bows no more than a foot long, and arrows that looked insignificant to Robin’s eyes. But he knew not to move an inch; those arrows were infamously lethal. Constance said that in the distant past they had killed mammoths with them.
The rustling grew louder.
The fairy smelled strong and sweet and nothing like human beings at all. Were they bearded or not?
Young or old? He couldn’t see.
Then there was a change. One moment the air was empty, the next a little woman was standing above the coffin. She shone in the moon, or perhaps she gave her own light. Robin looked upon her face, and saw in it such love and joy that he clapped like a delighted child, he could not help it.
Wisteria lifted shaking hands to her. She reached forward and touched Wisteria’s fingers. Then the other Vines crowded close about the coffin, and each in turn was touched.
Close to her Robin could see the perfection of her body, the smooth, unearthly light of her skin. She came face-to-face with him. A thousand feelings roared through him: mad, lascivious passion, tender love, terror, lust, pleasure, laughter, all the wildest extremes of the heart.
She parted her lips and closed her eyes and raised her face to be kissed. He was shaking so badly he could hardly hold his lips open. He drew close to her, and into a scent that engaged his deepest, most private memories. In the single instant of that kiss he knew his whole
lang syne
, from the moment he had found Moom cracking walnuts in the forest to the awful night he had seen the bishop’s men capture Marian, through the sad houses of all the years to now.
There was a rush of frowning forests and dances, and then the
Leannan
turned away from him and stepped off into the dark.
She seemed to go upward, and all eyes followed her. At first what they saw was incomprehensible. Then Grape screamed. Across the sky, enormous beyond understanding, blotting out the stars, were two enormous cat’s eyes.
They glared until the witches hid their faces, and huddled like rabbits beneath a circling hawk.
It was some time before anybody moved or spoke. One by one, though, they looked up again.
They were alone with the night.
Robin was seething with an energy beyond anything he had ever felt before from even the most intense ritual. Around him the other coveners were the same, their eyes glowing with the light that had spread from the
Leannan’s
body.
He knew he had to act, or give up. “Please,” he said, “let’s try to reach Amanda. Let’s try the cone of power.”
Without a word of protest they made the circle. They were with him.
The Black Cat
Within that porch, across the way,
I see two naked eyes this night:
Two eyes that neither shut nor blink,
Searching my face with a green light.
But cats to me are strange—
I cannot sleep if one is near:
And though I’m sure I see those eyes
I’m not so sure a body’s there!