Heir of Stone (The Cloudmages #3) (91 page)

The months are named after various trees of the region, and are (in translation) Longroot, Silverbark, Wideleaf, Straightwood, Fallinglimb, Deereye, Brightflower, Redfruit, Conefir, Capnut, Stranglevine, Softwood, and Sweetsap.

The solar year being slightly more than 365 days, to keep the months from recessing slowly through the seasons over the years, an annual two-fold adjustment is made. The first decision is whether there will be additional days added to Sweetsap; the second proclaims which phase of the moon will correspond to the first day of the month that year (the first day of the months during any given year may be considered to start at the new moon, quarter moon waxing, half moon waxing, three-quarter moon waxing, full moon, three-quarter moon waning, half-moon waning, or quarter moon waning). The proclamation is announced at the Festival of Ghéimri (see below) each year—any extra days are added immediately after Ghéimri and before the first day of Longroot. All this keeps the solar-based festivals and the lunar calendar roughly in line.

This adjustment is traditionally made by the Draíodóiri of the Mother-Creator at the Sunstones Ring at Dún Laoghaire, but the Inish Thuaidh Draíodóiri generally use the Sunstones Ring near Dún Kiil to make their own adjustments, which do not always agree with that of Dún Laoghaire. Thus, the reckoning of days in Talamh an Ghlas and Inish Thuaidh is often slightly different.

The year is considered to start on the first day of Longroot, immediately after the Festival of Ghéimri and any additional days that have been added to Sweetsap.

There are four Great Festivals at the solstices and equinoxes.

The following is a sample year with corresponding Gre gorian dates. However, bear in mind that this is only an approximation and will differ slightly each year.

Each of the “aware” races of the world, of which there are several, have their own mythologies and gods, though there are intertwining connections and similarities between them all. Here are a few mythological tales concerning the beginning of things. These tales come from diverse racial sources: the Daoine, the Bunús Muintir, the Saimhóir, and the Créneach.

The chronicling of all the various myths and tales would be an immense task indeed; those below are merely intended to give a sampling. As with all mythology, these are tales that have passed down for long ages back to dim beginnings, slowly changing and altering with each telling, but truths lie underneath them.

 

The Mother-Creator had intercourse with the Sky-Father, and gave birth to a son. But their son was sickly and died, and she laid him down in the firmament, and his skeleton became the bones of the land. In time, the Mother-Creator overcame her grief and lay again with Sky-Father, and gave birth to Seed-Daughter.

Seed-Daughter flourished and in time became as beautiful as her mother, and she attracted the attention of two offspring of the Sky-Father: Cloud, and his sister Rain. From that triple union came the plants living in the soil that covered her brother, the Earth. Seed-Daughter was also coveted by Darkness, and Darkness stole her away and took her in violence. The troubled and often violent relationship between Darkness and Seed-Daughter is told in many tales.

When Seed-Daughter finally escaped from Darkness and came back to Cloud and Rain, sorrowing, she was heavy in her womb, and from her time of confinement would come all the Miondia, the Lesser Gods. The Miondia spread out over the earth, and from their various and strange couplings emerged the aware creatures and all the animals in all their varieties.

After the rape by Darkness, Seed-Daughter could conceive no more. Even now, she weeps often, sometimes fiercely, which we see even now in the rain that falls.

 

Back when there was only stone in the world and the First-Lights gleamed, before the coming of the soft-flesh things, there was Anchéad, the first Thought. Anchéad wanted a companion, and so took a pebble from Itself and let the First-Lights wrap around it. The First-Lights gave the pebble of Anchéad life and awareness, and from this piece grew the god called Céile. Within Céile, Anchéad’s pebble grew, always pulling the First-Lights toward it. For a long time, Anchéad and Céile dwelled together, but Céile found that Anchéad still sometimes yearned for Its solitude and would often go wandering by itself, leaving Céile alone for years at a time. So Céile also became lonely, and like Anchéad, broke away a pebble from Itself and held it out to the First-Lights, and they came and gave it life and shape also, though the fire of its life did not burn as deeply as Céile’s. Each time that Anchéad went wandering, Céile would break off another part of Itself, until there were a dozen or more children of Céile. Sometimes her children even broke off fragments of themselves and made their own children, but their hearts were even weaker than their own and shone only dimly.

The children and grandchildren of Céile were the first of the Créneach.

One day, though, Anchéad went wandering and never returned, and Céile sorrowed though the Créneach tried to give It comfort. The First-Lights felt the grief and loss of Céile, and in sympathy they left and went to search for Anchéad. As they faded, so did Céile’s life and those of the Créneach. When the First-Lights had gone completely, Céile and Its children and grandchildren fell down lifeless, and the wind and rain wore away the form of their bodies until all that was left were their gleaming hearts.

The soft-flesh things came, and they took away many of the hearts they found for themselves, for they loved the way the hearts looked—Céile’s heart was one of those that was taken.

And so it was until finally the First-Lights returned again from their unsuccessful search for the lost Anchéad. The First-Lights found Céile’s heart and they went to it, filling it once more. But the soft-things held the heart now and the First-Lights could not bring Céile back, nor any of Its children or grandchildren who had also been taken. But the All-Heart that had been within Céile was able to stir and waken the hearts of all Its children and grandchildren: those hearts the soft-flesh things possessed could hold the power of the First-Lights, but only the few who had not been touched by the soft-things could revive and have form and shape again as Créneach.

Without Céile, though, none of the Créneach could take of themselves and make children. The First-Lights saw that and sorrowed, and so they gave a gift to the Créneach: they found a pebble that was like the heart of the Créneach and gave it life and form, and that one was the Littlest, and its light shone as bright as the first children of Céile.

That is the way it has been ever since: the First-Lights go to search now and again for Anchéad and we Créneach die. Our bodies crack and crumble to pebbles and dust, and the hearts within us fall away. Those hearts the soft-flesh things find and take will never live again as Créneach. When the First-Lights return from their search, they go first to the All-Heart and awaken it once more, and the All-Heart in turn awakens all of Its children and grandchildren. Then the First-Lights find the hearts that have not yet been touched and bring us back.

And they also wake a new Littlest or two. . . .