Moon Song (10 page)

Isoldé was quite unimpressed with Tintagel village, the summer shops all closed and the slate roofs of the cottages clamped down tight in the cold sunshine. But when they got to the track and she could see out to sea again she began to understand Mark’s enthusiasm.

The track down to the base of the island was wild, rugged. It needed a truck to get down there. ‘It’s like a river bed,’ she said.

‘It
is
a river bed when it rains, especially in the winter.’

‘Are you allowed to drive down here?’ Isoldé had seen the notice at the head of the track.

‘I am,’ Mark replied. ‘I do some volunteer work for the trust when I can, but we must go carefully as people walk here at all seasons.’

They jolted slowly down the rock-strewn way and parked at the bottom. The climb up to the rock bridge onto the island made Isoldé puff. She hung over the parapet half way up, looking down into the waves crashing around the rocks below.

‘It’s turquoise,’ she said. ‘The sea’s turquoise-coloured.’

‘We call it the turquoise milk-shake, the colour of the sea with the creamy froth of the waves.’

‘Mmm, yes, I see.’

They continued on up and round the corner, sheltered now by the island itself rising above them. Mark stopped at the archway gate.

‘Like a monastery,’ Isoldé said, looking around at what
appeared to be stone cells.

‘They thought it was for a long time, until they began to find the old Celtic settlement and the outline of the great hall. That’s what confirmed it as a King’s main place of government. Probably the most famous king was King Mark, my namesake.’

‘And your name is Mark King,’ Isoldé said, eyes twinkling.

‘So it is!’ He was laughing back at her.

They walked slowly through the remains of the walls of the small buildings that clung to the steep, grassy cliffs until they came out on the top. A pair of kestrels hovered above. They stood still watching then Mark took her to see the fire-pit.

‘This is it,’ he said, lifting the wooden cover which kept the weather from wrecking the ancient hearth. ‘The one all the sensation was about, that says, “Arthur woz here” in ancient script.’

Isoldé laughed, peering at it. ‘I don’t care,’ she said. ‘It’s still wonderful that it does, that they found it, after all the legends linking him to this place.’

‘Yes, it is,’ Mark agreed. He replaced the lid. ‘Now, this way is the great hall.’

She followed him as they walked the outline of the hall, it really did feel enormous although there were no walls left above ground. A great king’s home indeed, she thought, one who must have had a lot of influence. And she could understand why the Irish had tried to take the place; it would be a useful stronghold on the western tip of Britain.

They walked on, up over the top of the hill until they could see the sea again, shimmering under the winter sun. Isoldé stopped, stood looking at the curve of the world, a dark blue line between the paler sea and the blue sky. ‘I love that.’ She took Mark’s hand. ‘Seeing the edge of the world, knowing that beyond it is space, outer space and the stars.’

Mark squeezed her fingers. ‘Tristan loved it too. You share that.’

‘And you?’

‘Yes …’ he said softly, ‘me too.’

They walked on, still hand in hand, towards the sea, coming at last to bare rocks sloping gently to the cliff edge and a large white rock sat up on the screed. ‘It’s crystal,’ Mark told her as they arrived at it.

It was too; mostly bright white rock crystal with flecks of the darker rock running through it and the occasional spark of clear quartz. ‘Sit down, milady.’ Mark was laughing. ‘Tristan always called this the goddess throne.’

Isoldé sat. Mark fished his phone out of his pocket and took a picture of her, the bright sea and sky as a background. He showed it to her.

‘Oh! And you’ve got the curve of the Earth as the background.’

‘Had to, after what you said.’ He sat down beside her on the rock; there was just room if they huddled close. He put his arm round her. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he said. ‘Like Isoldé of the story. Isoldé Labeale, Isoldé the belle, the beautiful, that’s what your name says and it was her name too.’

Isoldé turned her face away from him at first, the colour rushing into it again. Then she turned back. ‘And you are Mark King, like I said,’ she whispered.

‘I love you,’ he told her. ‘I think I knew that when I first saw you, with the sparrow.’

‘Me too. It was electric.’

‘What shall we do about it?’

‘Do we have to do anything?’ she asked him. ‘Can we not just enjoy it, walk each step, allow the future to unfold?’

‘And Tristan …?’

Isoldé laid her head on Mark’s shoulder. ‘He’s dead,’ she said. ‘Gone.’

Mark hugged her. ‘After last night, the letter, I’m not so sure,’ he said.

Isoldé had got the hang of the journey down to Caergollo now. The A30 from Exeter to Launceston was simple and not unattractive, it carved up time. If she left work at five o’clock, with the car already packed, she was shutting the gate behind her at Caergollo by six-thirty, earlier if she was lucky. The last part, after Launceston, twisting up over Davidstow Moor was the wildest, slowest, also the prettiest, finally coming down into the half-hidden valley. But always, once she crossed the Tamar she felt she had crossed into fairyland. Cornwall was another world indeed.

Tonight was one of the good nights, just gone six and she was inside the gate, inside the temenos of Mark’s home. She had flown there on fairy wings, or so it had felt, no hold-ups, no difficult traffic and clear roads in the last of the sunlight as she came up over the moors.

‘It’s good to be home,’ she said, without thinking, as she closed the gate. Then she stopped. What? What had she just said? Her home was in Exeter …wasn’t it?

She stood with her hand on the gate, frowning, wondering at herself, a slight shiver going up her spine. What was she doing? Did she really mean to commit to Mark that much? And what about him?

A rustle in the long grass by the gate caught her eye. The hare was there again, sat up on her haunches this time, looking at Isoldé.

‘What …?’ Isoldé breathed. ‘What …?’

The hare said nothing, did nothing, just stared up into her eyes. Its own were huge, brown with a blue tinge, almost like pools of water.

‘You were here when I first came,’ Isoldé said. ‘Then I saw you
out on the cliffs. You shifted. You became a girl. Then you went back to being a hare. Are you trying to tell me something?’

Something made Isoldé look up. There, tangled in the topmost branches, was the young crescent moon. Isoldé watched it transfixed, it was beautiful, the silvery sickle shape floating upwards amongst the spidery twigs in the top of the trees, at the top of the valley, above the house.

There was a sound, almost music, a long quavering note, eerie, making her hackles rise. She turned back to the hare. Its mouth was open, the sound came from the creature, calling, plaintive, wistful. It devolved into a very simple tune, three notes up and down, da di di da da da, the first note repeated, longshort-short, then up a note, then up again, then back down to where it started. The tune sounded again and again.

‘What …? What is it you want?’ Isoldé asked the hare.

Still there was no response but the little beast stopped singing and dropped back onto all fours, sat for a moment then turned to disappear into the undergrowth.

Isoldé stood for a moment then shook herself, it was like waking up, had she been dreaming? The hare was gone. She crouched down. Yes, there in the soft earth was the fresh print of little paws. It had been real. She got back in the car and drove up to the house.

‘I saw your lights come in the gate,’ Mark said as he came out to meet her. ‘Then you stayed there a while. What happened?’

‘It was the hare again,’ Isoldé told him, following him through to the kitchen.

He poured her a glass of wine, refilled his own. ‘The hare was there?’

‘Yes …’ Isoldé paused, took a sip of the wine. ‘It was like she was waiting for me again. She didn’t speak, or shift, but she seemed to sing. Something made me look up at the woods above the house and the new moon was just rising, it was beautiful.
While I watched, this sound came, then it became a tune, very simple.’ She hummed it for him. ‘And when I looked back it was like the hare was singing. Her mouth was open and I swear this sound was coming out of her.’

‘Strange …it’s not like any noise I’ve ever heard of a hare making and it does sound like a simple tune.’ He turned back to fussling with dinner for a moment then took his wine and came to sit with Isoldé at the table.

‘Hares are moon creatures,’ he said.

‘That’s right,’ Isoldé agreed.

‘And Tristan said about the Moon’s song in that letter.’

‘He did.’

They were both not saying it, skirting round, not coming in close, it was too personal.

‘OK.’ Mark grimaced. ‘Is it the beginning of the song you’re getting?’

‘I don’t know but it does seem awfully coincidental to see the hare, right at the gate, and just as the moon is rising. And then to get this tune,’ Isoldé said.

‘What shall we do about it?’

‘I vote we have dinner, do whatever, go to bed, let it all find its own way. Straining my brain isn’t working. I’m hungry. I’ve missed you all week. I want to be with you for a bit, not ferreting about after lost songs. There’s plenty of time for that later. Can we just have now to ourselves?’

Mark pulled her hand to his mouth and gently sucked each finger.

‘Will that do for starters?’ he asked, grinning wickedly.

Isoldé woke in the big bed to the crepuscule light of pre-dawn. Her skin prickled, she looked up, something had passed the window but now she looked it was gone. She pulled some clothes on, went to the hall, pulled on boots, threw Mark’s fishing jumper over her shoulders and slipped outside.

The air was fresh, the grass covered with dew, the sun tangling with the branches at the top of the valley above them. That way drew her; she set off up the path. The going was steep, difficult right from the start. Mark had shown her the way on the map, saying they would go up later this morning, but this was different, exploring on her own. The quiet was emphasised by the chuckling stream, the birdsong echoed in the trees reminding her of the cathedral in Exeter. A cathedral of trees. The light was indirect, sparkling off leaves moving in the almost invisible morning air. She stopped. What had she just said? You couldn’t see air. She looked again, she
could
see this air, slightly, almost, by looking out the corner of her eye. It was as if the air molecules had a golden edge, like soap bubbles. She shook her head but the effect was still there. Shrugging, she set off again up the path.

Arriving at the wooden bridge by the ash tree Isoldé stood for a moment. Mark had said they always stamped three times on the planks before they went over the bridge, calling out “Permission to cross?” just in case of hungry trolls. She smiled, remembering Billy Goat Gruff.

She put one foot on the planks and tapped out three beats on the wood. ‘Permission to cross …?’ she whispered.

An owl hooted back at her, three times. She peered, looking for it. Hidden against the grey bark and ivy she saw the tawny owl. Behind, in the trunk, she could now see the hole where it must roost up during the day. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

The owl gave a funny sort of purring croon, stepped from foot to foot and turned its head right round and back again on its
shoulders. Isoldé kept one eye on the bird all the way across the bridge.

She carried on up the path until she came to a convenient boulder where she could sit and catch her breath, watch the stream. Just below her it was shallow, limpid water flowing like silk over brown stones, rippling round larger rocks with a sort of “gollumph” noise. The birds were all quiet too, making no sound. It was as if the forest held its breath. Looking around her she guessed she was at the last stretch. The path climbed steeply above her. It must go to the rock tunnel Mark had shown her on the map. Then it would be downhill, down the steps, to the cauldron pool. And the waterfall. There was an ache within her, calling her. She got up and began to climb.

By the time she reached the rock tunnel she was out of breath. She sank into a crouch with her hands flat on the earth and hung her head down, panting. Her fingers tingled, and her feet. At first she put it down to the blood singing through them then she felt a response from the earth, a pulse, and not just the soil but the rocky bones of the planet. Her breath quieted and her eyes opened, she stayed still listening. There was a pulsing humming out of the rocks of the tunnel itself, an almost-sound she couldn’t quite make out. Something leapt across the far exit of the tunnel ahead of her and the sensation stopped.

Isoldé started, shook herself and stood up. What was that? It had gone so fast she couldn’t see. She took a breath, walked through the tunnel out onto the rocky platform and turned down through the gate to the steps.

The downward steps were just as strenuous as the upward path had been. Uneven, rough, sometimes sloping and often slippery, she was glad of the handrail pinned to the rock. Halfway down she passed a shelf-like path curving round to the left. For a moment she almost took it but something pulled her on down.

The sound was incredible now, deafening, the rocks
themselves shuddering in the roar. Reaching the bottom, she stopped a moment to loosen the tension the climb had put in her neck and to uncurl her fingers from the handrail. She knew what was round the corner, Mark had shown her pictures and there was a beautiful drawing of it in the library. She was savouring the moment of anticipation before seeing the real thing.

She walked around the cliff. There it was, the cauldron pool. Looking up she saw the thread of water, like Rapunzel’s hair, as Tristan had called it in the song. The thin strip of white water crashed down the fifty foot of cliff into the first bowl. Spray misted the dark air above it. Then it thundered out in a bright, white fall through the hole in the rock and into the main pool, the kieve. Above the hole, on the rock shelf, sat a figure. He was laughing down at her, tossing bright stones into the pool. Light, like fire, seemed to spark upwards as each stone fell into the water.