The Moonshawl: A Wraeththu Mythos Novel (17 page)

I didn’t feel restored enough to stand up for at
least a couple of minutes. All I wanted to do was get back to the tower, shut
myself in. Well, I’d certainly experienced a Cuttingtide rite, although not one
I’d have chosen. I was aghast the Whitemanes were so powerful they could affect
me like this. And how exactly had they done it? I’d been given no strange
philtre, had entered no otherworld, and yet I felt as if I’d lost time and my
head was not my own. It was like being drunk. I was weakened, barely capable of
controlling my limbs.

Slowly, I began my homeward
journey, passing from tree to tree, holding on to them, feeling their breathing
warmth. I sensed they observed me scornfully. I saw faces in the foliage all
around me. Echoes of memories cavorted across my mind.

Howling. Galloping horses. Smoke.
Fire. Gutted buildings. Plumes of blood. Hoarse screams. A severed arm pointing
from the earth. Then eyes. Frightened eyes. Not caring. Less than animal.

I didn’t ever think of my early
days of hardom. I didn’t want to, and yet what I had witnessed that night had
conjured back those times: our relentless driving urge to conquer, never
ceasing our forward advance, like terrible sentient locusts armed with blades.
Devouring, destroying everything in our path. No matter how I sought to
suppress these recollections, they refused to be banished. How could I have
been influenced and incapacitated like this?

Presently, I became aware of
dancing, purplish shadows among the trees, and then saw a streak of magenta fire
that trailed ribbons of deep pink smoke. The sight of it stalled the parade of
hideous images in my head and in that way cleared it a little. The peculiar
werelight fizzed round me, sometimes crossing my path some yards ahead, other
times flickering through the trees. I felt it had intelligence, was observing
me, teasing me. This, I felt sure, was a manifestation – or hallucination – of
the
ysbryd drwg
that Fush had mentioned. I was mesmerised by its strange
beauty, but knew I must escape it. Yet wherever I turned it overtook me.

Eventually, I gave up trying to
get away. ‘State your purpose or begone!’ I said, mustering a voice of command.
The apparition hung before me on the path, only feet away from me. For a few
brief moments it adopted a vaguely harish shape: a mass of hair floating on the
air, but no face. There were trailing arms like long thin fins, a robe of
purple-black billows that faded to nothing above the dirt of the track. I heard
a sound like the crackle of lightning, which might have been laughter. Then it
was gone and the blackness was absolute, the landscape around me utterly
silent, holding its breath.

I was so relieved to see the
tower on its hill, I almost wept. By this time, my limbs had stiffened and my
head was aching badly. Hara are rarely ill, but I was reminded of my human
childhood, of the diseases of infancy that confined you to bed in a hushed
room, of time ticking by, and the sweats of sickness, the boiling eyes, the
soreness of throat and limb. I pressed my flaming face against the wood of the tower
door, fumbling with the latch. Then I was inside, and it was as if loving arms
reached for me, helped me up the stairs. I didn’t pause at the kitchen, but
went directly to my bedroom, where I flung myself on the bed, fully dressed.
The Whitemanes had somehow
done
something to me, but what? I could
barely move, afire with fever and pain.

I must have drifted into sleep, for I awoke not
long before midnight, feeling perfectly fine. Whatever spasm had gripped me, or
made me believe I’d been gripped, had vanished. The ancient memories had
settled, become dim, and could be ignored. I went down to the kitchen and
prepared myself some tea as well as three thick rounds of toast, for now I was
ravenous. As I ate, I wrote up everything I’d experienced. Had Ember Whitemane
managed to blow some hallucinogenic powder onto me? Had the lights on the
ground been laced with some kind of drug that I inhaled?  While it would be
easy to imagine harm had been done to me on purpose, perhaps what I’d gone
through was merely a component of the Whitemane ritual. All of them had been
addled in the same way, running through the trees, amid the squirming hounds, carrying
an injured har between them.

‘Crazy hara,’ I said aloud,
shaking my head, and reaching for the comfort of hot tea. Only the dehara knew
what had happened once that bacchanal band had reached the Whitemane domain. I
imagined savage lust, fiery eyes, and the warm brown of Whitemane flesh. But
there was no arousal in these thoughts; I was glad to be home.

Around an hour later, I went
back to my bed, feeling comfortably drowsy and ready for wholesome sleep. The
night was so calm, especially as Mossamber’s hounds were absent from the farm.
The eerie rise and fall of their spontaneous nocturnal chorus was not there to
unnerve me and delay my slumber.

I remember I dropped off fairly
quickly, for often I’m prone to lying awake for a long time before sleep comes
to me. But then there was the dream.

As in the most disturbing of lucid
dreams, I was convinced I was awake. I heard a noise on the stairs that woke
me, and I sat up in bed. Clear azure starlight illumined the room. I saw the
door swing open slowly, revealing an intense darkness beyond. I didn’t feel
afraid, only curious, but also sure of who would be standing there at my
threshold. As I’d known, it was Ember Whitemane who stepped from the darkness.
He didn’t speak but came to me directly, half dressed in what might have been
torn cloth or leaves. His hair drooped in matted rags over his breast and his
eyes seemed wholly black. His stare reached right into me – wild, hungry,
challenging – and inflamed me instantly and fully.

Again, a memory of the
distant past, when aruna had been a mind-bending and potent drug, hara hungry
for it continually. The power in it. I saw a pair of dark eyes gleaming, eyes
across a fire.

Ember tore back my quilt and in
a moment was upon me. I met him with equal hunger. We clawed at one another,
snarling. What he gave me was gritty, part of the forest, scoring my insides,
painful as much as pleasurable. I pulled his hair, trying to drag his face to
mine, but he resisted. There would be no sharing of breath between us. This was
some base, proto-pagan act, the culmination of whatever his bizarre hara had
done that night, with nothing of finer feeling about it. It was as if he pulled
from deep within my spirit some primal, savage entity. The ecstasy of this
fierce coupling was so great, I was barely conscious. As waves of delirious
arunic energy began to course through my flesh, I uttered a cry, a word. A
name. But it was not Ember’s. He took this from me, perhaps had visited me to
seek it. I could not silence it, make him forget it, or pretend it wasn’t the
most potent of spells.

‘Gesaril!’

Only once.

Enough.

When I woke the next day I wasn’t as disturbed by
the dream as I thought I should be, even though I could remember every detail.
I knew it
was
a dream, that Ember had not visited me in reality. There
were no leaves, or sticks or soil within my bed. My soume-lam wasn’t torn. I
wasn’t bruised or scratched. But at the same time I was convinced Ember and his
kin had
created
the dream. I was now sure the experience I’d had in the
bedroom days before, of imagining that sticklike creature against me, had
somehow presaged Ember’s visit. His night raid of my sleeping mind, which I
took to be mischievous rather than malevolent, didn’t anger me or make me
afraid, only left me somewhat dazed. I can’t deny I’d enjoyed it, in an
appalled kind of way. But what did unnerve me was that I’d spoken that name; my
secret. I wasn’t happy the Whitemanes had this name, but then, thinking
rationally, how could they use it against me? My history with Gesaril – at
least I was able to acknowledge his name now, as if a heavy stone had been
lifted from me – was hardly likely to offend the Wyvachi should they discover
it, because it
was
history, a sorry story of two individuals who’d acted
impulsively. There is no record to say I was cruel.

After breakfast, I began to move clocks into the
bathroom. One from the kitchen wall, one from the bedroom, another from the
living-room mantelpiece. Why I was driven to do this, I couldn’t then explain,
but it felt right, as if the tower was speaking to me. I’d had a brief
impression of the bathroom being used for ritual purposes when I’d first come
here, and of clocks being somehow a part of that. I needed to bring these
measurers of earthly time into that room, because it would initiate something.
I had no idea what.

Chapter Ten

The celebrations for the Wyvachi Cuttingtide rite
would begin in the early evening. I went over to Meadow Mynd in the afternoon
to help with the preparations. In the garden, Rinawne came to me almost
immediately as I wandered among the trestle tables and busy hara on the main
lawn. He took my hand and said, ‘Ys, are you all right?’

I pantomimed a double take,
raised my brows. ‘A strange greeting! Of course I’m all right. Why?’

Rinawne regarded me with
suspicious eyes. ‘I don’t know. It’s just when I first saw you across the lawn,
you seemed...’ He shook his head. ‘There, I have no words to describe it! I
suppose “out of sorts” will have to do.’

I squeezed his hand and let go
of it. ‘I’m fine. Just a little tired. Sat up far too late last night and there
was wine in my store to help bring in the change of season.’

This was something Rinawne could
understand and empathise with. ‘Your own fault, then!’

I smiled. ‘Yes. But never mind
my self-inflicted hurts. There are so many tables here. Are you feeding several
villages tonight?’

Rinawne laughed. ‘We might well
do. Word has spread. Hara are curious.’

‘This means, of course, you and
Wyva were publicising the event last night on your excursions.’

He shrugged a little. ‘Well,
maybe.’ There was an excitement about him; he had some news. But I knew enough
of Rinawne by now not to push him for it. He liked to choose his moments to
astound. And from the look of him, the news could not be bad.

‘How would you and Wyva feel
about Myv leading the procession tonight?’ I asked. ‘I was thinking last night
it might be a good idea to announce his intentions concerning the hienama
role.’

‘Sounds fine to me,’ Rinawne
said. ‘I know Wyva would think the same. Word’s got out already a bit. I think
Myv must’ve mentioned it at the school, or to one of the househara who care for
him.’

‘Oh, what’s the reaction been to
the news?’

‘Hara like the idea, or seem to.
Why would they not? They’ve been gasping for a hienama for long enough, and...’
He squeezed my arm, ‘...they have you to teach him.’

‘Well...’

‘All right, all right, we won’t
talk about that now. Anyway, I have to sort things out. Some of these tables
are a mess. Keep me company, though.’

We roamed the lawn of Meadow Mynd, Rinawne
inspecting tablecloths and other such trivia. While he talked with his staff
about details, I mulled over the festival to come. I had decided that Myv
should lead the procession crowned with early summer flowers and carrying a
torch. I was glad rumours had spread among the local hara, and that there
appeared to be no unhappy reaction to them. But then why should there be? Wyva
and his kin were loved and respected. This could only be marvellous news to the
hara of Gwyllion.

I wondered, though, what the
Whitemanes might think about it. Could this announcement even put Myv in
danger? I uttered a small sound aloud to dismiss the thought. I mustn’t bring
such ill-omened ideas into reality. A brief flash of Ember Whitemane’s sly yet
lovely countenance skittered across my mind. I had been determined not to think
of the Whitemanes today, and must push images of them away sternly. The
celebration tonight would be one of joy and gratitude for life itself, with no
dark elements. The Wyvachi must be the future of hara in this area, not the
Whitemanes. I was sure of that after what I’d witnessed the previous evening. The
thought of Myv sticking Wyva with a few arrows, then his hurakin running off
mad-eyed with the unconscious body, was in fact ludicrous. I was almost tempted
to share what I’d experienced with Rinawne, but perhaps that was for another
time. Today should not be tainted.

‘What is it?’ Rinawne asked. He
was studying me and I’d not noticed.

‘Nothing, why?’

‘You made a strange sound.’

‘Oh, just running over plans in
my head. There are some words I wished I’d used for the main rite, but it’s too
late to change now.’

‘Never too late to change,’
Rinawne said, grinning. ‘You should know that. Oh, this might fascinate you...’

‘What?’
Here it came.

‘Well, on our travels last night,
Wyva was in an extremely good mood, and in such moods might miracles occur! We
passed the boundary into the next county and there are relatives of his in that
place. He suggested we
call
on them.’

Rinawne’s face was alight with
pleasure, or perhaps just curiosity and love of drama, but I felt a strange
twist of anxiety at the news. ‘I didn’t think the Wyvachi had any contact with other
relatives.’

‘Little,’ Rinawne said. ‘But it
was in Wyva’s blood to see them, so off we went. The domain is called Harrow’s
End, a beautiful old place, which was – I understand – a wreck when they first
occupied it. Not so now, and a thriving community around it. They were
celebrating their Cuttingtide last night. There were bonfires everywhere,
sparks going up into the sky. We heard the singing long before we reached the
house. We saw hara lurching and dancing all over the fields and gardens. Much
wine and ale had flowed and everyhar was in generous spirit.  The Wyverns were
surprised to see us, of course, but embraces were exchanged, exclamations of
delight. You can imagine. Some of them will be coming here tonight, because
Wyva has told them the past is cleansed. I never realised what an expert liar
he is.’

I frowned. ‘Rin, isn’t this...
isn’t this all rather
important
? Perhaps a public festival isn’t the
right time or place for this family reunion.’

‘Whyever not? Surely hara will
be on their best behaviour if there’s an audience.’

I shook my head. ‘Because... something
happened in the past to divide the family,
severely
divide it. Now you
say it’s all happiness and cheer again? Is that even...
right
without
some sober and
private
discussion?’

Rinawne had assumed a slightly
irritated expression, and had folded his arms. ‘Only if we assume they fell out
for a good reason, which I doubt.’

‘Why assume it was a falling out
at all? Maybe it was more to do with the situation here.’

Again Rinawne shrugged. ‘I don’t
care. I’m impatient with it all, Ys. The secrecy, the melodrama. What reason is
there for it now? Let them all get back together and see what a stupid thing
the division was in the first place.’

‘Well, let’s hope that’s the
outcome,’ I said.

I couldn’t help but think of the
Whitemanes again: the gleam of watchful eyes among the trees; swift, covert
movement; the glint of an arrow. I was compelled to glance over my shoulder, at
the dark mass of the thick shrubbery around the lawn. For a moment I sensed
somehar there, watching me, the faintest tickle of a thought against my mind.
Then it withdrew, the feeling passed. But after that, I had the clear and
certain feeling that the problems of the Wyvachi were intrinsically enmeshed
with the Whitemanes, more so than in mere history. Why this idea should come to
me at that moment and so strongly, I had no idea, but I felt it was right. ‘So
who exactly is coming?’ I said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Prepare me
so I can politely know names.’

Rinawne was looking at me in a
slightly puzzled way, no doubt wondering why I’d looked behind us like a
frightened cat. ‘OK, well I’ve already told you that Wyva’s parents are dead.
As you might expect, details of this are scant and surrounded by much silent
woe and hand-wringing. Maybe they were murdered, who knows? Certainly not me. The
surviving hurakin are led by Wyva’s hura, Medoc har Wyvern – that branch never
lost the original family name. His tribe is vast and prosperous.’

‘Yet in one respect like the
Wyvachi, clinging to the past,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘The family name.’

‘Perhaps, although you don’t get
that feeling so much from them. Anyway, Medoc will come this evening, along
with a half dozen or so relatives. Don’t ask me to remember
their
names.’

I fixed Rinawne with a
hienamarly stare, as he would call it. ‘For Wyva’s sake, for Myv’s, this
reunion has to go well tonight,’ I said.

‘Don’t look so sombre,’ Rinawne
said. ‘Everything was fine last night. Wyva probably hasn’t seen his hura since
he was a harling. His parents are gone, old feuds hopefully forgotten – mostly.
Medoc has no reason not to re-establish relations with Wyva and his brothers.
This should have been broached before.’ He touched my shoulder. ‘I feel it’s
you who’s somehow brought about this change.’

‘Don’t blame
me
for
everything.’

Rinawne laughed heartily. ‘Blame?
I was talking about gratitude.’

Later in the afternoon, after hours of niggling
unease, I made a decision and asked Wyva if I could speak to him in private. He
took me into the library, as he always tended to do when we needed to talk, away
from the hubbub of the house and garden. ‘You have something to say, Ys? You
seem troubled. I hope all the arrangements are to your liking.’

‘Of course,’ I replied, ‘I’m
amazed at the extent of them! No, it’s not that, Wyva, and I don’t want to blow
dark smoke over the excitement, but I must ask you this: will your estate be
secure tonight?’

‘What by Aru do you mean?’ Wyva appeared
shocked, almost angry.

I rubbed the nape of my neck,
embarrassed. ‘Rinawne told me about your hurakin coming here and well... I saw
some
odd
proceedings in the forest last night. The Whitemanes. I hate to
mention them, but I have to. What I saw... It’s hard to explain, but when
Rinawne told me your news I could only feel apprehension. I wouldn’t want the
Whitemanes spoiling your reunion with your family.’

Now Wyva laughed, apparently
relieved. ‘Oh, Ys, you’re such a worrier! They wouldn’t dare. But yes, as you
mention it, I had planned to have hara patrolling our perimeter and the woods
close to the house, just as a precaution. Prying eyes I could do without, and
they might be tempted to spy, knowing – as they certainly will – that the first
of your festival rites will take place tonight. Mossamber wouldn’t be joyful if
he learned Wyverns were present on this soil.’ He paused. ‘What exactly did you
see last night?’

I shook my head. ‘Only the
dehara know really, but I witnessed their enactment of the Cuttingtide story,
or part of it. I saw a running har brought down with arrows within the forest.
He wasn’t killed, or didn’t appear to be. The Whitemanes carried him off,
whooping like maniacs, like blood-maddened hara from the first days of our
kind. To be perfectly honest with you, the sight completely shook me up.’

Wyva clasped my shoulders.
‘Indeed. Bad memories revived. This is the problem with the Whitemanes, you
see. They are...’ He sighed, dropped his hands from me. ‘Well, there’s no other
word but
primitive
. It’s why I can’t negotiate with them properly, why
they want to maintain the bad blood between our families. I didn’t want to say
too much for fear you’d think I was exaggerating the problem, but now you’ve
seen for yourself, and I need say no more. Stay away from them, Ys. You might think
us Wyvachi live in the past, but the Whitemanes haven’t changed since the first
of them were incepted!’

‘Did you know they... that their
rites could be
bloody
?’

Wyva’s mouth twitched a little.
I could almost smell his distaste of the Whitemanes. ‘Naturally, hara have seen
things over the years. Rumours, even reports, have come to me. Mossamber isn’t
exactly discreet in these matters. Yes, I’ve heard before that they enact
the
Arotahar stories quite literally sometimes, although as you surmised I doubt what
you saw was murder. Their ceremonies are known to be...
visceral
. I’m
sorry to say it, but I believe that’s why some local hara are drawn to the
Whitemane festivals. Perhaps in some hara the germs of our creation and the
memories of the first days are not that far from the surface.’

‘I agree, especially so for
first generation.’ I paused, then had to ask, ‘So how will the Whitemanes feel
about Myv?’

Wyva uttered a scoffing sound.
‘They will not care. Neither will they respect or acknowledge Myv’s position in
the community. As with everything to do with us, they’ll ignore or spit on it.
But if you’re worried for Myv’s safety, don’t be. Barbaric though the
Whitemanes might seem, they’ve never physically harmed any of us.’

‘Never?’

Wyva dropped his gaze from mine.
‘Well, let’s just say not through bad intention.’

This was the trouble with life
in Gwyllion. The moment one mystery seemed solved, another oozed out. Was it
possible to harm a har with
good
intention?

The celebrations would begin in the village of
Gwyllion itself, at The Crowned Stag. Here, Selyf and his staff would
distribute hot spiced wine to everyhar who gathered there. I walked the path to
the inn with the family around 7.30 in the evening. The hurakin would not
arrive until later, once the ritual itself was over and everyhar had convened
at Meadow Mynd for the nightlong celebrations.

Myv was excited, the most
animated I’d seen him. Rinawne had dressed him in a moss-green robe and he wore
a crown woven of early summer flowers and ivy, tendrils of which trailed
artfully down his back. Wyva carried the procession torch, as yet unlit, which would
be handed to his son for the ritual lighting. Everyhar associated with Meadow
Mynd walked with us; Cawr and his chesnari Modryn, Porter Goudy, all the
househara and those who tended the fields and gardens, who cared for the
animals. Gen was allowed to ride, because of his healing injury. Dillory, the
cook, began to sing a soft, lilting song, which I did not know, but gradually
everyhar joined in, hardly more than a chorus of whispers. The notes conjured
shivers along my skin, they were so beautiful. I was reminded of the song I’d
heard drifting from the woodland on the evening when I’d first arrived. Perhaps
it had been Dillory singing then too, down amid the trees below the tower, gathering
herbs among the roots.