It felt glorious to be above the Hollow Hills in the delicate warm light of Eronth. The large standing stone was warm from the sun. Various magical symbols were etched into his surface. Maya could sense Ellie-Jane’s fear of the Circle of Nine, and her shoulders shook with laughter. Ellie-Jane was afraid of her own shadow.
Further back in the field, Maya could see the Vestal Virgins, the Protectors of the sacred stones, lying in the grass, making daisy chains. Lazy cows. Sitting around gossiping like a pack of Faiaite women. She pushed herself further into the stone, sensing that if the Virgins spotted her trespass into the Circle of Nine, they would order her to leave.
‘Maya!’ Maya. Her name spoken inside her mind followed Ellie-Jane’s plaintive call. She looked around, startled. Where, by King Pysphorrus’s hairy balls, did that come from? Maya. There it was again, louder, more insistent. Realisation dawned. Her eyes widened, and a small thrill shot through her. The vibration of the large monolith she stood against had altered. A pleasant sensation of warmth began to spread through her body. Her breath came faster. In her mind she began to fantasise that she was being held from behind by two masculine arms. His hands, warm and knowing, would begin a wanton exploration of her breasts and his wet warm mouth would . . .
‘Hail! You have no right to visit and touch the Bwani stone without permission!’ Maya jumped guiltily, her erotic daydream abruptly terminated. Cheeks flaming, she opened her mouth to protest her innocence, but closed it again; she saw the faintly sneering expression on the Virgin’s face. What would be the point? She would always be prejudged as being of Imomm blood, one of the barely tolerated Eronth Faery tribes. The truth was she was the result of a union between the primordial Stag Man of Eronth and a Bluite Crossa named Emma, and she had been conceived in the annual Belthane rites at Faia. She had been abducted by the Faery people when still very young, with a Faery changeling being left in her place back on Earth. Because of this she was wrongly mistaken to be of Imomm blood in Eronth by the Eronthites, who went by their sense of smell when they sighted her.
Where are my wings? She longed to scream the words that burned in her throat. My blonde-silver hair? My magical Faery eyes? You smug, virgin Eronth cow! But she was loath to utter the words, for then she would be forced to acknowledge the vast difference between herself and the beings who surrounded her and among whom she had grown up.
The discriminatory attitude of many of the beings she encountered in Eronth never failed to wound Maya. Yes, the Imomm could be savage, and their powers of enchantment were legendary. Yes, they were mischievous and they loved to steal changelings, but there were only two pure-blood Faery tribes remaining in the land, and so they were literally fighting for their lives, struggling to restore a dying race. It didn’t help when the parallel worlds, such as the Blue Planet, were gradually losing their belief in Faeries, a deadening thought pattern which only added to their dwindling powers.
The Winskis encircling Maya’s head jeered at the Virgin, gnashing their minute teeth and shaking their fists and spitting at her. Maya somehow found the tongue to stammer an apology, but soon realised she was speaking in the Xon tongue when a bewildered look crossed the Virgin’s face. In her embarrassment she had lost the ability to communicate in the Tongue of All Worlds.
‘Be on your way, Imomm! The Circle of Nine is not for the likes of you!’ The Virgin’s eyes were cold and filled with contempt, as she shooed Maya away from the stone. Maya! Release me. The voice in her head was strong, but it felt centuries-old and filled with yearning. Maya looked uncertainly at the stone, reluctant to leave. The Virgin stood protectively in front of it.
‘Safe Journey, Imomm! Be on your way in peace. Do not be disturbing Bwani again! Merry Meet! Merry Part and Merry Meet again!’
With a heavy heart, Maya walked slowly away from the stone circle, casting several looks back at the Bwani stone. The furious Winskis clasped hands and sang a mocking song to the Virgin as they somersaulted in the air.
‘There you are!’ Ellie-Jane suddenly stood in front of her, hands on her chubby hips, relief all over her good-natured, freckled features. Maya felt suddenly ashamed of herself when she saw how close to tears her friend was.
‘Come on, Maya! We mustn’t tarry. ‘There’s a feast and a dance at sundown, and you know Diomonna’s temper when we’re late!’
‘So? There’s always a feast and a dance.’ Maya grumbled, but she quickened her pace, for none of the occupants of the Hollow Hills liked to be on the receiving end of one of Diomonna’s rages.
The Virgin frowned after the departing figures of Maya and Ellie-Jane. She watched cautiously until they had disappeared into thin air. Imomm, but unwinged. The transgression of the Imomm entering in the stone circle had made her uneasy. She could feel the altered vibration emanating from Bwani. Tenderly she caressed the stone.
‘Settle now,’ she soothed him. ‘Be at peace, great Bwani. The dirty Faery will no’ bother you again.’ Her hand was wet with moisture. Incredulous, she looked at the monolith. Tears. The stone had cried tears.
CHAPTER FIVE
Alas! There is no news to record again! It is fair to say that life has become a tedious recording of Winski births and deaths. Our great Queen Diomonna has never regained her happy wings since that rot wood Webx and the stinky escaped the Hills. And it is fair to record again — loath as I am to stoop to silly Winski gossip — that she imagined herself in love with the rot wood! She has banned all Winskis from singing his praises and threatens to cut off our wings if we mention his name. Yea, life is humdrum. One of the Maja tarantulas escaped, and was last seen heading towards Faia village. Foolish hairy! Hiss, claw. So doubt he has proven a tasty snack for Solumbi. I have grown quite portly in the stomach, not to blame our fair Queen, but since she struck me and tore my wing, I have never been able to fly as far and thus tend to spend most of my time working on the Winski Book of Life. Not that any of my fellow Winskis appreciate this! There is not enough space to record my moss mouth at their contempt for the Book of Life. Useless to tell the pebble-brains that our history needs to be recorded! They just laugh and compose nonsense rhymes about Jig Boy the hairbrain, hairdick. Even the baby Winskis are singing their babble!
Later. Clouds have moved. By hiss and claw, I have observed Old Patricia and Ellie-Jane in a close conversation. Their lips and eyes are hatching some mischief, and I, Jig Boy, will record the mark of it when I find out. Also the Winskis are singing that members of the Wezom tribe have been spotted lurking near Imomm territory! An army of Winskis has flown out to sniff them. By King Pythagorus’s sweet breath, I wish my wings were strong enough to join them. The air feels bad. I feel a storm is brewing.
Account written by Jig Boy, Son of Elven Foot. Forgotten what Turn of the Wheel.
— Extract from the Winski Book of Life
‘Where have you two hairy rascals been?’ Patricia stood at the entrance to the Hollow Hills, anxiously looking out for the two girls. Her gumless mouth was pursed in disapproval. She was wearing a much-darned green jumper, which she had decorated with leaves, and a red woollen beanie was pulled over her white curls. Old Patricia would often dress in layers of clothing, complaining about the cold of the Hollow Hills making her arthritis ache. ‘Diomonna’s in a foul temper. She’s wanting to start the feasting, and she can’t until we’re all in attendance.’ She looked accusingly at Ellie-Jane.
‘Don’t scold her, Boldmameesh! It was no’ her fault. I was hiding from her.’
‘Weesh! It never be her fault! Aren’t you too old to be playing such tricks, Maya? Do you wanna worry your poor old Boldmameesh to death?’
‘You will never die,’ Maya said, embracing her. ‘You will be as immortal as Diomonna or the Dreamers.’
‘Hush, child!’ Patricia crossed herself frantically, a habit remaining from her Catholic upbringing on the Blue Planet. ‘Dinna forget the Hollow Hills have many ears. Anyroads, face to it now. I am Bluite, and Diomonna can pump me with as much Glamour as she likes, but very soon
my bones will lie fermenting the Hills.’
Ellie-Jane rolled her eyes upwards. ‘Cheerful as always,’ she said, shaking her head at Patricia’s morbidity.
‘How old are you, Patricia, in Bluite terms?’ Maya queried in an attempt to delay the meeting with Diomonna, but her elderly nanny refused to be drawn.
‘No idea. Time means nothing here. But all my teeth and pubic hair have long dropped out, so if the Imomm had left me on Earth, I would probably have got my telegram from the Queen.’
‘A queen like Queen Diomonna?’ Maya pressed on, trying to imagine Diomonna acknowledging the Turn of the Wheel for the occupants of the Hollow Hills.
‘No. You know full well that be a fool’s question. Now be off with you and prepare for the feast, before I box your cheeky ears.’ Maya dropped a kiss on her head.
‘Dear Patricia. It may have escaped your failing Bluite eyes that you have shrunk with time and can no longer possibly reach my ears. But I will make haste, if you promise to come to my quarters and tell me a story about your fine Bluite Queen later tonight.’
‘You be too old for such stories, and my memory has as many holes as Faiaite cheese!’ Patricia retorted, but Maya knew her old nanny would sneak to her room later. Blowing her a mocking kiss, she grabbed Ellie-Jane’s hand, and they hurried together into the twisting entrails of the Hollow Hills, surrounded by a crowd of chattering Winskis.
Even in her haste she couldn’t fail to appreciate the beauty of the Hollow Hills, which was a startling contrast to the vivid earth colours of Eronth above. The white limestone cliffs which made up the Hollow Hills glinted with huge slabs of fool’s gold, amethyst and quartz. Thick slabs of petrified wood adorned the Hills and large rocks with intricate fossils containing whole worlds within them. Diamonds and stolen treasures were flung carelessly into huge piles, and from dark corners glinted the glistening eyes of the much-feared Maja tarantulas.
In the centre of the main court grew a huge oak tree. Tied to its groping roots were Crossas and prisoners of the Imomm. From the ceiling of stone and earth twirled elaborate chandeliers made of deer antlers and Maja webs. A Faery Harper sat plucking the string of his enchanted harp, attempting to tune it for the festivities later that evening. In the corner, at his small desk, sat Jig Boy, the tiny Winski scribe who was obsessed with recording the daily events of the Hollow Hills for the Winski Book of Life. He looked up with a scowl at the interruption to his thought processes, sighed heavily, and bent his head over his book again. Maya loved to joke with Ellie-Jane and Patricia about how Jig Boy missed most of the events of the Hills because he was always so absorbed in his writings.
‘Why the lateness? Why does the tall one not hurry home for dancing and feasts?’ A small storm was brewing in the Faery Queen’s face. It was brewing, but it hadn’t broken yet. Diomonna pouted her hurt, while her elongated porcelain hands stroked Jinji, her Faery cat. Jinji opened up one of its three red eyes and mewed its displeasure at Maya. Maya sighed inwardly. Diomonna’s temper tantrums were unbearable and when she was in a sulk, she was nearly as intolerable.
‘Why the lateness from the tall white Maya?’ her Faery court echoed. Maya glanced around at the assortment of Faeries, dressed grandly in dyed silver and gold leaves, and Bogies, who were also dressed up for dinner. All were impatient to dine. On the point of apologising meekly, she was horrified to hear herself saying, ‘I’m not that late and I was busy’. A stifled gasp went through the court. Hundreds of the Winskis began tittering behind their hands to each other.
‘Busy, she said. Busy!’
‘Silence!’ Diomonna screamed. The court was abruptly still. Her hands, with their long, gold-varnished nails and stolen golden rings, ceased stroking Jinji. Frost dripped from her fingertips onto the Faery cat. She threw him to the floor.
‘You dare to speak to Diomonna, Queen of the Imomm and daughter of King Pysphorrus, in such a black, cracked manner? You dare to speak with fire from black tongue in my court? Hiss, claw!’ Maya felt herself cringing at the rage that flashed across the Faery Queen’s face. She opened her mouth to defend herself, but the warning expression on Patricia’s face silenced her. Sullenly, she stared at the dirt floor. She could feel Ellie-Jane standing, hand over her mouth in terror. Maya struggled to keep from erupting into a hysterical burst of giggling; once before she had burst out laughing at the Queen and had lived to regret it. Diomonna approached her slowly, and the court held its breath. Not even the Winskis flapped a wing as, with shining eyes, they watched the drama unfold.
‘Look at me, big Maya. Look at the Queen,’ Diomonna ordered in a voice of honey. Maya looked directly into her beautiful green-gold eyes rimmed with silver. As always, when she stared into that enchanting Faery face, she felt the odd combination of hate and love. Diomonna’s long red hair blew out from her face. Plaited through it by Old Patricia were flecked pansies and cow slips. Her features were twisted in anger. Ice was beginning to form over her face. The storm was about to break. Gently and slowly, she reached out and caressed Maya’s cheek. Her enormous gold wings fluttered. When she saw them move, Maya tensed. Then the Queen struck her savagely across the face. Maya flew halfway across the Great Hall with the force of the blow. Thousands and thousands of Faery wings fluttered.
‘Go to your room, big Maya, unwinged one,’ Diomonna ordered. ‘You will not be joining the feasting tonight. Go quickly. Diomonna mad. Hiss, claw.’ Maya didn’t need to be told twice. Nursing her throbbing head, she staggered from the Great Hall, hearing the mocking laughter of the Faery court behind her.
‘Fuck you, Diomonna!’ she cursed. She had learnt the fuck word from the numerous Crossas that had been lured into the Hollow Hills and made to dance to their deaths in the notorious Faery dance. Fuck was one of the words they often screamed at the Faery court, and Maya had adopted it, especially when she was in one of her many conflicts with Diomonna.
Reaching her small oval earth room, where chandeliers of roots from the trees above hung through the ceiling, she pulled off her ivy-dyed gown and threw herself onto her bed of fresh flowers — which were picked and made up daily by the Crossa servants. The fragrant odour of lavender, wild flowers and soft rose petals helped slightly to ease her spirits.
‘I hate you, fucking Diomonna!’ she sobbed into her lavender-stuffed pillow. ‘One day I’ll leave the Hollow Hills!’ Even to her ears it sounded impossible. For in the known history of the Imomm, only two captives had escaped alive from the notorious Faery tribe: the legendary root man, the Webx Gwyndion, and his meerwog companion, Samma.
Maya could hear the faint, melodic strains of a harp being plucked, and dishes clattering, and she knew the court would now be settling down to a great feast. Her stomach growled its displeasure at her omission from the delicacies the court was no doubt enjoying. Later there would be wild dancing to tambourines, fiddles and flutes. If any Eronthite or Bluite had been foolish enough to wander into the world of the Imomm, they would be forced to dance with the Faery people. There they would dance in abandonment until they died. Maya had never enjoyed that part of the dances, finding it barbaric. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong in the Hollow Hills. No wings. No love for the dances of death. No hiss, no claw.
Maya only had the very faintest memory, like a thin shaving of mist, a half-remembered dream, a life in a different place. A different world. Once she had lived in a world of different smells, where the people looked like her. Wingless, tall, with a body like hers. The inhabitants of the world she dimly remembered were like the Crossas that came screaming underground. Patricia had been in the Hollow Hills so long that she seemed more Faery than Bluite. Ellie-Jane was too afraid to discuss their shared heritage — she just seemed to stonily accept her lot in life, accept that she was doomed to spend her entire life waiting on the Imomm in the Hollow Hills.
But Maya half-remembered another life where an elderly dark-haired woman, gentle and soft and wingless, with fear smoking from her breath and eyes, had cared for her. She remembered a Stag M
an with enormous antlers and ancient, knowing eyes, visiting her nightly, inspecting her closely with flaring nostrils. And a very faint smoke of memory of a dog, large and barking, frightened of whatever it was that walked through the house late at night.
Where were they now? They had vanished when the Imomm had stolen her, putting a changeling child of their own in her place. Did they know? Maya had often pondered that question over many moon-ups in the Hollow Hills. Did they know that the Maya that remained with them was not the true Maya? More hurtful and frightening to contemplate: did they care?
An image of the Bwani stone came into her mind, and the memory comforted her. She remembered the warm sensual feeling that had flooded her lower parts as she had pressed against it. Lying back, kneading her breasts, she visualised herself walking naked into the Circle of Nine and rubbing her body against the rough contours of the stone. Ellie-Jane had told her that the Eronthite women often rubbed their naked bodies over Bwani in the hope of increasing their fertility. Even Sati, the Dark Queen of the Azephim angels, was rumoured to have rubbed herself against the monolith before she had mysteriously acquired the Crossa Fenn, a stolen child abducted by the Azephim couple to rear. There were rumours among the Imomm that Fenn was half-Faery, but Maya knew the Imomm were desperate to create legends about themselves and so increase their own importance in Eronth.
Maya’s hands explored her lower body as she imagined straddling the stone, pushing her hips against it, feeling the hard rock rub against her soft mound. Her hand moved faster between her legs as she visualised riding the monolith, controlling the male essence of what was encaptured inside it. Her orgasm was quick, like a lightning strike, flaring her whole body.
Bride of the Stone: Circle of Nine Trilogy 2 Page 4
