Bride of the Stone: Circle of Nine Trilogy 2

by Josephine Pennicott

  The events of the next few hours were a confused blur for Fenn. Seleza and Rashka were in the room, wrapping her and Jessie in white bandages, like mummies. She struggled, but sank into half-consciousness. There were Watcher Angels, running and shouting. Were they friend or foe? She could never remember fully if they were aiding her. She was wrapped in Rashka’s arms, Jessie dangling from her. They were melting through walls, they were in the stones of the castle.

  Dust of centuries was in her eyes, her nose, her ears. She witnessed clearly a confused history of the Azephim angels from when they had first made their home in the Wastelands. None of it was real — she could see it clearly now through the castle dust in her eyes. She had believed herself to be living in a castle in the Wastelands and thus it had been so. Now it was folding, melting around her. The illusion had ended.

  Seleza was behind her, above her; the Azephim High Priestess was everywhere. She was in the air, she was the air. Fenn realised with horror that Seleza was carrying the Eom. Behind her floated more Azephim, an army of them, angels that she had never seen before. They were dragging the bodies of the Webx Elders in the spinnerets. The heartbeats of the Webx Elders were magnified, the sound overpowering. Fenn could feel her body dissolving into the amplification. Flesh was slipping from her bones, tears fell from her eyes as she watched her teeth slide from her mouth. They are dissolving me. She tried to scream, but could not, for she no longer had a throat. Then all was blackness.

  Time must have passed. She was sitting alone in an enormous white hall. Ornate ivory sculptures of strange Azephim gods looked down upon her with jewelled, impassive cold eyes. A soft chalky ash seemed to fall on her from the roof above. Outside the large windows facing her she caught glimpses of snow falling. Her body felt unfamiliar, too large, and awkward. Veils of curtains billowed and, in the distance, a harp was being played. A miniature white cheetah regarded her with disdain from a fire grate where icy-cold blue flames flickered. Fenn’s breath hung ragged in the air, and her heart ticked on as she waited.

  Finally, after what seemed to be an endless night of sitting, unable to move, Seleza appeared before her. Fenn watched with little interest. The Azephim High Priestess had used Glamour carefully, and she looked a totally different person from the being Fenn had last witnessed. She looked younger, Fenn realised through her dulled mind. Her dark hair hung to her waist. She was dressed simply in a white cotton gown, with no jewellery or adornment. Her face was heavily made up, but the slight covering of scales that was a feature of the Azephim only seemed to complement her beauty. She smiled through blood-red lips and, when she spoke, her words turned to silvery snowflakes. ‘You must rest here,’ she said, her voice echoing in the room. ‘It has been a long journey, and you are not fully together. There are parts of you yet to come.’

  It was only then that Fenn realised she was in the Web-Kondoell.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Our days are a never-ending dream

  Till the Dreamers awake — we shall lie as dust,

  Never separated, whole and perfect

  I will stroke you with my wing.

  — Caption of a cartoon in New Baffin Daily, depicting Rudmay and Horus

  After a few days spent under the tutelage of Wollemoonx, Gwyndion was relieved when Joseph led them to a different door on the fourth sun-up. Far above them, in a delineated world, the sky was still streaked with night. The thought of spending another entire day bathing owls and mopping floors had weighed heavily upon him. Why, thought Gwyndion, the cantankerous old scribe might want his ears cleaned, or a neck rub!

  The door opened immediately to Joseph’s knock, as if the occupant of the room had been listening out for it. A faint smell of cigarette smoke wafted across, and a woman surveyed the Webx with open curiosity.

  ‘A Webx,’ she said in a voice of wonderment. ‘How perfectly, wonderfully thrilling!’

  Her hands made the Webx fluttery greeting, and Gwyndion automatically responded.

  ‘And a handsome specimen of an Oakdeer, too!’ she said. ‘Well, that will make my day pass more pleasantly!’

  She was as opposite to Wollemoonx as could possibly be, thought Gwyndion, studying her in frank curiosity. Her hair was cut short in a pink bob, and her ears were elongated like one from the world of Faery, but she looked Bluite. Her skin was translucent, pale from her long hours spent in the hidden world of the Scribes. Silver jewellery dangled from her ears and clinked around her wrists. The eyes looking at them were the palest wash of green, lined with silver kohl, and they shone with a strange intensity. Her lips were bright blue, with a bee-sting pout. She was ageless; Gwyndion knew she must be of Crone age, but it would be impossible to guess exactly. Her life had been spent underground, lost among her world of books. Like Wollemoonx, she had a tiny golden owl on her shoulder, but this one sported a hot pink ribbon around its neck.

  ‘Oh! There’s the meerwog!’ she cried, spotting Samma, who was looking shyly out from under Gwyndion’s arm.

  ‘She looks like you,’ she said to Gwyndion, and then to Joseph, ‘Big Jo, have we got some ilkama milk for her to snack upon?’

  Joseph beamed, bopping his horns up and down. ‘Sure thing, Rudmay! I’ll fetch some for you!’

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there!’ Rudmay giggled to Gwyndion. ‘Walk into my parlour!’ Her room was totally different from Wollemoonx’s, but Gwyndion’s spirits sank when he realised he might have to clean and organise the mess before him. It seemed that the Scribe had heaped some object on every available surface. There was ancient jewellery piled into a corner. Victorian-era postcards from the Blue Planet were tacked to one of the walls. Miniature models of dragons from all the known worlds were thrown into a box. Snakes slithered, a coil of scaled brilliant colours, in aquariums.

  ‘Don’t worry about the mess,’ Rudmay said cheerfully. ‘You’ll get used to it. It’s handy for me, because I can put my hands on whatever I want, whenever I want.’

  ‘Would you like me to dust and organise it a bit for you?’ Gwyndion offered weakly, looking around.

  The owl hooted in amusement and Rudmay laughed. ‘Old Woolly’s been putting you through it, hasn’t he?’ she said kindly. ‘Nay, Gwyndion, you would be of greater assistance if you read through all the accounts we have of the Day of Ashes, both the prophecies and the eyewitness accounts by the birds and snakes who witnessed it. We also have some Azephim testimonies on record. As you were a survivor of that incident, it would help if you could spot any major discrepancies in the records.’

  She began studying the rows of books, lips pursed, until she found the one she was looking for, a big book bound in brown velvet. She blew dust from it and made a space for Gwyndion to sit beside her.

  ‘Here you go,’ she said. ‘Your quill is in front of you. When you find discrepancies, simply sign it. We’ll have to get you to do your own testimony of Ashes before you leave us.’ Gwyndion’s eyes shone as he bent his head over the book. This was more like it! His eyes scanned the opening lines. For a long time it seemed, I had looked on in silence as the Webx people worshipped the Eom. Instantly he was transported back to his island, to an idyllic time when he was Shootling and Masachinoneaf. He became oblivious to his surroundings as the words of Gabba the Snake made him relive the Day of Ashes.

  The owl hooted, bringing him to his senses. Rudmay looked up as Joseph entered the room. She had been studying leaves for hours, turning their translucent, delicate bodies up to the light and then writing about them frantically.

  ‘Time for them to finish up, Rudmay.’ He frowned, his nose wrinkling as he looked around the room. ‘I hope you haven’t been smoking down here. You were warned last time.’

  Rudmay looked guilty. She had sneaked a few cigarettes during the day, and then spritzed the room with essential oils in an attempt to disguise the smell. Gwyndion was startled. Had the day really flown so quickly? He looked over to Samma, who was asleep on her back, paws in the air. Rudmay had tied a pink plaid ribbon around her neck to
match the owl’s.

  ‘There’s never enough time. Oh time! How I hate its swift advance! Time, like great Zeus, that destroys all things. Infinite miserly time that devours all, leaving only dust and space.’ Rudmay wiped her eyes. ‘How are you progressing with the snake’s history, Gwyndion?’

  The Webx showed her the few marks he had made. There appeared to be very little he could contradict; the snake seemed to have spent its entire life studying the Webx that surrounded him. Gwyndion was startled by the amount of information he had absorbed. ‘Tomorrow I might start him on some of the old tree alphabet,’ Rudmay said to Joseph. The Geldoz laughed. ‘Don’t pile the work on him too much, Rudmay! He’ll be wanting to go back to Wollemoonx!’

  Gwyndion thought that was highly unlikely as he gently woke Samma. There just seemed suddenly to be not enough hours in the day to study everything that he wanted to learn.

  Kaliegraves was silent as they sat together while she ate a vegetable curry meal that night. Gwyndion described his day to her, and she smiled wanly. ‘I’m glad you are happier, Gwyndion. The Scribes must certainly think you have potential if they are investing all this time in you. Rudmay is quite well known. She writes regular columns for the papers and has developed quite a following. She is also regarded as a fashion plate in New Baffin and the young girls like to follow her trends. I hear it is pink hair this season! No doubt Horus is in pink accessories to match.’

  Her face suddenly creased into lines of pain, and Gwyndion, watching her closely, felt concern strike him. What was wrong with the old Crone? He realised she had not been truly herself for days. She felt his worry immediately.

  ‘It’s nothing for you to fret about, Gwyndion,’ she said. ‘Truth to tell, I don’t fully know myself. I’ve just had the strangest feeling for days, and my dreams are unsettled.’

  She broke a piece of bread, dipping it into her curry, as Gwyndion looked on, perplexed.

  ‘Would you like me to consult with the Scribes about you?’ he said, at a loss for how to help.

  ‘No!’ Kaliegraves laughed, although shadows still flickered in her eyes. ‘Don’t you dare be wasting their good time. You are there to learn, not to use them as Oracles!’ Gwyndion watched her with a sense of foreboding. Outside, the winds lashed the waves, and he heard the haunting cry of a mermain.

  *

  He could smell the sea. It both soothed and nauseated him as he slipped down the cobbled lanes. Seaweed and seaflowers hung from many of the front verandahs of homes he passed. A group of small children turned a jumprope on the corner of one of the lanes, chanting a juvenile skipping song.

  Skip the rope low, skip the rope high!

  Skip the rope quickly before you die!

  Don’t let the rope touch you, on leg or on head.

  If it goes around your neck, it will slice through your head, head, head.

  Gwyndion shivered as they turned to him and laughed. He thought he saw Khartyn and Rosedark in the distance, and he ran joyfully to meet up with them. But when he did reach them, he fell back with a cry of shock. They were hermaphrodites, dressed in the clothes of the Crone and her apprentice. Confused, he let their arms go and watched them walk away. Dark glistening trails led through the cobbled streets like a snail’s trail. Gwyndion saw them and wondered at their meaning. Birds flew, startling him. Thousands of doves rose in the air, their wings creating a wind that rushed around him. Rose petals scattered on the ground, brilliant red, but they turned to brown as he trod near them, and lay rotting beneath his feet. A movement behind him; he turned quickly. Nothing. His feet moved on, the smell of rotting fish wafting from the great vats of fish guts nearby.

  Prostitutes stood in doorways, their mouths opening, calling to him, but no sound was emerging. Some of them had the heads of fish. Their breasts escaping from their dresses, they laughed with their large fish mouths. Gwyndion could taste scales inside his mouth. The three smallest Brides from the Adonis rites were in front of him, their tiny veils billowing around them, half masking their faces. Their eyes were filled with icy detachment. He followed them.

  They were moving towards the ocean, their pace quickening. Still the rose petals were in front of him, turning to brown beneath his feet. The cry of gulls was in his ears, or was that the mocking song of the Mermain people listening to his heartbeat beneath the cold ocean waves? Along the shore was a line of women, the majority of them with their heads shaved. They stared at him coldly as he walked past them. He knew them for what they were. They were the pleasure-seekers; they had risen from the beds of their lovers and families to honour Aphrodite by sleeping with strangers. He moved past the silent waiting line, following the Brides, drawn by an urgency he did not understand.

  The exterior of her temple was adorned with scallops and periwinkles. The colours of the interior were scarlet and green, with touches of blue. Hundreds of doves flew silently through the building, making their home in the roof. Soft cries of passion came from behind every locked door.

  Gwyndion moved silently down corridors, floating as insubstantial as a shadow. Outside a heavy wooden door, a Crone Bride sat beside a censer of incense. She looked up at him, little interest registering in her sunken eyes as he fell softly through the air beside her. She was chewing betel juice, the red stains around her mouth evidence of her addiction. He had time to examine the door before he moved through the wood. Grapes entwined swans framing a beautifully carved scenario of the birth of Aphrodite from the severed genitals of Ouranos. Around the graphic description was engraved, ‘Daeira — daughter of Oceanus, the Wise One of the Sea’.

  Between shit and piss we are born. Gwyndion had heard that phrase many times in Faia from the farming people, as they attempted to explain away their misfortunes. What must life be like for one who was born from severed, bloody genitals? Someone born not of love and soft cries, but from the cold blade of a knife and a detached, lifeless member? There were older carvings scratched into the wood, of elephants and tigers, and slaves constructing craft while angels from the Heztarra Galaxy looked on. Many scenes of another incarnation of Aphrodite as Ishtar, Gwyndion realised. Below that, there were even fainter markings, but before he had time to study these further, he floated through the door.

  The room was dimly lit, and gauze veils hung from the ceilings. He brushed past one, then another. He heard the faint hiss of a snake, and he froze, looking around, but could see no sign of the reptile. I will come to you in a dream while you lay in the world of the dead and give you guidance. Let scales grace your dreams. Sssshhh!

  Large fans turned in the room, fluttering the veils. The aroma of the sea was thick in this small space. It clung to his nose, his hair, his eyes. There was a pressure in his head. In the corner of the room, on an array of heaped cushions, were a couple. Gwyndion guessed that the male’s exceptional looks indicated him to be a member of the court that paid homage to Aphrodite by acting in lifetime service as her gigolo. He was lying back, his dark hair fanned around him, a half-smile on his face as one of the Bridal Crones rode him, her withered drooping breasts jangling. Her wizened mouth half opened in joy as she enjoyed the fruits that this young beauty had to give her.

  Gwyndion turned, alerted to being watched. Lying back on a scarlet settee was the Tomb Goddess herself. It was disconcerting to observe her in the flesh, without the veils and the ceremony of the Adonis rituals surrounding her. She appeared smaller, her face weirdly split into segments reflecting different faces of thought patterns about her over the centuries. Many artists had painted her, and each stroke of their brush over time was reflected on her features. He was close enough to see faint beads of sweat on her upper lip and tiny strands of hair curling around her heavy gold earrings. She was naked, her body heavily oiled and gleaming; around her curvy hips she wore the magic girdle of legend. The air smelt of roses and jasmine, mixed in with the sea. He felt aroused by her and she smiled, sensing his inner struggle.

  ‘It is a long time since I have enjoyed a Webx,’ she said, as her gaze
rested between his legs. He could feel sexual energy building in him, and the moans of passion from the corner were not helping him to control himself. When he looked again at Aphrodite, he was startled to see she had the head of a black snake.

  ‘The answers to the questions you seek are with the ancient sea warrior, Queen Shambzhla. The Crone Khartyn will aid you in finding her. She has eleven fish who suck from her eleven tits day and night. Inside one of the fish’s bellies is the sparrow of the one you know as Samma. If you manage to guess which fish it is, Shambzhla will honour the Seefaxmomill people, who originally placed the sparrow there, by returning it to you, thereby restoring Samma to her original form. If, however, you guess the wrong fish, then it will result in an eternity of Samma being lost without her sparrow. You will be allowed only one guess.

  ‘If you are reluctant to accept the challenge, then know that the future of Faia lies upon your shoulders at the moment. Shambzhla also has in her possession the tongue of Mary, High Priestess of Faia. If you can retrieve the tongue, then Mary’s full senses will be restored to her. Go now from this place of dreams, of truths and untruths, and ruminate on what I have said. The correct course of action will be given to you. Before you leave, Webx, step forward and receive the kiss of the snake.’

  The Webx stepped forward towards the snake head, which was swaying on top of Aphrodite’s body. Nervously, he shut his eyes as the reptilian head moved towards him. A forked tongue was upon his face, forcing him to open his lips. The tongue explored his teeth and gums. Then he felt a sharp pain upon his neck and he cried out. He had been bitten.

  ‘Do not fear,’ the snake hissed. ‘The bite brings not death, but power.’

  Gwyndion could feel his skin cells dropping to the floor. He felt rebirthed. The snake’s tongue continued to explore his face and upper chest. Now he had no fear and had begun to feel aroused again. When he was on the point of orgasm, the snake withdrew its sensuous licking. The reptilian head was gone and in its place was Aphrodite. She looked at him without smiling. Never had he seen a woman look more beautiful or more terrible.