Scenting Hallowed Blood
Book Two of The Grigori Trilogy
Storm Constantine
Stafford, England
Scenting Hallowed Blood: Book Two of The Grigori Trilogy
© Storm Constantine 1998
Smashwords edition 2009
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people, or events, is purely coincidental.
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Foreword
The landscape of ‘Stalking Tender Prey’, the first book of this trilogy, was that of the Peak District of England; a place where tiny, mysterious villages nestle in ancient moorland and shadowy paranormal beasts are reputed to roam. Although the village of Little Moor, where most of that story takes place, was inspired by the quaint hamlets of Derbyshire, I had no particular one in mind when I wrote the book. But the locations in the novel you are about to read are more faithful to the places that inspired them in my imagination. As some readers have said to me they’d like to visit the places I write about, I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to give some directions. Turn left at the crossroads and walk up along the rays of the moon.
At the end of ‘Stalking Tender Prey’, the characters moved south, escaping everything that had happened in the no-longer sleepy village of Little Moor. Near the beginning of this second book, when you first meet Lily, Shem and the others again, you will find yourself in a place called the Moses Assembly Rooms. These are based on a real location in London, which is often used as a venue for conferences and conventions of an occult or earth mysteries nature.
Conway Hall, in Red Lion Square, is very different in appearance to the Moses Assembly Rooms, being clean, airy and spacious, rather than dark, Gothic and foreboding, and neither, to my knowledge, do Grigori live in its upper rooms! But the little square it’s set in, with its central gardens, and the house across the way where some of the Pre-Raphaelite painters lived and worked, is a wonderfully evocative area. It seems cut off from the hubbub of the city, even though it’s part of the busy West End. This just had to be the place where Shemyaza and his followers hid out for a while. I’ve attended Psychic Questing Conferences and a Fellowship of Isis conference in Conway Hall, and walking along the wide pavement to its front doors has always inspired my thoughts. I imagine the days when Jane Morris, the famed wife of William Morris, and model for many Pre-Raphaelite paintings, alighted from her carriage on this street and entered the tall, pale stone house, her gown rustling on the step outside.
In a small side alley off the square, just to the left as you come out of the Hall, is a cosy pub called The Dolphin that we always frequent when attending events. This also makes a brief appearance in the novel, when Lily and Daniel go out for an evening.
A large part of the story takes place in Cornwall, on The Lizard Peninsular, which will be the centre of attention in August this year (1999) as the location where the full eclipse of the sun will be most visible in England. (This eclipse actually features in ‘Stealing Sacred Fire’, the third part of the trilogy, but I very much doubt whether the bizarre paranormal events that occur in that story will actually take place, though it would be nice if they did!)
The coastline of The Lizard is a very magical place, its serpentine cliffs riddled with caves, while the wild landscape inland is dotted with ancient monuments and important historical sites. The atmosphere that oozes from the rocks themselves can affect you profoundly. Cornwall has a reputation for sending people ‘fey’. You can walk the cliff path from Pistil Meadow to the head of Azumi, the lion simulacrum in the rock that plays a significant part in this story. I should point out that Azumi is the name for this guardian feature that was picked up psychically by a friend, when she was once working in Cornwall. Azumi stares out to sea, looking as much like a lion as if he’s been carved by human hands, complete with eyes and whiskers. If, in ancient times, as legends suggest, the descendants of the Watchers did come to these shores and landed at The Lizard, the first thing they saw would have been the inscrutable leonine face gazing out at them from the red, green and gold cliffs. Cornwall abounds with legends of giants, and many of its features are named after them. Perhaps these are ancient memories of actual individuals, not of monstrous people, but simply members of a tall race, who came to these islands from far over the sea. My friend picked up a rhyme psychically, which seems to be an ancient Cornish song, remembering the advent of the Watchers:
‘Winter sun alight the sea,
brings in a boat for all to see.
Red, gold and green in colours bold,
bringing in giant men of old.
They spilled their blood upon this land,
Across these coves they drew their hand.
And every killie moved by thee, turned to colour red, gold and green.’
(We presumed that the word ‘killie’ is an old term for a cove, bay or cliff.)
The Michael Line, which is a renowned path of natural earth energy that cuts up through England, begins at St Michael’s Mount off The Lizard. This too has a part to play in the story. The ancient spiritual English town of Glastonbury is on the Michael Line, and it is said that the Glastonbury Zodiac, (otherwise known as the Table of Stars), was laid down by the ancient giants, magi from a far land. The Zodiac consists of natural and manmade features that relate to astrological and equinoctial symbolism. The giants supposedly bound the secret knowledge of the grail at the centre of the Zodiac, which would only come to light when the true king, who would be a descendent of their race, came to power.
I have already explained, in the introduction to the first book in this series, that the trilogy came about through my working with earth mysteries investigator, Andrew Collins, who was researching his non-fiction book on the fallen angels, called ‘From the Ashes of Angels’. Andy let me use his research notes to help me construct the background to the story. Some of his information was inspired, in that it derived from the visionary work of psychics. This material had no place in an academic study of the subject, as the majority of people are very sceptical and scornful of psychic information. However, it was perfect for fiction, when the writer can say what she likes. Well, it’s all made up, isn’t it? Andy had many adventures in Cornwall, and a lot of very strange and wonderful things happened to him and his team, which would make an absorbing book in itself. I borrowed from a few of their experiences in constructing this novel. Most of the story, of course, is completely fiction, but not always the bits you might expect!
There is reputedly an order of witches in Cornwall called the Peller. While their name and existence inspired the creation of the Pelleth for this
book, I do not wish to imply I know anything about the beliefs and practices of any real Cornish witches. The Pelleth sprang entirely from my imagination.
I hope that you, via the pages of this book, will enjoy roaming through the enchanting landscape of ancient Cornwall as much as I enjoyed writing about it. If you get the chance, go visit. Sit upon the head of Azumi, explore the caves at Caerleon Cove, or creep into the camomile grove of Pistil Meadow, and see what dreams spring into your mind. I guarantee they will be strange.
Storm Constantine
February 1999
Chapter One
The Women of Cornwall
He was little more than a boy, gleaming in the candle-light like an icon, while the night wind cleared its throat in the long, narrow chimneys of stone that threaded down from the cliff-top to the cave. Candles were set at his feet in a ring; rough wax obelisks, ill-formed as if shaped by hasty hands. He sat upon a giant’s throne that was as ancient as the land itself, his body dwarfed within the great stone chair, his toes just touching the worn rock beneath it. There was an oily smell to the air, slightly fishy, and the sound of the sea, the eerie lament of the rising storm, came faint and threatening down the tunnel of rock that led to the beach.
Outside, white waves would thrash upon the bleak Cornish shore and the rain come down in blades.
Symbols of his goddess littered the floor of the cave, like gnawed bones left by a predator: bleached and fragile shells; osseous tree branches, sculpted by wave and sand; the long, alien-looking skeletons of serpents, with their heads like fishes; the feathers of sea-birds, bedraggled in damp sand. The youth himself seemed made of shell; delicate and translucent. His eyes were black, yet his hair was pale, wet and clinging to his shoulders, snaky tendrils like tiny eels plastered across his face. He wore only a skirt of feathers and his head bore a crown of coral.
Beyond the light of the candles a group of seven women, the inner circle of the Pelleth, stood robed before the boy. They were breathing quickly, having just ended a stamping dance of invocation. Echoes of chanting still vibrated in the folds of the rock walls. Two of the women were old, their grey hair loose down their backs. Two were voluptuous and mature, with snakes fashioned from coloured folded paper in their hair. Two were teenagers, their eyes sly and watchful, while the other was a girl-child, clad in ragged grey-green lace, into which tiny shells had been threaded and the skulls of infant vipers.
The women were silent, patient, and the only sound was that of spitting wax against the dull, distant roar of sea and storm. For hundreds, if not thousands, of years the Pelleth had tended the sacred Cornish sites and waited for the return of the Shining One. Now, they sensed that change was imminent and consulted their oracle within their holy cave beside the crashing shore.
Presently, the boy sighed and shuddered upon the throne. His head jerked back and a word came out of his mouth in a bubble of foam.
The women glanced at one another. The word meant nothing, but they dared not ask questions for fear of breaking the trance.
For some minutes, the boy sat with his head slumped upon his breast, then he sucked in his breath sharply and looked up, his dark, colourless eyes focused ahead of him, on the black maw of the tunnel that led to the sea. The candle-flames shivered in the brine-soaked wind, which fretted the grey muslin robes of the women. The boy uttered a keening sound, and his lips were wet. His head rolled upon his neck, tearing his salt-sticky hair from his throat and shoulders. The thunder of the waves outside grew momentarily louder, then abated with a faint sound of shifting shingle.
The boy spoke, his voice clear yet strangely sibilant. ‘Who calls the serpent mother, Seference, She Who Gives Life to the Dead?’
One of the oldest women stepped forward. She held a long, carved staff, which seemed to denote authority. ‘It is I, Meggie Penhaligon, and my sisters. We call upon thee, Serpent Mother for the wisdom of thy quick tongue.’
The boy’s eyelids flickered. ‘She is the serpent goddess, and She is with us. I am here and everywhere. The moon lights a cruel path across the sea and She walks it. I am walking the path of light to the shore, along the old highway, the serpent path to the land.’
‘What is thy prophecy, Mother?’ Meggie Penhaligon knew there was something to learn. She had felt it in her bones, and the younger women had felt it in their blood and bellies; a flexing, a quickening.
‘He has awoken in the north.’ The boy’s voice sounded hollow, as if echoing through empty corridors of stone.
Meggie leaned forward. ‘He?’
‘The Hanged One...’ The boy sighed, his whole body shuddering, but a smile came to his lips. ‘Yes. He is with us once again, but he covers his face. There are guardians around him, for many will seek him. They covet his power.’
Meggie Penhaligon felt her body stiffen. This was what she and her sisters had been waiting for. Now that the words spilled from the lips of their oracle, it seemed almost too fabulous to be believed. Myths made flesh. He walks...
‘Give me his name,’ Meggie murmured.
The boy answered without pausing. ‘Shemyaza, who was in Eden. Shemyaza, who lay with mortal women and cursed his race. Shemyaza, father of giants and monsters, who was condemned to hang for eternity in the constellation of Orion. Shemyaza, giver of forbidden knowledge to humanity. Shemyaza, whose name is also Azazel, remembered as the scapegoat. He was punished, and his soul was sundered.’
The crashing of the waves became momentarily louder, amplified by the tunnel’s length. Meggie’s soft voice was barely audible because of it. ‘How has he returned?’
The boy’s eyes fluttered in their sockets; only a sliver of white was revealed. ‘He was born into a body whose hands were death. With these hands, he craved to open the star-gate that leads to the source of all. He sought to paint the gate with blood that it might open to him, but he was ignorant of the truth...’
Meggie nodded. This was as she’d thought. Shemyaza would not come back to the world clad in light and visible to all. ‘Is he still ignorant of his origins?’
The boy’s face creased into a frown, as if he struggled to discover the information, then his brow cleared. ‘He is aware but sleeping. I have a name: Daniel. The seer and vizier of old Babylon. Daniel lives in this time, and with the hybrid twins, who are Grigori, angel-born, brought Shemyaza to consciousness. But Shemyaza will not be the scapegoat again. He hides his face beneath his wings and they are black with fear and doubt. Now the world is full of him, and his potential is for great change or great destruction. Always there will be pain associated with his works, for even the most beneficial of changes will break hearts and nations.’
Meggie’s throat was dry. She could barely speak. ‘Where is he?’
‘In hiding. There are guardians around him.’
‘Can you give me names?’
The boy was silent for a moment, then murmured. ‘Daniel, the seer. Lil... Lilian? Emilia... She is human but has tasted Grigori essence. Her life is extended. And there is a void, a youth whose soul is bound. I cannot see his name.’
‘How can we find Shemyaza? How can we bring him to us?’
The boy’s face twisted into a mask of rage. ‘You ask me this? No! The gate is cracked, but still it holds. He creeps between it. He is the bringer of the new age through death and sacrifice. Around his head is a halo of dried tongues of fire!’
Meggie sensed the presence of Seference was disintegrating. She was aware it was her own fear, and that of her sisters, that prevented the information being delivered. Should she let the essence of the goddess go, or try to retain it? Did she really want the physical presence of Shemyaza near her? For centuries, her ancestors had worked with the idea of the Fallen Ones. They had invoked the influence of the lesser entities; Penemue, Kashday, Gadreel. As the wheel of time turned inexorably around them, they had sensed that, one day, the Fallen Ones would become a living reality and wake the serpent power that slept beneath the land. But this soon? Meggie acknowledged that she had hoped,
in her secret heart, she would have left this world by the time this great responsibility fell upon them. Soon, she and her sisters would look into the scrying-pool, and attempt to divine more details concerning Shemyaza’s whereabouts and companions. For now, Meggie had heard enough.
She raised her arms to thank Seference for her words, as a preliminary to bringing the boy out of trance, but the oracle suddenly lunged forward in the chair, his slender fingers gripping the long, stone arms. When he spoke, it was not in the hollow, distant voice of the goddess, but in a broad Cornish accent. His normal speaking voice was southern, but cultured, for he was the son of gentry. ‘He will find you anyway. Did you think otherwise? He is drawn by the serpent, the voice of the thunder, the slumbering one. He will come, for he has no choice. Feel the serpent power flexing in its great sleep, Mother. It will not be long before it wakes! Then out of your grip it will slither, to empower the great alignment and all the serpent paths within the land, and every king and giant who sleeps beneath the earth will rise to its scent!’ Then, slowly, the oracle leaned back into the chair, his eyes fixed on the tunnel ahead of him. A light seemed to go out of his body. Presently, he began to shiver.
Meggie Penhaligon gestured at one of the teenage girls. ‘Jessie.’
The girl, Jessie, stepped forward and held out her hands to the boy in the stone chair. Wincing, he lowered himself to the floor, and allowed her to lead him out of the circle of candles. Jessie wrapped him in a coat of feathers, while the women donned enveloping woollen cloaks.
As they gathered up their ritual paraphernalia, Jessie asked Meggie a question, one that was on the minds of all present. ‘Who spoke through Delmar at the end there, Megs? It was a woman, wasn’t it?’
Meggie nodded. ‘I believe we heard the voice of another like us who, in her lifetime kept the vigil for the Shining One. She gave us advice, or a warning.’ Meggie fixed one of the other women, a voluptuous, fair-haired creature, with a dark, steady eye. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Tamara?’
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