Elfland

by Freda Warrington

  Rosie looked up at the sky. Stars hung as thick as snowflakes, hissing with cosmic white noise. It was so like Earth yet so clearly, eerily not, that she felt her soul-essence would leap out of her with awe. When she closed her eyes, she could see two wolves running through a slanting, silvery light. I thought you were indestructible too, Sam, she thought. I refuse to cry, because that would be giving in. I’m just going to wait, okay? Like you waited for me finally to realize I love you.

  As dawn came, they made a silent farewell and began to move away. Rosie walked beside her father. “What does it mean, that we don’t die like humans?” she whispered. “It looks final to me. What will happen to them?”

  Auberon squeezed her shoulder. The grip hurt. “The borders are all tangled up for us.” His voice was rough. “I suppose that is the defining difference between us and mortals.”

  Rosie shivered, feeling the cold. She looked back through the trees and thought of the cliff edge beyond and the high Causeway. She imagined Sam crossing it; a swift flame arrowing towards the heart. Was he still worried about the height? “The soul-essence flies to the Mirror Pool but forgets its previous life and loves,” she said. “And if Lawrence went into the Abyss with Brawth, to end the pain, because he felt he’d brought misery to everyone around him . . . ?” Her voice was the faintest whisper. “How are Jon and Lucas supposed to live with that?”

  “They’re strong,” said Auberon.

  “Not Jon.”

  “He will be.”

  “What will I say when people ask me about Sam?” she breathed. “I can’t say the word, dead. I’ll just tell them that he had to go away with his father. Then I can believe it, too.”

  As they ascended the slope towards the embracing trees and the deceptively narrow cleft of the Gates, Rosie looked back and glimpsed the hill and the lapis slabs. It was impossible, from this distance and angle, to see bodies lying upon them. They looked empty. Strangely, she was relieved.

  In the deep cobalt of early morning, Virginia remained at the mound. She’d embraced Jon and told him she was staying; he accepted it with sad grace. She needed to watch alone.

  She kissed Sam’s closed eyes, then turned to Lawrence, who lay like an effigy with his bone-white face pointing up at the sky. It had been such a shock to see him. His face was so familiar, even though she hadn’t set eyes on him for years. She fitted one palm to the angles of his cheek and jaw. The skin felt gently cool, more like paper than ice.

  “You bloody fool,” she said. “What are you doing? Running away again?”

  The wind stirred her cloak. She pulled it more tightly around herself.

  “As if I’m one to talk,” she sighed. “I ran. I hadn’t understood that the horrors are attached and come with you. I understand now. And you—have you grasped the lesson yet?” She touched her fingers to the thick inky hair. Her eyes began to sting. Teardrops splashed onto his closed lids. “I think you must. Finally you stood and faced it, and it finished you, as you knew it would. Brave you.”

  She sat with her husband and her oldest son in silence for a while, watching the sky pale. Then she leaned down and kissed Lawrence on the lips, tasting the salt of tears.

  From somewhere came the faintest whisper, Ginny.

  26

  When We Dream

  “You read my diary?” said Faith, openmouthed. “You read my diary?”

  “Sorry.” Rosie was shamed. It was July, two months on from the fateful day of the stag hunt; that was how long it had taken her to admit it. She and Faith were in her room with Lucas, the three of them sitting cross-legged on her bed. “Matt came across it—he was so genuinely astonished, I couldn’t help myself. In retrospect, it was a crappy thing to do. Can you forgive me?”

  Faith lowered her head, her hair tumbling forward. “Nothing to forgive. I’m only embarrassed at people seeing that nonsense.”

  “It wasn’t nonsense, Fai. What you’d written was amazing. Painful, but wonderful. I’d no idea . . .”

  She looked up, smiling. “I can put things on paper that I could never say out loud.”

  “Matt cried over it. So did I. It was as much transformative magic as anything that happens in the Otherworld.”

  “It helped change his mind?”

  “Yes. To change him,” said Rosie. “Things are better between you, aren’t they?”

  “Completely. Now I can be proud of Heather instead of hiding her away.” Her smile widened. “Everything is better between us. Tonight, the Night of the Summer Stars . . . I never dreamed I’d be part of it, still less that Matthew would be. I’m nervous.”

  Lucas pulled a face. “Not half as nervous as I am.”

  Rosie felt a dull pain, knowing she wouldn’t be with them. She didn’t want to spoil their mood by admitting that she couldn’t face the celebration, however sacred.

  “Oh, don’t say that. You’ll be fine,” said Faith.

  He bit the end of his thumb. “I know it won’t be like . . . that night again, but still . . . what if I forget what to do, or open the wrong configuration and spill everyone into the Abyss?”

  “Luc!” Rosie cried. “Thank heaven you’re not an airline pilot! Some self-belief, please. You need to leave Stonegate, it drives people mad.”

  He looked enigmatically at her, eyes half-closed and gleaming. “I’m not leaving. I want to stay there.”

  “Do you?” She was astonished. “But—how can you? Lawrence presumably left a will. It might have to be sold.”

  “I don’t know,” Lucas said quietly. “I only know that the Gatekeeper belongs there, and so does Iola.”

  “And that will be another tale for my diary,” said Faith. “At last I’ve found something I’m good at. I’m going to be a writer, or at least give it a damn good try.”

  Rosie looked into her earnest eyes. “What will you write about?”

  “All about us,” said Faith. “All about Elfland.”

  In the sepia glow of the barn, a cow groaned and her calf came slithering, tumbling from the birth canal. Comyn heaved it onto the straw, where it lay in a heap of slick, dark flesh and viscous fluids. His old green coat was soaked.

  “A beauty,” he said, as he and Phyllida cleared membrane from its head. He turned in triumph to Auberon, who was watching over the rails. “Look.”

  As the calf raised its nose, questing for its mother, they all saw the marking on its forehead; a white spiral.

  “A new bull calf with the mark of Elysion on him,” Comyn said gruffly, wiping blood and slime from his face with his sleeve. “The Gates are open and Brewster comes again.”

  “It’s a fine calf,” Auberon agreed quietly, “but at what cost?”

  There must have been many evenings like this, Rosie realized, when her parents had been secretly preparing for some Otherworld festival, leaving her and her brothers blithely oblivious of their plans. Never a clue. How strange.

  Rosie found Jessica in the main bedroom, twirling in a colorful peasant skirt. The wardrobe was open and the bed piled with clothes. “Mum, what are you doing?”

  Jessica stopped in mid-spin, blushing. “Sorting through my old stage clothes. They’re hopelessly dated. I need new things, really.”

  “Thank goodness, I thought for a moment you were packing.” Rosie sat on the edge of the bed, fingering the edges of bright skirts and gossamer shawls. “You’re not, are you?”

  Jessica looked at her with cautious eyes. A smile pulled the corner of her mouth. “Rosie, I’m getting the band back together. It’s time. I’ve missed it so much; being on stage, the festivals . . . the music.”

  “Wow.” Jumping up, Rosie hugged her. “How exciting. What does Dad think?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’d prefer it, everyone would, if I stayed home being a mother like I always have . . . but that’s not who I am, Ro. It’s not all I am, anyway.” Her eyes had a fierce, faraway light. Rosie realized she’d seen it before, but had never understood it until now.

  “I’m proud of you,” Rosie said
quietly. “But it will be strange. Everyone’s changing, or leaving.”

  Jessica spun again, hands above her head, skirt and golden hair flaring. “Will this do for tonight, do you think? Then we should decide what you’re wearing.”

  “Mum,” Rosie said faintly, “I’m not going.”

  Her mother came to her and put her hands very gently on either side of Rosie’s face. “It’s our most special, sacred night. You can’t miss it.”

  She felt the familiar push of loss in her chest. She’d never yet allowed it to dissolve into tears. “Without Sam there, it won’t mean anything.”

  “You think that, but it’s not true. Rosie, you can talk to me, you know. It’s all right to cry and grieve.”

  “There’s nothing to say.” She heaved a breath and tried to smile. “I talk to Sam all the time, in my head. He’s always with me. I don’t need to cry. Sam taught me to be strong.”

  “So, be strong and come with us tonight.” Jessica held her with a firm, serious gaze. “If not for yourself, for me and Auberon and Lucas—you must come, Rosie.”

  The bulk of Freya’s Crown reared above them, dark against the extravagant glow of the stars. Rosie had never known such a clear night, crisp and milky with the brilliance of an entire galaxy, as if the sky itself knew this night was special.

  The Night of the Summer Stars.

  Rosie stood close between her parents, reassured by their presence. Around them, scores of Aetherials were gathered. She sensed their tension, the light rustle of their clothes. The colors were somber; sable, dark sapphire, wine. Rosie had chosen a long dress of black velvet, with a fitted bodice and panels of plum-red satin shining through black lace. Her hair swung loose around her stylized fox mask, which was decorated with gold, copper and ruby. Around her neck glittered the blood red crystal heart that Sam had bought her, that last sweet day in Birmingham. There was no sign of Jon; perhaps he’d found this too difficult after all.

  A wave of anticipation bloomed through her. The brand on her ribs, although healed, burned suddenly as if tugging her towards the Gates.

  Their masks were new; metal-leafed and embellished with hypnotic whirls of enamel and crystal. Artistic Peta Lyon had made them; foxes, sea serpents, birds and all the menagerie of their affiliations. She didn’t need to see the faces of her parents, or of Matthew and Faith, to sense their coiled tension.

  In position at the rocks, Lucas looked magnificent, with a grey velvet tailcoat over charcoal trousers; the somber effect was enchanting. His unmasked face gleamed beneath the black cloud of his hair. Iola, standing opposite him to flank the portal, looked eerily exotic; a slender column of bronze and gold gossamer. Rosie couldn’t help feeling suspicious of this unknown creature who’d taken her brother away.

  “Tonight we gather to celebrate this night of nights,” said Luc, so softly that someone shouted at him to speak up. He went on with greater confidence, “The Night of the Summer Stars. A time to celebrate trust and friendship between Vaethyr and Aelyr, peace between Aetherials in all realms, inner and outer. Out of respect for Lawrence, the Gates will not be thrown wide, only a single way to Elysion opened. As you go through, remember those who have passed through before us and let all hurts be healed.”

  He had no ceremonial staff, so he struck the rock with his heel. The grinding of stone on stone began and Rosie felt a flash of dread, remembering Brawth. A dark aperture appeared. No horrors burst through; there was only the soft static of two realms intersecting, Dusklands and Elysion. Rosie heard sighs of relief all around her, and realized she was shaking.

  “The way is open,” said Lucas, and from the gathered Vaethyr came a patter of applause, a swelling wave of joy.

  Auberon and Jessica led the procession, the rest falling in behind. Lucas smiled at Rosie as she passed through; Iola offered a glass bowl filled with hazelnuts, symbol of passage into the Otherworld. Rosie relished the savory-sweet crunch on her tongue. It helped her focus against the darkness, the press of stone walls around her. She couldn’t resist trailing her fingers over the walls as they went, caressing the sigils carved into them.

  They stepped out of the portal and Elysion opened to embrace them with a sky so vast it seemed that they were on a cliff edge about to be swallowed by the universe.

  She stood in wordless amazement. Someone jostled her from behind, reminding her to keep moving, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the heavens. It was like the sky of Earth, magnified; stars clustered in drifts across the vault, falling in icy veils to the horizon. The forested landscape shone in this delicate silvery light. Planets could be clearly seen; the disk of Mars as red as Naamon, the marbled face of Jupiter, cloudy Saturn with its tilted rings—all as large and clear as moons.

  She descended the hill amid the drifting mass of animal-faced deities, clothed in light, hardly able to believe she was part of it. To her increasing wonder, crowds of Aelyr were waiting for them, all along the path among the trees. Firefly lights glimmered among them. Shining hair, jeweled eyes; masked and unmasked faces equally alien. She saw tall beings with skin and hair like snow; brilliant green irises shining from faces of black obsidian; small, slender creatures as brown as bark with bright blue eyes. She glimpsed wings, haughty animal faces that might or might not be masks. The thousands of lights they carried sparkled softly like dandelion seeds.

  Caught up in enchantment, barely feeling the spring of grass beneath her soles, Rosie grasped at the truth: the Spiral was the intersection of dozens of realities. The dark sister of Mother Earth.

  The Vaethyr followed the way through the forest, emerging at last into a clearing where hundreds of Aelyr stood waiting within a circle of standing stones. The stones were deep blue flecked with gold, like lapis. As the two groups met, they paused to face each other. Then, as one, all masks were removed.

  Rosie felt more than ever that she was in a dream. She saw her father unmasked as his transformed, bear-fox self; her mother like some translucent golden bird; Matthew, a striped beast who carried himself proudly, afraid no longer; Faith, the exquisite water nymph. Comyn was something like a minotaur and Phyll, an avian spirit like her sister—and all of this felt so familiar and so right, she realized it had been there behind a veil all her life. Tonight, at last, the veil was torn aside.

  She looked down at her own hands. Still human, but shining like starlight. She glanced at Lucas and he, too, was unchanged but glowing like ivory lit from within.

  The crowd of Aelyr parted. Along the avenue they made, a woman came walking to greet the visitors. She had a long, pale, ageless face beneath a fall of icy hair. Her white robe was bisected by the embroidered stem of a lily that grew from the hem and flowered at her breasts. Rosie heard gasps around her, “Liliana.” She held a pale, polished wooden staff across her outstretched hands.

  Propelled by Auberon, Lucas went to meet her. As he knelt at her feet, Liliana bent to kiss his head, smiling and whispering to him. When he rose again, she placed the applewood staff into his hands. A long look passed between them; great-grandmother and great-grandson.

  Rosie felt tears stinging. Sam and Lawrence should have been here to see this.

  With a ripple of ghostly applause, the two groups began to flow forward and mingle. Rosie lost her own family entirely. She was adrift in a whirl of enigmatic faces, smiling lips brushing hers. It was a delirious feeling, the unearthly newness of it; knowing she was part of this dance of light and velvet. She sensed an exhilarating buildup of excitement, heard voices whispering to each other, “Will you join the Great Dance tonight?”

  Iola passed, handing out wine in goblets. The liquor burned Rosie’s throat and she felt her spiral scar flare in response, so raw it stole her breath. She examined the craftsmanship of the vessel; silver stem, silver vine leaves molded to entwine a flute of ultramarine glass. She found a tiny, perfectly made snake among the leaves. The wine tasted of elderflowers and honey, and went straight to her head.

  Musicians gathered by the central stone of the circle
, weaving songs with guitar, drums, violin and flute; somber at first out of respect for Lawrence, gradually gathering pace. Even the music was telling a story. Couples began to dance; she saw Jessica and Auberon among them in a close embrace, reminding Rosie again that they had an entire, hidden life that was only about each other. What did it mean to them, to come back again after all this time?

  In a floating dream she watched them. They were in human shape again, she realized suddenly, but full of Aetheric light and grace. Presently Jessica joined the musicians and began to sing, her voice clear and strong. Auberon claimed Rosie for a dance. She laughed as he twirled her, finding her feet nimble even while her head spun. If Jon had sought this sensation through drugs, how could she blame him? “The Great Dance, what is that?” she asked, breathless.

  Auberon held her tighter and spoke so softly, she could barely hear him over the music. “It’s the culmination of the night. No one’s forced to take part; it’s an experience from which some don’t return. But every Aetherial should take part at least once, Rosie.”

  His words sobered her. When the music changed, she worked her way around the edges of the crowd, needing fresh air and solitude. There was a rising meadow to the far end of the clearing with several great oaks on it. She climbed halfway and sat down on a thick tree root. The celebration below became a jewel box of colored light, miniaturized by the arc of heavenly bodies above. Tiny pale flowers in the grass echoed the stars. She breathed the fragrant air and tried to convince herself that she could live the rest of her life without Sam. Even if he still existed, as a spark of consciousness or an elemental—even if he remembered her—without his body, without the fusion of flesh and personality that had made him his shining, vibrant self, he would not truly be her Sam anymore. That Sam was gone.

  A shadow stumbled out of the dark and sat down next to her; Jon, of all people. He was clutching an Aelyr wine bottle, an attenuated object of blue glass and silver. She saw in shock that his hair had been chopped to collar length. That was why she hadn’t picked him out at the Gates; she hadn’t seen that long wavy fall of chestnut. “Oh my god, your hair!” she exclaimed. “Who did that?”