The Moon Child

by Mark Lucek

  There – it moved again, slipping softly as a snake across the stones. Breath held, Iwa pressed the thick folds of the blanket tightly about her limbs, ready to spring into action. At least the blanket covered her. Nobody except a trained hunter would ever have suspected her watchfulness. If only she had her knife. Under the blanket her hand reached for a rock, her eyes trained on the darkness. Nothing moved, only the moonlight playing across the stones. Maybe there wasn’t anything out there after all. This night has unsettled me: or else I’ve grown as foolish as Babcha or one of the other old ones.

  Then, in the darkened recesses, the creature moved again. At first she thought it could have been a small boy, his form all but hidden in the shadows, but there was something about the way the thing moved, as if not quite human. But it wasn’t any animal she’d seen before, not from the way that it slithered across the stones. It was strong, for all its diminutive size, dense muscles lurking within a squat body as it grasped the thighbone of an elk, sharp teeth breaking through to the marrow.

  With an awful slurping sound it began to gnaw on the bone. Suddenly the thing stopped and looked to the water’s edge. The body tensed as it glanced around at the gloom. From out of the dark came the slithering sound again. With a grunt of fear the bone was flung into the dark.

  There was a pause and then the sound withdrew. On top of the rocks the shape squatted. There came an odd grating sound. Was it laughing? Nothing human could have made such a noise. Even old Katchka’s cackle paled into insignificance. Then it hopped down to the floor, short legs carrying it off into the dark.

  ‘You must be thirsty,’ a voice from behind said. Instantly Iwa shut her eyes and pressed herself hard into the ground. ‘Nobody who sleeps is ever that still,’ the voice mocked, as a hand rested on her shoulder.

  ‘Come now,’ the voice continued, ‘you’ve been through so much. Drink this, and all will be well.’ Gently a hand turned her over and only then did Iwa dare to open her eyes. Part of her expected something like the creature on the rocks, some other misshapen thing, but the figure that knelt over her was a young woman, her hair raven-black and braided with gold. ‘Take this,’ she said, her fingers easing around Iwa’s neck so that her head rested on the woman’s lap. ‘You must be parched.’ She smiled and pressed a golden cup to Iwa’s lips.

  Too thirsty to resist, she took a deep gulp. Her mouth filled with a sweet honey taste, but there was something else, a trace of bitterness, as if the drink had been mixed with loganberries. ‘Don’t worry,’ the woman said, ‘I’m not going to poison you.’ She raised the cup to her own lips and drank. She was young, her skin the colour of pale moonlight, but her eyes were dark. Long braids reached behind her back. Silver rings dangled from a silken band drawn about her high forehead. ‘See,’ she took the cup from her lips, ‘nothing to worry about. A simple potion, nothing more; some fresh water, a few herbs.’ She paused and smiled. ‘And the rest is a secret lost to the world long ago. I can’t be giving away my recipes to the first stranger who passes, now can I?’

  She held out the cup to let Iwa drink freely. ‘Good.’ The woman brushed Iwa’s forehead. ‘You must learn to trust. It must be difficult for you after all you must have been through.’

  Iwa rested her head against the woman’s lap and felt that she could lie there forever, lost in the warm, velvety folds of the dress. It was a long gown which hugged the woman’s body and shimmered as she moved. Iwa had never seen, or felt, anything like it. ‘Are you one of the Polish ladies?’

  ‘Nothing so grand.’ The woman rested a finger on Iwa’s cheek. ‘I could never be so noble.’

  ‘Who are you, then?’

  The woman looked away and paused, her finger stroking over Iwa’s face. ‘Hands.’ There was a hint of melancholy behind the word, as if it hid a great pain.

  ‘What kind of a name is that?’

  ‘You didn’t ask my name, only who I was, and I am a hand. My master motions me to act, and I respond. I am an extension of his body, nothing more.’ Now that the cup was empty, the woman put it on the ground by her knees. The sleeves of her dress, bound with gold thread, trailed in the air, and around her neck a silver torque gleamed, its clasp fashioned in the shape of a crow’s head.

  ‘I can’t call you Hands: that’d be ridiculous.’

  ‘Once I had a name. I was called Miskyia, but that was a very long time ago.’

  ‘Miskyia,’ Iwa repeated. It was a strange name, but not altogether unpleasant. The woman didn’t look old enough to have many names. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘In my master’s hall, or what was once his hall.’

  ‘Men built this?’ Iwa gasped. Now that she looked more closely she could see a ruined doorway, the lintels carved in the shape of what could have been snakes, though their heads, if they ever had any, lay smashed in the rubble. She’d heard of the halls of the Polish lords but in the stories they were wooden, like Krol Gawel’s boats. Not in her wildest imaginings had she ever considered that people could build halls from stone. Such things only existed in far-off Byzantium.

  ‘Men destroyed this place,’ Miskyia said, ‘long ago. They came with sword and axe and magic, and razed this temple to the ground.’ Iwa sank back. She didn’t know what a temple was, but it must be an important thing; to be built from stone and have men come to destroy it. ‘That was many lifetimes ago,’ Miskyia said softly, ‘aeons past in the youth of this world.’

  ‘Before the clans came to the forest?’ Iwa asked. Even after all she’d learned in the cave she still found it difficult to imagine a time when the clans hadn’t belonged to the forest.

  ‘Maybe even before then, but it’s nothing for you to worry over. These stones have died and passed away from memory. Nobody comes to tend them now.’

  ‘Except for you.’

  Wrapping the blanket over Iwa once more, the woman laid her hand on Iwa’s eyes. ‘Rest now, your questions can wait for the morning. Be careful not to leave the courtyard: the night can be dangerous, and I have much work to do.’

  She made as if to leave, but Iwa caught her arm. ‘Where am I? I should be in a bear pit.’

  Miskyia smiled. ‘No, you are no longer in a bear pit. It must have been so difficult for you to stumble into this place, let alone travel in the firmament that rages between worlds. No wonder you’re confused.’ Iwa began to get up but Miskyia put her hand on the girl’s forehead. ‘I too have something of the craft. I realised what must have happened when I found you and brought you here. To travel the firmament takes great skill – you were very lucky.’

  ‘I had the totem, the sacred symbol of Karnobog, to guide me,’ Iwa said and instantly regretted it. For all Miskyia’s gentleness she found it difficult to trust the woman.

  ‘Then you must have lost it to the firmament, for I didn’t find anything like that upon you.’ Iwa wanted to ask so much more, but Miskyia placed a finger on her lips. ‘Hush now, no more questions, not until you have recovered your strength. You must promise not to slip away from the safety of the courtyard, there is much here to harm you.’

  She glanced to the water’s edge and a trace of concern broke over the smooth features of her face. But when she looked back, all was calm about her.

  ‘Magic?’

  ‘These stones are old and have seen so very much,’ Miskyia said. ‘They cackle with the craft and the traces of ancient spells uttered long ago. Not all magic is good, and a spell can be like a living thing with a will of its own.’

  ‘So the old ones are right, you cannot control magic?’

  ‘Only with difficulty,’ Miskyia said, ‘difficulty and training. A spell needs to be forged with care. Oh, there are simple spells, dull things without much life. But a true spell has a will of its own, and sometimes it leaves a trace of itself behind.’ Miskyia slid her fingers over one of the roughened stones, tracing out the line of a crack scarred deep across the marbled surface. ‘And these walls have seen so very much magic. Some of it was good and happy, but vicious and malevolent spe
lls lurk here too. Spells that have grown cold with age, their powers lingering long after they have died, like the memory of a loved one. Do not think that they cannot harm you.’

  ‘I don’t think that I could ever cast any such magic,’ Iwa mumbled to herself, ‘and certainly not an evil spell.’

  ‘It would be best not to make such a promise. The craft has a will of her own and once you set out on her path you cannot tell where your tread will lead. There are many who have been corrupted by her – or who have been forced onto paths where they would rather not tread. Remember that.’

  Miskyia got up and moved past a gap in the wall where Iwa could see the moon shining across the ground and out onto the water beyond. Suddenly she realised where she was: this was the island where she’d found the berries and where Jezi Baba had walked across the lake. ‘Those spells – do they belong to your master?’ Few of the clan kept slaves: that was something more for the Arabs and the traders, so it hadn’t crossed Iwa’s mind to even ask about Miskyia’s master or wonder who he might have been, except that he must have been very great to have such a slave.

  Miskyia stood at the gap, her thin fingers resting on the arch as she peered out into the inky blackness. For a moment Iwa was scared that the woman would leave her alone. ‘Some of them, yes,’ Miskyia said as she turned and came back, ‘but there are many more that are not of his making.’

  ‘Are those the ones that I have to be scared about?’

  ‘You need to be scared of all magic, for any spell can turn against you, even when they seem innocent.’ Miskyia’s words trailed away as she peered into the blackness. ‘Especially when they seem innocent.’ She drew a breath and shivered, the moonlight silver across her face. ‘But that is something that you will find out for yourself.’

  ‘I’m sure that I won’t,’ Iwa said sharply, and vowed that she wouldn’t have anything to do with magic ever again. May Karnobog strike me down and rend my bones into dust if I do.

  ‘Pretty words.’ Miskyia trawled her fingers through Iwa’s hair. ‘But I have already warned you against rash promises. You are young: the craft will seek you out. I wish that I could protect you from it, but you were born to its calling. I can sense its presence all about you and, like it as not, it will seek you out and you will answer its call.’

  But I won’t, Iwa almost said, but the words gummed up in her throat; she’d had more than enough of being told not to make promises. ‘I have to see my father,’ she said instead. ‘By now he probably thinks I’m dead.’

  ‘All in good time. Patience is an art that must be learnt, particularly by those whom the craft has summoned. We will talk further but, for now, you must rest. This is not such an easy place to leave.’

  But Iwa didn’t want to stay. Somewhere out in the world of men Yaroslav was alone. A deep longing had come over her. What lies had Jarel told him? If he’d bothered to say anything at all.

  Miskyia drew a cup to Iwa’s lips. Inside, a thick, dark liquid swirled: it was the colour of blood. ‘Take this, it will give you strength.’ For all the softness of Miskyia’s words Iwa found it difficult not to pull away. She didn’t trust the woman, there were too many unanswered questions and this place seemed too unnatural. Rock should never be so smooth. Iwa pressed her tongue to her teeth, but Miskyia tipped the cup further and the drink swelled into her throat so that Iwa couldn’t help but gulp it down.

  ‘There you are,’ Miskyia said, ‘you will feel so much better in the morning.’ With a rustle of clothing she was gone, the lace of her dress sweeping along the paving.

  Chapter Eleven

  The walls didn’t seem nearly so imposing in daylight. They weren’t as tall as Iwa had supposed and had sunk into ruin long ago. Stone figures lay smashed on the floor, large half-clad men as well as other strange animals, the like of which she had never seen.

  She was careful not to look at their faces in case they bewitched her. Her people often carved faces in the bark of sacred trees or whittled totems from wood. Sometimes they carved in stone too, but nothing so realistic or imposing. Maybe they’re the bodies of giants, turned to stone. Iwa remembered the old stories about the battles between the gods and the giants of the mountains. In the end Bielobog had cast all the giants into a great mire so that Chernobog could smash out their brains with his hammer, until only one remained.

  That was the one the clan called Kocroł Krwi because he could boil away your blood with a single glance of his left eye. He had been the mightiest and the greatest of them all. Not even Bielobog could stand against him. For eons they fought but none could defeat him until Chernobog used all his power to dash out his brains, and even then the god was almost killed by the giant’s club.

  Nothing remained of Kocroł Krwi except a single thumb, which Bielobog turned to stone. It stood there still, an evil presence that haunted the base of the great mountain that the clans called Broda Kozica, or goat beard, because by the light of the morning sun the snow would have the colour of a goat’s muzzle. Out of fear the hunters sacrificed to the stone, but nobody really liked to go near the thing. Not even the herds would stray close to it.

  Somewhere above Iwa sensed movement. Cautiously, she pressed against the stone wall and drew grim comfort from the solid weight behind her. Nearby, a giant stone hand rested on the floor, the palm still clearly visible, though the fingers had long since crumbled away. Maybe it was Kocroł Krwi’s hand, or that of one of the lesser giants whom Bielobog had magicked into stone. Either way, it had to be a thing from the elder legends.

  She hugged her knees to her chest. There was something wrong about this place. It wasn’t just the statues: the air smelt strange and there were no sounds of animals, no cries of birds, no rustling in the undergrowth, only an unnatural stillness that sank deep about her. Even the lake was still, with no breeze to stir the waters.

  Above her the misshapen thing moved, the feet creeping across the jagged line of stones. With practiced care she sank back and readied herself to flee, her hand groping for a loose rock. She didn’t trust this place. It was only now that the full realisation of what had happened began to dawn on her. Before, she had been too overcome to think of anything but bare survival; numbed by the horror of Krol Gawel and the woyaks’ attack. Now the passage of events weighed down upon her. I was an idiot to ever imagine that the clan would survive. Karnobog is dead and I have no place to go. Yaroslav had travelled the lands of the Poles, rootless and unafraid, but she wasn’t like him. All her hopes and dreams of being different from the other children had turned to dust. All those evenings playing at being a Polish lady, dancing in some great court or singing before the throne in great Byzantium, and for all that she’d always been far more a part of the clan than she’d ever imagined. And now I am nothing.

  Above her the creature hovered, its breath stalled like a stalking wolf. She sat perfectly still, watching the sun play across the distant waters without even the slightest flicker to give her away. She couldn’t let it know that she was aware of its presence. She remembered the crack of bone under those teeth the night before, the terrible power that had rippled behind those squat muscles. If the thing attacked, when it attacked, surprise could be her only hope, and a thin one at that.

  ‘You mustn’t be afraid, child.’ This time Iwa wasn’t surprised at the voice: Miskyia moved silently as a hunting eagle. ‘This is a place of many dangers. I left Sturmovit to guard you.’

  Silently the creature hopped from the high stones. It was a small thing, reaching hardly above the woman’s gilded waist. Yet, for all its bulk, the thing moved with an unnatural swiftness.

  ‘He is one of the elder races,’ Miskyia said, ‘do not fear him.’ She reached down to pat the top of the creature’s bald head, the skin the colour of bleached leather. Seen from a distance he could have been mistaken for an old man, but his skin was a muddy colour and glistened like a wet rock. Slowly he peeled back his thick lips and emitted the grating cackle once more. A line of broken yellowed teeth poked above lips c
racked like dried earth.

  He held out his hand but Iwa recoiled, hardly able to look at the thing. There may have been some trace of humanity about it, but it was nothing more than a parody and that made the thing seem all the more horrific. There was no way to guess what was going on behind those dark colourless eyes. He came closer, the skin cracking about his bulbous nose, which was wet like that of a wolf.

  For a moment, Iwa thought that he was about to reach down and grab her. But then, with nothing more than a simple gesture, Miskyia dismissed the creature. ‘You should be grateful for such a protector,’ she said as the thing hopped through the ruins. Iwa watched it and hoped that she’d never see it again.

  ‘You find him ugly, my Sturmovit?’

  ‘I’d like to go,’ she managed. ‘I have to find my father.’

  ‘Leaving here is not so easy. Sturmovit keeps guard, but there are many things that would do you harm, if you were to stumble upon them.’ She left the words to hang in the air.

  From the shore a breeze picked across the waters. Everything looked calm but there was something on the wind, a sense of foreboding that choked thick about the ruins. Iwa shivered and clutched her knees closer to her. She looked to the far shore and the glimmer of trees that hung over the water. ‘There must be a path.’

  ‘There are many paths and they lead to many quarters. You have stumbled into one of the hidden places of this earth.’

  ‘Hidden places?’

  ‘Moist Mother Earth does not yield all her secrets readily. You have stumbled into one of the places where only a few can enter. Here things are different, day and night are not the same as in the world outside, and there are many paths.’ Miskyia gestured to the forest. ‘But they are not so easily trod. Finding your way through those trees would be far more difficult than you can imagine. The paths change constantly and you can retrace your steps only to find that you have come out at a different place, or else wander, lost forever along the tracks.’