The Moon Casts a Spell: A Novella (The Child of the Erinyes)

by Rebecca Lochlann

  She started to put Evie down so she could go and join the fight, but Evie screamed and clamped like a limpet to her neck.

  All she could do was stand, watch, and weep.

  Then she saw Aodhàn. He was there. Those two he’d ridden off with earlier were with him. Aodhàn was shouting, but she couldn’t hear his words. One of the men was shouting back. They came to blows, and the third man separated them.

  A number of the brigands were busy destroying the crofters’ homes, pulling off the thatch, breaking the walls with pickaxes and heavy tools, setting fire to anything that would burn. They used truncheons on those who fought. Aodhàn ran forward and pushed between one of the crofters and an armed recruit, taking several blows on his head before the soldier realized who he was.

  It was almost over now. Most of the people had been herded into a group and led away. Lilith watched her husband arguing again with the two men. He gestured and swiped at the blood on his face, his demeanor clearly furious. Had he lost control over the soldiers? She couldn’t tell.

  He looked up and saw her on the hill, watching. He stared at her for a long moment. Then he turned away, and she felt his despair like a knife through her stomach.

  A Stranger Lands on Barra

  * * * *

  June, 1853

  XIX.

  No matter what names he invented while hiding in other bodies, the rough-looking man who paused on Castlebay’s pier to study his surroundings would always think of himself as Harpalycus of Tiryns, son of a powerful king.

  In those days, he was a well-made man, his muscles defined and strong from training with heavy shields and swords. He had women and slaves in plenty, and was heir to a mighty throne.

  But just now he had to become the easily forgettable Owen Anderson, a common, dull lout somewhere in his forties, from a nameless village on the mainland, everything about him nondescript. He was expert at this, having done it many times. Drawing in a deep breath, he released all memory of past glory and immersed himself into character.

  Castlebay’s buildings appeared to be falling into mold and ruin. The few people he saw were thin, pale, their clothing threadbare. Even the water lapping at the shoreline looked oily, rank; the stench it offered, of rotting fish, mingled with the foul putrescence of decayed potatoes. It would appear this island had not escaped the blight.

  Scotland was a cursed place— he’d happily leave if he weren’t so curious, and clandestinely exhilarated, about what he expected to find here.

  He turned his attention inward. It was still there, the unpleasant tingling in his fingers and toes, the shivering that wouldn’t stop, the nausea souring his stomach, and a plaguing headache. All the physical signs he’d come to understand meant the triad was somewhere in the world. The symptoms had grown stronger the closer he came to this island, to the point of making him vomit over the ship’s rails.

  More than six hundred years had passed since he’d last seen his nemesis— Chrysaleon of Mycenae. He’d long ago played with the enticing idea that maybe Chrysaleon and his two unsuspecting hangers-on, Aridela and Menoetius, would never come back. Maybe Harpalycus was free of them at last. But as much as he wished it could be true, he knew it wasn’t. He hadn’t yet succeeded in ferreting out the secret that would make those three stay dead. The inalterable certainty was what kept him moving, switching bodies, staying close to the ground— that along with the hard-won knowledge of the triad’s other followers, followers Harpalycus could not detect, could not sense, not even slightly.

  One of them could be staring at him right now.

  When he’d been Prince Harpalycus, he’d believed that achieving immortality would naturally bring power and renown. He’d foreseen the entire world bowing and worshipping him. He’d thought it would be easy.

  Yet here he was, wealthy but still unknown, unheralded, unworshipped, thirty four hundred years later. Lingering on the pier at Castlebay, he slowly clenched his hands and succumbed to burning fury at this humiliating fact.

  Long ago, Harpalycus had been forced to accept just how vulnerable he was. Being conspicuous and powerful drew attention— attention he could not afford— not as long as Chrysaleon and those who followed him walked upon the earth.

  The last time he and Chrysaleon had matched wits, in the year 1233, Chrysaleon had almost succeeded in killing him. If it hadn’t been for the clerical monk, lying dazed and senseless on the ground beside him, Harpalycus would be every bit as rotted right now as this island’s potatoes.

  Harpalycus was not immortal. He was not indestructible. He could not be reborn, like the triad. The only defense he had was to hide inside the bodies of strangers— men, preferably. Thanks to the experiments he and his slave, Proitos, had carried out, that was the easiest part. He could change bodies quickly, as long as he had some way of fatally wounding himself first. Only when he was dying could he consume another. Then, in a new body, he could stand five feet from Chrysaleon and the man would never know he was there.

  Deliberately stretching out his clenched fingers, Harpalycus took a few steps and again studied what he could see of this pathetic hump of earth stuck out here in the Atlantic. Someday, his opportunity would come. He knew it— he had to believe it, or what use was all of this? One day, he would find the potion or spell that would bring permanent death to his ancient foe. He spent enormous sums of money on that goal, and hired the most evil minds he could find to resolve it. But until that day came, Harpalycus intended to enjoy himself.

  He hated boredom. As much as he despised Chrysaleon, it was worse when his old enemy was dead. Time was interminable with no opponent to thwart, no trickery to perform, no love match to destroy, no one to torture. The last six centuries had been like an endless, dry desert. Now, as he stared at the sad little village of Castlebay, he felt excitement, for the first time in eons. Finding Chrysaleon gave him a purpose. Soon, he hoped, he’d be merrily wreaking havoc and bringing misery to that other prince— the one he’d hated for so very long.

  He would toy with the bastard, like a cat with a mouse. He didn’t want Chrysaleon to die again, at least not too quickly. He wanted to make him writhe.

  Keeping his head down, the brim of his hat low, he entered the town, trying to ignore the queasy sensation of still being on water, of swaying, of the dip and rise of the horizon that made his stomach roil.

  Where are you, prince of Mycenae? And the little one. Where is she?

  Never fear. If you’re here, I will find you, hopefully before you find me.

  * * * *

  Harpalycus entered the tavern in Castlebay, disguised most effectively as the stranger, Owen Anderson.

  Drinking establishments were always valuable sources of information. Acquiring a dram of listless whisky, he sat in a corner and observed.

  The patrons, all men, were subdued. He knew this famine had been at their throats for seven years now, off and on. Hundreds had been forced, either by hunger, desperation, or eviction, to leave.

  But Owen was adept at encouraging gossip. It was a simple matter of mixing whisky with a sympathetic expression. Thankfully, he’d acquired quite a lot of Gaelic while on the mainland.

  He soon learned that for these locals, two events were worth celebrating— the fact that in all the seven years, only two Barra residents had died of starvation, and that the island’s owner, a miserly lout by the name of John Gordon of Cluny, seemed to have lost his zeal for evictions.

  They told him that after Gordon forcibly cleared over a thousand of his tenants in 1851, he’d then had his factor relocate eleven families from the west coast over to Balnabodach, on the east coast, where much of the clearing had taken place, and up into the rocky, barren hills, so that the fertile western areas could be rented to mainlanders at far higher rents. Had he come here to rent from Colonel Gordon?

  No, Owen assured them. He was a simple homeless traveler, searching for work, trying to avoid emigration.

  They grew friendlier after that, although they were quick to tell him
he would find no paying labor on Barra. Several offered to put him up though, with well-known Highland hospitality.

  When they asked what he was called, he knew he was close to being accepted. “Owen Anderson,” he told them, proud of his authentic accent.

  He’d chosen the name randomly as he boarded the ship over to Barra, dumping ‘Charles Kelly,’ the name he’d used while living in the innocuous village of Glenelg, on the mainland’s west coast. Infuriating place. He’d been drawn there by the inner symptoms, the nausea, tingling, and headache, and was certain he would find Chrysaleon, but he didn’t. He lingered for several months without ever encountering anyone from the distant past. It was the first time his physical reactions had ever failed him.

  He’d been so frustrated, so enraged by boredom and impatience that he’d taken it out on an easy target one night, making it necessary to leave Glenelg in a hurry.

  Once again, he’d put himself into a trance. An image formed in his mind, and the name. Barra. He’d never heard of it, and had to inquire to find out where and what it was— an island in the Outer Hebrides. That made him curse. He suffered incapacitating seasickness, and always tried to avoid sea travel.

  He smiled encouragingly at the men in Castlebay’s tavern, who had turned to bragging. Against all odds, they told him, the people displaced from their homes and forced over to the other side of the island had managed to thrive. There were fifteen families now living at Balnabodach, and two women expecting babies. Plus they could say with some surety that this year’s barley was healthy.

  May God continue to show merciful forgiveness.

  Owen kept his reaction to an infinitesimally lifted brow. What fools people were, easily distracted, easily manipulated. Nothing proved that better than religion. These men would praise God for a single season’s good crop and never once blame him for the years of rot that had demolished their lives.

  He studied the men in the smoky room, and the two barmaids who served them, but none had any effect on him. Sometimes, when he encountered any of the triad, a momentary glow would manifest around them. Such a thing would be easy to see in this dark taproom.

  None of them were here. He would have to keep searching.

  “Have any of you met this Colonel Gordon?” he asked. Perhaps he was Chrysaleon.

  “No, he never comes here,” was the reply.

  Another man said, “His factor carries out his orders.” He spat on the floor, which earned him an irritated sigh from one of the barmaids.

  “Who is that?” Owen asked.

  “Did you see the big house on the hill outside the village?”

  “It would be hard to miss,” Owen said.

  “That’s where the bastard lives, with his whore wife and their children. Through all our suffering, they have gone about in silk and velvet, and have had plenty to eat, fine wine to drink.”

  “The blight first struck the same month she gave birth,” one of the men said, shaking his finger. “’Twas clear God punished us for allowing their sin.”

  “Sin?” Owen asked softly.

  “The slut was betrothed, morally and honorably, but her intended fell ill and died, and that very night she spread her legs for the factor in his stables. She was caught doing it!”

  “Ah,” Owen said.

  “They must’ve conspired to kill the man somehow, but there was no evidence, so nothing could be done.”

  Now all the patrons and the barmaids joined in, eager to denigrate the factor and his scandalous family. One barely got out a claim before another embellished it, or revealed something else worse.

  “The slut was born into a Catholic family, but she has never been to confession, never bowed her head at Mass, has never received the Host.”

  This piqued Owen’s attention, but it could be a coincidence. He must find out more.

  “Now they raise their weans without even the blessing of baptism!”

  “Her belly was getting round when they wed, if you take my meaning, but she showed no shame, went about just as she always had.”

  One of the men snorted his disbelief. “I say they aren’t wed, and never have been. He took her away, and they announced they were husband and wife when they returned. No priest on Barra would perform the ceremony.”

  “Aye, that ring she wears means nothing. Who among us has ever seen marriage papers?”

  “The blight goes on and on, and no doubt will until someone exposes the truth— that they’re living in mortal sin.”

  “She didn’t mourn Daniel at all—”

  “Daniel?”

  “Her betrothed, poor orphan lad. They grew up together and he never looked at another lass. He would’ve died for her.”

  “And probably did,” someone muttered.

  Owen smoothed a hand over his beard to stop himself from laughing, but he quickly sobered. His own dilemma returned to the forefront of his mind as the men went on grumbling.

  In order to achieve his desires, he had to find a way to kill his old adversary for good. Until he did, he was cursed to wander, to hide, to live a never-ending life of frustration, discontent, and thwarted dreams. He’d murdered Chrysaleon several times, but the bastard always came back! The running started over again, the fear of being discovered, the sense of helplessness. Only when Chrysaleon was decisively, irrevocably defeated, could he rise up and do what his heritage demanded— rule this world and all who lived upon it.

  The need to make Chrysaleon suffer was irresistible, overwhelming.

  I will find you, he thought, clenching his hand around his whisky glass. I will have vengeance for all you’ve done to me.

  “Why did the factor go after her?” one of the barmaids was asking. “Any one of us would’ve made him a better wife. We’re good Christian women, and we would’ve borne him weans he would know were his own.”

  There were nods and agreement.

  Hypocritical sluts, Owen thought. You say you hate him, yet you’re vexed he didn’t chase after you instead.

  “She’s not even pretty, with those cold eyes. And she’s rude, not to mention odd. Why does she call her husband ‘Mackinnon?’ It’s disrespectful, like he’s a servant.”

  “She’s half-daft, always has been. Mind you, she didn’t speak a word until she was five, and then only to Daniel. She dances… to the sea!”

  There was an outburst of derisive laughter.

  “Thinks she’s a mermaid,” a man said.

  “I thought her wean would come out half-fish,” the other barmaid said. “A cursed pagan, that’s what she is!”

  “She has no feminine modesty.”

  But the worst, the very worst thing, was how Aodhàn Mackinnon carried out the brutal clearings two years back. He’d hired mercenaries who beat and chained folk, threw them on board their boats to be taken away with nothing but the clothes they were wearing.

  And Lilith, the whore he married, had stood on a hill laughing! She laughed at what was being done to her countrymen! She held up her daughter to watch!

  “I think I’ll do my best to avoid your factor and his wife,” Owen said.

  “You won’t need to worry over that,” said the man nearest him. “They’ve gone off,” he paused dramatically, “on holiday.”

  This provoked mutters of envy and hatred.

  “Well, I am bone weary,” Owen said. “I’ve been traveling for days. If you don’t mind, I would like to rest for a fortnight or so before I leave.”

  “Aye, aye,” the same man said, slapping his shoulder. “You’re welcome to all we can give, which I’m sorry to say isn’t much.”

  “I thank you,” Owen said, bowing his head.

  The Black Forest, Kingdom of Württemberg

  * * * *

  September, 1853

  XX.

  Aodhàn was grateful that Lilith couldn’t know how being here, in this ancient pine forest, surrounded by the whisper of faery tales, brought back their last life together, and how it had ended, early in the thirteenth century.

&
nbsp; For her, there would be no recollection. As frustrating as it was, having to win her over and over again in every life, he was glad for that. She would never remember the sly grin on Harpalycus’s face in the sanctuary at Wiesbaden, after the sentence was declared, and her doom set, or being taken to the square, tied to the stake, the faggots beneath her set aflame.

  His old Cretan slave, Alexiare, always insisted that Harpalycus’s existence was different than the triad’s. “He doesn’t die because he moves from body to body,” Alexiare claimed. “If you ever recognize him, you must kill him instantly, no matter the cost. If you succeed, he’ll be gone, I promise you. We’ll be free of him… forever.”

  As eager as Chrysaleon was to comply, it took thousands of years, for the devil disguised himself well, and had all the advantages. He had no aura, like Aridela and Menoetius. There was no surge of energy, like the lightning bolt, to give him away. The only thing that ever betrayed Harpalycus was the acrid stench of ashes that clung to him, and the chaos he caused. Chrysaleon had to be very close to detect the smell, and Harpalycus was careful to prevent that from happening— until the thirteenth century.

  Harpalycus had boldly come out of hiding in that life. Known as Heinrich Baten, the infamous Papal Inquisitor of the Holy Roman Empire, he had baited and interrogated Aridela. He sentenced her to the stake, all in an effort to goad Chrysaleon into betraying himself. The bastard would have liked nothing better than to watch them both burn, side by side, even though he knew it would only be a temporary victory.

  Chrysaleon kept his silence, though it was one of the hardest things he had ever done. He promised himself the right moment would come— he would save Aridela and turn Harpalycus’s smirk into howls of agony. But the man was always surrounded with layers of armed guards. He even utilized a food taster. Chrysaleon couldn’t get close— not until after Aridela had been tortured and put to death.