by Kit Berry
‘Sylvie,’ continued David, ‘Magpie has created something very special which he’d like to give to you for your birthday. He can’t tell you what he felt at the Hare Moon when you allowed him to accompany you, your children and Leveret to the stone on the hill to watch you dance. He can never thank you in words for the profoundly moving experience. But he can paint his thanks and his awe. He can show you just how moved and overwhelmed he was that night. He’s painted you something so beautiful that words can’t do it justice . . . So now I’ll shut up, and we can all go across to the Art Room to see Magpie’s gift that’s awaiting you.’
Everyone clapped at this splendid speech and pushed back their chairs. David gestured for Magpie to lead the way, and Leveret found she could no longer hold back her tears. She stood to one side as Magpie proudly led Sylvie, flanked by her daughters, towards the Art Room, followed by everyone else. Leveret felt two plump, familiar arms enfold her and then her face was against her mother’s bosom and both were crying their eyes out.
By the time Yul arrived at the Hall, there was nobody in sight. He looked in the Dining Hall and even raced up to his apartments, but the birthday party was nowhere to be found. He went back to the kitchen again and then realised it had taken place outside in the courtyard, but was now over. He gazed at the long table, still pretty with the daisies and roses, and the remains of the birthday tea. He took a used glass, poured himself some elderflower cordial from the jug, and picked up a left-over slice of cake. So now where were they all?
There was a sharp rapping on a window and he looked along to the row of house-staff’s cottages. He saw Martin in the window gesticulating at him, and then a minute later, the man appeared in his doorway.
‘The party’s over!’ he cried. ‘They didn’t wait for you, Master Yul!’
‘So I see,’ said Yul. ‘Do you know where they’ve all gone?’
Martin’s thin face grimaced and he waved his hand dismissively at the Hall in general.
‘They’ve gone to look at some painting in the Art Room. ’Tis meant to be done by that half-wit Magpie, but I reckon ’tis the Outsider’s handiwork myself. I can’t see my slut-cousin Starling’s bastard brat being able to paint something of any merit.’
Yul had no idea what Martin was on about, but headed towards the School Wing. Before he got there he heard their voices – so many of them. They were all crammed into the room, standing in a small area so they could get a proper look. He noted all the people present, including Clip and Hazel, and felt a jab of bitterness. It seemed everyone close to Sylvie had come to the party except him – even Rosie’s children. Why wasn’t he in on this? Why had nobody thought to invite him?
Then he noticed Leveret and his mother standing close together, Maizie with her arm around the girl, and this made him really mad. What about the Imbolc fiasco? Maizie had vowed to wash her hands of Leveret, and only Clip’s intervention had saved his sister from the fate he’d planned for her: boarding school in the Outside World. Yet now here they were cosied up again as if none of that mattered.
He located Sylvie at the front of the crowd but her face was turned away from him. Everyone was staring at something that he couldn’t see. He pushed his way into the stuffy, packed room and reached the front of the group, right next to Sylvie. His girls looked up and saw him and Bluebell clutched his leg in delight. But he couldn’t drag his eyes from the great canvas that dominated the room. It stood on the floor leaning up against the wall as it was too big to be hung in here. The breath caught in his throat at the sheer magic of it – this was his moongazy girl, this was the one he’d fallen in love with all those years ago and had suffered so much for, to save her from Magus and to win her for himself. This was the sight he’d craved – Sylvie as a moon angel, dancing around Hare Stone with her creatures.
All this hit him right in the chest, as if someone had punched him very hard. This was their beautiful, intimate scene of pure magic at Hare Stone and it had been his special privilege to be both witness to it and part of it. Yet here was a room full of people gawping and commenting, violating his and Sylvie’s privacy, their magical and very personal time alone, their wonderful secret. He felt as if Sylvie had betrayed him, cuckolded him, by allowing everyone to see her moondancing. He’d believed this to be for his eyes alone, but no longer. This was just the start, this private viewing; soon every single person at Stonewylde would be able to look at the painting and share the mystical experience.
And even more – there was his darling Celandine dancing too, like a tiny replica of her mother, leaping with the hares, the silver moonbeams brushing her hair and the star-fire in her eyes. So she too was moongazy? And this boy Magpie – he’d been up there that night with Yul’s family watching and memorising it all, whilst Yul himself had been down in the Village worrying about where Sylvie was, thinking maybe she’d gone off with one of the Outsiders from the handfasting.
Without a word he turned on his heel and left the room, his heart aching. He heard Rosie call after him and then his mother, but he didn’t stop. He strode to the stables and grabbed his saddle, and within ten minutes was cantering out of the stable yard towards Dragon’s Back.
The sun set over the hills to the west, burning like a huge golden wheel as it sank lower and lower, unwilling to admit defeat and submit to darkness. Yul was miles away from the Hall, near the western edge of Stonewylde. He should be up in the Stone Circle now, leading the sunset ceremony, but found that he no longer cared. Somebody else would’ve done it – perhaps Clip, or maybe even Martin. It really didn’t matter. He received the earth energy as the sun blazed into fiery oblivion behind the horizon. He felt the serpent energy beneath his feet as he stood, staring at the hills, poor Skydancer’s reins loosely held as the exhausted horse drooped beside him. He smiled bitterly as the Green Magic flickered into him – too late now to share with the folk. Too late and, as ever, too little.
He recalled his vow at sunrise this morning to have his wife in his arms by nightfall, and for a minute it felt as if someone had stabbed him through the heart. He tried not to relive the acute sense of betrayal that had sliced through him in the Art Room. He tried not to think of Sylvie at all; it was simply too painful. Ever since his first glimpse of her in the woods that Spring Equinox when she’d come to Stonewylde – ever since that moment, all he’d wanted in his life was her. She was his entire reason for being and yet now, somehow, he’d lost her. He couldn’t bear it.
The sun had gone and yet the sky was light on this, the longest day of the year. And tonight was the Dark Moon. The Dark Moon at the Summer Solstice – the opposite of that night when he’d seen his father die. That had been the Moon Fullness at the Winter Solstice – the brightness in the darkness. Tonight it was the darkness in the brightness and he felt that tremor of old, that feeling of power deep within which always came to him at the Dark Moon. He felt very old, very strong, and beyond any normal, everyday consideration.
Yul swung back in the saddle, his thighs protesting at yet more punishment. Skydancer needed a drink and a rubdown but, for once, Yul simply didn’t care. He rode back the way he’d come, though not at the same breakneck pace for the horse was spent; along the great ridge of land, the spine of the Goddess in the Landscape, the Dragon’s Back ridgeway. The light faded a little more from the pure blue sky, leaving an orange ribbon along the south western horizon where the sun had set on this, its furthest point south. No moon rose tonight. Yul’s fury pounded in his veins as he galloped back to where he knew he must go, the place where he must be tonight.
He rode straight down towards the Village and from a long way off, heard the merriment and music. Tiny lanterns were strung out in the trees around the Green, and people were outside, dancing and laughing, eating and drinking. Where was Sylvie? Was she out on the grass, dancing with bare feet and flying hair? He skirted behind the Barn by the dried-up river, along the bank where the willows hung their heads in sorrow. He crossed the bridge, the one where he’d sat with Sylvie all t
hose years before when his soul cried out, so alone in the darkness. Skydancer’s hooves clattered on the bridge and then he was on the other side, trotting down the path, heading for the place that called to him whilst this darkness was in him and the anger so deep and strong.
Past the reeds, past the spot where fresh water normally met sea water, though now the fresh water was exhausted and had been overwhelmed. Onto the sand where the spiky grass grew in tufts and the pebbles began. He forced Skydancer onto the shingle, knowing the horse didn’t like the beach. The breeze coming off the sea, salty and warm, stirred his stiff curls and dried the latest sweat that saturated his shirt and sheened his body. He reined in the stallion and sat for a moment, sniffing the air appreciatively. The sound of the waves breaking gently on the shore was soothing, calming. The thumping in his veins eased a little and he took a deep breath.
The beach seemed deserted. The sun had finally moved far enough away to claim the golden ribbon on the horizon, yet the sky was still blue and full of light. White pebbles gleamed in the strange midsummer night’s twilight; the water was a shimmering mass with tiny curling peaks where the waves broke softly on the shore. Then he saw her further down the beach, waiting as he knew she’d be. She’d known he would come to her tonight, at the darkness in the brightness, at the Dark Moon. She’d known that this night – this one time – he’d be unable to resist her lure.
Slowly he urged Skydancer along the shingle and onto the sand, where the water lapped at the reluctant stallion’s hooves. At last they reached the woman reclining on the shore amongst the pebbles and the shells. Her hair was loose and wild over her bare breasts, her legs were wrapped in a sarong. Yul stopped and looked down at her. He felt a massive, overwhelming surge of desire like nothing he’d ever experienced before. This was not tempered with love or adoration or tenderness, nor even with normal lust. This was pure animal instinct and it obliterated everything in its path. He dismounted, his legs trembling and the shirt still sticking to him.
Dropping the reins and letting the horse free – he wouldn’t go far – Yul ripped the limp white linen from his torso then removed everything else. She stood up and the shimmering sarong fell to the stones. Naked, she stepped into the waves. Her wild hair fell about her shoulders and curled at her waist, and she looked back at him enticingly. He watched her plunge sleekly into the gleaming water. As she swam, lithe as a fish, a trail of phosphorous glowed behind her like a bright tail. He waded into the sea to follow, ensnared by the promise.
When he reached the rock, gasping for breath, she was already lying on it, recumbent and glistening. The strange twilight danced off the water droplets that shimmered like silver scales on her skin. Her body was perfect, curvy and smooth, and her hair hung over her breasts like long strands of floating seaweed. Her eyes and teeth glinted slightly as she moved her head. He hauled himself out of the water to sit beside her. She laughed softly, a soothing sound like the whisper and murmur of the sea, and shook back the long tails of hair to reveal all her beautiful curves and inviting hollows.
He stared down at her in stupefied wonder. In a fluid movement she sank back onto the hard rock and lay supine, gazing up at him. She raised a languid arm and he felt her cool touch trail down his chest. He shuddered and she opened her arms to him. With a groan of despair he fell upon her gleaming smoothness, drowning in the depths of her welcome. She wrapped herself around him in a salty-wet embrace and dug her fingernails of shell into his back. As the rhythm of the waves licked and lapped against the great rock, Yul plunged deeply, irrevocably, into her world of betrayal.
13
The children of Stonewylde were seated in tiers on battered old benching, and their fidgeting and chattering became noisier and noisier as anticipation grew. Finally the enormous doors of the Great Barn were closed to the bright and sunny afternoon, and it became dark and quiet inside. Everyone hushed as a slow, deep drumbeat reverberated through the cavernous building. Then came the sound of panpipes, haunting and wild, weaving through the air. A spotlight onto the circular stage made a pool of light in the gloom and illuminated a small fire-cauldron and some large logs scattered around like seats in a forest.
Clip stepped onto the stage dressed in the old rainbow-coloured cloak, his silvery hair long and ash staff in hand. He began to weave words, images, magic and symbols into a wild tale of strange people who lived in a landscape of forest and mountains where a wicked spell had been cast to blight the land. The children were completely silent as the tall, gaunt man whirled around like a flash of the spectrum and the Barn filled with the sweet aroma of burnt herbs.
He told of a magical hare that had come into the land to cure all evil and heal all wounds. The light dimmed further and the music changed, sounding like faerie chimes. Suddenly, on the stage there appeared a Hare Woman, small but with real hare’s ears, who loped into the centre. In her hand she carried a short staff and around it writhed a carved snake, from bottom to top. The Hare Woman told of her quest to break the wicked spell and put right all the terrible wrongs of the land. She stood and spoke of her magic, and the children sat with open mouths.
Then Hare Woman brandished her staff, an Asklepian rod, and whispered to the children to beware of the snake that curled around it, for if they stared for too long, or looked at it too carefully, the snake might come to life. There was a mass intake of breath. Celandine and Bluebell were beside themselves with suppressed excitement, having immediately forgotten that Hare Woman was their Auntie Leveret dressed up. Every child tried not to stare at the snake but couldn’t resist, and slowly, one vertebra at a time, the snake quickened into life.
‘I do hope that there are no children here staring at the snake, seeing how it has begun to wriggle,’ admonished Clip in his softest, most sing-song voice. ‘Because once the snake comes to life, only the magical Hare Woman can turn it back to wood again. Oh dear – I saw the tail wriggle. And now . . . yes, I can see the rainbow colours appearing on its scales.’
He threw a handful of herbs onto the fire burning in the little cauldron and brightly-coloured sweet-smelling smoke obscured the stage for a moment.
‘The snake has changed,’ he sang, ‘and now he writhes around the staff like a rainbow. Hare Woman, can you break the wicked spell that blights the land? Can you use your magic wand, with the snake as your helper?’
‘Only if the children all promise to help me too,’ she replied.
At this the children became even more excited, and the story web continued with the young audience joining in. Finally, after battling with evil goblins and bad faeries, Hare Woman broke the wicked spell and the land returned once more to peace and harmony. Clip then picked up his own staff and began to whirl it around his head.
‘And so Hare Woman has saved the land! Now she must return to her tiny cottage where she spends her days brewing remedies to help the folk with their ordinary ailments,’ he cried.
He turned, the rainbow tatters on his cloak flying out as he spun around, faster and faster, and the drums beat wildly. All eyes were on him as the Hare Woman transformed back into an ordinary young girl, sitting on one of the logs with a carved stick by her side. Clip slowed and the drums beat slower too – until they stopped.
‘And behold!’ said Clip. ‘The magical Hare Woman has vanished, and in her place is a simple, ordinary Stonewylde maiden called Leveret. But look, children – what’s this in her lap?’
Everyone craned forward in their seats and there was another collective gasp.
‘It’s Hare!’ shrieked Bluebell, unable to stop herself. ‘I know Hare!’
And everyone clapped like mad as Clip took a bow, and Leveret stood up, holding the hare in her arms with the creature’s head looking over her shoulder and her ears lying flat. Leveret bowed too and the applause was wild. She grinned at Clip and he beamed back at her.
‘And that is the other role of the shaman,’ he said to her over the noise. ‘To bring magic to the folk’s lives and break any wicked spells that might be ha
nging about!’
‘I don’t want you to go in the morning,’ he said petulantly, lying on his side and stroking her smooth belly with a dried stalk. ‘Stay a bit longer – until the autumn, when I go off to university.’
‘I’ll be back long before then!’ she laughed, stretching with a sigh of pleasure on the fragrant hay. The late afternoon sun poured in above them through the open shutters of the hay loft, and the air was thick with dancing motes.
‘But when? When will you be back? How will I survive without you?’
‘Oh Kestrel, don’t be silly. This was only ever a bit of fun,’ she teased. ‘Anyone would think you’d fallen in love with me!’
‘I have fallen in love with you,’ he said quietly. ‘I can’t bear the thought of you leaving tomorrow. Please, Rainbow, please—’
‘Stop it, Kes. Really, it’s not funny. This was only ever a game.’
‘Not to me,’ he said bitterly. He’d swum and worked in the fields every day, and the sun had tanned him a deep golden brown and bleached his curly hair a bright hazelnut-gold. Rainbow smiled up at him, tracing the definition of muscle on his naked torso. He’d certainly helped her while away the rather boring evenings at Stonewylde on many an occasion; she hoped he wasn’t going to prove too difficult now.
‘Kes, you’re a grown man and always knew the score,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back long before the autumn when you leave for uni, so don’t worry. And there are plenty of lovely girls at Stonewylde to keep you busy.’
‘I’ve already had most of them,’ he said moodily, ‘and I don’t want any of them anyway. They’re not a patch on you.’
