Shaman of Stonewylde

by Kit Berry

  Scrolling up again, he looked at the attachments. The office at Aitch had written that in view of the impressive quality of the items received, the company had decided to go ahead and use Stonewylde goods within their new Ethical Earth range for the winter collection. The attachment was a contract between Aitch and Stonewylde and the terms and conditions were extensive. Presumably Sylvie would have them checked over by a lawyer before they could be accepted. The other attachment was the order for goods for their new autumn and winter range and it was large – a huge number of felt hats, slippers and bags, wicker baskets, hemp scarves and a lot of Stonewylde leather boots and belts. It was an order worth a considerable amount of money.

  Harold better than anyone understood why Stonewylde was in such desperate need of money. The community might appear to be self-sufficient, and in terms of food and most clothing, it was. But there were so many other things that must be paid for with hard cash, not least the farm vehicles and fuel to run them, and the agricultural equipment needed for food production and processing. The hardware for the computer network and all that entailed, funding for the students who attended college and university, medical supplies and equipment and items such as glasses and dentures – all these must be paid for somehow. And then there were even larger demands such as a new heating system and roof renovations for the Hall, glass for windows, solar panels and machinery for the wind farm. Much of the infrastructure at Stonewylde was in need of replacement and there was no money to pay for it; a source of income was now an urgent necessity, although few people in the community really understood the gravity of the situation.

  In their e-mail, Aitch had said that once the contract was signed they’d arrange for the photoshoot to take place. There’d be preliminary auditions for suitable Stonewylde models to work alongside their professional ones, and they’d send their scout down at the earliest opportunity. Harold let out a deep breath; if this worked out it would kick-start the recovery after the disaster of Stonewylde.com. He had hoped that Yul would be amenable to Buzz’s offer, but had known in his heart Yul would never accept him back at Stonewylde. Even years later, Harold vividly recalled searching for Yul in the woods, the day after Buzz and his Hallfolk gang had beaten him up during the Spring Equinox celebrations. He remembered Yul’s fear at his summons to Magus’ presence in the Galleried Hall, and his sympathy with Yul’s sense of injustice. Harold remembered many incidents from their childhood at the Village School, when Yul was just a skinny little Village boy and big, sturdy Buzz had swaggered around bullying him with impunity. No wonder Yul had rejected Buzz’s offer of help now. But, perhaps this new initiative with Aitch would start to put Stonewylde’s financial affairs back on an even keel, and then maybe Yul would come round to the idea. Despite Yul’s difficult behaviour in recent months, Harold felt infinite respect for him and would never willingly let him down – which made the accusations of treachery all the more painful.

  In the massive sitting room upstairs, Yul sat on the sofa and tried to drink himself into oblivion. The television blared inanity in the corner and a near empty bottle of mead sat on the small table. But stupor evaded him tonight, however hard he tried. Instead, his eyes were constantly drawn to the enormous painting still propped against a wall. There was his source of despair – his quicksilver angel, blessed with moonbeams and surrounded by her sacred hares, bringing down the moon magic bestowed by the Bright Lady, dancing it deep into the spirals of Stonewylde.

  Yul gazed at the painting as he’d done constantly since the Solstice, and marvelled at Magpie’s insight. Somehow the boy had captured the very essence of the moondance, not only depicting his beautiful Sylvie, their daughter and the hares, but somehow making perfect sense of what was happening. Yul wondered yet again what must go on inside Magpie’s head. Despite being mute and his apparent lack of wit, the lad instinctively understood the mystical moondance and then, even more impressive, had the talent to recreate it on canvas for others to appreciate.

  Now, in the aftermath of the debacle that was this summer’s longest day of the year, Yul couldn’t quite recall exactly why the painting had upset him so much when he’d stumbled into the Art Room. He still felt a sense of betrayal at having his secret and intimate relationship with his moongazy girl laid bare and public. But in reality, he understood that what had truly upset him that day wasn’t the painting at all. It was the sense of not belonging, of being excluded, of being on the outside looking in. That had hurt him in a place he hadn’t realised was still so raw, touching on emotions not felt for many years. And because of this . . .

  Yul hung his head and began to sob. Deep, noisy sobs that he didn’t care if anyone heard, for he deserved the humiliation. He’d betrayed Sylvie. She was the reason he was here on this Earth, and nothing would ever be the same again. He felt such guilt that he wanted to drown himself in a lake of tears. He was stabbed by his awful, inexcusable treachery and infidelity, and wallowed in a pool of deep-red guilt. He could never go back, never undo what he’d done, never make it all perfect and beautiful again. He felt his deceit written all over his face and marvelled that none could see it. It was writ so large, so boldly, in letters of lurid, indelible, stinking fluid that could never be washed away. Sooner or later someone would actually look at him properly and notice it.

  And as for Sylvie – she was walking around Stonewylde, eating, sleeping, caring for their daughters – and oblivious to his treason. She’d spoken to him and smiled at him, she’d looked at him in consternation and perplexity, felt annoyance and irritation – he’d been unable to respond to her because UNTRUE was on his shirt and in his heart and he was incapable of behaving normally. How could she not see his guilt? How did she not smell the stench of Rainbow all over him, oozing from every pore? How could he ever go near his beloved wife again, knowing that he was smeared with the unspeakable taint of that siren?

  The mead at long last took its toll and his hand dropped the empty glass to the floor. His head sunk to his chest and merciful oblivion was finally his. As the small bright Hay Moon traversed the starry skies, the magus of Stonewylde slipped into drunken slumber.

  16

  Sylvie and Clip stood together on the roof of the tower, somewhere private where they wouldn’t be overheard. They gazed at the rolling parkland stretching away to the distance on one side, the magnificent trees in full July robes. But the searing weather had taken its toll and not only was the grass ochre-gold, but the horse chestnuts were starting to brown already.

  ‘Surely it must rain soon,’ said Sylvie. ‘This summer has been unbelievably dry.’

  ‘Of course it will, and then there’ll be too much and everywhere will be flooded because the earth’s as hard as rock,’ Clip replied. ‘Sylvie, I have those papers here, signed as you asked.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she smiled. ‘That’s great – we can get the ball rolling then with this Aitch business. Do you think it’s a good idea?’

  He shrugged, his lined face looking so drawn that she wanted to hug him. As usual, she held back.

  ‘I realise Stonewylde needs revenue,’ he said. ‘I suppose this is as good a means as any, although . . . there’s something about the fashion industry that somehow leaves a bad taste in my mouth. And my lawyer said this contract I’ve now signed is drawn up rather more in their favour than ours. If things don’t work out, we’re still bound to honour it, with no exceptions – there’s no get out clause. But if that’s okay with you . . .’

  ‘We don’t really have much choice right now,’ she said. ‘But we’ll have to come up with something else lucrative, I know. I agree with your reservations about the fashion trade – despite their “Earth Ethics” label, I’m not convinced the business is ethical at all. Still, better to have our folk working honestly and in lovely conditions, than to have some poor exploited workers in an illegal sweatshop lining their boss’s pockets with Aitch’s business.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘I do wish though . . . I have a kind of fantasy, a dream that I�
�ve thought about over the years . . .’

  Clip watched her profile as her eyes roamed the parched landscape. His daughter was so beautiful, and he could never look at her without feeling a jolt of pride and love. To think he’d created her – the surprise of it never lessened. Her classical features, her long silver hair, the delicate fineness of her; Clip adored Sylvie and wished he were better able to show it.

  ‘What do you dream?’ he asked gently.

  ‘That Stonewylde could become a place of healing,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I read somewhere of a new theory about the purpose of the most famous stone circle, Stonehenge. They say now that perhaps it was a place where people came to be healed, a kind of sacred hospital where the earth energy was so powerful that people made pilgrimages there.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that,’ said Clip. ‘I must say I’ve felt very potent forces inside that great henge.’

  ‘Well, I feel it’s the same with Stonewylde,’ said Sylvie. ‘Not just our Stone Circle, wonderful though that is. There’s Green Magic at Hare Stone, and on the Village Green, in the woods, up on Dragon’s Back – so many places at Stonewylde where you can sense the energy and healing. Remember when I came here all those years ago? I was so very ill, and probably would’ve died if we’d stayed in London, but my cure here was miraculous.’

  ‘It was amazingly fast,’ agreed Clip, still finding it uncomfortable to reminisce about Sylvie’s early days – and her exploitation – at Stonewylde.

  ‘So, my dream is to make Stonewylde a place of healing. I’d love to offer the experience I had here to others,’ she said. ‘And if their illness were too far progressed for a cure, at least they’d die in a beautiful place with the Goddess in the Landscape all around them. Imagine if the last thing you saw as you passed on was the view from Hare Stone, or feeling the sun’s rays on your face in the Stone Circle? That’s the one thing that consoled me about poor Professor Siskin’s death – at least he died on the Village Green, the place he loved most in the whole world, with the stars overhead and the trees all around him.’

  She paused and swallowed hard. Tentatively, Clip put his arm around her and was rewarded with her head on his shoulder as she nestled against him.

  ‘I don’t tell you often enough,’ he said softly, ‘but I love you so much, Sylvie.’

  She smiled at this.

  ‘I feel the same, Clip. I’m honoured to have a father such as you.’

  ‘As for your dream,’ he said, ‘I don’t see why that couldn’t happen. I’ve been talking with my lawyer recently about tying Stonewylde up safely – remember we discussed it before? She recommends that the estate becomes a charity, and that would sit well with your idea.

  Sylvie turned and looked into his grey wolf eyes, her own shining with joy.

  ‘Really? Could we really do this?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. There’s yet more paperwork so we’re talking about the future, not the present, but I think it could be done.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’

  ‘Well, we have our wonderful Hazel, and Leveret’s destined to become an exceptional healer too. We can recruit more staff if necessary or best of all, train our youngsters in health care. We could offer all types of therapies and our own natural remedies. It’s a very exciting thought.’

  ‘Though I guess we still need a source of revenue,’ said Sylvie.

  ‘That’s true, but as a charity we can fund-raise. And our patients may be able to donate.’

  ‘Maybe . . . but it’s really important that Stonewylde is for everyone, not just the wealthy,’ she said firmly. ‘I’d never have been able to come here if we’d have had to pay, would I? Despite all the awful things he did, that’s something I’ll always be grateful to Magus for. He took us in when we were penniless, and it’s thanks to his invitation that I was healed. And that I found you.’

  The couple from Aitch who’d come to find suitable models and possible locations were overwhelmed by Stonewylde. Sylvie had instructed Harold to look after them, and a meeting had been called in the Great Barn for anyone interested in modelling during the proposed fashion shoot later in the month. Many of the girls and some of the boys from the Hall turned up bright and early, and Sylvie thought perhaps she should pop over there to keep an eye on things. Harold walked down with the photographer and her assistant who were slightly bemused to find themselves having to use their legs, and upset that their phones were unusable. When they arrived in the Barn, they were greeted by a crowd of eager youngsters all anxious not to waste their entire Saturday hanging about.

  The photographer, a bright young thing named Chelsi, stood up and explained that she and Benjy were only assistants to the main photographer Finn, who’d be doing the actual photoshoot himself within the next couple of weeks. Today they’d take shots of anyone interested in joining the professional models as extras. Sylvie watched from the sidelines, noticing how helpful Harold was. They went outside and the youngsters formed a queue to have their photos taken. Meanwhile, Celandine and Bluebell and many other children ran around the Green as they always did at the weekends, whilst their mothers collected bread from the Bakery, meat from the Butcher, milk from the Dairy Store and water from the Village Pump.

  Standing in the queue were Faun and Rowan, and Sylvie was amused to see Faun showing off so blatantly. She looked lovely and Sylvie was sure they’d choose her anyway, without the dramatics.

  ‘Mother, why do we have to stand in this stupid queue?’ Faun demanded, and Rowan replied to her quietly. Sylvie thought again what a spoiled child she was; everyone else was waiting patiently. Miranda had persuaded Rufus to take part and, as he and Faun were fairly close together in the line, she had a chance to compare them. Rufus had suddenly grown very tall and thin, and his arms and legs seemed far too long for his body. His gleaming auburn hair hung over his eyes, which were the same dark-chocolate brown as Faun’s, and he was covered with freckles. He was a striking boy and complemented his half-sister Faun perfectly. They ignored each other and Sylvie thought what a shame that was, although Yul as the other half-brother hadn’t been a good role model for sibling bonding.

  ‘But Mother, Rainbow said I’d definitely be able to model for Aitch, so why do I have to do this audition thing? They should just put my name down,’ Faun whined, and Sylvie itched to give her a good telling off. Instead, she walked away. Noticing Yul standing in the shadows of one of the Barn’s buttresses, discreetly watching the proceedings, she went over to him. It was about time they patched things up, at least superficially. Yet, once again, he wouldn’t even look her in the face.

  ‘Can we please have a talk?’ she asked him, a little more tersely than she’d intended.

  ‘I was just about to leave, actually,’ he replied, gazing across the Green at the spectacle of the Outsiders taking photos of the youngsters, one by one. Anything rather than look her in the eye.

  ‘We need to talk, Yul. You’ve been so cold and distant lately and I—’

  ‘Have I? I’m sorry, Sylvie – I didn’t mean to be.’

  ‘That’s good. I thought you were ignoring me deliberately. Could we go for a walk and have a chat?’

  He hesitated and she felt cut to the quick. Why was he so reluctant to have any contact with her?

  ‘I suppose so . . .’

  ‘Good. Let’s go down to the beach, shall we? Then—’

  ‘NO!’ he shouted, and Sylvie stared at him. He really was behaving oddly.

  ‘Shall we just take a stroll around the Village Green instead?’ she suggested. ‘Maybe it’ll do all those wagging tongues good to actually see us together.’

  They walked, like a courting couple, around the huge circle of trees. Yul seemed to relax a little as she chatted easily, telling him about the girls and how they were getting on. Eventually she broached the subject that she knew was causing him distress.

  ‘Yul, about my birthday . . . I hope you know that—’

  ‘I’d really rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind,�
�� he said stiffly.

  ‘But Yul, the whole thing was a complete surprise to me. And—’

  ‘Really, Sylvie, please can we leave it? I only want to forget that day ever happened.’

  ‘But you’re still upset – I can see it! I know you too well, Yul. You can’t hide things from me. I know what’s going on in your head.’

  ‘Do you really? I don’t think so, Sylvie.’

  They’d come, finally, to the great yew tree. They stopped and both gazed at it. Their sadness was almost tangible as both were assaulted by memories.

  ‘Oh Yul! What’s happened to us? I never wanted it to be like this.’

  ‘Neither did I. But it seems that what we once had has gone . . .’

  His words cut into her and shredded her heart.

  ‘No, it’s not gone!’ she said shakily. ‘And as far as I’m concerned, it’ll never be gone.’

  But Yul shrugged and turned away before she could see the tell-tale expression on his face, and the tears that yet again clouded his vision.

  A couple of weeks later, Chelsi and Benjy returned to Stonewylde with a gaggle of models and a crew of assistants. They were to settle in and sort out the locations, and then Finn the photographer would arrive the next day to do the photoshoot. By this time, with all the fuss that surrounded their arrival, Sylvie was beginning to regret ever championing the stupid scheme. But the folk had already started work on the large order for goods and so far everyone had shown willing.