The Eye of Night

by Pauline J. Alama

  “I left such a piece of flesh behind in that hunt,” Syrc would complain, “that I scarcely needed to leave any offering of the boar's.”

  “I hope you left it anyway,” Hwyn would retort. “It seems your flesh was too tough for the boar. How could spirits get their teeth into it?”

  Sometimes, too, Rand and Taryant would hang about Hwyn in fascination, and one day she began trying to teach them to juggle. “Don't toss too high!” she was chiding as I came in that evening. “Keep an even pace. You might try singing to yourself to get the rhythm. That's what I do.” By the time I'd washed the fish-smell off myself, she sounded more pleased with her pupils. “Good. You have deft hands. You'd make fine pickpockets, both of you—though I doubt your neighbors would appreciate it if I taught you that skill.”

  “What's a pickpocket?” Rand said.

  And Syrc laughed. “Little enough it would matter. We haven't used money since before these girls were born.”

  “Really?” Hwyn said. “Then what's this halfpenny doing behind Rand's ear?” It was a simple sleight-of-hand trick from her days as King Evan's jester, but enough to make the girls laugh when she pulled the coin out of Rand's dark hair. But as she held out the coin for the girl to take, I could see Rand's eyes directed, instead, to the stump that remained of Hwyn's little finger, and her solemn, curious expression overtook all laughter. “What happened to your hand?” she asked.

  “Rand!” chided Syrc.

  But Hwyn answered her. “This is why I shouldn't jest about teaching you to pick pockets. My finger was cut off for thievery when I was about Taryant's age. I was lucky, they told me, not to lose my whole hand—but I only took a small sausage, so they only took a small finger.”

  Rand, properly horrified, gaped silently.

  Taryant demanded, “They did this to you for a sausage?”

  “It was a bad bargain, I guess,” Hwyn said. “I might have been more cautious, but I hadn't eaten for two days.”

  “Then why wouldn't someone give you food?” Rand asked.

  “Because I didn't have this,” Hwyn said, deftly drawing the coin from Taryant's pocket and producing it once more. “Not everywhere are there people as kind as you Holdouts.”

  “Even Larioneth was like that once,” Syrc told the girls, “before the emigrants left. Before the Troubles.”

  Syrc was not alone among the Holdouts in relishing life amid the Troubles. Til and March and Grim all agreed their lot was better than their fathers' had been; they'd been poor before, and disregarded, and now no one in Larioneth was either. Ye t it was a hard life in many ways, I could tell. The folk I saw were mostly young: life was short, hard-won, in a land of long winters and shifting realities. Those that survived were strong—and none stronger, Harga told me, than Syrc. “Syrc's name ought to be Anvil,” the healer said, “because you can hammer at an anvil without mercy, but it's only the hammer that breaks.”

  As if to prove Harga's words, Syrc was chafing to be out hunting before her wound had even a day to heal. Only the promise of the coming festival—and the dancing she refused to miss— restrained her. I could sympathize. I was caught up, myself, in all the excitement of preparation. In the Tarvon Order, and in much of my part of the country, the Night of the Hidden Goddess was a solemn occasion, but here in the North, where darkness nearly crowded out the winter day, this longest night of all called for wild celebration. After six years in an ascetic order and a journey full of privation, my appetite was whetted for the feast. Hwyn too seemed almost giddy with anticipation. As the hours of slanting sunlight dwindled and the moon swelled to fullness, the very earth seemed to hold its breath like a child awaiting a present.

  18

  THE NIGHT OF THE HIDDEN GODDESS

  As the full moon shone through the eastern forest in a deep blue twilight, we joined the procession to the temple, bearing our evergreen boughs. Hwyn, outdoors for the first time since our rescue, pressed close against me, but she was not shivering, and smiled up at me.

  “It's a beautiful night,” I said to her, and it was: the air was clear, and the snow glistened in the silver moonlight.

  “It should be. For ‘the morning may never come,’ ” she said, quoting the words of the midnight rite.

  “Hush, that's for later,” I said. I silenced her with a kiss, bending down as she stood on tiptoe to reach me.

  Ahead of us, Hart and Hern, Til and Grim solemnly carried a great log for the fire that must not die tonight. Behind them Trenara held a position of honor, escorted by Per, who acted as priest. He was, like most scholars, devoted to the Rising God and the Bright Goddess, the beacons of light, revealers of know-able truth; but no other priest remained in Larioneth, so all rites fell to his charge. Behind him walked Harga, and we followed her, taking our cue from her actions in this unfamiliar northern variant of the ancient celebration.

  When the bearers of the log reached the temple they walked straight forward into its dark interior. The torchbearers who had flanked our procession hovered outside, but the rest of us went in, groping our way in the dark, into an open space that offered no handholds. I kept my hold on Hwyn, trusting her night-sense to guide us.

  After the sounds of shuffling feet were silenced, a woman's voice, clear as flame, pierced the darkness, singing, “Holy the night, holy as day! In darkness life dawns.” Then seventy-odd Holdouts and Hwyn and I sang it back to her three times, until I felt a shiver that was not of cold.

  At last the torchbearers entered; they ringed the room, and the singer proclaimed, “Holy the night, holy as day! Through the night the fire endures.” Then as we sang after her, the torchbear-ers moved through the crowd to the center of the temple and lit the great tree-bole on the hearth. I saw then, by its light, who the singer was: the kitchen-girl, Tresanda, who had scarcely seemed to talk. Her voice was almost as fine as Hwyn's. She sang again: “Holy the night, holy as day! Through darkness, life endures.” As we repeated after her, the torchbearers moved back to the rim of the circle, where they set the torches in wall sconces.

  I could see, then, by the flickering light, the rich painting that ringed the domed ceiling, the four gods on the World-Wheel: the Rising God, clothed in the dawn; the Bright Goddess, clothed in flowers, arms open to embrace the world below her; the Turning God, bound at one ankle but crowned in vines; and the Hidden Goddess, her face turned away as always, curtained from view behind a waterfall of black hair. She leaned on one arm, reaching upward with the other toward the center of the circle. Behind her an owl peered around at us, and near her outstretched hand a raven flew. At the hub of the Wheel was a smoke-hole for the hearth below.

  Tresanda sang, “Holy the night, holy as day! From darkness all was born.” Then the Holdouts—and we travelers after them—turned to the north, to the image of the Hidden Goddess, and knelt to her. Trenara, I noticed, needed to be prompted in this. But moments later, when those who had borne the torches began circling the room, hand in hand, gathering worshipers into the dance, Trenara melted into them as though she knew the steps in her sleep. Soon we were all linked hand in hand and the steps came even to me with uncanny ease. Concentric circles rotated against each other as Per chanted,

  “Four Great Ones gird the earth:

  Revealer of riddles, the Rising God;

  Bright Goddess, bringer of joy;

  Turning God of time and change;

  The last and first lives in shadows,

  Unseen wonder, womb of lives,

  Hearth of the dead, the Hidden Goddess,

  Giver of rest and grower of seeds,

  Life unwithered, winter's hope,

  Whose hand stretches to the hub of the world.”

  There was more, of course; some I knew well, and some was new to me. For the most part, the words blurred in my mind. I was conscious of Hwyn's hand in mine and her rich strong voice raised in the responses we all sang, ringing above the rest; of Harga, on my other side, treading the measure with a grace that surprised me; of the hypnotic rhythms of the da
nce; of all of us, eyes shining and faces flushed, linked one to another by the hand, daring together to dance winter into Larioneth. When Per chanted the prophecy I'd first heard by the fireside: “Strength will come from the earth, friends from the south, and hope from the sea,” I seemed to feel the promised strength rising up into me, into all of us. Looking at Hwyn, I saw her head tipped back, her eyes half shut, her smile, stripped of irony, as wide as the breadth of her heart.

  At the end flagons of wine circled through the crowd and we all drank, wishing each other health and joy as we passed the cup. Then we flocked back to the hall for the feast—that is, all save those whose turn came first to tend the fire.

  Larioneth Hall had seemed splendid to me when I first en-tered—as, indeed, any warm room would have seemed—but now it was twice as brilliant, with costly candles squandered for this nightlong celebration, and precious ornaments from the hall's treasure-troves, little moons and stars of silver and crystal, hanging everywhere to reflect the light. Evergreen boughs hung over doorways, scenting the rooms. In the great hall were piled more dishes and cups than I could readily count—some of clay, some of wood, and a few of gold. They'd all be needed, for everyone alive in Larioneth would be dining here tonight. To that end, a quarter of the crowd disappeared into the kitchen and put themselves at Ash's disposal to make ready the feast. But Trenara, Hwyn, and I, as honored guests, were told in no uncertain terms to sit and wait.

  Instead we followed a flock of children who promised to show us the best rooms of the castle. By the light of Rand's lantern, we saw tapestries of strange beasts: dragons and hip-pogryphs, winged women and goat-hooved men; we saw gilt carvings as subtle and delicate as the finest needlework; we saw one room nearly covered by the largest looking-glass I'd ever seen. In that glass I saw a stranger: thin to be sure, but not spindly and meager as I knew myself; rather, weathered and hard-looking as the old sailors I remembered from my youth at sea. Hwyn laughed to see me gaping at myself. “I've changed so,” I explained.

  “No,” she said, “you are the same man I met this spring, only more so.”

  Lastly, blushing a little, the children showed us what must have been a private chapel, notable for an elaborate rendition of the Bright Goddess on the ceiling, entirely nude. Such icons were common enough in the south, and indeed the only kind you saw in Iskarron—but in this cold land, nudity was not so readily associated with joy, and seemed more crazy than titillating, even to the boys in the group. There were icons on the walls as well: the Rising God leaping skyward, the Upside-Down God hanging from an oak tree. I was surprised not to see the Hidden Goddess, until I realized that the floor was tiled with the pattern of a dark hand, or the shadow of one. The Unseen held us in her palm.

  When we rejoined the others, the feast had already started. All the bounty this harsh land offered was spread at table: boar and venison, fowl and fish, soups and stews, crusty loaves and browned pancakes with stewed apples. There were sweet cakes for after the meal, and plenty of cider and ale at all times. Hwyn and I eagerly helped ourselves to everything but the fish—of that, we said, we never wanted another mouthful in our lives.

  There were presents, too, when the feast was done—even for Hwyn and me, who had nothing to give the others. They gave us fine brooches, treasures of the House of Larioneth. When Syrc fixed on Hwyn's brooch, Hwyn wept for joy, and we embraced everyone within reach. Trenara was given a circlet of gold and crowned solemnly as Queen of Larioneth. Around her neck they hung a silver pendant with the crescent-moon emblem of her noble house. She did not weep, but laughed. Then the music and dancing began.

  The Troubles must have been good for music: there were more competent singers among the Holdouts than a remnant of a hundred souls, barely clinging to sustenance, had any right to expect. There were instrument-players, too: harp and drum carried most of the tune, but late in the evening Til took out a throat-flute just like my brother's, and I stopped singing to listen, lost in thought. Hwyn came and put her arms around me.

  “You look haunted,” she said.

  “It's all right,” I said. “This is the night for ghosts.”

  It was, indeed. Watching some children play in the hall, I noticed by some odd chill in my spine that one of them was a ghost. I turned to Hart, who stood nearby watching with what I suppose must have been my expression when I heard the familiar flute-voice. “Your sister?” I whispered.

  He nodded. “Lind, the one my last daughter is named for. I'm glad to see her happy.”

  “I know,” I said. “I saw my sister like that, on the way north.” Suddenly I thought, in the corner of my eye, that I could see An-verth, too, among the knot of children—but before I could be certain, she was gone. “You have made peace with your ghosts, in truth, I see.”

  “Some of them,” he said. “Who can make peace with them all? Only a saint.”

  “You're all saints here, to me,” I said.

  He laughed. “You scarcely know us! But you are kind, friend from the South,” he said, quoting the words of the rite. “It is you Far-Travelers who bring the blessings of this night to us.”

  “I am no saint,” I said. “But Hwyn—”

  He nodded, and said nothing. Then Modya swept him into a dance, and I returned to Hwyn's side. We sang and danced a while with the others; Hwyn at last had the chance to show off her Ballad of Dirnlac of the Red Oak, to great effect. The Holdouts were moved by the story, and the more eager singers among them asked her to repeat the words so they could learn them. As she began again, I thought I saw the ghost, Dirnlac himself, sitting on the floor behind Tresanda, listening with an expression of purest wonder. I would have spoken to him, asked him how he had escaped his prison, but I did not wish to interrupt the song, and when it was done, he faded from view. Before I could speak of it, Til began playing a dance-tune and Hwyn pulled me into a dance. We were ungainly dancers, especially together, with our awkward difference in height; but we felt safe among the Holdouts, who were too kind to laugh at our clumsiness. We soon tired ourselves out, and slept a time to save our strength for the midnight ceremony.

  In the deep of the night we went forth to the temple without song, without sound, without torches, but carrying soft deerskins slung over our backs. These we spread on the temple floor, making a circle around the fire. The children remained behind, and the younger adolescents and a few adults kept watch over them. The older, more solemn congregation of midnight sat cross-legged on the skins, holding hands in a quiet circle.

  At last Per spoke: “The morning may never come.”

  “Hope survives in the darkness,” we replied.

  There was no singing this time. Tresanda was absent, probably still too young for the midnight rite. I saw that Til, sitting nearby, had his flute, and other musicians had brought harp and drum, but for now they were still. The time had come for tales of the darkness: of things unknown and beyond our fathoming; of suffering and compassion; of loss and the blind hope that helps us bear it; of the Hidden Goddess and her saints. Per stood and bowed to the north, but instead of beginning the first tale himself, he said, “Hwyn the Far-Traveler, tell us the story of the Sky-Raven.”

  So Hwyn told again the same story she'd told at the hearth of the sheltering darkness that saved the world from the sun's fire. Though we had all heard it before, we had never heard it like this, in the middle of the longest night with a relic of that ancient sacrifice in our midst. All listened breathlessly. Hwyn's hand was near her heart as she spoke, clasping the Eye of Night through her clothing as if to guard it from the fire before us.

  When she had finished, Per told the tale of one of the Hidden Goddess's saints: “The Hidden Goddess gave St. Fiern of Etar eyes for the unseen. In the trance of the goddess, the saint could see through a mountain to the gold in its heart, through a man's face to his intentions, through time to the roots of things, through things as they are to things as they might be or ought to be. And for a time she was glad to give counsel to all that asked. Kings sent messeng
ers, queens sent their maids, merchants sent their bondsmen to ask on their behalf what the saint's wisdom foresaw. And common people, too, when they might leave their work, came asking her to see what was dark to them. And in time she grew to feel herself a prisoner of her gift, answering all callers, seeing for others but never for herself. So she withdrew to the hills outside Etar until she found a small, still pool, and she gave the light of her eyes to that pool for all people. And thus the Mirror of St. Fiern was formed. All who look into it may see with Fiern's eyes—if they have the courage to bear what they see there. St. Fiern herself lived the rest of her days in darkness; the light of her eyes was gone and she was blind. But they say that in the darkness she learned to sing, and was content.”

  There followed a long story that I had never heard before a northern legend, it must be: “Lew was the fairest-made, brightest-eyed young man of his generation, and this was his misfortune, for his beauty caught the eye of his half-sister and she burned for him unlawfully.

  “This might have been her misfortune alone, but she was a necromancer and a magician, familiar with the unquiet dead and learned in the secret arts of influences and forces in the world. Bold in her power, she asked outright for the love of Lew's body. When he shrank from her, she cursed him that if he would not have her, no daughter of womankind would have him. And her words were fulfilled. After that, all women shrank from Lew, handsome as he was, as they would shrink from the touch of incest.

  “As the years went by and the mage did not relent, Lew's loneliness turned to frenzy. He began to haunt the temple, praying hours upon hours to the Bright Goddess for a woman who was the daughter of no woman before her.

  “She who delights in the work of her hands could not long resist this prayer. The Bright Goddess made for Lew a woman of flowers, not born but grown in the rich soil of the southern islands sacred to her worship, and shaped with her own fragrant hands. So that the woman might live as a human creature and not merely as the green things of the earth, the goddess gave her a name, Eorthwyn, which in the Old Tongue meant Joy of the Earth.