The Moonshawl: A Wraeththu Mythos Novel

by Storm Constantine

He laughed. ‘Oh, the thing tried it on with me at the first, but I wasn’t having any of it. Nothing can haunt me. I sent it packing from my mind. I learned to do that from an early age.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  He shrugged. ‘Just a vague shape in the curtains, a hand reaching out. I spat at it and it went.’

  ‘That must have surprised Wyva.’

  ‘Nohar said a word. The whole family was here that day too because I was new.’

  ‘Perhaps they were testing you.’

  Again, Rinawne laughed. ‘Now your imagination is running away with you. They must be used to what is in this room, and each of them deals with it in a different way. I just used my way and that was that.’

  Rinawne was a frustrating creature. He led me on into mysterious avenues and then pulled me out again before anything could truly manifest. That was his way. Intrigue, then debunk. I thought of a skittish young har brought to this house to forge some alliance through chesna-bond with the Wyvachi. Unknown, somewhat wild, unpredictable, he is taken to the haunted room. Clearly, he sees something and spits at it. And the family say nothing, don’t react? It made no sense to me, and I had no idea how much of that story was true. Perhaps none of it. Somewhat annoyed, my feelings shouldered aside my common sense and a remark came out. ‘You got me into trouble today.’

  Rinawne frowned quizzically. ‘I did? How?’

  ‘When Wyva came into the library I mentioned the moonshawl story and that I was considering incorporating parts of it into the yearly round.’

  Rinawne uttered a derisory sound. ‘Oh dear. I did try to... well, warn you. He didn’t welcome the suggestion, I take it?’

  ‘I was told in no uncertain terms to abandon that thread of work. Why is he so sensitive about it? It’s not a gruesome story, nor does it show the family in a bad light. I’m surprised he doesn’t want it included.’

  ‘The Wyvachi are very sensitive about the past,’ Rinawne said. ‘Like a lot of tribes they have cupboards bulging with skeletons from the early days. I bet your own tribe is no different. It’s just that most tribes have forgotten such things now, have let them fade, as they should. You won’t find that round here. The past still lives for hara in these lands. In my opinion, your job should be to shift them forward from that, so I agree with Wyva in this case. I’m really sorry. I only told you that story because I thought you’d like to hear it. I just don’t think sometimes.’

  ‘But hara already use the legend in their celebrations,’ I said, unwilling to let the subject drop. ‘You told me so.’

  He frowned. ‘This is part of the problem. The Whitemanes use that field, not Wyvachi hara. It’s common land, but Wyva isn’t happy about it.’

  ‘And you omitted to mention that?’ I sighed. ‘What is it about the Whitemanes? How can I do this job if information is withheld from me and I go blundering into areas that cause offence? It would help to know.’

  Rinawne put his head to one side, inspected me for some moments. ‘Don’t get angry, Ysobi har Jesith. Was but a small mistake. Ask Wyva about the Whitemanes. I don’t trust what might come out of my mouth.’

  ‘So what you’re telling me is that the job I’ve been commissioned to do is not for everyhar in Gwyllion, and what I devise might clash with what other hara are doing?’

  ‘Speak with Wyva about it,’ Rinawne said. ‘He’s the one who wants this.’

  I was beginning to understand more clearly now why he did.

  I didn’t want to stay for dinner and yearned for time alone, but there was no polite way out of it for today. After the breakfast room, Rinawne showed me no more of the house – the fascinating top story with attics, for example – and conducted me back to the library. I sensed a wall of frost between us, not a serious one, nor an unbreakable one, but there nevertheless.

  The day had so far disappointed me in several ways. I resolved to concentrate on my work, write up some fairly soft and hackneyed yearly round for the hara in the village, and be on my way. But to where? For the first time, the thought struck me: I’d been in Gwyllion for less than two days but already it felt more like home to me than Jesith.

  I asked to return to the library to work, and Rinawne said he would fetch me at dinnertime. Once seated at the glossy old table that dominated one half of the room, I got out my notebook and wrote up the incidents of the day. None of them would be of any use for my work, but I wanted to remember the details clearly.

  I remembered Rinawne telling me in his story of the breakfast room ghost how he had seen an arm reaching out to him. This reminded me of the seemingly blind ghost at the Pwll Siôl Lleuad . Were the two connected? Rinawne had described the ghost as ‘sulky’, yet what I’d seen at the pool was a terrified har who asked for help, who had uttered the word ‘Wraeththu’ as if hara were either little known to him or he felt separate from them, even though I was certain he was har himself. Did that perhaps indicate some incident in the Wyvachi past where a newly-incepted har had perished in this house or its estate under traumatic circumstances? The ghost was not asking help of the Wyvachi, but of me. These ideas swam around my head. I wondered whether I was jumping to conclusions, or simply fashioning a fictional tale to my liking. At that stage, it was impossible to tell.

  As the light began to fade in the room and the gardens beyond the windows sank into twilight, I considered the Whitemanes also. The Wyvachi clearly had no liking for this other family, who perhaps considered themselves a separate tribe. But that didn’t make the Whitemanes horrible hara; it merely spoke of a rift or a clash of interests. I decided I would have to make their acquaintance and see for myself. But tomorrow, I would start my work properly. I would begin with the season we were now in – early summer – and work forward from there. While I was familiarising myself with the landscape, I might as well make use of the season to help me acclimatise.

  The younger hara weren’t present at dinner; there were only Rinawne and Wyva, Gen and myself. Cawr was out visiting friends with his chesnari. Gen didn’t have a chesnari – no surprise to me. He was the archetypal rakehellion brother from an old novel – setting hearts and bodies alight but never there to watch the last burning embers fade to cold.

  There was no more talk of local stories, or even my work. Wyva spoke of running the estate, rambled fondly about certain animals he owned, and bickered mildly with Gen who’d forgotten to complete certain mundane tasks for him. Rinawne caught my eye once and winked.

  During dessert, Gen asked me if I’d like to visit the village with him the following evening. I saw no reason to decline, although sensed a stiffening in Rinawne’s posture at the foot of the table.

  ‘I can take you to some more sites tomorrow,’ Rinawne said to me.

  I was silent for a moment. Tomorrow’s work was already decided upon. I didn’t want another day with Rinawne, followed by further difficult to decline invitations to the Mynd. I smiled at him. ‘Not tomorrow. I must write out my ideas for the first part of my work. Perhaps later in the week?’ I didn’t want to get into the habit of Rinawne leading me about every day.

  Rinawne stared at me with quite a hard expression. ‘As you wish.’

  ‘How about Agavesday?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Clearly, it wasn’t fine.

  I glanced at Wyva, wondering what he might think of this exchange and its implications, but he was once again talking with Gen about trivial matters. He was either rather stupid in respect of Rinawne or simply didn’t care what his chesnari might get up to. I knew without the shade of a doubt that Rinawne intended at some point to pounce on me. What I was rather confused about was that I didn’t find the idea totally repellent.

  Later, as I lay on my side in the darkness of my tower bedroom, I thought of my chesnari and son, so far away. Did they miss me, or had my absence healed over so that I was already a wound forgotten? Restlessly, I turned onto my back, my left arm behind my head. I realised that ever since I’d returned from Kyme, Zeph and Jass had been slipping away from me, bit
by bit, drawing away in spirit. I hadn’t really noticed, but now it seemed obvious. I’d let them keep on drifting, or maybe it was me who’d drifted. I remembered the day of my departure – Jass hurrying around the house preparing to leave for work, making a cursory check of my luggage to ensure I’d packed essentials. Then a brief farewell, his expression tight, but not sad. We hadn’t even embraced. Zeph had come into the kitchen as I’d finished drinking my breakfast coffee; long-limbed, lanky Zeph with his bewitching lazy smile – which, incidentally, he rarely turned on me. ‘I hope it’s good for you in that place,’ he’d said, but it was as if he was saying it to any har who might need restoration. ‘Well, got to go. Goodbye.’ And that had been that.

  I remembered the way I’d felt about Jass when I’d first met him, the aches and longings he’d inspired in me. I remembered the utter conviction we should make a harling, and how my stupidity had spoiled his pearl’s delivery for Jass. That he’d forgiven me then was miraculous. No wonder his ability to forgive had worn away. Or maybe what happened had eroded his love to a point where it was so thin it was less than a ghost. Zeph was and is his son; they are close, a single beating heart. Where Jass goes, Zeph follows. And now, as I thought of these things, another realisation came to me: I’d lost them.

  Perhaps it didn’t have to remain that way. Perhaps I could change things. The question that had to be answered was whether I wanted this. Even if my relationship with Jass was damaged beyond repair, Zeph was still my son too, and I must not relinquish him so easily.

  In the morning, as I was eating breakfast, I wrote two letters – one to Jass, one to Zeph. To Jass I wrote of Wyva and his family, and requested that a hamper of Jesith produce be sent up to them. I spoke of how the landscape was inspiring for my work, and things were going well. I told him of the tower, describing it in detail; this made for a fairly long, chatty letter.

  To Zeph I wrote more, of the folklore stories I’d heard and read, of the magic of the land. I told him about Myv and Porter, and how the dogs howled so strangely down at the farm at night. I told him I was often alone, but not lonely; the land and the tower were my company. And if I craved harish company, I could wander up to Meadow Mynd and talk with hara there. I paused and thought for some minutes before adding the final paragraph suggesting he might like to come and visit and that I was sure he’d be welcome. In my heart, I knew that invitation would not be taken up, but at least I’d made it.

  Chapter Four

  Rain came with the morning, turning the world grey and dull. This would not have been good weather in which to wander about with Rinawne, so we’d probably have had to cancel any planned walk anyway. The air had gone chill, so I stoked up the stove in the kitchen, which soon became warm and enfolding. After breakfast, I took up my letters and went to saddle Hercules. He didn’t look very happy, standing beneath a dripping tree at the edge of his field. As I didn’t know the area that well yet, I took the widest path that led to the southeast of the farm. This meandered somewhat, but I rode as swiftly as possible to Gwyllion and left my letters at the mail station, where they would be picked up by the next courier travelling south. Then I returned to the tower and stabled Hercules in knee deep straw with sweet hay to nibble at. I determined not to venture forth in the rain again that day, and went inside to work.

  The Wheel of the Year has already been well-formed to fit harish beliefs by Flick Har Roselane, so most scholars devising improvised versions begin with his work. It’s quite telling that the circular story fits better into an androgynous version than it did in the ancient human version of male and female. Perhaps this was the way it was always meant to be for the sentient beings of this world, and yet the kingdoms of animal and plant remain mostly divided into two genders. I feel that the predominating forces of soume and ouana – or, crudely, female and male – should not be overlooked or ignored, because these forces do have different ‘flavours’ and strengths, and represent specific things. Hara incorporate both these aspects but utter balance is difficult, if not undesirable, to achieve. At certain times, soume or ouana might dominate – and I don’t mean in a literal sexual sense. I believe we exist upon a varying scale with ouana at one end of it, and soume at the other. It is rare our being will rest blithely in the centre of that scale. So, to me, celebrating these aspects in their pure form, as well as their variations, should be part of spiritual practice. To deny this reality seems to deny the true nature of our being.

  I thought about myself at that moment, snug in a cosy environment, writing up my thoughts. My soume aspect welcomed the comfort and, I felt, was eager to bring colour and imagination to the work. The ouana part was the scholar, wanting to be sure of his facts and not go skipping off down fanciful roads. Both were needed, and in some parts of my new system, perhaps one aspect would be foremost at certain seasons. Natalia, in mid-winter, would be wholly soume because of its connection with the birthing of pearls.

  Feybraihatide, at the eve of Flowermoon, had passed, so even though that month still reigned, I began work upon Cuttingtide, which falls in the last third of Meadowmoon. I felt a frisson of excitement course through me as I thought of this. The words were somehow apt. Meadowmoon for the meadow, the moonshawl, and cutting... somehow that seemed relevant too. Cuttingtide, being associated with the death of the dehar Morterrius, is perhaps one of the more daunting festivals. Its celebrations can be wild and cruel, and in many hidden corners involve sacrifice, as it had done thousands of years before, among humans. I don’t mean that hara are literally slaughtered in the fields, but animals would be, their blood cast upon the growing crops to ensure their bounty.

  As I thought of images and themes for a Cuttingtide festival for Gwyllion, I could not dispel the vision of the helpless har who had come to me at the Pwll Siôl Lleuad. Was he associated with a festival in some way, his trauma enacted upon a significant date? Without Wyva telling me, I couldn’t see how I could find out, other than trying to communicate further with the entity itself – a thought that didn’t exactly fill me with joy. His tragedy wasn’t why I was here, and I could see clearly he could sidetrack me, and perhaps bring me into conflict with the Wyvachi.

  ‘Drop it,’ I said aloud to myself, and dismissed all thoughts of the Pwll Siôl Lleuad from my mind. Wyva had been firm that I mustn’t use any aspects of the story for my yearly round, so the field, river and glade were out. I thought instead of my initial impressions – a har rising from the mulch and leaves of the fallen year, blossoming into Feybraihatide. At Cuttingtide he must fall himself, but I decided not to make this cathartic or brutal. An arrow from his lover would fragment him into a storm of petals, which would blow across the fields and fall upon the crops. As a concession to the blood gift, I would make the petals turn red as they fell and sank into the soil. I needed a location in which to set my Cuttingtide drama, and as certain areas were off limits, this would require some exploration on my part.

  The weather cleared late in the afternoon and weak, watery sunlight splashed down over the soaked landscape. Now I wanted to go exploring again. I’d been studying a framed map I’d found upon the wall of the spare bedroom. The map was drawn by hand in black, red and green ink and showed the extent of the Wyvachi lands, plus the village of Gwyllion. I was pleased to discover a shortcut to the village, which led through the farm, right to the inn where I’d arranged to meet Gen later on. This would be much quicker than the route I’d used earlier. Before my walk, I let Hercules out into his field and then set off, intending to explore some of the woodland nearby. I had debated whether to ride or walk, but had eventually opted for walking, since this would bring me closer to the earth, even though the damp might sink in through my boots. I’d copied parts of the map onto smaller, manageable bits of paper, and decided to begin my explorations with the Llwybr Llwynog, the Fox Run or Path, which covered a small hill two miles or so from the tower.

  As I descended my own hill, in the opposite direction to the farm, the hounds started up their racket, seemingly more of them
than ever before. There was an undeniable annoying note to their cries, which I found puzzling. Normally, the sound of hounds would have excited me. There was something primal about the concept of the hunt, associated with ancient pagan ways, that called to me. When I heard the voice of a hunting dog, I saw in my mind ancient gods and spirits riding the wind, rather than a struggling mass of yelping murderers intent on tearing apart one poor animal ahead of them. With these hounds, murder seemed more likely than a romantic vision; theirs was a cruel voice. I can put it no other way than that.

  My walk to the Llwybr Llwynog was uneventful, yet I could not help but be intoxicated by the atmosphere around me, the breathing, living landscape. In every shadow I sensed elemental eyes; the very air shimmered with imminence. The colours of the new summer flowers were achingly vivid, glowing white and purple amid the forest lawns. Emerging from a copse to cross a stile into a field, it was as if the land was shouting its jubilation at reawakening. Birds wheeled in complex patterns above the growing wheat. A hawk rested on the air currents, high above me; the dehar Shadolan’s creature. All this filled my senses, made me slightly drunk. I gathered items I thought useful for my temple room – a shard of tree bark adorned with vivid moss, some white stones I came across at the foot of an oak, pristine pigeon feathers, and so on. I visualised the dehar Elisin strolling through this wood, touching the trees, his bare feet conjuring forest flowers from the soil. I crossed a narrow stream, then decided to follow it, pleased to discover that when I reached the Llwybr Llwynog hill, before me was a waterfall where the stream fell into a pool. This was not some showy, gushing fall, but modest, somehow secret. Here, Elisin would pause, gaze at his shivering reflection in the pool. I could see right to the bottom of it, which was about two feet down, and was able to draw more small white stones from its floor; they seemed to glow with their own light.