The Moonshawl: A Wraeththu Mythos Novel

by Storm Constantine

  ‘Wyva suggested Myv was a little behind in his development.’

  At this, Rinawne laughed. ‘That? No! Myv just isn’t in a rush to be adult, such as you see with so many his age. He savours life as it is, and good for him, I say. Hara don’t have the luxury of long childhoods like humans did.’

  ‘Amazing. A reference to the human past!’

  ‘No need for sarcasm, Ysobi. It’s true, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very much so, but then humans took far longer to develop. Still, I do get your point. It’s a shame harlings are suddenly hit with feybraiha and have to be done with childhood. My son, although named for the wind, is more like a river. He’s flowed through life effortlessly, from harling to har. He never strained to be adult, either, but neither did it come too soon.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Zephyrus. We call him Zeph.’

  ‘Is he like you?’

  My laughter was tinged with bitterness. ‘Not noticeably. He’s his hostling’s son, through and through.’

  Rinawne put his head to one side, eyed me thoughtfully. ‘You didn’t see to much of his upbringing, did you?’

  I sighed. ‘Well...’ Time for revelations? No. ‘My work took me away a lot, so naturally Zeph spent more time with Jass. I regret that now, of course, because like you say the harlinghood is gone before you can blink.’

  ‘At least you can make up for it now,’ Rinawne said.

  I took a drink of wine. ‘Yes, at least there is that.’

  There was a silence, during which Rinawne was no doubt puzzling about all I’d not told him, because if his family had secrets so did mine, and perhaps their existence was as obvious. He did not try to pry, and for that I was grateful. Perhaps he imagined that as we drew closer to one another I would eventually open up to him, but the truth was I didn’t want to drag any old baggage up here to Gwyllion with me. I wanted it out of the way, gone forever. And now that Jassenah had released me from our bond, I had more freedom to escape the past.

  I think Rinawne would have been happy to stay for the whole afternoon and for us to spend most of that time in bed, but I’d planned to give attention to my temple at the top of the tower.

  ‘Can’t you do that any time?’ Rinawne protested when I told him.

  ‘No. I want to do it this afternoon, on the eve of Cuttingtide. I’ll probably enact my own private rite there this evening, dedicate the upper room into a nayati. I’ve not done much with the place yet, and have a bagful of artefacts to arrange there.’

  Rinawne pulled a face. ‘Ah well, I suppose you’re right, and I should go home and sort out gifts for those we’re visiting later. Are you over at the Mynd tomorrow afternoon? I think Wyva would like it if you helped oversee the final preparations.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll be over around three. Have a good evening.’

  Rinawne kissed the top of my head. ‘See you tomorrow, then.’

  After he’d gone, I leaned back contentedly in my chair, intending to finish my lunch wine slowly and simply stare out of the windows until my glass was empty. I was happy, utterly filled with a quiet joy. Not for a long time had I felt this way, part of a community, liked and trusted. I balked at conducting rites of passage, yet in Jesith nohar would even ask me to perform one anymore. Why was I rejecting what the dehara were so plainly offering to me? There were no impediments now. I could stay here until Myv’s feybraiha, and then teach him – not in the way I’d taught young hara before, but as Rey would have done, out in the landscape, experiencing each facet of life through the prism of nature itself. Everything at last was slipping into place for me; it would be folly to fight against this. There was work for me here, and friends, and a kind of surrogate family. There was a new beginning.

  Gwyllion had consumed me. Any thoughts I’d had of home hadn’t been positive ones. I didn’t miss Jass at all, especially not his domestic martyrdom, which he made all too plain. Perhaps even before I’d set Hercules upon the road north, I’d already left home for good. And now Jassenah would be relieved to hear I didn’t intend to return. Zeph was another matter, and I needed to heal my relationship with him. It wasn’t easy having a son who’d been educated only in the parts of my history of which Jass disapproved, and therefore regarded me through a film of judgements. Much as I loved Zeph, I wouldn’t exactly be sorry to leave that behind too. I hoped there would come a day when Zeph might have enough distance to realise there is always more than one side to a story and would come to find me.

  Mid-afternoon light was falling through my windows by the time my wine was finished. Then, rather woozily, I went upstairs to the nayati. Here I emptied the bag of items I’d collected from the woods and fields and began to arrange them on the empty altars around the room. I became aware of a watchful atmosphere, not altogether comfortable, which was completely at odds with the way I felt myself. Did this room, once so truly Rey’s, not yet trust me? I didn’t feel he had left a strong imprint on the place, because it had felt so empty, but walls absorb emotion and thought, and have in their own ways personalities themselves. This tower had stood a long time, and had no doubt seen many hara and humans within its rooms. Now somehar new was making his mark, planting his wards, his items of power; perhaps the temple was wary of that.

  I sat down in the centre of it and began to hum softly beneath my breath. I composed a song of noble intention, of wonder and magic, of good deeds to be done. I sang of the sacred nayati, the church of Wraeththukind, and how this humble room would become again this holy thing. I could bring hara here for caste ascensions – assuming anyhar in Gwyllion would be interested in that – and could work rituals to help those in need of aid. Here, Myv could begin his education in earnest. I visualised him writing in a notebook, then calling upon the dehara in his clear young voice. I could imagine these shining beings hanging in the air at the quarters of the room, filling it with radiance and power. This was the purpose of the temple room; I hoped it liked my intentions for it.

  Afterwards, the atmosphere did feel calmer, but I still detected a faint note of what I could only describe as anxiety. Why was the temple anxious? I asked the site spirit if there was anything I could do for it and awaited a response, but none came. I would just have to be vigilant and open, do what I could to heal this slight tremor in the nayati’s ambience. I didn’t think it was anything serious.

  Chapter Nine

  I ate a light dinner, because Rinawne and I had stuffed ourselves fully at lunchtime, and then wanted to be outside. If I was to perform my own private rite, I felt this should be done in the open air, beneath the Cuttingtide stars. The moon was a sharp sickle in the sky.

  As soon as I stepped beyond the tower door, the hounds started up at Ludda’s farm below, what sounded like hundreds of them now. They seemed to be singing rather than howling. I shivered. Perhaps Mossamber Whitemane was coming for them and would lead them across the land, even up into the sky as the Wild Hunt would ride. With this eerie song all around me I ventured down the tower hill, towards the forest, but ultimately I would let my feet lead me. I wondered whether the Whitemanes were celebrating Cuttingtide tonight or tomorrow. Were they gathering in the Maes Siôl? Perhaps so, but I wasn’t tempted to head that way, uncomfortable that I might inadvertently gate crash a private rite.

  I expected to be drawn in the direction of the Llwybr Llwynog, and while I wandered roughly in that direction, I found myself exploring a part of the woods I’d not yet visited. The trees were ancient deciduous, oak, sycamore and beech, with younger birches among them, the occasional holly and hawthorn. Everywhere was alive with movement; the rustle of undergrowth and foliage, the huff of deer. An owl called upon the night and slid like a phantom through the high canopy. I saw the flicker of bats against the sky. Power oozed from the very earth, exuberant and free. The solstice festival would last three days and during this time its influence would be strong. I felt as if I was caught up in a ringing yet silent song, uttered by a choir I could not see and only faintly perceive. Yet my bod
y trembled at the sound that flowed through me, and tears started in my eyes. The earth truly was a goddess, beautiful beyond any means of description other than the ineffable words of other gods. Tonight she walked, arrayed in the garments – the forms – of the dehara, which were merely facets of what she had always been.

  I thought of my human life, which seemed like a dream of childhood now, unreal. I thought about how the land had been scabbed and diseased then, with the last depredations of humankind. How quickly, comparatively, the world had taken back what had been lost. The green had spread over everything that hara had not claimed for themselves. Where now were the masses of vehicles that humans had used, the rail tracks, the field-covering roads? All gone, greened over, returned to earth. Houses had tumbled, towns and cities buried by vegetation, crushed and pulverised to dust. I felt a hundred years old and then realised, with some amusement, I actually nearly was. I’d lost track of the years, because time is different for hara than it had been for humans; it is less of an enemy. Humans had experienced each day as a step nearer to the grave, in what had seemed like a fraction of time that flashed past in an instant. In contrast, Wraeththu have been given the gift of longevity, a friendship with time.

  I remembered my human grandmother, on my mother’s side, once saying to me, ‘We’re a useless lot. Just as we become viable members of society, and are old enough to be wise, we die. If that’s not a curse, what is? We’ll never grow up because we don’t live long enough to become truly wise.’

  I realised how right she’d been, and that had been humanity’s curse, always governed and influenced by the young, because no one had really been old. And those who had reached great age – which by harish standards had still been youthful – had been afflicted by infirmity and no longer had the vigour and physical strength to lead and make changes. So the young had prevailed. And the young, most often, though blessed with many golden qualities, are essentially stupid.

  Smiling to myself, I strolled through the trees, laying my hands upon them, absorbing their awareness and age. I did not think myself fully wise, but I was aware of gaining wisdom as life progressed. When I looked back on my days in Jesith, before Jassenah, my actions seemed like those of a hot-headed harling, yet at the time I’d considered myself to be a scholar and a sage, more knowledgeable than others. My reputation as some kind of aruna guru had been self-indulgent, supported by those who were hot-headed harlings themselves. In essence, we had still been wild inceptees, dancing around a fire in the dark, shrieking at the night and believing we were the all-powerful inheritors of the earth. Places like Jesith had been sanctuaries, little capsules of sanity in an insane, rapidly-changing world. Jesith had matured since its beginning, as had its hara, and now I suppose it really was an idyll, even though tainted with an air of righteousness – something the hara had yet to grow out of.

  Gwyllion had also matured but had brought rank ghosts along with it. That was the difference, and here, despite all that I had done or believed, I was further along the path of life. Here, I was deserving of the reputation given me. I realised this was my opportunity to realise that, to be worthy of being har, to grow up. For that, I must work against being judgmental, because I could see that in myself. I must work against impatience with others.

  These thoughts, I realised, were the Cuttingtide itself, the death of the worn out, that which should be discarded, to leave room for new growth. This was my private rite.

  Sheer bliss at being alive spread through me like the sun’s warmth. I would bring all of these feelings to the feast tomorrow. I wanted to inspire hara and considered that perhaps we should make some announcement about Myv and his future position within the phyle.

  My feet had led my preoccupied mind and body to a forest lawn; I could see it through the trees. Small globes of light had been left around the perimeter, casting an eerie orange glow across the sward. Somehar was going to be here this night, and for what other reason than the Cuttingtide? The Whitemanes might be here soon, perhaps making their way from the Maes Siôl and the river. Who else would leave these lights burning here when the main Gwyllion festival took place tomorrow?

  I was about to turn and leave when a shadow at the edge of my vision moved. I started in surprise, but then realised that somehar was standing amid the trees to my left, mostly concealed by shrubs around them. Whether they were looking at me or not, I could not tell. Then a voice hissed, ‘Ysobi, Wyvachi-called, come here!’

  I knew then it was Ember Whitemane who stood there, most likely waiting for his kin. I approached him and did not speak until we were close, afraid of attracting other hara’s attention. ‘I don’t mean to intrude,’ I said in a low voice. ‘I was simply...’

  ‘Looking for us?’

  ‘No, no... I’m not celebrating until tomorrow, and merely wanted to take a private walk within the forest.’

  Ember Whitemane made a snickering sound. ‘Night of sacrifice,’ he muttered. ‘Search, you find.’

  ‘As I said, I don’t wish to intrude. I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ Ember snapped. ‘Not now. He comes. Can’t change the pulse of it.’

  Confused, I stared at him. He was peering out at the enclosed lawn, his body taut. I saw then he carried a longbow, half poised to use it, an arrow waiting there. The implications of this turned my blood to dry jelly. He meant to shoot something... somehar? I could not move now if I wanted to. ‘Ember...’ I breathed. ‘What...?’

  A rushing form burst out of the forest to our left: a har. He tumbled onto the lawn, arms flailing, glancing behind him. I heard the distant cry of hounds. Great dehara, no! I was powerless to run, as if held by Ember’s word of command. The sacrifice... An ancient primal horror gripped me. I wanted to walk away, or fall to my knees and hide my face against the forest floor. But my feet had led me here, guided by my secret thoughts and here I was. There could be no escape, no turning of the eyes.

  I saw that the har stumbling and scrambling across the forest lawn was the Whitemane I’d first met at the Llwybr Llwynog. There was no arrogance and aloofness to him now. He was, I felt, running for his life. He wore only a pair of hide trousers, and his hair was unbraided, whipping around him. His face and torso were daubed with painted symbols I did not recognise. As yet I could see no pursuit, but knew with grim certainty that it would come.

  Ember raised his bow, aimed. In horror, I put out a hand to smack the weapon down, but Ember danced to the side and let the arrow fly. This pierced the fleeing har in the right calf, brought him to his knees. He tried to get to his feet, drag his body forward, but Ember was already readying another arrow, all the time dancing around me, so I couldn’t stop him. The second shot took the har in the shoulder. He fell heavily to earth, face down. The yelping of the hounds drew nearer. I could hear the sound of horses’ hooves. There were cries that were like the war chants I’d heard in early Wraeththu days; wordless, powerful, deadly.

  For a moment, I could only stare, horrified, yet words can’t convey my true feelings. There was a high-pitched whistling in my head. (A Fire. Eyes. Eyes across a fire.) My hands and feet were numb. I mumbled the phrase, ‘What have you done?’ which even to me seemed the most stupid words I could say. After only a few seconds – I assume – I retrieved my wits enough to try and go forward to assist the fallen har. I could see him moving feebly. Ember restrained me with a strong hand. ‘No! Stay where you are.’

  ‘I can’t countenance this...’ I struggled against him, but for one so slight he was surprisingly powerful.

  ‘Don’t wet yourself. He’ll be fine. That’s Nytethorne, my hostling.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Morterrius falls at the hand of his son. Can’t go to him. Blood must go into the earth. Then he’ll be carried. Not yet.’

  ‘How can you...?’ I shook my head, pressed my fingers against my temples in utter bewilderment. ‘He’s hurt.’

  ‘Won’t feel it. Arrow numbs him. He’s dreaming now. Dry your ‘lim and dry your tears. Th
is is the true song and dance of the season.’ Ember hoisted the bow over his shoulder. ‘Sing this to your Wyvachi on the morrow.’ He laughed.

  I knew then they’d wanted me to witness this, their barbaric rite. Morterrius falls to his son... his lover. My mouth filled with sour liquid, but I swallowed it down. ‘I must go.’

  ‘Where to? You can’t escape the Cutting. Be har and follow us to the Greyspan. Come to our domain. If you dare.’ His dark eyes reflected the wavering light of the nearest globe. I could see his wide white grin. He thought he had me, a terrified over-civilised har. Dehara knew what else they had planned to stupefy my mind.

  ‘I have no place with your kind,’ I said. I glanced at the body on the grass, the long feathered shafts sticking out of it, the fingers moving weakly on the deer-cropped lawn. His hostling?

  ‘Your choice.’

  Once he said this, a crowd of hara burst out of the forest from the same direction “Morterrius” had come. One was mounted on a great black horse whose polished coat shone as if wet in the soft orange light. The horse was surrounded by the inevitable hounds, which milled around its legs, but thankfully did not go to maul the har upon the ground ahead of them. I saw naked harlings prancing among the dogs, as much animal – to my eyes – as the hounds were. Ember gave me one sneering last glance then went to join his kin. I began to back away slowly into the cover of the trees, and as I did so saw the wild Whitemanes swarm around the limp body on the grass. Somehar tore the arrows from him, screaming in triumph, and each time a plume of blood jetted into the air. Once. Twice. I heard Nytethorne cry out. Hara painted their naked torsos with his blood, then lifted him onto their shoulders, held him high. I saw his arms dangling down, streaked with dark. Uttering whooping cries, the hara ran away with him in the direction of the bridge Ember had called the Greyspan. They were like raw inceptees from the dawn of our kind, revelling brutally in their new enhanced being, without compassion.