‘The song!’ I said, unable to keep the words in. ‘Somehar sang it to me, about Peredur...’
This time Medoc merely smiled at my interruption. ‘When the silver swan returns to the old domain, then the bell of Gwyllion will have throat again, but that day will never birth, for silver swan lies in the earth.’ He spoke the words rather than sang them. ‘Somehar wrote that after his death.’
He sighed deeply. ‘What we learned was that Peredur could bear his life no longer. He wanted only to die, yet could not. The gruesome fact was he had half healed. He couldn’t be the har he believed he should be but was trapped in his ruined and barely functioning body. Nowadays, of course, he would have been nursed effectively, so as to have a full and productive life. We’ve learned so much, but then... We had no Gelaming... no true understanding of our abilities. All Peredur knew was that he was helpless; viciously blinded, unsexed, crippled, constantly in pain, hidden away, dependent on others for everything. All the wonderful potential of his new life had been murdered by Vivi. He asked Mossamber to let him go... no, more than that. To be merciful. You know what I mean.’
Medoc paused and again we could hear everyday sounds beyond us, outside: that beautiful day.
‘They made a ritual of it, at midsummer, what we call Cuttingtide today. We didn’t witness what Mossamber did, nor even heard how it happened. We turned away from it, never tried to find out, because Kinnard said if we knew, if he knew, he would have to kill Mossamber himself. But despite not knowing how, we knew the time of it.’ Medoc again had to pause as memories came back vividly. When he spoke again, his voice was jagged.
‘On that night, we built a fire outside the Mynd and sang sad songs. Hara came out of the twilight to join us. Somehar rang the bell in Gwyllion, in the old church, though there was not much left of it even then. But at midnight, the bell fell. It died. The har who rang it could have been killed; it just fell like a stone before him. Didn’t even crack. Yet was silenced.’
I couldn’t think of anything to say, my mind was numb. Rinawne looked as if he’d just witnessed a murder; his face was sallow.
‘I can’t say any more,’ Medoc said, ‘not now. Please excuse me...’
He rose from the table and left the room without another word.
For some moments, Rinawne and I sat in silence.
‘It’s like a cairn,’ Rinawne said at last in voice that was barely more than a whisper. ‘We discover stones to build it, one by one. A monument.’
There were still questions I wanted answering. Why had Arianne’s body never been found? Presumably somehar would have visited the tower not too long after her death. The body should surely still have been there. And also... the bell. When the silver swan returns to the old domain, the bell will ring again. While the song spoke of a day that would never come, did it not also convey a different message? Could the end of the curse be as simple as returning Peredur’s remains to the Mynd? I couldn’t speak my thoughts, because – to say the least – it would have been inappropriate at that moment. Grief hung in the chamber like a gaunt ghost, even though Medoc had left it.
‘He still hasn’t told us about the curse,’ Rinawne said. ‘Do you think he will?’
‘I believe so, yes. The impression I get is that, painful though this is to him, it’s a purge.’
But Medoc did not return to us in that room. After some minutes had passed, his son Wenyf came to us. I don’t think Medoc had told him anything, because he appeared cheerful and courteous, as if this was merely a social visit on our part. ‘My hostling wishes me to show you around,’ he said. ‘Have you finished with your lunch?’
The day crept on. While I was fascinated with seeing the workings of Harrow’s End and enjoyed everything Wenyf showed me, Rinawne was fractious and fidgety and could barely keep up a pretence of interest. I knew he wanted only to talk more with Medoc, find out about the curse. What was the use of us knowing Peredur’s history if the narrative stopped at the part that would be most useful to us?
As dinnertime drew near, and Wenyf mentioned the family would like us to dine with them, Rinawne’s patience snapped. ‘I need to speak more with your hostling,’ he said. ‘It’s why we’re here. Could you ask him for me, please, if that’s not too much trouble?’
Wenyf was taken aback by these words – and their tone. ‘I will, of course, ask...’ He glanced at me, and I made a discreet gesture to indicate I understood his surprise. Hienama to hienama.
‘Thank you,’ Rinawne said, ‘unless you can tell us what we want to know?’
I put a hand on Rinawne’s shoulders. ‘Hush, now. Don’t be an unruly guest, Rin.’ He really did have the capacity to spoil everything.
‘I don’t know what you discussed with my hostling,’ Wenyf said, trying not to sound stiff. ‘What was it?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said quickly. ‘We can perhaps talk with Medoc again after dinner.’
‘It’s clearly important,’ Wenyf said. ‘I’ll speak to him for you, make sure he knows.’ He indicated the stretch of the gardens. ‘Please explore where you like. You’ll hear the bell for dinner from here if you don’t wander too far.’
Rinawne wasn’t happy. After Wenyf had left us, he said, ‘We can’t stay for dinner. I have to get back. Seeking Reaptide sites isn’t a good excuse for being away, once it gets dark.’
‘You go back,’ I said impulsively. ‘I can stay. Perhaps it might be better if I try to speak with Medoc alone.’
Rinawne eyed me coldly. ‘Well, much as I want to say “we’re in this together”, I can’t make such assumptions with you. I suppose it makes sense for you to stay.’
I felt like leaping up and punching the air, as a harling would who’s just been granted his dearest wish. Or maybe it was just relief.
‘Shall I go to the tower after dinner?’ Rinawne asked. ‘See if your visitor’s still there?’
‘Yes, good idea,’ I said. ‘If she is, it’d be good for her to see somehar. She’s been alone all day.’ I paused. ‘If she is there, Rin, please be careful what you say to her about today.’
Rinawne expressed a snort. ‘You think I’m stupid, don’t you?’
‘No, I just think you trundle in sometimes, when a careful tread is more appropriate.’
Rinawne shrugged. ‘I guess that’s true.’ He sighed. ‘Well, I’d better get going, otherwise I’ll be late home.’ He hugged me briefly. ‘Good luck. I hope to hear lots of interesting things from you tomorrow.’
‘I’ll be over,’ I said.
Chapter Nineteen
Dinner at Harrow’s End was a far more raucous affair than meals held at the Mynd. For a start there were around two dozen hara present, not all of them family, but members of the estate staff and various guests. The dining room was a vast hall in the centre of the building on the first floor. While the Wyvachi favoured subtly-flavoured foods, artfully arranged, Wyvern cooking was more along the lines of heaps of meat and vegetables thrown into immense serving bowls, from which diners helped themselves. One sauce, a gravy made from the meat, was provided in brown jugs that were interspersed among the tureens. Wine and ale were consumed in abundance. I was seated next to a har who worked in the stables. He told me Hercules was a fine horse, but then went on to recommend various dietary changes for him.
‘He... just eats in the field where he lives,’ I said. ‘Isn’t that enough?’
The har gave me a “look”. ‘Try what I said,’ he advised patiently, ‘then ask if it’s enough.’
Medoc sat at the end of the table, far away from me, with his chesnari and sons, but he acknowledged me by raising his tankard to me several times during the meal.
At the end of it, after huge bowls of milk pudding had been brought in and devoured, Medoc stood up. He gestured to me and I rose from my seat, went to him.
‘Come to my living-room,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry your friend had to leave before I could finish our talk.’
‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘He had to return to
the Mynd because of business... and...’
‘Because Wyva didn’t know he was here,’ Medoc finished, smiling.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, in all honesty, I’ll feel more comfortable continuing the story to you alone,’ Medoc said. ‘I could tell Rinawne didn’t like a lot of what he heard today.’
‘He’s pureborn,’ I said, ‘and from what I can gather, until now his life has been easy and uneventful. He was... shocked.’
Medoc grimaced. ‘These things were clear.’
Before we left the room, Medoc insisted I meet his immediate family, some of whom, of course, I’d met briefly at Cuttingtide. Thraine, the chesnari, asked how long I’d be staying. ‘Just overnight,’ I said. ‘I have work waiting for me at Gwyllion.’
‘Your training of young Myv amongst it?’ asked Thraine, meaningfully.
‘Yes, amongst it...’
I think Thraine would have said a lot more, but at that point, Medoc made our excuses and herded me away.
He led me to a low-ceilinged yet airy room next to the chamber we’d spoken in earlier. This was more of a family room, and I could tell he shared it with them from all the clutter left lying about. A pile of lean cats lay tangled in contented sleep on the long sofa and two hunting hounds were sprawled out on the rug before the empty hearth, which was flanked by two armchairs.
‘Would you mind if I took notes, tiahaar?’ I asked. ‘If that makes you uncomfortable, please say so.’
‘No, do as you wish. You should have said if you wanted to earlier.’
‘I have a good memory,’ I said, ‘but remembering two long conversations might stretch me a little!’
Medoc smiled and indicated I should take a seat beside the hearth, while he went to fetch us drinks from a sideboard between the windows. He opened the panes upon the evening. Sweet-scented air, slightly cool, drifted in. ‘It must’ve seemed stupid, me running off like that earlier,’ he said. ‘I apologise.’
‘Please. No need to,’ I said, taking out my notebook and pen and ink. ‘It must be harrowing for you remembering what happened.’
Medoc smiled, glancing around the room, ‘And here we are at harrow’s end! You want the full story. Now you shall have what’s left of it.’
‘I appreciate this,’ I said. ‘I know in some ways you hate to speak of it, but I hope in others it provides a release.’
‘Well, our skeletons are kept neatly in their cupboards,’ Medoc said, his words again mellowed by his gentle smile. ‘They are polished bones, brought out occasionally so they don’t accumulate dust or start to rot and cause problems.’
I returned his smile. ‘Then I’m ready to continue the ritual viewing.’
Medoc sat down opposite me. ‘One thing’s for sure, Meadow Mynd will always be haunted by knowledge of the past, but those of us who lived there in the early days of the Wraeththu era just got on with our lives. We established the community, built trade links with other phyles in the area. We reclaimed some of the ruined towns and villages and rebuilt them, leaving others to be swallowed by the green, nature’s devouring wave. We salvaged what we could from what humanity had left behind, discarding all that we felt should be forgotten.’
He took a drink, stared at the iron grate where in winter time logs would burn. Perhaps he saw a fire there, from long ago. ‘In those days,’ he continued, ‘procreation was rare.’ A glance to me. ‘Well, of course you know that.’
I nodded. ‘I’ve always thought this was a deliberate act of nature, because – let’s face it – few hara at that time would have been suitable parents.’
‘Yes, very true. But then, once we’d learned more about ourselves as hara, so nature gave concessions and the first harlings began to appear. Do you remember how miraculous and strange we used to think that was?’
I laughed at the recollection. ‘Very much so. Somehow, we blundered through. Hienamas were thrown into dealing with delivering pearls, as if we were experts, yet we had no more knowledge than the hara in our care.’
‘I know... Well, around thirty years after Peredur’s death, Kinnard found he was with pearl. None of us realised it for a while, not even him. I knew, because he’d told me, that he and Yvainte had experimented with aruna, because they wanted to have a harling, yet their success took them by surprise. But once the pearl was confirmed by our hienama, our hara rejoiced. Here was the living proof that Wraeththu were truly the inheritors of the earth. We would continue once humanity had vanished completely. That is, in fact, a moment in a har’s life that’s as pivotal as awaking from inception – or it was then.’
‘I know. The first time I saw a pearl I couldn’t quite believe it. Even watching a harling crawl from its broken covering some weeks later seemed like something from a fairy tale, part wondrous, part grotesque.’
Medoc took a long drink, pulled a comical face. ‘I felt the same. Squeamish! Anyway, Kinnard’s pearl attracted the attention of hienamas and tribal leaders near and far, who wished to study the phenomenon, to acquire knowledge for their own hara. A kind of peace reigned in Meadow Mynd. It was like...’ Medoc’s expression became wistful, ‘...the tranquillity after an atrocity has taken place and the storm of grief has passed.’ He sighed. ‘It was a delicate peace, but we cherished it. We lived in something like a capsule of time, in an Alba Sulh that had perhaps only existed in the dearest dreams of men. The fields grew high, the summers were long. We learned to love again.
‘When news of the pearl was made public, Kinnard and Yvainte were praised and adored, almost like religious figures. Congratulatory messages came in abundance, but none from Deerlip Hall. This didn’t surprise us. We understood that Mossamber would feel bitter – the chesnari he loved had died under terrible circumstances. He and Peredur would never have harlings, the ultimate expression of love. But bitterness is one thing, resentment another. Some of us were under no doubt that Mossamber wished the Wyvachi ill and were convinced he did not want us to experience happiness.’ He put the fingers of one hand against his lips, again staring silently at the grate for some moments. I let him have his silence.
Eventually, he said, with an emphatic gesture, ‘This is what I think: the earth had changed during the Devastation. Energies that had lain dormant awoke, because they were no longer suppressed. Hara embraced the ‘other’ as humanity could never have done, not even those who were drawn to it. Perhaps Mossamber did his own etheric delving at that time. Historical griefs had soaked into the soil; buried but not wholly dead. My belief is that Mossamber was partly responsible for what happened next, even if unconsciously. But I need to be clear that I have never wholly blamed him, no matter what others thought.
‘I understand,’ I said. ‘That’s what I’ll record.’
Medoc nodded. ‘Good. Anyway, Kinnard delivered his pearl in the early summer. As far as its care was concerned, all we had to go on was hearsay that pearls took several weeks to mature, like eggs, and had to be nurtured in the same way. Daily, hara went to inspect the pearl, from the family to the hara who worked in the fields. Kinnard either lay with it in bed or, when his strength had fully returned, carried it around with him strapped to his body.’ Medoc narrowed his eyes. ‘We could perceive it growing, the uncoiling life within it. So strange...’
Again a pause.
‘The weather changed as the pearl matured. The summer haze was extinguished by heavy rainstorms and gloomy air. Many of our crops were ruined. The river burst its banks and seethed over the meadows. Further towards the sea, it lunged destructively through villages. Dozens of homesteads were flooded. But we were determined not to see bad omens in these disasters. Summers could be bad. This had happened before and would happen again. We would cope with it.’
Now Medoc leaned closer towards me, lowered his voice, as if somehar – or something – might hear him.
‘And yet in our home, all was not well. Inexplicable sounds were heard in the Mynd, curious scratchings and dragging in the walls. Hara heard thuds and scrapings in rooms overhead while
they were on the ground floor. But if anyhar went to investigate these sounds, they found nothing. Several of the staff reported hearing groaning sighs in the attic corridors, sighs that followed them. Some took to sleeping in the stable block, because they came to fear the top storey. But even the stables weren’t safe. The horses were spooked every night, and in the yard the rain made the cobbles rusty, as if with blood.’
Medoc shuddered, and now his voice was hardly more than a whisper. He gazed at his hands. ‘I could feel him there, Ysobi, and was sure that if I didn’t concentrate very hard, every time I crossed that stableyard I would see him, tied to that stake, the blood running from him to make the cobbles red. I kept my eyes on the ground, always. I didn’t want to see...’
He looked up at me. ‘Kinnard refused to succumb to anxiety. He was like iron. He said to me that if Mossamber and his kin were indeed responsible, sending evil thoughts our way, making our house feel the way it did, then we must fight them. He wouldn’t be intimidated, and I could see he despised the fear in me. “Medoc, if you give in to terror, they have won,” he once said to me. “Ban this feeling from you, refuse it!’ But the truth was, I couldn’t share his resolve, although I pretended to. I was also sure Yvainte felt as I did, but he kept quiet, avoided my eyes. I believe he knew that to voice the fear would help make it real, give it power. I knew it too. I was afraid to speak.’
Medoc lay back in his chair, tapped one arm of it with his fingers. ‘In those days, four Wyvern cousins who had been incepted lived also at the Mynd. Beiryan, Caerwyn, Edryd and Meilyr. They too had hara who were loyal to them and in this way there were factions within the Wyvachi. The cousins weren’t shy to announce their belief that we were under psychic attack from the Whitemanes. They claimed that Mossamber would seek to destroy the pearl before it could offer the world its gift, and that we could not stand idly by, refusing to admit we had a problem. They knew that approaching Kinnard with their fears – and their ideas for solutions – would be pointless, and so instead they came to me.’
The Moonshawl: A Wraeththu Mythos Novel Page 31
