The Moonshawl: A Wraeththu Mythos Novel

by Storm Constantine

  ‘All those years ago, when the conflict was over,’ Mossamber said at last, ‘we heard a sound as of great horns being blown down through the valley, as if the dehara themselves had rallied to battle and were sounding the alarm. Every heart was for a moment stilled. Hair stood stiff from scalp and arm. Animals cowered. It was not the dehara, of course, for they had not yet come to these ancient hills. It was older gods, breaking free of the earth, coming once more to seep into the sap and water, the roots and stones. I knew then that we had woken something, and now it was awake it would never sleep again. I felt it flow over the land like a mist, absorbing everything in its path, so they became part of it; the corpses, the ruins, the laments still echoing in the air.’ He paused, eyed me keenly. ‘Do you know how Yvainte har Wyvachi died?’

  ‘Poison,’ I answered simply.

  ‘From a nail that been driven into Peredur’s flesh. Did you know that?’

  I shook my head. ‘Only that it happened in the stables.’

  ‘Vivyen tried to bind him with iron, without really knowing what she was doing,’ Mossamber murmured distantly, as if to himself.

  I remembered the legend of the iron-bound witches Rinawne had told me, what seemed like a year ago.

  ‘The nail fell when I freed him,’ Mossamber continued, ‘fell into the blood and dirt, was kicked aside, later swept up, lost, forgotten, lying beneath the hay in a far corner of the stalls. Then, years later, Yvainte came upon it, was pierced by it, and its enchantment killed him.’

  ‘If bad things have happened, so have good,’ I said tentatively. ‘That Peredur survived is a miracle, pure and simple. This land has thrived, despite everything. It is a place of great beauty.’

  ‘He is its swan, he cannot die,’ Mossamber said. And I wondered then if he wasn’t a little crazed himself.

  We had come to another bridge, this one hump-backed and of mossy stones. Mossamber led the way over it. Ahead of us ancient forest crowded to the river’s edge. No willows here, but oak, beech, holly, blackthorn and birch. I saw only darkness before me, and unnatural stillness, a place where in legend no birds would sing.

  ‘We are in the days of the Dog Star,’ Mossamber said, almost in a whisper, ‘in the build-up to the old festival of Lughnasadh, the hot, pulsing heart of high summer.’

  ‘When ghosts walk in sunlight.’

  ‘Yes. This is a treacherous time.’ Mossamber smiled at me conspiratorially. ‘Some believe that Shadetide is the most dangerous, or even Natalia when the Wild Hunt rides the gales, but no, they are wrong. At Reaptide, the entity we now call Verdiferel seeps out from the stones of the earth. He is freed from the round of the year, free to cause mischief. He is like a serpent you might encounter on the path. His tongue is forked.’

  I had become used to the rather strange way most of the Whitemanes talked, but it seemed to me that Mossamber was like a peculiar old oracle, living in a body that appeared young. If an ancient hero or heroine had stepped forth from the mountainside to walk in flesh again, this is what they would be like.

  We entered the shadow of the trees, and at first I could hear the creak of sun-warmed bark, the rustle of leaves overhead. But slowly these sounds died away, until all that could be heard in the silence was an occasional ominous crack as of a branch falling. One belief among hara, found commonly in Freyhella and other northern lands across the water to the east, is that alongside our familiar world there is another darker version, overlapping it all the time but unseen. Occasionally, a har might glimpse this strange world, and I felt I was doing so now. The forest we rode through was like a bleaker version of the woods around the Pwll Siôl Lleuad; more shadowy, dusty, with many dead trees, and those that lived had leaves that were almost black. Bracken was spiky and brittle and although I heard no birds, nor any other animal sounds, sometimes I saw tiny eyes glinting amid the undergrowth. How could this place be real? Or had Mossamber led me truly off the path?

  ‘Where are we?’ I asked, not wanting to raise my voice. We were riding in single file.

  Mossamber turned to me and put a finger to his lips, then gestured ahead.

  We emerged into a glade, where a black pool shone sullenly in the beams of meagre sunlight that came down through the blackened canopy. This clearing was larger than that around the Pwll Siôl Lleuad, and all around it were what appeared to be graves or monuments to the dead. There were offerings of red and white flowers, either wilting upon the bare soil, or planted, or cut stems in urns of water. The air was filled with their sickly decaying scent.

  Mossamber dismounted from his horse and I did likewise. He gestured at the pool. ‘This is the gateway to sorrow,’ he said. ‘This forest is not truly ancient. Its trees were planted only a hundred years ago.’

  ‘It looks like a graveyard.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Why do you want me to see this?’ I asked. ‘What significance has it to what’s happening now?’

  ‘In this place we buried the dead,’ Mossamber answered. ‘Both human and hara. Tidied them away into the earth and covered them with trees. The pool was not black then.’ He put a hand upon my shoulder. ‘You want to feel what we’re up against? Open yourself to it here, tiahaar, and know I am close so I might drag you away, if it becomes too much to bear.’

  ‘Very well.’ I glanced down at the ground, unwilling to compose myself upon it, yet that reluctance, of course, was part of my task. Mossamber stood over me, his arms folded, gazing around the glade, as if alert for intruders, although I was sure nothing living lurked nearby.

  When I entered a meditative state, I was prepared for an ugly onslaught upon my senses, gathering malevolent shadows, hideous shapes. Yet all I saw was a single har, with a brown woollen cloak wound around him, weeping at one of the graves. In that sound was the tragedy of the earth’s history. If there is a dehar of grief, I met him that day. To be near to that entity was to be engulfed in a hopelessness and despair that is beyond mere words to convey. His tears ran onto the black earth and trickled in viscous streams to feed the pool.

  As I watched, he became aware of me and lifted his head. He had a pointed, pinched little face, his white features striped with red where his tears had burned him. His eyes were entirely black. I could see he was angry in his grief. He wanted somehar to blame, somehar to punish. Suddenly, in a rush of fetid air, he was right in front of me, screaming into my face. His mouth was a yawning grave that went deep, deep into the earth. I could smell loam and rot. His hands were twisted sticks, grasping for me. I reached out to fend him off, and when I gripped his body it too felt like a bundle of twigs and thorny branches, wrapped in rags.

  I realised then that the sticklike creature I had found – or imagined – in my bed weeks ago had not been a presentiment of Ember, but of this. I called upon Lunil to dispel the vision – to no avail. Then I prayed for aid to Agave, Miyacala, Aruhani, even the Aghama himself. But still that contorted bundle of grief and fury clawed at me. I tried to pull myself from the visualisation, but was unable even to do that. I tried to utter a cry but my mouth was sealed. The creature hauled me across the cold, dank ground towards the pool. He meant to drown me. The curse made flesh, if flesh can be made of sticks and thorns.

  A crowd of arms, formed of congealed filthy fluid, lifted from the surface of the pool. Blindly, yet sensing my presence keenly, they reached for me with spidery fingers, pawed at my clothes, took hold. I fought against them, my feet scrabbling helplessly in the stinking dirt, but I’d never come across anything so powerful in my life before. The will and intention of these entities – this egregore – were like steel.

  And then I saw her. Vivi, the woman I’d glimpsed at Meadow Mynd. Her face was severe, the skin grey, and she was dressed almost incongruously in work clothes of shirt, trousers and boots. Her dark hair hung in tight plaits over her shoulders. I could see there was no pity or mercy within her. This was the woman who could blind her own grandson, torture him, cripple him. This was the woman who wished all harish children dead. She was
accompanied by two creatures that I can only describe as dog men, walking on all fours and with the limbs of a dog, but also hideously human or harish. These trembled beside her, naked with leathery hides and whiskered snouts, undoubtedly what I’d sensed around me at the Pwll Siôl Lleuad on the night I’d met Peredur. Vivi lifted a grey arm and hissed at me. ‘Abomination,’ she said, matter-of-factly, ‘that which should not live, that which stole, murdered, killed the world.’

  I could tell that to this shred of living hate the worst idea of all was that Wraeththu could live ordinary lives upon this land, that they could thrive and be the race that humanity had lost the chance to be. There was no point trying to reason with her; she simply wouldn’t hear me.

  She stalked closer to me, still pointing with a stiff arm, like some dire prophet. ‘You can do nothing,’ she said determinedly, then turned her back on me. ‘Take him!’

  The waters ahead of me began to churn and those disgusting rubbery limbs that held me helpless began to drag me down into the chill darkness. I was utterly powerless, like a newly-hatched harling, or a har tied to a stake, waiting for the worst of fates. The only thing I could do was shriek in my mind ‘Mossamber!’ hoping it would be heard.

  Then I felt strong warm hands upon me, words in a strange language in my ears, his breath within my mouth, pulling me back to the waking world. I opened my eyes, gasping, coughing, hanging onto Mossamber like a terrified harling.

  ‘You see?’ he said.

  Behind him, both horses were still with us, but their eyes were rolling. They trembled. Sweat had foamed upon their shoulders.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I said, ‘now.’

  Mossamber led me to the Domain, and I did not – could not – speak upon that journey. I needed all my will to remain upright on Hercules’ back. I realised now I could never have taken action against the ysbryd drwg alone, or even with only Arianne, Myv and Rinawne to help me. I’d been arrogant, proud, unaware of the extent of my capabilities or indeed the strength of my foe. If Peredur hadn’t drawn me to him, I wince to think what might’ve happened. Disorientated and shaken though I was, I was grateful Mossamber had revealed that dreaded spot to me. Truly cursed land.

  He did not take me into the cavernous office I’d imagined he’d have, but into a sunny conservatory at the back of the house, furnished with chairs of woven branches softened by embroidered cushions. The room overlooked a lawn leading down to the river, and just beyond the windows a fountain of stone nymphs sprayed glittering water into the air. I could see hara everywhere, going about their daily business. The house felt full and industrious. I’d hoped Nytethorne might be waiting for us, but he wasn’t. Hara who looked like him, yet were to me nowhere near as desirable, greeted Mossamber as we passed them and gave me curious glances. The Wyvachi were right, it seemed – there were a lot of Whitemanes hidden away in the Domain.

  In the conservatory, Mossamber gestured for me to sit down in one of the cushioned chairs beside a slate-topped table, and I did so. My mind couldn’t focus, my temples ached, and I felt faintly sick. All I could do was press the fingers of one hand against my eyes and try to regain equilibrium. Mossamber allowed me these moments and did not speak. I heard somehar else enter the room and lowered my hand. Ember had come to us with a pitcher of cold elderflower cordial.

  I drank greedily from the mug he handed to me. When I had slaked my thirst, I put down the mug on the table and said, ‘Thank you, Mossamber, for what you showed me.’

  Mossamber flicked his fingers at Ember, indicating he must leave the room. He didn’t speak until the door was closed. ‘You couldn’t have gone further in your task without experiencing it,’ he said. ‘I’ll not let Peredur near that spot now. He is drawn to it, but I prevent that.’ He paused. ‘A har died there this week, some poor soul who takes flowers to one he remembers. No more. He was taken, found white upon the grave, his eyes open.’

  ‘One of your hara?’

  ‘No. A har attached to the family har Brân – farmers. There have been several accidents, two fatal, over the past few weeks, of which you won’t have heard. Peripheral players on the main stage, whose passing will go unnoticed except by those they leave behind.’

  ‘The Wyvachi know of this?’

  Mossamber made a low growling sound. ‘Of course they do. Wyva is the self-appointed phylarch of this territory. Nothing escapes his ears.’ He sighed through his nose contemptuously. ‘This time of year is perilous, as I said. It’s when the ysbryd drwg is at its strongest. There are often deaths, more accidents than is natural.’

  ‘Surely the egregore must be dealt with at its peak, when it reveals itself fully?’

  Mossamber nodded. ‘Yes. I’ve come to this conclusion; it squirms away otherwise. Believe me, I’ve never stopped trying to destroy it. Your predecessor tried. Over the decades we’ve attempted many times to rid the land of this curse, but always at different seasons. To take it on at high summer seemed folly and yet, of course, it is the only time when, at its most powerful, it is also vulnerable.’

  Mossamber sat down opposite me. ‘It’s not always this strong. It ebbs and flows like the tides. Myvyen har Wyvachi has drawn it out with his scent, that of a har at the cusp of adulthood. Ultimately, he will have to put away the shawl, stand before it naked.’

  ‘Was it this way for Wyva and his brothers?’

  Mossamber shook his head. ‘No, because Kinnard was alive then, and the fire of his will was enough of a blaze to create a barrier around his sons.’

  I put the fingers of one hand to my lips, briefly. ‘You know I intend for Myv to be part of any action I... we... might take?’

  He fixed me with a stare, but I saw no judgement in it. ‘Yes, that’s unavoidable. Peredur likes the harling, the first blood har of that tribe he has liked since...’

  ‘I understand.’ It occurred to me then that Mossamber did not know about Arianne – Peredur had kept that knowledge even from him. I wondered why, when in all ways they seemed so close.

  ‘Peri is both strong and weak,’ Mossamber said. ‘Physically he is weakened, because of his past injuries. Psychically, he is a tidal wave, but both aspects are needed now. Myvyen is the lightning rod. You must be their strength and take the blows that will come.’

  ‘Rinawne har Wyvachi will assist. I assume Peredur told you that.’

  ‘Yes. He’s a donkey but admittedly a sturdy one.’

  I laughed at that.

  ‘Well, he is,’ Mossamber said amiably. ‘Anyhar who can live with Wyva for this long must be.’

  ‘He has a good heart,’ I said.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Mossamber replied. ‘So, what are your plans?’

  I outlined what I’d discussed with the others so far.

  ‘Your ideas are good,’ Mossamber said, ‘but need refining. Peredur will assist you with that, and of course the Whitemanes will add their strength to yours from afar.’

  I gazed him for some moments. ‘I feel this alliance has come late in the day, but that it’s come at all is a blessing. Yet... is it complete?’

  Mossamber breathed in through his nose, then sighed. ‘I know what you’re implying, but the Wyvachi have always been weak. Kinnard was plain stupid and Medoc a coward. Wyva has inherited “aspect of mule” from his hostling. Gen is a fop and Cawr a dolt. I feel fairly certain you can complete your task without them.’

  ‘Perhaps I can, but would it be right to do so?’

  ‘You have Myvyen and the Erini,’ Mossamber said abruptly. ‘You have the Swan. You have enough.’

  I stayed at the Domain all morning and took lunch with Mossamber at his invitation. He told me much of his life and how he’d built the Domain over the years – the spiritual Domain as opposed to its bricks and mortar. He told me how Peredur had transformed from little more than a corpse to this creature of mystery and power – or rather had reclaimed that part of himself. I still wondered whether if I’d gone with the harlings across the bridge, which seemed so long ago, whether this was the Mossa
mber I’d have met, rather than the surly antagonist I’d imagined, who’d have been set upon my humiliation and defeat. Had the ysbryd drwg created my fear that day, in order to prevent such a meeting?

  Mossamber explained how difficult it had been – especially in the early years – to keep Peredur hidden. ‘Right from the start I tried to build walls to protect him,’ he said. ‘I wanted private roads so he could go outside and meet nohar. That never happened, because how could I tell Kinnard why I wanted that privacy? Everyhar felt I was simply being awkward, chafing against the fact Kinnard outranked me. That wasn’t the case. Any fool could see Kinnard was the obvious choice for leader.’

  I could tell that Mossamber hated the Wyvachi because the arrow Kinnard had shot into Peredur had of course made his healing all the more gruelling. Mossamber didn’t say so to me, but I knew he was still angry that Kinnard and Medoc hadn’t even tried to save their brother. An arrow through the heart had been their answer to the problem, and in Mossamber’s eyes, only because they were too selfish or stupid to deal with what Peredur had become. These sentiments smouldered through his words, but all I could think of was the tragic waste these decades of hatred had been. Nohar had needed to die. Kinnard and Yvainte would have lived to see their high-harling. No curse. No ysbryd drwg. Vivi’s voice would have been too faint to hear if the Whitemanes and the Wyvachi had stood together, mourned Peredur’s life-changing injuries together. If their scorching, damaging emotions had been exorcised early on, the future would have been entirely different for Gwyllion. I thought then: Malakess had left this mess behind. He hadn’t been the kind of har to understand that growth had to come from more than rebuilding walls and replanting fields. Hearts had needed mending. Friendships. Hara had had to come to terms with a complete change of physical and mental being in the reeking flotsam that conflict and horror had left behind. The Gelaming, for all their faults, would never have countenanced walking away from that. Interfering meddlers as they’d been in those early days, (some will say, still are), their adepts would have picked up on the undercurrents, and their probable consequences, and made hara deal with them. I wouldn’t even be here now if that had happened. But the Gelaming had virtually ignored Alba Sulh, concentrating their attention on Megalithica. And this was not the only land where that had happened.