Circle of Nine: Circle of Nine Trilogy 1

by Josephine Pennicott

  I felt the electrifying presence of another being joining the circle and I heard the inhabitants of the circle communicating with the new arrival. The language that they spoke in was unfamiliar to me. All I could mentally liken it to was the clicking of insects. My blood turned to ice at the sheer strangeness of this weird tongue. Even more chillingly, the conversation began to take on the sound of dogs howling at the moon as it continued. The apparent ease with which the occupants of Eronth dipped in and out of languages, dialects and accents was both awe-inspiring and alienating. It was yet another major difference between us.

  I felt Hecate walking around the circle, greeting separate people, and then suddenly, shockingly, she was in front of me. With my inner sight I knew her to be carrying a flaming torch of fire, and her face was clothed in black veils. I could feel her eyes penetrating through the flimsy cloth that prevented me from viewing the face of naked death. I could feel the Crone’s presence, attempting to help me to relax my breathing as I stood vulnerable in front of the Death Goddess. Then I felt a magnetic pull emanating from Hecate. It seemed futile to resist her power. The bird in my chest struggled to fly to the Death Queen, to its Dark Mother. I realised how peaceful it would be to give up the struggle, to give up my pained, tired, aching physical body. But a voice resonated through my head — ‘Not time.’

  Eventually the presence in front of me dematerialised. Rosedark undid the scarf and smiled apologetically at me before joining the rest of the circle. My legs shook as I stood with the assembled goddesses. In a loud voice Khartyn proclaimed, ‘You Lords of the Watchtowers of the East of Air, of West of Water, of South of Earth, of North of Fire. We do thank you for attending our rites, and ere you depart to your pleasant and lovely realms we bid you hail and farewell . . . hail and farewell.’

  As she spoke, her athame made the banishing signs of the pentacle into the air. The Guardians of the Quarters that the rite had invoked dissipated as swiftly as they had been summoned. I glanced around the circle, noticing that the goddesses had also disappeared. The Islaes, too, had vanished leaving only the three young Crossas, the Crone and Rosedark.

  A disembodied voice rang through the Blest Circle of Nine.

  ‘This circle is open but never broken!’

  ‘Come, Emma,’ Rosedark sidled up to my shoulder, breaking my reverie, ‘let us gather the ilkamas before they graze themselves all the way into the other worlds!’

  We found the ilkamas grazing unconcernedly near the smallest monolith, their vivid patterns illuminated spectacularly under the strange moonlight. Jabi whinnied a greeting when she saw me and I stroked her nose, pleased by her display of affection. Khartyn stepped from the shadows of the warrior kings, startling both Rosedark and myself. She appeared worried; her forehead creased in concentration.

  ‘I have been given explicit directions from the Crossas,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow we are to make the journey to the Wastelands. We are to pay a visit to Sati and Ishran.’

  Rosedark let out an audible gasp and the Crone silenced her with a stern look. We mounted the ilkamas, and with a flurry of their golden hooves they began to carry us into the haze of the violet horizon beyond which lay the Dome.

  *

  Silence fell once more over the sacred ground where the great rite had been held. The remainder of the contents of the chalice dripped slowly through the earth, a holy libation offered to the Goddess, and tiny fairies and earth creatures descended joyfully onto the cakes left behind as an offering. The warriors encased in their stones remained still, lulled from their usual anguished restlessness by the proximity of the goddesses.

  Into the centre of the circle stepped the Stag Man. He sniffed the air daintily, and knew at once Emma had been there. From the impressions of the night open to his senses, he detected the plan to present Emma to the Azephim. Furiously, he struck the ground with his hooves. To lead Emma to Ishran was a sacrifice, not a solution to the problems facing Eronth. He had to reach Emma. This time he was determined to let nobody get in his way. Not the goddesses, nor Ishran, nor Sati or Khartyn. No, not even the Crone; if he had to, he would crush the life from the Old Mother. His mind made up, he set off for the Wastelands, his breath creating dew diamonds in the chill night sky as he ran with the elements. He had to reach Emma before Ishran claimed her as his own.

  PART TWO

  FULL MOON

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Give thanks to the sisters

  Unconscious, all seeing,

  Give thanks for the slumber

  That brought you into being.

  — Faian Song of Thanks (extract)

  I awoke the next morning with half-remembered dreams still clinging like cobwebs to my mind. The ilkamas were already harnessed and ready to leave. I could hear the tiny bells on their bridles ringing, and I could feel their enthusiasm for the day ahead. Rosedark, however, sat moodily at the table sipping esteo and scowling in Khartyn’s direction at regular intervals. Seemingly oblivious to the displeasure of her protégé, Khartyn was busying herself with throwing items at random into the small black velvet shoulder bag that she always carried. I had previously observed that no matter how many items she threw into her bag, it remained the same size. She squeezed all manner of clothes, books, maps and food, and even large boxes filled with documents and toiletry items, into that small bag.

  The daily newspaper from New Baffin was on the table, and I stared at a column on the front page featuring a large black-and-white photograph of a young woman who was strangely familiar. She had a black bob. Her ears were elongated, like many of the Faiaites I had seen at Candlemas. She was posing for the camera, smiling, and there was a tiny owl perched on her shoulder with a bow ribbon tied around its neck. It too appeared to be posing, mimicking the expression of the woman. The caption under the photo said, Rudmay, loved Scribe of New Baffin, with Horus the Athena owl. Photograph courtesy of Daniel Ewebow. But it was the headline above the photo that really captured my attention. I picked up the newspaper and read:

  SACRIFICE IN VAIN?

  Once again it appears that the citizens of New Baffin have failed to placate Shambzhla, the Warrior Sea Queen, with their monthly offering of a Crossa/tourist. Despite numerous predictions made by several of the Tremite Scribes, including your very own Rudmay, it appears the Sea Hags’ feud with the land dwellers, in particular the New Baffinites, continues despite the ancient custom of offering sacrifices to the Queen in her Temple of Drowned Sorrows.

  Well, wake up, New Baffin! It appears obvious that Shambzhla does not want your meaningless gestures, your superficial attempts at reconciliation with the sea dwellers. I have already been criticised heavily in certain quarters for appearing to take the side of the Warrior Queen. Several of my previously published articles in the New Baffin Daily drew criticism, and funds were withdrawn from the Hall of Records — indeed I even received death threats. But Horus and I are defiant in our observations that Shambzhla’s cries will only intensify as the New Baffinites continue to pollute her waters with their immense fleets of sailing ships, and thoughtlessly contaminate the home of the Mer people and the Sea Hags by disposal of toxic waste into the ocean. Then there is the fish farming which is depleting the waters of the children of Shambzhla at an alarming rate. I need hardly add that the New Baffinites consume more seafood than any other region in Eronth.

  Three moon-ups past, the body of a young Merwoman was found washed up on the main beach in New Baffin, discovered by a group of prostitutes returning from servicing the sailors of The White Dragon. The early reports of her death indicated that she had died of Snake Tongue poisoning. There have been seven reported cases of this type of death in the last Turn of the Wheel of the Mermains, but these are only from the bodies that have been recovered — many more bodies may have been recovered by the Sea Hags.

  It is obvious that there are sailors who are continuing the ‘Mermain baiting’, despite the opposition and disgust of the general public. We have seen several large demonstrations against thi
s barbaric practice by the students of New Baffin in recent times, and the matter is due to come up to Aphrodite, the patron of this city.

  The sailors’ claims that they have lost colleagues and friends to the siren Mermains does not excuse their actions. Now that brothels flourish in New Baffin, which was not always the case, the temptation for the sailors to be lured by the Mermain is no longer a factor. Their needs are catered for the entire time that they are at sea.

  But the great tides are deep and patient

  Another recent report has reached me of the latest Sea Hag sighting. An ilkama breeder on the outskirts of New Baffin has reported that his herd appeared spooked seven moon-ups past. Going outside to investigate, he was startled by the sight of two large fully grown Sea Hags attempting to submerge themselves in the ilkamas’ water trough. Despite hostile reactions to his claim in the media — including suggestions that he was merely attempting to publicise his business — he remains adamant in his description of them, noting their great crusher claws, the split brain (half positioned under their chin, the other on top of their head) and numerous gills. Their hair resembled black sea waves, and when they observed him watching them, their stomach mouths opened, revealing jagged white teeth. They then spat the deadly azmome, poison from the spikes that presumably came from their hand palms, before climbing out of their tank and vanishing into the night.

  Time and time again, the Tremite Scribes have predicted that the Sea Hags would master the Glamour to work on the land, and with new reports reaching my desk daily of sightings across Eronth, it appears that their time is indeed now.

  But these sightings are not the only reported incidents. Since the Great Flood of Unah was invoked to destroy Old Baffin after the original priestesses of our city leapt into the ocean to drown themselves rather than submit to the new religion, there have never been so many warnings. It is clear that the mother of waves, Shambzhla, is growing impatient and irate with the land dwellers. There has been an abnormally high number of drowned sailors, and many accounts of the great Hydra and sea serpents being seen in the harbour outside of the Sacrificial Time.

  How long can we continue to treat her home and family with disrespect? The white sea panthers, the fish, the Nereids, Asrai — all have suffered through being caught up in the sailors’ fishing nets.

  The Old Baffinites had due warning from the Scribes, but they too ignored the prophecies and the Oracles. Once more, Horus and I devote an entire column to the subject. If you are interested in a public forum on this topic we will be attending a meeting in the main amphitheatre of the Hall of Records, at moon-up tonight. Refreshments will be served, and there will also be a short talk by Professor Wolemoonx, the Sixth Scribe, on the disturbing weather patterns that have been affecting Eronth, and the Goddess Persephone’s contribution to this. I urge you all to attend, for as patient as the great tides of the oceans can be, Shambzhla’s fury will be the end of life as we now know it in New Baffin. This is no time for the complacency that all too frequently breeds in our once-great city!

  We will leave you readers with a quote for the day from Horus, which he composed last moon up.

  Three moons watch,

  That know our secret desire;

  Our Eronthite souls craving knowledge

  Of the mystery of the space between each breath.

  — Yours as ever in service, Rudmay and Horus

  *

  ‘Come on, Emma!’ Khartyn said grumpily, just as I was finishing the article. ‘Has Her Ladyship enjoyed her relaxation while we do all the work"’ She noted what I was reading with a snorting sound. ‘I wouldn’t be filling your head up with Rudmay’s column. You have more than enough to think about. She likes to get her face in the papers, old Rudmay, and the more controversy she attracts the better. That’s why the Hall of Learning allows her to get away with all her outspokenness — she gives the Scribes so much publicity!’ She made a few more grumping sounds.

  ‘But she’s very stylish,’ Rosedark commented, trying to get a look at the front of the paper.

  ‘Oh, that she is,’ the Crone said sourly. ‘And so is that owl of hers, Horus. She crosses all the time for antique ribbons to tie around him. The Dreamers must be turning in their Shell, at her treating an Athena owl like that. Imagine, he goes to all the art openings and theatre plays with her.’ More grumping sounds.

  Rosedark rolled her eyes up at me, shaking her head, before making a quick exit to farewell her beloved garden. She was careful to leave detailed instructions for the Faery caretakers to follow. I was disconcerted by the haste of our preparations and Rosedark’s sullen mood. Depressed, I drained my esteo and began to hurriedly dress, mindful of the Crone’s impatience with any tardiness.

  I was slowly becoming accustomed to being in Dome Cottage and I had no desire to enter the Wastelands, where the evil Sati lived with Solumbi and a bunch of bloodthirsty angels. For the millionth time I debated making a run for it and attempting to rediscover the border where I had originally crossed into Eronth. With a small groan I remembered one disturbing image from my dream the previous night, one of ancient maps soaked in blood and a huge winged angel that fed on the body of a Bluite boy child. I could still hear the child’s screams as I looked on helplessly, unable to assist him in any way. More than ever I felt like an awkward outcast in this eerie land where seasons relied on whether a goddess rose from the earth, and where magic was commonplace among even the youngest Faia. I longed for the familiarity of a world where the only gods and goddesses worshipped were reassuringly mundane film stars.

  But Earth seemed so far away, like a faint dream that could never be recaptured. When I closed my eyes and tried to picture the world that I knew, all I saw was the image of a tree, struggling to grow in depleted soil. Roots from the tree, pulled out of the soil, with black cancerous earth clinging to them.

  My mind taunted me with images of a planet in decline, a tumour infecting the once healthy body. Earth was sick, fragile. Wrapped around it, smothering it, was a heavy shadow. No, I no longer felt I belonged on that planet either. I buried my face in my hands with an overwhelming sense of despair. I feared entering the Wastelands, but as a former inhabitant of Earth I knew I was no stranger to horror or waste. Indeed it could be said I was merely going from one wasteland to another. I remembered hearing once that if you put a frog into boiling water, he would jump out; but if you put him into cool water, and heated it slowly, he wouldn’t even notice, and would stay in the water quite content until he died. Now I felt as if I, when I had been living my old life, had been that frog.

  ‘Emma?’ It was Rosedark standing by my side, the delicate fragrance of lavender drifting from her. ‘Are you all right, Emma?’

  I nodded. But the truth was I felt weak and lonely, and on the verge of tears.

  ‘Our worlds are more similar than you might think,’ Rosedark murmured.

  She clicked her fingers into the air, and ordered, ‘Spin yourself from your emotion!’

  In my mind’s eye I saw my confusion, loneliness and self-doubt as a huge tower of shit that covered me with its ominous shadow. A gold cord attached me to this tower of shit that I had created. With the cord around my waist I spun from the tower, and as soon as I had spun far enough away, I cut the cord. Now I was free and instantly felt lighter in spirit, although I had left etheric pollution. I wondered aloud whether my tower would form into a Solumbi?

  ‘We’re all guilty of such creations,’ Rosedark smiled. ‘Unless you’re the Old Mother herself, of course. Only then would you have no need for such illusory matters.’ She winked at me. ‘You’d be far too advanced!’

  Khartyn appeared in the doorway. ‘You would do well to remember your words, dear Rosedark, when we enter the Wastelands!’

  I sensed the fear in Rosedark as she looked warily at Khartyn. What could be igniting it? I suddenly distrusted them both. From the anticipatory feeling surrounding our journey, I knew something was about to manifest. I had the uncomfortable feeling that Khartyn
and Rosedark shared a secret that was somehow connected to the unsavoury memory that had tried to surface at the Cone of Power Ritual.

  ‘I don’t want to go into the Wastelands,’ I said, trying to sound firm, but not too confrontational. Rosedark shot a look at khartyn.

  ‘If Emma doesn’t want to go, then do I have to go?’ she asked. Khartyn pursed her wrinkled mouth.

  ‘No,’ she said finally. ‘Neither of you have to go. In fact, Rosedark can stay here and keep Emma company.’ I relaxed. Relief swept over me. Spending time with Rosedark in the cosiness of Dome Cottage was far preferable to some arduous journey to a place where the monsters dwelled. But Rosedark didn’t share my relief. She was watching Khartyn closely, a small line creasing her forehead.

  ‘What are you doing, Old Mother?’ she asked, as Khartyn began to place her shawls around her.

  ‘Why, I’m getting ready to ride into the Wastelands, child!’ Khartyn said. ‘Now, while I’m gone, mind you keep the protection spell tight around the house and garden. That rotten Sati hasn’t stopped her serving. Make sure you keep a close eye on the garden Faeries, some of the new ones haven’t been tending to their flowers as often as they should. Well then, merry meet, merry part, and merry meet again!’ She opened the door, allowing a ray of light to fall into the house.

  ‘But, Mother, you can’t go there by yourself!’ Rosedark squeaked. I watched, shaking my head, seeing where this was going to end. It occurred to me that Khartyn was nothing but a great big ham when it came to playing a part.

  ‘It’s all right, my beloved child,’ Khartyn said. If it was possible, she had made herself look even more frail and vulnerable. ‘Somebody has to go, somebody has to follow the orders of the goddesses. It is only fair after all, me being the oldest, that I should go alone. My death will be easier on Eronth than the death of two healthy young maids. I know you are both afraid, and perhaps with good reason. So stay home and rest. The Crone will travel into the shadow lands. Keep me safe in all your prayers! And may the Dreamers sleep on in peace!’ Her breath was faint and whispery, she even went so far as to pat her heart with her hand, as if checking that it was still beating.