Circle of Nine: Circle of Nine Trilogy 1

by Josephine Pennicott

  ‘As the Webx gazed upon its startling beauty, the Eom blew its sacred breath over them. Without a word of communication, the silence hinted to the Webx of the glories contained within the crystal. Eom could make them flesh, make them blood. Even as they looked on in stunned disbelief, the Eom formed veins along their rosewood-coloured arms. A spiral dance of silent communication now revealed to the awestruck Webx the unfulfilled power within themselves. The Eom was their light-filled seductress. The silence now promised the ability to channel thunder and lightning, to seed life from sand and raise the dead. In the Eom’s highly polished surfaces the Webx saw themselves mirrored, along with all their dreams and fears, their lusts and hopes. The silence whispered sensuously that they were accepted. There was no judgment from the crystal, only an aching, pure need for its energy to be channelled.

  ‘As time passed a race of insects magically appeared and a flower species died out. The hopes of the Mother Race, which waited for contact millions of miles away in the Heztarra Galaxy, were all in vain, for no communication was ever sent. With each successive seeding on Zeglanada the Webx race, although no longer growing as tall as their ancestors, increased greatly in power. They mastered the elements of earth, air and water magic. The original Elders had long passed on, seeding themselves deeply into the rich soil as was the Webx way, but their shootlings Tanzen and Rozen inherited the Elder titles and worked in secret close communion with the Eom. The Sea Hags left the new land dwellers alone. No Webx ever pondered overlong the mystery of the original indigenous race that had once enjoyed the same tropical bounty that had befallen them.

  ‘The meerwogs gradually accepted the Webx and became favoured pets, repaying the friendship of these giant-like gentle beings, whose bodies smelt of pine, vetiver, cedarwood and cypress. Life became a pleasurable and sensual routine, a daily worship of soil, sky and air. Growing complacent under the warmth of their adopted sun, the Webx believed their idyllic lives would continue in this fashion forever. Then Gwyndion was sap-spawned, and, in the early stages of his flowering, the Azephim came.

  ‘Eom was Gwyndion’s original memory. The soothing clicking that emanated from the crystal’s core lulled and comforted the new shoot with his feet firmly planted in the nutritious Zeglanada soil. Gwyndion watched with slanted green eyes the moon rise and set over his people. His existence began and ended with the clicking and soothing, clicking and soothing of the Eom. When his arms and legs began to sprout and his brain flowered and blossomed, Gwyndion began to fully realise the importance of the Eom to his people. Yet the seedling, still barely sap-spawned, regarded the Eom with a disturbing combination of spiritual reverence and a contradictory feeling of dread. When his Bowz would dig him gently up from his soil and take him to the nightly ritual in the Eom’s immediate presence for the moonrise worship, Gwyndion never failed to feel, despite the purification of the sandalwood rites, a feeling of great evil and despair. Miserably the young shoot would endure the rite under the penetrating omnipresence of the crystal, but he was always relieved to be placed gently back into the nourishing soil where he could stretch out his root legs and lose himself in blissful oblivion. But even in his dreaming, Gwyndion could not escape the shared vision that passed through the collective Webx when the tribe received a visual impression of the Eom floating in a steel-grey ocean, engulfed in ice. The white icebergs and petrified cliffs of the frozen world that embraced the crystal added dramatic emphasis to the Eom’s ebony beauty. It was generally agreed in an earnest series of root communications that the Eom’s origins lay in this pristine and sterile ice-world. The communication was greatly celebrated among the Webx and many libations were spilt upon the earth before the Eom to acknowledge and honour its gift. ‘Now, at last!’ the Webx Elders thundered in voices that cracked lightning against the corn-peach sky. ‘Now we are closer to understanding Eom power!’

  ‘It was Gwyndion and Gwyndion alone who shivered miserably and pushed his roots deeper into the soil to escape the full brunt of the celebrations. It was Gwyndion alone who reflected miserably that this vision the tribe had shared could have been interpreted differently.

  ‘As soon as Tanzen and Rozen had agreed it was time Gwyndion was soil-weaned the young Webx’s days began to be filled with lessons. Gone were the idyllic days of basking under the warm sun while his feet explored the sensual, delicious soil. Now his days were filled with lessons of rock-splitting, using telepathy, communicating via his golden root cap in the earth with the other Webx, and mastering the difficult language of the Tongue of All Worlds. There were shape-shifting lessons, where he learned to assume the form of a dragon, a Bluite or even a pebble in a blink of an eyelid. There were lessons of personal power, and how to hoard that power in the seat of his belly for use in times of need. Lessons of healing, of channelling the one source so his hands could seize fever and raise the dead.

  ‘Gwyndion was a diligent student and mastered his lessons quickly, impressing his Bowz with the speed that he completed his solar ray energy lessons. He proved to a proud Tanzen and Rozen that he could easily rearrange atoms of the solar rays and would be able to provide nutrients for himself under all conditions. But despite their pride in their apprentice, his Bowz harboured doubts regarding Gwyndion’s character. His singular detachment regarding the Eom had not gone unnoticed by the Webx Elders, and then there was the matter of his hair! The Webx people sported long, dark, brown-green hair; the colour of earth, of leaves, of the natural elements. In startling contrast, Gwyndion sported silver-white hair, which made them suspect he was a throwback to some ancient race, though neither Elder could trace which, despite extensive root-communication. They decided to monitor him closely, and thus Gwyndion was subjected to continuous and zealous tracking of his every movement.

  ‘His Bowz only became truly alarmed, however, the day Gwyndion announced to his disbelieving tribe that he wanted to study and master the element of fire. Whispers began to circulate from Webx to Webx of the foolhardy shootling, barely sap-spawned, who dared to attempt to master the dangerous fourth element! It was rumoured that the moment was recorded in the Tremite Book of Life. No Webx in known history had ever elected to study fire — it was considered unsafe for their race.

  ‘Surrounded by the awe and disbelief of his peers and betters, Gwyndion mastered the fire lessons as easily as he had grasped his previous lessons. His Bowz insisted he practise on the more secluded easterly beaches of the island so that the other Webx would not be overwhelmed by the sight of a shootling who could transmute his physical form into fire and back to Webx with only a slight singeing around his leafy silver-white hair as proof that the transmutation had occurred. Here on the beaches Gwyndion practised fire mastery for countless moonrises with only his devoted meerwog Samma and the mocking Sea Hags to witness his skill. Rumours flew in furtive root-communications that Gwyndion must bear other sap in his veins. Some went so far as to suggest that Gwyndion might have been seeded from some other tribe. At times the young shootling would sense Tanzen looking at him in fearful speculation, but, engrossed as he was in his daily chores of lessons, he shrugged off his Bowz’s worries.

  ‘Although sired to the privileged position of the Elders’ shootling, Gwyndion often longed for Webx friends. His silver-blond hair, his fire mastery and his proximity to the Elders Rozen and Tanzen set him apart from his peers. Over time, he grew content with his own company and would wander happily for hours exploring the forests and beaches of Zeglanada, his ever-present meerwog, Samma, at his side.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  ‘The days moved slowly as the Wheel of the Year turned. The Webx were unaware that they were moving into the last days of their race. The ground sometimes trembled slightly, whispering, sending urgent warnings out into the corn-coloured sky across the orange blazing sun. The Webx, once so proficient at reading the messages from the earth, chose to ignore the whispers, engrossed as they were in their worship of the Eom and its black crystal facets, polished to shiny perfection.

 
; ‘Gwyndion was present on that Day of Ashes. He held Samma in his arms, close to his heartbeat, as he watched his Bowz lead the invocation to Eom. “Armaaa! Armaaa!” the Webx chanted as one, their long leaf-hair fluttering in the evening breeze.

  ‘As always, Gwyndion dully mimed the chanting, strangely loath to participate fully in the ritual. His eyes watched the familiar sight of Tanzen’s and Rozen’s faces alter and soften into a palette of indescribable beauty as they paid homage to the Eom. The odour of myrrh and sandalwood purified the air. As always, Gwyndion marvelled at his lack of response to the service.

  ‘The lovingly polished facets of the Eom reflected the angels as they attacked silently from behind. The facets mirrored with detachment the agonised screams as the worshipping Webx were burnt to death or had their necks snapped by the murderous angels. But the Azephim lust for blood could not be quelled with the mere sap that ran in Webx veins.

  ‘Gwyndion lay dazed amid the dying bodies of his people. Some still writhed on the ground in agony, charred and black — instinctively, he had thrown himself on top of his meerwog to protect her. He was being suffocated. Bodies were heaped on top of him, friends whom he had met and laughed with just a few breaths before. His inner being screamed in terror for Samma, who he was sure was crushed beneath him. All of them dead. Now he did scream as a thousand sparrows flew swiftly upwards, and he saw them etched across the sky in a flight of triumph. Please, no! Not of all them dead! He lay, waiting to die, to join his people.

  ‘The angels were laughing, shouting their triumph. Their hands and faces were smeared with black sap. Gwyndion closed his eyes, paralysed by grief, feeling sap run through him. The angels were hunting down survivors. Gwyndion could hear them saying, “I think there’s some still alive under here!” Bodies were being moved off him. He could now see the sun, the sky. Around him he smelt the sap of the innocents who had been slain.

  ‘In the distance, a woman was screaming. Was it a Webx or angel throat that the scream came from?

  ‘“There’s a few still alive down here!”

  ‘Imagine wings, great black wings, blocking out the sun. Gwyndion opened his eyes to see a face of divine beauty looking down upon him. His body lurched, expecting the angel would breathe fire upon him. How could life end when it had just begun?

  ‘Then a woman’s voice cried, “Leave them!” As ancient as the night, as time. He longed to die, to be part of the sea, to return to memory. “Seleza had ordered no killing! Just take the Eom! Quickly, before she senses the slain and closes off the Web to us! I won’t be held accountable for this!” The words trailed in the air and over the sea, and the words were arrows beating against his skull as he lay waiting to die. I won’t be held accountable for this!

  ‘Silence. He could hear the soft whimpers of bodies that still breathed, of bodies still dying. Samma! Great Sun, Great Earth, Tanzen! Rozen!

  ‘Why did he have to take so long to die? He was ready now, the pain was too hot, too raw. Nobody could survive this pain. He wanted the oblivion of ashes. He longed for the peace of death.

  ‘There was to be no peace. He watched in horror, a lone witness, as a Black Angel claw touched the Eom for the first time. Angel merged with Eom. The crystal was seized and claimed. Life under the Eom as the Webx people had known it was at an end.

  ‘Gwyndion believed that the entire world had ended then. The keening from the surviving Webx had continued for days. Several of the Old Ones’ chests had shattered with the impact of their grief. Rings of dolphins surrounded the island of Zeglanada sending healing energy to the remaining shattered Webx. Day and night became one as the intensity of their sorrow plunged the island into darkness.

  ‘Tanzen and Rozen had survived, to his great relief, as had Samma. But his hostlings spoke little about the abduction to their shootling, their grief over the massacre being too great. They were inconsolable. Instead they chose to entwine together, burying themselves into the earth, crying tears that formed oceans.

  ‘Then the Dark Angels had returned, ruthlessly pushing the Webx’s protective thought barrier aside. The woman with the voice like night was leading them. Her face was pale, every vein beautiful beneath her skin. Her wings were a pure shade of white, and when she looked at the Webx who cowered before her, fire flamed in her eyes.

  ‘They had no chance. There was never any chance. Gwyndion watched helplessly as Tanzen and Rozen were seized by the angels, who engulfed them beneath their putrid black wings and carried them forever from his sight. All that was left to follow the Day of Ashes was an eternity of despair.

  ‘When the plague of despair entered Zeglanada it spread like a cancer among the Webx. All knowledge became the unknown. Dreams died overnight. The Webx were now a people without soul. With the loss of his beloved Bowz Gwyndion’s grief was overwhelming. For two seasons he refused to take his human form, and he planted himself firmly in the now-depleted soil in an attempt to escape the pain and the memories and the visions that haunted him. Tanzen and Rozen were light-years away, chained to the Eom in a nightmare world ruled by Dark Angels. The grief and pain that Gwyndion could detect on his Bowz’s faces threatened to break his heart and so he took refuge in the earth. But he was not to be abandoned to his grief.

  ‘Planted into soil, Gwyndion was oblivious to the events that were occurring around him. The Webx were a fragile race and they had already suffered the double blow of the loss of their Eom, the heart and soul of their community, and their Elders Rozen and Tanzen. There were few Webx remaining who possessed the leadership qualities of the highly esteemed couple. The balance of Zeglanada had tipped dangerously, and the Wheel of the Year was now out of control. Long-extinct ancient animals, such as the bonelynx and the ratsi, were seen by several reliable witnesses. Animals normally found on the other known worlds such as tigers and dogs were observed wandering dazed and afraid as they fell through the veil between the worlds.

  ‘The seasons were chaotic; one day hailstones as large as Oootsa shells would fall from the sky, the next ten suns would blaze in the heavens above. In one shocking instance a Webx woman gave birth to a human child, which the midwives quickly smothered as was the Webx way with the deformed and the frail.

  ‘The few younger Webx that remained now refused to enter the badly depleted soil. Instead they frantically attempted to consume their nutrients orally. This ancient practice had tragic results and several of them died in the violent convulsions that followed. Many Webx, unable to cope with the loss of the Eom, began to cross into other worlds. Several of them made it to the Blue Planet where they selected isolated areas like rainforests and solidified their energies to become trees in a desperate attempt to rebalance themselves after the deadly plague of depression that had befallen their tribe. For even to take on a lower life form was considered preferable to the heartbreak of witnessing the irrevocable erosion of the race. Yet equally as many elected to remain on Zeglanada, hoping against all possibility for the return of the Eom to the island.

  ‘At the close of each day at moonrise, the surviving Webx would gather together in a white marble temple containing wild frescoes of a horned man, two-headed horses, grapes, snakes and a slaughtered bull. The temple had stood for centuries, abandoned and alone, and there was no mention of it in the Tremite Book of Life. There, every moonrise, the Webx would stand and keen as one to their Eom. Frantically they directed their cries, songs and prayers in the direction of the Web, hoping and longing for a reply. Yet no answer ever came. The Webx grieved bitterly, increasingly realising they had been merely the branches while the Eom had been the tree.

  ‘In the dark seasons that followed the Day of Ashes, Zeglanada was host to the Snake People. Alerted by the vibration of pain from Zeglanada, they decided to cross over to be of assistance. They were shocked by the extent of the damage visited upon the Webx. The enormous grief was tangible, if suppressed as much as possible, and a high percentage of young Webx had crossed to Earth to live as trees.

  ‘Even without the heavy aura
that surrounded a certain shrub, the Snake Crone would have recognised it as a Webx shootling. A young female meerwog stood devoted guard nearby. With infinite care and respect, the Snake Crone pulled Gwyndion from the soil and listened to his tragic tale of invasion, pillage and destruction. The Snake Crone realised that the Webx race was perilously close to extinction. She also realised that even in his shrub body the shootling possessed the same power that moved through his unfortunate Hostlings. She hesitated on the best course of action. The remaining Webx that had survived the Day of Ashes were in no fit state to give the child the upbringing he deserved. They were vulnerable, broken, possibly even dying.

  ‘After meditating for a short time, and gently stroking the quivering, shocked shrub that was Gwyndion, the Snake Crone decided to consult with her gods for guidance. Leaving Gwyndion and the devoted meerwog in the care of the Snake Healers, she retired to a shell-lined cave by a distant, deserted beach. There, safe from the constant threat of the Sea Hags, she entered a great temple of light with her dreaming mind.

  ‘Ash fell lightly on the Snake Crone in a fall of soft rain. The wind moved her scales, bringing ecstasy. Bone Man danced in the corner, his mouth opening, mewing, streaming tongues of fire. Snake Crone continued the journey. A hand moved the stars, moved the suns. A lizard was birthed from the sky. The flesh fell from the Snake Crone’s body, her eyeballs popped and became liquid, and she felt her head explode. She continued the journey.

  ‘The Crone walked inside her mind for many days, treading the path of death. For many nights she walked the sacred circle, feet treading the hidden codes of the known worlds. Then, on the last day, she found the snake that she sought: small, brown and deadly. He smiled a warning at the Snake Crone — and then struck. He threw himself with sudden force at her exposed breasts and bit them savagely with his two sharp fangs. The Snake Crone felt herself turn icy cold as his poison crept swiftly through her body. In seconds her flesh turned black. The small snake laughed hysterically and then, in the ancient snake tongue, whispered the message that the Snake Crone had sought.