Gwyndion glanced tentatively around him at the circle of villagers who had now gathered silently. He felt his heart chakra open slightly at the honest, enthusiastic, welcoming glances he was attracting. Relaxing, his roots appeared from his feet searching for soil and the crowd gasped in open-mouthed wonder at the Webx transformation. Planted in soil, Gwyndion felt more secure, and as he watched the crowd he felt as curious about them as they clearly were about him.
Some of the Faiaites had heads of cats, some had two heads, and some of the crowd reminded him of Diomonna; these last types surely had Imomm blood. Tentatively, he made the triple salutation and the crowd as one quickly saluted him in return. Gaining courage, an elderly Faiaite farmer with a mischievous glint in his eye and two huge spiralling ram horns on either side of his head stepped forward and bowed deeply.
‘Greetings, young Webx! We are indeed honoured to receive one of your kind in our village. Greetings also to your meerwog companion! Pray enlighten us. Tell us your story and inform the less educated among us, especially the young ones of Faia, the story of the Webx people.’
And so the Faiaites gathered and sat listening with rapt attention to Gwyndion’s story.
In neighbouring New Baffin the Tremites recorded the moment in the Book of Life as the great mother ocean lapped gentle waves of time against the Great Shell. For the first time in recorded history a Webx spoke his story to others not of his kind. It was a magnificent story, the like of which had never been heard in Faia since Mary had made her first crossing. All those Faiaites who had not been fortunate enough to be in attendance when the Webx spoke had the story passed on to them later, for it became a cherished tale in Faia from the moment of its first utterance. It was passed on to the next generation, and the generations that followed. Thus it became a legend.
*
After a poker-faced Ano had shown Gwyndion and Samma to their new home in the garden quarters of Shellome, he bowed stiffly and departed, leaving them to look about them with undisguised delight at their new surroundings.
The sounds of a rainforest were piped through the quarters, and fat pink doves cooed contentedly from the trees. Gwyndion was especially gratified that there was no roof; he reasoned that the High Priestess must have realised that Webx liked the open air above them and the feel of the rain when they were earthed. Vines and jasmine tangled in profusion down the pastel walls of the dwelling, and a large birdbath fountain in geometric black and white tiles made the eyes spin when gazed upon for too long. Roses as large as dinner plates in brilliant shades of pink, mauve and deepest black entranced the air with a healing fragrance. True to her word, Mary had provided earth, a huge bed of earth. Gwyndion tested it gingerly and was overjoyed to find it of the finest quality he had dipped his roots into since leaving Zeglanada.
There came a knock at the door.
‘Your maids, sir!’ A young girl’s voice was followed by a smothered giggle.
Bemused, Gwyndion bade them enter. The two maids trooped in, suppressing their laughter and holding aloft a dish of nutloaf for Samma and a pitcher of dandelion wine for Gwyndion. Samma instantly began mewing furiously. Gwyndion motioned her to stop and turned and faced the maids directly for a second. But a second was enough to see them truly, to see what they really were beneath the Glamour that formed their facade. Spines, scales and red glistening bellies, and all reeking of the ocean. Nausea and sorrow swept over the Webx and he leapt backward, crying out with alarm. Realising their mistake, the Sea Hags applied their Glamour more thickly. The diabolical images in front of him cleared and the Webx found himself looking into the perplexed, honest faces of Faiaite maidens.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ they enquired anxiously. ‘We’ve bought you refreshments.’
Still nauseated, Gwyndion began to shake from his roots. With no reply forthcoming, the bewildered maids placed the tray on a dainty side table, curtseyed respectfully and backed quickly from the room, Samma still mewing furiously at them.
Maids . . . they were only maids, Gwyndion said to himself, yet the smell of the sea lingered in the garden.
*
The first moonrise in their new home saw Gwyndion sleeping lightly in his earth with Samma cradled in his arms tossing and turning and mewing fitfully. The two shared the same dream where Diomonna frantically called to them while the Eom, malevolent in its silence, hovered nearby like a brooding puppet master. It was controlling them, calling them, biding its time, waiting.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Life has become intolerable in the Hollow Hills. Ever since the departure of the greatly over-praised Gwyndion (how I loathe that name!) we have had very little cause for celebration. The Winski women spend all their time sitting in groups composing keening songs to him. This, of course, only adds to the infected atmosphere. It has seemed an age since we had the dance of death. All this fuss over a stupid Webx, who is not even handsome! There are far more handsome Faeries and Winskis in the Hills! But there, I have said my piece and I had vowed never to open my big mouth again. More of that in a heartbeat.
The sobering fact is that our own pure Queen has sunk into a melancholia the likes of which has not been seen in the Hollow Hills before. Oh, how much more sorrow can this Winski scribe bear? If it is not hard enough that our entire race is threatened, now we have to cope with the blue ennui of our beloved Diomonna. Why, only last moon down, she gave me a forking in front of the entire court, for spending too much time on the Book of Life, rather than assisting the council in plans to retrieve the wood man.
‘Retrieve him!’ I said. ‘If you had opened your wax ears to Jig Boy and killed the Webx and his stinky instantly, none of this would have happened! We would have been saved all this misery!’
It is only logic, is it not, dear reader? But by hiss and claw, logic appears to be something that my fellow occupants of the Hollow Hills are sorely lacking. Well! That is the last time, I repeat, that I will open my foolish Winski mouth, because her forking was quite prolonged and all the Winskis laughed at me (pebblebrains that they are) and began composing songs to Jig Boy, the hairbrain and hairdick who is always alone, and will always live alone.
I am sad to report that this song made me cry. Oh, those golden blowflies like to mock, but all they do with their time, as I have complained of many times in these accounts, is turn somersaults and compose childish rhymes. They do not seem to care at all that our lifespan is so short. Indeed, three of our number died yesterday and were put into the Winski plot. I regret to record that I do not miss them at all, as they were a cantankerous bunch of elders who believed me too young to have the position of Chief Scribe for the Book of Life. But the hard, cold truth remains: if Jig Boy did not scribble in the book then who would? No-one, and all our tales would be completely lost! The foolish female Winskis are vowing never to mate with a male Winski again, as they are all too much in love with the Webx. My fellow pebblebrains make me want to spit! By King Pysphorrus’s great beard, it is a trial at times to have a brain that is more superior than the pebbleheads around me.
Now listen, for I come to the main thrust of this account. I smell a secret that is happening in the Hills. The only thing that has managed to cheer our Queen (noble and worthy as she is) is the cradle that she has her Bogies working on. By hiss and claw, it is a fine cradle indeed! Millions of us Winskis can fit into it at once and make it rock! Not that I, Jig Boy, have time for such trivial pursuits you understand.
I must also record that a stinking Bluite has been captured. She cries all the time, she is a very emotional stinky. We bite her to make her cry harder, it is enormous sport, and the first time in many moon ups (I have lost count of how many) that we have had such fun together. The creature’s name is Ellie-Jane; not a strong name, or a good name like Jig Boy! Something interesting is about to happen, Jig Boy can sense it, and as you know, I am never wrong. By the eyes of the great owl, I hope they don’t bring the Webx back! I could not bear to have to listen to them praising his organ again. It is enough t
o drive a Winski mad.
One more thing I should relate, although it pains me to do so, is that I did not receive just a forking from Queen Diomonna. She lashed out at me, although I am sure it was an accident, and her hand slipped or some such. For I know she loves the Winskis and normally praises me overmuch for my Scribe abilities. But, alas, now my wing is torn, and I am forced to rest for most of the day, lying down, staring up at spiders and bats, waiting for it to heal. With no wing, my life will surely be intolerable in the Hollow Hills. There! I have said it now and a great tear falls. May the sun and moon bless that my next account will be happier. Until then I remain the servant of the world, and all known worlds.
— Account written by Jig Boy, son of Elven Foot, in his First Turn of the Wheel.
*
‘Get up!’ Diomonna screamed. ‘Don’t lie there snivelling when the Queen is addressing you, pathetic, stinking Bluite dung! Hiss! Claw!’
Ellie-Jane screamed again, and cowered into a corner of the Hills. The Winskis were all over her in a second, each trying to outdo the other in pinching and biting.
‘Enough!’ Diomonna screamed. A flash of light shot out of her hands, momentarily stunning the court. The Winskis scattered in all directions, screaming and holding their heads as their eardrums threatened to burst. Diomonna turned to Old Patricia in exasperation.
‘Has she no sense?’ she said. ‘She will not stop screaming and crying. Do we have to kill her? Waste time searching for another one?’
Ellie-Jane screamed louder. ‘Please let me go, I have a husband and baby girl,’ she sobbed, her body shaking in paroxysms of grief.
Old Patricia came and looked down on the trembling girl. Something flickered in her eyes, a faint memory of a life lived long ago.
‘Please,’ the girl whispered. ‘Please let me go home. I promise I’ll never tell anyone.’
In a swift movement Old Patricia moved toward the girl and hit her around the head, knocking her over. The Winskis cheered in excitement.
‘Get up!’ Old Patricia screamed. ‘Get up, you useless human cow! Move! On your feet!’ The girl tried to stand, and fell. Impatiently, Old Patricia pulled her to her feet.
‘Look at you!’ she scolded. ‘Your clothes are filthy! You’re sitting in your own piss and shit!’ The Winskis began giggling, muttering ‘stinky!’ to each other behind their hands.
‘Enough!’ Old Patricia shouted. She swatted at them in the air, nearly catching a few between her large red hands. ‘Old Patricia finds work for idle Winskis! Now, girl, you had better pull yourself together, because you can’t be working for Old Patricia in a sorry soiled state like that!’
‘Work for you?’ Ellie-Jane managed to get out, through her hysteria. ’But I can’t work for you, I have a job back on Earth! I’m a n-n-nnurse!’ She burst into loud sobs, and Diomonna threw her arms up in the air and screamed.
‘Let us kill it! Throw it to the Solumbi, I can’t stand it! Hiss, claw!’
Old Patricia cast uneasy looks around the Hollow Hills. She had been underground long enough to be skilled in reading the changes of moods among the Imomm. At the thought of a kill, they had all brightened, and now they began to circle the frenzied girl, chanting, ‘Blood! Blood!’
‘There is little time,’ she said quickly. Trying to hold the girl upright, sensing how close they were to killing her, she pulled down the front of Ellie-Jane’s dress in one motion, exposing the large, full breasts that were brimming with milk. ‘How soon can you find one with milk like that?’ she said quietly. ‘It took you long enough to sniff this one out! The thought patterns are not strong enough in most of the Blue Planet for you to hunt there any more. You are lucky you came across this superstitious fool!’
Diomonna nodded. ‘My head is nearly split with her screams,’ she said. ‘She can live for now, but keep her mouth shut tight, or I will cut her with my knife.’ She pulled a dagger out from her waistband and thrust it menacingly at the girl.
Old Patricia let out a sigh of relief. The danger was past for now. ‘Come on!’ she said roughly to the girl, pulling her by the hair. ‘Let’s get you out of those putrid clothes and into a bath.’ Ellie-Jane’s eyes were already starting to glaze and go dead, an expression that Old Patricia recognised only too well, for she had had the same look in her eyes when she had come to the Hollow Hills long ago.
Old Patricia began to roughly pull the clothes from the girl’s body. She was still in her uniform, she realised. They must have taken her when she knocked off from her shift.
Shifts, roster, uniform, radios, Cokes, lovers, policemen, clouds, birthday cake. Earth, memories, home. As faint as a cobweb’s shadow, memories whispered to her as she touched the girl.
The old woman handled the captive girl roughly, pulling at her clothes and her hair, almost pushing her over as she attended to her. But Old Patricia had to distract herself somehow. She knew only too well how dangerous things could get in the Hollow Hills if they ever saw her cry.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Deep in the underbelly of the castle, Sati slowly entered the Chapel of the Damned. It was small and dank and only used by the angels for certain time-honoured rituals. The chapel was attended by several Azephim soldiers that Sati knew by sight. As she strode inside rats scurried to the safety of dark corners and the soldiers raised their wings in tribute. Her long black gown swished slowly on the cobblestone floor. Her face was covered by a dark veil, and in her hands she carried black roses that she had tended personally in the castle’s acres of gardens. Blood dripped from the thorns of the roses onto her gown, but Sati’s only reaction was to grip the roses tighter, welcoming the pain. Under the veil, her face was black with corruption and evil. Tonight, in honour of the unholy ritual, she had seen no need to use Glamour. The congregation at this chapel would welcome her true face, her true being.
Like the other female angels in the congregation her breasts were fully bared, and minute occult symbols were painted around her dark nipples. As she walked she emitted the odour of death. A Crossa, driven mad years before by his contact with the angels, played a small black organ at the rear of the chapel. His genius for music was the only reason they had spared him. His inspired playing had helped to invoke a host of Azephim divinities. When he played a scale, colours would form in the ether and attract the entities required for the rituals. Due to the atrocities that he had witnessed in the chapel his mind had become unhinged — the sparrow remained in his chest although his brains had long left his body.
Now his music altered to signal Sati’s appearance. Ishran stood at the front of the altar, wings outstretched to full span. In his hands he held the Eom aloft. Hundreds of tiny black roses encircled the altar, their heavy scent filling the chapel. Lying on the altar was a naked human girl. The Bluite had been stolen by Ishran on one of his many expeditions. She had been selected especially for this ritual. The Azephim knew that the Phooka required young virgins at a certain stage of development, not always an easy task for Ishran to locate. He had smelt out the Bluite and taken her as she walked home alone from school. Now she lay helplessly before him, her long dark hair spread around her. Shock and fear had placed her mercifully in a daze of semiconsciousness. Ishran prayed Phooka would not be disappointed that the girl was not fully present.
Glowing, beautiful stained-glass windows illuminated the chapel. They had been designed by the most illustrious Azephim craftsmen who had been apprenticed to design the chapel and had travelled from the Web specifically for the task. Scenes from Azephim history could be read within the glass panes. Hundreds of candles blazed, adding a poignant beauty to the scene.
Sati continued her slow, measured walk to the altar. She bowed deferentially to Ishran and with indifferent, empty eyes began to pull petals from the black roses and let them fall gently on the young girl’s naked body and cover her tiny, budding breasts. When all that remained of the roses were thorns, she signalled to the altar angels who, with censers of Maja, purified the area.
Wi
th arms held upright over her head she cried, ‘Dark Lord of Shadows, with the knowledge of death open wide the gates that the dead pass through. Send up Phooka to assist us in the black rites. Let me hold communion with my dead brothers and sisters. Let the mysteries within the mysteries be re-created!’
Then the chapel of angels began chanting. ‘Xomli. Xomli. Xomli! Pure Lord of Darkness, send your servants now! Xomli. Xomli. Xomli! Pure Lord of Night. Hear our call!’
The chanting was repeated by the angels as a mass while the Bluite girl stared with eyes already fading of their life through pure fear. Sati regretted that the girl had to be saved for the Phooka and that she herself was denied the kill.
The girl’s fear began to arouse Sati and she pulled her gown up, inviting an Azephim altar boy to enter her. Ishran snarled jealously, then entered her from behind. The three angels moved slowly together, chanting all the while, as they bucked and thrusted.
There was a loud bang. The doors to the chapel opened. Footsteps walked toward them. Lost in pleasure, Sati looked up to see the angoli Charmonzhla, hand in hand with a girl demon child.
The demon smiled widely. Sati snarled, disliking the interruption to her pleasure.
‘The roses smell lovely,’ the demon said to Charmonzhla. ‘They are calling him with roses, with warm blood in young flesh. Their voices are so pretty in the night.’
The angels stopped their lovemaking. Fire dripped from their arms, from their faces. Interrupted at the point of climax, Ishran struggled to contain his frustration.
‘What does she want?’ he said to the angoli. ‘Why do you bring that demon piece of shit into my chapel? She is contaminating the sacred rites!’
Circle of Nine: Circle of Nine Trilogy 1 Page 37
