Circle of Nine: Circle of Nine Trilogy 1

by Josephine Pennicott

  I hesitate, but feel compelled to enter despite my fears. Large spider webs protect the entrance of the cave. Carelessly, I brush them aside with my hand. I enter the semi-darkness, which is illuminated by hundreds of gleaming white shells of indescribable glory. My eyes adjust to the half-light and I am shocked to see a woman occupying the cave. She is Azephim. Large dark wings are stretched to full span in the defensive stance of the angels. The Azephim is as surprised to see me as I her. By her feet I make out a body. I realise with horror that I have disturbed her feeding. The fresh blood from her kill still stains her lips. Then an even greater horror replaces the fear of disturbing a Dark Angel at her kill. For I recognise the woman and she recognises me. It is Maya.

  *

  The weather is erratic. Even I, lost in my self-absorption, have noticed it. It is abnormally hot one day, but the next the Winter Goddess breathes upon the land. Flu is rife in the mountains, but I am immune — even the virus fears entering the house of the damned.

  *

  They take her quietly when I least expect it. (I have always expected it.) I wake early one morning. There have been no nightmares, only a pleasant dream where I swim in a warm ocean with brilliant pink coral beneath me. When I wake from the dream, Maya is gone.

  *

  After that, of course, life went.

  *

  It would have been easier for me if they had killed me, let loose their foul Solumbi to feed upon my ageing flesh, but my wants and needs are of no concern to the Azephim. Their only interest has always been Maya. I find it heartbreaking to believe Jessie and I slept through the abduction. She regards me with her wet, accusing eyes for days. Dear loyal Jessie, the silent witness to my agony. My last friend left on Earth, watcher of my slow death.

  *

  I explore every option inside my crazed mind. For days I sit in a silent, empty shell of a house making endless lists. I forget writing them, then discover them unexpectedly, folded sheets of paper filled with the writing of a shaking, erratic hand.

  One. It might have been an abduction.

  Two. The Stag Man?

  Three. Maya might have run away.

  Four. Was she ever really there?

  That last thought, that I might have lived with a hallucination, threatens to tip me over into total insanity. Since my experiences in Eronth I have learned to fear what might not be there. The spaces in places surrounding me feel more alive and filled with energy than the solids. Even the wind has a voice. My mood swings are erratic. One minute I am planning my suicide and the next I’m feverishly attempting to plan how I could cross into Eronth. Once there I’d travel through the Wastelands, tackle the Azephim, rip their hearts out of their bodies and reclaim my daughter. But the bridge between the worlds had been closed to me. When I first arrived back from Eronth I had searched the house inside and out, desperate to find the wooden box with the vial that had been my catalyst for the crossing. Of course it, along with the crystal, had vanished, and the house had mocked me with a scene perfectly set for my return. The dishes still on the sink air-drying where I had left them, my gardening gloves still hanging over the pot plant outside. Props, all props. Everything was in its place, except for the box. The last remnants of a shattered mind conceives impossible ideas. I will go to the police, to a counsellor, to a tabloid television show. I will pretend Maya never happened. I’ll get a haircut, and with it a new life. The days move slowly. I go outside, lie on the earth and cry into her. I hope my tears will reach Persephone, I long for my prayers to be answered. (Prayers are always answered.)

  *

  In the dream Khartyn moves toward me. She is clicking, vibrating. My God, she’s so old. There are shimmering, moth-like wings around her. Where are the wings from?

  ‘Emma!’ she cries. ‘There’s little time.’

  I stare at her, glazed, still shocked by how deep the cragged lines are on her ancient face. Her eyes appear like mirrors, clouded over and about to fall back into her skull. Frail, shimmering. An ancient spider moth.

  ‘I need to cross,’ I tell her.

  My heart feels so heavy and sad, and pain is sprouting tumours within me. Khartyn shakes her head, and in an instant she appears even older.

  ‘There is no crossing,’ she tells me, her voice the voice of spring, of hell, of light.

  ‘I need Maya!’ I cry.

  Black erupts from my chest cavity. Khartyn holds out her hands. An incredibly large black mass is sucked into her.

  ‘There was never any crossing,’ she repeats in a voice that belongs to the moon and the stars. ‘We were always here.’

  She walks away from me and then looks back. I realise then who she truly is, that she is only another aspect of me. Not just words, I feel it. I feel it in every cell of my body. She is my breath, my dreams, my teeth, tongue and fears. That each part of me contained her, that what I saw as myself, as ‘I’, was part of a hologram. That I am part of all that is, and that each aspect of me existed everywhere, in all times, and every times. That I was not confined spatially, or temporally. That I was everywhere, all the time, always.

  It was the last time I was to see the Crone. Benediction.

  After this dream I felt stronger, more in control of my destiny. The nightmares ceased. I began to eat. A semblance of a normal routine returned to me. I avoided the local shops and I took the train to the nearest mountain town for supplies, unable to face the questions of where Maya was. I began to care for myself, brush my hair, get dressed, get out of bed of a day. I took up jogging in an attempt to exorcise the demons.

  I began to formulate my experience in Eronth into a book. It was a fantasy that the world could read as fiction, but maybe if there was another Crossa out there destined to discover my book they might decipher the symbols and contact me and help me to cross again. I longed to return. I ached for Maya every second of every day, but I began to slowly accept the circumstances for now.

  Although my thoughts were often self-destructive I never indulged in self-destructive behaviour such as drinking or taking drugs. I was too afraid of the demons that would emerge if I unlocked the door. Over and over I asked myself, Did Maya ever really exist? Although she had seemed real, so did the dreams that shivered through me at nights. Was Maya real, or a figment conjured up from my own mind?

  It is dangerous to whisper their black names, to bring them more into being. I have to take responsibility.

  The days linked together in a white, endless string of round pearls, slightly distorted, slightly foggy. I refused to answer the ringing telephone. (It never rang.) The messages I received came from the sound of the wind and the rain. The communication of angels. At times in the street I would see angelic beings, walking detached among the world of the dead. Now I no longer heard people’s thoughts, I would see them rapidly materialise in front of me. People’s auras were clearly visible; often the brilliant auric colours were eaten away with desire and attachment and cancers. I avoided children. I would cross the street whenever I saw them. I could not take my heart breaking again. Over the mirrors in the house I draped black cloth — afraid of the image I would see in the glass. My Muses had long departed — the book lay unfinished. Amazingly, throughout this time I still managed to function on a mundane level. I paid my bills, I cleaned the house. But I no longer had hopes of crossing. Khartyn had even taken that away from me.

  One day more terrible than the rest Jessie vanished. It still upsets me to write about it. I looked everywhere for her. I called her for days. I even braved the local village, putting notices up in the stores offering a huge reward. My last friend was now lost to me. Perhaps the atmosphere of the house, where I walked hand in hand with despair, had finally driven her out.

  I now no longer know or care what the seasons are — the house is so silent and day and night are one. I sleep when I am tired, eat when I am hungry. Hope still lives within me, breathing faintly. I still wake at times, half-expecting to see Maya’s dark curls beside me, returned by divine intervention. But
the divine are not listening. The Dreamers are too deeply asleep to care.

  The golden owl returns. So large are its wings that it fills the room. Its breath is warm and smells of apples. I no longer know whether I am awake or asleep. I no longer care. The owl’s beak holds my garter, my gift from Artemis, from another life. I take it in wonderment, marvelling at the bloodstains, a small note attached. Had to remove the leg to retrieve the gift — A.

  Illusions — all illusions. None of it has meaning.

  *

  Brushing my hair at night I gaze into the small wooden mirror on the vanity unit. My face is black, with rotten gums, empty sockets for eyes. I recoil in terror. I wear the face of death. My third breast leaks fluid, soaking the sheets at night. It is milk. Milk for a child that never was.

  More illusions. A knocking at the door. I sit, eyes tightly shut, willing them away. The visitor leaves.

  Finally he comes. Deep inside me I knew if I sat it out and waited he would come. It is daytime — an overcast day, and the plants in the garden are dying. I pull out rotten stem after rotten stem. Then I feel him, his audible energy, a buzzing in the air around me. He is clothed in golden light, and bliss and radiance steal through me as I stare into the face of the Stag Man. This time he has presented himself to me in his human form. His hair hangs to his waist. His face is frighteningly not of this world. His hands are a work of art. He is a bestial Michelangelo, and I am a broken shell, rotten like the plants I hold in my hand, a broken chrysalis.

  ‘Yes,’ he agrees, reading my mind. ‘You have served your purpose.’

  I am shocked by his detachment, his cold indifference.

  ‘Maya?’ I ask, hope sprouting afresh.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘Maya is where you cannot journey. You cannot cross.’

  He has destroyed my last chance — and the pain of my heart breaking is swift. I have lived in the Blue Planet too long and a Bluite heart cannot hold too much grief, too much pain.

  ‘It is over,’ he repeats again.

  He smiles and in his animal eyes conjures unimaginable wonders. He reaches lovingly, tenderly into my chest and pulls my sparrow out, soaked in blood. In his sculpted hands he holds my heart, a red rose against marble. He holds the sparrow out for me to examine. I am surprised at the strength and size of it. Black veins are gnarled and twisted, choking the sparrow, the life-force. As I examine my heart I begin to feel more compassion for myself. I forgive myself for not being able to save Maya, for not being stronger or more able to control my grief. For not loving my mother, and my mother for not loving me enough. For the shining. For not being more beautiful. For not being more gifted.

  ‘You have achieved your goals,’ the Stag Man says. His dark immemorial eyes blaze into mine.

  The last of the veil of illusions begins to shift. For a second I feel raw panic. I am attached, I realise, to my frail, ageing, stinking body. I am attached to my house, to my grief and my pain. I see myself as a child momentarily, open, beautiful, shining. The Stag Man smiles again. I feel ashamed he has witnessed my fears and my panic. His hands scatter ashes over me and he begins to chant. The mind objects — Not now. Not now.

  There is a movement in the garden behind me. I turn to see the clothed, veiled figure of Hecate waiting. She walks slowly toward me. The Stag Man stands behind me. My fear has become his fear. We are one being, preparing for the final journey.

  ‘Now is the time,’ he breathes. ‘Look at her, Emma.’

  Hecate prepares to lift the veil.

  ‘Emma,’ he says tenderly, ‘gaze into her face.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  EMMA JANE DEVELLE, ARTIST

  It is with deep regret the Mountain Times announces the sudden passing of local resident Emma Develle. Her body was discovered on Sunday afternoon in her cottage garden by tourists Jason and Melinda Bell, aged 26 and 24, of England. The cause of death was a sudden aneurysm resulting in fatal cardiac arrest. Ms Develle, 43, had no previous known heart problems. There are no suspicious circumstances surrounding her death. Seven years ago Ms Develle’s aunt, Johanna Develle, was found murdered in Blue Mountains National Park, a crime which remains unsolved. Emma Develle was the principal beneficiary of Johanna’s will and moved into her aunt’s Leura cottage shortly after the murder. Although assumed to have been the parent of a young girl living with her some years ago, the identity of this child has not been verified and Ms Develle leaves no immediate family. The police have been unsuccessful in contacting any relatives.

  — Leura Mountain Times, obituaries column

  Diomonna, Queen of Faeries, swept grandly into the Hollow Hills. The occupants of the Hills were unusually quiet for once, with the exception of the Faery harpist who continued to play as always. In anticipation, a light filled the Hills. Faeries stood hand in hand and with their arms around each other; even the Winskis had ceased their mad air-dancing and were gravely seated in crowds of thousands, minute hands cradling minute heads, as they waited. Except of course for Jig Boy, who sat with one wing heavily bandaged, keeping one eye on the proceedings, while he recorded the historic moment.

  ‘Where be the small one?’ Diomonna shouted into the silence, trembling with anticipation.

  Her voice rang through the chambers beneath the Hills, although uneasy bushwalkers may have taken it for the wind. A shadow stepped forward. A Crossa midwife smiled gently down upon the bundle she held. Old Patricia watched through slitted eyes, mistrusting the way that the midwife carried the child. The Faery Queen stepped forward and drew back the pink baby blanket. Faery wings began to flutter. The noise of countless swarms of butterflies filled the air.

  With awe, Diomonna studied the sleeping baby, wrinkling her delicate nose at its strong Bluite smell. Carefully she looked into its ears, its nostrils and was only prevented from examining the shut eyes by the scowling midwife. Finally satisfied, the Queen jumped high into the air, turning backward flips before landing lightly on the ground.

  ‘It is the Maya-smelling one!’ she called. ‘The Changeling is here. The small stink-one arrives!’

  A cheer erupted from the mass of Faeries and Winskis. Diomonna, revelling in her triumph, temporarily forgot her heartache over Gwyndion and joined with them. The Imomm had the chosen one . . . the Eom would be theirs . . .

  *

  The Lightcaster sat on a makeshift bed inside a ramshackle inn on the outskirts of Faia. He had taken temporary residence in the Borderlands, a stinking maze of cobbled streets where rats and women were overbold and rubbish was thrown into decaying piles on the streets. The Looz Drem played games with street children, and people avoided your eyes as they walked past. Prostitutes beckoned shyly from every doorway. Mere country girls, mostly they were far less aggressive than their New Baffin rivals, where the Goddess Aphrodite openly encouraged prostitution in her temples. The Bluite High Priestess was a different matter. She had banned the sexual trade in Faia, pushing it outwards into the Borderlands. ‘What have you done to your people, Mary whore?’ the Lightcaster had asked himself when he had witnessed a Faian maid, nursing a sickly looking infant at her breast, lift her skirts to the waist in open invitation to the transient Shadow beings who inhabited the Borderlands. His heart had lightened, for now he knew his task was within reach. Now he half-regretted his decision to take on the job as he sat in his room watching a large, mustard-coloured rat run along his wall. However, he had little choice. The proprietors needed money and were not likely to ask him too many questions or close their doors to him.

  He spent his time constructively, preparing his mind, body and instruments. This was a big job. In goddess-loving Faia it would be difficult to take out one of the most popular Crones. The Faiaites loved superstition and magic . . . but he was confident he could achieve his goal whatever the difficulties. He meditated on the energies that he could see clearly when he went deep inside himself. The old witch was aligned closely with the Bluite High Priestess. To agitate the Faiaites against Khartyn he would also have to set them against
Mary.

  He giggled to himself as he polished his pricker until it shone with light. No, it was no easy task, but he had had many triumphs in his career. He had whispered in the ear of Carpzou in Germany, a whisper which fetched signed death warrants for over 20 000 people. He had cheered from the sidelines as educated men ripped fetuses from pregnant witches’ bowels and cut the breasts from nubile young witches that they had secretly lusted for. He had encouraged Sir Matthew Hale to allow false testimonies in his English courts to secure convictions against innocent people. He had watched unblinkingly as popes allowed the torture of the Inquisition. Limbs were stretched and torn from bodies. There had been stonings and duckings and bloodings and burnings. Impalings and breaking of legs and arms and souls. Even the cats had not attracted his compassion; he had the church leaders order them all killed because of their association with witches. His precious rats ran free to spread triumphant plague all across Europe.

  But it was the souls the Lightcaster was most interested in. For every persecutor who had ever drawn blood from a wretched grandmother had given his soul to the Lightcaster, allowing him to live, to exist, to breathe, to eat. Without their service and sacrifice he would only be a fantasy, a nightmare. It was easy for him on the Blue Planet. But here on Eronth where witches were held in high esteem and patriarchal religions scorned it was no easy task to gather more servants, more souls. But it was far from impossible.