To Carry the Horn

by Karen Myers

  “I don’t imagine they like the idea of a human huntsman much, either.”

  “That’s part of it, certainly, but not the main issue. Much of it’s envy, I’d say. They remember how Gwyn got his position.” She put her fork down. “How much do you know about his predecessor?”

  George leaned back in his chair to listen. “Very little.”

  “Arawn was the Prince of Annwn, for, well, I don’t know how long. Hundreds of years, anyway. Annwn is really Cernunnos’s realm, but he doesn’t rule it directly. That’s why Arawn was titled prince, not king. Beli Mawr, I believe, understands this, but his son, Gwyn’s father, king in his own domain, has come to think of Annwn as his to bestow, that Gwyn is a prince under his kingship, as a son and heir. Gwyn understands that he holds this title from its real king, and not his father.”

  She picked up her glass again. “They’ve fought over this and it’s estranged them, that Gwyn should not feel beholden to his father for his rule. It’s why he removed Annwn to the new world.”

  “But your painting of the investiture shows a different view,” George said.

  “It was done for Gwyn’s father, not for Gwyn. The version in his council room is a constant reminder of their disagreement.”

  “What happened to Arawn?”

  “That begins with the tale of Pwyll Pen Annwn.”

  Before she could start, Alun brought in some fruit for dessert and they concentrated on that for a few moments, before she started the story.

  “Pwyll was the lord of Dyfed, in the old country. He originally offended Arawn by driving his hounds from a deer kill and claiming it as his own. They agreed to exchange places for a year and a day, taking each other’s appearance and slaying each other’s enemies, which they did. At the end of the time, they changed back, and Pwyll earned Arawn’s friendship for having slept chastely for that year in the same bed as Arawn’s wife. Pwyll returned to Dyfed with the title Pwyll Pen Annwn—Pwyll, Head of Annwn—for the year’s exploit.”

  George thought to himself, so Pwyll’s a byword for maintaining an undetectable glamour for a long time. That explains the references I keep hearing.

  Angharad said, “When Gwyn stole Creiddylad back, some of the men in pursuit belonged to Pwyll, visiting Gwythyr, and were among the prisoners mistreated and slain by Gwyn. Pwyll’s fury became Arawn’s as well.”

  “Gwyn made many enemies that day, it seems.”

  “It’s haunted him ever since,” she agreed. She toyed with an unused piece of silverware. “Arawn, in that year’s great hunt, hunting the hounds himself, turned from the starting way he had opened with all assembled, and cast his hounds directly at Gwyn. I was there.”

  “What happened?”

  “Gwyn fled through the way—what else could he do? It was that or be torn down on the spot.”

  “But he survived.”

  “Cernunnos was angered that the great hunt should be so misused for personal enmity. He led Gwyn through the ways in the form of a great red deer and at last, when Gwyn was brought to bay, Cernunnos cast off Arawn’s control of the hounds and turned them on him.”

  She continued, “Gwyn and Cernunnos returned together through the ways, the hunt accompanying them. It’s the only time I know of that Cernunnos was manifest in the great hunt.”

  “So Beli Mawr thought it might be a good idea to turn Annwn over to Gwyn, I take it,” George said.

  “Well, Cernunnos had clearly shown him a mark of favor, and it seemed his public apology for his treatment of the prisoners had been accepted.”

  “Is that the only time the great hunt has failed?”

  “The only time I’ve ever heard of.”

  In his study after dinner, George showed Angharad to a comfortable armchair by the fire and sank into another one himself. They sat in silence for a moment, warm and replete with a good meal. They could hear the clatter of dishes as Alun cleaned up.

  “I miss my dogs,” George said. “They’d be sitting here, something to do with my hands.”

  “And you with a whole kennel full,” Angharad gently teased. “What are they?”

  “I have two, both males. Hugo’s a coonhound, an old-style blue-tick. The other one, Sergeant, is a yellow feist. No squirrel was safe.” He smiled fondly.

  Alun poked his head in. “Something to drink?”

  They agreed on brandy, and in a few minutes he reappeared with a bottle and two glasses. “Will you be wanting anything else?” he asked.

  “No, and thank you for a wonderful meal.” George turned to Angharad. “You know, that’s the first dinner he’s made for me. Now I understand what I’ve been missing in the great hall.”

  Alun nodded in acknowledgment. “I’ll be leaving you, then. Don’t forget you’ll be rising early tomorrow.”

  Killjoy, George thought. Here he had Angharad in the house and he wanted to enjoy it. Oh, well, the next topic would probably kill the mood anyway, he sighed.

  “I’ve been wanting to tell you something,” he said, putting his glass down on the table between them. “I’ve learned a bit about glamours since I last saw you, from Ceridwen. Have you heard?”

  “No. That’s a good idea.”

  “Well, maybe. She was trying to show me how to create a default glamour for emergency use…” he looked at her and she nodded in understanding, “by reverting to an unmarked version of my true self as a foundation.”

  “And did it work for you?”

  “Not quite as she expected.” He hesitated. “I need your advice.”

  “On aesthetics? Whether you’d be better as a redhead?” She chuckled.

  He smiled ruefully. “No. I want to know if you’ll recognize it.”

  “As you, you mean,” she said.

  “Maybe I better just show you.”

  He stood up and faced her, spreading his feet to steady his balance in anticipation of the weight. The brandy helped remove his inhibitions, and he quickly brushed his everyday body image to one side. This time he briefly felt the horned man form appear, succeeded by the full red deer head, bowed forward under the antlers.

  Angharad had risen as the change began. She showed no shock, nor could he smell it on her with his newly altered senses when he flared his nostrils. Just intense interest.

  She walked up and placed her hand on the antlers and stroked his furry cheek. Then she backed off and, with a gesture, asked him to turn around.

  He obliged, slowly, trying to manage the top-heavy mass as smoothly as possible.

  “Yes, that’s the form of Cernunnos as I saw him last, which is what you wanted to know,” she said. “But you’re still George?”

  He nodded.

  “So, his form but not him. And not a glamour, of course, since I can touch it.”

  He nodded again.

  “Fascinating.” He could see her fingers twitch as her eyes went over his form, tracing its lines.

  He hadn’t expected this. It wasn’t so disturbing this time, since he knew what was coming, and Angharad’s lack of shock removed much of the horror of it.

  He held up a finger to get her attention.

  “What, there’s more?” she asked.

  He nodded, then tried the partial pullback that gave him a primitive human head, horns still attached. This time he paused in this form and held it. He felt the neck muscles of the full red deer form adjust to compensate for the changes.

  He tried to speak and found his voice much deeper, and hoarse. “This seems to be an added bonus.”

  “The Horned Man,” she said, in wonder. “Oh, you lucky man.”

  That’s not how he would have put it, he thought.

  “Are there other forms?”

  “Boy, I hope not.” He found the sound of that voice unfamiliar, as if someone had turned up his bass.

  She laughed. “Is it hard to maintain them?”

  “I don’t really know. This is only the second time, and the first time all I wanted to do was get back to normal. It doesn’t seem to be a strain, except
for my muscles.”

  He thought more about it. “These shapes are very strange. My body stands differently, because of the weight and I haven’t learned how to move well.” He gestured at the antlers. “The senses are completely altered. In deer form, they seem to match the animal, and in this form, they’re somewhat intermediate, with better sight than the deer, but a weaker nose. Still better than my normal sense of smell, though.”

  He withdrew from the horned man and returned to his human form, dropping into the armchair. She sat back down with him.

  “How did this happen?” she asked.

  He told her the story of his childhood and his Welsh father. Like Ceridwen, she agreed there must be a connection between his father and Cernunnos, though what it was she couldn’t say.

  “Could your father do what you just did?”

  “I have no idea. I never saw anything.”

  He steeled himself and asked the question he’d been wanting to. “It’s me inside those forms, for now. What if they’re just preparation for, for someone else.”

  “You worry that Cernunnos might possess you.”

  “Yes. And that would be it for me.”

  “Or he might let you go again afterward,” she said.

  “Does he do that?”

  “Who would know? I’ve only seen him once before. I don’t know of anyone who can speak about what he might do.”

  He slumped his shoulders in the chair and she laughed at him. “Come, now. What will be, will be. Don’t take it so hard. Revel in the splendor of it.”

  She stood up and waggled her hands at him. “My fingers have been itching since you showed me these grand things. Would you mind if I did some sketches?”

  “Why not,” he said, shaking his head.

  “I’ll just fetch something from my room.”

  It was bracing the way she took this for granted, he thought. Just another manifestation of the marvelous. He took advantage of her absence to sip a bit more brandy for courage, anticipating the lack of a suitable mouth shape soon.

  She returned with a sketchbook and sticks of charcoal, and soon he was walking about and posing in the full form with the red deer head, and then as the horned man, his coat removed and shirt opened so she could see the transition better. Good exercise for my muscles, anyway, handling these antlers. Already the posture changes were becoming more comfortable as he got accustomed to them, though he kept a wary eye on the height of the ceiling.

  After half an hour or so, she relented and put down her sketchbook. He pulled back the horned man form and returned to normal.

  “I’m sorry to keep you up so late, before your big day tomorrow,” she said. “I’m afraid I’m used to living alone and I can get obsessive when exploring a new project, if there’s no one to stop me.”

  “I’m happy to oblige. Could I, um, take a look? As the deer, my eyes don’t see very well in mirrors.”

  Silently, she turned her sketchbook so he could see. Page after page was filled with quick, expert impressions.

  He took it from her hands and sat down to look at it, turning the pages carefully by the edges. The full deer form was not quite what he expected, a monster head on a human form. Instead, the human body changed smoothly at the chest into the musculature to support the stately head, a deep pelt covering most of it below the neck, denser and shorter above. It looked almost natural, except for the human dress. He knew from touch that there was fur below his neck, but these sketches showed non-human musculature under it. He wondered what it would look like, nude.

  The horned man was another revelation. The head was a bit larger than human, as it must be to hold those antlers, but the posture was more upright.

  The face was a great surprise, despite Ceridwen’s description. It was indeed thin, rough, and shaggy, the chin pointed, and the hairline in a widow’s peak. He could see no resemblance to himself in it. This was no blend of his own features with the deer; this was a separate person, as distinct in form as the deer itself.

  He mentioned this to Angharad.

  “The Horned Man is one of Cernunnos’s manifestations. I think that must be his face, in that form, and nothing of your own.”

  He handed the sketchbook back to her. “And what if something should come along to fill those forms, I wonder?”

  She patted his hand as she took the sketchpad and bade him good night.

  As he undressed for bed, George tried to forget that Angharad was just a few rooms away, down the hall. Too soon, he told himself. But still, how wonderful to have her there.

  What a clever woman, to laugh at my worries about Cernunnos instead of indulging them. She’s right of course, there’s nothing I can do about it anyway. Might as well get used to it.

  Concentrate on doing my job and keep an eye out for danger, that’s all I can do.

  He paused, holding a sock, and chuckled. How about that, bringing a sketchbook with her for the visit, just in case.

  Artists. I bet she’d stop to sketch a tornado as it approached, and wait for a good close up view.

  CHAPTER 29

  Inside the kennel gates, George turned Afanc around to get a good look at his staff, ready to go. Alun had worked miracles with the rain-soaked clothing from Saturday, and everything looked clean and polished. Even the hounds were brushed. Alright, he thought, we look like a professional outfit. Let’s see if we can perform like one.

  Ives opened the kennel gates and George led the pack into the yard and straight through the curtain wall, passing stragglers still getting mounted near the stables. The larger crowds of the full hunt field were gathered and waiting near the manor gates in front. He was about a quarter of an hour ahead of the planned departure and intended to wait quietly off to the side until he received Gwyn’s signal to depart.

  The hounds and staff trotted in an orderly manner behind him as he brought them down past the hunt field, raising his hand and halting them twenty yards from the open gates.

  The first group of hunters was just in front of him, off to the left. Gwyn was there, of course, and all the family—Edern, Creiddylad, and Rhodri—joined by Ceridwen and Idris from the household, and Madog and Angharad. He smiled briefly at Angharad, recalling their pleasant breakfast which seemed like hours ago, and she returned the smile.

  Behind them was a mixed group of Eurig and Tegwen, Iona, and some of the other local powers, as well as many of Hadyn’s people, and the man himself. He expected they would pick up some of the villagers as they went south down the road.

  There were also new faces, people he’d been introduced to on Sunday, or heard about from Rhodri. Some nodded at him in a friendly, or at least neutral, manner. The expressions of some of the others varied from stonefaced and unreadable to disdainful or hostile.

  Benitoe, the whipper-in nearest to them, began to attract muttered remarks about the unsuitability of lutins in the hunting field. George looked back at him and raised an eyebrow in silent apology for putting him in this position, berating himself for not thinking to switch Rhys to that side this morning. Benitoe gave him an almost imperceptible shrug and maintained an imperturbable expression. Brynach beside him, however, wasn’t so successful at hiding his indignation. George shook his head slightly, and he subsided, but his anger at the continuing slurs was transparent.

  Rhian next to George started to turn in sympathy, but he said to her quietly, “Eyes front. Ignoring it’s the best policy.”

  She swallowed and obeyed.

  Then they started in on him. The voices were louder on the subject of humans and their proper place in the hunt, in front of the hounds indeed, but fleeing. The comments were meant to be overheard, and George kept his eye on his staff to make sure they didn’t react to any of it.

  Rhys left his position on the outside of the pack to come up and identify some of the speakers for him, and he filed them away for later consideration.

  Glancing over the hunt field that was starting to come together, he was pleased to find many faces, local ones, mostly
, indignant on his behalf and looking to Gwyn to put a stop to it. Their support was comforting.

  Then the bottom dropped out. The speakers with their ostensibly private conversation began to speculate luridly on Iolo’s death and his own probable role in it. He clamped down on his self-control and straightened in his saddle, determined to disregard the blatant provocations. Rhian stiffened at his side and he looked down at her quellingly. “We’re professionals. Ignore it. It’s just another weapon.”

  Gwyn faced the crowd and raised his hand for silence. Looking over at George, he said, “Huntsman.”

  George nodded and led the pack through the manor gates and south down the road to the Dale. His people had passed the first test, and he was proud of them.

  Walking his horse back along the road, the manor gates just coming into view, George looked back with pleasure on the bucks tied behind both Rhys and Brynach. His hounds and staff had done well, providing sport for the field. All of them had seen some action, and most had made it to one or both of the morts to watch, with approval, the hounds receive their rewards.

  Even better, two of the visitors had failed their jumps in the pursuit, resulting in what the Rowanton Hunt members referred to as “involuntary dismounts.” Their mud-stained clothing gave their friends something else to talk about instead of his staff. He felt that he had earned some goodwill from a few of the skeptics behind him since they’d set off some hours ago.

  He wasn’t sure when it started, but he had begun keeping a sense of the ways and their locations always in the back of his mind, like an internal compass tied to points of reference. The Guests’ Way outside the gates was looming up on his right as he led the pack home at a tired trot. Looking at the way as he rode past, he sensed a man, invisible in the way mouth, not moving, and his hackles raised involuntarily as his subconscious mind painted him as a threat before he could think about it.