A man emerged from the turquoise ocean in black Speedos, his skin baked brown by a lifetime under the Mediterranean sun. A soaked Rottweiler emerged at his side. A girl in shorts jogged past their table. Down at the beach, wet dogs played with each other in the waves. Faline realised how exhausted she was from her travelling lifestyle. Dogs were barking in the distance. Bees were humming nearby. Sporadic conversation and the sea was breaking over her. She longed for sleep.
The conversation began to flow more freely, but Gael and Johanna were not mentioned. Sometimes Leonora laughed too loudly. Phillip could feel Lucius’s eyes upon him, black and filled with heat.
The old part of the village was dominated by a sandy-coloured church with a large, pale blue clock face. When it struck the hour the witches got up from the table. Without speaking, they walked slowly towards the ocean. They paused to admire one of the unfinished oil paintings on easels, which featured Phillip’s house. The artist had faithfully reproduced it; a large white building set against the green hill, with a three arch driveway and a glass-windowed sunroom. Phillip spoke in rapid French to the painter, admiring her work, asking her if it was for sale. ‘Non, Monsieur.’ She laughed. She was painting it for her husband, but if she changed her mind, she might consider. Her face was tanned, with shrewd blue eyes and blonde hair in a chignon. Her curves were evident through her clinging white T-shirt. Faline could sense the sexual interest between her and Phillip. She watched as they exchanged cards and knowing smiles. Phillip had lost none of his charisma for women.
They passed other painters and a small brown dog sitting on the sand listening to the waves. He looked at them with eyes of pity as they walked past.
Elderly locals were playing boules. Old people sat in striped deckchairs. Naked people stretched out on the beach. Dogs were everywhere, running, frisking, fighting, playing. Another group of fisherman were mending nets. The witches moved silently past them all.
A mixture of fishing boats and pleasure craft bobbed on the water. Faline could still hear the droning of bees as they walked along the cliffs towards the Old Fort.
Dried leaves crunched underfoot.
Lucius stopped at one point to pull Faline to him and kiss her. She could taste regret and sadness in his mouth, as if he sensed it was already too late. His small rebellion was over and his fate had been cast. His sunglasses were filled with yachts.
The water was hypnotic, shimmering, sparkling.
At the Old Fort, Phillip paused and stood facing the ocean. This was one of his favourite spots, particularly when there were no tourists around. Today they were in luck. A threatened squall had managed to keep most of them away. Perhaps they were all at St Tropez, or at Cannes, collecting movie memorabilia. The whole damned world seemed to be obsessed with movie stars these days. Even the rough old fishermen could still breathlessly recount stories of having seen Bardot or Deneuve in a shop, or at a party. Everyone knew someone with a celebrity story to tell. Phillip hated it and found it vulgar, preferring the worlds of books and learning, the power found in magical workings. Modern life weakened people. But it hadn’t weakened his coven, now standing here at their old power spot where they had performed many rituals over the years. Fear had weakened his old friends, grief had weakened them, but not the trappings of modern life. Yet they still had power, he could smell it all over them. Power in their veins, their guts. Lucius and Faline, in particular, had increased in power. It was difficult to see in Lucius the timid, sensitive young man he had first discovered in Sydney’s Kings Cross.
The sea crashed its timeless message beneath him and he breathed deeply. Gulls screeched and dived. It was time. He stood to face them, wincing inwardly at the scar that time never seemed to heal that Cael was not with them. The wind was stronger, whipping his cheeks with red slashes. They watched him, already knowing what he was going to say. The words were out before he could soften them, seeming to hover and ignite the air with power.
‘There can be no more running. We have to return. We have to close what we have opened.’
Later, after he had spoken and they had performed a private ceremony on the cliff face, they walked back along the shore. The boules players had left, the deckchairs were deserted. It was nearly 5 pm and the tide was well in. A pale pink sunset tinged the sky. The clouds were darkening. Where the tide broke onto the shore, the water was beginning to turn pink. The darkening hillside was dotted with lights.
They passed the blonde painter packing up her easel and brushes. She called out a greeting as they passed. The small dog had not moved from his vigil by the ocean. The tide was now precariously close. He watched it as if daring it to come closer, only turning his head as they passed. Fools, the expression in his eyes said. Fools, to believe him. To attempt to control the wind. To hold back the tides. I, a mere dog, know better. I am content to watch and accept.
A man walked along the last thin slice of beach with a metal detector. Soon the night would fully embrace the magical harbour. The ocean caught the lighting along the beachside and reflected it back. Grouped as one, the witches watched the lamps turn on along the beach as Villefranche-sur-Mer became a harbour of orange lights.
CHAPTER THREE
There were giants in the earth in those days.
— GENESIS 6:4
The Outgarderest — a division of the Outerezt, Eronth
Geferd the giantess was restless. How she had come to hate these caves, this dry, arid patch of the Wastelands assigned to them. She let her displeasure be known by going out into the desert night and uttering a scream that released a low rumble of thunder across the Eronth skies. Inside the caves her husband, Angerwulf, growled in sympathy.
‘Why?’ Geferd screamed to the night. ‘Why can we not live as normal beings do? Why are we forced to live like the earth-eaters, separated from all Eronthites? Driven into the hidden pockets of the world. Why?’ Her screams hit the sky, lightning flashed. In the depths of the Wastelands, Solumbi roaring in protest could be heard.
‘Geferd!’ Angerwulf stood at the entrance to the caves. ‘You are waking Amolda with your cries!’ Geferd paused, the mention of her son curbing her fury. ‘Is Amolda to know only a cave as his home?’ She looked her husband in the eye and he paused. Angerwulf was still uncomfortable with the memory of Geferd’s last outburst of anger, which had followed his failed attempt to obtain more living space from Mary, the High Priestess of Faia. He had suffered with an earache for days from the boxing around the head Geferd had given him, and since that trip to Faia she had nagged him continually about leaving the Outgarderest. ‘When Fareirrod returns from hunting I shall request he trek back to Faia and have another audience with Mary. She was weakening last time . . .’ he offered, automatically ducking out of his wife’s reach.
‘Fareirrod! Your brother is more useless than you at convincing that Bluite bitch! He meekly accepts Mary’s excuses not to see him every time!’ Geferd screeched. ‘Fareirrod, he wouldn’t think to move out of the way if the arse of his pants was on fire!’
Angerwulf winced, dreading his wife’s anger would set off another earthquake in the Outerezt. ‘The neighbours!’ he hissed. Geferd screeched, now beginning to enjoy the drama she was creating. One thing she had inherited from her despised father was temper. He had loved to create storms and mayhem.
‘The neighbours!’ she mimicked. ‘A bunch of half-dead Azephim and starving Solumbi! Are they the neighbours that you are referring to?’ Angerwulf was silent. Over time he had become quite fond of the geriatric Azephim that shared the desolate Wastelands.
‘They are old, Geferd. They like to sleep at night,’ he offered.
‘They are old! Bah! Dreamers’ tits! I am ancient! I existed before the wind and the snow came to be!’
‘Let it be for now,’ Angerwulf pleaded. ‘The Dreamers willing, Mary will grant us permission to move farther into Faia. She is sympathetic to our demands, more so than any other Priestess of Faia has been. She is prepared to forgive our last rebellion and she i
s seriously considering merging giants back into the population of Faia.’
A low rumble spread over the Wastelands as Geferd snorted her disbelief. ‘We shall see, Angerwulf. In the name of Amira and Lepso and all that is holy, I think the sea beings will reclaim the land before your little favourite grants her permission for us to move out of the Outerezt.’ Her shoulders drooped. ‘My memories are faint, but it was all so different once. So wonderfully different. Giants were revered. Respected!’ A quiver rippled through her body. Her great ringlets of hair seemed to droop.
‘Come, my love, you are overtired. All this emotion! Never forget, my little one. You are a giant, a child of Lepso and Amira. From our bones, from our very blood and brains comes all that is! We are patient as the tides of time and we can wait as seasons change knowing that the memory of the rebellion will fade from lesser beings’ minds. Then we will return to our proper status and be revered once more.’
‘Sometimes I think the Dreamers will awaken before that little dream of yours bears fruit,’ Geferd snapped, but she allowed Angerwulf to lead her back into the recesses of the cave they shared. The two giants ducked and half-crawled through the entrance of the cave. Presently they reached the central chamber with its vivid wall paintings drawn by a succession of giants over the centuries. Fire torches in the walls revealed the sleeping face of their only child, Amolda. Although he was a small toddler by giant standards, he was already the size of a full-grown Bluite man.
‘What sort of world have we brought him into?’ Geferd whispered. ‘A world where he is treated as an outcast, forced to live a half-life hidden in the caves of the known worlds like dwarves. Despised by all long-liveds for a rebellion he has no knowledge of!’
Outside, the wind could be heard. ‘Listen,’ Angerwulf said, his head raised. ‘Great Lepso is calling to her children. At least Amolda has us. He has our love.’ Geferd nodded slowly, but her eyes remained sad as she looked down upon her child.
‘Come, Geferd,’ Angerwulf said, indicating her bed close to Amolda. ‘Lie down and rest. Amolda will be awake early in the morning and Fareirrod may return from his hunt.’
Geferd sniffed angrily at the mention of Fareirrod, but her anger was spent for now, and so she meekly allowed Angerwulf to help prepare her for sleep. The giants lay together, their child snugly protected between them, listening to the plaintive sounds of Lepso calling for her lost children in the night sky.
When they awoke in the grey dawn to Amolda’s excited chatter, Fareirrod had returned. He nursed a mug of esteo, attempting to keep Amolda from waking the cave with his barrage of questions about his beloved uncle’s hunting adventures. Geferd found herself in better humour when she saw the number of dead animals piled up in the outer cave. For once, useless Fareirrod had managed to provide for them, she thought with relief, as she hastily dressed and fixed her hair. There had been numerous times over the centuries when he had returned from hunting with only a handful of nuts, or even worse, dead animals that had turned to dust only moments after he displayed them proudly in the cave. It was an old Faery trick, a risk you took if you ventured too far into their habitats. In the time it took for Geferd to dress, ensure Amolda had eaten, and fix herself a meal of smoked fish, Angerwulf had managed to catch up with news from the outside world. There was concern in her husband’s eyes as Geferd seated herself next to him on the ground.
‘Strange events are happening out there,’ he said to his wife. ‘Faia appears to be under some sort of spell. Fareirrod witnessed witch burnings, and messenger birds are filled with talk about the Sea Hags having developed land legs.’
Geferd laughed out loud. ‘Where did you hunt, Fareirrod?’ she jeered. ‘In a mushroom field belonging to the Imomm? In the name of Amira, what strange fantasies are these?’
Fareirrod shrugged. He was well used to Geferd’s sharp tongue and her scorn had little effect on him. ‘Mock if you will, but my news is no mushroom dream. I saw them burning witches with my own eyes. There is all manner of wild talk flying in Faia.’
‘Did you manage an audience with Mary this time?’ Geferd demanded. Fareirrod shook his head slowly and Geferd rolled her eyes. But she had little strength left to be too angry with him after her outburst last night, especially since he had managed to bring home enough food to last them an entire season.
‘Fareirrod also saw Berserkers preparing for battle, only a moonrise journey from here,’ Angerwulf said. Geferd glanced at Amolda, who was pretending to play with a large spider while he eavesdropped on the conversation. She disliked talk of the more violent beings who inhabited Eronth in front of her son. His vivid imagination was captivated by stories of gore and blood. Her concern was interrupted by Amolda’s excited shriek as he spotted the wood nymph Waldmichen passing by, proudly led by her attendant rabbits. Two rabbits held the train of her cloak, while two carried candles. All the rabbits looked very self-important at being selected for their privileged task. Around the head of the nymph floated several translucent souls of unborn babies.
‘Quickly!’ Geferd said to her son. ‘Outside to wave to her! Some Azephim must have died in the Outerezt and Waldmichen is going there to grind them young again!’
Amolda scuttled outside the cave and Geferd watched proudly as the boy giant waved and called to the Waldmichen, receiving for his excitement a small smile from her as she passed by.
‘One of her rabbits looked at me! She smiled at me!’ Amolda called.
‘Of course she did!’ Geferd sang back. ‘You are a giant, one of the original founders and loved by the gods! It is only the damn Eronthites that want to keep us underground like body-eaters,’ she added. Then she glanced at Fareirrod and shook her curls in wonder.
‘Berserkers. Sea Hags walking on land, witch burnings! What exciting things you did see, Fareirrod!’ she said scornfully. ‘The same Faiaites who condemn us for eating meat, burning their witches alive? Small wonder you can find no giantess to marry and live with, with the foolish babble spewing from your mouth. The senile angels of the Outerezt would have more brains than you. Can you imagine noble Mary allowing the old burnings to return? Why I waste my day listening to you, I can’t imagine!’
Faia village, Eronth
Consciousness returned slowly to Mary, and with comprehension came pain — a huge wave of agony that flooded through her body, the worst she had ever experienced. With a queer muffled panic she realised part of her lip was hanging off. Her arm seemed to be broken. Where was she? Slowly, she attempted to look around at her surroundings and was rewarded with another fierce blast of torment. She half collapsed onto a stone floor wet with a sticky substance — her own blood. Somewhere in her brain she knew her location. She had been here before, viewing it from another angle. But the pain proved too much for the High Priestess and she collapsed into merciful oblivion.
Later, she awoke screaming. She would not have believed it possible, but the fire in her body was even more fierce. There were small scuttling sounds in the darkness in front of her. Rats. They were lapping at her spilt blood. Oh Goddess! Panic cleared her mind and she attempted to sit up, although her broken arm dangled uselessly. Goddess help me! Through the thick barred windows on the other side of the room she could see the triple moons in the sky. She was in the holding quarters in Faia, unused for countless Turns of the Wheel apart from the occasional Faery incarcerated for pickpocketing or attempting to snatch children. The holding quarters had long been a museum piece, a reminder of a time in peaceful Faia that had not been so peaceful. Memory flooded back to her. The Handfasting. Maya and Bwani looking so perfect, so beautiful. Then that shocking incident when the small Hermaphrodite, his eyes mutilated, had come running into the circle screaming that Maya had been abducted and Bwani killed. Then confusion and chaos; thousands of Azephim angels landing, and a sight Mary had never thought she would witness in her lifetime — Khartyn, flying away in the arms of the deadly angels. A darker memory lurched in her mind and she began to sob. The Lightcaster. He had been there all t
he time, watching, appraising the situation, and just after Khartyn had flown into the heavens, he had struck.
She remembered her shock when he had first made his appearance. Mary had never seen a Lightcaster feeding before. He had been secretly gorging himself for months on the basest of emotions he had evoked. The images of the Lightcasters she had studied had been refined and debonair, but the grotesque creature that had cavorted before her bore no resemblance to photographs in books. Slimy strands clumped off his body and his scales were shining and black. He smelt vile, weighed down with the reek of old blood and putrefaction. He had laughed, his head seeming to grow in size and tower above the crowd of people, who just a short time previously had come together in joyful anticipation to celebrate a Handfasting.
Events had moved in slow motion. At first there was panic, people pushing at each other, trying to get away. Mary had been trying to send a message bird to the Circle of Nine, who had just left the field to go to the aid of Bwani and Maya, when a loud whisper had begun to fill the air coming from the pulsating, filthy mass that was the Lightcaster. ‘See the witch? The cunning, Bluite witch and her consort Janus? Look at the Crone’s apprentice! Observe how she shrinks before me! What do you see when you gaze at her face? Do you see the face of the witch?’
A Fire in the Shell: Circle of Nine Trilogy 3 Page 3
