Goddess who guards the crossways
Oh shining all-dreadful one
You maiden, crone, you mother of monsters
calling us to graveyards with your hounds of hell
You daughter of night, lover of furies, taking joy in our suffering and death
You mistress ruler of mankind! Dreadful keeper of the keys
Devourer of all that is, with no pity for our screams and prayers
You who bring storms and birth and death
We conjure you maid from the darkness with long howls
and we yearn for your presence at our sacred rites
Unlock with your key the mystery of the Underworld
Oh Queen of the Dead, Goddess of three worlds
Slice through our delusions of life and of death
Bring us to joy everlasting as you burst from the earth.
The Semnotatoi indicated the wizards should follow them. Pushing the inner voice away, Bwani obeyed.
When the three compared impressions later that evening, they each had different descriptions of the inner sanctum of the temple of the Semnotatoi. Bwani said it had high ceilings, and in the roof of the ceiling nested ravens and owls. The vast burning censers on the walls perfumed the room with myrrh and lavender. Edwen swore there had been a great black dog guarding the heavy wooden door that enclosed the altars and that it had been a small cool room, with fire torches on the walls and a big statue of a frog near the altar. Pomegranates were heaped on wooden sconces, and there had been a faint mist swirling around the room. A woman had entered and bathed their feet and foreheads with sandalwood-scented water. She wore black veils and had a small black snake draped around her throat. Steppm’s memory had also been of a young woman dressed in black, but she had appeared with a huge white wolf beside her, and she had offered them tea from a pottery jug. Around her small waist hung ropes and a large set of keys. Even the torches burning on the walls had failed to illuminate the face beneath her dark veil. He remembered only her eyes that were like black night roses, and a glimpse of skin and lips like grey pearls. She had spoken words, but as hard as he tried, Steppm could not remember them. Her hands, which led him to the cursing altars to stand beside Bwani and Edwen, had reminded him of the sharp claws of a raven, and he had recoiled.
Their memories of the room differed, but they all shared the same impression of the cursing altar. It was small and positioned in the middle of the room. On top of the altar was a large dish of blood. Thick nails had been driven into the altar, each piercing through a piece of parchment rolled into a flattened tube on which was written the name of the person who had been cursed. Some had strands of human hair, or silk bags of fingernails attached. Small bones had been piled at the base, and there was a skeleton of a cat lovingly arranged with tiny yellow flowers near its crushed skull. To avenge death of Mittens, was written on the parchment in a child’s scrawl. When Bwani approached the altar, high in the roof above him he could hear the rustling of thousands of owls. Light streamed down on him, revealing the dust scattering around his head.
Are you here? He screamed silently. Mother of Monsters, do you hide in the shadows watching? Come to me from the darkness, accept my curse and see justice is done!
He waited, half fearful of her reply, but there was no response. From a dais near the altar, he picked up a fresh piece of parchment. A thousand images went through his mind, standing as a stone with his eight compatriots as the chosen virgins of Faia sang and danced for them, their white gowns a startling contrast to the vivid greenery of the field. Mary was there, smiling with her human face and eyes. Ano looked upon Mary with love, knowing the horror waiting for them and forbidden to speak by Janusite lore. Children ran in the streets throwing flowers to the wizards when they had regained their original form. Maya came to him in the darkness, her clothes slipping from her beautiful body, her breasts against his stone. A stag man, his mouth open, screamed as he ran through a dark forest.
Bwani picked up a quill pen that lay near the dish of blood. For the death of the innocents. He wrote slowly. His breath came faster.
What of the innocents you have killed? The cool voice spoke again. His hand shook as he slipped the parchment into the tube resting near it. Without glancing at his friends, he approached the altar. Then stopped. A loud sob burst from his body when he realised he couldn’t place the tube on the altar. The nail was there waiting, but he couldn’t bring himself to do the act.
‘Forgive me Mary, Ano and Rosedark,’ he spoke aloud. ‘I have blood on my own soul. I have forsaken you.’ His sense of failure was overwhelming.
The Semnotatoi were waiting outside, two lines of nine priests and priestesses facing each other.
‘You were wise, man of stone,’ the priestess said. ‘The Keeper of the Keys can be merciless when she dispenses justice. There are times it is more powerful to do nothing, to walk away.’
‘Then injustice will continue and their deaths have been in vain,’ Bwani said. He felt depressed and ancient. All the knowledge he had believed he possessed seemed wiped away.
‘Wrong again,’ the priest said, looking straight ahead. ‘All lives and deaths count. The smallest and most insignificant among us are revered by the Dreamers. In the heart of the dark mother lies the light mother. Since the Dreamers first slept the worlds into being, much evil has been done wearing the face of good, and good wearing the face of evil.’
‘Words don’t console me,’ Bwani said. ‘The gods you worship are merciless. They are as indifferent to our suffering as we are to the bugs that squirm beneath our feet. I find it hard to bow my head before them.’
‘Then don’t,’ the priestess said, her eyes glowing. ‘Bow your head before your mirror, bow it to the trees, sky and ocean. It is all one to the Dreamers.’
‘She did not come,’ Bwani said. Anger rose within him. He felt an urge to strike out at the red-hennaed faces before him. He felt frustrated and unbearably weary. ‘Once I ran with her wolves through the land of the dead, but she did not come.’
‘She was there,’ the priestess said. ‘You had no sight to see her. She appears in the form she wishes to be known as. She always answers when you howl with pain. Yet as she gives, she also withholds. Go home and at the next new moon visit her crossroads and take her supper to give thanks.’
She turned and departed, her dark robes flying behind her, and the Semnotatoi, after a brief blessing, followed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
To be born is to die
To die is to be born
save your grief, your tears
for threads you can change!
— EXTRACT FROM ‘THREADS ’, AN ERONTH FOLK SONG
New Baffin
It was impossible for Rudmay to leave the city. By now, every Tremite Scribe was aware they were facing a disaster, and the normally subdued air of the underground Hall of Records was filled with electricity emanating from the Scribes as they sought not to panic, working frantically on the prophecies day and night. Rudmay knew her absence would not be tolerated at this time, but she remained anguished to think of how she had allowed Simeon to walk straight into the Lightcaster’s arms.
The weather had increased its raging, and several buildings around New Baffin had been knocked to the ground. Although it was only early afternoon, the sky was already dark grey as if night was approaching. To try to wake herself up and shake her depression, Rudmay walked down to the harbour, where the sailors sat under the tarpaulins in their boats, gazing miserably out to sea. No citizen of New Baffin was foolish enough to take to the waters when Lepso was so enraged. Horus snuggled under her jacket, a small bundle of warmth in the torrential downpour and misery of the weather. Her hair hung in wet strands, the scarf she had worn for protection was soaked through. The waves were thrilling to behold as they smashed against the wooden planks of the pier, some looked to be three metres high. Rudmay felt deep sadness as she recalled how she had saved Simeon the last time she was here, virtually from the jaws of Flembow
.
‘No place for a woman down ’ere!’ called one of the sailors. There were a few guffaws, but Rudmay could sense their fear. The messenger birds had been working overtime, reporting the mysterious deaths of the New Baffin citizens found in the streets with the while slime eggs covering their bodies. Murders happened so infrequently in the city that it had sent the entire metropolis into a panic. The New Baffin Daily screamed sensational headlines every day. There had been over thirteen deaths so far, all occurring in different parts of the city; the victims unrelated. They were found in the same state, their blood drained from their ears, mouths and eyes.
She stood looking out upon the choppy waters. There were no gulls to be spotted. The air felt tight, as if it could hail at any moment. Horus made irritable chirping sounds under her jacket, and Rudmay knew the Athena owl wanted to return to the warmth of the great Hall of Records. If only I could sneak out to Simeon, she fretted. Her eyes were heavy with the strain of peering at enigmatic texts day and night broken only by what little rest she could snatch on the floor of her study. Horus alone seemed filled with energy, his eyes blazing fiercely, resenting any interruption to the frenzied studying they were undertaking.
Rudmay knew what was behind his panic. The Dawn of the Dreamers. In other worlds, it was known as Doom of the Gods, the Apocalypse, Ragnorak. In Eronth, it meant the Dreamers would awake inside the shell bodies of their murdered brothers and the dreams creating all existence around them would terminate. Lepso would be reunited with her daughters, her grieving for them ended, as the wind and rain would cease to be. The dead brothers would resurrect and the shell would be no more. Only the giants would remain to rule the known worlds.
Long before recorded time, the original family of giants had created all the earliest seas, oceans, mountains, rocks, pebbles and so forth. They also created trees, who were early ancestors of the Webx people. The trees had been Lepso and Amira’s undoing. The first trees created by the sons and daughters of the giants had been an ash and an elder, A and E. The giant children had breathed into the trees, blessing them with attributes such as a soul, reason, intellect, speech, imagination and senses. A and E were the first ancestors of the Webx tree race in the Heztarra Galaxy before a seed had retransplanted the race to the island of Zeglanada in a neighbouring dimension to the Heztarra Galaxy. From their enormous roots snaking out into space were created all the old ones: the Fates, the gods and goddesses, the Stag Man. The giants became jealous of the great trees’ creations and chopped at the roots, which is why so many worlds lost contact with each other.
The Dawn of the Dreamers, written about by so many prophets, poets, crones and scribes, had generally agreed certain signs would presage allkind’s fall. The Horned Man’s scream, the Warriors of Stone returning to flesh and blood, when awoken by an innocent’s kiss. Persephone would break her sacred contract and remain underground, resulting in a series of small famines in Eronth. The world of Faery would be overthrown. Dark angel and Faiaite would bond, creating beings of evil. Solumbi would multiply rapidly and along with other lethal thought patterns, would slip between worlds. Entire species would become extinct, and the ocean was prophesied to spill from the Great Shell, drowning all in its path and reclaiming much of Eronth. The Dark Angels would rule under the direction of the Eom crystal. Ultimately, everything would be destroyed under its unholy rays. All that would be left was giants, and silence.
There were times when Rudmay hated the responsibility of being a Scribe. What was the point of having prior knowledge of events without the ability to change things? Then there was always the risk the prophecies were being misinterpreted. Mistakes had been made in the past . . . mistakes that had cost lives. But being one of the eleven scribes was like breathing. It was not something you chose to be, it was something you were and couldn’t deny.
A wave came over the top of the pier, nearly knocking her off her feet. In the midst of a world of salt water, an aching sense of the familar came to her even through her panic. As quickly as it had appeared, it receded, leaving Rudmay’s clothes soaked through. Her hair, her make-up, all ruined. Horus alone, snuggled under her jacket, was still dry, although the irate expression in his eye when she checked his feathers said it all.
She stared out to sea mournfully. ‘Shambzhla,’ she whispered. ‘What tricks do you have for us? Will there never be a closure to your desire to reclaim the land?’
‘Go back, you fool!’ one of the sailors called, and was hushed by his mates.
‘Keep a civil tongue! Don’t you see who it is? Rudmay! Leave the Scribe be!’
‘Scribe or no, I just see a fool, a fool whose flapping red rag never stops defending the old whore Shambzhla in the papers,’ the sailor replied, unabashed.
Rudmay’s eyes were stinging with the salt water and she could taste the greasy feel of the ocean in her mouth. Out there, beyond the choppy waves, she knew the mermain were singing. If she tuned her ears, she would pick up their haunting sound.
‘How many lives will you take this time?’ she asked Shambzhla, the ancient Sea Warrior Queen. ‘How many of the young innocents of Eronth before you are satisfied, you bloodthirsty old bitch?’
The wind howled an answer and Rudmay nodded, tears now mingled with the salt water running down her face. Horus hooted at her to leave. It was dangerous to linger near the water’s edge after invoking the mistress of the ocean realms.
She walked back along the pier, buffeted by the wind, trying not to slip on the treacherously wet planks. The sailors fell silent as she passed. She could smell the odour of tobacco and rum on them. They were huddled together for warmth under a makeshift canopy they had erected. Wrapped in blankets, they amused themselves by playing a game of skull bones, together with several of the prostitutes inevitably to be found on the docks. They dipped their heads to her as she passed, and Rudmay reciprocated by making a blessing sign. ‘Why would she be here?’ she heard a man ask as she walked away.
‘Perhaps her braggadocio owl has been gobbled up by old Flembow,’ suggested one wit to much laughter.
‘Shut your bone trap, give the red rag a rest, let the Scribe bitch go!’ screeched a prostitute to much laughter, which was lost to the wind.
The normally bustling streets of New Baffin were close to deserted when Rudmay made her way back to the Hall of Records. She could sense prostitutes looking out from behind doors, too afraid to walk into the open street lest they be attacked by the maniac who was hunting his prey in the once peaceful city streets. However, they were also reluctant to abandon their trade altogether, even for a single day, for when they slept with strangers they were worshipping Aphrodite in the most pure way possible. Fearful of offending the Goddess, they peeked from behind doors, attempting to assess the few pedestrians who walked past. It was the prostitutes’ greatest fear they would unknowingly invite the murderer into their homes.
Copies of the New Baffin Daily blew along the street, scattered from the holding bins of the town. Rudmay did not need to look at the sheets to know they were filled with articles that once would have seemed like the ranting of a layscop: creatures of the sea spotted walking on land; a Lightcaster infecting the village of Faia, the High Priestess, Ano the Janusite — a race normally treasured in Eronth — and the revered Khartyn’s apprentice, Rosedark, burnt on the stake; earthquakes recorded from the Outerezt and messenger birds reporting huge numbers of giants together in rowdy meetings; white slime eggs found on the dead bodies . . . Rudmay’s head ached with the implications of the seemingly unconnected events. Berserkers had been heard uttering war cries in the heart of the night; Freya’s cat chariot had been seen circling New Baffin.
Behind Rudmay’s anxiety lurked the nagging guilt and depression about Simeon. She knew some of the dark clouds in her mind were due to lack of sleep and irregular meals. The scribes had been working around the clock, their personal needs neglected as they sought to unravel the many alternative threads the Norns had cast for Eronth. Behind their grimly determined stud
ies lay a pulsing, perceptible fear. It was not unknown for entire worlds to vanish, whole civilisations to collapse. Rudmay had seen it a few times, and no matter how many times she had been forced to witness it, it was not something that was easy to forget. Innocent lives going about their daily business, mercifully unaware that the next breath they drew would be their last. Myths, gods, sciences, all lost in the flutter of an eyelash. The thought of Eronth falling in that manner was unbearable to Rudmay. Not only the thought of losing all that was near to her, but the implications for all the known worlds. What would happen on Earth, for instance, if they could not rid themselves of the toxic thought patterns normally absorbed by Eronth? The blue planet was already choking on its own thought patterns. More sophisticated worlds understood and could work with their materialisations, but the people of Earth were oblivious of the potential destructive power they carried within their own heads.
How many times did I try to warn the Eronthites? Rudmay thought. The columns I wrote, all ignored as they focused on my latest hair colour. The poorly attended meetings I held, Horus’s poetry. As if he sensed his name, the little owl let out a cheep. Rudmay took shelter beneath the awning of a locked up shop. The mangled body of an ergom lay on the pavement. The cold wind cut through to her bones. Wincing at the sight of her ruined new dove feather boots, she pulled Horus out from beneath her coat. It was one of the few times Rudmay had ever seen the little Athena owl less than immaculate. His white feather collar was squashed, and the feathers on top of his head which Rudmay had sprayed pink to match her own bob were drooping. He communicated to her for a few moments in a series of clicks and hoots and she listened with a sinking heart.
Sighing heavily, she threw the little owl into the air. She watched him circling high above her head, getting his bearings. He had told her he wanted to fly to Faia to fetch Simeon, and also transact some business with the Crone Khartyn.
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