Ancient Echoes

by Robert Holdstock

  She hesitated, and recognizing that I had been that gate, I spoke impatiently. ‘By the time you had found it?’

  ‘By that time, something had changed. To reach the edge of the world reminded me how far I had come, and I felt called back, called back to make retribution. Baalgor was furious, and we became great enemies. Eventually he went through the Gate, but I refused to follow. Enough now. I’m weary and cold. No more talking until the spring.’

  She put two pieces of wood on the fire and watched the new sparks fly into the winter night. Then she fetched the heavy fur and came close to me, and now for the first time I saw the skins she wore as masks.

  She was nervous at first, making me sit away from her in the fireglow. But one by one she peeled three layers of skin from her face, each coloured in different ways, each containing, tattooed, part of the complex pattern of marks that had made her face so fascinating.

  I was astonished at the careful revelation. Each layer she handled as if it was a spider’s web, gently folding it, then rolling it, touching the mask to her body as she proceeded, speaking quiet words, and at times lowering her head and kissing the back of each of her hands.

  With the removal of the third skin-mask, only half a face, came the sight of Nemet as she truly was, a skin of light hue, full-lipped, wide-eyed, high-boned, a beauty that took my breath away. She quickly applied dabs of an oil to her skin, which was lustrous in the fire, the green lines of her own tattoos glowing. Her hands were shaking slightly. She dragged a thick-toothed comb through her black hair, pulling it to the side and working at the knots and tangles, watching me all the time.

  ‘You look so different,’ I said helplessly.

  ‘Different?’

  ‘Without the skins. There was always something hauntingly beautiful about you, very primitive … but now …’

  ‘I’m ugly?’

  ‘Hardly that. Just different. A different person …’

  ‘But not different at all. Just naked.’

  ‘And beautiful. Very beautiful.’

  ‘You sound like my father.’

  I felt embarrassed, watching her as she first combed her hair, then peeled the clinging clothes from her body, massaging her shoulders, breasts and belly with the same sweet-smelling oil. She shuffled closer to the fire, shivering slightly. I wondered if she would invite me to anoint her back – the thought thrilled me, an excitement combined with guilt – but she simply dressed again, then closed her eyes and swayed as she sat, whispering words that had no meaning for me.

  At the end of her prayers she became still, staring at the flames, perhaps remembering the past. She seemed melancholy again.

  ‘Were you praying?’

  Nemet glanced up at me, then smiled slightly. ‘Saying goodbye.’

  I wanted to know so much about this woman. The last time we had met she had trapped me and tricked me; now she was here, more intimate than I could ever have imagined, confident with me, trusting, sharing a winter’s night and a warming fire. ‘Saying goodbye to … Baalgor?’

  ‘To my sisters.’

  ‘Your sisters? How many sisters?’ I felt a chill as she picked up the small pouch of skins and kissed it. ‘Three, of course. Two of them dead, one skinned but quick enough to run! I wonder where she is? I’ve been wearing their faces since I fled the sanctuary. But it’s time I let them go. They’ve helped me enough …

  ‘Bless them,’ she added as an afterthought.

  ‘They’ve been eyes for me to look into the shadows, and a sweet tongue with which to talk to strangers, and a sharp-scented warning of the dangers of strange wild beasts in the demon land. But I don’t need them, now, not now that I’m going back. If I’m careful, I can find their broken bones and give them proper burning, a proper earthing before the sanctuary takes me. I owe them that, since my father is dead and my mother buried with him.’

  ‘What was your sanctuary called? Where in the world can I find it?’ I asked, but Nemet threw cold ashes at me, angrily.

  ‘Enough of this! I’m tired, I want to sleep. I want to wait for spring. We can talk then. In the meantime, just sleep against me, and hunt ahead of me. It’s too cold to do anything else, and I’m too tired.’

  26

  Exactly as Greenface had predicted, spring came in the form of a sudden, warm wind, a passing of brightness on the land. The snows melted, the ice turned to slush, and the forested hill behind the ruined settlement began to colour with a fresh, bright green. I stood among the trees, watched the rapid bursting of the bud, marvelling at a sight which owed no allegiance to nature, only to imagination: my own imagination, my deepest dreams.

  Soon the forest was in full leaf and the heat was splendid. Steam rose from my heavy clothes, and the world smelled damp and rank. Wild creatures returned to the land, their movements noisy in the new growth, their shapes bulky, their cries occasionally articulated as they found the old trails, and the paths to the lake.

  Two of the four small horses came nosing up to me as I returned to the camp on the shore, a third staying to graze the lush foliage. I tethered the animals and they seemed content. Their companion arrived later, stamping at the ground and backing away from me as I approached with the halter. When I threw aside the rope it became calm and came and grazed about the walls. A strong minded animal, then, and being slightly larger than its mates I marked it as my own steed for the future.

  The boat was in deep water, but not yet silted. With Greenface I swam down to its hulk and we pushed it upright, freeing it from the rocks so that it might be dragged more easily. Greenface swam like an eel, a wriggling, slender shape, all legs and arms as she struck for the bright surface then doubled up to dive again, her black hair streaming about her face, her limbs smooth and silky as they gently kicked to keep her in her place.

  She caught me looking at her, seconds before the strictures in my lungs sent me spiralling to the air again, where I gasped for breath then plunged to the wreck, uncomfortably aware that the touch of the water on my naked body, the sense of freedom, the sight of the woman, was giving away my arousal. Greenface teased me with a kiss the fifth time I dived and I almost choked. She was ascending above me in a stream of bubbles and I floated up after her, rising to the surface with my hands gently running up the length of her body, touching her sex, the swell of her buttocks, her belly, the taut flesh of her breasts, and finally the lean, beautiful angles of her face.

  She was looking at me with hunger, her hands on my shoulders, treading water slowly. Then again she kissed me on the mouth, a brief contact, her tongue a sensuous touch upon my lips. With a sudden laugh she kicked away, swimming strongly for the shore. ‘We need ropes and horses,’ she shouted, and I followed the lithe, naked woman to the tethered animals.

  We had already made lengths of rope from the nets and cables left after the destruction of the fishing village. We swam down with them, securing the small craft on the lake bed, then used the equines to drag the vessel to the shore, diving to the slowly moving hulk, pushing and struggling to help it through the sediment. After several hours its prow was above the water. Later, we dragged it to the shore and hauled and heaved it over to inspect the damage.

  ‘We can cut new wood to fill the holes,’ she said. ‘And melt old pitch from the broken fishing boats to make it waterproof. The sail is in good condition, but the mast is snapped half way down. So you’ll have to cut a tree to make it good. First, though, go and find the saddles and the harnesses.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked, interrupting her flow of thought. She seemed expert at everything she suggested, running her hands over the savaged hull, testing the depth of the bitumen waterproofing, examining the rigging-rings and cords on the waterlogged canvas sail. She seemed the very antithesis of Greyface’s description of her: a woman without determination.

  She glanced up and smiled. ‘Horses can swim. We’ll make wooden frames to help them. It’s only half a day’s sail across this lake, and we’ll be dragging them with us. They couldn’t do it in the wint
er, but in the summer they’ll survive.’

  And so I returned to the lake and swam in search of the leather saddles, the primitive trappings. I found two sets only and returned them to the camp, wondering how I might attach stirrups to them, but decided the effort was too much trouble. The horses would be good pack animals if not good mounts.

  Two days later we crossed the wide water, beaching several miles away from the earthen and tree-palisaded walls of the stronghold that William had constructed around the tower of ivory and its white stone walls.

  We lost the most robust and most independent of the horses on the way, perhaps because of its extra size, perhaps because of its age. I was sad to cut: the creature free, but it was exhausted and in distress and a quick death was assured as it sank below the choppy surface of the lake.

  With the small boat hidden in the forest’s edge, Nemet set about making a shelter for herself, a corral for the three remaining animals. I left her, assured by her that she would remain until I returned, and walked the shore to the fort.

  In two years, William had worked hard. Where before we had huddled in the shelter of ruins, now a vibrant city straddled the shore line and hills. Its harbour reached out from the bulrushes, a high wall, the wooden poles topped with carved heads, animal and human, and flapping flags. Five ships were tethered, bright pennants blowing from single masts, smooth, narrow-bladed oars gleaming in the pale sun. Animals struggled in corrals, smoke filled the sky from hearths, everywhere was activity and noise.

  And yet I walked through the open gate in the imposing earthwork wall that had been raised across the shore, stepping between the burning torches, without being challenged. The white tower was cordoned off, but I could walk round it into the main body of the stronghold, where much woodland remained, though the hill in places had been levelled into platforms to take small houses. Everywhere were tents, some square frames, some in the conical shape more familiar from the Americas. Two longhouses stretched in parallel in the centre of the space, torches burning in the sunlight in front of each. There were carts and wagons everywhere, and dogs and pigs squabbling over the scraps that littered the ground.

  Almost as soon as I was inside this part of the enclosure I was noticed; a young man leading five horses came over to me curiously, followed by others, men and women both, all bedecked with icons and variously clothed. There were no older children running around, although some of the women carried infants. Distantly, inside a circular corral, two of the hippari were being galloped on the tether, responding to the gruff, sharp instructions of a fair-haired youth.

  There was also a forge – I could hear the ringing sounds of metal being shaped – but it was out of sight, behind a cluster of tents.

  The response, as I say, was mostly of curiosity, and I tried to indicate that I was a friend of William’s, and had come to see him. It was a grizzle-bearded elder who finally caught on, and seemed to understand my connection with a man who was, I soon gathered, their tribal leader. I was led to one of the long-houses, pausing only to watch as five bedraggled riders came in through the gate, spears hanging heavy in their arms, steam rising from the exhausted hippari. They were angry and they smelled of blood, walking brusquely to one of the larger tents, ignoring everything around them as their horses were led away.

  For a while it was very confusing; I was given food and water and offered several small objects of a religious nature, which I took with a smile, waved, stroked, kissed, hugged and generally played with, watching for some sign of approval from the small group who sat around me in the longhouse. There was a gathering of softly spoken people at the far end, and smoke from a fire was billowing about the centre of the lodge. Two small dogs yapped and fussed in the gloom, continually chased away by the people around me, who seemed to be waiting for me to address them.

  After a while, one of the five riders entered the lodge and came over to me. He was very young, but already his face was crisscrossed with what looked not so much like cuts as scratches, and the scratch-marks of wild animals, rather than a lover. His name was Perendour. His hair was long and lank and he had shed the draping uniform of leather and dull metal for a filthy grey and voluminous djellaba. Watching me through dark, lively eyes, he extended his hand and I shook it. The act, a simple one, seemed to please him, indeed, seemed to tell him, or confirm in him, everything he wished to know. Now the alcohol was delivered, an earthy, stale brew in which all manner of detritus swirled. It would be good for the bowels, I thought, and shared the toast. It was a strong drink and I consumed it with circumspection, picking at the dry meats and fruit in the bowl between us and listening to the knight’s conversation as best I could.

  William and his entourage were several days’ ride away, in the high mountains, searching for an oracle. He was with his new bride, who was a lively and ‘kicking’ mare. She had two scars on each cheek, and I realized that this was the fishergirl, Ethne, from the sacked fortress across the lake.

  William – who Perendour referred to with a slight deference, confirming my belief that William was either Chief or Prince in this stronghold – had never given up hope of my return. Far from being angry at being abandoned, he had believed I had been taken by demons, but was aware that I had courage and would return if I could find a way. Every season he led his growing band of hunter-warriors to the Bull Ruins beyond the lake. This time for the first time he had sent his men alone, but already a rider was on his way to find him.

  He would want to return immediately, to see me. He had missed me with all his heart, and was often to be found wandering in a melancholy state along the lake shore. Only the raid and the liberation of Ethne from her oppressive father and husband had cheered him.

  I soon worked out that his followers were the icon hunters I had seen on my previous incarnation in the Hinterland. The ragged band who prowled my own unconscious had all too readily fallen in behind a man who promised them the booty of many cities, and whilst their first attack had been to satisfy the needful love of their leader, even now they were planning to enter the Eye itself, to the source of cities.

  I listened and tried to understand the various fabulous legends that were told about the Eye.

  Already, several knights were lost, sucked down into the earth in their valiant but vain attempts to unlock the gate. The oracle might help in William’s understanding of the quest ahead of him. His determination, his pure charisma, held together this growing and increasingly organized band of traders.

  As for why they had hunted Greenface, the answer lay in the simple fact of the factionalism of the group; the men who had stayed behind to hunt the woman for sport were late recruits to the stronghold. I debated whether to mention their deaths, and decided not to, but I felt that had I done so the news would not have been greeted with any real concern.

  A second thought, then, was whether to suggest to the woman that she came into the shelter and greater warmth of the fortress, but I detected a callous unconcern among my hosts that suggested it might have been unwise.

  They did not particularly like strangers here; only my identification as William’s great friend made me welcome. And besides, there were questions about the hunters, a puzzlement at the length of time they were taking to follow back across the lake.

  * * *

  At some time in the evening, weakened and warmed by drink, I thought of Greenface, waiting for me a few miles away. I became angry, outraged at the way she had been hunted, and began to articulate an incoherent protest, which was greeted with laughter and understanding of my state of inebriation. No-one could comprehend my actions, my assertions, but it was clear that I was drunk, and as quickly as I had begun my rant, I ceased it.

  I was led to a berth at the far end of the longhouse, a small chamber separated from the rest of the communal space by a loose curtain of hides, overlain with strings of clattering bones. I had no doubt that these were holy relics, stitched together from the hands and feet of a thousand saints.

  As I lay down on the soft
mattress, helped into position by an overly physical matron, her body redolent with the scent of incense, I saw above the bed, pinned to a cross beam, the picture of Angela that had been such a comfort to me in my previous incarnation in the Hinterland.

  The photograph of the smiling woman, taken with the newly born Natalie in her arms, was set between the sweet-faced, pale-skinned innocence of the Virgin Mary and the open-mouthed, enticing allure of the goddess Kali – the three faces of mythological woman: innocence, experience, destruction.

  And I stared at my wife, and loved her, and began to entertain feelings of guilt for the fact that I was drawn so intimately to Greenface.

  When I slept, I slept deeply, but was woken before dawn and encouraged to come and help fish the lake. As grey light illuminated the three beached ships, their rigging slapping against the masts in the crisp breeze, I waded into the water with a length of net, part of a ten man group which fished the shallows quite effectively before disbanding to other duties.

  After a sumptuous breakfast of honey-glazed fish, aromatic and nutty bread, freshly baked, and succulent olives stuffed with fragrantly spiced meat – a meal that was a rare treat, judging by the delight and surprise that the mini-banquet evoked – I begged time to myself and took a pouch of purloined bread and fish along the shore to the camp where Greenface should have been waiting for me.

  At first alarmed to find the site deserted, I soon found her heavy clothes furled up and hidden carefully; her travelling things were scattered about. From the sounds in the forest, high on the hills behind the lake, I guessed she was hunting and would return later.

  I left the provisions and returned to the earthworks.

  I waited here for two days, and in that time I didn’t find Greenface, although the food I took to her was consumed, and the hidden shelter showed signs of having been used.