Stonehenge

by Bernard Cornwell

  Folk came from the other huts while the chant continued. More and more packed themselves in until Camaban and Saban were crammed against the hut’s low stone wall. The people must have heard the tale many times, for they often joined in the chant and the old man nodded happily whenever such a chorus sounded, but then, quite suddenly, the drumbeat and the chanting ended. The old man opened his eyes and looked indignant at the silence until he saw that Aurenna, who had eaten in the privacy of her own hut, had just entered. The clan chief smiled and indicated that the sun bride could sit beside him, but Aurenna shook her head, peered about the hut, then stepped delicately through the press of bodies to sit beside Saban. She nodded to the chanter, indicating he could begin again, and the man tapped his turtle shell, closed his eyes and picked up his story’s thread.

  Saban was acutely conscious of Aurenna’s proximity. He had spoken to her a few times while they walked Sarmennyn’s rough paths, but she had never sought his company and her arrival at his side made him clumsy, shy and tongue-tied. It hurt him even to look at Aurenna for the thought of what must happen to her in a brief time. Her fate and Derrewyn’s had become tangled in his mind so that it seemed to him that Derrewyn’s soul had entered Aurenna’s body and now must be snatched from him again. He closed his eyes and bent his head, trying to will away the thoughts of Derrewyn’s rape and Aurenna’s impending death.

  Then Aurenna leaned close to him so that he would hear her voice above the chanter’s song. “Have you found your temple?” she asked.

  “No,” he said, shaking with nervousness.

  “Why not?” Aurenna asked. “You must have seen a new temple every day?”

  “They’re too small,” Saban answered, blushing. He did not look at her for fear that he would stammer.

  “And how will you move your temple?” Aurenna asked. “Will you have the god make it fly to Ratharryn?”

  Saban shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “You should talk to Lewydd,” she said, indicating one of her guardian spearmen who was squatting beside the hut’s central post. “He says he knows how it can be done.”

  “If Scathel ever lets us take a temple,” Saban said gloomily.

  “I shall defeat Scathel,” Aurenna said confidently.

  Saban dared to look into her eyes then. They were dark, though the flicker of firelight was reflected in them, and he suddenly wanted to weep because she was going to die. “You’ll defeat Scathel?” he asked.

  “I hate him,” she said softly. “He spat at me when I was first taken to my temple. That’s why I wouldn’t let him put you in the pit. So when I go to the fire I shall tell my husband that he is to let you take a temple to Ratharryn.” She looked away from Saban as another man took the turtle shell drum and started another song, this one in praise of the sun bride herself. Aurenna listened intently as a compliment to the singer as he began by describing the sun god’s loneliness and his yearning for a human bride, but when he moved on to describe the sun bride’s beauty Aurenna seemed to lose interest for she leaned close to Saban again. “Is it true that in Ratharryn you do not send the god a bride?”

  “No.”

  “Nor in Cathallo?”

  “No.”

  Aurenna sighed, then gazed at the fire. Saban stared at her, while her guards watched him. “Tomorrow” – Aurenna swayed close to Saban again – “I must start back toward Kereval’s settlement, but you should climb the hill behind this place.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there is a temple there,” she said. “The folk here told me of it. It is Scathel’s new temple, the one he built when he was recovering from his madness. He says he will dedicate it when the treasures are returned.”

  Saban smiled, thinking how angry Scathel would be if he knew that his own new temple might go to Ratharryn. “We shall look at it,” Saban promised her, though he would rather have stayed with Aurenna – to what purpose, he could not tell. She would be dead soon, dead and gone to her glory in the blazing sky.

  Next morning, as a thick fog rolled in from the sea, Aurenna began her southward journey, but Camaban and Saban went north, climbing the hill through the fog’s thick whiteness. “It will be a waste of time,” Camaban grumbled, “just another tawdry ring of stones,” but he still led Saban up the steep grass and across screecovered slopes until at last they emerged from the cloud into glorious sunlight. They were now above the fog that lay all about them like a white and silent sea in which the mountain’s peak was an island of splintered rock, as tangled and jagged as if a god had hammered the summit in a rage. Saban saw now why all the pillars of Sarmennyn’s temples were alike for the rock, shattering from the peak, fell in naturally square shafts and all a man needed to make a temple was to carry the split rock down the mountainside.

  There was no temple in sight, but Camaban guessed it lay somewhere in the thick fog beneath and so he sat on a stone ledge to wait. Saban paced up and down, then asked Camaban, “Why would we want Scathel’s temple if Scathel is an enemy?”

  “He’s no enemy of mine.”

  Saban sneered at that. “Then what is he?”

  “He’s a man like you, brother,” Camaban said, “a man who hates things to change. But he is a good servant of Slaol and in time he will be our friend.” He turned and looked eastward where the peaks of other mountains stood like a line of islands above the whiteness. “Scathel wants Slaol’s glory, and that is good. But what do you want, brother? And don’t say Aurenna,” he added, “for she’ll be dead soon.”

  Saban blushed. “Who says I do want her?”

  “Your face says so. You stare at her like a thirsty calf gazing at an udder.”

  “She’s beautiful,” Saban said.

  “So was Derrewyn, but what does beauty matter? In a dark hut at night, how can you tell? Never mind, tell me what you want.”

  “A wife,” Saban said, “children. Good crops. Plentiful deer.”

  Camaban laughed. “You sound just like our father.”

  “And what’s wrong with that?” Saban asked defiantly.

  “Nothing is wrong with that,” Camaban said wearily, “but what a little ambition it is! You want a wife? Then find one! Children? They come whether you want them or not, and half will break your heart and the other half will die. Crops and deer? They’re there now.”

  “So what do you want?” Saban asked, stung by his brother’s scorn.

  “I told you,” Camaban said calmly. “I want everything to change, and then nothing will change, for we shall reach the point of balance. The sun won’t wander and there will be no more winter and no more sickness and no more tears. But to do that we must make Slaol a proper temple, and that is what I want. A temple that does Slaol honor.” With those words he suddenly fell silent and stared, wide-eyed, into the fog beneath, and Saban turned to see what had attracted his brother’s attention.

  At first he could only see fog, but then, slowly, as the land appears when the night drains, a shape emerged in the whiteness.

  And what a shape. It was a temple, but unlike any Saban had ever seen. Instead of one circle of stones it had two, one set inside the other, and at first Saban could only see the dark tips of those stones in the vapor. He tried to count the pillars, but there were too many, and at the double circle’s farther side, looking toward the place on the skyline where the winter sun would set, there was an entrance made from five pairs of stone pillars that had other stones laid crosswise on their tops to make a row of five doorways for the dying sun. Saban stared, and for a magical time the whole temple seemed to float in the vapor and then the fog drained from the high valley to leave the stones rooted in the dark earth.

  Camaban was standing now, his mouth open. “Scathel was not mad,” he said quietly, then he gave a cry and leaped off the rocks and hurried down the hill, scattering dark-fleeced sheep as he went. Saban followed more slowly, then edged between the twin rings of stone to find Camaban crouched at the temple’s northeastern side where he was peering into the tunnel m
ade by the linteled stones. “Slaol’s gates,” Camaban said in wonder.

  The temple was built in a high hanging valley that overlooked the low country to the south and, at midwinter, when the sun was on that far horizon, it would shine across the sea and land to pierce the gates of stone. “All else would be dark,” Camaban said softly, “all would be shadowed by the stones, but in the shadow’s center would be a shaft of light! It’s a temple of shadows!” He hurried to the stone opposite the entrance and there, facing the sun’s gateway, he spread his arms and flattened himself against the rock as though the light of the dying sun was pinning him to the boulder. “Scathel is magnificent!” he cried. “Magnificent!”

  The pillars, naturally square, were not large. Those in the sun’s gate were a little taller than Camaban, but the rest were shorter than a man and some were no higher than a toddling child. All the rocks had been prised or lifted from the shattered mountain top and slid down the steep slope to this flat patch of high hanging land where they had been shallowly rooted in the thin soil. Saban pushed against one stone and it rocked dangerously. The stone against which Camaban stood was actually two pillars, both too thin, but they had been joined together by carving a groove in one long side and sculpting a tongue in the other so that the two stones fitted like a man fits to a woman. “Two halves of the circle,” Camaban said reverently, noticing the jointed stones. “The sun side” – he gestured to the south, indicating the stones over which the sun would travel in its daily path – “and the night side, and they’re joined here, and the joint must be sealed with blood at the sun’s dying.”

  “How do you know?” Saban asked. He had been counting the stones, and had already numbered more than seventy.

  “How else?” Camaban asked curtly. “It’s obvious.” He whirled around in his excitement. “The Sea Temple for midsummer and the Temple of Shadows for the winter! Scathel is marvelous! But this one will be ours. It will be ours!” He began walking around the circle, cracking his staff against the stones until he reached the linteled gate where he stooped to gaze through the tunnel of five stone arches. “A doorway for Slaol,” he said in wonder, then straightened and wiped the nearest stone. The fog’s moisture had left the rocks with a strange blue-green sheen that began to fade to black as the spring sun and the sea wind dried them. Camaban, to Saban’s horror, tried to push one of the lintels as if hoping to topple it, but it would not move. “How do they fix it?” he asked.

  “How would I know?”

  “I don’t suppose you would,” Camaban said carelessly, then frowned. “Did I tell you Sannas is dead?”

  “No.” Saban was oddly shocked, not because he had any fondness for the old woman, but because as long as he had lived she had been a part of his world, and not just any part, but a forbidding presence. “How?” he asked.

  “How would I know?” Camaban retorted. “She just is. A trader brought the news, and she was an enemy of Slaol so it’s good news.” He turned to gaze again at the temple. Now, freed of the fog’s moisture, it was a black double ring in a black valley crouched in the mountain’s black-rocked grip. It was wide and splendid, a mad priest’s tribute to his god, and Camaban had tears in his eyes. “It is our temple,” he said reverently, “and it will banish winter.”

  Somehow they had to persuade Scathel to let them take it, then carry it halfway across the world to Ratharryn.

  Chapter 10

  The thick fog that had shrouded the Temple of Shadows gave way to days of warm sun and calm winds. Old folk marveled at that early summer, saying they could not remember its like, while Kereval claimed that the weather’s kindness was a sign of the sun god’s approval of his new bride. Some of the fishermen, who kept a small salt-reeking hut beside the river where they made offerings to a weather god called Malkin, made dire prophecies of storms, but day after day their pessimism was confounded. Kereval’s favorite sorceress, a blind woman who uttered her wisdom while in the throes of violent fits, also predicted storms, but the skies stayed stubbornly clear and the winds light.

  Kereval’s feared warriors made their summer raids into the neighboring territories to bring back slaves and livestock; traders came from the land across the western sea bringing gold; and the growing crops greened the land. All was well in Sarmennyn, or should have been, except that when Camaban and Saban returned to Kereval’s settlement they found the folk sullen.

  It was Scathel’s return that had soured Sarmennyn. The high priest raged and preached against Kereval’s agreement with Ratharryn, claiming that Lengar would never return the treasures unless he was forced and so, while Camaban and Saban were traveling with Aurenna, the high priest had dug a monstrous hole in front of Kereval’s hut and placed above it a lattice of stout branches so that the pit could serve as a prison cage for Saban. There Scathel could torture Saban, confident that every mutilation would be magically visited on Lengar, but Scathel’s hopes were frustrated by Kereval who refused to give his permission. Kereval stubbornly insisted that Lengar would return the treasures and the chief liked to point to the bright sky and ask what better omen the tribe could wish. “The god loves his bride already,” Kereval claimed, “and when she goes to him, he will reward us. There is no need for the brother magic to be used.”

  Yet Scathel constantly preached the need for Saban’s eyes to be gouged out and for his hands to be lopped off. He toured the huts inside the settlement and visited the homesteads that lay within a half-day’s journey and he harangued Sarmennyn’s people, and the folk listened to him. “Ratharryn will never take a temple from us!” Scathel ranted, “Never! The temples are ours, built by our ancestors, made from our stone! If Ratharryn wants a temple, let them pile their own dung and bow to it!”

  “If your brother were to send us some of the gold, it would help,” Kereval told Camaban wistfully, but Camaban shook his head and said that that had never been part of the agreement. The gold would come, he said, when the temple was moved, though he took care not to say that it was Scathel’s own shrine he wanted for the tribe’s passions were already running too high. Kereval did his best to calm the growing anger. “Folk will calm down when they see the sun bride go in her glory,” the worried chief assured Saban.

  Day after day Saban would visit the sun-bride’s temple and watch the shadow of the tall outlying stone. He feared that shadow, for it crept ever closer to the center stone, and when the shadow touched the stone Aurenna must go to the flames. Aurenna herself avoided the temple, as if by ignoring the shadow she might lengthen her life; instead, in those days as she waited for her wedding, she was drawn to Haragg. “When you go to your husband,” he would tell her, “you must persuade him to stop the waste. He must reject the brides!” But Haragg could no more persuade the tribe to abandon their yearly sacrifice than Kereval could persuade them that Lengar would keep faith, so Aurenna would have to die. As the days grew longer she spent more time with Haragg and Saban, and Haragg left them together for he understood that Aurenna was attracted to the tall, dark-haired young man who had come out of the heartland with a missing finger and a single blue tattoo on his chest. Other young men boasted of their killing scars, but instead of boasting Saban told Aurenna stories. At first he told her the same stories his own mother had told him, like the tale of Dickel, the brother of Garlanna, who had tried to steal the earth’s first harvest and how Garlanna had turned him into a squirrel as punishment. Aurenna liked the stories and was ever hungry for more.

  The two were never alone for the sun bride was always guarded. She could go nowhere except into the privacy of her own hut without being dogged by the four spearmen and so Saban became used to her guardians and even befriended one of them. Lewydd was a fisherman’s son and he had inherited his father’s squat build. His chest was broad and his arms hugely strong. “From the time I could walk,” he told Saban, “my father made me pull nets. Pull nets and paddle! That makes a man strong.” It was Lewydd who had devised a way of transporting a temple’s stones to Ratharryn. “You must take them b
y boat,” he said. Lewydd was three years older than Saban and had already gone on two slave raids deep into the eastern territories. “Almost all of the journey to Ratharryn can be done on water,” he claimed.

  “Ratharryn is far from the sea,” Saban pointed out.

  “Not by sea, by river!” Lewydd said. “You would ride the sea to the river that will carry us to the far edge of Drewenna, and there we would need to carry the boats and the stones to the rivers of Ratharryn. But it can be done.”

  The boats at Sarmennyn, like the river craft at Ratharryn, were made from the trunks of old, big trees. There were few woods in Sarmennyn, so the priests would mark certain trees that must be preserved until they grew large enough for the boat-builders and when the trunk was tall enough the tree would be cut down and hollowed out. Lewydd took Saban to sea one day, but Saban hid his head in his hands when the great waves hissed toward him and Lewydd, laughing, turned the boat around and let it run back into the river’s calm.

  Aurenna liked to cross the river in one of the hollowed-out boats. She and her spearmen would walk in the woods on the eastern bank and inevitably she would seek out a great gray-green boulder that was flecked with sparkling chips and small pink marks, and Aurenna would sit on the rock and watch the river run by. When Saban accompanied her she would ask him to tell her more stories and once he told her how Arryn, god of their valley, had chased Mai, the river goddess, and how she had tried to hinder him by turning great stretches of the land into marsh, and how Arryn had felled trees to make paths across the bog and so cornered her at the spring where she rose from the earth. Mai had threatened to turn him to stone, but Arryn had whispered to Lakka, the god of the air, and Lakka had sent a fog so that Mai could not see Arryn, who sprang on her and made her his wife. Still, Saban told her, a mist would rise from Mai’s river on cold mornings to remind Arryn that he had only found happiness through trickery.