Moon Called (5 page)

“Giveee tooo Ssssett sssooo — killll — binnnd—keeeppp sssspirit—bound—” Malkin stabbed the edge of the cloak, fury still afire in her eyes. “Deeeaad—ssservess Ssssettt—soooo—”

“A sacrifice to the dead of Set’s people?”

Malkin nodded.

Thora tried to remember old tales. Yes, there had even been cases among her own people when the living had believed themselves in bondage to vengeful dead. And if that fear had not been ritually lifted they would have died, sure they were being drawn into the Dark Realm to serve their enemies. Here was evidence of a foul act—killing by torture—of a creature before it was wrapped in a cloak-of-Power, perhaps belonging to the newly dead, so that its life force could be drawn to the Dark.

“No!” The girl rebelled. There was something—if she only knew more! To be on the edge of knowledge and yet lack it—! Still she was a Chosen and had she only last night not been granted a vision? She wore the
Lady’s
gem which by rights only a full priestess could place next to her skin—and the Mother had shown no resentment. Therefore—

Malkin was watching her closely. Thora drew a deep breath. There were two ways of returning to that which had given one birth. Four elements were man’s to be used—not misused—earth and air, fire and water. Out of the earth came the harvest—into the fire and water went that which must be cleansed. But she could not use fire here and water had already been profaned—

Or perhaps water had uncovered this evil by the Lady’s will. Again she felt that wave of helplessness—that she was caught up in a weaving over which she had no control.

Therefore—it must be the earth which was to receive this remnant of one of the children of the Mother. Into that this torn and battered flesh must be laid so from what was no longer used might spring new life of a different kind.

Thora dressed hurriedly. Then she selected a place beyond the sweep of the hanging willow branches, well above where any flood might reach. There, with the point of her spear, she marked out lines and set to work, cutting and levering out sod.

Clawed hands came to her aid as Malkin knelt and worked with a will, jerking and pulling free the clods. It was a lengthy task when they had only the spears and their bare hands—but at last it was done. Malkin went into the meadow where she twisted free lengths of grass until she had blanketed the bottom of the hole. Thora returned to the other problem. She would not allow the dead to rest in the cloak of the enemy—to do so was to defeat her purpose. So she turned to the willows, began cutting withy lengths which she wove together, sacrificing strips of her hide to tie them into a mat. Then, swallowing her revulsion, and using more willow branches, she moved the body onto the flat bier. Malkin came again to help.

When it lay so Malkin produced three stones from the stream edge, they had been fashioned by the action of the water into discs near as perfect as any gem stone of the Lady’s. Two of these she fitted over the pits of the eyes. The other she laid upon the rent flesh of the breast.

Thora dragged the mat to the waiting grave and they lowered it in. More branches were laid across the body and then, working together, they shoveled back the earth and fitted the clods of sod as a cover. The place was not perfectly hidden but with the falling rain and the growing grass it soon would be.

As she knelt beside the grave Thora brought out her gem. She moved it from head to foot,
on the breast level from right to left. From Malkin came a very low hissing as one who crooned a lullaby.

But Thora spoke aloud:

“Blessed be, Oh, Mother, for this one was Thy child—

Blessed his eyes that he saw Thy path and walked therein.

Blessed his mouth that he praised Thee in the day and the night.

Blessed his heart that it beat with the life which Thou gavest him.

Blessed his loins which were fashioned to bring forth life in Thy honor and to Thy service.

Blessed his feet which walked in Thy pathways.

Reach forth Thy loving hand to draw him into Thy own fair

place where he may rejoice in Thy beauty and wait until it is

Thy wish that his essence embody again.

Blessed be—in Thy name.”

As it had when she had danced beneath the waning moon so did it now seem to Thora that the singing of her companion fed and strengthened something deep within her. In those moments she was sure that she had broken through a barrier and her plea had indeed risen to the proper place.

Why she did not know, save that the gesture seemed a fitting one—but she reached forth the hand in which the moon gem rested and held it once more over the grave. Out came Malkin’s right hand to cover hers so they were palm to palm, the jewel between them.

Then the furred one drew back and Thora also arose. Malkin headed to where the stained cloak still draggled down the bank of the river. She caught it up on the point of her spear and dragged it after her, heading downstream.

Not returning it to the water it had befouled, no. Rather she brought it to a tree which stood stark and dead, no hint of spring-renewing life about it. To the lowest branch of that she endeavored to raise the heavy, sodden folds. Seeing what she attempted Thora hastened to help, together they draped the tattered rag across a dead branch from which it hung in filthy tatters.

Thora desired no camp by the river. She once more shouldered her pack and looking inquiringly to Malkin, sure that the furred one would wish to go on also. Kort who had been ranging the meadowland returned, to face upstream.

Upstream, whence the corpse had come? Thora hesitated—even though she had learned long since to trust the hound. But Malkin also took a step or two in that direction, adjusting the roll of her own cloak about her.

To go into what was not just the ordinary
danger from beast—or of wandering traders— but close to something carrying the rottenness of Set—? That was a decision to be well considered. Thora’s hand sought her jewel, feeling it beneath her clothing where she had replaced it. If one had the Leaves of the Shrine to be tossed and their message read—only—perhaps in the end those would have told her the same thing. If there
was
any purpose to her wandering then it lay in that direction.

Thus they went upstream, winding in and out among the patches of willow, tangles of bush and tree. There were game trails in plenty but nowhere any road. Oddly enough the farther they drew from the grave the lighter became Thora’s heart, the less her uneasiness of spirit.

She longed for the ability to communicate freely with Malkin. If she could only learn more of these “familiars” and of those with whom they paired! In the old stories of her people it had been said that so dependent were the familiars upon their human links that they could not exist for long away from them. Yet Malkin had survived and seemed stronger each day. Therefore that part of the legend must be false. Only—Thora wanted so much to understand what fate had overwhelmed Malkin’s human—the man of her vision. Had he been slain? Was he prisoner of Set’s forces? The furred one had indicated that she had
been used as bait to entrap him—that the plan failed with the coming of traders. Thora shook her head—if only she knew more!

Mid-afternoon the rain ceased and the sky lightened. They had come a good distance and Thora was hungry. Even a small evoking of the Power could exhaust one and she had touched on it when she had used her jewel to “seal” the dead.

In spite of her limp Malkin had kept a steady pace. Kort must have gone twice the distance scouting. Now Thora saw him waiting for them at the edge of a thicket which stood before a stand of trees of taller growth than any she had seen.

There was something about those trees—Thora recognized them with a stir of rising excitement. Oaks! Though what such were doing in the middle of this open land she could not understand—unless they had been planted so. She quickened stride, passing Malkin. When she reached Kort she caught a glimpse of grey-white—a stone standing tall among the trees. Then she stopped, her head high. She might not be able to test the wind for scent as well as her four-footed companion, but there was another sense—that which recognized the stir of Power—that might carry either a welcome or a warning.

5

There was a scent borne by the air as Thora went forward slowly. In the grass growing about the bases of the stones shone color—blossoms of white, purple, yellow—violets in such quantities as she had never remembered seeing. And their perfume drove from her the last shadow of the horror she had faced this day.

She approached the nearest stone, trying not to tread upon the clustered flowers. From this point she could see farther into this pocket of woodland. More white stones stood by trees—surely not just by chance. The curled heads of ferns pushed upwards. Here and there in small patches of bare ground lay acorns which displayed no signs of a season’s
weathering, but rather appeared as if they had fallen only today. Thora’s fingers curled about some she stooped to gather. Acorns were a priestess’s true jewels, she wore such as a harvest necklace when she surrendered her wand to the Horned Hunter for the winter months.

Cupping the nuts to her breast, the girl went on. Yes, the trees and the stones made a pattern—leading one forward into the heart of this miniature forest. There stood more stones, none marked by man’s defacing tools, yet set in a circle for a sky-roofed temple which was truly of the Lady. Thora entered that circle as might a child come safely home, dropping on her knees to the earth where the ground was bare save for a cushioning of moss, soft and brilliantly green.

Kort threw himself down beside her and lay panting, resting his head upon his forepaws as would a hound at his own hearthside. Then Malkin came. The furred one moved with ceremony, facing in each of the Four Directions, her head a little to one side as if she listened. Her tongue flickered ceaselessly but she was not forcing any words. Instead she pulled from her shoulder the roll of cloak, shook out its folds with a whirl of arm so that its symboled side lay uppermost. When that was done to her satisfaction, she seated herself upon it, her hands between her knees.

Peace wrapped them in. Thora wanted to stretch out as she might on a sun touched hillside,
unburdened in body and mind. Only Malkin then stirred. Her hands moved in gestures, first slowly, and then with speed, as if what she wrought was an invisible fabric. Also she hummed, her hiss-song growing louder, taking up a more demanding beat.

Thora strove to close her eyes that she might not watch that weaving. It demanded—she even thought she could see faint trailings in the air. The furred one played so with some force. The girl felt strangely light of head—she was being caught in a web.

Then—Malkin brought her outstretched foreclaws together, stabbing down into the center of one of the symbols on the cloak—that of the spiral. She sat silent now, brooding, her talons pricking into the material, her eyes near closed. She might be looking inward, not outward.

Thora had no wish to move, nor speak. Although questions gathered in her mind. However, stronger than any desire for answers was a feeling of expectation growing in her. What would come of Malkin’s ritual Thora could not guess. Her fingers brought out the moon jewel, which glowed even though this was only the beginning of twilight.

The girl held the gem tight cupped between palm and palm. Forces were awaking, beginning to seek—No, she did not know what would happen. The gem was still cool yet its light strengthened. Power was gathering.

Again Malkin’s fingers moved. From the heart of the spiral she traced its line around and out. Once more she sang. The hair on her head arose from the tight sleek the rain had given it. Each strand quivered, twisted. Thora could feel a tingling along her own skin. Fear, yes—that tugged at her but that was only part of it. She was on the edge of something which perhaps only the Three-In-One among her own people knew.

Round and round went those fingertips, outwards—an untying—a loosening. There was a drift of hazy smoke following that touch. When Malkin raised her hands a cone of vapor poured upward from the symbol. Pale against the dark cloak, against Malkin’s own fur, it was plain to see.

That cone began to swirl though Malkin no longer guided it. Her hands once more fell limp between her knees, her shoulders drooped as if she tired.

The spinning cone no longer kept its shape. Rather now it showed as a staff. Then it assumed vaguely humanoid form. At last there stood before the furred one a manikin, roughly formed, with but a ball for the head, the body closer to a collection of sticks. Still in the ball head opened pits and a slash—eyes and mouth.

Those eyes fastened on Malkin, the mouth writhed open. From it issued a twittering sound as high pitched as the squeak of a
mouse. Then with a speed which sparked Thora’s fear the stick legs pivoted and the creature whirled to face her.

She could not look away. The dark hole eyes caught and held her gaze with such strength that she clutched her moon gem the tighter. Deep in those pits was a projection of power—not Malkin’s, the girl was certain. The furred one might have summoned this thing but she was not mistress of it.

The mouth opened and the squeak became speech:

“To the north—there is need—”

Thora marveled at the authority, the command in that whisper of a voice. This thing was only a projection—but the will behind it pierced through her own cherished independence to fasten upon her.

Then the manikin writhed, twisted. Thora shivered from a thrust of pain in her own body. One of Malkin’s clawed hands swept out, two of the talons came together with a snap just above the head of the manikin who now wavered back and forth as if it were gripped by hands trying to wring out its life. Not from within this circle of safety did that attack come—no, the source lay outside—between what they saw and what had sent it forth.

Malkin’s cutting brought an end. The manikin winked out of existence, while the furred one gave a cry and sank forward, face down on the cloak, one hand falling to rest above the
spiral and the other on the Moon Sign of the Lady. Thora thrust her gem again into hiding and went to her.

The furred one’s body was limp, her eyes closed. However even as Thora strove to straighten her in support, those eyes opened with a fierce blaze. Kort was on his feet, growling deep. Above them oak branches stirred, tossing as if assaulted by the beginning of a storm, save there was no wind, only a spattering of acorns loosed to fall. Then the trees stilled. Kort sat, though he continued to hold his head high. Malkin turned a little in Thora’s hold.

“Ssssettt—” Her tongue fought for words —“Nooo commmeee heerree— Ssssaffeee—”

Once more that feeling of safety was close about them—warm, comforting—as if they had been gathered tightly into a loving embrace. Yet Thora knew that the enemy had tried to reach them.

“Weeee goooo—” Malkin continued, “Maaakilll caallls—”

She did not try to shake off Thora’s hold, rather she rested against the girl as if she had taken some wound from her own spelling. Malkin must be suffering now from that draining of inner power which she had expended in the making of the manikin.

Again the clawed hand moved as Malkin’s head rested against Thora—the wide mouth opened and her breath came and went in small
panting gasps. The furred one waved weakly to one of the vials she had brought from the storage place. Snatching up the nearest the girl put that into the feeble hand.

Pushing free the cap, the other licked at the powder as Thora continued to support her. As a restorative the dust worked swiftly, the furred one sat erect on her own as she looked to the girl and nodded.

“Maaakilll livesss—” There was triumph in that. “Weèe gooo—”

Thora sat back on her heels. It was true that to her one place in this strange country might well be as good as another. Only in her stirred a small resentment. She was Mother Chosen—near to being a priestess. The man in her vision was greater than any Horned Priest—she sensed that. But his power was a contradiction of terms which she was not able to accept. The
Lady
wrought through her Daughters—theirs was the power. No priest could hope to call
Her
save through the Priestess. Yet the will she knew had animated that manikin for a space had in some way influenced her and that it was a man who had done this. There were many peoples in this land of which she knew little—look at Malkin whose like she had not dreamed would exist.

With those of Set it was the priest who was the vessel of power. Still this Makil was not of Set. What WAS he then—this one who wore a man’s body and yet was able to call upon
good? She shook her head at her own thoughts. In spite of that spark of resentment, she knew that she would indeed go north—into what danger she might not begin to reckon—whether she willed it or not.

While they spent the night within this forgotten sacred place, Kort went hunting. However, he did not bring a fresh kill for Malkin. Even that four-footed ranger accepted the age-old rule that fresh blood could not flow within a shrine. It was those of the Left Path, the Dark, who broke that Law. Their perverted followers slew even upon a very focus stone. Then even the true Power could not banish such shadows as lingered there to stain and destroy.

Malkin counted the vials left in her store—five. Of those she uncapped another and licked half its contents. Then she pulled the cloak straight, wrapped her supplies within it. Thora ate of her own meager rations.

She half expected that in this place she might meet with another vision. The spell casting should have alerted the force brooding here—old as that might be. For any arousing of a place of the Ancient Learning brought answers. She made a slow round of the circle, nothing but the moss grew within the circle of tree and stones.

The sweet scent of the tree embracing flowers gathered strength at the setting of the sun. Yet this night she dared not dance down
power, for the Mother Lamp was not out and this was a time of full darkness. Still she was restless. Though Malkin had curled up, her head pillowed on the folded cloak, Thora had no wish to join her. Now came a sighing of wind through the trees. The girl listened—not knowing what she sought.

At last she came to the North Stone and there settled, her back against its strength, her hands upon the knife which she had driven point deep into the earth so the steel stood firmly balanced. As Malkin had done Thora hummed, but this was no conscious threading of one word to another to summon. Rather, she realized with a start, what she sang without true words was the sowing song—that spell of the Lady which her Chosen, be they already raised up priestesses or children hardly from the back cradle, sang as they walked together over the new-turned field, sowing afar the first Hand-take of seed. Yet there was no field here, her companions of the past were dead—if they were lucky. For the raiders were of the Dark, and any vowed to the Mother were among the first they would rape and slay.

No field for sowing—no. But the Lady’s sowing could be for more than a stretch of plow turned ground. It could lie within a person—bringing a woman into fruitfulness. She sang the sowing and somehow that was right—though the Lady had not yet revealed to her why that should be so.

With the coining of full dark her song ended. Shadows drew in beneath the trees, yet with them they brought no fear. The stones stood as lamps though their radiance did not travel far. Thora watched Kort, back from his scouting, stretch out on the ground, to rest head upon paws. The perfume was ever stronger. One might be burying one’s face in a load of flowers. She slipped farther down her rock support and slept.

In the morning the grove had lost some of its mystery. The Power had ebbed, or else withdrawn to be stored against some future need. There were only stones and trees with no protection to be felt.

The three went on, heading north. Though Malkin started off at a pace faster than any she had kept before, Thora knew the danger of becoming too fatigued and cut back their speed to that of the trail stride she had followed through months of roving. By mid-morning she brought down two of the large birds of the grassland, and, finding an overhang of river bank (for the country was growing more hilly with a smudge on the horizon to denote real heights beyond), she built a small fire to broil some of the meat. Malkin ate raw bits from the second carcass which she shared with Kort. They filled their water bottle and drank deep.

The river was shrinking. Perhaps those storms which had fed it at their coming had now subsided. Kort quested back and forth
ahead. The sun was hot, the day warmer than usual. Malkin lagged and Thora called more rest halts now and then.

Kort came to a sudden pause. He did not bark, but rather turned his head and looked back at Thora, the whole stance of his body telling her this was something of importance. Nor did he return, but waited for them to join him.

There was a patch of clay here, softened by yesterday’s rain. In it a sharp print. That was no animal spoor but rather the clear impression of a traveler’s boot. Kort sniffed at it. However it was not the hound but Malkin who surprised Thora. The furred one knelt, her red eyes wide open. She, too, went down on all fours and her tongue flickered out, back and forth, not quite touching the print itself.

The furred one then took up the spear she still carried as a staff and, using its point, pricked the skin on her wrist. A drop of purplish blood gathered. Malkin dropped the spear, to squeeze before she held the wrist over the track so that blood fell in a thick blob into the center of the print.

For a moment or two it lay inert, as if the clay were too thick to absorb it. Then it spread outward, forming a circle. Malkin watched it so intently that she might be summoning up a second manikin. The circle put forth two horns, so well marked they could have been so shaped with a brush.

Malkin’s breath came with a sharp hiss. She raised her wrist to her mouth and licked the cut, but her eyes never left the print and the blood.

“What do you do?” The girl could no longer contain her curiosity. There was hunting power, yes—she had seen such in action—had used a little of it when she must. Only this was plainly a ritual foreign to her own teaching.

Malkin raised her head, her eyes at full glow. “Isss oneee—whoooo issss—offf—”