Stonehenge (16 page)

They rammed the stone’s base with stones, filled the hole, untied the ropes and thus the work was finished. The Old Temple was no
more and Ratharryn had its sanctuary of stone. They had the Sky Temple.

The day chosen for the dedication of the Sky Temple proved to be propitious for it was warm and cloudless, a day that late autumn had stolen from high summer. All Hengall’s people came to the ceremony. They arrived from the outlying settlements and from the upland farmsteads, and the women assembled at Lahanna’s shrine while the men danced around the poles of the temple where they had stacked their spears and piled their bows for no man would carry a weapon this day. This day was given to the gods.

In the late afternoon Gilan led the tribe up from the settlement. They stopped at the grave mounds where the skull pole was paraded and the ancestors were told what was happening, and then they danced to where the new sacred path scarred the grassland. The tribe’s priests were naked, their bodies chalked white with patterns swirled by spread fingers, while their heads were crowned with antlers and their hair and beards hung with animal bones and teeth. The folk who followed the priests had all dressed in their best pelts. Saban and Derrewyn were to be married after the sun set. Derrewyn wore a dress of sewn deerskins that were very pale in color so that her skin looked even darker, while her long hair had been threaded with creamy meadowsweets. Her parents had come to see the ceremony and her father, Morthor, high priest at Cathallo, danced with Ratharryn’s priests; those priests led with them a small child, a fair-haired girl just three years old, who had been born deaf. The child, like Derrewyn, wore meadowsweets in her hair.

The sun blazed into the faces of the folk as they crossed the rim of the down from where the sacred path stretched clean and white to the eight new stones of the Sky Temple. Gilan carried the tribe’s skull pole, which had been decorated with ivy, while Neel, the youngest priest, had an axe with a beautifully carved greenstone head that Galeth had sharpened that same afternoon.

The people stamped their dance between the newly made chalk banks of the sacred path, scattering the grazing sheep as they advanced. Four of the men carried goatskin drums and they set the
rhythm of the dance and, as the priests neared the four taller stones, the drumming became more frantic and the tribe swooped from side to side. The women led the singing, praising Slaol, while the men echoed the last line of each verse.

The tribe swerved aside at the temple to dance about its edge. The priests went inside and, once they had driven out the sheep and cattle that were grazing on the temple’s grass, they formed a circle where they stamped the intricate steps of their own dance. The priests danced inside and the people sang and danced outside. The men circled closest to the ditch, with the women outside them, and all danced sunwise as Slaol sank toward the horizon. The singing and dancing seemed to induce a trance that gripped the folk as the sun sank. Some women called out in ecstasy as on and on they danced, not noticing the tiredness in their legs but swept up by the music, and they only stopped when the men who had carried pots of fire from the settlement put the embers in the great heaps of wood that were piled on either side of the temple. The flames caught fast, the small twigs crackled and the smoke whirled the sparks upward. Galeth had broken up the great sledges and put their huge timbers in the piles. He rued such a waste of good wood, but the sledges had served a sacred purpose and so must be returned to the gods. The fires became fierce as the tribe gathered about the twin stone pillars of the sun’s gate which stood in the center of the sacred path. The drummers were silent now, but the dance was still inside the people and some could not be still, but swayed from side to side and some of the women moaned as they stared toward the great swollen ball of the sun where it flattened on the far horizon. “Slaol,” they called. “Slaol!”

“Slaol!” Gilan shouted at the sun, raising his arms, and Hengall now took the deaf child’s hand and led her to the very center of the temple where Galeth had dug a hole. It was not a deep hole, nor was it long, but it was enough and the child with flowers in her hair was taken to the hole’s edge and there her tunic was lifted over her hair so she was naked and Gilan knelt and gave her a pot. “Drink,” he said gently and, because she was deaf, motioned what she should do. The girl took the pot in both hands and laughed at the high priest’s kindly face.

The pot contained a potion to bring dreams: a potion made from
mushrooms and herbs, a potion to carry the deaf child to the gods, and all the folk watched, utterly silent, as she drank. She made a face as if the liquid were bitter, but then she laughed again and dropped the pot. Gilan stood and stepped back from her, watching to see what omens the potion brought.

The girl began to gasp as if her breath were being stolen, then she screamed for her mother in a half-formed voice, and then she tried to run back toward the watching crowd, but Neel caught her and forced her back to the hole where she screamed again. Her watching mother wailed for the child. The omens were bad. She should have been smiling, laughing, dancing, but she was struggling and frantic, and her screams were scratching at the tribe’s souls. To stop her noise Gilan shook her hard, so hard that she went still with terror and in that moment Gilan thrust her out at arm’s length and took the greenstone axe from Neel.

Gilan raised the blade to the dying sun, paused, then struck down hard so that bloody flowers fell to the grass as the child, her skull nearly split in two, died without a sound.

She had gone to the sky. She had gone to Slaol. There would be no death place for the child and no gifts on her behalf for she was herself a gift. That was why she was not killed with the Kill-Child, for she was not really dead, but instead, even as her tribe watched in awed silence, her soul was rising to the sky to tell Slaol about this place that had been made for him. The golden-haired child was Ratharryn’s messenger and she would watch the Sky Temple until time itself was ended.

Gilan laid the little body in the grave. He broke the pot that had held the potion and dropped it beside her, placed the chalk ball of her life on her bloodied breast, and then the priests kicked the heap of earth onto her body. The child’s mother still shrieked with grief and the other women clustered about to comfort her, telling her that her daughter was not dead at all, but happy in the skyworld where she was a playmate of the gods.

The sun sank beneath the horizon just as Lahanna, huge and pale, rose above the western trees. The fires were roaring now, the great timbers at their heart burning bright so that the smoke made a red-tinged pall above the temple. In a moment or two the temple’s first ceremony would begin as Derrewyn and Saban danced their
marriage steps in the shrine’s center, but first Hengall stood by the sun child’s grave and raised his hand.

It was Hengall’s task to tell the tribe what they had done. To tell the tale of the Sky Temple so that his folk would remember it and tell their children and their children’s children, and so he stood with his arm raised, summoning the words, and the murmuring crowd fell silent. It was twilight, and the blinding glare of the sun had vanished to leave behind a red-rimmed sky smudged by smoke and in that livid haze Saban saw a flicker. At first he thought it was the dead child’s spirit and he was glad, for it showed that the sacrifice had worked.

The flicker was red, reflecting the dying sunlight, and then Saban saw it was not the child’s soul, but an arrow streaking up from the black crest of the southern upland where more of the ancestors’ bones lay in their mounds. The arrow’s flight seemed to-take a long time, though of course it took no time at all. Indeed Saban had scarcely time to open his mouth, let alone call out, yet he ever remembered it as being a long, long time. He saw the arrow reach up to the sky and then begin to fall. Its head glittered, the black flint flashing back the firelight, and then it slammed into Hengall’s back.

Hengall stumbled forward. Most in the crowd still did not know what was happening, but they recognized an ill omen and they moaned. Then Hengall fell and they saw the arrow in his back, its black feathers dark, and still they did not understand, and it was not until the priests rushed to the chief’s side that the wailing began.

Saban ran forward, then checked, for more arrows were flickering in the sky. They thumped into the turf, struck the priests, and one glanced off a moon stone with a click. Then Saban saw the naked creatures who came from the southern skyline that was all aflame with red.

The creatures themselves were red. They screamed as they capered forward and the sight of them made Ratharryn’s people howl, but when they turned to flee toward the settlement there were more of the creatures behind and some of the attackers were mounted on small shaggy horses that galloped across the low chalk banks of the sacred path.

They were Outfolk warriors and they had smeared their bodies with red ochre, the same substance that was sometimes used to color the skins of the important dead, and now these living deadmen screamed as they closed on the tribe that had no weapons. There were dozens of the enemy and Hengall’s orphaned folk could do nothing but crouch in terror. Morthor, Derrewyn’s father, was wounded, Gilan lay dead, while Neel, the young priest, crawled on the temple’s turf with an arrow in his thigh.

The leader of the red warriors appeared last of all and he alone was clothed and he alone had not used ochre to make his face look dreadful. He strode toward the temple and in his right hand was the long yew bow which he had used to kill Saban’s father.

And to kill his own father too, for the man who came to the Sky Temple with a smile on his face was Lengar.

Who had come home.

The Outfolk quickly stopped their killing for Lengar had not returned to become the chief of a slaughtered tribe. When the screaming ended, he stood above his father’s body and held up the bloodstained axe that had sent the child to the skies. He had shrugged off his cloak to reveal a jerkin sewn with bronze strips that glittered in the firelight and, at his waist, a long bronze sword. “I am Lengar!” he shouted. “Lengar! And if any of you dispute my right to be chief in Ratharryn, then come and dispute it now!”

None of the tribe looked at Saban for he was reckoned too young to confront Lengar, but a few did stare at Galeth. “Do you challenge me, uncle?” Lengar asked.

“You have murdered your father,” Galeth said, gazing in horror at his brother’s body, which had fallen across the grave of the sacrificed child.

“What better way to become chief?” Lengar asked, then walked a few paces toward his rival. His companions, those men who had fled Ratharryn with him on the day that the emissaries from Sarmennyn had been rebuffed, climbed up from the ditch at the temple’s far side, but Lengar stayed their progress with a gesture. “Do you challenge me?” he asked Galeth again, then waited in silence. When it was plain that neither Galeth nor any other man in the tribe would confront him he tossed the axe on to the grass behind him and walked to the temple’s entrance of the sun where he stood, tall and terrible with the bloody axe in his hand, between the two high stones. “Galeth and Saban!” he called. “Come here!”

Galeth and Saban walked nervously forward, both half expecting
arrows to come from Lengar’s companions who waited at the temple’s far side, but no bowstring sounded. Lengar drew his sword as they approached. “There are men here who might expect one of you to challenge me,” Lengar said. “Even you, little brother.” He bared his teeth at Saban, pretending to smile.

Saban said nothing. He saw that Lengar had tattooed a pair of horns on his face, one outside of each eye, and the horns made him look even more sinister. Lengar held the sword out so that its tip touched Saban’s breast. “It is good to see you, brother,” he said.

“Is it?” Saban asked as coldly as he could.

“You think I have not missed Ratharryn?” Lengar asked. “Sarmennyn is a bare place. Raw and cold.”

“You came home to be warm?” Saban asked sarcastically.

“No, little one, I came home to make Ratharryn great again. There was a time when Cathallo paid us tribute, when they were proud that their women married a man from Ratharryn, when they came to dance in our temples and begged our priests to keep them from harm, but now they sell us rocks.” He slapped the closest stone. “Rocks!” He spat the word again. “Why did you not buy oak leaves from them? Or water? Or air? Or dung?”

Galeth glanced at his brother’s body. “What do you want of us?” he asked Lengar dully.

“You must kneel to me, uncle,” Lengar said, “in front of all the tribe, to show that you accept me as chief. Otherwise I shall send you to our ancestors. Greet them for me, if I do.”

Galeth frowned. “And if I kneel, what then?”

“Then you shall be my honored adviser, my kinsman and my friend,” Lengar said effusively. “You shall be what you have always been, the builder of our tribe and the counselor of its chief. I did not come back to let the Outfolk rule here. I came to make Ratharryn great again.” He gestured at the red warriors. “When their work is done, uncle, they will go home. But till then they are our servants.”

Galeth looked again at his brother’s body. “There will be no more killing in the tribe?” he asked.

“I will kill no one who accepts my authority,” Lengar promised, glancing at Saban.

Galeth nodded. He paused for a heartbeat then sank to his knees.
There was a sigh from the watching tribe as he leaned forward and touched his hands to Lengar’s feet.

“Thank you, uncle,” Lengar said. He touched Galeth’s back with the sword, then turned to Saban. “Now you, brother.”

Saban did not move.

“Kneel,” Galeth muttered.

Lengar’s yellow-tinged eyes, oddly bright in the gathering dark, stared into Saban’s face. “I do not mind, little brother,” Lengar said softly, “whether you live or die. There are those who say I should kill you, but does a wolf fear a cat?” He reached out with the sword and stroked the cold blade down Saban’s cheek. “But if you do not kneel to me, I shall take your head and use your skull as a drinking pot.”