The Moonshawl: A Wraeththu Mythos Novel (16 page)

Chapter Nine

I ate a light dinner, because Rinawne and I had
stuffed ourselves fully at lunchtime, and then wanted to be outside. If I was
to perform my own private rite, I felt this should be done in the open air,
beneath the Cuttingtide stars. The moon was a sharp sickle in the sky.

As soon as I stepped beyond the
tower door, the hounds started up at Ludda’s farm below, what sounded like
hundreds of them now. They seemed to be singing rather than howling. I
shivered. Perhaps Mossamber Whitemane was coming for them and would lead them
across the land, even up into the sky as the Wild Hunt would ride. With this
eerie song all around me I ventured down the tower hill, towards the forest, but
ultimately I would let my feet lead me. I wondered whether the Whitemanes were
celebrating Cuttingtide tonight or tomorrow. Were they gathering in the Maes
Siôl? Perhaps so, but I wasn’t tempted to head that way, uncomfortable that I
might inadvertently gate crash a private rite.

I expected to be drawn in the
direction of the Llwybr Llwynog, and while I wandered roughly in that
direction, I found myself exploring a part of the woods I’d not yet visited.
The trees were ancient deciduous, oak, sycamore and beech, with younger birches
among them, the occasional holly and hawthorn. Everywhere was alive with
movement; the rustle of undergrowth and foliage, the huff of deer. An owl
called upon the night and slid like a phantom through the high canopy. I saw
the flicker of bats against the sky. Power oozed from the very earth, exuberant
and free. The solstice festival would last three days and during this time its
influence would be strong. I felt as if I was caught up in a ringing yet silent
song, uttered by a choir I could not see and only faintly perceive. Yet my body
trembled at the sound that flowed through me, and tears started in my eyes. The
earth truly was a goddess, beautiful beyond any means of description other than
the ineffable words of other gods. Tonight she walked, arrayed in the garments
– the forms – of the dehara, which were merely facets of what she had always
been.

I thought of my human life,
which seemed like a dream of childhood now, unreal. I thought about how the
land had been scabbed and diseased then, with the last depredations of
humankind. How quickly, comparatively, the world had taken back what had been
lost. The green had spread over everything that hara had not claimed for
themselves. Where now were the masses of vehicles that humans had used, the
rail tracks, the field-covering roads? All gone, greened over, returned to
earth. Houses had tumbled, towns and cities buried by vegetation, crushed and
pulverised to dust. I felt a hundred years old and then realised, with some
amusement, I actually nearly was. I’d lost track of the years, because time is
different for hara than it had been for humans; it is less of an enemy. Humans
had experienced each day as a step nearer to the grave, in what had seemed like
a fraction of time that flashed past in an instant. In contrast, Wraeththu have
been given the gift of longevity, a friendship with time.

I remembered my human
grandmother, on my mother’s side, once saying to me, ‘We’re a useless lot. Just
as we become viable members of society, and are old enough to be wise, we die.
If that’s not a curse, what is? We’ll never grow up because we don’t live long
enough to become truly wise.’

I realised how right she’d been,
and that
had
been humanity’s curse, always governed and influenced by
the young, because no one had really been old. And those who had reached great
age – which by harish standards had still been youthful – had been afflicted by
infirmity and no longer had the vigour and physical strength to lead and make
changes. So the young had prevailed. And the young, most often, though blessed
with many golden qualities, are essentially stupid.

Smiling to myself, I strolled
through the trees, laying my hands upon them, absorbing their
awareness and
age. I did not think myself fully wise, but I was aware of gaining wisdom as
life progressed. When I looked back on my days in Jesith, before Jassenah, my
actions seemed like those of a hot-headed harling, yet at the time I’d
considered myself to be a scholar and a sage, more knowledgeable than others.
My reputation as some kind of aruna guru had been self-indulgent, supported by
those who were hot-headed harlings themselves. In essence, we had still been wild
inceptees, dancing around a fire in the dark, shrieking at the night and
believing we were the all-powerful inheritors of the earth. Places like Jesith
had been sanctuaries, little capsules of sanity in an insane, rapidly-changing
world. Jesith
had
matured since its beginning, as had its hara, and now
I suppose it really was an idyll, even though tainted with an air of
righteousness – something the hara had yet to grow out of.

Gwyllion had also matured but
had brought rank ghosts along with it. That was the difference, and here,
despite all that I had done or believed, I
was
further along the path of
life. Here, I was deserving of the reputation given me. I realised this was my
opportunity to realise that, to be worthy of being har, to grow up. For that, I
must work against being judgmental, because I could see that in myself. I must
work against impatience with others.

These thoughts, I realised, were
the Cuttingtide itself, the death of the worn out, that which should be
discarded, to leave room for new growth. This was my private rite.

Sheer bliss at being alive
spread through me like the sun’s warmth. I would bring all of these feelings to
the feast tomorrow. I wanted to inspire hara and considered that perhaps we
should make some announcement about Myv and his future position within the
phyle.

My feet had led my preoccupied mind and body to a
forest lawn; I could see it through the trees. Small globes of light had been
left around the perimeter, casting an eerie orange glow across the sward.
Somehar was going to be here this night, and for what other reason than the
Cuttingtide? The Whitemanes might be here soon, perhaps making their way from
the Maes Siôl and the river. Who else would leave these lights burning here
when the main Gwyllion festival took place tomorrow?

I was about to turn and leave
when a shadow at the edge of my vision moved. I started in surprise, but then
realised that somehar was standing amid the trees to my left, mostly concealed
by shrubs around them. Whether they were looking at me or not, I could not tell.
Then a voice hissed, ‘Ysobi, Wyvachi-called, come here!’

I knew then it was Ember
Whitemane who stood there, most likely waiting for his kin. I approached him
and did not speak until we were close, afraid of attracting other hara’s
attention. ‘I don’t mean to intrude,’ I said in a low voice. ‘I was simply...’

‘Looking for us?’

‘No, no... I’m not celebrating
until tomorrow, and merely wanted to take a private walk within the forest.’

Ember Whitemane made a
snickering sound. ‘Night of sacrifice,’ he muttered. ‘Search, you find.’

‘As I said, I don’t wish to
intrude. I’ll be on my way.’

‘No, you can’t,’ Ember snapped. ‘Not
now. He comes. Can’t change the pulse of it.’

Confused, I stared at him. He
was peering out at the enclosed lawn, his body taut. I saw then he carried a longbow,
half poised to use it, an arrow waiting there. The implications of this turned
my blood to dry jelly. He meant to shoot something... somehar? I could not move
now if I wanted to. ‘Ember...’ I breathed. ‘What...?’

A rushing form burst out of the
forest to our left: a har. He tumbled onto the lawn, arms flailing, glancing
behind him. I heard the distant cry of hounds.
Great dehara, no!
I was
powerless to run, as if held by Ember’s word of command.
The sacrifice...
An
ancient primal horror gripped me. I wanted to walk away, or fall to my knees
and hide my face against the forest floor. But my feet had led me here, guided
by my secret thoughts and
here
I was. There could be no escape, no
turning of the eyes.

I saw that the har stumbling and
scrambling across the forest lawn was the Whitemane I’d first met at the Llwybr
Llwynog. There was no arrogance and aloofness to him now. He was, I felt,
running for his life. He wore only a pair of hide trousers, and his hair was
unbraided, whipping around him. His face and torso were daubed with painted
symbols I did not recognise. As yet I could see no pursuit, but knew with grim
certainty that it would come.

Ember raised his bow, aimed. In
horror, I put out a hand to smack the weapon down, but Ember danced to the side
and let the arrow fly. This pierced the fleeing har in the right calf, brought
him to his knees. He tried to get to his feet, drag his body forward, but Ember
was already readying another arrow, all the time dancing around me, so I
couldn’t stop him. The second shot took the har in the shoulder. He fell
heavily to earth, face down. The yelping of the hounds drew nearer. I could
hear the sound of horses’ hooves. There were cries that were like the war
chants I’d heard in early Wraeththu days; wordless, powerful, deadly.

For a moment, I could only
stare, horrified, yet words can’t convey my true feelings. There was a
high-pitched whistling in my head. (
A Fire. Eyes. Eyes across a fire.
)
My hands and feet were numb. I mumbled the phrase, ‘What have you done?’
which even to me seemed the most stupid words I could say. After only a few
seconds – I assume – I retrieved my wits enough to try and go forward to assist
the fallen har. I could see him moving feebly. Ember restrained me with a
strong hand. ‘No! Stay where you are.’

‘I can’t countenance this...’ I
struggled against him, but for one so slight he was surprisingly powerful.

‘Don’t wet yourself. He’ll be
fine. That’s Nytethorne, my hostling.’

‘What?’

‘Morterrius falls at the hand of
his son. Can’t go to him. Blood must go into the earth. Then he’ll be carried.
Not yet.’

‘How can you...?’ I shook my
head, pressed my fingers against my temples in utter bewilderment. ‘He’s hurt.’

‘Won’t feel it. Arrow numbs him.
He’s dreaming now. Dry your ‘lim and dry your tears. This is the true song and
dance of the season.’ Ember hoisted the bow over his shoulder. ‘Sing this to
your Wyvachi on the morrow.’ He laughed.

I knew then they’d wanted me to
witness this, their barbaric rite. Morterrius falls to his son... his
lover
.
My mouth filled with sour liquid, but I swallowed it down. ‘I must go.’

‘Where to? You can’t escape the
Cutting. Be har and follow us to the Greyspan. Come to our domain. If you
dare.’ His dark eyes reflected the wavering light of the nearest globe. I could
see his wide white grin. He thought he had me, a terrified over-civilised har.
Dehara knew what else they had planned to stupefy my mind.

‘I have no place with your
kind,’ I said. I glanced at the body on the grass, the long feathered shafts
sticking out of it, the fingers moving weakly on the deer-cropped lawn.
His
hostling?
 

‘Your choice.’

Once he said this, a crowd of
hara burst out of the forest from the same direction “Morterrius” had come. One
was mounted on a great black horse whose polished coat shone as if wet in the
soft orange light. The horse was surrounded by the inevitable hounds, which
milled around its legs, but thankfully did not go to maul the har upon the
ground ahead of them. I saw naked harlings prancing among the dogs, as much
animal – to my eyes – as the hounds were. Ember gave me one sneering last
glance then went to join his kin. I began to back away slowly into the cover of
the trees, and as I did so saw the wild Whitemanes swarm around the limp body on
the grass. Somehar tore the arrows from him, screaming in triumph, and each
time a plume of blood jetted into the air. Once. Twice. I heard Nytethorne cry
out. Hara painted their naked torsos with his blood, then lifted him onto their
shoulders, held him high. I saw his arms dangling down, streaked with dark.
Uttering whooping cries, the hara ran away with him in the direction of the
bridge Ember had called the Greyspan. They were like raw inceptees from the
dawn of our kind, revelling brutally in their new enhanced being, without
compassion.

While all this was going on, the
har upon the horse, who I realised must be Mossamber Whitemane, was turning his
mount in a cavorting circle. When Nytethorne had been lifted and they’d begun
to carry him away, Mossamber looked right at me, and it took all my will not to
fall to my knees. His thick black hair was wild, as were his eyes. His dark-skinned
face was that of a dehar, but a savage one. I could see he despised me.
Dress
yourself up in expensive clothes, emulate the ancient ways of men, but this...
this is what birthed you, what lies in the deepest corners of your heart.

He did not speak the words
aloud, of course, and neither were they a mind touch, but I knew them. Then, he
dismissed me from his attention and urged his horse to leap forward. He overtook
the lunging, baying crowd of hara and his white hounds tumbled after him like
breaking waves.

Within seconds, as the wild
sounds retreated, all was quiet, the forest lawn empty, as if nothing had
happened. Nothing at all.

I sat down where I stood,
because I had no fear the Whitemanes would return. Nausea still pulsed
uncomfortably within me and my chest hurt. There had seemed so many of them.
They couldn’t
all
be Whitemanes, surely? They must have had village and
farming hara with them, perhaps some of the same hara who would attend the
Wyvachi rite tomorrow.  As I strained to control my breathing, I heard the tolling
of a bell again: loud, strong, clear. It held within its sonorous notes a voice
of mourning, yet at the same time was sublimely uplifting. My breathing was
synchronised with the chimes, which helped calm it to its normal rhythm.