The Moonshawl: A Wraeththu Mythos Novel (4 page)

Nohar else around the table took
notice of Myv but for the younger, rather awkward har who seemed like an
outsider. His name, I learned, was Porter har Goudy, which I found delightful.
It was like the name of a character from an ancient story, somehar who should
live in a leaning, turreted house in a place like Kyme. He was simply
introduced to me by his name, not by his connection to the family. This was not
offered and I sensed I should not ask. Yet. Porter whispered with Myv. They
seemed to be playing incomprehensible, secret games with each other. When
Porter spoke to him, Myv turned his head at once, looked the other har right in
the eye. Rinawne, I sensed, was grateful for this rapport.

I didn’t pay that much attention
to the two hara from the Assembly, not because they were unremarkable
particularly, but because there was much else to occupy my thoughts. They were
more interested in seeking Wyva’s favour than talking to me, in any case.

After dinner, the company moved
to the drawing room, where Rinawne had entertained me earlier in the day. Here,
a huge fire frolicked in the wide hearth, and a selection of drinks was laid
out waiting for us. Around midnight, Rinawne made a discreet signal, and everyhar
in the room knew at once it was time for our party to break up. I felt slightly
fuzzy-headed, because all the local wines and liqueurs Wyva had insisted I try
had been strong.

‘You must not stagger through
the forest alone,’ Rinawne announced to me. ‘And since our other guests take a
different road, Porter can guide you.’

I expected some small protest
from Porter, if only a grunt or a sullen expression, but he merely nodded and
said, ‘I’ll fetch a lamp.’

While the har was doing this,
Wyva said to me, ‘I hope you enjoyed this evening, tiahaar.’

‘Very much,’ I answered,
truthfully. ‘Both the food and the company were excellent.’

This flattery pleased Wyva,
which was useful to know.

Porter returned with his lamp, and also my coat,
which I’d left in the hallway. After saying my goodbyes, I followed the young
har out into the night. The moon had fallen somewhat by now, but the night was
full of song. Birds, beasts, insects; all added their voices to the hymn to
nature. Even the trees creaked and rustled their own accompaniments. Porter,
while not sullen, did not seem a har given to light conversation, but even so,
I felt I should start some. Where else but with some information about him?
‘You’re a relative of Wyva’s?’ I asked.

‘Not so much,’ he replied. ‘They
took me in.’

‘Ah, you lost your family?’

He expelled a short laugh. ‘In a
fashion.’ I did not perceive bitterness in his words, merely a lack of
interest. ‘I know what it’s like in other places,’ he said. ‘Not all hara have
families like they do round here, like tribes of their own.’

‘Mmm, it does seem to prevail in
rural environments,’ I said, feeling the dust of Kyme needed brushing from my
tongue.

‘But I like the countryside,’
Porter continued. ‘Don’t think I could be doing with city life.’ He had clearly,
at one point, considered running away, I thought. Perhaps had even tried it,
and disliked what he had found, and had returned.

‘There is a very old story about
a town mouse and a country mouse,’ I said. ‘Did you ever hear it?’

Porter laughed. ‘Rinawne knows
that story,’ he said. ‘Yes, I heard it.’

‘Stop,’ I said, putting a hand
on one of Porter’s arms. ‘What’s that?’

We both stood still, me hardly
breathing.

‘What is it, tiahaar?’ Porter
asked softly. ‘What am I looking for?’ He was gazing around himself, his frown
made deep by the light of the lamp.

‘Looking? Nothing. I heard...
I’m not sure what it was. A voice, maybe calling, maybe singing... not sure.’

‘Learn this soon, tiahaar,’ Porter
said. ‘Every creature of the forest has a weird sound to make, and hara who
don’t live here think mad things about it. A fox screams blue murder. An owl
has a ghost’s lament. The creaky trees are like coffins opening. Learn the
sounds well.’

‘Why, might there come a time
when I might need to know the difference between that and a real murder, a real
ghost, a real coffin opening?’

There was a short silence,
during which Porter regarded me contemplatively. ‘You’re supposed to be a holy
har,’ he said, with the slightest inflection on ‘supposed’. ‘You must know
there is more than one real.’

‘Yes, I know that,’ I said.
‘Thank you, Porter. I shall learn the sounds.’

He brought me to the foot of my
tower, which stood dark and ominous against the night. He waited as I fumbled
with the immense key, and held the light above the lock so I might see better.
I realised I would have to learn about the lock too, so that I might open it,
if I should ever need to, in a hurry. But perhaps I should be like Wyva and
leave my abode unlocked. Would it be safe? From the farm came the cry of hounds,
not one now but what sounded like dozens. Their voices rose and fell in long
ululating moans. Tomorrow, I must go down there and see about ordering produce.

Porter stood at the threshold
until I had turned on the lights in the stairwell. ‘Thank you for your
company,’ I said, and with these words he seemed satisfied, nodded his head to
me and went back into the dark of the trees.

Once alone, tiredness fell over
me like a mist. I discarded my clothes quickly and sought the comfort of my
wide bed, leaving a night-light burning in a shallow dish beside me. Shadows
swayed upon the gold-flecked walls, and the swans high on the walls flew about
me in their endless flight, but I felt no malice near, no strangeness, perhaps
only a benign watchfulness, like a har in a chair nearby, ready to watch over
me as I slept.

Chapter Three

The morning dripped like pale honey through the
veils of my bedroom curtains. For some minutes I lay half awake in this golden
hue, drowsy, feeling as if a cherished hand had touched my cheek to wake me. I
raised my arms above my head on the pillows, gazed at the ceiling. Patterns
moved there, like water; there must be water below, outside. How odd their
shine should find their way into my high bedroom.

Eventually, I raised myself and
threw on a robe, belting it as I descended the cold stone steps beyond my room.
But not even the unforgiving stairwell felt sinister today. I could sense the
land stretching and awakening around me, beyond the stone. Tantalising perfumes
skimmed like dragonflies beneath my nose; the scents of the season.

In my kitchen, I prepared myself
a plate of scrambled eggs, cooked in rich, yellow butter. Rinawne had also
supplied bread, wrapped in linen, which had been baked in the kitchen of the
Mynd. From this loaf I cut two thick slices and also slathered them with the
butter. Then I made tea, dark and strong. Perfect.

While I ate, I gazed out of the
window opposite me. I could see beyond the green-hazy trees the low-slung
buildings of the farm. The only tall one was the barn. A couple of figures were
moving around, engrossed in their morning duties. Later I would call on them.

I had left my notebook on the
table, along with a pencil, and now wrote upon the first page:

Cuttingtide rite. Begin with
awakening. The sounds and scent. Dehar of the green. A song.

Then I ate some more of my
breakfast.

I didn’t know precisely when Rinawne intended to
call for me, but by the time I’d finished eating and had dressed, I wanted to
visit the farm. I resolved to leave a note for Rinawne. This I pinned to the
door, with one of the sharp little black tacks I found in a jar in a kitchen
cupboard:
‘Seeing about the regular slaughter of chickens below. Will be
back shortly or meet you there. Ysobi.’

Already I felt absorbed by this
landscape. Pinning up my note was like leaving a message for a friend I’d known
for a long time.

While a wider path wound around
the hill up to the tower, there was also a straight track down to the farm.
This was steep, little more than a gully, mulchy with last autumn’s leaves.
Green shoots were pushing through the earth all around me. Another image
flashed across my mind, and I got out my notebook.
Dehar rising from the
earth, growing like a plant.

Once the path evened out, it
widened, leading to the main yard of the farm. I was surprised by the
shabbiness of the place, somehow expecting every archetypal feature of this
land to be shining and perfect, a dream of what it should be.

As I drew nearer, a noisy ruckus
broke out, of what sounded now like four dozen hounds or more. Some were
yapping, some uttering unearthly howls. I also heard the occasional threatening
growl, but the dogs were out of sight. In response to this alarm, a har emerged
from the farmhouse, the back door of which was open. He was a strange-looking
specimen, thin and tall, with lank, light brown hair hanging past his
shoulders. He was dressed in a woollen tunic and baggy trousers tucked into
boots, and over this he wore a grubby knee-length apron, once white, now grey
and also stained suspiciously across the chest and skirt with rusty patches. He
was drying his hands on a surprisingly clean white towel.

‘Yes?’ he demanded. At the sound
of his voice, the dogs fell quiet.

I inclined my head. ‘Good
morning, tiahaar. I am Ysobi har Jesith, and I’m staying at the tower...’ I
turned and gestured back up the hill.

The har followed the line of my
arm as if he’d never noticed the tower before. ‘What of it?’

‘Tiahaar Rinawne suggested I
speak to you about ordering a regular supply of dairy produce and meat. I
understand it’s acceptable for this to be charged to tiahaar Wyva’s account.’ I
groaned inwardly. Why when I tried to put hara at ease did such stuffy, formal
phrases drop from my lips.

The har narrowed his eyes at me,
the ghost of a smile haunting his lips. ‘You’re that hienama,’ he said.

‘Yes.’ I shut my mouth before
another pompous set of words escaped.

‘Blue or white cheese?

‘Both would be... I like both.’

‘Milk with the cream on? Pint a
day?’

‘Yes, and a chicken a week would
be fine. And a dozen eggs. Cheese once a week should do also.’

The har nodded. ‘Well, it’s not
far to walk and ask if you need more, is it?’

‘No, very close.’

‘You want veg – potatoes,
carrots?’

‘I have some supplies. I’ll come
and ask.’

‘Fine. You’d better sign a slip,
then. Don’t want Wyva thinking I’m robbing him.’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘I’ll start deliveries
tomorrow.’

‘Perfect.’

The har disappeared into the
house and came out again shortly afterwards carrying a receipt book. Here the
details of my order were inscribed, in a hand far neater than mine. I appended
my signature.

Once this ritual was done, the
har stood with hands on hips staring at me, as if astounded I was still
standing there.

‘Good day to you, then,’ I said,
and retreated.

As I climbed back up the hill, I
saw that Rinawne had arrived and was reading my note.

Rinawne proposed he took me for a walk along the
River Moonshawl, through the Shawl Field and to Moonshawl Pool. 

‘So there is a story there,’ I
said, ‘a shawl, a pool and the moon.’

‘It’s quite a recent one as
folklore stories go,’ Rinawne replied. ‘Come, I’ll talk as we walk.’

He had brought with him a small
stout pony, onto whose back was strapped a picnic basket. The pony wore a straw
hat, from which his ears poked out.

We walked down from the tower in
the opposite direction to the farm, through a veil of forest, and out into the
fields of the Wyvachi estate. We crossed a hay field, where the grass was knee
high, and here Rinawne began his tale.

‘I say recent, but what I mean
by that is that this is a tale of the era of hara, not an old human story. But
even so, it happened long ago, when Wraeththu were establishing themselves as
phyles and tribes within this land.’ Rinawne indicated we should climb a stile
ahead. When we jumped down on the other side, he said, ‘This is the Shawl
Field, called in the old tongue Maes Siôl and there ahead is the River
Moonshawl, Afon Siôl Lleuad.’

The field was like any other,
and the river flowed slow and wide. Insects flew around us and I saw a flotilla
of ducks paddling their way by. There were no sinister aspects to the scene.
Perhaps I was wrong to expect them; not all stories end tragically.

Rinawne led me to the riverside,
and here we sat down on the edge of a small bank, of around a foot’s height
above the water. The pony began to graze and Rinawne took off his boots and
socks to dangle his feet in the lazy flow. ‘The story concerns the first
harling ever created in this area,’ he said. ‘When he broke out of his pearl,
his hostling picked him up at once and went with him into the forest.’ He
paused. ‘It was night time.’

‘Do these hara have names?’ I
asked.

‘The harling was called Lunar,
the father was called Grass and the hostling was called Oak.’

I laughed. ‘You just made those
up.’

Rinawne shrugged, grinned. ‘Do
you want the story or not?’

I gestured with one hand.
‘Please, carry on.’

‘Grass went to a glade in the
centre of the forest that was known as sacred – or haunted – depending on your
point of view. There was a pool in this place where often the moon was said to
admire her reflection. Here, Grass made ritual and summoned an ancient entity
born of the trees, of the light of the moon, its reflection in the pool and its
sparkle upon the river water. Grass asked this creature to protect his son, and
the entity agreed to this, for it was pleased with the offerings Grass had made
to it.’

‘Does the entity have a name?’

‘
You
can make that one
up,’ Rinawne said, rolling his eyes. ‘Anyway, the spirit told Grass he must do four
things before the sun rose. He must dangle his harling over the pool so that
his reflection would be captured there. He must climb the highest tree of the
forest and hold up his son to the light of the moon. He must swim in the
deepest part of the river and immerse his son wholly within it, and he must
come out of the river in a certain field, and here weave a crown of grasses for
the harling. When these actions were complete, so the harling would be offered
protection and none could harm him in this life. And Grass must also name the
harling then: Lunar.’

‘That’s odd – four tasks. In
tales of this type, there are usually three, or perhaps even five or seven –
never an even number.’

Rinawne shrugged. ‘It was how I
heard it.’

‘Which tree was it in the
forest, do you know?’ I asked. I’d got out my notebook.

Rinawne put his head to one
side. ‘I have no idea. Why?’

‘Well, if I’m to create rites
for the wheel of the year, it might be useful to know.’

 ‘I’m sure it doesn’t matter
which tree it was,’ Rinawne said. ‘I never said the story was based on fact.’

‘Is the tale known widely around
these parts?’

Rinawne gave me a strange look. ‘Yes.
Why?’

‘Then it’s probably important
which tree it is. Don’t worry. I’ll ask around.’

‘Well, here is your deepest part
of the river,’ Rinawne said, gesturing at the water. ‘Hara already bathe here
on Midsummer Eve and they build a bonfire in this field.’

‘Then the basics are
established,’ I said. ‘Just needs weaving into the whole picture.’

Rinawne appeared uncomfortable. ‘Mmm,
I don’t know. I’m telling you the story because I thought you’d like it, not
because I thought it should be in your new system. Are you going to write down
and use every little thing I say to you?’

I grinned at him. ‘No. I might
end up with enough material for several wheels of the year! I’m just taking notes,
mulling things over.’

Rinawne shrugged. ‘Well, it’s of
no consequence to me. But check things with Wyva first. Hara can be edgy about old
stories around here. Anyway, do you want the end of this tale?’

‘Of course.’

Rinawne leaned back on stiff
arms, gazed at the sky. ‘Grass did all these things he’d been bid to do, and
the harling never whimpered once, even when he was held up above the tallest
tree and dunked into the cold water. When Grass emerged from the river, the
spirit was waiting for him.’ Now Rinawne turned to me and acted out his story
with expressive hands. ‘It took from the harling the cold droplets of water on
his body, and drew from his eyes the shine of the moon, and took from his head
the crown of grasses. These it wove quickly into a glowing shawl that held
moonlight within it and all the secrets of the forest and the water.’ Rinawne
held the imaginary harling up to the sky. ‘Grass took this gift and wrapped it
around his son, who he then named Lunar. The harling stretched and sighed and
fell asleep amid the soft folds. The spirit told Grass that he and his chesnari
must wrap Lunar in this shawl on the nights of the full moon until he reached
his feybraiha. Then the shawl must be put away in a secure place until the next
harling was born to their family, when it could be used again.’ Rinawne’s arms
fell, his imaginary creatures put away.

‘And did it work?’

‘Well, we must assume so, since
that family had previously had a curse put upon it to damn their harlings, and
they are still thriving. Myv is the living proof.’

‘A Wyvachi myth! And the shawl?’

Rinawne grinned secretively and
made his voice low, mysterious. ‘Myv sleeps with an old woven silk blanket on
his bed on the nights of the full moon.’ He made a slow, dramatic gesture with
one arm. Such an actor! Then he laughed, rubbed his nose. ‘I can’t say it’s the
original shawl, but the Wyvachi won’t abandon the tradition.’

‘I should think not! Would you
risk it, then?’

Rinawne shrugged. ‘It’s not for
me to say. Families have their customs.’

I pondered for a moment. ‘But in
that case, Wyva must’ve had the shawl on his bed. What about his brothers? How
did they share it?’

Rinawne gave me a shrewd glance.
‘Ysobi, Wyva and his brothers are not the same age. Nowhere near.’

‘Of course... That must be how
they work it.’ I laughed. ‘Planned pearls.’

Rinawne patted the air, brushing
away gnats from his face. ‘Something like that. But the fact is, it’s a delicate
shawl that’s well past its best. There will come a time when it can no longer
be used anyway.’

‘Then the family should call
upon the spirit to make a new one, perhaps?’

Rinawne stared at me, smirking,
for a moment, then laughed. ‘The great scholar, Ysobi. Falls for the story
completely.’

‘Did you invent it, then?’

‘No, Wyva told me about it when
we had Myv. He had to explain about the shawl then, of course, albeit making
the story as dull as possible!’

‘I hardly know the har, but he
doesn’t strike me as superstitious.’

Rinawne pulled a sour face. ‘He
isn’t, normally. I suppose the tradition started because the Wyvachi felt they
had to do something to... well, the legacy of the first days lies within us
all, in one way or another.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean sometimes hara create
rites to forget the distant past. You must know as well as any har what the
early days of Wraeththu were like.’ Without pause, he got to his feet. ‘Are you
hungry?’

‘A little.’

Rinawne went to fetch the picnic
basket from the pony, and as I waited for him I thought about Myv’s
strangeness. I didn’t believe the Wyvachi ancestor had conjured up a spirit
who’d woven a magical shawl, but I did believe a shawl had been created under
ritual conditions to protect the harlings of the tribe. And what of the curse
Rinawne had mentioned, the vague allusions to hidden tales of the past?