The Moonshawl: A Wraeththu Mythos Novel (9 page)

Gen pulled a face, half wistful,
half ironic. ‘Sounds idyllic.’

‘I suppose it does, but you
know, I’m becoming fond of Gwyllion too, even after so short a time. This is a
wonderful, atmospheric place, which is something Jesith lacks somewhat. I like
the mystery here, and by that I mean of the land, not its inhabitants. It
appeals to me. Jesith lies in what’s traditionally regarded as one of the most
mystical landscapes in Alba Sulh, but...’ I shrugged. ‘... but here there is
something else.’

‘I sometimes think the land
shaped the history,’ Gen said, ‘influenced us all, but no, we must not head
back to that territory. Tell me of your family.’

So the rest of the meal was
dominated by my tales of Jesith and the hara who lived there. I omitted all my
personal drama, of course, because unlike Gen and his clan this was something I
was working hard to put behind me. I was first generation, too. I didn’t tell
him that. But many in Jesith and its surrounding area had been incepted late. Such
hara had gravitated towards each other and their desire to create a better life
dominated all that they did. I could not think of anyhar in Jesith who brooded
upon the ancient past or who even thought of human ancestors. Gwyllion was a
different place entirely and only a fool would go blundering in and try to
change things.

After the meal was finished, Gen and I moved from
our table to sit beside the fire. Here we sat drinking a herbal liqueur in
enveloping leather armchairs. Gen stared into the flames, the sculpted planes
of his rather long face enhanced by the ruddy glow. I wondered whether it would
be polite to invite him back to the tower, although I had little desire to do
so. I sensed he was waiting for me to say something along those lines, though.
He yawned, stretched. ‘Well, this has been a pleasant evening. It’s good to
make new friends.’

‘Indeed.’ I put down my glass on
the table at my side. ‘I feel like I’ve been here for weeks. You and your
family have been very welcoming. I appreciate it.’

‘In amongst our quirks.’ Gen
grinned. ‘I hope that you’ll find fewer quirks and more reasons to be friends.’

‘Oh, I have no doubt of it.’ I
adopted what I hoped was a more serious expression, although the alcohol I’d
consumed simply made me want to grin. ‘I know I have things to learn, and I
don’t want to go tramping all over your traditions, Gen. The idea is to create
a system that everyhar is comfortable with and enjoys. Festivals are about
celebration. We all have enough hardship to contend with in daily life, at least
from time to time. I feel that when hara come together for the feast days, they
should be rapturous hours, if you know what I mean.’

‘I do. I agree.’ Gen paused. Our
drinks were finished. He too put down his glass. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better
get back. Thanks for joining me tonight.’

‘Thanks too. I’ve enjoyed this.’
I felt we were both waiting for something, so had to speak. ‘I’m still getting
over my journey, so I’m sorry if I look tired. I assure you it wasn’t the
company. I just need my sleep.’

Gen nodded, smiling slightly,
interpreting my unspoken message. ‘Would you like me to mention to Wyva about arranging
the Cuttingtide feast?’

‘Please. If your hara could
organise that side of things, I’d appreciate it. Tell Wyva I’ll let him see the
ritual as soon as I’ve finished it – hopefully in a few days’ time.’

Gen stood up. ‘No problem. Will
you be OK finding your way back to the tower?’

‘Yes, of course. It’s a straight
path. I have only to pass through the hounds of hell to get there.’

Gen laughed. ‘You mean Mossamber’s
hounds.’

‘Who?’

‘Mossamber Whitemane, their
phylarch in all but name. He’s hostling to Nytethorne, your spectre on the
path.’

‘Ah.’ I was intrigued to learn
the Whitemanes kept their pack of hounds so close to me, and wondered whether
they might enact their own wild hunt. ‘And these beasts are kept on Wyvachi
land?’

Gen grimaced. ‘Wyva is
delighted, as you can imagine. But Ludda, who keeps the farm, is quite thick
with the Whitemanes, while being an exemplary tenant for us. We can’t really
forbid it.’

‘Awkward.’

Gen shrugged. ‘As I said, we try
to keep relations... polite.’

We walked to the inn door,
bidding goodbye to Selyf as we passed the bar, where he was polishing glasses
in a slow and meticulous manner. Rows of them gleamed on shelves behind him
like crystal. Metal tankards, similarly buffed, hung in a row above him. There
was no mention of the meal being paid for, although Selyf did ask me to visit The
Stag again. I had a feeling I would never be asked to pay for anything either. Hara
who were gathered around the tables fell silent as we went through the room,
raised their glasses to Gen. He acknowledged each one with a greeting, a quick
personal word. I was impressed he took the time to do this. I had no doubt the
Wyvachi knew everyhar upon their land by name.

Once outside, I said to Gen,
‘there’s something else I’d like you to discuss with Wyva.’

‘Oh, what?’ He had paused by a
line of horses tethered near the door, one of which must be his own.

‘Well, the community needs a
hienama, and that’s not a duty I can take on long term. But I can train somehar
up for you. Perhaps you and your brothers could discuss any likely candidates?’

‘Well, all right.’ Gen sounded
uncertain. ‘Really, we wanted somehar from outside, somehar who’d trained for...
for a time.’

On the tip of my tongue, no
doubt placed there by the fine liqueur and wine, was the suggestion that
perhaps a Whitemane should be considered. Might that not do something to heal
rifts and to give the family a role within the community accepted by the
Wyvachi? Fortunately, prudence took hold of my tongue and kept it silent on
that matter. ‘I suppose I could write to my contacts in Kyme for you.’

‘It’s a pity you can’t take the
job on,’ Gen said, and I sensed in his words the suggestion there was no reason
for me not to become their hienama. And perhaps, really, there wasn’t.

Chapter Five

My work progressed well over the next few days and
I’d sketched out the body of the festival rite. All I needed now was to
finalise locations. The hara of Gwyllion could begin their rite in the village,
and then progress through a couple of pertinent sites, eventually culminating
with a finale in the gardens at Meadow Mynd, where the feast could take place.
Obviously, I’d have to check this plan with Wyva – he might not want so many
hara at the house. But this was an aspect of the celebration that could easily
be changed. Finishing off the songs would take a little longer, but I nearly
had enough to show Wyva.

On the Aloytsday following my
meal with Gen in Gwyllion, I decided to pin down my ritual sites, obviously
avoiding any areas associated with the moonshawl. I needed a field, with a
forest walk nearby that led to an open glade – both of which would have been
perfectly provided by the moonshawl sites I’d seen. I suppressed irritation.
There would be other sites. As usual, I elected to walk rather than ride – in
the week or so I’d been in Gwyllion I’d only ridden Hercules that once. Now he
grazed peacefully in the field below my tower, perhaps all memory of Jesith
gone. He’d been made to work there, often.

Consulting my copied maps, I
could see that the ancient river was flanked by fields on both sides. The river
did not flow too close to Meadow Mynd, however. The house was surrounded by woodland
on three sides, while on the fourth were the fields of Wyva’s personal crops.
These sites were quite a walk from the village. I needed a spot along the way
where hara could pause and enact a small rite. Again, irritation shivered
through me. Maes Siôl was close to the village and the pool not far from the
trail through the trees that led to the Mynd. I felt that any sites I chose
could only be second best to these eminently suitable places. Why couldn’t Wyva
put away the past and imprint new, positive memories over these areas, if bad
memories were associated with them? Perhaps, if I grew to know Wyva better I
could dare to broach carefully upon this subject, but not yet.

I planned to explore the woods
between my tower and the house, hoping to find a picturesque and atmospheric
glade. However, as I wandered, I found my steps taking me nearer to the Llwybr
Llwynog, which was rather out of the way. I wanted to see what lay beyond the
forest there, also what lay beyond the river. I was hoping to catch sight of
one of the Whitemanes again. There was no point denying they fascinated me,
mainly because of the way they’d been described to me. Also, perhaps part of me
sympathised with the outsiders, as the Whitemanes were in the eyes of the
Wyvachi. I knew how it was to occupy that role, to flex against it helplessly,
full of resentment.

The Llwybr Llwynog was deserted
of harish presences, although I sensed a watchful atmosphere. I stood on the
summit, where I found the remains of a tumbled building, most likely a folly
from the time of Wyva’s human ancestors. From there, I could see much of the
surrounding countryside. A pale band of fields hugged the glistening river and
beyond the water I could see more hedged fields, occasional spinneys and in the
distance the glitter of sunlight on glass. I shaded my eyes and stared at this
place. Was this another elderly pile like Meadow Mynd, where once human
families had ruled the land before falling into decline?  Did anyhar live
there? Beyond the wide river valley, ancient mountains soared mistily towards
the sky, their flanks gold and russet beneath the sun.

I heard stifled laughter behind
me and turned at once. Two small brown faces were peering round the mossy
tumbled stones, grinning at me. I recognised the harlings of a few days before,
who’d thrown the moss at me. ‘We meet again,’ I said amiably. ‘Are you going to
run off as before, or perhaps pelt me with missiles?’

 Today not shy, the harlings
came out from their hiding place and at first prowled around me like cats,
examining me intently.  They seemed barely harish, but more like supernatural forest
creatures, born of loam and sticks. Their clothes were grubby; tunics and
trousers of a mud-coloured fabric. They wore no shoes and their grimy toes were
long. Their skins were as dark as the earth itself, yet their eyes were the
vivid green of young moss. Their hair was a riotous black tangle, glossy, yet full
of leaf fragments and twigs. ‘Where are you from?’ I asked them.

The harlings glanced at each
other and laughed, and then began to caper about me in a mad dance. They swooped
in to poke my legs with sharp little fingers, then wheeled out again to
continue their circling. It made me dizzy; they moved so fast. Then, I had the
presence of mind to grab one of the little pests when he swept in to poke me.
He struggled like a wild creature in my grasp, a mass of flailing arms and legs
and sharp little teeth. He lunged to bite my wrists but could not quite reach.
His companion stood still, hands to his face, and began to screech. The noise
both of them made was enough to wake the dead.

‘Be quiet,’ I said in a stern tone.
‘Who are you?’

After a few more moments of
caterwauling, both harlings suddenly became still, staring at one another. I
felt they were listening to somehar – or something.

‘Let him go,’ said the harling
some feet away from me.

‘I think you’ll simply run off
if I do that,’ I replied, somewhat harshly. The harling I held had gone limp in
my hands. My shins hurt where he’d kicked me. ‘I wish you no harm, but can’t
say the same about you concerning me. Do you treat all strangers this way?’

‘Only playing,’ mumbled the
harling in my hold.

‘Playing or not, it’s rude,’ I
said. ‘If my son had behaved like that at your age, I’d have chased him with a
stick.’

Zeph of course would never have behaved
like that. While being a somewhat eerie, mysterious harling, he’d rarely played
up or been irritating. The harlings before me were now sullenly silent.

‘If I let you go, will you stay
to talk to me?’ I asked. ‘I have some lunch with me and we can share it.’

‘All right,’ said both harlings
at once.

I released the harling in my
hold and he ran to what was clearly his brother. They grasped each other
tightly but didn’t attempt to flee, simply stared at me with their uncanny eyes.
I sat down and unpacked lunch from my satchel onto a small cloth I’d brought
with me; cheese sandwiches, a couple of roast chicken legs and two apples, plus
a stoppered flask of milk. Enough to last me for the day, I’d believed. After a
few moments the harlings approached inquisitively.

‘My name is Ysobi,’ I said. ‘Will
you tell me yours?’

‘Our names secret,’ one of them
said.

‘Then I shall call you Twig and
Leaf,’ I said, pointing to each in turn. ‘Help yourself to the food.’

The harlings squatted down and
proceeded to take a bite from each sandwich I’d spread out. Then, leaving the
sandwiches mauled, they started on the chicken legs, cracking the bones with
their teeth. Regarding their filthy hands, I lost my appetite; they could have
it all.

‘Where do you live?’ I asked.

One of the harlings, who I’d
named Twig, pointed beyond the river.

‘Is there a big house there?’

Both harlings nodded vaguely.

‘Are you Whitemanes?’ I asked,
knowing instinctively they were. They shared the same strong, sensual features
of the har I’d met upon the path before.

They looked up at me
suspiciously, while continuing to stuff my lunch into their mouths. The chicken
bones were discarded, now it was back to one bite from each sandwich at a time,
until there were only crusts left, which they threw on the ground.

‘I’m a friend,’ I said. ‘There’s
no need to be afraid. I’m working here in Gwyllion for a time, and would like
to meet your family...
if
you are Whitemanes.’

The harlings got to their feet,
held each other’s gaze for a moment and then beckoned to me. ‘Follow.’

‘Follow where?’

They came to me then, grabbed one
of my hands each and started to drag me. They were laughing, jumping up and
down in their eagerness to lead me forward. ‘Now, wait...’ I tried to resist
them, but their grip was strong. ‘Come now... where are we going?’

‘Just follow!’

‘Oh...’ I sighed, smiled at
them, ‘all right.’

They set off at once, racing
down the hill. I stumbled. ‘Hey, not so fast!’ But they only laughed at me
wildly, and then I was laughing too and let them have their way. We ran down towards
the open fields, faster and faster. I felt like a harling myself, although of
course I had never been one. What would it have been like? These creatures were
like no harlings I’d ever seen. They were wild and beautiful, beings of the
land.

We came to the river, where
there was a broad stone bridge, flanked with low walls, upon which hara might
sit and gaze out over the water. My little Whitemanes led me to the middle of the
bridge, slowing at last to a walk. The river was wide here and roiled with an
almost muscular strength around the weed-wrapped struts below. I felt
light-headed after my run, and disorientated – the unmistakable sensation that
warned of the unseen. I didn’t want to move an inch from the centre of that bridge.

The harlings complained, once
more jumping around me, digging their sharp little nails into my hands. I had
the irrational fear they intended to throw me into the water. No matter how
much I tried to free myself, they wouldn’t let go of my hands. I noticed then, at
the other end of the bridge, facing me, two sentinel statues rearing high:
white horses, each with eight legs, four of which mauled the air.  Even from
this distance I could see their stone lips peeled back from their long teeth in
a snarl, their wild eyes. A shiver passed through me. At any moment, those
beasts might spring to life and be upon me. The harlings, perhaps noticing I
was mesmerised by the sight of these guardians, became quiet and still, as if
waiting. Between the statues, I could see a well-trodden path through the
fields ahead and then a band of tall trees, through which I glimpsed a hint of
walls and windows.   

‘I must go back,’ I said. ‘Let
me go.’

‘No, come with us,’ said Leaf in
a deceptively sweet voice. ‘Come home with us.’

‘No... it isn’t polite to do
that. I’m not invited. If I
am
invited – properly – then I might come,
but not this way.’

‘
We’re
inviting you,’
said Twig. ‘Come, little rabbit, we won’t eat you.’

Both harlings grinned at me. I
realised then that – farcically – I was afraid, but of what? Wasn’t this what I
wanted – a chance to see the domain of the Whitemanes?

‘No, not today,’ I said. ‘I mean
it. Now let me go.’

The harlings grumbled a little,
unintelligible sounds, but clearly not happy ones. They pulled on my arms
strongly, their fingernails still digging into the flesh of my hands. I was
overwhelmed by a visceral desire to escape, to run. I couldn’t pass those stone
guardians ahead. I mustn’t. I would never come back from what lay beyond. I
felt as if I was a child again, held between stronger, meaner children. I was
on the verge of tears: preposterous. Must I copy what my captive harling had
done earlier and free myself with bites and kicks? But before I could attack my
captors physically, (and I really would have done so), a figure appeared
between the stone horses. He wasn’t tall and at this distance I could discern
little detail, other than that he was dressed in trousers and shirt of a dark
colour and his hair fell in a glossy curtain to his waist. He carried a staff.
As the harlings struggled to drag me onward, the har ahead put two fingers into
his mouth and emitted a piercing whistle. The harlings let go of me at once and
scampered towards the end of the bridge, without looking back. It seemed to me they
occasionally dropped onto all fours like dogs, then sprang up again to their
two feet, but even then, fuddled as I was, I told myself that couldn’t have
been possible. The harlings threw themselves against the har who’d whistled,
gripping his waist. If they’d had tails, they would have been wagging. The har
regarded me without moving. He too seemed young, not much older than the wild
harlings, perhaps just past feybraiha. I was breathless, dazed, but managed to
raise a hand in thanks, noticing it was smeared with blood from deep little
cuts. Then, I turned away, went slowly back across the bridge, each step feeling
as if I trod on blades.

As I left the bridge, I saw
something I’d not noticed on the way across: two broken statues lying in the
grass. Unwilling to stop moving, I merely glimpsed the lichened heads of eagles
as I passed, then a lion’s haunch, a smashed paw; gryphons. Whatever guardians
had watched this end of the bridge had been toppled and vanquished.

When I reached the summit of the Llwybr Llwynog once
more, I realised how shaken I was. None of what had happened during the last
half hour or so seemed real. I found the remains of my lunch spread out and
would not touch it, gathering up only the satchel and the cloth. My hands were
smarting where they’d been scratched. I wanted desperately to wash them,
anxious to reach familiar ground where I was welcome. Safe. I was sure now that
this area was influenced wholly by the Whitemanes; it could not be regarded as
Wyvachi land. As I made my way home, I heard again, as on the first day, the
solitary tolling of a bell. I couldn’t discern from which direction the sound
came, but it was at once soothing yet unsettling.

Back in Dŵr Alarch, after I’d washed my cuts, I
made myself strong tea and wrote up, with an unsteady hand, all I’d witnessed
and felt that afternoon. Determined to examine the events rationally, I
concluded I hadn’t picked up any intention of actual harm or violence on the
part of the harlings, other than a vague fear they might’ve tipped me off the
bridge. But really, hadn’t they simply been undisciplined and boisterous? It was
absurd I’d reacted this way to their playfulness. I was unused to being around
harlings. They were not like human children, (who themselves were very distant
memories to me), and it was a mistake to compare them. Twig and Leaf had merely
wanted to show me their home because I’d asked to meet their family. Why had I
resisted so strongly? There was simply an uncanniness about the Whitemanes I’d
met that repelled me as much as it attracted me. I was still shaken. I would
have to meditate to calm myself, but then found that I was wary of what I might
see in that meditation. I would take a bath instead, indulge in a more physical
kind of relaxation. I went upstairs to the bathroom, shedding my clothes as I
climbed the winding stair.