The Moonshawl

by Storm Constantine

  ‘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 carryi
ng 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 s
hawl 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?

  Rinawne spread out a white linen cloth upon the grass, and here arranged the refreshments he had brought. I decided to do some more poking around.

  ‘So, what’s the story of Porter har Goudy?’ I asked. ‘Such an intriguing name, I’m sure his history must be interesting.’

  Rinawne bit into a sandwich and chewed for a while before answering. ‘He’s part of our family. What do you want to know about him?’

  Now I simply felt interfering, and shrugged uncomfortably. ‘Well, he doesn’t appear to belong to anyhar in particular, and is clearly second generation, if not third. I was just... curious.’

  Rinawne put down his sandwich, half eaten, and lay back on the grass. ‘Oh, he’s not related in blood, if that’s what you mean. He’s the son of our previous hienama, Rey har Goudy.’

  That took me aback. ‘Oh... now tell me there isn’t a story.’ I risked a smile, wondering if Rinawne objected to my questions.

  He exhaled through his nose, considering for a moment. ‘Let’s just say...’ He turned to me, leaning his head upon his hand. ‘Rey was – is, he’s not dead – a singular har. He was fey, more fey than the Whitemanes. He fell in love with the land so much he fell right into it. Or maybe it was something to do with who Porter’s father was. He never told us, but I knew he had liaisons with a lot of hara in Gwyllion. Secretive about it. Anyway, he decided to leave harish society, walk his own lone path. So he left Porter with us, and we sought a new hienama from Kyme.’