As I climbed, I thought about the cycle of Arotahar, as Flick har Roselane had named it, and how in many ways he had stuck to the imagery and ideas of earlier pagan systems. This lent itself well to adjustment, so that the beliefs of different areas could be incorporated. However, I wanted to avoid generic images and ideas for the spiritual system of Gwyllion. It would be too easy to drop into the ancient tropes of horned god of the forest and harishly-rendered forms of ancient goddesses. While these images had, of course, originally arisen from the land and its people, the hara of this landscape deserved something new while derived from the ancient, imagery more pertinent to modern times, reflecting our harish being. The major dehar should be of the land, yet of us.
I did not expect to come across this entity almost immediately.
I had wandered into the birch groves of the Llwybr Llwynog, where the sunlight came down in golden coins onto the sparse acid green grass beneath my feet. The sward was otherwise covered with a haze of bluebells. My eyes were concentrated mainly on my feet and what lay about me. I was humming to myself a tune that I was composing for Cuttingtide, embellishing its melody, inserting a line of lyrics when they came to me.
The sound of a horse’s stamping hooves jerked me from my reverie. I looked up and saw what I first thought was the vision of a dehar – Shadolan in fact – before me.
He rode a tall grey horse, standing side on to me, whose mane was plaited into pairs of braids tied together at their ends with brass medallions. The rider’s olive green cloak, fringed with what appeared to be rabbit fur, spread over the horse’s haunches. This being looked down at me through narrowed eyes. His face was like something from an ancient painting, some fantasy creature: full-lips, perfectly-arched eyebrows, and sculpted face. The skin was darkish in tone, but I couldn’t tell if that was its natural colour or simply a tan. His beech-brown hair, braided like his mount’s, was gathered in an ornate silver fillet at his neck, two braids spilling forwards over his breast and three others cascading down his back. His shirt and trousers were of brushed leather, as were his boots. I saw scratches as if from brambles, and still smeared about with blood, on the backs of his hands where they lay idly upon the reins. He was harish, real and whole, no dehar – but what a har! His expression was difficult to determine – disapproval, curiosity, welcome, hostility?
‘Good day, tiahaar,’ I said, inclining my head.
The har continued to inspect me, and now that I had ascertained his corporeality, the gaze was insulting. He did not speak. The horse pawed the ground with a fore-hoof. I knew I wasn’t on land I shouldn’t venture into, since this whole forest belonged to Wyva’s family. If anything, this other was the interloper. He was stationed right in my path and I’d have to walk round his horse to go further.
‘Tiahaar?’ I said.
His expression didn’t change and it was clear he wasn’t going to communicate. I didn’t feel he wanted to hurt me, but I sensed my presence in what he took to be his space didn’t please him. Still, short of running me out of the forest, what could he do? I had only to walk round him. Shrugging, to show him he didn’t intimidate me, I took a wide path round the horse’s head. I wasn’t going to look back.
I pondered about him as I continued my walk. At first, I wondered if he would follow me and threaten harm, but eventually, when I did look back, there was nohar behind me. The har had oozed a kind of authority; he had looked down on me in more than one way. I laughed to myself. Well, there was my dehar, my version of Shadolan. Hostile, rude, or not, I saw a template there.
Consulting my fragments of redrawn map, I took a different path home, not wishing particularly to run into my dehar again. As to who he might be, later I could interrogate Gen, who no doubt knew everyhar within the local area. I had my own suspicions about the identity of the rider, though.
Gen had suggested we eat together at The Crowned Stag in Gwyllion, which was larger than The Rooting Boar, the inn I’d visited on my arrival in the area. The Stag was built of light grey stone, misted with mature wisteria, and faced the town green, where there was a wide pond fringed by ancient willows. Tables were set outside, but nohar sat there. When I arrived, which was early in the evening, there were only a couple of customers inside, who barely glanced at me, but Selyf, the har I’d met on my first night in Gwyllion, came out from behind the bar to greet me. Gen had told him I was expected. He ushered me into a private room at the back of the building, which overlooked a garden. Here, Gen was seated at a table by the window, drinking a tankard of ale. Soft globes of light illuminated the shrubs and trees outside as evening cast its veils over the land. I wondered what the purpose of this meeting was. Did he too plan a seduction of a new face? Or was I being too cynical, and he wished merely to extend a hand of friendship? He stood up to greet me and asked for wine to be brought to our table.
I sat down opposite his chair and he too reclaimed his seat.
‘Is your work going well?’ he asked me.
‘Very well, thank you. This is an inspiring landscape. I’ll have an arojhahn ready for Cuttingtide and hope everyhar will be willing volunteers for it.’
‘Oh, they will. But surely you must begin preparations soon? You should speak to Selyf, the keephar here, about what feast should be prepared, or perhaps that is the job of my family?’
I hesitated. ‘Well, I hadn’t been thinking of anything that grand. Is that what Wyva expects?’
‘These hara are desperate for celebrations,’ Gen said, grinning. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you. Perhaps I’m desperate for celebration as much as any.’
‘The – er – catering side of things I took to be somehar else’s responsibility,’ I said. ‘I just come up with the ideas, the words...’
Gen made a calming gesture. ‘You’re quite right. But you should speak to Wyva about it. He’s as eager as all of us to begin our yearly round.’
I looked at Gen for some moments before speaking. ‘I have to ask but... when your previous hienama left his post, why didn’t Wyva simply continue the celebrations as they’d been before? I imagine Rey had arojhahns he used every year and majhahns for all other rites of passage? In my experience, in the absence of a hienama, the phylarch generally takes on the tasks of chesna-bonds, naming rituals and leading seasonal festivals.’
Gen too waited before replying. ‘Let’s just say that Rey told Wyva he must not.’
‘What? Why?’ My words came out too hastily and sounded abrupt. ‘I’m sorry, that was rude of me. It’s just... surprising.’
‘No, I know how it sounds. It’s difficult to explain.’
As many things seem to be in this place. I took a breath. ‘You don’t need to explain, it’s none of my business. I’m here to do a job and I’ll do it.’
Our wine had arrived, and Selyf poured it into our glasses. Despite waiting upon us, it was clear he was a prominent individual within the community, simply from the unmistakeable aura of authority that oozed from him. Unlike the proprietor of The Rooting Boar, he wasn’t typical of the keephar kind, being somewhat ascetic of feature. I wondered if once he’d had an entirely different occupation. While he filled our glasses, with deliberate slowness and continual dabbing of a napkin against the wine flask, there was a silence between Gen and me. Selyf said, ‘Tonight, we serve venison with roast vegetables, tiahaara. Is this to your liking?’
‘That will be fine,’ Gen said.
Selyf inclined his head regally and departed.
Gen smiled at me with an apologetic expression. ‘I get the feeling that all us Wyvachi do is cause problems for you. I heard Wyva had forbidden you from using certain legends in your work. It must seem as if our family is secretive and obstructive.’
‘I’m sure you have your reasons,’ I said dryly, taking a sip of my drink.
‘We’ve sorely annoyed you, Ysobi.’
I shook my head, putting down the glass. ‘Perhaps I’m just too curious. I wasn’t sent here to solve mysteries, merely to help you.’
‘
There are few hara who can resist a mystery.’
Then don’t mention it if you don’t want me looking into it. I laughed softly. ‘Maybe so.’ I waited for a moment. ‘Strangely enough, I came upon another mystery today, in the Llwybr Llwynog.’
‘Oh?’ Gen raised his eyebrows.
‘I thought I’d stumbled across a dehar, a most unusual har, who clearly thought highly of himself. He was riding a great grey horse with an unusually plaited mane decorated with bright medallions, and he would not speak to me. Blocked my path.’
Gen sighed. ‘Whitemanes,’ he said.
‘I thought as much.’
‘From the description of the horse that sounds like Nytethorne Whitemane. Did he have hair braided into five plaits?’
‘Yes. A striking creature.’
Gen grimaced. ‘That’s him. He’s a prominent member of their household. The Whitemanes live upon our land but prefer to believe it is theirs, yet it’s us who maintain it all, and they who benefit. You won’t catch a Whitemane with his sleeves rolled up, working the fields at harvest, although Wyva is there every season. The Whitemanes are aloof, and unfortunately hara believe the image they’ve cultivated and see the Whitemanes as spiritual, mystical.’
‘I can appreciate how this must grate on your family.’
Gen nodded. ‘Yes. Wyva insists we must maintain our dignity and continue polite relations with the Whitemanes, but there’s no love between our families. Whitemanes refuse to see themselves as Wyvachi. Nothing too serious, though. I’d call it a social dysfunction, if anything.’
I didn’t believe that. Pondering what I’d heard, I thought this was even more of a reason why Wyva should have taken on hienama duties after Rey absconded. I was puzzled as to why he hadn’t. Lacking a spiritual leader, it wasn’t surprising the local hara would turn to those who fulfilled that role for them. What hold had Rey had over Wyva to forbid him to take on his enemies in this way? Gen was right; few hara could resist a mystery and me less than most.
Selyf brought our meal to us himself and for a few minutes we ate in silence. Soft, moving light from tall, narrow candles in pewter sticks fell over us. Perhaps those candlesticks had stood in this room for hundreds of years. Who else had dined here over the centuries? I would quite happily have drifted off into a meditation to try and find out, but then pulled myself back to the present moment. I must make the most of this opportunity to interrogate Gen, yet not press him too hard so that defensive shutters came down. I was struggling with how to open a new conversation, but then Gen provided this for me. ‘You’re happy with Dŵr Alarch?’ he asked.
I nodded, dabbed my mouth with a napkin. ‘Who couldn’t be? It’s an amazing building. Did Rey live there before?’
Gen ran the fingers of one hand through his dark hair, which was loose about his shoulders. ‘Yes, it’s traditionally the accommodation of the hienama.’
‘Was Rey with you for a long time?’
Gen nodded. ‘Yes, quite a long time. Maybe fifteen years.’
‘Oh! It’s strange he decided to leave you after all that time. How long has he been gone?’
Gen shrugged. ‘Six, eight months maybe.’
I paused, took a drink, aware I mustn’t fire questions at Gen too briskly. ‘I’m surprised nohar tried to dissuade him from leaving.’
Gen ducked his head to the side, twisted his mouth. ‘Oh, we tried. He and Wyva argued about it at first. Wyva didn’t want to lose our hienama. But Rey is a strange creature. I wasn’t surprised by what he did.’
I lowered my eyes, concentrated on cutting a piece of meat on my plate. ‘Do you still see him?’
Gen didn’t pause. ‘No. He went off into the mountains and hasn’t yet come back. There isn’t a mystery there, Ysobi...’
I looked up, said nothing.
Gen took a breath. ‘Rey is... Rey. He was never at home in a community, although he did his best. I’m sure he’s happier now. He’s first generation.’
‘Oh.’ I let the word hang darkly, with all its implications of instability, weakness and perhaps madness.
We ate again in silence for a minute. Then I said, ‘Rinawne gave me a tour of the house yesterday. He showed me its most haunted room.’
Gen raised his brows. ‘And which room was this?’
‘The breakfast room.’
Gen laughed. ‘It isn’t.’
I returned his smile. ‘Isn’t haunted or isn’t the most haunted?’
Gen made a careless gesture. ‘The old place is probably crawling with ghosts and walking memories for those with the inclination to pick up such things, but no room more than any other.’ He shook his head. ‘Rinawne does like to tell a story – it’s a trait of many Erini hara. What did he tell you?’
‘That he saw some apparition pointing at him the first time he ate in the room and that he spat at it in front of your entire family and nohar said a thing.’
Again Gen laughed. ‘I recall that episode. He did spit, but there was no mention of ghosts, and the spitting was more symbolic than actual, if you get my meaning. You can imagine what we all thought, though – some strange Erini custom for eating at a new table or something. He was a wild young thing when he came here. We learned to expect anything!’ He put his head to one side. ‘I feel I should say something to you.’
‘What?’
‘About Rinawne.’
Momentarily, my flesh chilled. ‘What about him?’
‘Well, like I said, he’s fond of telling stories – the harlings around here love him for it – but don’t take everything he says as the literal truth. He rewrites reality sometimes to fit his own view of the world. He embellishes. This makes the stories more exciting, but remember – they will mostly just be stories. That’s why you should be careful what you use of them in your work. The embellishment occasionally upsets hara.’
‘When the stories are about themselves?’
Gen studied me, a half smile on his face. ‘That’s not what I meant exactly. The area... Well, I shall put it bluntly. When hara first appeared in these lands, whether they came from flying machines in the sky, across the sea, or were somehow just spontaneously created, as they were in Megalithica, there was great conflict between them and the human communities.’
‘Wasn’t there everywhere?’
‘Yes, but here the people were already fairly tribal. With the breakdown in human society, the population here had closed ranks, drawn close, protecting each other from human threats, never mind anything else. When Wraeththu came, son was pitched against father and grand-father, nephew against uncle; it was an ugly time.’
I put down my knife and fork, folded my hands beneath my chin. Now I would have to be careful. ‘Gen, where I come from... Jesith... I’ve lived there a long time, and to this day know little about how the community was formed or who lived there before. No doubt there was horror in the history – how could it be avoided? But the hara in Jesith don’t... dwell on or in the past. They live for the present moment, nurturing the land, benefiting from its bounties. That is life to them, not ancient conflicts. From what I’ve seen, that’s the situation throughout Alba Sulh – well, the parts I’ve visited. Why is it so different here?’
Gen dropped his gaze from mine. He seemed sorrowful, wistful. ‘I don’t know.’
I reached out and touched one of his hands. ‘Perhaps what Gwyllion and the Wyvachi need is to let go of that past.’
Gen uttered a laugh that was more like a cough. ‘How can we, when we live in it? We live in that house, upon this land, where it all happened.’ He raised his eyes to me again. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be speaking to you like this. We shouldn’t broach this subject. It’s our burden, not yours.’
I opened my mouth to speak but he lifted a hand to silence me.
‘No, you’re right. The hara here should move on, and maybe you can help with that. But don’t think of my family in that respect; they are locked into the past. To try and prise that lock free would...’ He held my gaze for a momen
t, his eyes wide, not held in his usual slightly narrow, tricksy expression. ‘I’ve said more than I should. Rinawne doesn’t understand. He’s an outsider, though much loved, of course. He doesn’t mind his tongue and he could say anything to you. I’m asking you now not to encourage him, or to believe all he says. He knows nothing. He makes assumptions that are very... colourful.’
‘I’m not here to rake over your family’s past,’ I said gently. ‘Neither can I force any of you to abandon it. You will find your own way, in time, I’m sure.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, in time.’
I picked up my knife and fork again. ‘And believe me, I already have Rinawne’s measure.’
Gen laughed, brightened. ‘Please don’t imagine I think badly of him. He’s good for us. He just has his ways.’
I took a mouthful of food, swallowed it before continuing. ‘All I’m concerned about is not treading on toes, which makes my work a little more difficult. But I’ve already decided to avoid the bloodier aspects of the yearly round. Such things can be implied but not emphasised. From what I’ve heard, and the feelings I get, it seems to me a lighter atmosphere needs introducing. Celebration of what is good about life.’
Gen frowned a little. ‘Death is a part of the cycle, though.’
‘Of course, but that doesn’t mean it should be the main focus.’ I cut some more meat, and spoke before eating it. ‘The turning of the seasons, the movement from light to dark and how that affects our environment; that is what is important. How it affects us too.’
The Moonshawl Page 7