The Moonshawl

by Storm Constantine

  ‘Unfortunately, that is so,’ I said.

  ‘But our knowledge of the past, and all that we witnessed, shouldn’t be lost,’ he continued. ‘Perhaps we are tainted by it, but to forget what happened is to make yourself vulnerable. And old mistakes can be repeated. At least, that’s what I think.’ He paused for a moment and gazed around him. ‘Wyva has done well here. The hara are happy, the house stands proud. But there is blood beneath this soil, Ysobi har Jesith, and it has a memory. Just be mindful of that.’

  I inclined my head. ‘I understand.’

  Again, he patted my shoulder. ‘Enough of the past. Let’s rejoice in mendings and happy hours for the future.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more.’

  We had reached the company. Several hara of the Gwyllion Assembly had clustered around Gen and Cawr – rather protectively, I thought. Conversation was cordial, yet a little stilted, perhaps to be expected under the circumstances. I took the opportunity to drift away from the family gathering.

  I saw Myv near the fire, dancing around the flames with Porter and a tumble of harlings from the town, no doubt his schoolmates. Perhaps he had always been free and at ease among hara of his own age. To me that night he seemed like any other harling I’d met, carefree and joyous because he was at a party among friends. He spotted me and gestured for me to come over, and then asked me to dance with them. I hadn’t drunk enough to feel comfortable being the only adult cavorting round the fire, so again made my escape. Myv didn’t insist and turned back to his friends.

  As I walked through the crowd that now covered the lawn of Meadow Mynd, hara called to me in greeting, showered me with blessings and good wishes. I was reminded wistfully of how I’d never really had that in Jesith. Even before Jassenah had come into my life, I’d been rather a recluse because of relationships that had gone sour, and my inability to deal with the fallout properly. Jass had tried to bring me into the light, and for a while that had been golden, but this hadn’t lasted. Still, tonight was not the time for melancholy thoughts. I was here in Gwyllion and life was different.

  I wandered into the woodland beyond the lawns, which comprised mainly aged rhododendron, unquestionably the sovereign in this part of the garden. Perhaps it had even witnessed the horrors of Meadow Mynd’s history. The voluptuous blossoms were starting to look past their best, but they were late-blooming enough to grace the midsummer festival with their translucent beauty, and also being of a breed that released a faint fragrance into the air. I inhaled deeply as I walked the narrow path between them, conscious of the myriad dens of thick stalks and dusty leaves that were concealed in the heart of the overgrown shrubs. I remembered how I’d used to play in such hideaways when I’d been a boy. I’d owned a veritable labyrinth of chambers and tunnels in my grandmother’s garden. Fondly, I reached out and touched a cluster of the glowing white flowers, bringing them to my face, taking in their scent. Petals came away in my hands, fell to earth. I was glad my grandmother had died long before her garden had been made a ruin.

  Then a whisper came to me, ‘Such fond memories, Wyvachi-called.’

  Only Whitemanes would address me as that. I turned quickly, but could see nohar. My heart increased its beat, preparing to fight or flee. ‘Are you such a coward as to not show yourself?’ I said, equally softly.

  There was a rustling and he came burrowing out of the dark leaves on the opposite side of the narrow path. He stood up. The starlight was so bright I could see him clearly, the dust on his clothes, cobwebs in his hair, the wet gleam of his eyes. He was tall, arrogant, sneering, yet with the features of a Classical god.

  ‘I believe I have the honour of the company of Nytethorne Whitemane,’ I said, bowing.

  He laughed, shook his hair as a horse might shake his mane. ‘So he perceives a difference among us, the Wyvachi-called.

  ‘Why are you here?’ I asked. ‘The festival is over. It went well. You can report that.’

  Nytethorne ignored my words. He smiled, and I couldn’t tell what sentiment lay behind it. ‘You grieved for my blood, my son said.’

  And now they have sent you to continue his work.

  I shrugged, more nonchalantly than I felt. ‘I won’t lie. What I saw last night shocked me, but then I am an over-civilised and weak har in your eyes. Blood rites do not figure greatly in my spiritual work.’

  ‘Strange. Heard you spill blood quite regularly,’ Nytethorne said, ‘but not the physical kind.’

  Again, I bowed. ‘I’m flattered your family find me important enough to harass, tiahaar, but whatever you’re plotting won’t work. Unless you’re planning to resort to physical harm, although Wyva assures me that has never happened between your clans, at least not – how did he put it? – intentionally.’

  Nytethorne no longer appeared as confident as he had. I knew I had scored a point. ‘No, they hurt their own more,’ he said in a hard tone. ‘Ask him about that instead.’

  ‘Why do you care what I know or think? It’s been made clear to me you despise me, and I’ve assumed that’s because of my education and way of life, yet you can’t leave me alone, can you? Why don’t you just laugh at my weakness behind my back? Laugh at how stupid Wyva was to call me from Kyme, and leave it at that.’

  ‘Didn’t call you from Kyme, though, did he?’

  My laughter was genuine. I no longer felt any shred of apprehension. ‘You won’t give up trying to unsettle me, will you? It’s become a posture, Nytethorne Whitemane. Be civil to me or leave me be. I’ve no interest in any other kind of interaction between us. And that goes for all of you. Maintain your ancient hatreds if you must, but don’t include me in your games.’ I turned to walk back to the party, leave the spy to dwell upon what I’d said. I didn’t expect him to follow and take hold of my arm.

  ‘You know nothing, Wyvachi-called,’ he murmured, close to my ear. ‘They called you into this. Can’t turn the soil without finding worms. It knows you now. If you think we control that, you’re mad.’

  I shook myself free of him. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

  There was a pause while we held each other’s gaze, me waiting for Nytethorne’s response. ‘You’ve a leaning to meddle,’ he said. ‘Gets you noticed. Think you’re quiet? You’re not. You crash through the forest like a boar. Take heed of it. Learn to be quiet.’

  ‘Because?’

  Nytethorne held my gaze, and it was difficult not to be influenced by his appearance, the appeal that oozed from him. ‘He went because he was wise,’ he said slowly.

  I was sure at once who he meant. ‘Rey.’ The name came out like a breath.

  Nytethorne continued to stare at me. ‘You be wise and do the same. Let the Wyvachi sacrifice their harling. Perhaps he’s the one they wait for, but I don’t believe in miracles.’

  I realised this har, however disjointedly, was trying both to warn me and give me information. I also realised the Whitemanes must have an informant in the Mynd. Nytethorne’s information was too precise. ‘If Rey went because he was wise,’ I said carefully, ‘why did he leave his son behind?’

  There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘Porter’s never in danger.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of who his father is.’

  I blinked. ‘And that would be?’

  I knew he wouldn’t answer. He already regretted revealing too much. ‘No matter,’ I said. ‘Keep your secrets. But as a har, and a parent yourself, if you have any information, however small, that would protect Myv, you should tell me. He’s only a harling, not part of your family vendettas. Surely you have the honour to realise that?’

  ‘You protect him,’ Nytethorne said.

  I stared at him, remembering that brief feeling of being watched earlier, the brush of thought against my mind. ‘You were in the gardens earlier, weren’t you? You tried to tell me something.’

  ‘Nothing more to say!’ And then he was sprinting away from me down the path, leaping in strangely long strides, until I could see him no more. He’d ha
d merely the barest trace of a limp and yet only the night before he’d been shot in the leg. Not even hara usually heal that quickly.

  Once he’d gone, I was shaken, flooded with disorientation that I’d managed to keep at bay in his presence. They had such a strong effect, these Whitemanes. It put my former reputation to shame.

  I breathed deeply for a couple of minutes to calm myself, not wishing to return to the Mynd in a dishevelled mental state that somehar might notice. Once I felt in control of myself again, I retraced my path.

  There was an ornate gazebo at the edge of the rhododendrons, and I saw that two hara were seated there. As I drew nearer, it became clear this was Wyva and Medoc. Something about their postures alerted me. I could hear no words, and neither of them was on their feet gesticulating, but all the same I sensed an argument was in progress. And because I needed information I crept up on them, keeping to the foliage, keeping quiet, until I could hear them. (Was I following Nytethorne’s advice already?)

  ‘Wyva, you must protect your own,’ Medoc was saying. ‘You’ve chosen to remain here, and you must continue to abide by the rules. Part of that is not challenging the past.’

  ‘This is our home,’ Wyva said in a controlled tone. ‘Yes, it was our choice to remain here, while you chose to depart. But I don’t see why, after all this time, we can’t begin to put aside that grim history, truly take back what is ours.’

  ‘Because you never can,’ Medoc replied, his voice sounding genuinely sad. He put a hand against his chest. ‘Wyva, I was there. I saw your parents after what happened. The terror in their hearts, their souls. Kinnard should have fled with us. Remaining here cost him his life and that of his chesnari.’

  ‘There’s no proof of that... For Aru’s sake, they didn’t create my pearl then die. They had years of happiness... Cawr, Gen...’

  ‘Oh, Wyva!’ Medoc exclaimed. ‘Will you blind yourself to that too?’

  There was a silence after these words, as if Medoc had said something absolutely appalling or out of place. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last. ‘I shouldn’t have used that term.’

  Wyva shook his head. ‘My son wants to be hienama,’ he said in a determined tone. ‘This is a revered role and if he’s called to it, he should follow the path.’

  ‘Of course! But not here. It will turn the soil.’

  I was reminded of what Nytethorne had said. Can’t turn the soil without finding worms. What was this family’s secret and how could it still affect the present? Was it merely a haunting, whether imagined or conjured from damaged minds, or something more?

  ‘Medoc, part of me knows you are right,’ Wyva said, still in that smooth, controlled voice that he must have perfected over the years, ‘but it is they who perpetuate our curse. They feed it, never let it die. Is it right we should simply flee from that, turn our backs on it? What does that promise for the hara we leave behind? Do we abandon them to Mossamber Whitemane and his obsessions? Do you really advocate that?’

  Medoc shook his head. ‘No, but...’

  ‘Somewhere in that house there is a shrine to Peredur,’ Wyva said before Medoc could continue. He pointed out towards the river and what lay beyond. ‘And nightly they worship before it, feeding whatever is left of those dire days.’

  ‘You have proof of that?’

  ‘No, but I don’t need it. And in your heart you know that, too.’

  Medoc sighed. He reached out and clasped Wyva’s shoulder. ‘My heart aches for you,’ he said, ‘and that’s partly why I’ve stayed away from Meadow Mynd. I know I can’t change anything and I can’t bear to witness what might happen here, what will continue to happen until their thirst for revenge, their vision of justice, is quenched.’ He stood up. ‘If the fire of youth still burned in me, I’d muster an army from both our lands and lay waste to the domain of Whitemane, unearth whatever cankers its foundations and banish it. Don’t think I haven’t dreamed of that for nearly a century. But what is done is done. Kinnard made his choice. He did what he thought was right. He shot that arrow, and with it sealed the fate of our family.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you have done the same?’

  ‘Instead of what Mossamber did?’

  The question hung in silence.

  Wyva shook his head. ‘Mossamber thought he was liberating a corpse, and what he took was hardly more than that. You can’t blame my hostling. As you said, you were there.’

  Medoc made an impatient gesture with one hand. ‘Wyva, the rights and wrongs of that are beyond debate now. It happened, and we can’t change that. But the consequence was that we’d be cursed if we remained here. Kinnard chose defiance; I chose departure. And perhaps it seems to you as if things have gone quiet, somehow faded over time, but I swear that once Myv reaches feybraiha the soil will turn. Perhaps it’s already doing so. That is what I must speak out about, no matter how you don’t want to hear it. I also know you won’t agree with me, but I have to say it to clear my conscience.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have come here tonight if I’d told you about Myv yesterday, would you?’ Wyva said bitterly.

  ‘Probably not. Our lives are long, Wyva. In comparison to our human forbears we have few children. For this reason, you’ve been able to carry on, believing all is well, because relatively few births occur to defy the malediction.’

  ‘My hostling fought back. He protected his family.’

  ‘A legend,’ Medoc said, ‘wishful thinking.’

  ‘And yet this wishful thinking has magically sustained us.’

  ‘I believe it has, because the will behind it was strong, but it’s not enough, Wyva. All is not well, and Kinnard’s original fire has flickered out. He’s no longer with you with his ferocious beliefs, that power he had to protect his own. What you’re proposing will only open it all up again.’

  ‘I can’t believe that,’ Wyva said. ‘My hostling is dead, but so is Peredur. He’s been dead for a century. All that lives is Mossamber’s hatred, which he’s spread like a disease among his hara. I don’t and can’t believe there’s anything wrong in standing up against that. To me, to do otherwise is simply cowardice.’

  ‘Have you truly forgotten what happened when your pearl broke open?’ Medoc asked softly.

  Wyva paused before answering. ‘No, but what I saw was with the eyes of a newly-hatched harling. How can I be sure that the memory is true and not just what my parents told me afterwards?’

  ‘They did not lie to you. We all heard it, even if we didn’t see with our own eyes. And many things happened afterwards to confirm the truth of that dark promise.’ Medoc leaned down and again clasped Wyva’s shoulder. ‘Surakin, I know how badly you want everything to be right, to live here as a family should, leader of your hara, guardian of the land. But don’t goad fate.’

  ‘Your mistakes caused it all,’ Wyva said abruptly. ‘Peredur’s, Kinnard’s, yours. You turned on your human family, who still loved you, for no other reason than a mindless lust for destruction, the true curse of the incepted.’

  Medoc sighed. ‘There is not one creature who ever lived – human or har alike – who wouldn’t have rewritten part of their history if they could. The early days were barbarous, Wyva. You’ll never appreciate how much. The change was cathartic, terrible. Disgusting things were done – on both sides, as you know only too well. But to my mind, such things must be forgotten, left behind, and if that means leaving Meadow Mynd too, this should happen. There will always be a place for you in our home and for however many of your hara would follow you. Other than that, I can do nothing.’

  ‘So this is it, then? You leave our domain and we continue as before, as if we were strangers?’

  ‘No,’ Medoc said softly. ‘The estrangement was wrong, but please don’t ask me to be part of what you’re doing here. As I said, you’re always welcome in our home, at any time. If you really can’t bear to leave Gwyllion, at least consider finding a new house nearby. There are surely others that could be restored. That might be enough to protect you all.’

 
; ‘I won’t leave here, Medoc,’ Wyva said. ‘This house loves us and we love it too. It’s the heart of our community and protects us every day of our lives.’

  Medoc straightened up and looked around him. ‘That might be so. How can I argue against such strong, personal conviction? I’m not you. But by the dehara, you can feel the resentment here. Watchful, cruel, vengeful, prowling beyond the boundary of your wards. The love among you keeps it at bay, but don’t make the mistake of believing it weakened.’

  Wyva said nothing, as if drained of words.

  ‘Come,’ Medoc said, ‘let’s return to the party. I hope you’ll think about what I’ve said, but neither will we speak of it again.’

  Wyva stood up, and he and Medoc embraced. Then they walked away.

  I waited for some minutes before rejoining the party myself, thinking about what I’d heard. It sounded as if the Wyvachi believed the Whitemanes had cursed them. The history between the two families clearly went all the way back to the beginning. There had been at least three of the former Wyvern family who’d been incepted – or so I concluded. One had been Wyva’s hostling Kinnard, another was Medoc, but who was Peredur, now dead? How had he died? Mossamber thought he was liberating a corpse... Had that been Peredur or somehar else? And what had happened when Wyva had hatched from his pearl? What had he seen, or been told he’d seen? How did it all fit together?

  I felt strangely calm as I walked back across the lawns. Meadow Mynd stood strong against the night and I could feel its aura of protection as Wyva had described it. The hara dancing around the fire and who were clustered, talking loudly, around the tables clearly did not sense anything dangerous nearby, no prowling malice. Could Medoc be wrong, too influenced by his own past?

  I noticed a pale figure standing a little apart from the others and saw it was Rinawne, his festival costume glowing in the light of the fire. It was not like him to be away from the heart of a gathering. I went to him and put a hand on his back. He jumped, startled, and then laughed when he saw it was me. ‘Ysobi, don’t creep up on me in the dark!’