Bride of the Stone: Circle of Nine Trilogy 2

by Josephine Pennicott

  *

  Simeon waited, eyes unable to look away from the surface of the ocean. He had the irrational thought that if he kept contact by maintaining his gaze, then the monster known as Flembow would not appear. Each dark shape glimpsed among the wild waves sent his heart into spasms. His arms ached behind him, and his fear had caused him to soil himself. The odour of his own shit was mortifying, and long-buried feelings about himself had risen to the surface as he faced the ocean.

  ‘Freak!’ He could still hear the cries of the painted whores and he trembled, longing to cry out to a mother, but it was useless. He had never known her. A priestess in the service of Aphrodite, she had expelled him from her body quickly, expressed her pleasure that he was a hermaphrodite and therefore worthy of Aphrodite, and then given him to a wet nurse, so she could return to work as soon as possible and continue to worship the Goddess with her body.

  He could hear the everyday sounds of the docks in progress behind him, but nobody came to his aid. The sailors all feared the holding pole, and only on rare occasions would they approach it, not wishing Flembow to mistake them for his allocated sacrifice. He heard the fluttering of wings behind him and realised with grim hopelessness that vultures had begun to gather. At that moment his despair felt so great that if he could have done so, he would have released his sparrow from his chest voluntarily, rather than submit himself to the jaws of Flembow. He waited, as the rustle of wings grew stronger around him and his fears increased. He did not break his gaze from the ocean.

  *

  ‘I said don’t kill her!’ the Lightcaster hissed, standing over Kaliegraves, as she lay on the ground, blood running from her face where an eager sailor had punched her. ‘I need her tortured slowly! I need information from the old bitch!’

  For a second the sailor looked confused, and the Pricker tensed. They had jumped, but they could still turn back. He never underestimated the unpredictable nature of mobs and the few scraps of human goodness that could be located in the most demonic of hearts. He had learnt that lesson well over the centuries.

  ‘Carry her inside the house!’ he hissed, before they changed their mind. They lifted the Crone, who slumped in their arms, moaning incoherently. The Pricker was tense. If they had bashed her into unconsciousness, then all his precious work was ruined, or if the Crone managed to release her sparrow voluntarily, she would defeat him with her death. Over time, he had seen many witches do that as well.

  ‘Put her on her table!’ he ordered, evaluating all the while the mood of the mob. If they cooled down too much, then they would begin to retreat in shame, but if they got fired up too high, then they would pull her to pieces before his eyes. It was a delicate operation and he was always wary; when you were dealing with witches, you had to be.

  ‘Now, now,’ he soothed her, as she lay on the table. ‘Come back a bit, my dear, it’s not time yet.’ He reached into a bag that he carried at his waist, and trembling slightly in anticipation, he retrieved his golden pricker. ‘Splash her with water to revive her,’ he ordered. ‘Then remove her clothes.’

  Eagerly the mob raced to do his bidding.

  *

  She was a child again, walking through the city streets, hand in hand with her parents. High above them the sky was apricot tinged with gold. There was a sweet smell in the air of promise and of freshness. Anything and everything wonderful seemed possible. Devotees of the Scaled One appeared to be everywhere. There was an odour of new beginnings. In the sky a great herd of dragons went past, and nobody gave them a second look. A fool came prancing towards them, playing a jaunty tune on his pipes, and everyone laughed, making a clearing for him. Some of the women were dancing, their yellow silk skirts swirling around them. She passed a statue of the new goddess, whom her parents sometimes discussed in worried tones. Aphrodite, the Tomb Goddess, the Man Slayer, Ishtar—she was known by many different names, and wore many different faces. The statue was exquisite, with its jewelled cat-like eyes and beautifully proportioned body. It was hard to believe that such a young, small woman could cause so much trouble in her parents’ minds since they had read those few scribbled lines by the Tremite Scribes. She sighed, feeling pure pleasure at being in the company of her parents.

  Her father looked down at her and smiled. ‘It’s not long to go,’ he said. In the market square a white ox had been led to be sacrificed to the Scaled Ones. Wildflowers had been placed around the beast, and he bellowed in fear, as he sensed his impending death. She paused to examine him. His eyes were so lost and, at the same time, so horribly knowing of his fate.

  ‘Come along,’ her mother said. ‘Blood will be spilt today.’

  She followed them, feeling vaguely unsettled. Across the market, she spotted Khartyn the Crone. She was standing, staring at her. Now a cold shiver of dread ran through her. Khartyn did not belong here! This was Old Baffin, not New!

  A voice interrupted her confused mind. ‘Where is Khartyn the Crone? Tell me, and I will make your death quicker! Where is the old witch?’

  She moaned, feeling an instrument piercing her.

  Slowly, she became aware that she was now in New Baffin, lying on her table, surrounded by drunken louts and leering whores. She was naked, and blood ran down her body. There was a sense of unreality about the scene. It could not be going to end like this. Not after centuries, surely it would not end like this! The pricking continued over her body. Now he was moving the instrument over her face, coming nearer her eyes. Lightcaster — a part of her mind knew that fact. A Lightcaster had penetrated Eronth and was in her home. Her face was a mass of pain, fire crept over her skin. She could feel the fresh spearmint breath of the Lightcaster and the heavy jasmine cologne that he wore. She felt, with terror, her eyeball pierced by the pricker and the faint screams from the whores.

  ‘Tell me, old witch! Where is Khartyn!’

  Pain was splitting her into pieces. Blood and gore were running down her face, and there was a loud screaming in her head. It was impossible to tell if the screaming came from her own throat or from others.

  ‘F-Faia!’ she managed to gasp. There was a smile on his face; she could feel the smile. The instrument continued its deadly advance towards the other eye.

  *

  Simeon waited, shivering. His clothes had become soaked with spray and his muscles, long cramped, were protesting their confinement in the ropes that bound him. As the crowd of vultures had continued to grow, his hopes had lessened. He had been peering at the ocean for so long that his mind had imagined many different horrors beneath the waves. Seaweed that might or might not have been the floating hair of the Merpeople, a flash of white that might have been a bird, or a trick of the light, or a hand emerging from the depths. Sinister dark floating shadows that could be sharks scenting his fear or worse . . . He was sweating, the droplets falling into his eyes, stinging, causing the sea to blur for a moment.

  Then he saw it, and his heart nearly stopped in fear. Far out on the purple horizon, a tiny dot of a head; then, for a second, huge coils behind that head. Flembow. He knew without a doubt that the legendary monster was near, and was coming for him. The great sea serpent had held him in his eye. He began to sob. He didn’t want to die, he was only young. There was so much not accomplished, and to die like this! Perhaps he had imagined it, he thought frantically. Maybe it was only a Kraken he had spotted, or better yet, a water-horse. He had heard the sailors complaining about the ever growing population of water-horses. Hope moved within him.

  But then he saw the size of the great coils moving towards him. For a moment he glimpsed the exposed veins shining through the translucent coils, and the massive head, as it moved quickly towards him in the water. He screamed, not caring who heard his loss of control. All that he knew was that he didn’t want to die in the jaws of Flembow.

  ‘Stand still!’

  A voice shocked him. To his disbelief, he saw that help had arrived. A woman was attempting to cut through his ropes with a large knife. With horror he saw Flembow increasing
his pace through the water towards them. A high-pitched scream of rage filled his ears as the monster realised his sacrifice was being taken away. Simeon screamed; Flembow had now reared over him. He could see clearly the immense head with its one fiery red eye. The grotesque torso of the beast with its human arms, the black blood which ran through the veins of its neck. It was moving its head quickly towards him with shark-like jaws.

  ‘Quickly!’ He felt himself being pulled from the holding pole, and then miraculously, he was rolling onto the dock on top of the woman. He sobbed as Flembow bashed against the quay in fury at losing his sacrifice. After what seemed an eternity, the monster gave up and submerged into the churning waters.

  Deeply shocked, Simeon could only stare in horror and gratitude at the woman. She was vaguely familiar to him. He opened his mouth to express his thanks, but she cut him off.

  ‘Not yet! It’s still not safe! The Lightcaster will return shortly. We have to get out of here!’ Simeon staggered to his feet, conscious of his fouled and dishevelled appearance.

  ‘Come on!’ she said impatiently. ‘If you linger, he will finish here what Flembow tried to begin!’

  ‘Who are you?’ Simeon asked as he began to run after her. She was dressed in faded denim trousers and a black shirt — the sort of clothes he had seen in museums of New Baffin. Her hair was dyed the shocking pink that was the fashion on the streets of New Baffin, although black stripes streaked the sides of her head. There was something familiar about her. She turned and smiled at him, a dazzling smile that seemed to heal some hidden inner part of him. She held out a pale hand, and in it was a vulture feather.

  ‘It’s from one of the birds that was waiting for you,’ she grinned. ‘Keep it, it will bring you luck.’

  He forgot his embarrassment over his stained trousers as he accepted the feather.

  ‘I’m Rudmay,’ she said. ‘One of the Scribes. Hurry! I sense him! He’s on his way!’

  Her panic was contagious, and Simeon began running. Now he knew why she had seemed familiar. He had seen her photograph a thousand times in the New Baffin Daily. He could scarcely believe his good fortune as he ran after her fleeing figure. The Goddess had truly smiled upon him!

  The sea appeared calm, but it was deceptive. Beneath its smooth surface, hidden dangers lurked and emotions ran wild. The sea had been cheated of its sacrifice. Hidden beneath, the Merpeople hissed their displeasure, and the water elementals leapt in great bounds to hurl curses upon the land, causing the air elementals to throw wind back in protest. Salt spray was flung upon the shores of New Baffin. The sounds of the great waves crashing could be heard all over the city, and old ghosts stirred in the memories of the New Baffinites.

  However, the sea was patient, above all things. Soon, it knew, the energies of the land would be forced to acknowledge the power of the ocean realms. Gradually it calmed. It could afford now to be still and silent, and bear the pain that had gripped it for so long. It might have lost a sacrifice today, but there would be many more. It knew that its time was coming.

  *

  She was back in the market. Her father was smiling down at her. ‘I am the happiest man in Old Baffin,’ he said. His eyes were the colour of the ocean, and his dark hair was glossy and thick. ‘For I have the loveliest little girl, and she is you.’

  She beamed, and she could not remember ever feeling happier. There were screams from the marketplace, but she ignored them. She was with her parents now, and no harm could come to her. Her mother’s lavender skirt brushed the ground, she smelt of wild roses, her skin was pale and her hair was the colour of corn. She knelt down and looked at Kaliegraves. ‘We live in the best city in the best state,’ she said softly. ‘The Scaled One protects us. Never forget that we are blessed beyond measure.’

  Then she whispered conspiratorially, ‘I think they are about to sacrifice the bull. Would you like to witness?’

  Kaliegraves nodded solemnly. Her father frowned, consulting the beautiful sweet young face of her mother. ‘Do you think it is wise?’ he asked, then shrugged. ‘I suppose she has to grow up some time!’

  To Kaliegraves’s delight, he bent down, lifting her up onto his shoulders. Khartyn was there again, standing silently watching as they passed. Kaliegraves willed her to go away — she didn’t belong in Old Baffin! They walked past the groups of fools and traders to the centre where the ox had been. Kaliegraves was shocked when she saw him. They had blinded him and she had to resist the urge to cry out. He was bellowing in pain, screaming in a high-pitched female sound, blood across his entire face. He was surrounded by a small mob, who appeared to be torturing him slowly.

  Kaliegraves’s mother smiled. ‘Not long now, Kaliegraves, and the pain will be over for him!’

  Kaliegraves nodded, feeling terror at the sight of the bull, longing to cover her ears and eyes, but attempting to keep her composure.

  ‘Here we go,’ her father said with satisfaction. ‘He’s going to get them to cut his throat.’ Kaliegraves tried to cover her eyes at this point, but her father laughed. ‘Come on, my sweet flower! Watch the bull be sacrificed.’

  A man watched from the perimeter of the crowd. He was different from the mob, different from the others in the marketplace, and Kaliegraves knew that he alone was responsible for what was happening. She could see clearly that he was feeding on the ox’s pain and suffering. His power was growing. It disturbed her that her parents seemed oblivious to this demonic being. He controlled this crowd. She longed to scream, to warn all the citizens of Old Baffin about this horror, but her mouth was filled with blood.

  A sailor stepped forward, covered in blood, and shouting. ‘Witch! Witch!’

  A large knife gleamed. He stepped over the bloody dying ox and slashed its throat.

  Kaliegraves watched in terror as the ox’s throat burst. Her father put her down on the ground gently. ‘It’s over now,’ he said softly. ‘Let’s go home.’

  PART THREE

  WANING MOON

  Honey dripped down his face, his thighs. He approached her carefully, treading lightly in this magical place, this wrinkle of time where they could meet. Above them was a thin orange crescent of the waxing moon. He could smell the odour of semen, and of old ships. She was waiting for him, standing patiently by an old myrrh tree, her body seeming to effortlessly merge into the bark. He knew the myrrh to be the mother of Adonis, and he realised, for the first time, the taste of horror. His feelings toward this woman and all she represented could not be denied. It was eating at him in huge savage chunks. He paused, unwilling to step nearer to her, feeling the need to control the situation. She smiled briefly, knowing his thoughts. ‘Come,’ she said softly, and the fear crashed through his chest in the form of a black tiger and went for her throat, but she dissolved the savage fear with a disdainful glare of her golden eyes.

  A soft breeze lifted her hair, and he realised he was staring openly in fascination at her. He had seen her image repeated so many times, in different worlds in their sculpture and arts, that it was unsettling to be faced with the genuine article. He knew all goddesses were one goddess, but to witness the fragments of features that had been placed upon her over time was compelling. She was Ishtar, small, dark and cat-eyed, wild and filled with strength. She was the fair-haired goddess of the Greeks and Romans; she was both black and white, the surviving thought pattern of centuries of invocations and dreams. He knelt before her and closed his eyes, her gaze upon him colder than a winter dawn. She was known by different titles: the Black One, the Dark One, the Man Slayer. He could not open his eyes for fear he would be blinded.

  About her he could hear the murmur of the sea, the language of the tides, and he knew that her place of birth was her true realm. The cold waves, where she had been born of bloody genitals, could never replace the warmth of the land, of corn and olives and the stench of animals. Is this real? The thought rippled through his mind, but he could smell the odour of her body, the feral mix of goddess and animal smell. He could hear the peculiar crac
kling of the time wrinkle they inhabited.

  After some time, when she still had not spoken, he forgot himself and opened his eyes. She had gone, and in her place was an enormous swan. Again fear rose in him. The myrrh tree had flowered and borne fruit. Golden apples smeared with honey adorned its branches; many lay on the ground. The swan was the size of a small ox, its body pure white, and it had electric blue eyes.

  ‘Do not deny me, Lightcaster!’ it spat.

  He closed his eyes, willing it to go away, longing even for the Tomb Goddess to reappear in her earlier form. Now the Great Swan moved closer towards him. He could smell feathers, the tangy breath of the ocean upon it.

  ‘When you turn away from the Goddess, there are consequences in all known worlds! The neurosis and paranoia you contaminate the worlds with in regard to witches and women everywhere is a consequence of your shunning me!’

  His mouth was dry. He felt an irrational fear of this moment. He knew he had to escape the wrinkle, he had to move to the surface of his own consciousness, travel to where she could not reach him.

  ‘I have to feed,’ he tried to protest, but his words fell into thick globs of honey.

  The Swan threw back its head and laughed. ‘I have to feed, too,’ it confided. ‘Perhaps I should start with you!’

  It moved towards him, opening its wings so he could clearly see its sexual arousal. He screamed through honey as it folded its enormous soft wings around him. As the sensations of its feeding began to vibrate through his body, he could distinctly hear the cry and plaintive moans of the sea.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Winter solstice,

  When the White-Haired Goddess’s breath

  Doth chill your bones

  And the hearth fires are fed

  By sweet pine cones;

  When the owl he doth shiver

  And his feathers are ice

  And the night’s frigid hands