The Crowded Shadows

by Celine Kiernan

  This is not real, thought Wynter, this cannot be real. She tried to see Christopher’s face, but it was turned from her.

  The blood kept flowing, Embla and Ashkr standing patiently as it poured into the upraised bowls. Úlfnaor, his face cast into shadow, waited with his arms at his sides, his head angled downward. The sound of blood spattering onto metal, the harsh crackle of the torches, and overhead, the rustle of unseen wings were all that was to be heard for what felt like two lifetimes. Then the bright stream of liquid slowed, became a trickle, broke into an unsteady procession of heavy drops. Then stopped.

  The drums beat out once more.

  Embla swayed slightly, and Ashkr had lost some of the rigidity in his spine, but other than that they remained noble and aloof. Christopher and Wari turned and held out the bowls of blood. Once again, Wynter caught a brief glimpse of Christopher’s face. It was blank and as empty of emotion as a death mask.

  Not real, she thought again. Not real. She scanned the semicircle of darkly watchful faces, took in their intense solemnity, and brought her loam-stained hands to her mouth. Not real.

  Úlfnaor dipped his hand into Christopher’s bowl, turned, and with fingers of dripping scarlet smeared a line of blood down the centre of Hallvor’s forehead. She smiled and closed her eyes. Úlfnaor murmured a question. Hallvor nodded her consent, and the Aoire painted her mouth.

  With a murmured prayer, Hallvor licked the glistening colour from her lips.

  Úlfnaor dipped his fingers again, and this time he marked Christopher’s forehead, painting a shining red stripe from Christopher s hairline to just between his dark eyebrows. The Aoire paused, his dripping finger poised over Christopher’s lips. Again, he murmured the question. There was the slightest moment of hesitation, a minute tightening of Christopher’s mouth. Then he nodded, and Wynter moaned in revulsion as Úlfnaor painted Christopher’s lips with Ashkr’s blood.

  Úlfnaor turned to perform the ritual on Wari, and Wynter stared at Christopher. His lips were trembling, his mouth gleaming scarlet in the torchlight. As Wynter watched, a large drop of blood formed on Christopher’s lower lip, shivered and fell.

  The Merron began to line up for their turn, and Úlfnaor’s shadow once again darkened Christopher’s pale face as the Aoire dipped his fingers into the copper basin. Just before he turned away again, Úlfnaor lifted his dark eyes. Wynter saw the shock on his face as he took in Christopher’s still dripping mouth. Christopher met his eye. Úlfnaor paused for only a fraction of a second. Then, his body shielding Christopher from the others, the big man lifted his hand and with the ball of his thumb discreetly wiped the young man’s mouth clean.

  Christopher’s eyes fluttered shut in relief, and Wynter had to rest her forehead against the ground for a moment as she fought the churning in her stomach.

  One after another the Merron came forward, and each took the blood of the Caoirigh onto their brow and onto their tongue. Ashkr, Embla, Wari and Christopher stood unmoving, torchlight crawling across their faces. Hallvor stood to the side, the dark coils of rope looped in silent promise along her arms.

  When all the Merron had been anointed, the healer took the empty basin from Christopher’s hands and carried it into the black depths of the pyre. Úlfnaor took the basin of Embla’s blood and led his people around the clearing. He dipped his hand as he went, casting dark, shining droplets before him, anointing the ground, as he had the people, with the life’s blood of their most precious, their most beloved Caoirigh Beo.

  Immediately, Christopher and Wari turned their attention to the twins. Wari took a cloth from his belt, pressing it to Embla’s arm. He murmured to her and she nodded, her face turning so that Wynter caught a sliver of that perfect cheekbone, a brief glimpse of Embla’s mouth. Christopher bent Ashkr’s arm against a similar pad of cloth. He glanced up into the tall man’s face, but they did not speak.

  The procession came back around. Úlfnaor still casting bright drops of blood left and right. The drums throbbed their slow, unhurried beat. Solemnly, the Merron arranged themselves on either side of the pyre, and Úlfnaor, the bowl in his hands, disappeared into its waiting shadows.

  In the ensuing quiet, Ashkr said something, very softly. Christopher looked up at him, his eyes full, and Embla reached across and took her brother’s hand. Abruptly, the drums ceased, and the Merron turned to face the Caoirigh, their eyes writhing pits of shadow. There was an overwhelming sense of now. Feverishly, Wynter groped about in the leaves until she found a branch. She pulled it against her thigh, staring at Christopher, waiting for him to move.

  The Merron spoke, their voices as flat and sonorous as the worshippers in a Midlander’s Mass. From the darkness of the pyre came Hallvor, her arms outstretched, her ropes writhing hungrily in the light breeze. The drums began to beat again, very loudly.

  Hallvor strode up to Embla. Smiling gently, she said something.

  Embla took an involuntary step back, and Ashkr’s hand tightened against hers, halting her retreat. He smiled at her, and whispered. Embla’s eyes overflowed as she stared into his loving face, and Ashkr leant in so that their foreheads were touching. He whispered again in brotherly reassurance. Then Hallvor reached between them and took Embla’s hand. Ever so gently, she turned Embla away from her brother. For a brief moment the twins remained in contact, their foreheads touching, then Embla was forced around to face the crowd.

  The lady faltered for only a moment, then she straightened and flung out her arms.

  “Ar Fad do Chroí an Domhain,” she said, her voice cracking. And then, louder and with real strength and conviction, she cried, “Ar fad do Chroí an Domhain!”The congregation roared its joy.

  Still smiling, Hallvor took Embla’s outstretched arms and brought the lady’s hands together in an attitude of prayer. Deftly, she tied Embla’s joined hands with twists of black rope. The drums grew louder and the Merron crooned low. Some of them began to sway, their eyes drifting shut.

  Hallvor quickly looped the rope around Embla’s body, binding the pale lady’s arms against her chest. She cast a loop around Embla’s neck and down around her bound wrists, then yanked the rope tight. Then, holding the free end in her hands like some form of lead, the healer turned to her people, her arms outstretched in triumph.

  “Féach!” she cried, “Féach! Caora an Domhain!”

  The Merron whooped, lifting their arms over their heads in a single rising clap.

  Suddenly all the women of the group rushed forward, hands out, and they crowded around Embla, petting her and kissing her cheek. Tenderly, they patted Embla’s back and touched her hair, supported her with hands on her elbows and arms around her waist. Hallvor led them around the back of the pyre. Embla walked calmly amongst them, her head down, her face turned from Wynter’s view. Wari followed discreetly in her wake.

  Wynter stared, wide-eyed, as the women disappeared from view, then she desperately switched her attention to Christopher. Surely he must act soon? Surely he could not allow the Merron to split the twins apart?

  The blood on Christopher’s forehead had trickled down each side of his nose and run in scarlet tracks under his eyes. His mouth was smeared with red. As Wynter crouched in the shadows, clutching her pathetic branch and willing him to act, he stood motionless by Ashkr’s side, his face blank, and did nothing.

  The women led Embla to the back of the clearing. The men stayed behind, staring at Ashkr whose breathing was very shallow and fast. Within the shadows of the pyre, the patch of waiting darkness that was Úlfnaor shifted slightly and the torches glittered in his eyes. There was a long, patient stillness.

  Suddenly, Ashkr took a step back, and Christopher straightened in surprise. For the first time, Wynter saw his blank mask fall aside and that familiar, blade-like determination rise up in his face. He tilted his head, gazing up at Ashkr, his eyes questioning.

  Wynter lifted her branch, ready to leap forward. She had no plan of action. Like herself, Christopher had no sword, no shield, no knife. No hope, she
thought desperately, hoisting the branch. We have no hope.

  Ashkr lifted his beautiful hands, as if trying to form words with them. He spoke quietly, his eyes huge and liquid. At his words, all the urgency left Christopher’s posture, and resignation and sorrow numbed his face once more. He did not speak, just nodded, squeezed the tall man’s arm and patted his shoulder reassuringly.

  Across the clearing, the women had gathered at the foot of the big pillar. They were helping Embla onto some kind of platform. Wari, his face twisted with the agony of his wounded shoulder, began hauling a rope, hand over hand, and slowly Embla was hoisted from the ground. Gradually she rose higher and higher against the surface of the pillar until she reached the man-sized patch of darkness that had been carved into the body of the trunk. Wari ceased his steady hauling and secured the end of the rope, leaving the platform suspended, fifteen, maybe twenty feet off the ground, holding Embla on level with that wavering, black hollow in its surface.

  Wynter stared up at the pale lady—out of reach, now, completely beyond saving—and her eyes filled and overflowed with tears. There was no plan, she realised. There would be no rescue. Numbly, she lowered the branch to the ground and sank into the leaves.

  Embla stood on the suspended shelf of her platform, gazing serenely down on Ashkr. The crow feathers on the rope around her neck rose and fell against her white skin, a medicine pouch nestled against her breast like a black toad. Ashkr took a deep breath, straightened his back, and bowed. His sister tilted her head fondly, then without further hesitation, stepped backward into the shadow of the niche.

  Still Ashkr hesitated. Looking down at his wrist, he slowly closed his fingers on the plaited band of silver and copper there. Suddenly he turned, grabbed Christopher on either side of his face, and pulled him forward, kissing him on the mouth. Wynter leapt in shock. Christopher’s hands clenched and his spine stiffened, but he did not pull free. The kiss lingered, gentle, heartfelt, desperate, then Ashkr broke away, and, without looking back, strode purposefully towards the pyre.

  As Ashkr approached, a torch flared to life within the darkness. The interior was revealed, and the sight of it filled Wynter with despair. Úlfnaor stood waiting, the flaring torch in his hand. Behind him, an eight-foot stake threw unsteady shadows against the log walls. On either side of him, the corpses of the twins’ beautiful stallions knelt as if in prayer. Their massive heads were bowed, their foreheads touching the ground at their bent knees. It seemed for all the world as if they were paying obeisance to the tall, blond man who now strode through the ranks of his people and into the heart of his funeral pyre.

  As Ashkr passed amongst the Merron men, they reverently touched his hair, his shoulder, the bracelets on his arms. He accepted this without any reaction. Three of the warhounds lay dead on the ground near the entrance to the pyre. Ashkr stepped across their bodies and walked between the hunched forms of the horses and past Úlfnaor. He came to a halt at the stake. Laying his palm against the smooth wood, he looked beyond it to the stars. For a moment he contemplated the sky. Then he turned, leaned his weight against the stake, lay back his head, and shut his eyes.

  The women by the pillar began to sing, their voices sweet and high.

  Hallvor came swiftly around the corner of the pyre. Wynter could hardly see now through her tears, but she watched as Hallvor bound Ashkr to the stake and Úlfnaor piled birch bundles around Ashkr’s feet and up to his chest. The men fetched more tinder from behind the pyre and piled it around the bodies of the horses and around the warhounds, up and up until the interior of the pyre was stacked with brittle kindling. Hallvor took a large pitcher and slowly poured oil onto the branches at Ashkr’s feet, singing as she did so. Then, smiling, she kissed Ashkr and left.

  Alone now, Úlfnaor stood at the foot of the stake and gazed up at the man he’d protected for so long. Ashkr was watching the stars, his head pressed back against the wood. Úlfnaor’s eyes abruptly overflowed. He shook his head. He spoke. Ashkr glanced down, and at the sight of the Aoire’s tear-stained face, he smiled reassuringly. It’s all right, that smile said, I’m all right. Gesturing with his chin, he indicated that Úlfnaor should leave. Úlfnaor faltered for just a moment longer, then he bowed and walked stiffly between the stacks of kindling until he was outside the pyre. Ashkr turned his attention back to the sky.

  High above him, Embla stood in her little altar of shadows and she, too, was watching the stars. Wynter could see her chest rising and falling rapidly, the medicine pouch swaying between her bound wrists. The song of the women drifted up to her, as bright and as clear as the stars themselves. Behind the pillar, Wari stood poised, his sword resting lightly on the taut line of a rope that rose up from him into the darkness and out of Wynter’s sight.

  At the pyre, Úlfnaor ordered the men aside and they lined up neatly on either side of him, gazing at Ashkr. The Aoire held the blazing torch aloft, as if to show it to his people, and turned slowly in place. As he turned, Wynter saw Úlfnaor search the tree line. He found Christopher and deliberately locked eyes with him. Still turning, Úlfnaor maintained eye contact, until finally, Christopher, his mouth twisted in bitter despair, nodded. Then the Aoire dropped his head, and completed his slow turn until he was, once again, facing the pyre.

  Christopher stepped backwards into the trees.

  Silently, Úlfnaor raised the torch above his head. His people roared. Úlfnaor hesitated only a moment, then Wynter saw his shoulder jerk, his arm whip forward, and he threw the torch. It flew through the air, flaring and sparking, tumbling end over end, and landed irretrievably in the tinder at Ashkr’s feet. The oil-soaked wood roared to life, and Wynter leapt recklessly to her feet, the branch dropping from her hand. She wailed, but her voice was drowned by the Merron’s roar as the fire raced its way towards Ashkr’s body.

  The blond lord cried out in fear, throwing back his head as the flames flared around him. At his voice, Embla snapped her head around. She saw the rising smoke and she howled, pressing herself back into the shadows, turning her face away. Christopher froze in the darkness of the undergrowth, his eyes fixed on the now crackling heart of the pyre.

  Suddenly Ashkr began to scream—high and uncontrollable. His voice seemed to break a spell and Christopher spun with a cry, diving behind a tree. Wynter leapt to fly after him, thinking he was trying to escape. But, instead of running, Christopher fell to his knees, scrabbling at the base of the tree. He almost fell over as he surged back to his feet. He had something in his hands. He was struggling with it. Wynter saw that it was his crossbow. Suddenly everything fell into place for her.

  Oh hurry, she thought, pushing her way through the bushes towards him. Christopher, hurry!

  The drums still beat out their violent rhythm, but Ashkr’s screams seemed to have shocked the men into stillness, and they stood, motionless and staring, as he thrashed against his bonds. The women, too, had stopped singing and they stood, wide-eyed, their faces turned to the pyre. High above the drums and Ashkr’s agony and the vast rush of the flames, Embla could be heard howling and weeping in torment at her brother’s pain.

  Christopher, hidden in the trees, fumbled the lever on his crossbow. His hands were shaking so badly that he almost dropped it, but, as Wynter pushed towards him, he finally engaged the bolt. He jerked the bow to his shoulder. He took aim. Then his eyes overflowed, obscuring his vision, and he had to lower the bow again and dash his arm across his face.

  Abruptly, Ashkr’s screaming turned to shrieks and Wynter had to clap her hands to her ears. Within the pyre, the flames had eaten their way up Ashkr’s body. His tunic and his beautiful hair were alight. With a cry of revulsion, Christopher slapped the crossbow to his shoulder and fired.

  Wynter understood now why Úlfnaor had shooed his people to either side of the pyre. He had been leaving a space for Christopher to fire through, a clear path straight to the heart of the flames. Wynter saw the bolt’s dark shadow speed between the ranks of men. There was a hard thud, and Ashkr’s cries ceased. The
sound of drums and fire rushed in to fill the void.

  There was a moment of stunned stillness amongst the Merron. Wynter crouched, terrified, expecting them to see the bolt sticking from their Caora’s chest, expecting them to turn as one and fix their eyes on Christopher You know what they do. You know what they do if they catch you. But Ashkr was hidden by a sudden wall of fire as the kindling to the front of the pyre began to burn in earnest, and the Merron just stood in silence, listening to the flames rush upwards to heaven.

  Christopher staggered backwards, the crossbow dropping to his side. High above, Embla still howled her anguish to the stars, mourning her brother and everything else she’d lost. But even as Wynter began to push her way through the bushes and crawl towards Christopher, the Merron began to sing, and the lady’s grief was muffled beneath their voices and the incessant drums. Numbly now, almost without thought, Christopher reloaded the bow, took staring aim, and fired. The high thread of Embla’s despair cut off in mid-wail.

  Before Wynter could reach him, Christopher staggered away into the darkness, muttering and sobbing. All his numb restraint, all his tenacious self-control seemed to have fled, and his progress through the undergrowth was clumsy and carelessly loud.

  Wynter, equally careless, flung herself after him. “Wait!” she sobbed, rushing blindly forward, her eyes unaccustomed to the darkness. “Wait!”

  She staggered into him unexpectedly, and the two of them almost fell. Christopher spun and flung a punch. He was not anticipating so small a target, and he missed. His fist whistled through the air just above her head, and Wynter ducked. Thank God she was short! Christopher’s punches were swift and fiercely directed. Had Wynter been taller, she would no doubt have had the bones of her nose smashed up into her brain. Christopher’s momentum toppled him into her, bringing them both to the forest floor, and he raised the butt of the crossbow, intending to smash her across the head with it.