by E. Hibbs
Shadow Mask smiled widely. “O’ course not, yer daft fool!” he replied. “No, no, it just be that yer leavin’ happens to be of about the same time we was plannin’ to break the camp n’ ready ourselves to move on. It just seemed appropriate n’ all, for yer to make the most o’ it with us, y’see.”
As he spoke, Silas’ eyes lit up. An overjoyed grin broke over his face, but before he could say anything more, Shadow Mask suddenly reached inside his shirt and pulled out a scrap of material. He unfolded it carefully, and Silas realised that it was a necktie: dark blue in colour, and embroidered with white silk in a pattern so elaborate that it made his head swim.
His breath caught in his throat as Shadow Mask looped it around his neck and secured it with what felt like a very complicated knot.
“There,” the leader said. “A little gift from all o’ us, as a farewell after tonigh’.” Then he shoved him forward. “Go on, lad, get o’er there n’ have fun!”
Silas stumbled, but tossed a silent smile over his shoulder before running off towards the vat. He picked up a nearby tankard, dipped it in, and took a hearty swig. He realised as soon as it touched his tongue that it wasn’t ale, like he’d originally thought it might be, but meodu. However, he didn’t complain, and soon drained the leather cup dry.
He drifted over towards the fire, feeling its heat on his face even when he was still a good few paces away. Before he could think of what to do next, a group of Peregrin suddenly joined hands nearby. He felt his own grabbed by a young girl and a man with a short beard, and then they were all moving around the fire in a circle. Silas watched as the dancers kicked out their legs to the rhythm of the music; skirt folds flying and hair billowing. He tried to copy their movements, but immediately tripped and almost brought the whole line down. Nevertheless, he carried on, and soon grasped it well enough to join in, although he was nowhere near as fluid as his hosts.
On the outskirts, others danced in smaller groups or on their own: women trailed long scarves and ribbons through the air in dizzying patterns, and spun so fast that their long skirts flew in swirling discs of colour. Some men, already out of their senses with meodu, lay around laughing hysterically. The majority still sitting clapped along with the beat of Kenneth’s drum, and the air was alive with a strange kind of magic that Silas had never known. It made him forget all his troubles in an instant, and put the festivities of the Valley to shame; the celebrations at Easter, Christmas and All Hallows’ couldn’t compare. Even the Fayre seemed suddenly less than he had ever believed it to be. These people – these wonderful, caring, forever-roaming people – knew what merriment was. Barely into the night, he felt it all around; it was in their bones and their hearts and their souls.
Below, the Valley and the Western Ridge across the other side was like a black hole, dropping back against the near-full moon and a sky full of dancing diamonds. The smoke curled up like a ghost towards the inky abyss, and as Silas rounded the fire once again, his eyes alight with joy and heart swelling in the moment, he glimpsed Irima. Her fingers were running elegantly up the shawm’s long body, her lips pressed tightly to the mouthpiece and sending a piercing tune out of the wide end.
He lost track of time, so when the dancers finally dispersed and his hands were free, Silas wandered over towards the musicians, giddy with the endless stream of movement. They were all still playing, so although Irima saw him coming and smiled at him best she could, she kept the instrument at her lips. But the other woman – the singer – had no part in the instrumental, and she waved at him eagerly.
“Ai, Silas!” she smiled widely. “Now yer set eyes on me at last, lad!”
In the same moment, Silas recognised her voice and saw the heavy bulge of her belly under her blouse. “Ida.”
“Yeah, indeed it be me!” she replied, and fleetingly touched his face with her hand.
Silas stared at her, finally placing an image to the kindly voice. She was clad in a salmon-pink blouse and deep purple skirt, her golden crucifix hanging low over her breast. Her face was rosy and her grey-blue eyes twinkled in the firelight. Her locks were thick, and so clean that they shone, falling down her back in great blonde waves. However, there was a red scarf binding it back across the crown of her head: the Peregrin sign that she was married.
“Where is Sonja?” he asked.
“Ah, she be o’er with Anamaria,” replied Ida, motioning with her head towards a young woman who was bouncing the gurgling baby on her lap. Then she smiled again. “So, have yer had a bite to eat yet?”
Silas shook his head.
“Oh!” Ida exclaimed. “Well, I’d get a move on o’er there! That ol’ pig’ll be gone before yer can call its name!”
“I shall,” he said, and then inclined his head. “It was wonderful to see thee.”
She laughed merrily and tapped his cheek before seeing him off towards the roasting pork. The woman in charge handed him a cutting on a slice of fat bread, and Silas stood aside to catch his breath from the dancing. When he bit into the meat, it was almost as heavily seasoned as what Irima had brought him whilst he was in the sick tent – but he was hardly repelled by it now, and that numbly surprised him.
It’s only been a little over a week, he chuckled in his head. Oh, Silas, what to do!
As the night wore on, and the celebrations mellowed as the meodu vat ran low, Silas watched the fires die down to half the height they had been when Shadow Mask had fetched him. The heat coming from the smouldering logs was dwindling, and the coolness of the summer night creeping in to replace it.
Most of the older Peregrin soon retired to their tents – taking with them everyone who had passed out from the drink – until all who were left were the younger Travellers. Even they toned down their dancing and fun, and the musicians turned to playing softer tunes as midnight passed and the stars spun overhead.
Silas, however, had been determined from early in the evening to stay awake for the whole night. During his last with his hosts, he didn’t want to miss a thing, and even long after the crowd had more than halved, he barely felt tired. He sat slightly aside from the fire, gnawing at one of the final cuts of the pork that had been served up, and listening to the jolly song that Ida was singing.
Irima suddenly came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. He spun around and she laughed.
“I see you are having a rest,” he noted.
“Yes,” she replied. “I can’t play that thing all night, y’see!” She suddenly reached down, grabbed his wrists and hauled him to his feet. “Dance with me!”
Silas stared at her. “What?”
“Come on, yer ninny!” Irima chuckled, pulling him towards the fire. She threaded her arm into the crook of his and began to pull him around in a skipping circle. Silas noticed Shadow Mask looking on in amusement from beside Lina, and threw him a desperate glance – but the leader just laughed and waved his hand in encouragement.
Silas managed a small shrug before Irima let go and they switched arms. He lifted up his feet and copied her movements as best he could, while watching the other couples who had got up to dance as well. Before long, they were whirling around in the fire’s glow, grinning joyfully.
Ida – having sent Sonja to bed with Anamaria long ago – grinned as she saw the two young faces alight with laughter, for Silas continuously missed the beat of the drum to signal when to change arms. For all the unfortunates she had seen her cousin tend to over the years, taking up the example that her mother had laid down, Ida had never known Irima be so wary and yet so drawn to any of them.
The song complete, Ida beamed and held up her hand in thanks. Then she noticed Shadow Mask approaching, a wry smile on his lips. He clasped Tomas’ shoulder with one hand and then bent to whisper in his ear.
Ida didn’t hear what he said, but then her husband’s eyes glanced up at Irima and Silas. Tomas nodded, and motioned to her, Lina and Kenneth to keep quiet before beginning to pluck at the lute, fingers running up and down the neck so quickly that they barel
y seemed to touch the strings. The short, sharp notes turned to soft strumming, and the whole band of musicians moved to watch the dancers.
Almost immediately, Silas gently placed his hands on Irima’s waist, and she rested hers on his shoulders; neither of them having to take any cue from the other couples. In stark contrast to the previous song, they moved slowly and surely, keeping their eyes on one another – even when he grasped her hand, and she spun under his arm in a flurry of swirling skirts and black ringlets.
CHAPTER XXIII
The True Enemy
R aphael awoke from a sleep he’d never meant to have. His limbs stiff and heavy, he moved his head wearily to glance through the cave mouth and towards the sky. It was twilight, and studded with stars. Through the boughs between the dark forever and where he lay, he glimpsed the moon: now fatter as the height of its power drew near.
“Now I am sure you are unlike any human I have ever known,” Merrin said from behind him. “I thought it was the Asræ who slumbered through the day, and went about under the moonlight. And here is a human who does that the other way around.”
As he listened to her, a curious realisation came over him. Not only was her voice the softest he had heard yet, but from the direction of it, it seemed as though she was not sitting opposite him as she had always done – but beside him.
He turned slowly, so as not to alarm her. Indeed, her shining eyes were fixed on him like those of some all-seeing bird of prey, but the warning flashes and burning fury had dimmed down to embers. And she was sitting on the same side of the cave as him, albeit a fair distance away, with her knees drawn up to her chest and gown pooling around her, shining like silver.
She raised one of her hands, and Raphael noticed a huge spider perched on the back, long legs splayed over her webs. Her eyes strayed to it, and she gently ran a fingertip down its body.
“Where was that?” he asked, but couldn’t keep the unease out of his voice.
She heard it instantly. “You are not fond of them?”
“Not when they’re as large as that one.”
She smiled, but there was no cruelty in it. “Well, she shall do you no harm, mark me. She is a sister of a friend whom I met my first night above the Lake.”
Despite his dislike of the creature, Raphael felt a wash of empathy, but when the spider flexed a leg, he instantly skirted a little further away. Merrin watched him with what seemed to be slight amusement.
“I should come over here, then,” she suggested. “I am letting her down now.”
Without needing another reminder, Raphael staggered to his feet and moved to the opposite wall, edging along it until he was standing behind Merrin. She waited until he was still, and then lowered her hand to the ground. The spider scuttled off into the leafy mould underfoot. Raphael pressed his lips together as he lost sight of it, but then Merrin blew gently at an area near her hand, and he saw its dark shape making for the mouth with alarming speed.
He was still staring after it when Merrin looked round at him and grinned. “She has gone,” she assured him. “She will not come back inside.”
“How do you know?” he asked stiffly.
“Because the air will be thick with midges tonight, following the rain. Better pickings await her out in the open. Come, sit down and calm yourself. Even if she were here, she would not hurt you.”
Raphael glanced down at Merrin. She was resting her head against the stony wall, and had laid her arm gently on a tree root that was jutting out beside her. He offered a smile, but then cleared his throat and shook his head.
“No, I mustn’t,” he replied, voice tight with a mixture of apology and determination.
Merrin turned to him fully, and realisation settled over her shimmering face. “You are crossing the Wall at last.”
Raphael nodded. “Aye. I’ve lingered in this place for far too long now. I must find Silas. The two of us have a calling back home with our family.”
He picked up his cape from where it lay beside the body-shaped depression that marked where he had slumbered. “And I shall keep my promise to you. I will not come back here again.”
Merrin was silent for a long time. Raphael felt her eyes on him as he fastened the cape and pulled on his worn boots. He straightened out his tunic and tightened his belt, but then froze, running his hands searchingly over the material.
“Here,” Merrin said suddenly. He looked around, and noticed her holding out the holed stone. It caught the light shifting across her skin, and reflected it off like the sun through a raindrop.
He smiled, and gently took it from her. For the briefest moment, his fingers brushed hers.
“Thank you,” he said, tucking it safely inside his tunic.
Merrin gave him a single nod, and then rose fluidly to her feet. Her fin waved softly down her back. “You are welcome.”
Raphael’s eyes lingered on her, and human and Asræ faced one another directly, barely three paces apart.
Merrin’s lips pressed together tightly before she opened them. “Thank you,” she said, her words dripping with honesty. “Thank you so much, for all you have done.”
Raphael smiled at her again, and tried to mask his pain. She seemed more beautiful tonight than ever. It was difficult enough for him not to run over and hold her faultless form in his arms, and ask to stay with her forever. But he held himself back, not wanting to hurt her as he so obviously had the night before, and end their dealings together in a well way.
“And thank you for everything thou hast told me,” he replied. “About Silas and... this place.”
As he spoke, he glanced towards the Lake, shining and sparkling under moonlight and magic. A breeze whistled through the trees, their shuddering leaves mimicking the sound of waves lapping against the shore. The boats stood lonely and yet strangely content near the shallows, and the chorus of life rose up again in one final swell, as though bidding him goodbye.
Raphael walked slowly into the outside world – vaguely casting his eyes around for the spider – before looking back over his shoulder. Merrin watched him unblinkingly, not moving. The breeze intensified and lifted not just their red and green hair into the air, but also the folds of gown and cape, which fluttered out from their bodies as they locked gazes for the final time.
“Merry part to thee,” he said softly, “Your Highness.”
Merrin herself didn’t say anything, but as Raphael walked away, he was sure he heard the faintest sound of light feet. He forced one foot before the other, putting the near-full moon to his back so that he headed due east towards the Wall. He kept his eyes firmly forward, but knew that if he had glanced back, he would have seen the Princess, watching him go.
And he wondered if her face would bear joy at his leaving, or not.
*
After Raphael had long disappeared into the trees, Merrin made her way to the Lake. She had now become so used to the feeling of the Surface beneath her feet that she wondered if she’d ever think it so alarming again.
In the same way, she found Raphael’s absence strange. Despite the fact that they were only together for mere nights – hardly a dint even in a human life, let alone an Asræ’s – the sudden lack of his presence was a sense she could find no name for. It was as though he had taken something from her; and though it wasn’t something she felt like she would miss, whatever he filled the remaining space with, she would, because that had left when he did.
What is happening? she thought as she came to stand, alone and silent, in the very centre of the Lake. Now, she was the closest to Coronation Mount that she had been since Silas had pulled her through. Around the banks, the earth shone with the red-purple jewels of amarants.
Merin know that Dylana was behind her even before she spoke.
“You must be starving, my girl.”
“I am.”
“Hence the reason why I brought you two trout tonight.”
Merrin let her shoulders drop, and then turned slowly to face her. Dylana had stepped through, the fi
sh in her arms. The water shone beneath the Asræ feet, and the ripples cast by their movements intermingled, spreading out in near-perfect rings across the otherwise still Lake.
Though it was obvious, even to Merrin, that her face was betraying all of her feelings, Dylana would know what had happened. The trout shone brightly, and then disappeared in a soft flash, as Dylana sent them safely to the cave for Merrin to eat later on. She surveyed the Princess for a moment. In the nightlight, the age-sparkles in her eyes glowed so bright that they almost completely hid the purple.
“Am I correct in assuming, that I need not ask if he has gone?” she said.
Merrin nodded. “Yes. Yes, he has gone. Only just.”
“I know.” Dylana replied coolly. “I saw.”
Merrin glanced at her. The wind blew her hair around her face. “How are preparations for the Rise?”
Dylana cocked her head slightly. “Complete. All we need now is you.”
“Good.” Even as she said it, Merrin had to force herself to sound enthusiastic. “Yes, that is good.”
Dylana suddenly approached. Merrin didn’t start, or even glare, as the old hand cupped her chin.
“Oh, Merrin,” Dylana whispered. “You are a different Asræ.”
Merrin tightened her lips. “It has been two nights, no more.”
“What does that matter? It tells on your face, and in your voice, and in your eyes. I told you, that boy was the key. What have you learned?”
Merrin didn’t reply; only kept her gaze steady. Her fin flickered, but not as fast as it would have done by that point even one week ago. Dylana said nothing, either. She patiently waited to be answered. Merrin distantly wondered how she wasn’t infuriated by her placid display of deep knowledge. But in the end, even Merrin was surprised at what came out of her own mouth.
“Time,” she said, so quiet that she barely heard herself. “It does pass differently for us and humans, after all. Even though every night or day is the same length for us both. But they live as we do not; for the day, not in it.”