Moondance of Stonewylde

by Kit Berry

  He shrugged.

  ‘Mother Heggy said she’s taking care of him and she’s been right so far. We’ve just got to trust her. Come on!’

  They tiptoed down the stone staircase and ran across the gardens. Then they hurried along the track to the woods, alive with bird song. The sun was setting as they climbed the hill, the evening warm and still. The sky was a soft pink; tiny golden clouds speckled the horizon after the sun had slipped away. The light grew thicker and the birds stopped singing. The hares appeared from the woods, loping up the hill to sit long and upright, their ears raised, looking about them. The leverets, now well grown, hopped around nibbling grass and playing like kittens.

  Yul sat in his familiar place, his back to the great stone and his legs hugged up to his chest, chin resting on his knees. He breathed a sigh of relief; it was almost moon rise and Magus couldn’t possibly make it to stop them now. He shook the dark curls from his eyes and glanced across at Sylvie. Wearing the beautiful moongazy dress that clung to her slender curves, she stood a little way off facing the horizon where the moon would rise. She looked well, not so thin and pale now, and he was pleased. His own stomach growled but he ignored it – plenty of time for food later.

  Mother Heggy crouched on the filthy flagstones of her cottage. Clutching a short, smoke-darkened hazel wand, she poked at some dried lichen, fungi and herbs which burned acridly in the little pot-bellied fire-cauldron on the stone floor. She muttered unintelligible words to herself, rheumy eyes fixed on the distance, hunched-up body swaying and rocking. In her other shrivelled hand she held the dark glass into which she peered every so often. Her crow was missing.

  The crow sat on the bonnet of Magus’ car and cawed. The front of the sleek sports car was crumpled to half its size. The radiator grille was wedged against a large stone in the ditch and steam poured from beneath the twisted metal. Magus was trapped in the driver’s seat. Apart from a few bruises he was unhurt, but the damaged door wouldn’t open, the air bag wedged him in his seat and his safety belt was jammed. He cursed vehemently at the police officer who stood nearby.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. You can swear all you like, but there’s nothing more I can do until the fire-fighters arrive with their cutting equipment. They reckon at least half an hour as they’re busy at the moment with a rick fire and you’re not hurt or in immediate danger. Don’t fret, sir, please. We’ll have you out in an hour or so.’

  ‘That’s not good enough! The sun’s set and I need to get home now!’

  ‘Oh no, sir,’ said the police officer, shaking his head. ‘We have to get you checked over by the paramedics first, once we’ve cut you out. And how do you intend getting home? This car won’t be going anywhere, will it? And I need to take a statement. I know you haven’t been drinking from the breathalyser, but I need details.’

  ‘I told you! It was that bloody crow over there! It came out of nowhere straight into my windscreen. Look at it!’

  The large black crow blinked its bright eye at him. Then with a clumsy flapping of wings it took off into the darkening skies.

  Now I can spread my wings and fly the spirals! Together they dance, earth and moon in harmony. Come, Bright Lady – I am here!

  As the rim of the enormous red moon peered over the edge of the earth, Sylvie rose up on tiptoes, spread her moon-angel wings, and began her dance with a joyful song. Her gossamer silk dress floated around her, the silver beads that tipped the pointy hem flying out as she moved. The barn owl called across the silence; an eerie sound to accompany the rising of the blood-red moon. It glided in on silent white wings, round black eyes staring from its pale heart-shaped face as it perched on the stone. Yul leaned his head back against the stone and smiled to himself. Mother Heggy had done it!

  Much later Yul roused Sylvie from her moongazy reverence on the grass, where she’d been kneeling surrounded by many hares. Yul stood, tall and strong, looking down at Sylvie with eyes full of love. He helped her stand, and as she rose to her feet, still gazy and dazed, it was natural to fall into his arms. The moon had now lost its deep red tint and sailed high above them as they kissed in the soft, silvery light. Sylvie felt the power of the red Harvest Moon glowing inside her, calling to his green and gold Earth Magic. The quicksilver enchantment of the sacred place sparkled all around them and she clung fiercely to him, excited by the steely restraint she sensed beneath his passionate kisses. Eventually he pulled away and held her at arm’s length, his face hollowed in the moonlight.

  ‘We must get back, Sylvie. Magus may be back by now and out looking for you. He’d try Mooncliffe first, but then he’d come here and we mustn’t let him catch us. I need to get you home safely, my moon angel.’

  ‘I love you, Yul,’ she whispered, her eyes full of moonlight. ‘I wish we could stay up here all night and be together.’

  ‘I love you too, Sylvie,’ he replied, kissing her tenderly. ‘And one day we’ll have all the time we need. But not tonight – not yet.’

  They hurried through the woods together and arrived at the Tudor wing. The pointed roofs and gables were silhouetted against the moon-washed skies and a light still burned in the sitting room window. Yul quickly kissed her goodbye and she raced on tiptoe up the stairs, heart pounding with fear. Her room was dark and empty and nobody waited for her in the shadows. She jumped straight into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin, trying to calm her breathing. She couldn’t believe they’d got away with it. Where on earth was Magus?

  She found out in the morning. He was like black thunder, shouting at everyone and upsetting the entire household. When he questioned Sylvie about the previous night, his dark eyes flashing ominously, she smiled guilelessly and told him how she loved to dance at Mooncliffe. That was all she’d say, endlessly repeating it until he almost slapped her. As he turned away in exasperation, she smothered a smile. Poor Miranda was shouted at brutally for not knowing what had happened. Miranda, it turned out, had fallen asleep on the sofa after she’d got Sylvie ready and had slept through the whole night. She hadn’t a clue whether Sylvie had been out moongazing or not. She burst into tears when Magus yelled at her and spent the next few days moping around in abject misery. Clip had been oblivious to the world all night, on a long cake-induced shamanic journey in his dolmen. He’d felt a pang as he saw the deep-red moon rising, thinking of Sylvie, but his mind had been too muzzy to dwell on it for long. He couldn’t help Magus either as to Sylvie’s whereabouts, merely shrugging vaguely when interrogated.

  Sylvie smiled in her school room as Magus stormed around the Hall, furious with everybody, yelling at anyone who got in his way. His beautiful, expensive sports car was a write-off. He’d also been delayed even longer than expected once the fire-crew finally cut him free from the wreckage; the person summoned from the Hall to collect him had run out of fuel in the middle of nowhere. He’d had no phone with him and had to walk miles along the back-roads to find help. Then they’d had to wait ages for the breakdown service to bring fuel, and it had been very late indeed when Magus had finally returned home. It was as if someone hadn’t wanted him to reach Stonewylde that night.

  18

  October had come to Stonewylde and the leaves were changing colour. The hedgerows were bright with haw hips, scattered like blood-red garnets along every lane. The field maples glowed brilliant yellow and the beeches a deep gold. Everywhere the trees released their fruits to the waiting earth: conkers, beech nuts, chestnuts and acorns. It was a new experience for Sylvie, brought up in a city with only exhaust-dusted trees and fenced-in parks. She loved the different colours, textures and smells of autumn at Stonewylde. Yul and the other woodsmen were busy splitting and chopping from dawn to dusk, getting the loads of logs into the Village and stored away for winter. He found the log chopping easier this autumn and realised how much muscle he’d acquired during the spring and summer. Greenbough was proud of him and delighted that he could now trust Yul with a man’s full workload.

  Sylvie was in the woods one misty morning, working on a bio
logy project. She’d chosen to study fungi, and was trying to identify different types from her book. She walked slowly through the trees carrying a camera, sketchbook and a basket for collecting specimens. She loved this type of practical learning, especially as it allowed her to be outside in the glorious autumn morning. Birds flitted all around her, darting from tree to tree, and squirrels scampered everywhere making a surprising amount of noise as they rustled in the fallen leaves.

  Her foray proved quite successful and Sylvie identified a number of different fungi which she photographed and sketched, picking a specimen of the more plentiful ones. As she added another one to her basket she was struck by the beauty of the mushrooms; the delicate blue sheen of the Wood Blewit, the pinky-brown tinge to the recurved scales of the Shaggy Parasol, the purple-lilac of the Amethyst Deceiver. She had a giant white puffball that she’d almost tripped over and a great orange-red bracket of Beefsteak Fungus which she’d climbed a tree to retrieve. She loved the names too and was pleased that she’d chosen this fascinating topic for her project. She wished Yul was with her; he’d have known all these species and many more.

  She heard the faint sound of axes thudding into wood, and her heart raced. Yul might be nearby. Since the Harvest Moon a week or so ago, her feelings for him were running deeper than ever. She thought back to the sight of the enormous deep red moon rising, the Triple Goddess wearing her red harvest robes as she walked in beauty. Sylvie now thrummed with a deep red energy which coursed through her veins; she no longer felt frail or delicate, but empowered.

  She wandered along an overgrown path off the track, heading towards the sound of axes on wood, all thoughts of fungi forgotten. Up ahead she spotted a group of men working in a clearing. Then she saw Yul and her breath caught in her throat. He wore old trousers and work boots and had taken off his shirt. The mist was clearing into a sunny day, and Yul worked in a pool of hazy sunlight filtering down through the golden leaves. He was deeply tanned from the summer, and although the stripes still criss-crossed his back, the sun had helped camouflage the scars. The muscles in his arms, shoulders and back rippled as he wielded the heavy axe, his movements precise and rhythmic. His chest was well-defined with muscle, his stomach hard and flat. The axe bit into the wood as he swung it powerfully, putting all his strength and energy into the task. His black curls were stuck down with sweat and the rest of his torso gleamed too, golden and smooth. Sylvie watched him with a strange tingling and felt herself dissolve inside at the sight of him. But after a while she turned away and decided to look in another part of the woods for her fungi. She was too embarrassed to approach him, knowing he’d recognise the dark hunger in her eyes.

  A while later she sat on a mossy bank for a rest, enjoying a drink of water and a quick look at her pictures and notes. Sylvie closed her eyes, remembering how Magus had once told her to use all her senses in the woods. She smiled sadly as she recalled his kindness when she’d first arrived. So much had happened since then; had she really been so naïve when she came here? She knew that this summer she’d left the innocence of childhood behind and started the rocky transition to womanhood. It wasn’t easy and she wished she were still close to her mother, but Magus had spoiled that as he had everything else. Her mother was a different person now, obsessed with him and the new baby, and Sylvie no longer felt she could rely on her. She sighed and then jumped as she heard voices approaching.

  A strange duo came into sight along the path. Two old women hobbled side by side, both wrapped in grimy shawls and carrying battered wicker baskets over their arms. Their heads bobbed as they talked; they were deep in conversation and didn’t notice her sitting on the bank.

  ‘Good morning!’ she called, not wishing to startle them as they drew nearer. Their heads shot up and both glared at her, whiskery chins jutting belligerently. They peered with beady eyes and she recoiled from the animosity in their look.

  ‘’Tis the Newcomer!’

  ‘Aye, sister, you speak right. The Newcomer on the bank, right by our little crop o’ Fly. She better not’ve touched ‘em!’

  ‘No, she better not’ve. They’re ours, them Fly. Always pick ‘em, every year ‘tween Equinox and Samhain, this crop.’

  Sylvie had no idea what they were on about but recognised their hostility. She put her things back in her basket, anxious to be off. These were the first Villagers to show outright unfriendliness towards her and she was unsure how to respond to them.

  ‘You stay put, girlie!’ muttered one of the women. ‘Stay there – we want a good eyeful of you.’

  ‘Aye, sister, a good eyeful. We seen you afore, at the ceremonies, but never so close. You stay put, young maiden.’

  They’d stopped before her as she sat on the moss, both staring down at her, and she felt awkward under their scrutiny. They nodded, pursing their wrinkled mouths.

  ‘Moongazy as they come, ain’t she?’

  ‘Aye, moongazy as that one afore her. And I’ll bet he loves it too.’

  They cackled in unison and Sylvie felt the hair on her arms prickle.

  ‘Well, Raven, you’re home again to roost.’

  ‘Aye, and roosting up at the Hall in luxury this time around.’

  ‘I’m not Raven,’ said Sylvie, her throat constricted. ‘I’m Sylvie.’

  ‘Aye, right enough. But we know, don’t we, sister? We know what comes around.’

  Sylvie started to get to her feet, but one of them stepped forward and pushed her back with a shrivelled hand.

  ‘No, don’t you go yet. We want to speak with you, get the feel of you. We mean no harm.’

  ‘No harm at all, young maiden, so bide your time. What’ve you got in your poke?’

  She peered into Sylvie’s basket.

  ‘Been gathering, girl? Gathering the fruits of the woods?’

  Sylvie nodded.

  ‘I’m doing a project for biology.’ She realised the futility of that sentence as soon as it was uttered. ‘I mean I’m learning about fungi and I’ve been looking for different types.’

  ‘And you found our Fly!’

  They pointed along the bank, where a group of brilliant red toadstools flecked with sugary white spots glowed against a backdrop of emerald-green moss. Sylvie wondered how on earth she’d missed them.

  ‘No, I hadn’t seen them. They’re beautiful.’

  ‘Aye, beautiful for dreams and wanderings. Beautiful for helping the spirit travel far. They’re our Fly Agaric – you ain’t been at ’em?’

  Sylvie shook her head quickly.

  ‘Raven always was one for the mushrooms, weren’t she, sister? Always one for the gathering.’

  ‘Pah! I could’ve shown that Raven a thing or two. Too busy moongazing and singing to notice what was right under her pretty nose. Too busy dancing around with all the men in her thrall crawling after her. Never would’ve made Wise Woman, that one. Moongazy and feckless with her bare feet and that mass o’ hair.’

  ‘Aye, sister. You were always the wiser. She never had her heart in it, not after they got their hands on her and took their fill.’

  They cackled again, clutching at each other’s arms in glee.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Sylvie, her mouth dry.

  ‘Who are we? Who are we? There’s a question!’

  ‘You’ve been here a six-month – you should know by now. You’ve ate my cakes, girl.’

  They glared at her again and the older of the two shuffled to the bank. To Sylvie’s dismay she lowered herself stiffly onto the mossy top.

  ‘You’ve ate my cakes and you seen my son, Martin. I’m Old Violet, the Wise Woman of Stonewylde.’

  Sylvie was puzzled by this. Martin the major-domo at the Hall? It seemed such an unlikely relationship. Closer up, she saw the women weren’t quite as old as she’d originally thought. Their lined faces were ingrained with grime which made them appear more wrinkled than they actually were.

  ‘I thought Mother Heggy was the Wise Woman,’ said Sylvie.

  The women spat in unison.<
br />
  ‘You’re wrong there!’ hissed the one still standing. ‘My sister Violet’s the Wise Woman. That crone Heggy has no power left in her broken old bones. She’s worthless as wet firewood.’

  ‘If you’ve had dealings with her,’ said Violet, ‘then you’re in for a spell o’ trouble. She’s a danger to all who come to her, that one. She’ll drag you into her web of lies and spit you out when she’s done. You mark my words, girl – you’ll rue making a friend of her. You should’ve come to Old Violet. I’d look out for you; I’d help you find your way. Here, give me your hand and let me read you.’

  Violet grabbed her hand before she could snatch it away. She now sat with it clutched between hers, rubbing Sylvie’s palm with her filthy thumbs and peering at it intently, her bony nose almost touching it. She rocked slightly as she held on tightly and Sylvie was wafted by her sour odour. It repulsed her in a way that Mother Heggy’s strange scent never did. The other sister sat down too, wedging Sylvie between them, and fingered a long strand of her silver hair. Sylvie felt trapped.

  ‘Well blessed be!’ muttered Violet. ‘Blessed be. ‘Tis the maiden and the mother, but not the crone. Oh no, not the crone.’

  ‘Do you see, sister?’ cried the other woman. ‘Tis clear?’

  ‘No, Vetchling, ’tis not clear. Like moonlight through dark clouds – only glimpses. She’ll suffer, this one, how she’ll suffer! Her heart will be broken. The place of the hares, that’s part of it – moonlight and the black zigzag on silver. Three of ’em joined, chasing around in the dance and never finding what they seek. Not until ‘tis too late, not until ‘tis far too late to save her.’

  Old Violet released Sylvie’s hand abruptly and wiped her own dirty ones on her shawl as if Sylvie had somehow tainted her. She shook her grizzled head, staring into Sylvie’s eyes, and in their black depths Sylvie saw something that shocked her. She saw pity.

  ‘Just look at her, acting as if there’s nothing wrong! I’d like to go over and slap her.’