Shadow on the Stones

by Moyra Caldecott

  Shadow on the Stones

  Moyra Caldecott

  Mushroom eBooks

  Copyright © 2006, Moyra Caldecott

  First published in United Kingdom in 1979 by Rex Collings Ltd.

  Also published by Celestial Arts in USA in 1986 and by Legend in Great Britain in 1987 as the third part of the single volume Guardians of the Tall Stones

  This eBook edition published in 2006 by Mushroom eBooks, an imprint of Mushroom Publishing, Bath, BA1 4EB, United Kingdom

  www.mushroom-ebooks.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN 1843194406

  Introduction

  This is a story set in Bronze Age Britain, c.1500 BC, when the great circles of standing stones that were such a feature of the Neolithic Age, were already more than a thousand years old, yet still in use as sacred temples. Hundreds of stone circles have been found throughout Britain, the most famous today being Avebury and Stonehenge in Wiltshire. That such a homogeneous culture flourished in communities so widely separated by dense and dangerous forests, mountains, and wild and stormy seas, is extraordinary.

  In this story, the Temple of the Sun at Avebury faces a dangerous threat from outside the tight-knit community. Kyra and her fellow priests have to use every power they have to combat his fell armies. Karne devises his own ingenious methods which, as author, I have based on material in ancient legends and on a study of the giant landscape images of the Nazco in Peru.

  1

  The Messenger

  The traveller was exhausted. It had been many days and nights since he had eaten or had rested. His clothes were torn, his body filthy and his eyes wild and red. He knew that if he followed the ancient customs it might be a long time before he received an audience with the High Priest. There was no time left for such formality.

  He had heard good reports of the dark stranger from over the sea and knew that his wife, the Lady Kyra, was noted not only for her exceptional powers as priest and Lord of the Sun, but for her sympathy and understanding of all who came to her in trouble. He knew also that she was of his own land, and no stranger to its problems.

  It was not easy to find his way within the maze of wooden priest-houses and long student huts that clustered closely around the great Temple of the Sun, but he was desperate to deliver his message and his desperation gave him courage to dodge and hide. He came at last to the High Priest’s home, set back among trees and separated from the others, but otherwise hardly distinguishable from them, and not of the grandeur he would have expected.

  There was no marker of crossed feathers above the skins that hung over the doorway to indicate that entry was not permitted, and indeed they were drawn aside and fastened so that the cool air and the light could pass into the interior.

  He crossed the threshold swiftly before he could be seen or stopped.

  ‘My lord, I must speak with you,’ he cried in a voice breaking with weariness and urgency, and then almost stumbled and fell at the contrast between the vibrancy of the light in the outside world and the inner, still, darkness of the chamber.

  He could see nothing.

  Watching him in some alarm stood Deva, now thirteen summers old, alone in her mother’s chamber, dressed in her mother’s robes, her face painted with ceremonial paint, the crown of the priestess upon her head. She knew that she was not allowed to wear this even in play, but there had been no one to see her and the temptation to try it on had been too great.

  Frightened, she stared at the rough, uncouth intruder. Was he human robber or demon drawn to her from the hidden realms by the sacrilege she had just committed?

  To the man standing in the doorway, his eyes gradually adjusting to the dim light within the house, she was a priestess in full regalia, standing impassively and calmly, waiting for him to deliver his message.

  ‘My lady,’ he said softly, stumbling forward a few steps to fall on his knees before her.

  ‘I beseech you...’ he continued in a low voice. He found himself trembling and the words catching in his throat.

  He had thought about this meeting many, many times as he had travelled the long, weary way from his home in the west country, but never had he imagined he would feel such awe in the presence of another human being. This must be the great Kyra, the Lady who had repelled an army with power from her slender hand. She was looking at him now with dark eyes, eyes as bright as jet, and the words he had rehearsed so many times would not come to his tongue.

  She did not move.

  ‘My lady,’ he tried again at last. ‘Forgive me that I break in upon your home ... that I come to you with no preparation, no ceremony ... forgive me ... my appearance ... I would not have had it so, but the matters that I would bring to your attention are urgent beyond all ceremony, all appearance...’

  His voice trailed away. She was so beautiful and there was a scent so strong and so holy about her that he could hardly bear it.

  He dropped his eyes from her black gaze and stared helplessly at the point where her long cloak of white and blue touched the ground.

  It would be easier to talk to the High Priest, her husband. He had never been at ease with beautiful women, and this one was beautiful beyond any he had ever seen.

  * * * *

  Meanwhile Deva, in her borrowed robes, was puzzling what to do. She knew she should acquaint the man at once with his mistake and lead him to her mother, but ... and here the little thread of mischief in her gave a tug ... she was enjoying the role of priestess and she saw no harm in playing it a moment or two longer.

  She raised her hand with a graceful and imposing gesture.

  ‘Rise,’ she said as imperiously as she could. ‘There is no need to kneel to me.’

  At least that was no lie, Deva told herself.

  ‘My lady,’ the man almost crawled forward. ‘May I touch your hand?’

  Deva found herself lowering it to him grandly, flushing slightly at the thrill of power she felt stirring within her.

  Instead of touching her fingers briefly as she had thought he would, he seized her hand and started covering it with kisses, tears streaming from his eyes and down his rough and dusty face.

  Fear and pleasure fought for control over her. She was at once horrified at herself for allowing this to happen, and for enjoying it.

  She pulled back her hand sharply.

  The man gave a kind of sob and fell fainting at her feet.

  Terrified, she stared at him.

  She thought she would remember until the end of her days the tears in his eyes when he thought he was kissing the hand of the legendary Kyra. The story of Kyra’s part in Panora’s War had spread throughout the land and was sung by many a poet on feast days. She had become worshipped almost as though she were a god. Indeed Deva had heard her mother complaining about this to her husband, the Lord Khu-ren, and protesting that it was wrong for anyone to set her aside so from other people. Her powers were no greater than his or those of the former High Priest, the Lord Guiron. Together they had tricked the enemy into defeat, using what skill they had as human beings trained to work with the Spirit realms, the Lords of Light.

  Her mother would not have allowed the man to grovel so, and Deva felt tears of shame in her own eyes for her part in the embarrassing scene.

  With shaking hands she lifted the crown of the priestess off her head and struggled to unpin the robes about her shoulders. She was determined to be out of the clothes before anyone else saw her. Her mind was racing with thoughts of how she could undo the harm that she had done.

  As soon as she was clad once more in her own tunic, she reached to fetch water for the man, spilli
ng it from the earthenware beaker in her haste.

  His eyes opened and he stared bewildered at the dark haired girl child leaning over him.

  He shook his wet hair free from the water she had poured upon it, and dragged himself in confusion to his feet, gazing around himself, only half remembering what had occurred.

  ‘You must have had a vision,’ the girl was saying breathlessly. ‘A dream ... a vision...’ she gabbled, ‘you fainted ... you are better now!’

  ‘My lady...’ the man murmured, looking around the chamber, thinking of the stately priestess he had seen with gold upon her head.

  ‘No, she is not here. You had a vision,’ Deva insisted, her heart cold with the lie she was telling, and yet still telling it.

  The man was silent.

  He was tired, so tired he feared he might not be able to keep upright much longer.

  ‘I must...’ he said at last, painfully, pulling the words out of an aching body. ‘I must see her ... I need ... we need ... help...’

  ‘You will have it!’ promised Deva hastily. ‘Just do not fall down again.’ She pulled his arm and seated him upon a wooden bench.

  She thrust a beaker full of water into his hands.

  ‘Drink that,’ she said with a semblance of control returning to her voice. ‘I will fetch the Lady. Do not fall!’ she added commandingly as he swayed.

  He forced himself to remain upright.

  ‘Hurry...’ he whispered.

  But she was already gone.

  He saw the skins at the doorway still moving from the touch of her shoulder.

  He thought it was a breeze that made him feel so cold and every moment colder.

  * * * *

  When an agitated Deva returned with her mother they found him lying on the floor, the earthenware beaker smashed to pieces beside him and the spilled water already seeping into the clay floor.

  ‘O no,’ cried Deva, ‘he has fainted again!’

  She rushed for more water as Kyra kneeled beside him.

  When she returned her mother was standing very tall and still beside the figure on the floor.

  She lifted her hand to stop her daughter approaching any nearer.

  ‘He is dead,’ she said quietly.

  Deva stood stunned.

  She herself was near to fainting with the shock.

  What had she done?

  She had deceived a dying man and wasted precious moments in foolery when they were the only ones he had.

  Kyra straightened the stranger’s dusty, crumpled body and asked Deva to join her in lifting him to lie with greater dignity upon the soft rush bed.

  The girl shuddered as she touched his cold skin.

  ‘What will we do my lady?’ she whispered. ‘He asked for help but we know nothing of the nature of the help he wanted?’

  Kyra was deep in thought.

  ‘Leave us,’ she said to Deva.

  * * * *

  As Deva withdrew Kyra sat quietly down beside the stranger, the stone sea urchin that was for her a talisman of power in one hand, the other upon his forehead.

  There was no way she could call him back from the dead, he was not a priest who knew how to die in stages and with control, but a rough man of action who had fallen into death unwillingly and unprepared. Her only chance was to draw from the air around him the last vibrations of his thoughts before they moved beyond her reach on to another level of reality

  2

  The Shadow of Fear

  Isar made camp in a small cleft between two hills. It would perhaps have been more sensible if he had chosen a position nearer the top of the hill where the view of the surrounding countryside would have given him warning of any approaching danger, but he foresaw no danger.

  A spring bubbled from lichen-covered rock and the green fronds of ferns enclosed the place as though it were enchanted.

  He set his fire carefully so as to disturb the harmony of the place as little as possible. The scent of the wood smoke rising through tall trees and leaning bushes tugged gently at his memory of other places and other times that had been so wreathed in peace and quietness that they had become special times, times that brought renewal and refreshment.

  He enjoyed being alone and never felt lonely. In the silence amongst growing things he had often felt the subtle stirrings of communication between all that existed and himself. This was a gift his mother, Fern, had given him for a birth present as other mothers give sun-metal or moon-metal discs. Growing plants did not speak to him quite as they did to her, but his sense of vision was more than ordinarily developed, and an arrangement of leaf and twig that would pass unnoticed by others could be a potent source of joy and revelation to him.

  No one knowing Isar would associate him with his natural father, the cruel magician Wardyke. He had all his mother’s features and qualities. He was slender and lithe, his hair the colour of copper, his face gentle, his eyes light hazel with flecks of gold. His tallness might be inherited from Wardyke, but that was all. The Spear-lord Karne had brought him up as his own son, and it was Karne he respected as his father since Wardyke’s death.

  He was sitting now with his back against a rock, relaxed and sleepy, watching the night shadows gradually snuffing out the distinctive patternings around him, pleased by the graceful and sinuous dance of the thin thread of smoke from his small fire, when he fancied he saw a shadowy figure standing in the darkness behind the smoke. So tenuous was the impression that he narrowed his eyes to afford a better focus, but did not move a limb in case the disturbance either dispelled the vision (if it were a vision) or caused the animal to charge (if it were an animal).

  As he stared and his eyes began to smart with staring, he began to ‘feel’ that it was Deva.

  His ordinary senses gave him no evidence of this, but he began to have the feelings in himself that he always had when Deva was near, stirrings of happiness and warmth, protectiveness, and also, sometimes, a touch of amused irritation.

  But now he felt that she was worried and afraid. She seemed to be weeping and reaching out to him.

  Forgetting momentarily where he was, he moved to take her in his arms, but even as he did so he realized that she was not there and it was the night held at bay by the last flickering of his fire, that waited under the trees.

  In the morning, after a restless night of bad dreams he could not remember when he woke, he decided to return home. The impression he had received of Deva in trouble had been strong, even though it had been indistinct. He was determined to find out more about it even if it did mean he would not meet Janak, the great man he was travelling to meet, the man who could make dead wood live again in new forms.

  As he packed his few belongings in to the leather pouch he carried slung over his shoulder, and returned the ashes of his fire with gratitude to the forest from which they had come, he argued with himself about his decision. He knew Deva would have tried to stop him had she known that he was leaving upon such a long journey, however innocent, and it was for this reason that he had not told her of it himself. He knew she was spoilt in many ways and had innumerable tricks to twist events the way she wanted them. By now she would have found him gone and would be wanting him at her side again to torment and delight. As the daughter of two priests it would not surprise him if she had ways of reaching him not available to ordinary people.

  And yet ... and yet there was something more to her pain this time ... something deeper ... more urgent ... more serious.

  He would turn back.

  As he reached the top of the eastern of the two hills that had sheltered him in the night, the one he had climbed down to find his camping place, he took a last yearning look to the west.

  On the horizon he could see a dark and ominous cloud of smoke. At first he thought it might be an accumulation of cooking fires and was about to turn away, when something made him stay.

  He was never afterwards sure whether it was the scent of fear in the air, the sense of someone standing beside him pointing to the smoke, insta
ntly gone as he turned his head, or curiosity within himself, that made him travel towards the west and not the east that day, forgetting Deva.

  He journeyed far into the day before he neared the place where the fire had been. The smoke had died down long before he reached it but he had marked its position in relation to rocky outcrops and free standing trees, and thus had no difficulty in finding it.

  Several times he saw groups of strangers carrying weapons and an instinct made him avoid them. He had never been as far west as this before, but the descriptions he had had of the gentle people who lived in the country did not tally with those he saw. In each case the sound of their voices, talking in an unknown tongue, was aggressive and harsh. But it was only when he saw one shoot a bird and laugh to see it fall, drawing his arrow callously from the broken feathered body, that he knew for sure these were not his people.

  * * * *

  He took greater care in his journeying, keeping to the bushes and the trees, avoiding open places, his heart heavy and anxious.

  When he caught sight of the silhouettes of a group of tall stones upon a rise of ground his spirits leapt. Here at last would be the real people of Klad, the people who worshipped the Lord of All, symbolized by the burning disc of the Sun and the Sacred Circle of Stones.

  Although he was tired, his pace quickened and he ran the last part of the way.

  Where there was a Circle there would be a priest and a village community. He would settle at last the questions that tugged and scratched at his mind.

  But as he came within clearer sight of the Stones he went cold.

  This was not as it should be.

  The whole area was blackened and charred by fire. The village that had been sprawling comfortably around the base of the knoll was now no more than smouldering embers and a broken cooking pot or two.

  There was no sign of life and the air carried an acrid stench and a dry warning of hurt and danger.

  He turned to the stones and nausea and horror overcame him.