"You will find all you need to refresh yourself here." said Constant. "There are clean garments that should fit. If you leave your clothing outside this door it will be washed and dried for you by the morning. Your companions will be just along the corridor. Dream well and dream deep, Nightjar!"
With that, they left her alone moving further along. Stopping at another door Constant said,
"This is your room, Ravenscort. As with Nightjar, leave your clothing outside the door and it will be clean and ready for you in the morning. There is suitable attire for you inside. Sleep well, trekker. May your dreams bring you peace!"
Peter was left alone with Constant and further along the corridor they stopped at yet another doorway.
"As with the others, you will find a change of clothing. Your own is not really serviceable for Demeter. New attire will be ready for you, when you awaken, that will better suit your needs. This house will offer you rest, Peter Calender. Take full use of it. Sleep long, sleep deep and dream well!"
He turned, walking back along the corridor, leaving Peter alone. Peter entered the bedroom shutting the door behind him.
Chapter 7 - Nightjar
Nightjar awoke from a deep slumber. Her sleep had been dreamless and she was unsure what had woken her. The room was silent and there was a pale light of the waxing quarter moon. She looked around. The large bedroom was plush with a heavy brocade bedspread, sturdy wooden dresser and wide sofa under a great arched window. She had changed into a heavy linen nightdress, which she had found waiting for her on the bed. She had put her travel clothing out of the door as instructed, and had washed, using the jug and basin that was upon the dresser. There was nothing to indicate the time, apart from the moon and the darkness, so she was unsure how long she had been asleep.
She found she was refreshed and she got out of bed. There was a thick carpet and her bare feet sank into its softness. The air was mild and she felt no chill, but what she did feel was hunger. She decided that she would go in search of food down in the dining room where they had feasted and, if that was bare, then she would try and find the kitchen.
She walked over to the window and stared out. She was surprised to see that the grounds, bathed in the gentle light, were not void of life. She could see figures dancing slowly in a circle. She could hear nothing, and she carefully opened the casement and leaned out to get a better look. A gentle threnody could be heard of pipes and bells and the dancers circled, their bodies swaying in the rhythm. Nightjar recognised that the dancers were not human; a satyr here, a wood nymph there, dryads and nyads, all captured by the melody and rhythm. Nightjar watched, enthralled, and she felt the music in her soul and she began to sway.
Tearing herself away from the window, her hunger forgotten, she skipped across the carpet, opened the door and hurried, with light steps, down the staircase to the front entrance. She opened it and stepped out into the night without thinking, without fear, almost in a trance. She walked across the thick grass and she felt at one with the world. She reached the revellers and they parted to allow her to join. She noted that others danced alone in the shadows.
The rhythm and melody held her. They told of times lost, of youth, vigour, strength and beauty. It spoke of her childhood, of her mother, of innocence. It moved her in a way that was private and personal. It knew her fears and her dreams. She became immersed in the cadence and lost all sense of time.
At some point, the dancers parted and a cortege entered the glade carrying a shrouded corpse. The music became slower and more mournful and those present stood respectfully still. All eyes were on the figure that was carried and then laid in the centre of the lawn. In turn, the dancers bowed to show their respect, walked slowly to the body, knelt and kissed it. When it came to Nightjar's turn she did not hesitate. As she knelt beside the shrouded figure, she felt a desire to uncover the face. She needed to know who was lying there. It was a compulsion that she could not resist. As she drew the shroud back she caught a glimpse of the body. Recognition hit her like a hammer. She screamed!
She had no idea how long it lasted, but eventually she stopped and she realised that she was still in her bed. It must have been a dream. She couldn't believe that she hadn't woken the whole house. The dream was vivid and she could still picture the pale lifeless countenance.
A cold sweat bound her nightdress to her, and the hunger she had felt previously reappeared. This time she rose and went straight to the doorway. She opened the door and stepped out onto the landing and made her way down the stairway to the entrance hall. She stood outside the door to the room where they had feasted the previous evening and she could hear muffled voices. She leaned nearer to the door to try and catch the conversation, but to no avail. She slowly turned the handle and pushed the door slightly open. There was no break in the conversation and so those inside were either unaware of her presence or untroubled by it. She peered around the edge of the door and was surprised to see that this was not the room from the previous evening. This one was small and cosy. There was a roaring fire that provided the light and a heady warmth. A kettle sat on the hearth and there were the remnants of a meal. Cake and fruit still sat on the plate and Nightjar was sorely tempted to just walk in and take some. She knew that would be rude, but the compulsion seemed natural. She pushed the door open and the room opened to her and she recognised it as her own. She lived here, and there were three children in the corner, playing a game and laughing. They turned to greet her.
"Hello, Mummy! " they called, "Daddy's shown us how to play this game. He calls it snap!"
A round of laughter followed. Nightjar walked in and realised that someone, Daddy, was seated in an armchair by the fire. He looked up and she instantly recognised him.
In that moment, everything faded and she once again found herself back in bed. It was not hunger that stirred her this time. It was another desire. She felt that she had to look out of the window. She was drawn to it. She crossed the room and stared out onto the moonlit scene. This time the view was staggeringly bleak. The trees were gone, burnt stumps were all that remained. The grass had died and the ground was bare and barren. As far as she could see there was nothing growing. The moonlight gave a grey tint to the landscape that was ashen. All life seemed to have gone. Not quite all! Suddenly she heard a cry and silhouetted against the moon was an Arnn and rider. They rose with great flapping wings and suddenly fell down onto a small group of figures in the distance who turned to fight. Cries could be heard, but within seconds the cries had ceased and nothing but the Arnn and rider were left alive. Nightjar watched in horror. What had happened to the world she knew? It had been so full of life. Demeter had always been a dangerous world since Fell Craven had appeared, but this was just desolation. She watched as the Arnn and rider rose into the night sky and continued their hunt for anything living. In this world there was no hiding place from the hunters and death was just a matter of time. Nightjar sobbed in despair at what had become of her world. She turned, rushed back to her bed and threw herself into the safety of the covers. She curled foetus like, inconsolable and desolate. Eventually, she slipped into the arms of Morpheus once again and this time she slept dreamlessly until morning.
Chapter 8 - Ravenscort
Ravenscort had heard about the dangers of the Gill. He knew how everyone who stayed experienced a different reality and so he was prepared. Forewarned was forearmed, he thought. He took time to settle, after shedding his trekker clothes and placing them outside his door and dressing in the loose gown provided. He lay on the bed thinking about all that had happened. He thought about Broderick and the times they had shared danger, joy, laughter and feelings that only siblings experienced. Emotion welled up and tears filled his eyes. Broderick had always looked out for his brother and though they often trod different paths, the link between them was strong. Now he was gone and Ravenscort had no family. All had fallen under Fell Craven's dominance of Demeter. After the murder of their parents, the brothers had fought and been an active part of the upris
ing. They had joined the trekkers as youths and had grown and risen through their ranks to become division leaders. He knew his brother was more of a leader than he was. He was loved and respected by all, whereas Ravenscort was quieter, at ease with his own council and was respected rather than loved.
He was happy that way, but now fate had thrown him companions that required his aid. He was not sure he wanted to be responsible for others. Nightjar was clearly better equipped to manage, but Peter had no idea about the dangers of Demeter. And yet, Peter had been the one to drive the Fell from Nightjar. There was clearly more to him than met the eye. Ravenscort thought about their sparring. Peter was clearly still a novice, but Ravenscort was amazed how quickly he seemed to learn and how use of the sword seemed natural to him. Maybe he wasn't being honest with him. His mind mulled this over and eventually he did fall into a deep sleep.
He awoke to the sound of screaming. The screaming seemed to be coming from further down the corridor. Someone was in danger! Someone needed his aid! He grabbed his sword off the dresser and burst out of the door and started to run down the corridor. He could hear the cries from the room at the end and he ran as fast as he could. The cries were increasingly more desperate and he knew time was of the essence. His breath was becoming short and he upped the pace. How long was this passage? He could still see the doorway at the end and, despite his best efforts, he seemed to be getting no nearer.
The cries became even louder, the pitch higher. The fear in him grew as he realised he might be too late. Someone needed his help and he couldn't fail them. With desperation, he sprinted and the doorway did become nearer. This gave him greater confidence and with a final charge he made the door and threw it open. He fell though the door and realised he was in another corridor. Again he could hear the cries at the far end and again he charged along. It felt as if he was running through syrup and his legs felt heavy. Still he tried. If only he could make it to the end doorway then he could save them. He had to try. He had to succeed. They were depending on him. Again, he increased his effort. Sweat was cascading down his face and his breathing was coming in rapid bursts and his chest felt like it might explode.
"Try harder, you fool! They need you!"
And again he reached the end doorway and thrust it open and again he was met with another long corridor. At this point he started laughing. It was almost maniacal. He sat up in bed and sobbing laughter echoed around the room.
"You nearly got me, you bastard!" he cried. "I am only a man. I can only do what I can. I know that. I don't need you to tell me that. Leave me in peace!"
As he listened to his own voice, he realised that he was the one setting impossible goals. He was a man and he accepted that he could only be responsible for himself. There was nothing he could have done for his brother and he knew that. He wasn't there. He was a child when his parents had been killed and now he could accept that there was nothing that he could have done. His parents saved him and Broderick and sacrificed themselves. That was not his fault, but their choice. Fell Craven was responsible for their deaths and he had sworn he would avenge them. That hadn't changed.
The others needed his help, but he could only do his best and that would have to do. Whatever they would face in the future, it would be a shared responsibility. He felt he had come through a crisis and he felt more at peace. He had carried the guilt with him all his life and now, for some reason, he had come to terms with the reality.
He lay back and gazed at the ceiling. The plasterwork was like a maze and his eyes followed the tracery and he felt like it mapped out his life. The tangled pattern seemed to come into focus and what had at first appeared random took on a simplicity. Ravenscort felt as if a weight had lifted and he hoped that the future path for the companions would similarly become clear before they left the Gill.
He shut his eyes and fell into a deep dreamless sleep for the first time in many, many years.
Chapter 9 - Peter Calender
Peter quickly changed out of his clothes and dressed in the gown provided. He placed his soiled and torn garments outside the door and was about to pull it shut when he remembered he had left the Moonstone in his jeans. He quickly removed it and secreted it in the pocket of the gown. Suddenly he noticed a movement down the passageway. It was dark and there was little light penetrating through the small window at the end of the corridor behind him. He looked again. He was sure he saw a movement, a slight shifting of the shadow.
For some reason that afterwards he could not explain, he was drawn to investigate. He walked slowly and cautiously and then stopped. He retraced his steps, entered the room and picked up his sword from where he had left it and drew it from the scabbard. The compulsion to see what was down the corridor was still strong and Ravenscort and Constant had both told him he was safe in the Gill, but something, like a whisper, suggested a need for caution.
He left his room and made his way along a wooden floored passage. The boards were uneven and he trod with carefully, to avoid both tripping and noise. Try as he might he could not still his heart and his breaths were shallow and deafening, or so they appeared to him. Feeling his way with his feet, he slowly advanced. He reached the end and found that the way divided to the left and right. He searched in both directions but he could discern no movement. He started down the right, when he thought he heard a slight rustling behind him. He turned in a flash and again, sensed rather than saw someone. He followed the new course and he was sure there was a figure ahead. Someone or something was leading him.
Further along he found himself at the bottom of a narrow staircase. There was more light here and he could see a casement at the point where the steps turned. The gentle moonlight provided a ghostly grey view and he could see no one ahead, but the steps twisted out of view. There was no sound, but his heart and breathing and the steps invited him to follow like a light calls to a moth.
Reason told him to return to the room and stop wasting time on a foolish whim. There was no one about and it was all just his imagination playing tricks in an old house. The sword offered some comfort and his confidence in his senses told him there was someone. He set his foot on the bottom step and made the decision to follow. Up he climbed, staring before him in the half light.
As he approached the turning of the stairs, he definitely caught a glimpse of a cowled figure. The sighting was fleeting, but clear and the apparition was covered in a grey habit and hood. Peter increased his pace and climbed the remaining stairs rapidly. At the top landing there was a small wooden door. Peter pushed the door and stood back warily. A small, plain room greeted him. There were bookcases filled with large tomes bound in vellum, a writing desk that was covered in books, papers, ink, a large crystal ball on an ebony stand and quills. Behind the desk was a stand and sitting there was a very large, white owl. Large, liquid eyes blinked in the candle light that illuminated the room. The bird sat and turned its head to watch Peter. It took him in and seemed to see something as it blinked and began to preen its plumage.
The room had an odour of age, mixed with the leather, vellum and scent of old books.
As Peter turned to take in the rest of the room, he saw someone standing with his back to him, staring out of the window.
"I always like moonlight. It is so calming," said the figure without turning. "Welcome, Peter Calender!"
Clad in the dark grey robe that Peter had seen on the staircase, stood a tall thin figure and that was all Peter could discern. He made no attempt to turn and Peter made no move to enter the room. A kind of stalemate existed, an equilibrium that neither wanted to change. Like duellers they waited and the silence seemed heavy and grew heavier and time passed.
It was the owl that ultimately broke it. It suddenly let out a cry and raised itself up and flapped its great wings, pounding the air and shattering the silence. The figure turned and moved to the desk and sat down. He reached out and calmed the owl.
"Come, Selena, settle! The boy is not here to harm you."
The face was still shro
uded in shadow, but the chin and mouth were visible. The skin was sallow and parchment-like and a thin wisp of beard hung from the chin and reached to the chest.
"Enter, Peter Calender! I have been expecting you. Come, enter, take a seat!"
He gestured to another chair by the small fireplace. No fire burned in the hearth and the room was cold.
Peter reluctantly entered. The sword was in his grasp, ready if needed, but there was no obvious sign of danger. Not taking his eyes off the stranger, he made his way to the small armchair and sat, placing the sword across his lap. The cowled head followed him and seemed to take note of the sword.
"I don't think you'll be needing that, boy! If I had wanted to harm you I couldn't. No violence can happen here in the Gill. Within these confines you are safe. I can't say the same for once you leave."
"Who are you? Why did you lead me here?"
"Well you don't waste time on niceties. I like that. Actually, I didn't intend to lead you here. Like many things, it just happened. It was not my original intention, but I did want to meet you. I am Brother Gorn. But where are my manners? Refreshments!"
He clicked his fingers and a decanter of deep red wine appeared on the desk with two glass goblets, bound in silver filigree. Peter was surprised, but not shocked and he kept his face from registering a reaction. Brother Gorn took the jug and poured both drinks. He picked up one and drank a deep draught and gestured to Peter to take the other. Peter ignored the offer and Gorn just shook his head.
"Please yourself."
The two just sat, one now sipping the wine and the other observing. After a while Peter addressed Gorn.
"What is it that you want from me?"
The Moonchild (The Moondial Book 1) Page 6