The Moon Child

by Mark Lucek

  I’ve got to be careful, she realised. It wasn’t just about controlling the bird, either. She could almost sense the ripple of magic as she guided the bird’s wings. She knew nothing of the craft, but part of her realised that the spell might give her away. Would the sorceress come after her? They always did in the stories of the clan, and Miskyia might even want to kill her to stop her falling into the woyaks’ hands.

  The owl was flying high as Iwa’s body followed dumbly across the forest. Best not to get too far ahead, she realised, or else I might lose my body altogether. Yet it was hard not to get carried away with the sensation of flight: the hot flap of wings and the whistle of the wind through her feathers as she spread her body and felt a current of air beat beneath her stomach. All the while the hunger grew like a canker in the creature’s brain, so that it took all of her concentration to keep the feeling at bay.

  Once again those wonderful eyes picked up a rabbit nestled in the roots of a tree. A pang of hunger tugged at her and the wings shifted, ready to change course. A current of air ruffled across the feathers, ready to take the bird down in a single swoop. At the last moment, she managed to shift, the wings moving hesitantly as she pulled the bird away, the urge to hunt gathering as she forced it upwards.

  For a moment she thought that her body might not have followed, but in the distance she felt its presence. Let’s hope that it doesn’t get caught up in the bracken!

  Navigating through the forest wasn’t so easy: the owl’s eyes were far sharper than hers but Iwa lacked the ability to hone in on the salient details. Everything crowded in upon her all at once, a jumble of minutiae without form or reason. It wasn’t as if the bird’s eyes even refracted light in the same way. The field of vision was far wider and appeared to wrap round her head, making it difficult for her to comprehend what was going on. To make things worse, the owl’s hearing was different too. She was caught in a swirl of sounds. The night was alive with movement, the tiny scurry of rodents, the rustle of leaves and the distant currents of the air. Not even the hunters could have picked out such sounds.

  Of course the owl was used to this, nothing, not even the tiny scatter of rodents escaped its notice, but Iwa had no way to filter out the unimportant details and ended up trying to take it all in at once. Sounds and visions flooded over her so quickly that she hadn’t a chance to grasp at them. Somewhere deep in its mind the owl sensed her confusion, her uncertainty adding to its own sense of alarm. It was all she could do to keep it calm. Luckily she was drawn thin, her consciousness scurrying through its mind, which helped her keep her presence hidden.

  It took her more than half the night to become accustomed to the sights and sounds and she’d no idea how long it was before she managed to pick out a path. Yet there was no sign of the hidden place, her body just appeared to stumble onto the track. There was a faint shimmer, a tingle in her legs far below. She’d had the feeling that Miskyia was somehow searching for her, but now at least she was safe. Her magic can’t follow into the outside world, Iwa hoped and, as she stepped into the daylight, she had the sensation that the hidden place was already far behind, the scent of its magic dropping away as she began to make her way along the track, glorying in the familiar sensation of hard earth under her tread.

  She had to make her body keep up, but it was difficult to stay in two places at once. Her mind shifted between her body and that of the owl, confusing her senses even more. The world came to her as vague fragments and, in her confusion, she almost forgot to breathe. Keeping both bodies going was so confusing. Which set of lungs do I use?

  By now the owl was truly hungry, the urge to eat driving out everything else as it spotted a rodent scrabbling through the undergrowth. Iwa had to use all her power to keep it on track, its claws already flexed for the kill.

  At the last moment she managed to bring it up. Not yet, little one, just guide me for a few moments yet. She felt the bird’s anger, the longing for meat and the incomprehension that nagged at the back of its head. She sensed the irritation chafe around her like tiny sparks ruffling along its feathers. Why had it not swooped down? How could it be that there was no warm flesh in its claws? Surely it must be there. What had happened to the tiny squeal and the scent of a meal? How had night suddenly become day?

  Carefully she brought the bird up, the wings beating as they latched onto a current of air that took her high above the forest floor. But now the owl had begun to tire. Unused to flying so high and for so long, the first tendrils of stiffness began to creep along the wings, a short pain in what she still thought of as the creature’s armpit.

  Yet, as she took another step, Iwa could feel her consciousness growing faint. Huge wings beat, the air flowing swiftly around the feathers. Somewhere to her right there was a sound as an animal pawed through the bracken. Instantly the owl’s ears pricked up.

  No, not now! Iwa cried. She was so close to the cave mouth, but she didn’t think she could get back into her own body and get it through the forest, not from where she was. Just a little further, she pleaded, but the bird had already veered away and she’d grown so very faint: there was hardly anything of her left, nothing more than a sliver of thought clinging to the owl’s mind.

  Desperately, she fought to contain its hunger, but it was no use: the craving had become too strong. A wave of adrenaline coursed through its body, pumping harder with the beat of its wings. The bird swooped down, claws outstretched, ready to feel the blood run hot in its grasp. Suddenly Iwa was jolted out of its mind, her spirit tumbling aimlessly through the dark.

  Her body stood before her. There was a cold sensation as she passed back into herself. She was feverish, her skin cold and her pulse hardly beating. I can’t see! She’d no idea if she was close to the cave or even on the right track. All was a blur; vague shapes pressed themselves in on her through a yellowed haze.

  Then her hands touched rock. She must be at the cave! Her elation was short-lived. She barely had the strength to call out as she staggered inside. ‘Father…’ Her voice was nothing more than a whisper. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Yaroslav!’ she called. Her voice was stronger but her feet were leaden. If only I had wings. The fact that she wanted to turn her head right round didn’t help either. Where was her father? She had to get to him, no matter the cost. Dimly she looked to the picture of a bison marked out in flowing lines across the jagged edge of rock.

  She was drained, as if riding in the owl’s head had sucked the life from her. There was no sign of Yaroslav. That should have panicked her. Instead she was calm, her skin soft and warm as she felt the life flow back into her limbs. Perhaps there was more than a warning spell locked beneath the paint. Until then she’d thought that it was the berries which had saved him, but the ancient magic of this place had played its part as well. How else could he have lived so long?

  She could now feel the spells all around her, eons of hopes and dreams whispered amid the paint. Maybe that’s what guided the hunters here, she realised, though they wouldn’t have known it: those ancient spells calling to them as they tracked across the mountains. And maybe that’s why they chose to bring my father here. Some hidden part of them knew that this would be the right place.

  Until now she hadn’t questioned the hunters’ actions, dragging Yaroslav’s broken body across those twisted paths, though he was half dead and the woyaks were at their backs. It wasn’t as if they couldn’t have found a more convenient place to stash his body, especially when they had already given him up for dead.

  This cave has always been a refuge, since the earliest of days. Around her the paint glowed with a soft crackle of magic. The hunting figures looked down at her and, reaching out to the wall, she felt that she could almost push back the years to touch those first hunters who’d daubed their magic upon these rocks. She could feel the craft scented upon the air, countless spells resting deep within the paint. The rocks were alive with the craft. Yet this was a far more comforting place than Miskyia�
��s island. She felt the magic fold over her, warm and familiar, and, as she laid her head on the soft earth, she felt that she could stay here forever.

  She’d no idea how long she’d slept, the magic of the cave draping over her like a blanket. She felt refreshed, as if she had slept for a very long time, all trace of fear washed away. The stones must have contained powerful magic, because she didn’t even feel hungry. Yawning, she stretched.

  ‘Father!’ she called. ‘It’s me, Iwa. I’ve come back.’ But there was no answer. Moving further in, she kicked over the empty traces of a fire. ‘Please, Father, I’m alive,’ she cried, but the cave was deserted. Judging by the remnants of the fire, nobody had lived here for some time.

  If only she knew how long she’d stayed on the island. It couldn’t have been for more than a few days. She kicked over the traces of the fire, the ash cold between her toes. But then who knew how long a day in one of the hidden places would last? The sun and moon seemed to behave completely differently there. Then there was this firmament, whatever that was. Things could be different there as well. To her it had only appeared as if she’d been there for a few moments, hardly any time at all, though she still shuddered at the memory of the grim presence that stalked her. But there hadn’t been any sign of the true passage of time, no moon nor sun to guide her.

  She went over to the cave mouth and glanced out at the trees. The air came tinged with the scents of spring and the newly formed sap of trees. It didn’t seem that much time had passed. Unless the seasons have turned full circle. But that would have been ridiculous, even for one of these hidden places.

  She felt the ash again with her toes. The fire could not have been left for more than a few days at most, but was it the same fire? What if others had come to the cave since her father? On the walls the pictures glimmered in the half light and she had a sense of the eternity of things.

  But it looked like the old fire, as far as she could tell, and she couldn’t have been away that long. Perhaps the hunters had abandoned the forest and taken Yaroslav with them. ‘They must have told him I was dead,’ she muttered. There was no way he’d have left otherwise. ‘Oh, Jarel,’ she said as she knelt on the ground, ‘what have you done with your lies?’

  Iwa wiped away a tear and watched the dust dance in a beam of light. She was home at least, and took some comfort from that. Now that she had a goal, things began to look better. She’d find her father, and then she was never going to leave him again.

  Staying in the cave would have been the sensible thing to do. Maybe Yaroslav would come back. Behind her she felt the power of the spells, warm and comforting as a twinkling fire. But what if he didn’t return? She looked round, a loose rock slipping easily into her hand. She’d half a mind to wait in ambush in case Jarel came back. And then let him try and trick me again. But there didn’t appear to be anything much in the way of fresh tracks.

  With a final glance round the cave she stepped out into the morning light. All she had to do was find her way downstream. News travelled quickly amongst the clans: someone was sure to know about Yaroslav. Moving silently so as not to disturb Matka Ziemia, she made her way into the forest, taking one of the old hunters’ paths that snaked to the river. Each clan had its own ways, ancient paths that guided them through the forest as they followed the herds. A hunter would rather die than reveal them to another clan. They were the sacred ways handed down to each clan by their god, a heritage to be kept secret. When food is scarce and the hunt fails, the old ones would say, there is no brotherhood between hunters and each clan must look to its own.

  Still she was careful, picking her way silently through the undergrowth as she followed the path down from the mountains. The hunters could have used the same track, and she was now almost as afraid of them as she was of the woyaks. Maybe she could have gone into another animal – a hawk could scout far better than she ever could – but she didn’t think she had the strength for that.

  Maybe the craft was something best left alone. Perhaps even such a tiny spell could have a power of its own and turn against her. It’s not as if I really know what I’m doing. Yet the temptation stayed with her like an uneasy companion.

  Somehow she’d find a way back to her father. She’d risked too much to turn back now. That relationship ran too deep. Yet, as she pressed through the bracken, it was hard to keep the desperation at bay. What was one person alone in all the forest? The trees could swallow Yaroslav up so easily and it wasn’t as if he was a hunter. He had always stayed on the march with the women and the old ones. Even she knew these forest paths better than he ever could.

  Suddenly the idea that he might have stumbled off one of the well-trodden paths and into the darker reaches of the forest terrified her. There’d be little chance that he’d ever make his way back – a hunter perhaps, if he didn’t stray too far and kept his head about him, but not Yaroslav. ‘I’ll find you’, she heard herself say, ‘no matter how long, or whatever the cost.’

  She must have made good time because soon she could hear running water: the river couldn’t be far away. She advanced cautiously, ready to duck behind cover at the first sign of movement. It was a little used route, overgrown in places, but it ran too close to the camp for comfort. Some of the woyaks may have strayed this far into the woods.

  Up ahead there was a bend where the path swung round a giant boulder held sacred by the clan, its surface littered with the skulls of deer, mice and other rodents, which the clan would sacrifice to it.

  This was the stone that marked out the bend where the path branched and led off to the summer camp. Each year the clan were careful to burn the best of the hunt before the rock and a tiny ledge had been carved out on which the sacrificial bones would be placed.

  A Leszy lived there and would look over the clan as they made their way past. If only your magic could have helped us against the woyaks. Iwa shuddered, since when had she dared to think such sacrilege against the Leszy. One of the other Leszy must have crept up and whispered such thoughts in my ear, she tapped her shoulder and made the ritual sign of forgiveness.

  Now was not the time to turn against the woodland spirits. I’ll be sure to come back and leave you a proper offering in atonement, her fingers skirted the side of the rock and she hoped that the Leszy heard her prayer and would understand. And once we have driven the Poles from the forest we will come and light a great fire at your feet and sing the sacrificial hymns.

  Yet, as she passed, she could not help a cold feeling. This should have been such a familiar place, a happy time on the road to the summer camp. But now she glanced to the shadows, cold and alien about her and had to run past before her thoughts of sacrilege returned.What use were the Leszy if they stood by and let Krol Gawel rule the camp? Did the spirits really care so little? We should be as one, she remembered the words of the wise ones. The Leszy are as much a part of the forest as we are, linked and bound by the roots and leaves for all eternity. So why have they forsaken us now?

  The boulder lay just a little way away from the track, surrounded by a small copse of aspen trees. She should have carried on the path but she couldn’t help but veer off. With hardly a sound to mark her passing, she padded over, glad to see a familiar landmark. Anything to lift her spirits. She’d always liked this place, the ground green beneath her feet and the bracken reaching up over the stone, half hidden under a thick covering of moss. Yet there was a sadness too; there should have been a new sacrifice. Maybe the woyaks won’t let us keep the old ways,and we will forget about you and all the other clan gods. As she passed, she couldn’t help but reach out to the stone and maybe she should have found a small sacrifice to garnish the rock, but this was the part of the track that ran closest to the camp and she dare not linger.

  Next time I pass I’ll slit the throat of a mouse in your honour. She could have joined the main path but decided to cut through the forest so that she wouldn’t have to go too close to the camp. She’d just walked over to the edge of the grove when she stopped dead in
her tracks. There was the sound of someone screaming: it was her. Almost at once she put a hand to her mouth to stifle the noise as she ducked behind a tree.

  It was some time before she gathered the courage to peer out and, even then, she could hardly believe her eyes. Before her was a clearing, but not a natural one. The forest had been burned away, the ashen stumps of trees sticking out from the charred earth. She made her way to the edge, her feet still as if hardly daring to move, the devastation spread before her.

  Before, she’d always imagined that the woyaks would only cut away a few trees, little more than a tiny clearing such as men might scrape away to lay down winter tents. Only now did she realise the scale of Krol Gawel’s ambition.

  How could anyone have done this? How could Matka Ziemia let this happen? Where were the gods? Surely the lords of leaf and root would have risen up against this sacrilege? By her feet, the breeze stirred rivulets of ash across the wasteland.

  She began to run, the tears hot in her eyes. Truly the gods had deserted the clan. If only she could go back to the island and raise up Lord Bethrayal to kill Krol Gawel and all the woyaks. She ran. The air was so thick with the scent of ash and decay that she had to stifle her breath. Even when the clearing was out of sight she continued, helter-skelter down the path until a stitch began to form in her stomach and her legs buckled.

  She had to get away. Perhaps she might go deep into the mountains to live as a hermit, or join the Wolf’s Jaw or one of the other clans who travelled deep into the forest and hardly came near the river. I’ll never come back, not after this. And if Matka Ziemia cannot be bothered to save her forest then it’s best that I forget this place altogether. At least she was near the river. The sound of the water travelled through the trees along with the hum of bees and the scent of roses.