He burst out into bright sunlight. For a moment, he was dazzled and confused, then his sight cleared abruptly. He was in a hayfield. The grass was trampled and muddied. Ahead of him, he saw a dark blur of activity, which swiftly swam into focus.
Shan cried out in revulsion and horror. Men were there, their trousers round their knees. Magravandian soldiers. Something twisted in their midst, mewing relentlessly, desperately, like a tortured baby. Himself.
The landscape rushed past him, gathering him up, and he was back there, frozen in terror and pain, pleading for mercy, finding none. Horses stamped, crushing poppies into blood. He could hear the rasping breath of the men. They did not speak. Their eyes were dead.
Had the last few months been a dream? Was he still there, trying to escape a ghastly reality? Had Sinaclara sent him back after all? Had he done something, said something to indicate he wanted that? No, please no.
Shan called out for Taropat, for Nip, for Master Thremius, for Sinaclara. They had to exist. He had to have met them. Everything was moving too fast. The Magravandians were blurs around him.
Abruptly, everything slowed down. Shan could no longer feel his body, what was being done to it. Behind the Magravandians, he could see his friends standing in a line. They gazed at him expressionlessly. He tried to cry out, but no sound would come.
The Magravandians threw Shan to the ground, their lust spent. He was unimportant now, used up, finished. They ignored him as they rearranged their clothing. Chatting amiably to one another, as old friends do, they remounted their horses and rode away.
Shan lay still, trying to breathe. He was deafened by a clamorous rhythmic thunder, which he realised was the beating of his own heart. He could still see the hazy outlines of Taropat, Nip, Master Thremius and Sinaclara, but they were fading. He reached out painfully with one hand, sure he was dying.
Hod, his father, stood with drooping shoulders before him, slowly shaking his head. He held his best hat in his hands, which he was wringing continually. He’d always worn that hat for funerals. Shan’s aunt glided into view, her fingers pressed to her lips. She too was shaking her head, tears pulsing from her eyes. After, came Shan’s mother, the apple woman, her face streaked with ashes, her mouth a dark cavern of despair. Shan felt they were judging him. He was responsible for what had happened to him. He had let it happen. He had not fought hard enough.
Then someone else stepped forward, a beautiful young man with pale hair. He stood at Shan’s feet and said, ‘How old are you?’
Shan was compelled to answer. ‘Fifteen.’
The young man shook his head, smiling in a grave, sad way. ‘No, you are not. You are not a child any more. Remember it. You are seventeen now. You have been for some time.’
Shan said, ‘I’m not. I’m dead.’
Again, the young man shook his head. ‘You are full of life. You must stop punishing yourself. It is a needless indulgence. Physically, you were powerless at that time, but it is your choice entirely to remain a victim now. Affirm what happened. You should let it pass. It is over.’
‘Are you Tayven?’ Shan asked. He found he could sit up, for his body was no longer chained by pain. Reality had shifted. The others had vanished.
‘No, I am you.’
Shan laughed and couldn’t stop. If he did, he would scream until his throat bled.
‘Get up,’ said the young man. ‘Get up, boy. Run.’ An expression of urgency had come into his eyes. It affected Shan immediately. He leapt to his feet. The cornfield was quiet around him, yet he sensed a terrible approach.
‘Run! Run!’
He was stumbling, scrabbling, making for the trees. There, he might hide from his pursuers. He might find sanctuary. There were hooves pounding behind him. He could not relive that again. He couldn’t. Uttering a scream of defiance, Shan pushed himself forward and dived into the shadow of the forest. He fell, tumbled over, and found himself in moonlit darkness once more on a winding flat path through the trees. The galloping horses were still there, but it would be easier to run fast here. Shan’s limbs felt so strong, he was sure he barely touched the ground. It was like flying, but no matter how fast he ran, the horses were getting closer. He could hear the yelping of hounds and the heraldic bleat of a hunting horn. The air was chill. His breath was steaming. His heart felt as if it was about to burst.
They came upon him in thunder. Grit and stones flew up from their pounding hooves. Many horses. And dogs. Shan reeled amongst their heavy hectic bodies, helpless in the tide of forward movement that flashed past him, gathered him up. He could feel the heat of the horses’ sweat, smell it. Their nostrils were aflame, their eyes rolled. Foam flew from their straining flanks. Huge hounds wove past Shan’s legs. He could no longer run, yet was carried along stumbling, falling, pushed up like a cork on water. One of the riders reached down with one hand and hauled Shan effortlessly up onto the saddle before him. Shan could not struggle. Who were these people? They were not Magravandians. The rider who held him looked more like the Swarm of Wyrd, perhaps an elden creature. His face was long, the eyes slanted. He wore a tall helm and his skin was the colour of moonlight. He did not speak, and his smile was sly.
‘Who are you?’ Shan cried above the hubbub of hooves and hounds.
The rider only smiled wider and gestured: look around. Shan twisted in the saddle and saw that the company was led by a man who wore a crown of antlers. A voice, soft and low, whispered in Shan’s mind. ‘We are the Wild Hunt of the elden. We follow our stag king, Araahn.’
I am dreaming, Shan thought. I drank Sinaclara’s draught and I’m unconscious somewhere, dreaming. That’s it.
He felt at once more at ease. Then another voice sniggered in his mind. Dreaming, yes, perhaps. But what if you’re trying to escape reality because of what’s happening to you in the corn field? Maybe you’re going mad. Maybe those moments will go on for eternity and you’ll try different dreams to tell you they’re not. You never met Taropat. Sinaclara is a phantom. You’re back there and the moment you stop dreaming, you’ll be dead. There is nothing beyond this world. You know that. It’s why you daren’t stop dreaming. The nothingness is waiting, Shan. How strong are you to resist it?
Shan groaned from the depths of his soul and, closing his eyes, leaned back against the chest of the hunter behind him. He could feel the movement of the horse beneath him, hear the shrill cry of the horn, the yelp of the hounds. He would stay in this dream. He would cling to it.
Suddenly, the rider cried, ‘There!’ and Shan was compelled to look up.
The eld was pointing ahead, his alien face animated with excitement. Shan peered beyond the hunt. Yes, he could see it now: a white flickering shape. A beautiful white hind bounded ahead of the riders. Don’t catch her, Shan thought. Please don’t. He could see that the hind’s perfect flanks were stained with sweat. Her movement, though light and graceful, seemed weary. They would be upon her soon. The dogs would tear out her throat.
A gap appeared in the trees ahead, framing a brilliant red light. Shan thought of fire, but then realised it was the sunset. The hunt pounded towards it and presently, Shan saw that the forest ended at the edge of a precipice. His throat closed up. They would plummet to their deaths. There was no way the horses could pull up. The dream must end. He could not hold onto it.
As the hind made that final, desperate leap, Shan screamed in terror. He tried to pull himself away from the rider who held him, but he wasn’t strong enough. But the hind hadn’t fallen. She was still running, running across the sky. At the head of the hunt, the stag king, Araahn, blew upon his horn and with a bunching of its powerful muscles, his great horse leapt off the cliff after the hind. It too galloped along an invisible road in the sky. The hunt poured after it.
The moment came when Shan’s mount took that leap. For a split second, he saw land far below, cloaked in darkness. Then, with a mighty bound, they were galloping miles above it, towards the bloody sunset.
She’s not fleeing the hunt, Shan thought. She�
��s leading it. We are flying towards the future.
A feeling spumed through Shan’s body that he had no words to describe. It was partly immense joy, freedom, exhilaration, understanding, but also far more than that, feelings beyond the human emotional lexicon. He wanted to bask in this experience, live it forever. Perhaps the hunter behind him sensed that. Uttering a hoarse cry, the eld suddenly pushed Shan away from him roughly. Helpless, Shan shot into the air. He was falling, limbs flailing. He could not cry out, nor even breathe, because the speed of his flight sucked the breath from his lungs. It was a fall of a hundred years. The land below did not appear to draw closer. Perhaps this was oblivion, what death was like, an endless fall.
He was floating now, slowly, like a wisp of down. Twisting his body, he looked up and saw the Wild Hunt were mere specks of darkness, silhouetted against the red sky. The sound of their passing faded away, and Shan was a feather wafting to earth.
He landed gently, curled into a ball, his arms over his face. After some moments, he sat up and looked around. He was in a forest, a bleak place devoid of life. The trees were not merely black and leafless, but appeared burned. The ground was covered in ashes. Shan got to his feet. Was this another dream? Yet it felt so real. He could smell the acrid scent of damp embers. He could rub the ashes between his fingers, feel the grit of burned earth.
Shan began to walk through the forest. He wondered whether this was the same hinterland that surrounded Sinaclara’s domain, a different representation of it. Occasionally, he saw birds, ragged carrion-eaters, feasting upon a banquet of blackened bones. It was as if a great battle had taken place there, a battle among the trees. The victors must have set fire to it because there were too many dead to bury.
Ahead, Shan saw a flash of dark green through the relentless black and grey and presently came upon a holly tree. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen; perfect, glossy berries of deepest red nestled among the waxy leaves. The tree reared towards the sky; aching colour in a colourless realm. Shan went up to it, bent down to smell its green scent. He rubbed its flexible spined leaves between his fingers, squeezed its berries. He must carry some of this living thing with him through the land of the dead. Surely the tree would not mind. Reaching in among the foliage, scratching his wrists on the leaves, Shan plucked a few berry-clad twigs.
Dawn was coming. He could sense it. He must walk and walk, until his destination and his destiny was revealed to him. His fingers played with the holly branches, winding them into a circular wreath. A crown of life. All was silent, but for the snap of dry wood beneath his feet, and occasionally the coarse lamenting calls of the birds of death.
Shan could no longer gauge accurately the passage of time. Hours, or perhaps only minutes later, he came to a clearing. In its centre stood a mighty ash tree, upon which the body of a man hung upside down.
A group of men and women in the ragged garb of shamans were circling the tree, chanting in an undertone. Shan approached them and touched one of the men on the shoulder. ‘Tell me, sir,’ he said. ‘Who hangs here?’
The shaman turned to him and pushed his ash-streaked face close to Shan’s own. ‘It is the sacrificed King of the Land. He surrenders his own life in eternity, so that the land may thrive. What you see before you, boy, is the Tree of Life. As the divine king hangs there, he channels its knowledge for humankind. I and my brethren attend him in his torment, awaiting the wisdom that will spill from his lips.’
‘Wait with us,’ said another. ‘Dance with us.’
Shan ducked his head. ‘I thank you.’ He noticed three women sitting on the ground near the base of the tree. They were dressed in dark cowled robes and their bodies swayed back and forth. Shan could not see their faces, but he could hear them weeping. They seemed different from the other shamans, less wild of aspect.
Shan went to them and asked them who they were.
One of them looked up. Her face, shadowed by her cowl, was so lined it seemed she was made of tree bark. ‘We are the Wyrd Sisters, who weave the fate of kings through the web of wyrd, and who wait to mid-wife the birth of a new king.’
‘So why do you weep?’
‘We are weeping for the king.’
Shan drew closer to the tree. As he did so, the eyes of the hanged man snapped open. Shan jumped in surprise, but could not look away from the king’s gaze. His eyes were the deepest green.
‘He has seen you,’ said one of the shamans. ‘Speak, boy, speak quickly.’
Shan’s head was utterly empty of important thoughts, and this was clearly a most significant moment. He spoke the first words that came into his mind, unsure of whether he should be uttering them or not. ‘I wish to be reborn, as you will be, as the sun will be.’
The king continued to stare at him. No words came from his lips.
He is a king, but he has no crown, Shan thought, and was compelled to lean forward and press the holly wreath he had made onto the head of the king. He had to push hard to make it stick there. The sharp leaves caught in the king’s hair, the points dug into his scalp, but he did not speak. At the same time, Shan felt suddenly inspired with words. They filled him like music. He had to let them out. ‘Great king, my soul has wandered in the forest of the dead. My heart is bleak and dark. Grant me the secret of rebirth. Help me to understand the divinity of self-sacrifice, so that new life may be brought to my soul and light to my heart. Great King, through the blood of your sacrifice, give me enlightenment.’
The king still did not speak, but from his brow, where the holly crown had pricked him, a single shining drop of blood fell in slow motion to the ground. Shan saw it soak into the black earth, and moments later green shoots began to sprout. Green vines burgeoned profusely up the tree, insanely swiftly, twisting around every branch, around the body of the king, until they appeared to be growing into his flesh, entwining every limb. He opened his mouth to speak the knowledge, and vines shot forth from his lips, whipping around his face.
Shan could not hear words. The sounds that emerged from the king were the cries of birds, the howl of the wind, the crash of the sea, the crackle of fire. Yet those sounds entered Shan’s flesh like arrows of light. Understanding bloomed within him.
One of the Wyrd Sisters spoke again, ‘The head of the king is the seat of knowledge. And the vine symbolises that knowledge given to others. In this foliate head before us, lies the secret of every god and king. All gods are as one before us. All kings who acquired enlightenment through sacrifice and rose again. We celebrate that knowledge. The king and the land are one. We and the land are one.’
The first rays of the rising sun struck through the forest, and touched the Tree of Life. As the sun rose, all was suffused with a blinding, white light. Foliage continued to creep back around the tree. It had grown from the king and brought new life to the forest. The infant sun had been born to nourish that life. The forest was fertile and rich and green, filled with divine radiance, and as the light of the sun touched Shan’s face, so his spirit was reborn with the life of new knowledge. Shan knew he had been walking in the forest of winter for a long time, but from that moment the days would grow longer and light would return to the land of his soul.
He flung back his head and closed his eyes, bathing in the light, taking its energy into his body. As it coursed through him, he felt cleansed and renewed. The darkness of the past was cleared away, its shadows could not remain in the light of the new day. He felt full of energy and enthusiasm and hope. Anything was possible from this moment forward. He was capable of achieving his heart’s desires. ‘I affirm it!’ he cried.
Chapter Thirteen: The Dragon’s Claw
Shan opened his eyes and found himself standing in a forest clearing before the burned out remains of an old fire. The Torozenti were nearby, Sinaclara with them. They were watching him intently. What had happened? There was a rime of snow upon the ground and the air was cold. It did not smell of smoke.
Sinaclara came to him and wrapped about him a cloak of purple wool. Ama Maya
offered him a bowl filled with a bloody fluid. Red wine, the blood of the vine, the blood of the king.
‘Let us drink in celebration,’ said Ama Maya, ‘the blood of self-sacrifice. The solstice is passed, and from this day the nights grow shorter. From this time onwards, let us not fear the web of our fate lest the knowledge that has been attained becomes worthless. And, in the coming year, let us all walk through the mystic forest of our spirit knowing that it will be forever green.’
Shan drank from the cup and passed it to Sinaclara, who drank and passed it on. If this was the day after the winter solstice, six weeks had passed. How was that possible? A single night. A dream.
The drummers began to beat upon their drums, and the lithy girls came twisting out of the trees to dance in the birth of the sun.
Shan had tears on his face. He felt taller, wiser. Sinaclara put her hands upon his shoulders. He touched her face. He leaned towards her. He kissed her as a man.
For six weeks, Shan had been running wild in the forest, presumably under the influence of the fluid Sinaclara had given him at Aya’even. It seemed impossible. How had he fed himself? How had he survived the punishing cold? Yet there was no doubt that it was now winter. The oaks around the clearing, which last time he had seen them had been gowned in gold leaves, were naked.
The Torozenti surrounded him. They crowned him with ivy and led him through the forest to their rock village. Shan stared up at the immense sandstone cliffs, which were full of hollows and caves: dwellings. A vast cave at ground level was the Torozenti’s communal hall, and here a feast had been prepared on long tables. Once everyone was inside, a group of men pulled shut tall wooden doors. The company sat down to enjoy the feast, illumined only by narrow shafts of sunlight that came in through slits high in the rock wall. Ama Maya, clearly high priestess of the Torozenti, directed Shan to a seat beside her, while Sinaclara sat on his other side. Shan felt dazed, incapable of speech. He drank some of the dark, heavy wine and it went instantly to his head.
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