The Eye of Night

by Pauline J. Alama

  “The Bright Goddess sent Eorthwyn to Lew and whispered in her ear, ‘This is the man you shall love.’ And because the gods' words have such power in our hearts and our bodies, Eorthwyn no sooner looked on Lew than she knew she needed him like soil for the roots of her soul. As he stood praying before the image of the Bright Goddess in the temple, she ran toward him, calling his name.

  “As Lew saw this woman come toward him, her breath like the exhalation of a flourishing garden, her skin soft as rose-petals, her hair abundant as summer, her eyes full of tenderness for him, he felt that at last he had come alive. They were married at once, and wherever they went together, flowers sprang in their path.

  “Their first year together was like the golden age in the childhood of the world. And yet no such childhood can last. When they had been married two years, Lew asked Eorthwyn when she would bear him a child. ‘My brother has only been married a year, and he has a child already; surely ours will come soon?’

  “‘I am petal and leaf, not flesh and blood,’ Eorthwyn said. ‘How should I bear you a fleshly child? The blossoms spring at my feet as we walk, is that not enough for you?’ It was not enough; yet Lew was silent, keeping his thoughts to himself.

  “He had his consolations, for Eorthwyn loved to sing, and no bird ever sang more sweetly. No one hearing her song could feel sorrow or pain. Lew loved to call her before the people to sing during festivals, at the wedding of a neighbor, at the welcoming of a neighbor's child, and in the spell of her voice, he would forget the sorrow of their childlessness. And she, longing to please him, delighted in this power.

  “This solace served them well until Lew's beloved father died. As he stood weeping over the grave, there broke into his grief a sound that drew him beyond sorrow, beyond shame: Eorthwyn was singing, and he could scarcely help but dance.

  “‘Eorthwyn, this is not the time,’ he said wearily, but she did not listen.

  “‘Eorthwyn, for the gods’ sake, be quiet,’ he said, but she caroled on joyfully, heedless of the stares of their neighbors.

  “‘Eorthwyn, enough!’ he shouted, and struck her across her blossomlike face.

  “‘How dare you strike me!’ she cried.

  “‘How dare you mock my father's funeral with merriment!’ he replied.

  “‘I was singing for your comfort, and for the comfort of all those who were weeping. What is the harm in that?’

  “‘My father is dead, and I have just buried him! Why should I not weep?’ Her bewildered stare confounded him. ‘What is wrong with you? Have you no heart?'’

  “‘Of course I have none,’ she said, ‘thank the goddess who made me! Otherwise I would be growing old now as you are, my hair losing its color, my skin losing its freshness. I would be dying little by little as your father did, instead of growing new flowers with the spring, fresh from year to year. Why do you not understand? I am not flesh and bone, but leaf and flower. What should I want with a heart?'’

  “‘Well, you shall no longer have mine!’ Lew shouted. Then he turned south, as though he could have shouted to the rim of the world, and cried to the Bright Goddess, ‘Take back your gift, oh Goddess! What good is a woman of flowers to a man of flesh and blood?'’

  “And Eorthwyn, fearing he would kill her, ran from her husband. She dared not seek sanctuary at the temple where she had met Lew; instead she took refuge in a cave sacred to the Hidden Goddess. There she opened her hands in prayer: ‘Oh Wise One, what is there in me that makes all people hate me?’

  “‘It is not what is in you, but what you lack,’ answered the Hidden Goddess. ‘Take heart. Trust me. Hide in my womb and I will do what can be done.’ A new fissure opened in the back of the cave, and Eorthwyn crept inside.

  “Into the cave, then, came the Bright Goddess herself. ‘Sister,’ she said, ‘what have I done? How can I answer the prayer of my suppliant without doing harm? Should I take back the name I gave and let my ill-made creature return to the flowers she was? I am loath to unmake a soul I have made, and Eorthwyn has done no wrong by any law she can understand—nothing to deserve death. Ye t she cannot live among humankind.’

  “‘My sister, my sister,’ said the Hidden Goddess, ‘why did you begin the work without me? When did one of us alone ever bring forth anything half as good as the work of all our hands together? A woman should not be made of flowers: gut and gristle, blood and brain and bone, sweat of desire and pain of birth, all these make a woman.’

  “‘And thought of the brain, and dream of desire, and will of the heart,’ said the Bright Goddess. ‘I know now my mistake. But Eorthwyn is made already, and I would not deprive her of what life she has.’

  “‘She is but half made,’ answered the Hidden Goddess. ‘Let me have the rest of her making.’ So the Bright Goddess kissed her sister and assented.

  “Eorthwyn lay in the womb of the Hidden Goddess until, in the darkness, her petals faded into feathers, her stalks hardened to hollow bones, and she flew out of the secret place as an owl.

  “Still she flies the night, fearing the sun. The people who hated her as Lew's wife still shun her, eater of vermin, bringer of ill omen. And yet she is happier than before: now she has hope.

  “From the entrails she eats, a heart is growing within her. And in the darkness, she is learning to feel. Some day, she will be human.

  “As for Lew, he too, in time, sought the shrine of the Hidden Goddess, which he had neglected before. ‘What shall I do?’ he said. ‘I have done wrong to blame Eorthwyn for her making, which was my choice, not hers. But must I be punished with a lifetime of solitude? I cannot live with Eorthwyn, nor can I marry any woman born of womankind. What I long for is not for me. Is it my fate to be forever alone?'’

  “And the Hidden Goddess responded, ‘It is good that you are here. You have been too long away from me. Stay among my priests, serve me, and learn my mercy: for I am not born of womankind.’And he remained with her in the Order of Hope, till death united him with her forever.” So the tale ended.

  There were other stories, of course, but I sat long pondering this one, and missed the ones that followed. The story both drew and repelled me. I was startled to hear it in the temple, in a solemn feast; it seemed blasphemous to say that the Bright Goddess had done wrong, or that the Hidden Goddess had taken a human paramour. Ye t it reminded me of Halred of the Folc and the Rite of Increase, celebrating the work of both goddesses together, light and dark bringing forth life. Maybe even in blasphemy there could be a hidden truth: not that the gods do wrong, but that we wrong them in our worship, wanting to see only light or only dark, only rising or only falling. I thought of the god that had always troubled me, the Upside-Down God, and wondered what the Rising God could not have done without him.

  When I came out of my reverie, I realized that they had already begun the Rite of the Dead, speaking the names of those they mourned that year, sharing the grief and the honor of their memory. This part of the ceremony, at least, was familiar to me. I listened solemnly: the names of the dead were many. When my turn came to speak, I told them of Ennes, slain in Kelgarran Hall on the night that had changed my life; and I recalled the names of the four guards of Kreyn killed by their old comrades, mourned by their enemies. I spoke, too, of my brother Saeverth, dead these seven years but still an open wound in my heart.

  In her turn, Hwyn surprised me by naming our enemy Dannoth of Kelgarran, without judging him, without according him less honor than the other dead. She spoke, too—hesitantly—of Hwyn the Weaver. I wondered whether the weaver were truly dead; I wondered whether my companion knew.

  As we spoke the names and praises of the dead, drums beat at the rim of the circle, while a solitary flute lamented. When the last of the congregation had named her lost ones, the whole crowd of us swept to our feet, moved the deerskin mats to the edges of the room, and began a slow dance round the hearth. Pricked by the Gift of Naming, I turned around to see another circle turning behind us, a dance of spirits. Somewhere in that ring, Saeverth was danci
ng. I wanted to run to him, but I dared not break the circle. When harp and viol joined the music, and the tune broke into full-bodied song, the ring of dancers dropped hands and I turned back—but could not see him. The ghosts had vanished—at least to the eye. Somewhere around or in us, I felt, they were still there.

  Letting my brother's spirit go, I clasped Hwyn's hand and let myself be carried along by the dance. We stumbled, confused in following, as the pipes trilled faster and the steps grew more buoyant, but some spirit of the night seemed to guide us, for all our awkwardness, into our rightful place in the wheel. Near us we saw Trenara dancing, for all her bulk of pregnancy, light-footed as a child, graceful as a ship in smooth waters.

  We danced till the riotous pipes subsided again to slow sighing, and cups of wine were passed from hand to hand. Two by two we drank and gave drink to each other with the words, “The morning may never come.” A hush was over us; we'd all known those words since childhood, and repeated them every year since we came of age, but who can speak them in the flickering torchlight of the temple, in the dead of night, the longest night of the year, and feel no tremor of the spirit? Even Trenara remembered those words and spoke them with that tone of profound gravity that had so deceived me when I first met her. I took the cup first from her, drank with her, and then passed it to Hwyn with the same shivery greeting. By and by I shared the cup with Harga and Per, Hart and Modya, Syrc, Til, and others I could not name. When there was no cup in our hands we embraced, clinging to each other as though in defiance of all life's losses, while the words echoed round: “The morning may never come.”

  My pulse quickened at the sound. In the Tarvon Order, these words would have marked the end of the rite, except for the nightlong vigil to keep the fire burning. But here in the North, I had heard tell—and I began to believe it, as the music rose again to a heady reel, and the Holdouts put aside their goblets to stamp and spin in a wilder dance—those words might sometimes signal one night's license for wild carousal and coupling, each with all as the night's mood took them. As the dance swirled to ecstasy and the music to passion, I saw gentle Hart leaping madly near the fire, his shirt half unlaced. Syrc, I noticed, had left the dance to recline on the skins in the corner—and she was not alone. It seemed the rumors had been true. Now I admit that a year before, weary of my Order's discipline, I might have warmed to the suggestion. But that night I had other plans. As the revelers leapt and shouted, I swept up Hwyn in my arms and whispered close, “Come away with me!”

  She kissed me and whispered, “Yes.” Arm in arm, giddy with drink, we threaded our way through the surging crowd of revelers, out into the night.

  The full moon was high over the turrets of Larioneth Hall. We scurried as best we could through the snow, half laughing, to the kitchen door, and let ourselves in. The sleepy adolescents standing guard over the children watched us enter without any sign of surprise. Two wet cloaks thrown over chairs in the kitchen seemed to tell me we were not the first couple to slip away home. Undetained by any question or greeting, we swept down the hall to our bedroom, the healer's room, and clapped the door shut as though we thought ourselves pursued. There in the shadowy moonlight Hwyn leaned on the door panting, laughing. I caught both her hands in mine, pressed them to my heart, and looked searchingly into her moonlit eyes.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “You haven't even heard what I'm asking,” I said. I knelt before her. “Hwyn, my heart, will you marry me tonight, here, and proclaim it publicly tomorrow?”

  “Yes. I said yes,” she laughed. “How many times should I say it?”

  “As many times as possible. I've waited so long for it.”

  “Then yes again. Yes! I love you,” she said.

  I kissed her, long and slow, taking my time as it seemed I never had before—always hurried on, stealing time when Trenara was distracted or asleep, snatching moments when we were not too tired and sore to feel a whisper of delight, each moment hemmed in by traveling and worries of traveling. At last we had time, all that longest night of all nights. I felt Hwyn lean into the kiss, into my arms. When at last we moved apart, it was just far enough that I could murmur into her ear, “I love you, heart of my heart. I have no ring to give you—but I could knot some of my hair into one.” I laughed. “It's grown long enough, since the summer country.” And so, with trembling fingers, we cut locks of our hair with my knife and twisted them into rings, Hwyn's pale gold for my hand, my earth-brown for her thin finger.

  “And now?” Hwyn said.

  “There's one who should witness this,” I said. “I promised Conor—”

  No sooner did I speak his name than he was there, dressed in lordly splendor, his wound not visible. “Well, friend, you keep your promises in startling ways,” he said to me, and to Hwyn, “I wish you joy.” As well as he could, insubstantial as he was, he made as though to kiss her hand. Then he stepped back from us, and I spoke to Hwyn the words that had been on my tongue for so long: “Before the Great Ones of the World-Wheel and before this witness, I offer you, with this ring, my heart and my body, my home and my goods, my love and my loyalty, as long as we live.”

  “I accept you,” she said, her flute-voice betraying a slight tremolo, “and give in return, with this ring, my heart and my body, my home and my goods, my love and my loyalty, as long as we live. And longer, if it were possible to promise that,” she added. Then we slipped the rings of hair over each other's fingers and kissed.

  “I wish you joy,” said Conor again, but his face looked almost sad as he faded from view, leaving us alone.

  I held Hwyn's bony hands between my own: the wounded one, with its shorn stump of a finger, and the one now marked with the ring. “The morning may never come,” I said softly, “but this night is the center of my life. Holy the night! For the first time in my life, I understand those words.”

  We kissed again, Hwyn pressing her thin body against me. I could feel her heart, fast and frantic as a bird's. “And now—” she said again, haltingly. “My heart and my body, I offered you. But I—I almost don't know what to do.”

  “Nor do I,” I whispered. “But together—let us step into the unknown.”

  “We always do,” she said. “That's what I love you for.” I lifted her gently off her feet and carried her to bed.

  We were old for bride and groom, I know. We were old enough, almost, to have been planning a daughter's wedding. But my youth had been spent in a celibate order, and Hwyn's simply in loneliness. The dance of this night was new to us. Our coming together was awkward, gentle, careful of each other's wounds, of bodies and spirits too often and too easily hurt. Ah, gods, but it was the loveliest thing in my life. And when at last we could do no more than curl together and sleep, we slipped into dreams so tightly twined around each other that I thought we would never come unknit. I can never understand how it happened that I woke alone.

  19

  THE END OF THE WORLD

  It was not yet dawn when I woke to find Hwyn gone. At first I thought the night of joy had been a dream. After a moment's doubt, I decided she had only gone for water, and would be back soon; but all the while my heart misgave me. Unable to rest, I pulled back the curtain and sprang out of bed to grope about searching for flint and steel to strike a light. But in the moonlit dark, I saw enough: she was not there, nor were her shift, overdress, boots, and cloak. All thoughts of comfort left me. She had not put on her cloak to go down the hall to the scullery or the privy; she had gone outside. This could mean only one thing: the time had come for the Raven's Egg to hatch.

  Without a moment's delay, I threw on my clothes and bounded through the hall. All were asleep, tired out from the festival night; there was no one to ask which way she might have gone. Where would she go? Hwyn had never said more than that she must bring the Eye of Night to the North, to Larioneth. And now we had reached Larioneth; the great hall was its center. What might her destination be, if not here? The temple?

  I went out into the snow and started toward the
temple. The revelers would still be there, I thought, or at least those charged with the last hours of the vigil. At least she would not be alone. But why did she not wake me, unless she chose to be alone?

  That thought stopped me in my tracks. I remembered, then, how Hwyn, riding into Larioneth, had turned to peer at the ring of gray stones: the Sky-Temple. “Of course!” I shouted aloud, and spun about to rush in the opposite direction, away from the scene of the revels, out beyond the walls of the town. My progress was slow: here, no path was cut in the snow to make the way easier. But I was certain, now, that I was right: everything in me said so. I remembered the feeling of familiarity that had struck me at the first sight of the Sky-Temple: a premonition? And then another image struck my mind's eye so forcefully I almost lost my footing: the Eye of Night encircled in twelve stones, my makeshift Wheel of Power. I should have known! I redoubled my efforts.

  The sun had not yet peered over the horizon, but the moon was still high, and a pearly half-light on the horizon presaged the coming of dawn. By this ghost-light I could half perceive the shapes of the standing stones, and at my feet in the snow—was that another trail of footsteps, joining mine? “Hwyn!” I shouted, though I knew the wind would carry my voice away from her.

  Suddenly there was a crash like the cracking of a world, louder than thunder, louder than the earthquake that had shaken us from winter into summer. From the Sky-Temple rose a shadow, black against the gray sky; and as it rose, it grew. Black wings swept across the sky and covered it utterly, swallowing even the pale foretaste of the sun. There was no sun, no moon, no stars. There was no morning, no twilight, no predawn gray. There was only darkness.

  I stood in the middle of an open plain as though I were in a sealed hold or a tomb, enclosed in blackness, afraid to move forward, as though I expected to strike painfully against the wall of dark. “Hwyn!” I called. No one answered. I could see nothing. Blindly I crept forward, a half-step at a time, to where I thought I must have been headed. Between me and the Sky-Temple, I knew, was clear, level ground. If I could only keep my direction—I staggered on for what seemed an endless journey, gradually daring to move faster, calling Hwyn's name at intervals as I went. At last I collided hard with a standing stone, almost too relieved at discovering a landmark to mind the force of the blow. “Hwyn!” I called again.