Frowning, Tallis asked, ‘The shadow elms? Those giant trees? You think they’re my mythagos?’
‘Certainly they are yours. An unusual mythago form. Old, of course; they represent fear of the forest; mythologies about the birth of birds; the relationship between earth and sky through the thick trunks of the wood …’ he chuckled to himself. ‘No simple creatures of legend for Tallis Keeton – while the rest of us engender Robin Hoods and Green Jacks and golden-tressed princesses, you bring into existence the living earth. Just as Harry did. You are drawing upon a more ancient and powerful source of memory than me, or Huxley, or the boys, his sons, Christian and Steven – and God alone knows what happened to them.’
He prodded the fire, forcing warmth into the hut. ‘But that is all beside the point. You and your brother Harry … in a way you are the same. It’s the only way I can think of to explain the coincidences in the tales you’ve told me. You told me that the gaberlungi women were your grandfather’s mythagos. I think that can’t be right. The broken stag had been known for years. Harry sent it! It was a fragment of his own mind, designed to journey to the edgewoods, to find his rescuer. Your brother himself seems to have led you into the wood. But such spirit journeys are costly. He sacrificed strength to send himself to you in that way. His journey from the unknown region must have been terrifying – a fragment of his soul, running the land but without benefit of flight or fin … and he came too soon …
‘Then those three women were his mythagos, too, therefore himself, bringing images and talents from the primitive age in which he had become lost. You must remember that the gaberlungi are real elements of legend. They can only function in their legendary way: as teachers of magic. So you learn how to open the gate between ages and worlds, to cross the thresholds that have been the province of the shaman since the great days of the hunter. So you learn to make dolls and masks, simple oracles, simple earth magic.
‘This is the only thing that makes sense. Harry has a link with you, through blood, through mind, through family. The women were made of Harry, but also a little of your grandfather and of you. Your grandfather was too old, but he knew what you came to know. That’s what you imply. And why not? Harry left his mark on everything, on the totems, for example. His mythagos take a shape that of course you recognize. From the moment he left your home on his quest he has been leaving a trail for you to follow; not of pebbles, not of bread or coloured beads; a trail of memory, of image – like blood, like a scent; something that you have always known even though so often it seemed to you that you did not recognize it.’
‘What you are saying is that I am not so much searching for Harry, rather, Harry is winding me in, like a fish on a line –’
‘Yes. It is the only answer which makes sense to me.’
‘He sent the women to show me what to look for. They arrived too soon because time is strange in this world. They waited for me. To show me what to look for.’
Wyn-rajathuk rubbed ash between his palms and stared down at the smear of grey lines. ‘Yes.’
‘And Scathach? Your son? And Bavduin? Are they part of Harry too?’
Wynne-Jones frowned. ‘I don’t see how they can be.’
‘Then how do they fit into what has happened to me? Why are you and I linked?’
If Wynne-Jones had an answer to that question, he was not given time to express it. Quite suddenly the world outside began to scream. He grabbed for his staff and a stone knife, his face melting with fear as he watched the skins over the door. ‘It’s Tig … it’s his magic …’
Tallis went outside quickly, alert for the boy, her own heart racing in response to the awful wailing from the woods.
The dead trees had edged closer to the settlement; they crowded in around the clearing and the blackthorn hill, with its bones and its wooden idols. The birds of the forest gathered in the antlers of those trees, clustered in the horns. From the dead limbs they cried at the moon, pecked at the wind-shattered stubs where winter had stripped the branches from these creeping giants, added their own anger to the screaming from the split and rotting bark.
The Tuthanach screamed back, rattled bones, beat drums. They ran around the wall of the village holding streaming fires. Twenty torches burned in the moon-touched darkness, a circle of defence. The women slapped strips of painted leather against the palisade. The children threw stones into the night. The air filled with the strong scent of herbs being burned to discourage elemental spirits.
Birds circled in the dark sky. The trees shook, their movement making the earth tremble. When the clouds thinned, and the bright moon shone through, the dead arms of the elms seemed to beckon. They were the raised arms of the first shamans; the broken horns of the first stag; the broken memory of the fiercest winter. It was only the clouds which moved, Tallis tried to tell herself. But as she thought of her Moondream mask, so it seemed that the elms were creeping in to crush no one but her.
A screaming night. Wind of wings. The invisible flutter and swoop of black creatures, still furious with the woman who had once banished them.
She had been fleeing from winter all of her life. She had not realized how close the birds and the snow and the deadwoods had been behind her.
A small white shape darted through the line of torches and came swiftly to the earth wall around the village. It was Tig, of course. He was naked and the icy wind blew his hair wildly. He was chanting in his childish voice and whirling something round his head. The whirling action stopped and something clattered off the palisade. His body dripped blood from several self-inflicted wounds on his chest and arms. As he passed quickly in front of the flame, Tallis got the hint of scratches on his body, and she imagined he had run through the tight thorn scrub between the village and his purloined domain upon the hill.
He squatted down in front of the gate and smeared the soil from his body on the path. He laughed uproariously, an artificial sound, taunting despite its ineffectiveness. Then he was off again, in and out of the torches, the slingshot whirling, the missiles impossible to see as they sped into the compound.
He stopped where Tallis stood on the wall. She watched him across the points of the stakes. He passed his hand slowly and deliberately through the fire from the nearest torch, his eyes never leaving the woman. (He had been watching her in the shaman’s lodge earlier! He had been that close! And she had told Wynne-Jones that he had nothing to fear. The boy was mimicking her own ‘play’ with the fire. He had seen!)
Tallis was tense, ready to duck if he fired at her. But he began to chant in a sombre, sing-song voice. ‘Where are you my father? Come to me old rajathuk. I am hungry for your dreams, old man.’
His voice rose steadily in pitch, at first almost lost against the wailing from the wood, then loud against it, then clear.
I am hungry for your dreams. Come to your son from the wood. Come now …
When Tallis went quickly to the long-house, where Wynne-Jones had gone for extra safety, she found him huddled in a corner, shaking violently, his body wrapped in skins and his bird-feather cloak. Cold sweat ran from his face; he had scratched at the wound which Tig had inflicted previously, and blood and yellow fluid seeped down into the feathered ruff.
‘You’ll be safe with me,’ Tallis said.
‘Where is my son? Where is Scathach?’
‘I’ll find him. Keep warm, now. You’ll be safe with me. I shan’t let Tig near you.’
Wyn-rajathuk smiled wanly, his good eye glittering. ‘Poor Tig. He is only doing what he has to do. But I have no dreams for him to eat. They have all gone. If he ate the earth he would get far more nourishment …’
Outside, Tallis called for the young hunter and Scathach called back, emerging from the children’s lodge. He looked confused and quite alarmed. He had been searching for Morthen, to protect her from his violent half-brother, but she was nowhere to be found.
On the wall they watched as Tig circled the village again, running and weaving between the torches, his body like red-veined porce
lain, almost translucent, almost fragile. The earth rumbled. Wings beat the winter air.
Tig became shaman. His chanting put fear into the hearts of the listening families as well as into the mind of the old and dying man who was his father. When Wyn-rajathuk slept, guarded by one of the Tuthanach, he shivered even in his sleep. His mouth opened and closed, as if gasping for breath, the dying struggle of an animal bleeding out its life through the sacrificial cut.
After a long while, watching the attack and listening to the screeching wood, Tallis had had enough. She found a heavy staff, hefted it and began to make her way to the gate, to go out and beat Tig back to his domain. But Scathach called to her and she returned to the wall.
A dark rider had emerged suddenly from the woods. It galloped towards the boy in silence, swinging a thorn bush from its arm. When it opened its mouth and yelled, Tallis recognized Morthen. She beat at her brother’s head, causing him to screech with pain. He couldn’t wield his sling. He raised his hands protectively and she whipped the pale flesh of his backside. When he clutched the torn skin of his buttocks, she tickled his belly, and soon the boy-who-was-shaman was whooping with anger, but fleeing back towards the hill, to the mortuary house and the safety of his bones. As he ran he grabbed a torch, and Tallis watched its flame bob and weave into the darkness, soon lost among the trees.
Morthen kicked the wild horse and galloped up to the earth wall. Her face was black. She had blackened her limbs and her shallow breast. Her hair was streaked white. She was wearing the rags of her old tunic, hanging in tatters from shoulders and waist. Tallis wondered if she had undertaken her own form of self-mutilation. She controlled the horse with a length of twine and she had authority over the animal, which snorted then stepped proudly round to the gate.
Morthen entered the compound, ignoring the shadow wings which beat around her head. Her eyes were fierce, watching from the black of her warpaint. She circled Tallis twice, staring down at her, not touching, not acknowledging her beyond the hard, contemptuous stare. Then she rode to Scathach, who stood with his arms folded and his eyes narrowed, watching his sister. She leaned down from the horse and he didn’t flinch as she grabbed his long hair and shook his head from side to side. In fact, he smiled slightly.
‘My brother from the wood!’ she said loudly.
‘My sister!’ he stated flatly, watching her, still allowing the rough grip on his hair.
‘Wait for me!’ Morthen said in an angry voice. ‘Will you wait for me?’
Now Scathach frowned. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To get older!’ the girl shouted. ‘To catch up with you!’ Her horse was suddenly restless, trying to step back, and Morthen kicked it forward again, wrenching back her brother’s head to stare into his eyes. Still his arms were folded. ‘Will you wait for me?’ she cried again, more a statement than a question.
Scathach said nothing, then reached up and detached her grip from his head. ‘I don’t think I can,’ he said. ‘But we will meet up again, I’m sure of that.’
Morthen hesitated, then struck at her brother’s shoulder with her clenched fist. In turn he slapped her thigh and smiled at her, but she wrenched the horse away from him, swung around and, with a final cry, galloped from the compound. She rode towards the river, entering the trees, entering darkness.
Birds followed her into the wood.
A little while later the restless forest calmed, the night sounds died away and the air, for so long thick with wings, was clear again. Wynne-Jones ate broth. He had woken from his brief sleep, emerging out of nightmares that had left him drained and sickened. His hands shook as he held the antler spoon. Scathach crouched next to him, half conscious of his father, half lost in his own thoughts.
The old man had been deflated totally by the news of Morthen’s leaving. She had gone to find a place where she might age more rapidly. Scathach, Tallis learned, had rejected the advances she had felt impelled to make to him. She had wanted to stay with her brother, but he had called her a child, he had referred to Tallis as the woman whom he loved, and Morthen had taken both statements to her young heart. She had blackened her body to signal the blackening of her spirit.
‘How will she get across the marsh?’ Tallis asked, and Wyn-rajathuk glanced at her, then cocked his head, gazing at the glowing hearth. ‘There is something of the bird in Morthen … perhaps she will fly across. Who knows? There are many ways to cross the marsh.’
There was a shout from outside. The skins on the door were pulled violently open and the face of First-hog-of-summer peered anxiously into the firelit gloom.
‘Burning. On the hill,’ he said.
Tallis helped Wyn to his feet and they went outside.
On the mortuary hill, fire streamed into the night; ten streaks of flame, licking at the clouds.
‘The rajathuks …’ Wynne-Jones breathed, shocked. ‘He’s burning the totems.’
Intrigued, Tallis left the old man for a while and ventured through the intervening wood. She emerged at the bottom of the hill and stared up at the brilliantly burning pyres by the cruig-morn. She saw Tig standing on the enclosure wall, his arms stretched out to the sides, his head thrown back. He was just a silhouette against the intense blaze, but she was certain that his mouth was open and that he was singing.
* * *
The fires burned through the night, signalling across the forest that the era of the rajathuk was at an end. A new power was in the land. It summoned its forces around it now and they played in the dying fires, kicked through the wood ash, spiralled into the heavens on the vortices of smoke; danced with the dancing boy.
The fires signalled to something else as well …
Shortly before daybreak Tallis was woken by the distant sound of a hunting horn. For a moment she was confused. Scathach was sitting beside her, his breathing soft as he listened. The horn sounded again, four blasts, answered by four more.
They were on their feet in an instant, waking Wynne-Jones, waking the other men in the lodge, who gathered slings, sticks, spears and stones. Tallis led the way outside; it was still quite dark. Dogs barked and ran, excited by the sudden panic in the compound. Children, woken by their mothers, cried or wailed as they were hurried from their small huts into the main lodge, to hide.
First-hog-of-summer and others ran to the palisade and peered at the forest edge. Scathach went to the gate and made sure it was firmly closed. Tallis just stood quietly, cloak around her shoulders, iron-bladed spear held in two hands. She watched the great elms but saw no movement; they were quiet, now, though around them birds rose in short flight, then settled again.
There was stealthy movement at the edge of the wood.
The air hissed slightly as the Tuthanach whirled slings. Scathach called out, warning them to keep still. An uncanny silence covered the village; the voices of women hushed the children; dogs wailed but were muzzled. Only Swimmer of Lakes made any sound, a restless snorting, an anxious pawing at the ground. Tallis went to the makeshift corral and let the animal out, stroking her bruised face, patting her flanks. She led her to the gate. Scathach opened the heavy wooden door and Tallis quickly gave the horse its freedom, sending her trotting to the south, away from the disturbance. Soon the animal had entered the shadows of the trees.
The horn was sounded for a third time, a single blast, long and mournful. The Tuthanach whirled their slings again. Scathach flung his heavy cloak aside. He carried a bronze-bladed spear and a heavy Saxon long sword, which he had won in forest combat some years before. Most of the Tuthanach had weapons of bone and polished stone.
From the direction of the river, from the woodland there, a rider trotted into view. He turned side-on to the enclosure and watched the low defensive wall as he walked steadily along the edge of the trees, a few paces in one direction, then the other. As the light grew so Tallis could see his armoured helmet, crested by a fan of spikes, and the dull leather of his breastplate. He wore short chequered breeches and a reddish tunic; on his legs, metalled boots;
on his shoulders, a short cloak. It was an all-too familiar garb to Tallis. She stared at him, then glanced at Scathach and smiled. The raider’s spear rested across the pommel of his saddle, first light glinting on its long, polished blade.
Already Scathach was envying the look of the warrior by the trees.
After a few minutes of this silent contemplation the rider raised a curved horn to his lips and blew it three times.
‘This is it!’ Scathach shouted. Tallis felt her mouth go dry and her vision became suddenly intensely clear.
At once the canopy of the wood erupted into screeching birdlife, fleeing from the sudden disturbance below. Eight riders galloped from cover and came thudding across the cleared land towards the settlement. As they rode they made gruff, barking sounds; not war cries, just encouragement to their horses. They carried spears and axes. Only two wore helmets; metal armour gleamed on some; mail coats rattled; for the most part they wore an odd, ungainly mix of leathers, mail and furs. Fair hair streamed and tattered cloaks billowed as they spread to ride around the earthwork wall. There was not much colour to this raiding band.
Tuthanach slingshot whizzed and whirred, and two of the horsemen fell back over the mounts’ haunches. Spears thudded into wood. Sharp, guttural cries accompanied the drum of hooves. The leader came towards the gate. His horse, a black stallion of large breadth, reared and stamped, the hooves striking down the gate.
He yelled once, kicked forward, and First-hog-of-summer ran to meet him. Slingshot missed and the rider’s sword arm slashed. First-hog was on his knees, hands to his throat. As Tallis ran towards him she thought, with idle horror, that he looked as if he was praying. The leader had turned, swung again and First-hog was sprawling on his side, head opened above the ear. His dark buckskins shone with blood. The crested helmet of the warrior gleamed in dawn sun and he turned and rode down on Tallis.
Lavondyss (Mythago Cycle) Page 32