The Moonshawl: A Wraeththu Mythos Novel

by Storm Constantine

  Gen again fell silent and I continued my meal. I could almost hear his thought: But we are trapped in the darkest days of winter.

  He had taken off his trickster mask and laid it on the table. Had he meant to reveal his true self? I was quite sure he’d intended the meeting to be full of pleasurable flirting, not this. I could tell he was also afraid he’d said too much and this would get back to Wyva. ‘Gen,’ I said, ‘this conversation we’ve had will remain between us. I appreciate you trying to explain the situation to me, but it’s really none of my business. I know now what to avoid and how my work should progress. You’ve helped me.’

  He looked relieved. ‘I’m glad of that at least. I feel I’ve spoiled our meal.’

  ‘Not at all. Thank you for inviting me here. The food is excellent.’

  Gen poured me more wine. ‘So tell me of Jesith, and what normal harish communities are like.’

  I laughed. ‘I don’t think any harish community can be normal and Jesith has had its dramas too, but it’s a good place to live. Sinnar, our phylarch, is in a way like Wyva – dedicated to the community and the land. He’s a fair leader and well liked. We have good relations with all communities nearby and often celebrate together at the major festivals.’

  Gen pulled a face, half wistful, half ironic. ‘Sounds idyllic.’

  ‘I suppose it does, but you know, I’m becoming fond of Gwyllion too, even after so short a time. This is a wonderful, atmospheric place, which is something Jesith lacks somewhat. I like the mystery here, and by that I mean of the land, not its inhabitants. It appeals to me. Jesith lies in what’s traditionally regarded as one of the most mystical landscapes in Alba Sulh, but...’ I shrugged. ‘... but here there is something else.’

  ‘I sometimes think the land shaped the history,’ Gen said, ‘influenced us all, but no, we must not head back to that territory. Tell me of your family.’

  So the rest of the meal was dominated by my tales of Jesith and the hara who lived there. I omitted all my personal drama, of course, because unlike Gen and his clan this was something I was working hard to put behind me. I was first generation, too. I didn’t tell him that. But many in Jesith and its surrounding area had been incepted late. Such hara had gravitated towards each other and their desire to create a better life dominated all that they did. I could not think of anyhar in Jesith who brooded upon the ancient past or who even thought of human ancestors. Gwyllion was a different place entirely and only a fool would go blundering in and try to change things.

  After the meal was finished, Gen and I moved from our table to sit beside the fire. Here we sat drinking a herbal liqueur in enveloping leather armchairs. Gen stared into the flames, the sculpted planes of his rather long face enhanced by the ruddy glow. I wondered whether it would be polite to invite him back to the tower, although I had little desire to do so. I sensed he was waiting for me to say something along those lines, though. He yawned, stretched. ‘Well, this has been a pleasant evening. It’s good to make new friends.’

  ‘Indeed.’ I put down my glass on the table at my side. ‘I feel like I’ve been here for weeks. You and your family have been very welcoming. I appreciate it.’

  ‘In amongst our quirks.’ Gen grinned. ‘I hope that you’ll find fewer quirks and more reasons to be friends.’

  ‘Oh, I have no doubt of it.’ I adopted what I hoped was a more serious expression, although the alcohol I’d consumed simply made me want to grin. ‘I know I have things to learn, and I don’t want to go tramping all over your traditions, Gen. The idea is to create a system that everyhar is comfortable with and enjoys. Festivals are about celebration. We all have enough hardship to contend with in daily life, at least from time to time. I feel that when hara come together for the feast days, they should be rapturous hours, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I do. I agree.’ Gen paused. Our drinks were finished. He too put down his glass. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better get back. Thanks for joining me tonight.’

  ‘Thanks too. I’ve enjoyed this.’ I felt we were both waiting for something, so had to speak. ‘I’m still getting over my journey, so I’m sorry if I look tired. I assure you it wasn’t the company. I just need my sleep.’

  Gen nodded, smiling slightly, interpreting my unspoken message. ‘Would you like me to mention to Wyva about arranging the Cuttingtide feast?’

  ‘Please. If your hara could organise that side of things, I’d appreciate it. Tell Wyva I’ll let him see the ritual as soon as I’ve finished it – hopefully in a few days’ time.’

  Gen stood up. ‘No problem. Will you be OK finding your way back to the tower?’

  ‘Yes, of course. It’s a straight path. I have only to pass through the hounds of hell to get there.’

  Gen laughed. ‘You mean Mossamber’s hounds.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mossamber Whitemane, their phylarch in all but name. He’s hostling to Nytethorne, your spectre on the path.’

  ‘Ah.’ I was intrigued to learn the Whitemanes kept their pack of hounds so close to me, and wondered whether they might enact their own wild hunt. ‘And these beasts are kept on Wyvachi land?’

  Gen grimaced. ‘Wyva is delighted, as you can imagine. But Ludda, who keeps the farm, is quite thick with the Whitemanes, while being an exemplary tenant for us. We can’t really forbid it.’

  ‘Awkward.’

  Gen shrugged. ‘As I said, we try to keep relations... polite.’

  We walked to the inn door, bidding goodbye to Selyf as we passed the bar, where he was polishing glasses in a slow and meticulous manner. Rows of them gleamed on shelves behind him like crystal. Metal tankards, similarly buffed, hung in a row above him. There was no mention of the meal being paid for, although Selyf did ask me to visit The Stag again. I had a feeling I would never be asked to pay for anything either. Hara who were gathered around the tables fell silent as we went through the room, raised their glasses to Gen. He acknowledged each one with a greeting, a quick personal word. I was impressed he took the time to do this. I had no doubt the Wyvachi knew everyhar upon their land by name.

  Once outside, I said to Gen, ‘there’s something else I’d like you to discuss with Wyva.’

  ‘Oh, what?’ He had paused by a line of horses tethered near the door, one of which must be his own.

  ‘Well, the community needs a hienama, and that’s not a duty I can take on long term. But I can train somehar up for you. Perhaps you and your brothers could discuss any likely candidates?’

  ‘Well, all right.’ Gen sounded uncertain. ‘Really, we wanted somehar from outside, somehar who’d trained for... for a time.’

  On the tip of my tongue, no doubt placed there by the fine liqueur and wine, was the suggestion that perhaps a Whitemane should be considered. Might that not do something to heal rifts and to give the family a role within the community accepted by the Wyvachi? Fortunately, prudence took hold of my tongue and kept it silent on that matter. ‘I suppose I could write to my contacts in Kyme for you.’

  ‘It’s a pity you can’t take the job on,’ Gen said, and I sensed in his words the suggestion there was no reason for me not to become their hienama. And perhaps, really, there wasn’t.

  Chapter Five

  My work progressed well over the next few days and I’d sketched out the body of the festival rite. All I needed now was to finalise locations. The hara of Gwyllion could begin their rite in the village, and then progress through a couple of pertinent sites, eventually culminating with a finale in the gardens at Meadow Mynd, where the feast could take place. Obviously, I’d have to check this plan with Wyva – he might not want so many hara at the house. But this was an aspect of the celebration that could easily be changed. Finishing off the songs would take a little longer, but I nearly had enough to show Wyva.

  On the Aloytsday following my meal with Gen in Gwyllion, I decided to pin down my ritual sites, obviously avoiding any areas associated with the moonshawl. I needed a field, with a forest walk nearby that led to an open gl
ade – both of which would have been perfectly provided by the moonshawl sites I’d seen. I suppressed irritation. There would be other sites. As usual, I elected to walk rather than ride – in the week or so I’d been in Gwyllion I’d only ridden Hercules that once. Now he grazed peacefully in the field below my tower, perhaps all memory of Jesith gone. He’d been made to work there, often.

  Consulting my copied maps, I could see that the ancient river was flanked by fields on both sides. The river did not flow too close to Meadow Mynd, however. The house was surrounded by woodland on three sides, while on the fourth were the fields of Wyva’s personal crops. These sites were quite a walk from the village. I needed a spot along the way where hara could pause and enact a small rite. Again, irritation shivered through me. Maes Siôl was close to the village and the pool not far from the trail through the trees that led to the Mynd. I felt that any sites I chose could only be second best to these eminently suitable places. Why couldn’t Wyva put away the past and imprint new, positive memories over these areas, if bad memories were associated with them? Perhaps, if I grew to know Wyva better I could dare to broach carefully upon this subject, but not yet.

  I planned to explore the woods between my tower and the house, hoping to find a picturesque and atmospheric glade. However, as I wandered, I found my steps taking me nearer to the Llwybr Llwynog, which was rather out of the way. I wanted to see what lay beyond the forest there, also what lay beyond the river. I was hoping to catch sight of one of the Whitemanes again. There was no point denying they fascinated me, mainly because of the way they’d been described to me. Also, perhaps part of me sympathised with the outsiders, as the Whitemanes were in the eyes of the Wyvachi. I knew how it was to occupy that role, to flex against it helplessly, full of resentment.

  The Llwybr Llwynog was deserted of harish presences, although I sensed a watchful atmosphere. I stood on the summit, where I found the remains of a tumbled building, most likely a folly from the time of Wyva’s human ancestors. From there, I could see much of the surrounding countryside. A pale band of fields hugged the glistening river and beyond the water I could see more hedged fields, occasional spinneys and in the distance the glitter of sunlight on glass. I shaded my eyes and stared at this place. Was this another elderly pile like Meadow Mynd, where once human families had ruled the land before falling into decline? Did anyhar live there? Beyond the wide river valley, ancient mountains soared mistily towards the sky, their flanks gold and russet beneath the sun.

  I heard stifled laughter behind me and turned at once. Two small brown faces were peering round the mossy tumbled stones, grinning at me. I recognised the harlings of a few days before, who’d thrown the moss at me. ‘We meet again,’ I said amiably. ‘Are you going to run off as before, or perhaps pelt me with missiles?’

  Today not shy, the harlings came out from their hiding place and at first prowled around me like cats, examining me intently. They seemed barely harish, but more like supernatural forest creatures, born of loam and sticks. Their clothes were grubby; tunics and trousers of a mud-coloured fabric. They wore no shoes and their grimy toes were long. Their skins were as dark as the earth itself, yet their eyes were the vivid green of young moss. Their hair was a riotous black tangle, glossy, yet full of leaf fragments and twigs. ‘Where are you from?’ I asked them.

  The harlings glanced at each other and laughed, and then began to caper about me in a mad dance. They swooped in to poke my legs with sharp little fingers, then wheeled out again to continue their circling. It made me dizzy; they moved so fast. Then, I had the presence of mind to grab one of the little pests when he swept in to poke me. He struggled like a wild creature in my grasp, a mass of flailing arms and legs and sharp little teeth. He lunged to bite my wrists but could not quite reach. His companion stood still, hands to his face, and began to screech. The noise both of them made was enough to wake the dead.

  ‘Be quiet,’ I said in a stern tone. ‘Who are you?’

  After a few more moments of caterwauling, both harlings suddenly became still, staring at one another. I felt they were listening to somehar – or something.

  ‘Let him go,’ said the harling some feet away from me.

  ‘I think you’ll simply run off if I do that,’ I replied, somewhat harshly. The harling I held had gone limp in my hands. My shins hurt where he’d kicked me. ‘I wish you no harm, but can’t say the same about you concerning me. Do you treat all strangers this way?’

  ‘Only playing,’ mumbled the harling in my hold.

  ‘Playing or not, it’s rude,’ I said. ‘If my son had behaved like that at your age, I’d have chased him with a stick.’

  Zeph of course would never have behaved like that. While being a somewhat eerie, mysterious harling, he’d rarely played up or been irritating. The harlings before me were now sullenly silent.

  ‘If I let you go, will you stay to talk to me?’ I asked. ‘I have some lunch with me and we can share it.’

  ‘All right,’ said both harlings at once.

  I released the harling in my hold and he ran to what was clearly his brother. They grasped each other tightly but didn’t attempt to flee, simply stared at me with their uncanny eyes. I sat down and unpacked lunch from my satchel onto a small cloth I’d brought with me; cheese sandwiches, a couple of roast chicken legs and two apples, plus a stoppered flask of milk. Enough to last me for the day, I’d believed. After a few moments the harlings approached inquisitively.

  ‘My name is Ysobi,’ I said. ‘Will you tell me yours?’

  ‘Our names secret,’ one of them said.

  ‘Then I shall call you Twig and Leaf,’ I said, pointing to each in turn. ‘Help yourself to the food.’

  The harlings squatted down and proceeded to take a bite from each sandwich I’d spread out. Then, leaving the sandwiches mauled, they started on the chicken legs, cracking the bones with their teeth. Regarding their filthy hands, I lost my appetite; they could have it all.

  ‘Where do you live?’ I asked.

  One of the harlings, who I’d named Twig, pointed beyond the river.

  ‘Is there a big house there?’

  Both harlings nodded vaguely.

  ‘Are you Whitemanes?’ I asked, knowing instinctively they were. They shared the same strong, sensual features of the har I’d met upon the path before.

  They looked up at me suspiciously, while continuing to stuff my lunch into their mouths. The chicken bones were discarded, now it was back to one bite from each sandwich at a time, until there were only crusts left, which they threw on the ground.

  ‘I’m a friend,’ I said. ‘There’s no need to be afraid. I’m working here in Gwyllion for a time, and would like to meet your family... if you are Whitemanes.’

  The harlings got to their feet, held each other’s gaze for a moment and then beckoned to me. ‘Follow.’

  ‘Follow where?’

  They came to me then, grabbed one of my hands each and started to drag me. They were laughing, jumping up and down in their eagerness to lead me forward. ‘Now, wait...’ I tried to resist them, but their grip was strong. ‘Come now... where are we going?’

  ‘Just follow!’

  ‘Oh...’ I sighed, smiled at them, ‘all right.’

  They set off at once, racing down the hill. I stumbled. ‘Hey, not so fast!’ But they only laughed at me wildly, and then I was laughing too and let them have their way. We ran down towards the open fields, faster and faster. I felt like a harling myself, although of course I had never been one. What would it have been like? These creatures were like no harlings I’d ever seen. They were wild and beautiful, beings of the land.

  We came to the river, where there was a broad stone bridge, flanked with low walls, upon which hara might sit and gaze out over the water. My little Whitemanes led me to the middle of the bridge, slowing at last to a walk. The river was wide here and roiled with an almost muscular strength around the weed-wrapped struts below. I felt light-headed after my run, and disorientated – the unmistak
able sensation that warned of the unseen. I didn’t want to move an inch from the centre of that bridge.

  The harlings complained, once more jumping around me, digging their sharp little nails into my hands. I had the irrational fear they intended to throw me into the water. No matter how much I tried to free myself, they wouldn’t let go of my hands. I noticed then, at the other end of the bridge, facing me, two sentinel statues rearing high: white horses, each with eight legs, four of which mauled the air. Even from this distance I could see their stone lips peeled back from their long teeth in a snarl, their wild eyes. A shiver passed through me. At any moment, those beasts might spring to life and be upon me. The harlings, perhaps noticing I was mesmerised by the sight of these guardians, became quiet and still, as if waiting. Between the statues, I could see a well-trodden path through the fields ahead and then a band of tall trees, through which I glimpsed a hint of walls and windows.

  ‘I must go back,’ I said. ‘Let me go.’

  ‘No, come with us,’ said Leaf in a deceptively sweet voice. ‘Come home with us.’

  ‘No... it isn’t polite to do that. I’m not invited. If I am invited – properly – then I might come, but not this way.’

  ‘We’re inviting you,’ said Twig. ‘Come, little rabbit, we won’t eat you.’

  Both harlings grinned at me. I realised then that – farcically – I was afraid, but of what? Wasn’t this what I wanted – a chance to see the domain of the Whitemanes?

  ‘No, not today,’ I said. ‘I mean it. Now let me go.’

  The harlings grumbled a little, unintelligible sounds, but clearly not happy ones. They pulled on my arms strongly, their fingernails still digging into the flesh of my hands. I was overwhelmed by a visceral desire to escape, to run. I couldn’t pass those stone guardians ahead. I mustn’t. I would never come back from what lay beyond. I felt as if I was a child again, held between stronger, meaner children. I was on the verge of tears: preposterous. Must I copy what my captive harling had done earlier and free myself with bites and kicks? But before I could attack my captors physically, (and I really would have done so), a figure appeared between the stone horses. He wasn’t tall and at this distance I could discern little detail, other than that he was dressed in trousers and shirt of a dark colour and his hair fell in a glossy curtain to his waist. He carried a staff. As the harlings struggled to drag me onward, the har ahead put two fingers into his mouth and emitted a piercing whistle. The harlings let go of me at once and scampered towards the end of the bridge, without looking back. It seemed to me they occasionally dropped onto all fours like dogs, then sprang up again to their two feet, but even then, fuddled as I was, I told myself that couldn’t have been possible. The harlings threw themselves against the har who’d whistled, gripping his waist. If they’d had tails, they would have been wagging. The har regarded me without moving. He too seemed young, not much older than the wild harlings, perhaps just past feybraiha. I was breathless, dazed, but managed to raise a hand in thanks, noticing it was smeared with blood from deep little cuts. Then, I turned away, went slowly back across the bridge, each step feeling as if I trod on blades.