The Moonshawl: A Wraeththu Mythos Novel

by Storm Constantine

  Without further invitation, I walked into the room and sat down in an upholstered chair beside an empty hearth, cradling the tankard in my cupped hands. Nytethorne slunk past me and took a seat at the table beneath the window, where his lunch was still on its tray.

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘I don’t want to waste your time. Let me tell you something. Rinawne har Wyvachi advised me to go your house and knock upon the door, ask whoever answered it to tell me what happened between the Wyvachi and the Whitemanes in the past. He’s a very direct har, is Rinawne, although he knows even less about local history than I do. Chance put you behind a door when I was close to it. We are both alone. What happened?’

  ‘Is it your business, truly?’ Nytethorne asked. He began to place the paraphernalia of his lunch upon the table, slowly and deliberately

  ‘I have made it so, because of the harling, because of Myv.’

  He grimaced. ‘Don’t think so. You’ve been curious from the start.’

  ‘As have your hara about me,’ I said sharply.

  Nytethorne paid particular attention to a salt cellar he held in his hand. ‘Curious? No. Mossamber will play games with Wyvachi toys, that’s all it is.’

  ‘Perhaps he fears me?’

  Nytethorne laughed, in what appeared to be genuine delighted shock and now looked at me. ‘Such proud foolishness will do you ill,’ he said.

  I shrugged. ‘Not at all. Perhaps he knows an outsider could pry and find out all the secrets and point out to everyhar involved what idiocy this feud is. Perhaps he doesn’t want you to realise you’re being an idiot.’

  ‘You have a mouth on you, Wyvachi-called.’

  ‘My name’s Ysobi. My friends call me Ys. We’re not yet friends, so stick with the longer version.’

  ‘I know your name. As a har earns to call me by name, so he must earn for me to call him by his.’

  ‘How delightfully medieval you are! It’s as if your hara have read the most dramatic novels from human history and modelled themselves on the most pungent villains.’

  ‘You know more of that than me,’ he retorted. ‘I’m pureborn.’

  I put my head to one side. ‘Not that... recently, however.’ I made a dismissive gesture. ‘But anyway, fascinating though this sparring is, I would really like to know why there is so much evil blood between the Whitemanes and the Wyvachi.’

  Nytethorne breathed in deeply through his nose, looked out of the window, still turning the salt cellar in his hands. ‘Hara have long memories. Injury is injury, despite the years. The Wyvachi are weak, always have been. Looked out for themselves, were cunning with the old tribal leaders. Little honour.’

  I leaned forward in my chair. ‘Is it all about land?’

  Nytethorne glanced back at me. ‘Mossamber doesn’t want land, ‘specially cursed land.’

  ‘Then he wants the hara around here, he wants to lead them?’

  ‘Not that.’

  ‘Then what does he want?’

  ‘For Wyvachi to be decent, raze the filthy hive that bred such evil.’

  ‘What evil? Really, tiahaar, be more specific. Your words mean little to me.’

  Nytethorne made a smothered, anguished sound, gazed once more out of the window for some moments, then turned to me, resolved. He placed the salt cellar carefully beside his plate. ‘Will be truthful with you, tiahaar. You’re no enemy of mine. Think you’re crazed and full of yourself, but see you mean no ill. But this land... here... is full of ill. Hurts going back more than a century. Little snicks inflicted here and there over time. Wyvachi always looked down on my kin, even before any were har. Teeth bared between families. And then, Wraeththu happened. The soil roils with it all.’ He stood up, clearly impassioned. ‘Hearts were hot all those years ago, and what came from them fell into the land. Stored there.’

  ‘And stored still in hearts.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But what did happen exactly? How does the har named Peredur figure in this history, and what precipitated the Wyvachi curse?’

  ‘Must not answer these things.’

  I laughed coldly. ‘You’re a cliché. Stop pissing in the air. The mystery becomes dull.’

  ‘You have no respect,’ he said, almost beneath his breath, but I could see that faint shiver of uncertainty, the words held inside. Part of him wanted to speak. I could taste it on him.

  ‘You warned me the other night,’ I said. ‘You care enough to do that. So let’s leave the history and look at more recent events. Why did Rey leave Gwyllion? Tiahaar, put yourself behind my eyes, see what I see. Wouldn’t you want answers too?’

  Nytethorne closed his eyes. ‘Things come to you,’ he said in a voice barely above a whisper. ‘If you are strong of heart, let them come. I can’t be the one. Have no leave to speak.’ He placed a closed fist against his chest. ‘And I fear, tiahaar. Won’t speak without leave – will be punished. And even here, never alone.’

  I glanced around the room and its cosiness suddenly condensed in a weird kind of way. I felt a presence, as if Nytethorne had conjured it. ‘I am ready,’ I said, not just to the har before me. A thought came to me. ‘Is this your sanctuary, tiahaar, this little room?’

  He smiled then, with beautiful warmth. There was a brief transfiguration during which I fancied I could see the har Nytethorne Whitemane might truly be. ‘Where I think,’ he said. ‘Where I write.’

  ‘You write?’ I could see my surprise nettled him somewhat – his warm smile hardened.

  ‘Words are soothing to me,’ he said. ‘Here is nearest to alone.’

  ‘Tiahaar,’ I ventured carefully, ‘don’t you want this vendetta to end too, for the bad history to be healed?’

  He put one hand upon the table, just the fingertips, and stared down at them. ‘It can’t,’ he said. ‘There’s... a barrier.’ He stared into my eyes as if trying to convey more than a few words. ‘Rey tried.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  He nodded. ‘In the mountains. The air is clean there, and the soil.’

  ‘Would he speak to me, do you think?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. He spoke with his feet. Has been granted solitude. Made a bargain, so I think.’

  ‘And left Porter behind... Was that the cost?’

  ‘No. He was asked to... for other reasons.’

  ‘Who is Porter’s father?’

  Challenge came into Nytethorne’s eyes. ‘Me,’ he said, without hesitation.

  I absorbed this fact for a moment, and all its implications. ‘You and Rey,’ I said in a monotone.

  Nytethorne shrugged.

  This conversation was like pulling thorns from flesh. I felt that Nytethorne wouldn’t volunteer information but would answer certain questions. If the questions were clever he might reveal more than he intended. ‘So Porter remains because of you – do you see him often?’

  Nytethorne shook his head. ‘Not often. Not safe. And I’m not the reason.’

  I nodded thoughtfully. ‘He’s Mossamber’s eyes and ears in the Mynd, isn’t he?’

  A pause, then: ‘No point denying. You’re not stupid.’

  ‘Does Wyva know you’re Porter’s father?’

  Nytethorne shrugged. ‘Doubt that. He’d not have Whitemane blood in his house.’

  I wasn’t so sure about that. It occurred to me the eyes and ears arrangement might work both ways. Who knew how Porter acted to survive, and what Wyva might countenance to help preserve his domain? ‘So Rey was in a relationship with you, yet working for Wyva?’

  ‘Not that close,’ Nytethorne said. ‘He wanted to experience... certain things. Wanted understanding. He was Wyvachi-called, like you, yet Mossamber let him in. Won’t do that again.’

  A realisation came to me. ‘Porter was made during a rite, wasn’t he?’

  Nytethorne nodded. He sat down again, rubbed his hands over his face. ‘As you guessed. At a festival. Not intended. Just happened. Like you, Rey was inquisitive, but in a different way. You’d not do what he did.’ He raised
his eyes to me, gave me a curious look. ‘Don’t tell Porter what you know. Don’t question him. Could be danger for him.’

  ‘I won’t. Tiahaar, what is the danger? Can you not warn me a little more?’

  ‘You’ll find out. Know you will. You finding me here is the start.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I said, ‘it started way before this.’

  ‘Might be meant,’ Nytethorne said. He drew his full lips into a thin line, looked away from me. ‘Reaching to you... maybe.’

  ‘Is there a ghost, Nytethorne?’ I asked, waiting to see how he reacted to my use of his name.

  ‘Oh yes, Ysobi,’ he answered, turning to me once more. ‘Be sure of that.’

  ‘Is it Peredur?’

  Again, he turned away from me, as if aware his eyes might give away too much and he could only risk short contact with my gaze. ‘Enough. Said what I can. Don’t try to trick me.’

  ‘That sounds much like a “yes”,’ I said.

  ‘If only that simple...’ He shook his head. ‘Would you share my lunch?’ He gestured at the table.

  I stood up, went to the table, placed my tankard upon it. I put a hand on his right shoulder. ‘I’ve already eaten, thanks. And thank you for what you’ve told me. I can see you’re torn over this.’

  He looked at my hand but didn’t move away. ‘You’re brave yet foolish, strong yet at risk. Be wary, Ysobi. I can’t come to your aid, should you need it.’

  I patted his arm. ‘Until we meet again, tiahaar.’ With these words I left his room.

  I wanted to stay, speak with him further, but realised cutting my visit short would have more impact and might draw him closer to me.

  What Nytethorne had brought to the fore was that I might actually be in danger, and not just from petty etheric conceits designed merely to unnerve me. But in danger from what? Mossamber? Vengeful spirits from the past? As a hienama, I could not of course deny there is much beyond harish senses that make up the world, and that forces beyond our comprehension could be considered hostile in some circumstances – energies that might be found in the otherlanes, for example. Years before in Jesith, Gesaril had experienced a malevolent haunting that had derived from his harlinghood, but as Jassenah had said since, the frightening forms that had appeared to Gesaril could easily have been conjured by his own strong thoughts and feelings. We had no hard proof the manifestations were external. Perhaps the result was the same as if they had been, but the difference in what a manifestation actually is must have bearing on how to deal with it.

  Examining what lay before and around me now, I considered that whatever might be manifesting could be an externalisation of the original hostility between Wyvachi and Whitemane, compounded by violent acts in the past. This poisoned energy had been allowed to thrive, being fed by the continued antagonism between the families. So now it had a form, and this might be the wraith I’d glimpsed at the Pwll Siôl Lleuad, and the entity that had taunted me in the forest following the Whitemane Cuttingtide rite, and the strange stick-like being that had appeared just that once in my bed. Nothing had actually injured my body, or inflicted psychological hurts beyond uneasy feelings for a day or so after the event. (I still thought my disorientation in the forest had been caused by the Whitemanes in some way. I didn’t believe that derived from an etheric entity.) As with all malevolent forms I’d ever encountered, their only weapon was fear. And surely if confronted without fear, they had no power whatsoever.

  As I walked to the Pwll Siôl Lleuad, I considered that the Whitemanes, for some reason rooted in the past, did not want the Wyvachi on what they considered to be “their” land, despite the fact that both families had equal rights to occupy it. Meadow Mynd was regarded – as Nytethorne had put it – as a “hive of evil”. Something truly bad must’ve happened there in the early days that had wounded the Whitemanes and had caused the death of Peredur, a Wyvachi har, it seemed, the Whitemanes had had an interest in. It seemed likely Mossamber had been fond of him. But whatever had caused the rift, it was so great and so deep it had never been healed. There must be some hara on both sides who thought, if only privately, the rift was an inconvenience they could do without. Yet it appeared nohar had ever acted to end it, except perhaps for... Rey. Yes, possibly him. He’d involved himself somehow, which I now believed had led to his swift departure. He must’ve been afraid. He’d left his son behind. How I wished I could speak to that har, hear from his mouth his reasons for leaving and also what he’d discovered.

  From what I’d overheard between Wyva and Medoc, and all I’d learned since, it appeared true that a dire curse had been uttered in the distant past, with the suggestion that a dramatic event – perhaps the cursing itself – had taken place at the moment Wyva had emerged from his pearl. He had been Kinnard’s first born. The moonshawl, then, was Wyva’s. This artefact had been created to protect him, and all harlings of the family thereafter. A curse upon harlings: that indicated sore blood indeed. The Wyvachi believed in this curse – and who could blame them for being reluctant to test how effective it might be? As Medoc had mentioned, Kinnard and his chesnari might have lost their lives because of it. What sane har, however much his rational mind argued against it, would risk the life of his own harling?

  I reached the pool and stared at its modest glade for some moments. Surely, the start of healing must come with honesty? The facts set out in order, shorn of sentiment and rhetoric. Of course, I wasn’t oblivious to the fact that both parties might in some peculiar way enjoy this continued feud; it had become part of their being. Would it not have begun to strip the mystery of its power if Wyva had simply said to me about the moonshawl story: ‘This is what happened in the past. Yes, it was bad, but we’re not responsible for the actions of our ancestors. Yet nearly a century of bad feeling is hard to overcome. Please help me overcome it.’?

  Well, I was going to try, whether he’d asked me to outright or not. How could he possibly believe a hienama could function in this place if he didn’t know the whole truth? Perhaps Wyva secretly wanted me to delve and find out. In the face of his silence and obstruction, it couldn’t then be said it was his fault if I stumbled on that truth.

  I composed myself on the moist, springy grass next to the pool and for some minutes stared into its still waters to order my mind. I closed down irrelevant thoughts and sought a point of tranquillity within myself. This I visualised in my heart centre, the realm of love and compassion, because these were aspects sorely missing from the problem. No matter what frightening form the manifestation might show me, I would meet it with sympathy and sincerity. I would not flinch.

  Satisfied, I slowly closed my eyes and focused upon velvet darkness before my mind’s eye. Come to me, I thought, visualising my words drifting out like light, invading every corner of the landscape. Come, Peredur, if it is you. I’m here to receive you.

  I could see now, in my mind, the Pwll Siôl Lleuad and its surrounding trees. As I concentrated, I saw the light change slowly from day to night. A mist, almost white, but tinged with lilac, seeped through the foliage at ground level, crawling towards me like a living thing. There was no sound, no smell. After a couple of minutes, I saw a form taking shape from the mist, at the same time seeming to rise up from it, but also walk through it. As it drew closer to me, I could perceive it was the har from my first meditation at this site – a har dressed in a white robe, his hair over his face. This time, he did not stumble or struggle, and his clothing was untorn. He drifted towards me, and the feeling that flowed from him was a mixture of curiosity and pity, coupled with a sense of hopelessness.

  Why do you come to me, then, if you have no hope? I asked, not even asking him to confirm his identity.

  The har drew himself tall, and with both hands, drew the curtains of hair from his face. I’d been prepared for anything, but what he revealed was refined and delicate features, a straight nose, a strong chin, thin yet well-shaped lips. His eyes though were completely white, like moonstones. I saw in him the traces of Wyvachi. I had no doubt this
was Peredur.

  What happened to you? I said. Will you tell or show me? Why do hara still fight over you?

  In reply, he lifted his hands slowly to his face and to my revulsion dug out his eyes, held them out to me as if for inspection. Remembering I must not flinch, I looked at them. They were stones, hemispherical smooth moonstones that glowed in the darkness. He did not want me to see his empty sockets, for his hair now hung once more over his face.

  Who blinded you? I asked.

  He shook his head and raised his hands to his face once more, presumably to replace the stones. He pushed back his hair again, blinked at me. Though he was blind, he could still weep. I saw the moist trails upon his ivory cheeks.

  I intend to heal the past, I told him. Will you help me?

  Now, he shook his head violently, as if in fear, and despite his blindness turned briefly as if to glance over his shoulder. He held up his hands to me, to ward me off, and began to back away into the mist.

  Wait, I said. Simply speak with me. I am here to listen.

  NO! IT COMES! YSBRYD DRWG!

  I could hear sound now, a low rumbling growl, as if the stones of the earth were angry. Peredur vanished into the mist and then something was rushing towards me in the place where he had been: an angry, spiteful entity. I could see its yawning mouth, the black holes of its eyes, abnormally long clawed fingers, splayed as if to attack.

  I got to my feet within the visualisation. In the name of the dehar Lunil and all things kind, begone! I cried, and made the sign of Lunil in the air before me.

  The entity wavered for a second, then spat out a string of black bile at me, uttered a hideous screech and spiralled up into the night sky, before vanishing in a flash of red light and a crack of dull thunder.

  I knew it had not retreated because of my power, but because it had accomplished its task. Peredur was gone.

  Chapter Twelve

  When the sounds began, I was reading in my living room. I’d come home directly after my visit to the Pwll Siôl Lleuad, feeling as if I’d picked another layer off the scab of buried history, but what had been revealed to me I wasn’t yet sure. Was there another entity involved apart from Peredur, or had the second manifestation merely been a different aspect of this damaged har? Part of his essence clearly reached out to communicate, otherwise I’d never have seen him helpless at the pool that first time. But perhaps another part, steeped in the enmity that had been nourished for so long, sought to banish this less hostile aspect. Only investigating further, on an etheric level, could tell me more. For now, I needed to rest, before facing whatever lurked in Meadow Mynd. This I intended to confront the following day.