Moon Lord: The Fall of King Arthur - The Ruin of Stonehenge

by J. P. Reedman

  “Is it bad?” he said.

  “Bad enough, I will not lie. But I think, if the spirits will it, then you will live. I will clean the gash properly… but then I will have to sew it shut. Have you heard of that method of healing before?”

  He nodded. “Yes, but I have never seen it done, and I have never taken such a deep wound before now. It sounds painful.”

  “It will be,” she said with honesty. “But it is your best chance if you wish to recover.”

  He closed his eyes and lay back, face very drained and pale. “I am not certain that I do, lady.”

  “That is a wicked thought,” she said, wiping at his wound with a large flat leaf. It brought immediate cooling to the tortured flesh. “You are not an old man yet. The gods would be angry if you willed yourself to an early death.”

  “You do not know what has befallen me, girl,” he breathed, closing his eyes as she probed deeper into the gash and daubed unguents on the raw, torn flesh. “If you knew what an evil bastard I am, you would not lay your hand upon me.”

  Elian’s lips pursed. “I do not know what has befallen you, but I can guess. I had a brother once, now dead. He fought with a local chieftain over some petty matter and died for his pigheadedness. If you are like other men, I imagine you too fought over some triviality.”

  An’kelet let out a bitter laugh, despite his pain. “It was hardly trivial, lady. But it was foolish, and the folly was mine. I betrayed my friend in the foulest manner… and left a helpless woman on her own, to face punishment and maybe worse.”

  Elian’s eyes were fixed on An’kelet’s injury. For some reason she did not want to hear of the stranger’s ‘folly’… or this woman he had left behind. “It is in the past now. The spirits have seen fit to let you live despite the ills you did. Now… I will give you something for the pain that you must face.” Reaching to her bag, she drew out some willow bark. “Chew it,” she ordered. “Suck the moisture from the bark. Old Saille the willow goddess sends a gift to soothe pain in her woody flesh.”

  An’kelet placed the shreds of bark into his mouth, then lay back as Elian took a long fine bone needle from her pack and threaded it with a thin strand of gut, the end of which she bit off with her teeth. “You must not move,” she said. “You must stay completely still as I work.”

  “I will do my best.” An’kelet closed his eyes.

  Elian leaned over him and the needle entered his flesh. He bit his lips until they were ragged but made no outcry, no unnecessary movement as she darned his flesh, drawing the torn edges of his wound together. “You will have a scar,” she said as she finished, “But I would not worry too much. You have a handsome enough face and every warrior has scars.”

  He was half-fainting with pain, but managed to utter a small, weak laugh. “I promise I will not worry about the scar, Elian.”

  She took her needle, cleaned it and wrapped it, then turned back to her patient. “I must go now. My father will be worried otherwise and I do not want him to come searching for me. He is very protective since my brother died. You do not want to be found, either… and…” her mouth quirked, ”maybe I do not want them to find you. You are my secret, a gift brought to me by the Lady River. But tell me, what should I call you? There must be a name I can call you by, even if it is not your true one!”

  He could barely think through the haze of pain and the weakness of his body. “Some have called me Longhand in the past. It was when I was a Spearman. But now...” He stared down at his hands, shaking faintly in the dimness. “You may as well call me Nohand, for I have not any weapons, not even one of my daggers.”

  “It will not always be so,” Elian said firmly. “You shall be healed, Longhand, and will eventually take up arms and win back your honour.”

  He shook his head, his smile grim. She could not see it in the gloom. “No, my honour can never be regained. At least not in this land. But thank you for all your aid, Elian the Fair.”

  He heard the hiss of her breath between her teeth. “I will be back tomorrow, Longhand.”

  *****

  Over the next few days An’kelet’s condition worsened. Fever burned in him, and he knew not himself but raved and tossed on the ground. Elian knelt at his side in the little skin shelter, heating rocks on the fire to make the tent warmer. If he could sweat out the evil humours, there might be a chance for him. The girl scowled, shaking her head in despair. She did not understand why he sickened so. She had cleaned the wound well and treated it with the freshest plants; and even now, it did not stink of putrefaction, nor were its edges discoloured. It was as if bad spirits were at him, tormenting him, trying to drag him into the realm of Not-being. Well, by Bhel and the Everlasting Sky, those foul creatures would have a fight on their hands—if Elian daughter of Phelas of the tribe of Astolaht had anything to do with it!

  Singing softly to herself to distract from the gravity of the situation, she went to the river and drew water into a big clay bowl. Taking it back into the shelter, she used a wad of dried moss to sponge down the feverish man, wiping beads of sweat from brow and body. It was frightening… not only was he hot, but his strength seemed to dwindle and his flesh with it, as if it was burning off in a fire that raged inside.

  “You will not die, you will not die,” Elian repeated over and over, as she held the moss sponge to his lips, squeezing it so that water dripped into his mouth. “But maybe…” She looked into his closed, pale face, the sweat standing out like jewels on his brow, “maybe the problem is that you do not wish to live. Well, if you stand on the dark edge, I will draw you back! Whatever you have done and to whom, one so fair of visage does not deserve an end such as this, surely!”

  For several more days she tended him, staying awake all night least he should have need of her care. She had lied and told her father she would be gone for a few days to the distant home of the Ladies of the Lake, to worship at their women’s hut and to learn more of herb craft and the like. It was her ambition to be the Holy Woman and healer of Astolaht, so Phelas thought nothing of her hasty departure—women’s business was not for men to question—though he insisted she take a bow and quiver of arrows for protection. He had made certain that she knew how to protect herself since her eldest brother, Ro’chad, had died defending their livestock from cattle-raiders.

  Elian had sworn not to sleep as long as she felt Longhand’s life might be in danger. But on the fourth day weariness overcame her and she slumped on the floor next to the mound of skins where her patient lay, and she slept, curled into a tight ball beside him.

  She awoke to the sound of the dawn chorus and, peering through the tent flap, saw the Moon was setting, a thin ghost sailing West through the trees. She cursed herself for her weakness; she should have stayed awake! Panicking, her eyes flicked to her patient, fearing the worst… she had been sound asleep for hours.

  He was very still, very quiet. She could not hear the troubled breathing that had plagued him these past nights. Oh no, what have I done! she thought, reaching for his slack wrist… She found the beat of his life-force almost right away. His skin was cool, no more sweat washed over him; gazing at his face, she saw that, though pallid, he looked more relaxed. His breathing was slow, rhythmic.

  A great joy welled up in her.

  The stranger from the river would live.

  *****

  An’kelet recovered slowly. At first his legs would not hold him at all, and when he tried to rise he fell down again, almost taking the shelter of skins with him. Elian propped him up and helped him back onto the nest of skins she had made. “Too soon, friend Longhand,” she said. “Recovery may take some time. I will bring you food and drink to cheer you and make you hale.”

  “I am shamed,” he said, a shadow on his handsome though drained face. “You, a maid who is not my wife, must tend to my needs like a newborn babe. I cannot even piss by myself. That is shameful.”

  “It cannot be helped,” she said. “And do not fear, Longhand, I live in a house with no women, just my fat
her and remaining brother, and I am not ignorant of what a man looks like.”

  He blushed furiously. Elian had to bite back a laugh; he was so much older than her, old enough to be her father, and yet he flushed like a young innocent lad at her joking words! She wondered where he had come from to have such strange manners and bearing; her father’s age he might be but Phelas

  was nothing like Longhand—he was a stout, balding man with wispy grey hair and a worried-looking face scored by years of wind and weather.

  “I am sorry, Longhand,” she said kindly. “I speak and do things plainly, which is how it has always been with women in my family. It is probably not the custom of your people for women to speak so freely of such things.”

  An’kelet dragged himself into a sitting position. “I feel filthy, having lain here for so long. Can you get me to the river?”

  “Not yet… I fear its swell would be too strong and you would be dragged down to the bed of old River Mother! I would not let her have you after all my efforts to keep you in Tirr nambeo, the Land of the Living! A few more days… maybe a week… and hopefully you should be well enough to brave the cold waters. I will wash you as best I can in the meanwhile, if you do not mind.”

  He nodded, and she took out some soft wads of moss from her leather bag. Going outside she dipped them in the river then returned and began to slowly lave his skin, pushing aside the blood-stained and crusted tatters of his tunic. The palm of her hand came to rest on his chest, and she suddenly realised, as if for the first time, how strongly muscled he was despite the wasting of his illness. A warrior’s physique… so different from the farmers and herdsmen of her small holding, short men who grew bow-legged and round-hipped from squatting round their fires. She also appreciated that, before his wounding, he had been well-fed… and she now suspected, of high status. She plucked a button from his ruined tunic and examined it in the dim light—although damaged and broken in two, it was a piece of jet with a rim of imported gold.. She had never seen the like; her mother had owned one bead covered in thin gold foil, but that was all. She stopped washing her patient, her hand still resting on his chest, and suddenly a shudder, half fear, half pleasure, shot through her and her face reddened to match his earlier. He noticed her hesitation and looked at her quizzically. She noted, as if for the first time, his eyes were almost an amber colour, warm and deep.

  “I must do something about new clothing for you,” She drew away. “This garb has grown rank and needs to be cast away—it will attract unwholesome spirits by its blood-smell. I will see what I can take from my village. I will need to be careful, though, lest I am questioned.”

  “Yes. No one must know. If you care for my life, my existence must remain secret.”

  “I do care for your life, Longhand.” She gazed at him and suddenly her eyes were shadowed. She turned away abruptly, reaching for the flap of the tent. “I will return tomorrow. Rest well.”

  *****

  She came back the next day, carrying a large spotted skin wrapped round her shoulders. She had taken it from Astolaht only after much harassment from her brother, who had stared suspiciously at her from over the rim of his beaker and asked why she was flitting back and forth from Astolaht like some piece of wind-blown marsh-gas. He wanted to know if she had a man, and was taking the skin so that she might lie with him on it. She had reddened to the roots of her hair, both angry and embarrassed, and smacked him in the face with her balled hand, making him bellow with anger, and then they had both railed at each other and tumbled in the grass outside their father’s hut. It was only Phelas threatening to beat them both that made them spring apart and stand, breathing heavily, giving each other poisonous glares.

  “And what are you doing with that skin, daughter?” Phelas had glowered at the dishevelled girl, her kirtle torn and hanging from one shoulder. “You have not been home much of late; you have been flying back and forth with scarce a word for your kin…”

  “As I said!” snapped Tirre, his eyes flashing. “A lover!”

  Chief Phelas swung his fist and struck Tirre, shocking him into silence.

  “I told you,” said Elian. “I have made a pilgrimage to the Ladies of the Lake. They have instructed me how to become one with the air we breathe, the earth we stand upon, the water of Mother Abona. And in order to accomplish that, I must have space to find peace, to enter the spirit world… and not be bothered by oafs such as Tirre!”

  Phelas sighed, looking at his daughter with her gleaming oval face, honey hair and sun-bronzed skin. She was too old to be unwed, he knew that… but she was all he had left of her mother, whose marriage to him had been a love-match, and he did not want to part with her as yet. “I do not know if I believe you or not,” he grumbled. “But whatever it is you do, daughter, take care. You are more precious to me than the sun-metal gold.”

  “You need have no fear,” she had said, but she found her eyes darting away from his face, full of guilt. Throwing the deerskin over her shoulder, she had run into the dappled forest and not looked back.

  But now she was here, back in her little shelter with Longhand, and was using her needles and gut strings to sew him a simple long tunic out of the deerhide. Carefully she scratched the hair away with her flint scraper, wanting to show him that she had some skill. She could have done better, making him both close-fitting trousers and a shorter, fitted shirt, but she did not dare be so familiar as to measure his frame with her hands. She hoped he would not mind her poor efforts.

  He watched as she sewed, silent as he lay on his bed of furs. She noted his colour had all but returned and there was new life in his eyes and a renewed lustre to his hair. It fell in loose waves over his shoulders, rich amber to match his eyes. She had not shaved him while he was ill, even though it had obviously been his custom, for she had feared she might cut him as he tossed in his sickness, and now there was red-gold upon his chin and round his lips. A lord of bronze and gold, born of the river and the sun.

  Elian bit her lower lip and glanced down at the skin in her lap, sewing furiously. Why was she thinking such things? He was a stranger, she did not even know his true name, and he was old… for all that he still held the power of youth in his arms. He would get well, and then he would go…

  Elian the Lily-Maid realised with sudden awful knowledge that she did not want the stranger to leave. She wanted him to stay, and be with her. She was not as the other girls in her village, already dandling babes round their fires; and he was not like the men of her clan. Whatever evil he claimed he had done mattered not one bit to Elian of Astolaht.

  Longhand sat up, stretching out his legs in his old, cracking trews, stiff with dirt. “I thank you for your efforts, Elian. Do you think it possible I might enter the river today and wash the dirt from me, now that you have made new clothes? I feel stronger by the day. I do not think the river can take me.”

  “Yes… yes, I think so…” Her voice was scarcely more than a whisper. “But I must come with you, in case you fall.”

  They went down to the river and Elian sat upon the bank amidst the tufted grass. The wind was blowing and the lilies she loved to gather nodded their heads. Bits of blossom off the trees blew in white showers and curled on the river’s swell.

  Unselfconsciously, but with his back to her, An’kelet slipped into the cold Abona, releasing a little gasp as its coldness bit into him. Gingerly, he removed the torn and blood-smeared shirt and then the scored trousers, letting them drift away as an offering to the spirits who ruled the watery places, to Mother Abona, the Great Cleanser, and her consort, Borvoh the Boiler, churning and twisting in the weirs. He was reminded of his initiation at the temple of Khor Ghor so long ago, where the Merlin had dunked him in Abona’s swell, purifying him before he took his oaths in the Throne of Kings before the Stone of Adoration and Ardhu Pendraec, the Stone Lord of Prydn. Oaths he had broken… His mind cast back to another river, dark under a midnight sky hard with stars like the inside of a broken bluestone pillar, where he had first betrayed his
king and lay with the White Woman, Fynavir of Ibherna, Ardhu’s chosen Queen.

  The pain of the loss of both Fynavir and Ardhu, his friend since youth, was like a sharp twisting knife inside him, and he stumbled on stones in the riverbed. Buffeted by the waves, his knees gave way, threatening to throw him down to be swept to oblivion, to eternal forgetfulness. Elian gave a little cry and ran out into the water to steady him, and suddenly she found her arms around him, tall and golden bronze and naked, like some god of the Sun come to earth… even if that god was growing weary and faded, passing towards winter.

  He stared down at her, her honey hair in damp coils against his chest, her tunic, wet from the river, clinging to her lithe young body. Suddenly he felt something he had not expected to ever feel again—the stirrings of desire. Until now, such sensations had been reserved for Fynavir, and guilt had accompanied them… guilt for the breaking of his oaths to both his priestess mother in Ar-morah and to Ardhu. Now those oaths were long gone, no longer binding him before man and spirits… he owed no loyalty to Priestess Ailin, on her Lake Isle where men died every nineteen turnings of the Sun, nor did he owe allegiance to the Stone Lord, who had cast him from Kham-El-Ard to die. He was going to live instead, though, by the art of this fair-faced girl who clung to him as if they were already lovers. She could heal him in more ways than she knew, freeing him from the ties that had bound him for so long… In the back of his mind he knew that this sudden rush of lust was not right, not in his state of mind and not as an outlawed man who must soon, now that his wound was healing, flee these lands before he was tracked down by Ardhu’s men. To take her and then leave was against the honour he had always lived by, instilled in him by the virgin Lake Maidens in his mother’s domain… but by the spirits, he wanted nothing more than to cast her on her back and quench the memories of all he had lost in soft yielding flesh.

  Elian glanced up at him expectantly, her eyes wide and the pupils dilated, her mouth parted and breathing ragged, and he knew then that she felt what he felt too. She had not come there that day to nurse him; she wanted his body as much as he desired hers. Grabbing her shoulders he pushed her back towards the shore, ungentle in his urgency, rougher than he would normally have been with Fynavir. Reaching dry land, he swung her up into his arms and entered the shelter where she had tended him.