Circle of Nine: Circle of Nine Trilogy 1

by Josephine Pennicott

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  The cells of stars contain the memory of the birth of trees and the death of leaves.

  — Eronthite saying

  Diomonna stared at Gwyndion with open-mouthed admiration. Each was struck anew by the beauty of the other. Tonight the Faery Queen was clothed in a forest-green gown that revealed more than it hid. Diamonds glittered like dewdrops on the fabric. If it had not been for the faint odour of Faery that clung to her, Gwyndion would have thought her perfect among women.

  Diomonna in turn was entranced by the Webx’s sensual beauty. His silver-blond hair was gossamer soft to her inquisitive light touch. His full silver lips were firm, yet hinted at his passionate nature. But the shootling’s eyes were dull with a melancholy sadness. Chilled, Diomonna recognised the all-too-familiar symptoms. Like so many before him, the Webx who had been graced with the honour of sighting the Hollow Hills was fretting for his homeland and people. The illusion that the Imomm were weaving so lovingly and skilfully for the shootling was failing to keep his life-force strong. She could hear the meerwog snarling from her cage as she witnessed the Faery Queen touching her master and she tensed. She longed to have the meerwog put to death, except she feared Gwyndion would die if this only tangible reminder from his homeland was removed.

  As Gwyndion stared into Diomonna’s enormous green eyes he watched the moon float within them. In her eyes floated all life. He could feel her worrying concern for him and hope flared within his breast. If he could penetrate through her illusion and reach her heart, he might have a chance to escape. Deliberately he slumped forward, feigning lethargy.

  *

  From the confines of her cage, Samma watched her master and the Faery Queen with undisguised jealousy. The little meerwog was losing her vitality as time drifted by in the Hollow Hills. And time was beginning to mean little to her. They could have been with the Imomm tribe for seconds or seasons. Samma’s coat was dull, her eyes were glazed and Gwyndion did not seem to notice or care whether or not she was close to him. From inside her cage she had had to endure the taunts of the loathsome Faery people. Tiny Winskis would constantly float through the bars of the cage, biting her and crying insults before darting away to safety. She ate little of the Faery food that was so carelessly tossed to her, or the Faery brew that they poured into her bowl. She was only too aware of how their food and drink could trap the unwary in the Faery illusion. As a consequence the meerwog was badly dehydrated and her ribs were beginning to stick out from her body. There was no moonrise or moonset to signify the passing of time, and to Samma and Gwyndion life was a dull routine of listening to the unearthly strains of the Faery harpist, observing the wild Faery dances that occurred with frequent and sudden spontaneity. Samma mewed continually, attempting to attract Gwyndion’s attention, but to the meerwog’s dismay he appeared lost to her.

  Continually, the taunting, melodic sounds of Faery voices would chant:

  Gwyndion! Gwyndion!

  Knower of neither love nor of sin!

  Let yourself rest here,

  Let your roots grow here!

  With our Faery hands

  We’ll remove all your fear.

  When the melody began, Gwyndion would shake and cry out, and sweat profusely. The shootling would refuse to be calm until the Faery melody died away.

  And always the faint, repellent odour of Faery clung to the air.

  *

  The midwives arrived. Gwyndion watched them with disinterested eyes. They were Bluites bound in chains, and they wept piteously as an army of Bogies catcalled and jeered. Old Patricia scolded the Bogies for their treatment, and swiped with a cloth at taunting Winskis in the air, who were attempting to pinch them. Gwyndion had no interest in wondering why there were now Bluite midwives installed in the Hollow Hills. He also had little curiosity as to why a team of Bogies were hard at work building a wooden cradle under Old Patricia’s directions. His feet were restless, prodding the ground, searching for soil.

  *

  The wind and air elementals brought the chilling sound of bluebells ringing. The inhabitants of the Hollow Hills shivered uneasily, for the bluebell ringers heralded death.

  *

  Imomm jockeys, with wings quivering excitedly, mounted the enormous maja spiders and spurred them to crawl hurriedly in bizarre races. Crowds of Faeries surrounded them, cheering madly and squabbling over the pronouncement of the winners.

  *

  He was in the hills above the Hollows. He was breathing Eronth air. How he got there he had no recollection. Scores of shouting Winskis encircled his head. Bats swooped, an owl hooted. The air felt so pure, liquid. The earth moved in slow sensual ripples. Red pungent toadstools and mushrooms in carefully arranged circles signalled to all foolish enough to venture too near that this was Faery territory. His feet grew roots, pushed into soil. Rain fell in soft splashes on his upturned face — night fell. Was it a dream?

  *

  A Faery dance. Faery musicians in gaily patterned clothes, holding brightly decorated fiddles, harps and tambourines. Bogies, Hags, Tree Shape-shifters, Elementals, Devas, Winskis. Even the shy Ghillie Dhu emerged from the security of his thicket to attend the dance. The magical creatures held hands and kicked their heels in wild revels. Shadows flickered. A Crossa danced crazily among the Faery folk, still wearing his business suit, hands clutching his mobile, eyes starting from his head as he attempted to keep pace with the Faery folk. Gwyndion felt nauseous watching him. He knew the unfortunate Crossa would dance to his death while the Faery folk cheered him on heartlessly. The midwives, held also by the maja web, gluttonously ate from the pewter trays of Faery mushrooms and drank greedily the caramel brewed mead, howling as they attempted to break their restraints and join the dance. Faery women, each one more beautiful than the last, attempted to seduce the Webx. Silver voluptuous lips promised unspeakable delights. But the shootling closed his eyes, focusing on truth, attempting to break their illusion, and when he opened his eyes again there would be in their place jeering Hags with withered, drooping breasts and swollen bellies, laughing with blacked gums at his distress.

  The music played faster and the drunken Faeries sang.

  *

  A blackthorn and an elder tree danced together while a Tree Shape-shifter turned frenzied circles around them, her leafy green hair flowing in beautiful arcs. The Crossa had now removed his clothes to the excited shrill screaming of the Faery women, his hair lank with sweat. Faery animals ran through the crowd threatening to tip over anyone in their path.

  *

  A Faery woman floated naked over the crowd. Her full, firm breasts and body glowed like moonlight as she rotated and swayed. Stars burst from her skin onto the crowd below. From between her taut little buttocks sprouted a flowing horse’s tail.

  *

  Gwyndion met Diomonna’s eyes across the crowded room. How had he not noticed her before? She reclined on an ornately carved rosewood settee, holding a silver goblet decorated with grapes. A miniature leopard lay curled at her feet. Her beauty outshone all the other beauties at the dance and although the Webx knew it to be Glamour, his breath caught in wonderment at her loveliness. Miniature pink roses formed her gown and were dotted throughout her luxuriant hair. Her eyes were heavily outlined in kohl, her lips and the tips of her breasts rouged with the berry juice that the Imomm women used in their toilette. She was holding an oak stick, which she had been using as a wand as conductor for the musicians. A timeless moment passed as the Webx and the Faery Queen stared at each other. Behind them the dance and the musicians became a frozen tableau, extraneous to the scene.

  *

  Then he saw her. A Webx woman on the other side of the dance. Long, dark-green, leafy hair brushed her breasts. Her large brown eyes seemed surprised to see him. Clad in a simple lavender gown, she carried a bloodstained cloak. A mutual recognition passed between the two. The dark-haired woman reached out to him hungrily, a look of love on her face. Longing for him, desire. Love. The word hung in the
air. She vanished slowly. Tantalisingly. Shadows.

  *

  Inside her cage, Samma wept tears of rage. The Winskis had placed a wreath of red pansies on her head. The madness of the scenes she could witness from her cage was sending the little meerwog into fits of anguish. She wished desperately that she could devise an escape plan for her and her master.

  Presuming he actually does wants to escape! she thought spitefully.

  It was breaking her heart that he appeared, to be gazing lovingly upon every female in the room, including the harlot Faery Queen, and now this latest apparition! Despairingly, Samma lay on her cage floor, paws over her head in a desperate attempt to block out the hated dance. Gwyndion no longer seemed to care whether she lived or died. Tears ran down the meerwog’s face as she remembered how close they had been on Zeglanada, from the moment she had first wriggled in his arms as a meerpuppy. For the first time since entering the Hollow Hills she began to long for death.

  *

  A stag danced with a witch’s cat. Elves howled as they cavorted in wild gyrations, wreaths of cowslips and foxgloves on their heads. The midwives lay in pools of vomit, mercifully unconscious. Old Patricia lay slumped in a corner, virtually covered by drunk Winskis. Thousands of other tiny Winskis danced like fireflies among the crowd. The Crossa’s face turned grey, turned black. He fell to the floor, his relieved sparrow escaping, while the bluebell ringer played a mournful dirge. Instantly the occupants of the Hills vanished, leaving only dust floating in the empty caverns. Only the snores of the drunken midwives interrupted the eerie silence. The dance was over. Shadows remained.

  *

  Diomonna grumbled to herself as she made the steep descent into the underworld, holding the young Bluite child by the hand. Every seven years she made this descent in order to make the obligatory tithe to Hades. Time had not dimmed her dislike of the task. It infuriated the Faery Queen that Hades demanded the tradition continue. The Imomm people had more than enough to worry about with their natural habitats being rapidly destroyed by the Faiaites and Azephim.

  The temperature had begun to noticeably drop as the pair wound their way down the roughly hewn stone steps leading to the domain of Hades. Fool’s gold glinted on the walls, and the Bluite child exclaimed in delight at an ancient rock painting drawn in ochre by some long-dead hand. Humouring him, the Faery Queen paused to allow him to examine more closely the roughly drawn Stag Man encircled by serpents and grapes. She did not welcome having to meet with Hades again, finding him both gross and repulsive.

  Her nostrils anxiously sniffed the air and she relaxed her taut muscles. Persephone was in residence! She could smell the young Goddess easily . . . also another . . . a female Bluite. Diomonna visibly relaxed. If Persephone was in the underground, Hades’ temper would be more mellow. The child attempted to ask her a question but she silenced him instantly with a warning look, her varnished nails digging savagely into his arm. He was a beauty, this child. Round blue eyes, tiny perfect rosebud lips and sun-blond curls. Black Annis’s contacts certainly knew what was required when it came to Bluite trade.

  When she had first taken Gwyndion into her kingdom, the thought of using the Webx for the seven-year tithe had occurred to Diomonna. She had hoped that if Hades was sufficiently impressed with the Imomm offering up one of the reclusive Webx tribe it might buy them more time. However, Gwyndion had managed to enter her heart in a way that she had not foreseen and she was loath to use him as a bargaining tool, so the golden-haired beauty of this child was an ideal substitute.

  Half of the inhabitants of the Hollow Hills had fallen madly in love with the child, however, and there had been much sobbing and gnashing of teeth when it was time to hand him over to Hades. Old Patricia had refused to look at Diomonna or address her directly. Insolent old bitch! The Faery Queen would never have admitted to herself how much it hurt her when Old Patricia was icy as frost with her. The aged Bluite had been in the Hollow Hills ever since Diomonna could remember. She had delivered many of the Faeries and Winskis, and she had laid out many of the Crossas who had died in the dance of death. Indeed, she had brought Diomonna up since she was a very small child. It was her father, Pysphorrus the Second, who had originally abducted the stinking Bluite to care for Diomonna. She had far too many airs and graces for a Bluite, Diomonna thought, but the truth was that the Faery Queen was slightly intimidated by her. The other, more disturbing truth was that she loved her old Bluite nanny like a mother.

  The very small children that were stolen by the Faeries, either as Changelings or for the tithe, adjusted more easily to life in the Hollow Hills than the more adult Crossas, for they were closer to their memories of the other worlds. This latest child had been true to form: he had sobbed at night for his mother and his twin sister, but in the light of day he had been distracted by the admiring ethereal beings who had surrounded him and showered him with compliments and presents.

  Diomonna had remained detached from the mass worship of the tithe, confused as she was by her feelings for the Webx. She could not recall, despite the numerous lovers she had taken over hundreds of years from all the known worlds, feeling the sensation that she felt in her breast when she gazed upon Gwyndion’s face and body. Lately she had been waking in her bed of rose petals, her body drenched in sweat and longing for the Webx. Horrified, she would vainly attempt to shut out her feelings and sleep, but the dulled expression of the Webx’s eyes was burnt into her brain.

  Caught in her emotional concerns, Diomonna was unsympathetic to the child’s nervousness as they progressed nearer to Hades’ quarters. She had never chosen to worry herself too much about the fate of the children that she had delivered over time. Her main concern was for the highest good of the Imomm people. Bluites were an overpopulated race, Faeries were not.

  Edward-Julian Rhone, formerly of Wiltshire, England, had been entranced by the Faeries in the Hollow Hills. All in all the boy regarded his predicament with wildly mixed emotions. The enormous maja spiders and the Bogies and Hags had terrified him. The little Winskis had provided endless delight with their iridescent bodies and their sparkling wings, although their sly bites and pinches made him cry.

  He had also been fascinated by the strange loveliness of the wood man that they had imprisoned in the corner and the lovely colours that radiated around him. The midwives had cared for him as best they could, considering their own disorientation and fears. The food that the Faeries had fed to him constantly was the most delicious that the child had ever tasted, even the Hags no longer terrified him as much after a few days of constant gorging on the sweet Faery delicacies. He missed his family terribly, especially his twin sister, but as time passed it became an effort to remember their faces.

  Now Edward was beginning to feel an icy fear creep over his spine as he was led further into the cold damp earth by the beautiful winged girl-woman. The light was becoming dimmer and a foul smell was making him feel sick. Numerous bones and strange, unidentifiable objects hindered his halting steps.

  ‘No delaying! No delay!’ the girl-woman kept hissing at him.

  Edward began to sob with fear. The hard ground in front of him was moving, rippling. A looming shadow appeared on the wall opposite him. Monstrous, huge. A smell of something rotten. Something dead. A scream burst from the terrified child.

  ‘I’ve delivered the tithing! The small one arrives!’ screamed the Faery Queen at the darkness.

  With a savage shove she pushed the hysterical child toward the shadow. Screams. The sounds of flesh being torn to pieces, a skull being split open. Then sucking, oozing, eating noises. Silence.

  *

  Gwyndion awoke. There was no memory of his dream. He knew she was there before he turned his head. Enormous tiger-green eyes, full silver lips, perfect rouged breasts, and in her hands pink rosebuds. She scattered the petals onto his skin, his body, his face. The perfume overwhelmed his senses. She stared at him, her gaze unearthly. Even with the odour of Faery that clung to her that the roses could not mask, he lo
nged for her. A slight moan escaped him. Her finger stroked his lip tenderly and then she placed her mouth on his. He was vibrating and then orgasming under the power of her kiss. Their tongues moved together more rapidly. He felt himself swelling, petals opening out, wanting her. To be one with her totally. He moaned and she moaned back. His hands moved to her breasts where she had rouged her now fully erect nipples. His hands held and kneaded them with rough urgency. Then she abruptly broke the contact between them. Vanished into air. Erotic. Twisting. Aching. Shadows.

  *

  Gwyndion’s feet gingerly felt out the earth, testing. He needed to go to soil. He needed to rest and collect his scattered thoughts and attempt to balance his emotions. His body still continued to ache with desire for the Faery Queen. Roots swiftly extended from his feet and took hold in the earth gratefully. Instantly the Webx picked up a conversation between a hazel and an oak tree. Groaning to himself, he attempted to move out of their range, then he heard a faint urgent whispering . . . he paused . . . he was hearing his own name called. His root cap pushed toward the source curiously. He listened to the communication, at first with utter disbelief and then with rising joy. The plant who had called the Webx wound around his roots quickly before he could change his mind. The two merged as one. Winding itself quickly around the Webx’s body, the plant burst from the soil. The shootling’s body was overmassed by the plant. When they spied him, Winskis began screaming, attempting to flee. Bogies vanished in mid-flight. Majas and Faery animals froze and slowly faded to nothingness like a worn and ancient photograph. The midwives were snatched up by quick-thinking Imomm before they too vanished. Open Faery mouths posed in silent screams. The kingdom vanishing, dissipating. The harpist fell also, still playing into the void. In the middle of the silent chaos stood Diomonna — her mouth open in a silent scream, arms open wide to him, vanishing into the air, while Gwyndion stood crying for her, his arms outstretched, covered by his saviour the four-leaf clover, the only known plant that could break the Faery’s spell. The dream was over.