Watching him circling far above, Rudmay had to choke back her fears that Horus would not return. They were standing at the brink of a terrible disaster, and for once he would not be there to help her through. Horus hesitated, sensing her mood, then unexpectedly swooped down in a small brown ball to deposit a peck on her head before he set off again.
Rudmay sank down on the wet street, uncaring of the trench coat she had crossed to London to buy. She imagined what she would look like if any citizen of New Baffin passed at the moment. Rudmay, the celebrated scribe and socialite of New Baffin, in a dirty puddle of water, rain falling heavily, slumped next to the decaying body of an ergom, crying her eyes out.
‘Come back to me safely, you braggadocio!’ she yelled to the sky. ‘I’m nothing without you!’
Her only reply was the wind’s mocking moan.
Far below the frantic ocean in the crystal palace of the ancient Warrior Queen Shambzhla, a celebration of sorts was taking place around a long wooden table salvaged from a shipwreck. Soldiers’ initials could still be seen etched into the wood. A silver candelabrum, once shining in an officers’ quarters but now long rusted, would never again know the touch of flame. Delicacies provided by the ocean and prepared by the Sea Hag’s sisters’ hands festooned the table, crisp salads of exotic seaweed, dishes of potted shrimp, lobsters, heaped plates of small fish, an entire platter of sailors’ fingers. Seated at the head of this feast was Shambzhla. For this occasion she had taken special care with her appearance, dressing in a long red ballgown, the type of which had not been seen in Eronth for many Turns of the Wheel and would have been more at home in a New Baffin museum. Her blackened, festering face featured a huge smile revealing her jagged razor-sharp shark teeth. She had pushed her withered breasts out of the top of her ballgown so her eleven favoured fish could still suckle greedily from her nipples.
The other Sea Hags seated around the table were also dressed up in clothes they had snatched from drowned corpses and from the trunks of sunken ships. They made a bizarre contrast to each other. Some wore the elaborate gowns of wealthy New Baffinites who had been out for a pleasure cruise, some uniforms of officers lost at sea, others were dressed in outfits belonging to whores who had been accompanying the sailors when they drowned. It was no easy task for them to dress in such finery, with their poisonous spines jutting out from their backs and arms, gills that fluttered along their bodies, and their huge crusher claws. But somehow they managed, going into gales of laughter as they admired each other.
Placed around the table at carefully chosen intervals were skeletons of the drowned, leaning awkwardly, some with flesh still hanging off them and eyeballs intact in fresher stages of decomposition. Six of the bodies were recently drowned, their eyes wide and staring in shock at this unexpected banquet they had been invited too. Mermains floated near them, arranging with sensual caring hands their hair, protecting them from sharks that came too near. Every now and again the Hags would offer the dead guests food, forcing fish between their jaws, giggling at their game.
Shambzhla was a gracious host, laughing uproariously as the sound of the ocean venting its wrath upon the shore reached her ears. The rum they had eagerly pillaged from the drowned ships added to the merriment of the party. It was indeed a time of great celebration for the creatures of the sea, after her oceans and people had endured so much disrespect from the New Baffinites for so many Turns of the Wheel. It was music to her ears to hear the latest reports from the Sea Hag spies who had slipped back into the churning waves before the dawn birds had begun to sing on land.
The Sea Hags were adjusting to their new environment on shore, as more and more of them were birthing themselves on the land rather than the ocean. With the assistance of the more experienced Sea Hags who had been ashore, they were learning to use Glamour to escape being detected. Following Shambzhla’s telepathic instructions, they infiltrated widely across Eronth, instead of drawing attention by clustering in the one area. Sometimes they wiped out land-dwellers’ memories, placing false ones in their minds to ease their acceptance into communities.
There had been many times over the seasons when Shambzhla had sensed the Sea Hags’ unspoken criticisms and frustrations that she had delayed revenge against the land-dwellers for their numerous transgressions against the ocean people. Yet the Warrior Queen knew that to enter into battle without being fully prepared was to invite exposure, and their chance would be lost. One piece of wisdom she had learnt over the ages was to never underestimate the two-leggeds. Although they appeared on the surface to be simple and unsophisticated, she knew they were capable of moments of great insight. With relief and shrieking joy she had received the news of the death of Mary, the High Priestess of Faia. With the Bluite in the Underworld, Faia would be weakened. The Lightcaster had proved to be a stroke of luck for the sea creatures, managing to disorientate and instil fear into the Eronthites, thus distracting them from the more pressing danger approaching them from their oceans.
Even sweeter music to her ears, however, was the news of the glass Faery that drained the two-leggeds’ blood before laying her white slime eggs over them. Shambzhla was unsure of its motives but welcomed anything that added to the chaos of Eronth, and she sensed somewhere behind the Faery’s rampage was the Eom. Now the giants, the original children of the known worlds, were becoming restless. They were weary of their ill-treatment from the Eronthites, and Shambzhla could sense the change of the vibration of the earth as their frustrations began to finally goad them into action.
Shambzhla laughed, throwing back her head of electric red hair, listening with sweet humming joy to the sound of the violent churning waves above her. In the timeless saltiness of the sea she tasted the hunger of the ocean to avenge the injustices it had been forced to endure from the land-dwellers. Ever since they had ceased the ancient rituals that honoured Shambzhla, they had become complacent in their dealings with the sea-dwellers. They polluted her waters with their fishing vessels and their sewage, they took more than they needed of her children to fill their stomachs and thoughtlessly left the surplus to die flapping and terrified on the land. How Shambzhla had mourned every tiny fish that had died in this fashion. No being of the sea was too small to escape her notice and grief.
One of the worst atrocities was mermain-baiting, where fishermen administered deadly snake tongue poison to the mermain disguised in delicacies they threw overboard, knowing the curious mermain would be unable to resist. Over time she had given them warnings that they had chosen to ignore. The nine-headed hydra had increased the incidence of drownings in her waters. In the warmer months, she had placed her sharks and her stinging jellyfish in the shallow waters. She had cried out her outrage in the wind and the stars, but had been ignored. So tonight, Shambzhla laughed, making each toast more extravagant than the last. The howling winds overhead all sang the same song: Soon. Soon. Soon. She knew Hler, the cantankerous old giant of the sea, had been clutching convulsively with his clawlike fingers at ships foolhardy or desperate enough to pass over his head. Over time he had dragged countless vessels to the bottom of the ocean, thereby providing the sea people with treasures and dead bodies to play with. His lover, and sister Ran, for the last Turn of the Wheel, had been insatiable in her greed for death. Patiently lurking near dangerous rocks, spreading her net, she entangled allkind in its meshes and smashed their vessels with glee on the jagged rocks of the coastline. Shambzhla knew Ran was entertaining countless souls of the drowned in her coral cave, but she turned a benevolent eye on her cruelty because Ran showed no mercy when she attacked the land-dwellers. The Sea Queen even tolerated her pilfering gold from the ships she took. Ran was greedy but Shambzhla could indulge her, because she applied that same lust so effectively in taking the lives of the land-dwellers.
The bloodthirsty, much-feared pair had nine beautiful daughters, who were close to Shambzhla’s rotting heart. They were the waves, or the billow-maidens. They had snowy arms and bosoms, long golden hair, deep-blue eyes and willowy sens
uous forms. Normally the maidens delighted in lighthearted play over the surface of Shambzhla’s vast domain. They were clad lightly in transparent blue, white or green veils. The seductive billow-maidens, the Warrior Queen believed, were one of the male two-leggeds’ fascination with life on the waters and trying to conquer the sea. When their brother the wind was abroad, they would fling themselves upon the rocks and be gentle and flirtatious with the passing ships. Now, taking their cue from the roars of the wind, they were furious, whipping themselves up higher and higher. Shambzhla could hear the frenzied maniacal screaming of the maidens as they beat against the land they so despised. Once before, when the New Baffinites had grown too arrogant and had forgotten the importance of the ocean in their lives, Shambzhla had displayed her wrath with the Great Flood of Unah, when most of the city had been destroyed and the old snake religion smashed. Memories such as these sustained Shambzhla throughout the main frustrating long Turns of the Wheel while she seemed to passively allow the rape of her waters to continue. Even now, if she closed her one good eye, she could hear the screams of the terrified Old Baffinites as the huge tidal water she had sent overwhelmed them.
‘I am so ancient,’ she whispered, giddy with the rum she had drunk, ‘so ancient I am rotting away. Too timid to move quickly, lest more of my body dissolve into the sea. But not so ancient that I will not enjoy hearing the two-leggeds scream when I send my wave and demolish them. No, not too old for that. I am Shambzhla, weary of life, sick with anger and grief over what has been done to my once pristine waters. But not so weary I cannot teach the land-dwellers a lesson that will resonate in the bodies of the survivors’ children for generations to come. Not so old I cannot call the winds to aid me in my quest.’
The suckling fish laughed merrily as they drank although they did not understand her words, but the great winds overhead answered her pain with a roar.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I have cried for so long my eyes feel like a dead Solumbi’s balls. My heart is cracking even as I write, and great sobs force me to put down my quill at intervals. I hardly know how to say it. Our great Diomonna is dead. There! I have said it, and it makes no more sense when it is written and makes me cry the harder. I must stop for now as I have made such a mess with my ink, and will write more later.
It is like a dream. I have rubbed my eyes many times and pounded my head against the wall to try to wake myself but I continue to dream this horror. The Hollow Hills is in shock. Thousands of Winskis have flown in from all the known worlds. They have been beating their chests and crying for two whole moon-ups. Several of the Winskis died of shock upon hearing the news. I confess I do not feel that I, Jig Boy son of Elven Foot, will not be far behind them. There is no fire in me to live if my Queen is not here to slap, hit me and twist my wing. Oh! I would give anything to have her back!
This is the story, I shall try to tell it as calmly as I can. The glass fury I have spoken about attacked our beautiful Queen. I am sure Diomonna put up a good fight, she is very strong, not weak like Wezom Faeries. But alas! The glass Faery overpowered her and drank her dry. In a horrid twist, King Quimonmen of the Wezom was passing overhead and spotted the attack. He claims it was over before he could do anything, but hiss, claw! I, Jig Boy, am no cotton fluff Winski that I believe him! More like he dematerialised himself until it was over, then flew to Diomonna when the monster had finished with her so he would be a hero for the Imomm. A hero he has become, with the entire Hollow Hills fawning over him in a most disturbing manner. I will say that Quimonmen has played his part well, indeed he has cried nearly as much tears as a Winski. Although I must add, for history to record, not as much tears as Jig Boy.
I suspect I was always one of our Queen’s favourites, but she did not want the Hollow Hills to know this, which was why she liked to pinch and make fun of me. But wait, I am snaking through this story like a blind earthworm! This is what advanced age does, not to mention grief. My thoughts feel like clouds overhead.
Quimonmen had made himself quite at home here. Dirty fat old Wezom! He spent all his time crying over Diomonna while he eyed off some of the Faery maidens who wasted no time in giving him lash-filled looks, and rouged their nipples bright red for him. Then the dirty fat Faery got it into his head he could resurrect Diomonna. This brought cheers from the Hollow Hills, and I blush to record I cheered as well. We all wept and composed a magnificent song to King Quimonmen, loyal friend of the Imomm tribe, handsome, and sun-faced Quimonmen. Such was our delirium at the thought of having our radiant Queen with us once more. It is too depressing to speak of.
There she lies, her red hair spread out around her, her green tiger eyes closed as if playing a trick with us and she is fast asleep. We have covered her body with the small white roses that grow in the cold weather of Eronth. They still had jewel-like drops of frost when we dropped them onto her. Cold roses did not wake her. We screamed as one when a large toad hopped out from the centre of her shimmery wings and regarded us coldly before he hopped away. Oh, cursed night, that we should witness her toad leaving her wings! Then we knew she must be in the Underworld and that is when several hearts gave out with grief. They were barely noticed, a few bogies swept them up and shook them outside. For what is a Winski’s life compared to a Queens?
Several of the fighting Faeries flew off with frantic beating of wings and hastily snatched weapons to search for the killer Faery. How I longed to fly with them and be the hero that shatters the traitor to Faeries everywhere into thousands of shining pieces! How my queen would love me then! But they had left dirty fat . . . I mean brave and courageous Quimonmen behind. He sat in deep thought, which seemed to cause him much pain. Truth to tell, I must record for Winski history how ugly he really is, especially when trying to think with his bright orange hair and the grubby vulture bone through the centre of it, his pudgy fat, hairy hands, his tattoos and the stinky bone through his nose. Still, something must have happened in his fat head, because he stood up and announced he was going to visit his friends the vultures and get directions to the Phoenix, who as every Winskiette knows has the power to rebirth. We cheered until our throats were sore, and then he flew off with some of the younger Winskis and the Faeries who were not skilled enough to join the warrior hunters. This left me, Jig Boy, with the all-important task of recording the events for history and guarding the body of our Queen. As I looked upon her, I could smell the unmistakable odour of decay that even wild roses did not conceal, and I hoped Quimonmen would prove swifter than his body announces. There are many tales and songs about Faeries resurrected too late, who had to be returned to the Underworld due to their stinkyness. I could not refrain from twisting her arm up sharply, as stiff with death as it was. Exactly in the fashion how she used to twist my wing before she broke it and I could no longer fly.
‘Wake up, Queen!’ I called in a voice choked with sobs. I twisted it harder as the Winskis cheered me on.
‘Wake up to Jig Boy!’ I cried. The arm made a horrid snap and I — in my shock, you understand — trod upon her wing and ripped it severely. Now the Winskis began to boo and sing their insulting song called ‘Jig Boy is a Pebble Dick’. They have taught the Winskiettes this song which is a bad influence, but then the Winskis have never appreciated all the hard work I have put into the Winski Book of Life. All they want to do is sing, dance and play. So, that is the news for the day and a black day of storm clouds it is. Queen Diomonna is dead. Her fate lies in the fat spider body of the Wezom king. I have broken her arm and possibly wing.
Old man Snaer has not been seen yet, but judging from my breath in the air and the Majas sleeping all day he is near. His father, Frost, has been out in the mornings; my bones and wings are quite stiff. There is no sign of his three daughters, thick Snow, Snowstorm and Fine Snow, but the sky is grey as if to signal their coming.
Persephone is underground. Hecate has been restless lately and there have been numerous sightings of Freya riding her cat chariot across the sky. The ground has been rumbling as if the g
iants in the Wastelands are getting restless. The messenger birds are filled with gossip about witch burnings, Lightcasters and Sea Hags walking on land, But that is no concern of Winski folk. There have been no births in the Hollow Hills, but many deaths. As we hair thrown the dead Winskis out the door to blow away in the winds, I cannot record them for history. I remain yours in service even with failing eyes, shaking hand and broken heart.
— ACCOUNT WRITTEN BY JIG BOY, SON OF ELVEN FOOT
(FORGOTTEN WHAT TURN OF THE WHEEL)
Faia
Maya studied Gwyndion with concern. The cough that had alarmed them had now vanished, thanks to a healing tincture Khartyn had made up for him, but his face was paler than usual, and his long, silver-white hair had not regained its normal sheen. Both Gwyndion and Samma had made the Webx threefold gesture when she found them sitting with Khartyn in Shellhome’s enchanted garden, touching heart, third eye and throat, but she noticed how his silver eyes clouded over at her approach and how their conversation, previously so animated, had ceased on her arrival.
‘Brr!! It’s cold out here, Maya said, shuddering under her heavy green velvet cloak and trying to pretend she didn’t care about their exclusion of her. However, the painful feeling of rejection she had carried all her life rose inside her like a creeper vine. ‘I think old man Snaer is not too far away. His father was hanging from my window this morning. Am I interrupting anything?’
There was a silence and the two young Webx glanced at Khartyn, waiting for her cue.
‘Nothing that does not smile upon your interruption,’ the Crone said, dipping her head to Maya. ‘We have just been discussing the latest reports from the messenger birds. Hard to believe when the New Baffin Daily was first published there was so much talk that the birds would be made redundant! But may the Dreamers never wake, the feathered gossips have been almost besides themselves with excitement lately. The giants have been causing small earth tremors in the Wastelands with their meetings. Queen Diomonna is reported in the Underworld, a victim of the glass Faery. No wonder the birds are so active.’
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