The Moon Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans

by Raymond St. Elmo

  Chapter 4

  Wherein the Hero Dangles in Philosophical Argument

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” growled a voice from the dark. Growled? It rumbled the words out a throat of bones and rocks.

  Wonderful words. I approved. Alas, I also disbelieved. Rather than extending the hand of fellowship, I ducked something that slashed air above me. Retreat, I decided, and of course the door slammed shut. A trap. Just as I had warned myself, not really believing. One should lend ear to these wise inner voices. No choice now but charge forwards, slashing the dark with the rapier.

  A shadow-blurred form leaped back. It moved quite fast. Fine, so do I. Who had closed the door? They were not behind me now. Just one to face, perhaps. And now my eyes found use for the faint light. I could not make out the shape before me. Two legs? Four? Something big. It crouched in a way that boded… familiar. My mind flashed to the forests of France. Snow drifting from branches, blood dripping from my leg. Dodging between trees, besieged by winter-starved wolves. I’d been wounded, on the run. The pack knew so from the blood, else they’d have left me alone. Ah, that was a hard winter for wolf or man. The last I fought in the war. Well, in that war.

  The crouch forebode a leap. I dodged, slashed as it passed. The creature howled. Perhaps words. If so, they were curses. It smashed into the closed door.

  “Don’t want you to hurt me either,” I declared, and prepared to run the thing through. Mistake. Save such lines for the after-thrust. Arms from behind grabbed my throat and waist, lifted me in the air and ran with me.

  I am a large man. Not many could run with me over their heads. The experience so astonished I almost laughed. I didn’t, I dropped the rapier, drew dagger. I caught a brief glimpse of a railing, beyond and below a wide banquet hall. A candelabra wheel, hanging from rafters. I slashed towards the throat of the creature carrying me. Horns poking from the head spoiled the strike. That also astonished. The strike missed, crossed the face of the creature. It screamed, threw me as I might a sack of flour filled by a dishonest baker.

  Over the railing, catching sight of the floor beneath. A long table, chair-lined. Here I might boast how I flipped in the air as an acrobat, caught the chandelier in dexterous ease. But I was never so poor at my work, that I need claim a lucky fall as intent. No, the creature threw me blindly, and I crashed blindly; into a great wooden wheel of candles hanging over the hall. I grabbed without thought. Then swung back and forth astonished, while the creature bellowed, pawing its wounded face.

  A forwards swing, a backwards swing, holding tight to the chandelier. It tilted till the frame creaked, candles toppled. I looked up. Ropes held it to a pulley among the rafters. A path of retreat, if I pulled myself up. Or I might drop down upon the table below. For the moment, hanging in comic safety seemed wise.

  I turned to consider my attacker. He stood at the hall railing, watching my clock-pendulum self. A large… personage, wrapped and double-wrapped in muscles till the shape of man blurred to a wall of stony flesh. Horned. Two horns, half-circles rising up in bucolic threat. Nostrils flaring in anger, and yes I am trying to describe a bull-headed man without using the literary designation. Why? For God’s sake I am married to a vampiric madwoman. At my wedding I danced with a lamia. Nor was a snake-woman the strangest guest of the party, not by far. And yet, I hesitate to name these things outright. Even hanging from a chandelier, a man strives to keep some dignity.

  Fine. I faced a Minotaur. A thing of myth and muscle, and I’d slashed his face. I waited for him to bellow, an angered bull. No doubt he’d hoof-stamp the floor. Perhaps he’d charge in rage through the railing, smash himself on the table below. But no, he stood panting, wiped blood from his face. He studied that hand now red-stained, and then pointed it at me.

  “Ordinary man, of ordinary blood,” he declared. A voice high and boyish, out a chest designed for low thunder. “Creature of blades and lies, pacing your dull life through the mud-steps of the crowd, soul-dead and dull. You have no spark of magic, no touch of fire in the cold grate of your mortal, metal being. I will crush you, not as equal, but as a man who has reached revelation may kick aside a mad dog.”

  “Fool,” snarled a second. “Again you make the animal the lesser thing. The man the higher.” Swinging like a clock pendulum, I studied the second. Here came the creature that attacked me at the door. He bled from a wound turning the fur of his shoulder wet black. Yes, fur. He spoke well, for someone with the muzzle of a wolf.

  The Minotaur threw back his head at the words, gave the bellow of a yearling ox.

  “I am the true man here. I am the one reaching integration of animal soul and human mind.” He thumped his muscle-massed chest, then pointed at me. “This creature is the lesser. An ignoble clay-thing unworthy to join proud family.”

  That again? Really, if they object to my marriage then dare say so at the wedding. ‘If any beast knows reason this spadassin and vampiress shall not wed… How small-souled, to object on the honeymoon.

  I surveyed the hall as I swung forwards, swung backwards. Stone and rafters lit by narrow windows, unglazed. Wooden shutters hanging in disrepair. Tatters of banners upon the walls; stone hearth wide enough to roast an ox; an idea that currently appealed. The table below ran long and wide, and at its head a throne. In which lounged a woman, smiling at me. She wore red silk dress, low top revealing swellings of two pert breasts... I counted. Below the expected bust, two more, smaller breast-swellings, silk-wrapped. Below those, in line along the stomach, a third, last, smaller set.

  She wore long scarlet hair as a cape, and wide green eyes, and did not in the least remind me of Elspeth. Not just because El had only two breasts and lacked ears poking up as a fox’s hiding in the grass. No, this creature lounged as no servant-girl would allow herself to be caught. Knees pulled up, revealing bare feet, the usual number of toes.

  She smiled up at me, biting lip to hold in laughter. My pendulum self slowed. The two at the railing watched, heads turning left, turning right to follow. The silence became awkward. I reviewed the conversation, realized I was expected to respond with some argument. Ah, welcome to the Family.

  My mind returned to the forests of France. I’d slain one wolf, wounded another. Limped to a ruined farm-house, no door left to shut. A frozen corpse upon the floor; old man blue-white in death, a musket wound to his head. A chair, a table. I could use this to bar the entrance, or break them to pieces for firewood. The cold decided. I smashed the wood against stone hearth, built a fire, rested. At some point I realized I shared the firelight with two green eyes.

  I could have shouted, waved rapier. I did not. The creature rested, licking wounds in the fire-warmth. I tended my own hurts, took out rations. I’d have shared but the creature fed upon the corpse. I did not hinder it. Better to have one’s remains devoured by proud life, than lie a blackening horror.

  In the morning, the wolf and I eyed one another in cautious respect, then departed to face the daily challenge: eat, and not be eaten. That was a meeting of respect. For all their fur and claws, those watching me now were not of such clean nature. No. They’d attacked, not to feed but for idiot purpose of family philosophy. Failing to kill, they now used words to pose. How very human.

  “I was told, he who makes a beast of himself escapes the pain of being a man,” I informed the hall. I tested my grip, preparing to pull myself onto the chandelier.

  “Then you were told a lie,” snarled the Wolf-man. “He who has only one nature, is least in nature. Whether dog or worm or man. It is those who rise above their design who are highest.”

  I searched for a reply. Something from Voltaire? But in the stance of Wolf and Minotaur I spied a familiar anticipation, seen when those before you watch their friends come up behind. I checked below. The fox-girl sat, still biting lip. Something lurked behind her chair. I checked the opposite railing of the hall. Someone in the shadows… well, it was Cousin Chatterton. He gave me a puzzled look. Not to express surprise I hung upon a chandelier above animal-men.
No, he was wondering where he was, and what was my name? But he had rapier out, and stood in shadows in a way that forebode. He pointed up to the rafters…

  Ah. Now I heard the scrabbling, the faint panting. More animal-men, preparing ambush from the beams lacing the heights of the hall. Would they stoop to using crossbows? The vampiric Blood Clan foreswore swords and knives. An admirable custom, granting ordinary clay a bit of chance. To be fair, the vampirics lacked interest in the tedium of mastering blade-work, being naturally able to shred a man with their hands and teeth. One could hope these beast-people frowned upon bolt or arrow, much more a musket.

  Best drop to the table below. But the fox-girl’s smile said she expected that move. One figure behind her chair. Another by the stairs, keeping still. Yes, an ambush waited. As above, so below.

  So I hung between enemy floor and enemy ceiling, discussing the nature of man. I could think of nothing from the classics. Other words came. Strange words that of late sounded in my head, though only heard once in a tattered puppet-show.

  “So proud a thing, to be us.” I recalled.

  The beast-men stared. I took a breath, pulled myself up upon the wheel. More of Brick’s speech came to mind. I recited as I climbed. The stone hall echoed the words, lent them a quality of theatre.

  “From sweet jealousy of love, we turned envious of excellence in craft and power. We gave our hearts to knowledge, not to wisdom. Pride turned to rivalry; rivalry turned to fear. Alliances were made with dark creatures and mad things, folks of air and fire and blood.”

  Now I stood upon the chandelier-wheel, grasping the centering rope. There came threatening creaks. More candles toppled to clatter below. Falling angels, I thought. More words of the family play came toppling from memory.

  “The clans withdrew to cave and forest, mountain-top and sea-depth, each seeking some final mastery. Few returned. Those that did wore faces we no longer knew.”

  The Wolf-man howled. The Minotaur put hand to bloody face as though struck. The fox-girl jumped from her throne, put hands to hips in fetching anger.

  “You dare,” she hissed.

  “Dare?” I asked. “You attempt to murder me. Failing, you bore me with philosophical babble while you bleed, waiting another chance to kill. I’ve shared food and fire with real wolves. You don’t measure up, darlin’. Not you, not your furry friends. Just human clay, using words to justify what an animal would not.” I considered, then added: “Bitch.”

  I began to climb the rope to the rafters. Swiftly done. The hall echoed with curses and growls. Well, I had insulted them. I should have spoken diplomatically, appealed to pride in family. Hell with that. They’d tried to murder me. Well, I thought they had. Some room for doubt. Perhaps they’d only wanted to intimidate. Alas, I was the Seraph. Not a person to intimidate.

  The rafters ran close to the ceiling, requiring my tall self to crouch in humility. I faced a complex path of beams above the castle hall. A figure approached, four-legged. Red eyes shone, white teeth grinned. I grasped my dagger, regretted the loss of the rapier. I should carry a second. Absurd requirement for honeymoon.

  Something scrabbled behind me. I did not turn to see. I ran forwards to an intersection of beams. The beast before me retreated. I followed a side beam and then turned. The nearer creature continued its approach. A second backed awkwardly, searching for a path to come up behind me again. I considered the beams, moved towards a new intersection that would give me further choices. Again the creatures maneuvered to attack from front and behind.

  I could not help but laugh. This was game, not battle.

  Then the Wolf-man howled. The Minotaur squeaked; comic sound from bull’s chest. I did not turn to see why. The creatures on the beams would have attacked. So I missed Chatterton’s leap to the chandelier, his easy climb to join us in the rafters.

  Drat the fellow. He could be more me than I. And forever with that vague, dreamy expression. Now he perched in a rafter-maze with monsters as casual as a cat on a garden fence. Face expressing puzzlement to recall why he’d made the effort.

  A third creature came sprinting down a beam, leaped for my throat. I could neither duck nor dodge. I met it with dagger, letting the beast’s rush knock me onto my back. Feet up, hands up, I continued its flight. A claw raked my shoulder. No, it was hand. Fingernails, not true claws. Fortunate or I’d lose flesh instead of cloth. I cursed, it screamed. I heard a thump against wall, then a second thump upon the floor.

  I stood, drew my last knife, seeking my balance. Another creature menaced along the beam. Hissing, grinning, waiting for its fellow to come from behind. But Chatterton leaped between beams, found his footing beside me. Now we stood back to back, facing creatures suddenly unsure.

  At last I had time to study what I fought. The one before me seemed demonic mix of cat and man. It hunched on four legs, but the forelegs ended with hands. The face presented was not sane. A low flat forehead, a mouth of white icicle teeth; eyes of sly murder.

  “Can these things talk?” I asked the man at my back.

  The creature hissed to insist it could.

  “Not really,” said Chatterton. “They understand a bit. We call them aberrations. Those of the Moon Clan seek to master animal form and spirit. This is what happens when form and spirit master them.”

  “Ah,” I said. “What about the thing with tentacles?”

  “What thing, which tentacles?” He sounded surprised. Ha. I lived to startle the man.

  “Just came up through the floor. Green. Slimy. Gives off a rotten-fish glow. Six, seven squid arms.”

  The fox-girl screamed. “Holding the fox-girl,” I added.

  “Well that’s not good,” said Cousin Chatterton. “What is it doing?”

  I took quick glances between the hall floor and the cat-creature. But it seemed fascinated by the squid-thing below us. I considered attacking, held off. I returned eyes to the newcomer.

  “It’s giving a speech, I believe.” This sounded mad, yet I felt sure. “Yes. It’s waving its tentacles about and making long sentences in that bubbling popping sound. A language of the family?”

  Chatterton sighed. “Well, such a beastie could only be an Abomination.”

  “I thought these cat-things were.” The creature before me hissed again. It did not care for the association.

  “Ach, no,” corrected Chatterton. “The creatures here with us are just Aberrations. Family that lost their humanity, or never found it. Yon beastie below is an Abomination.”

  I nodded as though that made sense. The Abomination made an important rhetorical point, pontificating its popping-burble words, waving the fox-girl. The Aberration hissed, insisting it had its own opinions. Chatterton explained.

  “Long past, some tomnoddies of the sea-clans tried to ally with the creatures. Failed. The things are too eldritch, too separate from this world. But they gained the idea they were invited to join the family. So they appear at times, declaim a while in their frog-words. Tear someone to pieces in dramatic gesture and then disappear into the floor again. Don’t be asking what they mean by it. They are too mad, even for the family.”

  The fox-girl struggled, but remained bound in snake coils. The Wolf-man had leaped the railing in impressive show, but now circled the Abomination carefully beyond reach of the tentacles. He snapped wolf-jaws in dramatic pretense. The Minotaur struggled with trophies on the wall, tugging at an axe fixed to stone. He broke it free, rushed for the stairs.

  Now another beast-figure rushed forwards, waving a torch. The Abomination turned frog-eyes towards it, still popping and burbling in a fury of exposition. Tentacles shot out, grabbed torch and beast, smashed them against the floor. The fox-girl cried out. The Wolf-man snapped jaws uselessly.

  “Right,” I said, and charged the cat-aberration thing before me. It shrieked, backed away. I moved to a different intersection of beams, prepared myself.

  “Seriously?” drawled Chatterton.

  “Quite,” I admitted. “Watch my back?”


  “Done and done,” he drawled. “Luck.”

  I jumped.

  Chapter 5

  Declamation and Descent

  While falling towards the Abomination feet-first and dagger-down, I would like to take a moment to explain the basics of my political beliefs.

  I remain convinced the essence of the squid-creature’s frog-croaks were also political, making appeals to common truths between Abominations and Humanity, no doubt quoting chthonic greats of the past. I say this because he clearly did not care whether he was understood. No, he beheld an audience, and his eldritch heart felt moved to deliver The Message of the Cause, as would an angel from On High. Or a Seraph five cups down. The Abomination and I differed in all details of being but this: we shared the duty to Proclaim Truth. And let him hear, who has ears to hear.

  One assumes Abominations have ears. It would be a strange species that could speak but not hear. Besides my own, I mean. In any case, the monster waved the fox-girl in the air exactly as I wave cup in expostulation, sweeping along with the major points. Ignorant of the words, I recognized both motion and emotion.

  So, to my politics. I was born in the States. The ‘Colonies’, as those beyond its borders smile to say. Enemies and friends alike mocked my New England origin. Yet I left at seven. My family were wealthy Tories, and suffered a frequent fate at revolution’s start. They sent me off to Londonish, they stayed to be burned alive in their home.

  I lived in Londonish with two great-aunts, who argued my road to manhood. Path of Hard Knocks, or Path of Knowledge? They compromised. By day I was put to work in a tavern; by nights I was taught French, Greek, the basics of human history and art. I enjoyed French but preferred the tavern, as it was loud with music and violence. At thirteen I first killed. Still a high-voiced virgin; but I faced a grown man and smiled at his fear. An understanding passed between us, close as lovers. We realized he would shortly lie cold, soon to rot. I would live, yawn, remembering him vaguely while I peed.