The Moon Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans

by Raymond St. Elmo

  The Beast Clan looked to the fox-girl. Tears and dignity were put aside. The mindless smile of amusement returned. Ah, but I saw farther now. She was no fool, but feigned as needed. A sound strategy with those busy counting breast-tips. Not with Lalena.

  Fox-girl tossed head in dismissal of all questions. “This is the Place of Gathering. We have as much right here as any.” She turned, gave me a polite leer. “And though your consort would make a fine bear, he is no cousin to any.”

  Lalena merely stared; but with eyes quick turning from blue pools to black pits. The fox-girl flinched not. These two were much alike, beyond hair and certain numeric details. She shook her scarlet-haired head. “We broke neither rule nor faith, nor can any say we gave insult to your clan.”

  The man-Wolf spoke. “We did not mean to threaten your… consort. He rushed upon us sword drawn. We would have only restrained him, mere mad outsider though he is.”

  Lalena grinned; and her teeth showed a length and point I do not like to see in bed. “Oh, you did not find my man so easy to best? I see bandages upon your chest, Cousin Howl. And poor Cousin Bellow. Your new-scarred face! While three of your clan, blood of our blood, lie cold outside when they would have been warm within.”

  The Minotaur, who could only be Cousin Bellow, clenched fists. The man-Wolf half-stood. His teeth extending outwards, re-sculpted by rage or nature to become fanged muzzle. The Doe kept human semblance, but braced herself to leap from chair. A faint scrabble from the rafters, told me the last aberration prepared to drop upon us.

  Dramatic show. The Blood clan only smiled. Grinned even, teeth lengthening, eyes darkening. This fast threatened slaughter. I considered my rush through the door, sword drawn. It was true. For those within I would seem the aggressor. So I stood, drew sword, laid it upon the table. An ominous act that made for silence.

  So proud a thing, to be us. These were formal creatures seeking a way to keep honor, yet avoid a feud that might spill blood across the next century. A spadassin understands the search for words that will sheath weapons. Part of the job, if you can believe.

  “I accept it as misunderstanding between us,” I declared. “And I offer what sympathy a mad outsider may, for the loss of your own. Truly I have only a last question. Who left the keys to this castle outside my door?”

  The beast-people and vampiric cousins shared blank looks. I drew the black ring from my coat pocket, tossed them down upon the table. They jangled in a way to cause flinches, the rattling chains of a ghost.

  Ah, but they offered a change of subject from the ledger-books of honor. Cousin Bellow relaxed his fists, Cousin Howl’s face regained human semblance. Billie River took the keys, jingled them in wonder.

  “The very keys of the castle,” he declared. “Thrown into the sea by Great many-grand-uncle Fulgurous himself, long years back. With a curse upon blood spilled twixt family in this very hall. ‘Tis a rebuke to raising of blade or tooth between us.”

  “A gift of the sea people, perhaps,” declared Doe. A voice to make one shiver, warm as sunbeam through forest trees.

  “The old ones playing us for pawns again,” sighed Mattie Horse.

  I took my seat once more. “Did they send the monster with snakes for arms?” I asked.

  All the table stared, weighing the presence of my ignorance. Who was this fellow again? they wondered. I felt an urge to grin for a mindless consort. I did not, I have my dignity. I folded hands and waited an answer.

  “Ach, no one sends the Abominations,” explained Billy River. “The creatures are naither ally nor kin, not even to the Sea Clans. No, the mad creatures gained the fool idea of joining the family, or perhaps they think they are already proper brothers. They pop out of the floor a’times, bubbling their frog-babble blither.”

  “Shame none showed to your wedding,” sorrowed Mattie Horse.

  “Alack that we missed it ourselves,” added the fox-girl. “From the clan of the Moon Tartan, I extend full congratulations upon your recent nuptials.” She smiled prettily.

  “Hmm,” said Lalena. “You were here, not there. Which returns to the question. What do you in this hall long forbidden to family?”

  An uncomfortable silence descended upon the beast-folk. At length their leader shrugged. “The forbidding, I do not deny. But one intruder may ask the same of the next. What do you here, cousins?”

  Lalena brought fist down upon the table. And though it was a hand to nestle neat within a tea-cup, the heavy table jumped. “You and all the gossiping aunts between Sun and Moon know full well that title and deed were given to myself and my lord, fine gift for our marriage. You sit now in the hall of the Mac Sanglair. Do not dare name us intruders.”

  Fox-girl flushed. Her eyes grew greener, madder. The long pointed ears twitched. She stood, placing hands upon table. The fingers fast crinkled and furred. I stared fascinated. What must it feel to shift back and forth from human to beast, led by mood and moon? She leaned forwards, growled.

  “You know well as I, these were long the common halls and walls of all the family. Till Fulgurous himself banished every clan equally for the blood-gaming he beheld when he came sudden on a dark Revel.”

  She pointed at the stairs. “’Twas your own many-great uncle Sinclair himself who stood upon those stones, axe in hand, swinging the head of my poor grand-upon-grand father of the Mac Tiers. While all about the stones of this hall pooled the blood of family. All fled Fulgurous’s anger, and all suffered his curse. There is no title to be given past that pronouncing, Mac Sanglair. Not by your Raven Uncle, wise though he may be. The clans have no master now. A thing the children of the cold brides had best be thankful for.”

  “Tedious,” sighed Lalena. Her turn to stand, place hands upon the table, lean forwards. The two stood so, reflections of defiance. “My many-great uncle Sinclair was yours as well. The old Mac Tier who lost his fool head dripped blood as much mine as yours. I enter this hall with deed and title given by Fulgurous’s heir. Granted me before a Revel of the clans.” Her calm voice grew sharp and harsh as winter wind. “Now the keys themselves come unto my lord, and you dare question the right?”

  Fox-girl’s ears twitched. Still, she did not flinch away. Nor yet did Lalena. She spoke loud words to echo on old stone.

  “I claim this hall as right of gift. And if you wish, we confirm our right by yesterday’s blood and battle.”

  “Or today’s,” added Mattie Horse, grinning.

  Now Billie River stood. His blond locks looked much the same as Lalena’s. As his half-brother’s hair reminded of Cousin Howl’s. As Doe’s hair resembled Mattie-Horse’s. I wondered how much I resembled what family I’d left across the sea. How strange it must seem, to spy bits of oneself in others. Like staring into a shattered mirror, spying noses and chins, eyes and grins of oneself at different times, laid out in pieces.

  “Cousins, let us keep our heads,” said Billy River. Then added “and not look to swing those of others.” Some smiles at that. Billy was a personable man, if vampiric. “The stones of this hall are cursed with kin’s blood. It cannot be chance that brings us here with title and key.” He turned to the fox-girl. “Lady Vixen, you know why we are here. To inspect the gift given the clan. Speak now honest. What do you here?”

  Lalena frowned at this usurpation, but stayed quiet. Fox-girl ‘Lady Vixen’ exchanged looks with the man-Wolf Cousin Howl, and the Doe. There came silent agreement. Vixen sighed, sat again.

  “The Mac Tiers have gone mad, as the Blade clan before.” As one, all turned eyes to Chatterton. He leaned against pillar, considering the motes in a sunbeam. If he heard he did not mark the hearing. No, he put hand to chin, tilted head as if deciding names for the dust-motes. Beautiful names that would immortalize the motes forever, so they remained fresh in memory a thousand years hence.

  Vixen continued. “Our laird is driving all from clan and land who cannot shift to beast and back. Upon our lands lived many not even of the family blood. We shared in peace.” She considered. “In the mai
n at peace. No more. The Laird takes their lands, harries them away.”

  “Ach, all the lairds are doing that,” said Mattie Horse. “Driving out the old peoples, emptying the little crofts and villages from Skye to the bottom of Erin. Bringing in sheep. That’s just English money, not family madness.”

  “What does the family care of English money?” demanded Vixen.

  “Right plenty,” laughed Mattie Horse. “We are not the old ones to live pocketless, wander roofless, feasting on cloud shadow and cups of starlight. The Mac Sanglair keep lands and sheep, bank accounts, and titles to sound business.” He looked for a flagon of beer to toast this sensible habit. Alas, this was sober conference. No beer. He sighed for the flaws in existence and the duty of solemn convocation. Then thought to add, “But we keep honor as well. We do not harry poor plain-folk to exile. Still less our own blood.”

  Vixen lay head in hands upon the table. There came a long silence.

  “One knows the madness when one sees it,” she told these shielding hands. “There is no arguing. The Mac Tier are lost. My father the Laird is mad. My sister Sionnach who should be Lady of the clan has fled the southern city. We stole a ship meant to cart away a village. Persuaded sea-cousins to guide it. We hoped for refuge here. The Laird himself will be coming for us.”

  Mattie Horse sat up from his slouch, cheered at news of coming beer. Approaching drink, anyway. “Ah, and will he now?”

  Lalena turned, growled at him. “Can you not listen, you brainless nit? This hall is cursed for kin’s blood spilt. We cannot be having clan-war within these walls.”

  Billy River nodded. “Fulgurous himself would return from dust, like as not, and cast us all to the sea, castle-keys shoved down throats, up asses.”

  Mattie Horse shrugged. “Why then, ‘tis simple enough. We slaughter ‘em outside on the steps. The old lightning rod cannot object to that.”

  There followed a chorus in Gaelic from Lalena and all at the table. Mattie raised hands in mock surrender. “Well enow! Talk in peace to mad old Mac Tier. No doubt he will hear sweet reason.”

  “Likely not,” sighed Lalena. “But we need not deal with him today.” She rose, prepared to speak some words of welcome, of conclusion. We never heard. Instead, thundering booms echoed through the hall. A knocking upon the great castle door. Vixen leaped up. So also, Lady Doe. Cousin Howl snarled. Mattie Horse smiled, hearing full tankards come to call.

  Chapter 7

  A Meeting of Wind’s Children

  The family were not ones for sitting quiet. The creatures must forever be slouching, stretching, jumping up, walking about, kicking walls, opening cabinets, studying shadows, sitting again. Tapping fingers, tamping pipes, lighting candles, puffing pipes, extinguishing candles. Stillness did not suit their restless blood. The morning’s solemn conference had required effort.

  By the second dread knock, all stood. The Doe produced her Abomination-slaying wall-ornament. The Minotaur pulled an axe from beneath the table. And yes, I had noted its presence. Pointless to hide a weapon, then feel for its comfort.

  “Bide still, all,” commanded the Lady of the Clan. I stared, admiring. What a creature of parts was my wife. And though the whole always summed to mad vampiric Lalena, yet the separate pieces astonished. I first met her a naked creature crouched on my burning roof, lovelorn and blood-spattered, mad as the moon. Now she stood calm queen in besieged castle. Ah, but that was all the Family. I shall never explain them better than to say: each lived as playwrights of separate roles they scripted, enacted and forgot; all for the exclusive audience of their kin.

  “We are who we wish.” So the boy Brick solemnly informed me. No greater declaration of power ever came from general, from king, from emperor, from pope. Minor roles, those.

  “Cousin Chat, if you please,” said Lalena. “Cousin Doe. Lady Mac Tier. And you as well, Master Gray. Let us see who waits at our door. All others keep here, and keep cool heads. We spill no blood but what we must.”

  Master Gray. Ordered to maneuvers. How soon the wheel of the world turns. And just last night I was on top. I nodded, but leaned to young Master Howl as I passed. “Too many entrances hereabouts. Keep eye to balcony and the far door. Were I them, I’d send others round about.”

  He looked surprised I should address him. Then nodded, turning different directions. He had a wide chest and thick mane of hair, but beneath that paraphernalia of manhood I spied a boy. Fifteen at most.

  I weighed our forces. Twelve vampirics and half a dozen shape-shifters. An aberration in the rafters. One Chatterton, one Seraph. Excellent, we could crush a platoon, if not a full regiment. But faces in the hall showed fear. This Laird Mac Tier of the Moon Tartan cast a dark shadow across the family. It would not be without reason.

  Seven vampirics besides Mattie, Billy and Lalena. Three women, four men. I knew names, acknowledged greetings, but they were not creatures quick to befriend. More cold, more vampiric. More Gaelic, perhaps. Could they fight? Almost certainly. I considered ordering some to the upper hall.

  I was the soldier here. I have led men. To die at times. More often to live. Proud I am of that last. But long ago I grew to hate command of any but myself. In war I declined promotion beyond Captain. Higher, one’s motto can no longer be ‘go but come back’.

  Silent, I observed my bride march to the great castle door, take battle stand. Again I longed to take her hand, push her behind me. But no; unforgivable to the pride of the clan’s Lady. So I moved beside her, rapier ready. One soldier beside another. Close enough I caught her faint tremble. But she closed eyes, took breath, shook head. Every last strand of hair shivered, straightened to Euclidian perfection. Then with cold glance left, calm glance right, she signaled. Unbar, and let wide the doors of war.

  Mattie to the left, Billy to the right, the wings of the door swung wide. Beyond the portal waited the iron bars of the ancient portcullis. Raised high, alas. The vampiric Sanglairs have no instinct to bar doors before bed.

  Thus we faced morning light and an old man. Tall, taller than I, bearded and blind. Eyes of egg-shell white. Sea-weed tangle of a beard trailing down bronze armor, verdigris-stained. Greeves and cuisses too, dull green as anchors dropped to sea a century past.

  Behind this ancient stood two dozen others. Men and women of different age, size, dress. Some naked and dripping fresh from out the sea-waves. Others stood clad in skins of seal, or rags of old sailcloth. A woman in ragged sailor’s clothes held a basket of unearthly flowers. Clearly a gift. She took a step forward, but the old giant held his metal-clad arm to bar her approach.

  “Taras, wisest of eyes, tell what you see.” A low wind-voice to bring shivers. Deep sounding, a voice calling up from where water is only shadow and black, far below where a man can dive. At least, and return again to light.

  A youth of either sex tiptoed to the fore. Flat-chested, long-haired, delicate face; the eyes round in fear or wonder to behold us. I exchanged looks with Lalena. She gave me a nod to say, ‘at ease’. I pointed my rapier to the ground but did not sheathe it. The youth spoke.

  “I see three of the red tartan, Father. Two men, hearts to our hearts, faces like to the Mac Mur, with teeth white and long, sharp as the angler-fish. The third a woman young and blond. She wears a scarlet circlet. She might be Aunt Lorelai with legs, long hair wondrously combed.”

  The old man considered. He sniffed. “Blood, I smell,” he commented. “Family. Who else then?”

  “Two of the Mac Tier, father. They wear the blue and silver of the Moon Tartan. One with silver circlet. Surely a lady of her tribe. Hair red as anemone. She wears ears long and sharp as spear-points.” Taras considered. “She has many breasts.”

  Vixen sighed.

  Eyes-to-the-blind continued. “The other Mac Tier stands proud, hair dark as winter water, head that of a stag-“

  “Doe,” corrected Doe.

  “Of a female deer, and she bears a spear. She is young, not so womanly as the other females.

  Doe sighed.
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  The youth turned gaze to me. A solemn look, unblinking as kitten or fish. I felt urge to make a comic face; constrained myself.

  “Here is a man near tall as you, grandfather. Scarred as the bull-walrus. He carries sword thin as the ray’s tail. He taps point to ground impatient for battle. Hair wild as kelp in storm current. Eyes blue, nose broke.”

  I ceased tapping the rapier. I hadn’t noticed I did that. A habit? If so, rather menacing. I refrained from combing down hair. The blind man sniffed. “The mad outsider of whom the family speaks.” Me, mad? Ha. He took deep breath, nodded, prepared to speak. But the sea-youth had not finished.

  “Behind these wait a crowd of ghosts, grandfather.”

  The old man blinked pearled eyes. I turned. Behind waited… the grand castle hall, the figures of the Mac Tier and Mac Sanglair standing at the long empty table. No ghosts but tattered wall-hangings, dust-motes dancing in sun-beams through narrow windows. I exchanged looks with Billy River, who shrugged. Mattie Horse didn’t even turn. He merely laughed. The speaker continued, fascinated by the reality revealed to him alone.

  “I spy men and women with faces of family. They wear grave-shrouds for dresses, festive lace torn. Father, some carry wounds, some bear weapons, all seem sorrow-burdened. One stands upon the stairs swinging his own head by the hair. The eyes of the head are wide, the mouth opens to shout words I do not hear. Grandfather, now all the crowd raises cups and tankards in toasts to our coming.” He stopped, shivered. “The cups pour dust and spiders, the tankards spill old blood, black and foul.”

  “No more, then,” said the old man, reaching out a hand to the youth. “Peace.” He turned blind eyes upon the living before him. “The family hear, sea-change comes to the Mac Sanglair, so that they do not fear the sun. If so, it is the first good wind for family in long years.”

  Vixen prepared to speak, but Lalena held hand up. The Mac Tier frowned but kept quiet. Lalena’s right to speak first, castle threshold being hers.