The Moon Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans

by Raymond St. Elmo

  “But in my day, sir, reality ran as intended. Truth bore weight and mass. An absolute law of conservation required one expend units of energy in proportion to the weight of fact affirmed. ‘Two plus two equals four’? A pebble of a fact for a child to pond-toss, learning from the ripples. As we grew we learned to lift heavier affirmations. At manhood we hefted ‘Life is hard’ upon our shoulders, and set off down the road. Nothing was more comic than to pass some adolescent attempting to shift the mountain-boulder ‘We can know nothing.’”

  I stopped. I halted there and then in open rebellion against lunatics expounding their particular mania to the unseen moon. Then, there unto forever I swore eternal loyalty to the race of dull humanity who talked of beer and crops and weather, using small words, simple sentences.

  “Speaking of knowledge and nothingness, do you know the way back to the Great Hall?” I demanded.

  “No idea,” admitted the Birdman. “I am forever getting lost in this labyrinth. They say the pattern shifts like thought, so that one can never know it.”

  “Of course,” I spat. “A maze of monsters. And we trapped blind within.”

  “Hardly trapped,” scoffed the man. “Dawn’s gaze shall peek through various windows within the hour. Until then we are free to walk as we wish. Company me, if you would be kind.” With that his footsteps continued onwards.

  My holy oath of rebellion required I cross arms and stand an iron pillar in the dark. I renounced this idiot vow, hurried after the click, click of boot-heels. If he did not know his path, the man walked with suspicious confidence. Soon he halted, there came a creek of hinges and a weak wash of light.

  “You’ve seen over-much dark of the family,” said the Birdman. “I would not have you think us a cabal of mere madmen and monsters. There is great potential for joy, for love, for light in the hearts of those whose lives you have joined. This is the gallery. Here, one can see a bit of their promise.”

  I stepped through the door, wary of the next ambush. Found myself in a wide long hall. I breathed air cold and clear, free of castle dust and decay. One side held glazed windows stretching from floor to ceiling. I rushed towards this light as a starved man would charge a banquet table.

  Through thick, rippling panels of glass I beheld the small valley beyond the walls. Past that, a line of dark sea. We must be high up in the castle. Sun not yet visible; but the promise of dawn gave the room illumination, so that when I turned I gasped.

  For a long while I wandered the gallery gazing, wondering. Sometime laughing. Other-times I circled wary of what I beheld, careful to examine all angles. Just once I reached a hand out, daring to touch a face. A face I knew right well, and had begun to love. At some point I turned to the Birdman to express my amaze, even my joy. As per the tradition of mysterious companions, he had vanished.

  * * *

  “You’ve no idea,” I told Mattie Horse. We sat to table in the Great Hall while I sipped hot coffee, chewed cold mutton. “It’s a treasure-chamber. Paintings and statues, sculptures and etchings, creations of gold, silver and bronze; of glass, of wood, of paper. Faces, mostly. At least the faces were what you noticed. Each showed a real person, you felt. Not just random shape of eye or nose or mouth. Not just an ideal. These were people you knew lived once, breathed once.”

  Mattie Horse yawned, scratched, rolled eyes to show he lived now, breathed now. I considered him turned to glorious statue, perhaps of bronze. He’d appear far more noble as a representation of himself than he ever would being himself. The idea made me laugh, which made him scowl.

  I shook with relief, with laughter, with hunger. Knew I babbled. Didn’t care. “There was an old stone creature, all wrinkles and sags and little-lady bones but she was beautiful. Laughing.” I tried not to talk mouth full, but I had returned to the Hall famished for food, drink and sanity. “Laughing at Time. I don’t mean ‘at times’, I mean she was laughing at years and decades. That kind of time.”

  Lalena perched on the arm of my chair, hand brushing my hair back and forth, forth and back. I can’t recall anyone ever doing that before. I felt like a cat, petted. Excellent feeling. I’d always wondered what it felt like to be a cat. Contrasting to my babble, she wore her silent mood. I knew better than to draw her out. She knew better than to fuss upon my return. See how fast we learned?

  “Surely all the faces were of your family,” I informed them. Sip, chew. “I saw bits and pieces of all you lot, your cousins and clans. How can there be such a resemblance across such diverse peoples? It goes past noses and chins. But a copper shield had Vixen’s face. Ha, they’d given her snakes for hair but that was her down to the sly.” I didn’t mention the statue so resembling Lalena. Marble pale as her skin, almost.

  I struggled to eat, drink and describe wonders all. Tangled the struggle. I thrummed dizzy with hunger, with exhaustion, with elation to be free of the dark halls.

  “There was a great winged woman carved out of black stone. It was Chatterton’s angel, down to the sarcastic eyebrows. She must be family after all.” I looked for cousin Chat in the rafters. Gone. Dawn had chivied the revelers to beds and blankets. About us lay the battle-debris of bottles, plates and ghost-smoke smell of vanquished feast. Or had the feast proved the victor?

  Billie River lay across the far end of the table, a girl in seal-skin curled beside him. Master Bellow slumped in the throne at the table-head, someone’s scarf draped across his ox’s face. It puffed out, in, out with his tidal snores. Howl and Doe traded earnest whispers at mid-table. Howl raising hands to express ‘well what about’? Doe tipping head, expressing ‘on the other hand’.

  I sipped coffee so hot it blistered tongue, burned gullet. Excellent, exactly as coffee should. “Say, who is Fulgurous, anyway?” I asked.

  Lalena’s hand ceased petting. Mattie Horse twitched. Farther down the table Doe and Howl turned to study the innocent who wandered into their dark forest. Finally Mattie Horse shrugged, snatched for some of my breakfast as salary for reply.

  “Ach, he is the bug-bear of the family. Long ago he’d pop up a’times, ensure all behaved in accord with the rules. As if anyone knew what the blazes these rules were. The old ones were always for keeping things unsaid.”

  Mattie reached out, seized a bottle still splashing in the bottom. Sea-folk wine. I prepared to rescue it. Too late, he saw my intent, put it to lips, consumed, curse him. Then continued.

  “Fulgurous is recalled for a wee problem with temper. Ah, the Rivalry drove him to fury. When he came upon the clans blood-dueling here in the Gathering Place itself, bodies of our kindred cast like emptied cups, why he banished the whole family from his cold stone Eden. He could do it, too. Was the last master of all the clans. They say he could toss lightning about easy as hay-stalks.”

  Mattie grinned to say he doubted such. The Lady of the clan began tapping fingers on the chair. I pushed my head against her arm in hope she’d pet some more, but no. Mattie sipped sea-wine, continued.

  “The banishing were little loss, most thought. The world is wide for gathering, whether to duel or dance. But the madness spread like pox when summer heat ripples air. The folly took entire clans. The Blades, the Harlequins, the Scribes. Ah, the clan of the Dawn. You couldn’t fathom their minds or hearts anymore. Couldn’t find them in dream or valley, road or revel. Other tribes hid, or grew so strange we’d not know their faces if we met by the fireside. Some say that madness was Fulgurous’s curse. But such was never the way of those old ones. No, they preferred to let man or clan follow a path over the cliff; and then show up at the funeral with nose high to say ‘told ye so’.”

  Lalena hissed something fast and angry, in Gaelic. Doubtless some Gael variation of ‘Shut your fool mouth.’

  Mattie Horse shrugged. “Ha, the old grump’s dust and ash centuries past.” This affirmation did not keep him from glancing about. No antique busybodies threatened. Mattie finished my sea-wine, wiped lips. “My Da’s da said he looked as a man with face all black-burnt by fire and smoke.”


  I considered, recalled. “Kind of bent-shouldered? As if at some bench-work all night, every night for years? Angry amber eyes, and holding a hammer?”

  Mattie bent forwards coughing sea-wine. Served him right. Lalena stood, whispering curse or prayer. Farther down, Doe and Howl stared owl-eyed. I laughed. Astonishing the family was always a moment to cherish. But I raised hands to reveal them empty of omen, holding only knife and mutton.

  “Relax, good people. Just a statue in the corner of the gallery. Lifelike enough. Sitting in a heavy chair.” I tried to recall. “Leaning forwards, as if about to stand.” In fury, I recalled but did not add. The artist had caught a king or judge rising in rage. Eyes glowing an angry amber by dawn’s rays. Best not mention this.

  Mattie shook head. Lalena shook head. Doe, Howl: shook heads. Fretting silence followed. Mutterings between cousins. No business of mine, I decided. Nor worry of mine. I finished breakfast, digestion not a bit spoiled by ancient family bug-bears. I felt full and sleepy. Dawn light through the high windows turned all the night’s deadly shadows to comfortable friends.

  “Just a statue,” I repeated. “Painted wood. No more alive than the rest of the stone and lumber.”

  Mattie Horse sighed into the empty bottle. With a great patience he sealed the cork, placed this bottled breath upon the table. Considered this captured lament in solemn meditation. “None of the family would be so daft, Master Gray. Make a statue of Fulgurous? Man, it’s not thinkable.”

  I rose. Family politics, art and legend were for family. I turned to Lalena.

  “This castle fast bests me. I require a guide to my bed. My wide, warm bed.” I reached hand out to her. She smiled. She would have reached to clasp mine in return, but for the sudden knocking upon the castle doors.

  Chapter 12

  On the Biting of Thumbs

  Polite of them to knock, but they did not wait upon our welcome. No, the wings of the castle door slammed open with a boom echoing for cannon-fire. The revealed entrance showed no happy sea-folk bearing gifts. Instead there stood a wolf.

  A wolf of sorts. It had the form correct. The hunched, muscled shoulders. Black-lined eyes of wary violence. Long graceful legs, the fur thick about throat. An ivory-toothed trap for jaws, red tongue hanging for a banner.

  But no real wolf loomed so large. It filled the castle doorway, casting shadow into the hall; casting fear. It knew it so, and grinned. Behind stood a troop of similar sorts. Wolves and bears, a great boar near high as the wolf. A tiger-man who walked upright, a great two-handed blade strapped to back. Impressive, for all that a sword is simply not a tiger’s weapon.

  In strode the wolf. Approaching, he changed. With every step he dropped some part of Beast, donned some feature of Man. Half across the hall he reared up on two legs. By the time he stopped before Lalena, he stood a man caped in wolf-skin, rough cut for kilt.

  As wolf he stirred spine and gut to fear. So too as man. Tall as I, broader of chest, with narrow waist. Scars across face, across hands, across neck. A fighter for sure. Howl’s boast of his father came to mind: the most frightful man in the world, the most terrifying being born. I studied him, and in return he ignored me. I took no offense. I delight in being ignored by those I may need to kill.

  He bowed to the Lady of Clan Mac Sanglair. Rough, yet not entirely mocking. “Shall we speak first?” he asked. Voice of a gentleman-wolf, low and rasping.

  Lalena tilted head back. Face pale, eyes black. Teeth white and long. But a minute before, her tell-tale hair had hinted pleasant possibilities of bed-room tangle. Now each strand lined itself with neighbor, forming an ordered warp of blond.

  Laughter from the railing above. I turned to see. Yes, more in the gallery about the hall. Entered my castle without notice? Annoying. Past time to post pickets. Behind me I heard Bellow stumble to rise, cursing. The sea-girl remained curled on the table, snoring oblivious. Doe, Howl and Billy River stood back to back. Around them circled various clan-cousins. At another time these fool creatures would be embracing, wet-eyed with affection as they recalled past dances, common great aunts. Now they traded glares, claws out, pride and rivalry to the fore. The Tiger began an ostentatious cleaning of his claws.

  I considered drawing, confronting. Standing with my in-laws. But no. My wife is an excellent dancer. These were her kindred. Let her set the tempo.

  “Greetings, Laird of the Mac Tier” said Lalena. She considered, added politely, “If you wish, you may speak.” At which grant of permission the Wolf-intruder grinned. At which words, I laughed. That earned me a surprised look from some of the newcomers. Not a glance from the Wolf.

  “I seek my stray lambs,” he said, waving a hand towards Doe and Howl. “I also require their foxy little leader.” He looked about the hall in thought. “But perhaps I shall bide awhile. Is this not the Hall of Gathering? And we are all family, are we not?” At last he tossed my beggar-self the crumb of a glance. His eye measured my soul, breeding, manners and potential threat. The measure found naught. He shrugged. “All that matter, ‘tis to say.”

  I looked to Howl and Doe. Howl stared in fright at his Da, face rippling to muzzle, returning to human, back and forth fast as the panting of one running for his life. But there was anger there as well. I marked it. Part of a spadassin’s job. The man’s huge shoulders and arms tensed, impatient. They wanted to strike, for all the fear deviling the mind above. A good sign. The Doe threw back graceful head, took some form of deer. Stood ready so, to fight or flee.

  Billy River stood beside them both, in pose of stillness, head tilted, watching all. Had I come across him so in a crowded tavern I’d draw knife not waiting upon ceremony. That man stood ready to kill.

  More of the Mac Tier entered the hall. Clever, to come in waves. Let the first establish position, access danger, engage opposition in talk. In these newcomers I beheld normal-seeming men and women, some in kilt, some in dress. But closer exam remarked on animal ears, tilts to eyes, sculpt of teeth that mortal clay never shaped.

  Ah, they were a wonder. To describe their march through the castle door challenges words to capture the truth of grace and confidence, of mocking threat and solemn step. Each Mac Tier walked clad in dream of animal shadow, animal spirit, animal form. Pity that most showed the same sharp point of tooth, slant of eye. Twitching predators, sidling sly. Did none ever seek a peaceful form? A man with art to reshape his being to rabbit or goat would be no less a man; nor any less a miracle than wolf or tiger. And he might well be the wiser for it. There is plenteous wisdom in rabbit-kind. And the average goat? A mad genius.

  Ten invaders at least in the gallery above, some thirty now in the hall. We made eight defenders; with some fifteen farther within the castle-maze. Not counting any sea-folk remaining. If any did, I wondered would they side, or flee. I watched the Mac Tier take positions by the farther doors. Their chief had gauged our numbers, knowing the main of the vampiric clan slept the day. Ah, they had thought this out.

  Seemingly he thought it safe to defy Lalena. Seemingly, Lalena paid no heed. She but smiled upon the Mac Tier chieftain, if perhaps overlong. When at last she replied it came in tone of flat courtesy. A paper greeting, cursive ink writ red.

  “Indeed this is the Hall of Gathering, Laird of the Mac Tier, and all your blood is welcome.” Which point of subtle knife forced a grin from the man. Lalena continued, “But know, this holding is now in the keeping of the Mac Sanglair. If all are welcome, none enter but we first open the door.”

  Mac Tier shook head sadly. It sorrowed him to disagree. “The sun is up, milady, and you should lie fast in dark and dream. Go, and sleep. With your wits night-freshened you shall recall these walls stand banned to all our blood, equally and forever. No sweet uncle may make of it a present for a favored child. When the dragon cast keys to the sea, an end was made to any here except in defiance of his dead fire.”

  Why this speech? Every motion of the man shouted hunger to become wolf, rending flesh and ripping throats. Surely the curse of the ha
ll itself held him back, for all his disdain of dead fire. Yet he provoked Lalena… Romeo and Juliet came to mind: two houses at war, each forbidden to make the first strike.

  Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

  Is the law of our side, if I say aye?

  No.

  No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir,

  but I bite my thumb, sir.

  “I am sorry to hear you speak so, cousin,” sighed Lalena. “Billy River, go and fetch Mistress Fox. Explain her father awaits in the hall.”

  This acquiescence surprised the Mac Tier as much as Billy River. The blond vampiric hesitated, then nodded, shoved past the tiger-man. But Laird Mac Tier held long arm out to bar the way.

  “I would not see the hall overcrowded, young Aibne Mathew,” he advised. “Fetch none but the Vixen. All others I shall count as foe, and treat as such.”

  Blond Billy River stood before the man. Face now pale as corpse in snow; but not with fear. It startled me, grown used to his cheerful ease. That was cold rage or I was a rabbit. Billie did not bother with the trash of traded glares, threatening smiles. He turned night-blackened eyes to his clan’s Lady, waiting her decision. I shivered, fresh realizing how casual I’d become with creatures more deadly than those of war, night-alley and nightmare. I saw the wiser of the Mac Tier eye the castle door. Not their Laird; he but turned to Lalena.

  Again the Lady of the clan spoke, in words of chill peace. “Certainly that is for the best. Billy River, by the honor of the Mac Sanglair see you neither wake any, nor give word to any. Go only to Vixen; return only with Vixen.”

  These meek words erupted a shout from Laird Mac Tier. “A keeper of peace has come to the Mac Sanglair!” He stamped a foot. “There’s hope for an honest world yet. Nephew Stripes, I would have you behold some of the wonder of your family’s heritage. Do ye company Cousin Billy.”

  The Tiger-man made a sound; whether growl, laugh or both. He hurried to match Billy River, who neither turned nor slowed. The two exited, stage left.