The Moonshawl: A Wraeththu Mythos Novel (27 page)

Sighing, and feeling miserably
sorry for myself, I made more tea. Then, I went to my nayati to calm my
thoughts.

Chapter Fifteen

I spent the next couple of days keeping to myself.
I didn’t go over to the Mynd, nor down to Gwyllion. I strolled in the woods
near the tower for relaxation in between bouts of writing, and one evening even
went to swim in the Afon Siôl Lleuad. The only hara I saw on my daily walks were
those I didn’t know very well, who’d only offer a brief greeting before
carrying on with their own business. That suited me fine.

Each evening, I meditated in the
bathroom, hoping to bring out the woman I’d glimpsed there, but even though
sometimes I felt sure some kind of energy was straining to reach me, nothing
manifested. The landscape held its breath, I thought, remote storms rolling in
from the ocean. Heat was building up, stifling the air. I was relieved Rinawne
kept his distance, no doubt having realised he’d annoyed me greatly – fatally,
in one respect.

I decided to wait until the
weekend, then break the silence and visit the Mynd. I didn’t want Wyva thinking
anything was amiss. I would take him what I’d written, because my Reaptide rite
should be complete by then. I could also discuss with him my plans for Myv’s
training. Rinawne I would deal with as the opportunity arose. If he went so far
as to inform Wyva of our relationship, then I’d have to deal with that too and
claim I’d been misled, and that once I’d realised my mistake I’d ended the
arrangement. As a har, Wyva should accept that – I hoped. If not, well... if I
was meant to be here, as I thought, then nothing would impede my ability to
carry on my investigations. I had to trust in that. Having made these
decisions, I felt greatly relieved.

On Hanisday, I decided to ride over to Hiyenton, the
town nearest to Gwyllion, take lunch there and walk around. It was a busier
place than Gwyllion, being a market town. After I’d browsed all the stalls of
the indoor section, buying myself some candles for my nayati, some
night-scented stocks to plant outside my tower, and also a couple of small
clocks to add to my bathroom collection, I wandered to the large inn I’d
noticed on my arrival and where I’d arranged to have Hercules stabled for a few
hours – The Swan with Two Necks
.
The name was so intriguing, I couldn’t
lunch anywhere else. The place was ancient, and its ceilings dipped like the
backs of old mares. It was full of hara, all talking loudly. Hemp smoke
thickened the air. Two fiddlers played fast and complex tunes that wove through
the hubbub.  As I made my way through the throng to the bar, I found myself
jostled up against a har I knew: Nytethorne. He stared at me in disbelief for
some moments, and I expect I looked at him in the same way.

Then he said, ‘Ysobi,’ and I
responded ‘Nytethorne.’

It was then I realised he had
Ember with him, who was regarding me with a quizzical expression on his face.
Do
I move on or say more?
I wondered.

‘You see, he lived,’ Ember said
in a sarcastic tone, patting his hostling’s shoulder in the place where it had
been wounded.

I smiled. ‘Unless he’s a very
convincing ghost, yes.’

‘Shut it,’ Nytethorne said to
his son, although I could see plainly he was relieved Ember had spoken.

‘Are you here for the market, tiahaara?’
I asked.

‘I’m here to buy arrows,’ Ember
said, smirking at me.

I raised my brows. ‘Oh, really?
I think you make your own, young har.’

‘He does,’ Nytethorne said.

Beside his hostling, Ember
appeared very young and less mysterious than on the other occasions I’d met
him. He did not seem to me the har who’d visited my dreams, simply a
good-looking youngster, unruly and impertinent.  But then, of course, in my
eyes Nytethorne now outshone him. Whatever brief spell Ember had cast had
dissolved.

‘Care to sit with us?’
Nytethorne asked.

‘Er... well yes, of course.’

‘Ember, get ales,’ he said.
‘I’ll get seats, if they’re to be found.’

To my surprise, Ember obeyed
without answering back. Nytethorne put a hand gently upon my waist. ‘Outside,’
he said. ‘There’s a yard.’

I pushed through hara in the
direction he’d indicated, eventually emerging into a walled courtyard dominated
by an immense and ancient fig tree. Worn stone steps ran up the sides of two
walls, no doubt leading to accommodation. In the back wall was an open wooden
gate leading to the stables. Flowers bloomed in blackened oak tubs rimed with
moss, and there were half a dozen pine tables with benches. Two of these, near
the gate, had no occupants. I went to the furthest and sat down. Nytethorne sat
opposite me. Wide-fingered fig leaves littered the ground around us; several
lay on the table. The air smelled green and slightly damp, despite the heat. ‘This
is a pleasant surprise,’ I said.

Nytethorne made a huffing sound
and smiled. ‘We come here once a week, sometimes more.’

‘Do you know what the name of
the inn means?’

‘The river splits outside the
town, very old. Curves like the necks of swans.’

‘Oh, I was hoping for something
more... strange.’

Nytethorne took out a pipe from
his pocket and began to pack it with smoking materials of some kind.  I
wondered whether to broach the subject of my investigations, but was reluctant
to. I didn’t want to spoil the atmosphere by putting Nytethorne in a defensive
mood. But then he said, ‘Got very far?’

‘Taken a few steps,’ I replied.

He put his head to one side,
struck tinder for his pipe. ‘And?’

‘Seen a few letters from the
early days, and the document that formalised Wyvachi settlement of the land.’

‘What letters?’ Herbal smoke
plumed before his face.

‘I don’t want to say, because
I’d quite like to spend some sweet moments with you without you getting angry,
scared or mulish.’

He huffed out another short
laugh. ‘I see.’

We held each other’s gaze for a
few moments, then I mustered my courage and said, ‘A har named Malakess, who
was a local commander in the early days, wrote to Kinnard on a number of
occasions on matters concerning both the Wyvachi and the Whitemanes. Do you
suppose Mossamber might have kept similar letters?’

Nytethorne’s teeth tapped on his
pipe. His eyes had narrowed. ‘Maybe.’

‘Well, if such letters did still
exist, I think it would help my investigations a lot to see them.’

‘Expect it would.’

Behind him I saw Ember emerge
from the inn carrying our drinks. His arrival was opportune. I’d said what I
had to say.

Making small talk with the
Whitemanes that day was one of the most difficult social challenges I’d faced,
not least because the obvious things we could discuss were taboo. I couldn’t
talk about my work, or Myv, or my investigations into the past. Mentioning
their interpretation of the yearly round and their associated beliefs was
unthinkable. Even asking about their home might be taken as sinister
interrogation. But I wanted to make the most of this coincidental meeting – if
not to further my enquiries, then to establish more of a friendship with these
distrustful hara. The fact I’d been invited to join them and Ember hadn’t
protested said a lot. Perhaps Nytethorne had indeed been open with his family
about meeting me, and now this was to be encouraged. So, in desperation for
something to talk about, I began to tell them about Jesith and the vineyard.
Whether this interested them or not, I can’t say, but they were polite enough
to listen with some attention. I mentioned Zeph and Ember said at once: ‘You
have a son?’

‘Yes, preposterous as that might
sound.’

‘Why that?’ Nytethorne asked.

I shrugged. ‘Well... I don’t
think I’m really the parent type.’

Ember laughed at these words.
‘Is he like you?’

‘Not much, no. He’s not a
harling anymore.’
No, just an adult I don’t really know.

The thought was unguarded and I
sensed Nytethorne pick up on it; the wisp of a comforting feeling brushed
against my mind, but he said nothing. However, I liked that he was alert to my
thoughts, ready to scan them if they were available to him.

‘You decided to stay here
longer,’ Ember said. ‘We didn’t scare you off.’

‘Despite your best efforts, no,’
I replied lightly, taking a sip of my ale. ‘I wonder, Ember... If I’d followed
those harlings across the bridge that day, and had come to your domain, what
would have happened?’

‘We’d have eaten you!’ His
bright, amused eyes told me he still thought I was easy game to be intimidated.

Nytethorne made a sound of
annoyance. ‘Don’t be a whelp,’ he said, and cuffed his son round the head.
Ember yelped, but then laughed.

‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘Believe it
or not, I know that wouldn’t have happened.’

‘You didn’t come, though,’
Nytethorne said. ‘Did you?’

‘Would Mossamber welcome me
there?’

Nytethorne didn’t answer but
Ember said, ‘No. You’ll always be Wyvachi-called to him.’

‘Yet not to you?’

‘Didn’t say that,’ Ember said,
taking a drink and looking away from me.

‘Well, thanks for the ale,
anyway.’ I raised my glass to them.

‘You returning to Jesith soon?’
Nytethorne asked.

‘I have no immediate plans. My
work here isn’t finished.’

‘Still here come Shadetide,
watch us roast a har on the bonfire,’ Ember said.

‘What an appealing invitation. I
can’t wait.’

‘Might see more than you barter
for,’ Nytethorne said, carefully.

‘Really? Shadetide is a long way
away.’

There was a silence.

I could sense the fragile
camaraderie between us fizzling out, the conversation, such as it was, dying.
It was time to go. I’d not had any lunch, but could manage until I reached
home. I’d laid some groundwork, I felt, and to prolong this difficult encounter
wouldn’t help. I got to my feet. ‘Well, thanks again. Good day to you,
tiahaara.’

Nytethorne smiled at me then, in
such a way that the skies might’ve opened and rays of glorious colours come
streaming down from some far realm that was the essence of bliss. I picked up
my shopping bag, and wafted out of the gate into the stableyard beyond.

As I rode home through the searing
summer haze, the air alive with floating motes around me, I considered it was
perfectly fine to be dazzled by a har, as long as it didn’t descend into sticky,
painful situations. Nytethorne could be my muse. He might stay that way if we
didn’t end up together. That was unthinkable anyway. We weren’t alike at all.

Once home, I planted my new flowers and did some
tidying of the ground around the tower. It didn’t have a garden as such,
because nohar had bothered with it, but there was plenty of room for one. In
one of the sheds behind the tower, I found some rusted but serviceable gardening
tools, so perhaps in the ancient past somehar, or someone, had nurtured this
little patch of land.

I mulled over the last of my
Reaptide ideas as I worked with the soil. This festival is the second of the
harvest festivals, culminating with Smoketide in the month of Harvestmoon. I’d
decided that to begin the ritual, participating hara would meet at The Crowned
Stag
.
From there, everyhar must wander off alone or in small groups, out
into the forests and the ancient hills beyond. They must follow streams and the
tracks of sheep, until they come across a place where they will commune with
Verdiferel. His totem creature is traditionally the white owl who flies by day.
Hara should be alert to appearances of this bird. Perhaps Verdiferel himself,
in the guise of some mysterious har, might cross your path in the afternoon
heat. He might try to trick you, but if you best him will give you knowledge or
some other gift. As the sun begins to set, so hara will commune at a pool – the
one we’d used for Cuttingtide would be adequate – and there we’d call upon the
essence of Verdiferel. White owls would come down from the sky and glide across
the hills, conjuring a sweet-smelling ground mist. The hara would stand around
the pool, singing one of the songs I’d been working on. I ached to include the
swan; it seemed intrinsic. I decided to slip that in and see whether it passed
Wyva’s scrutiny. I wouldn’t mention it was silver. The swan could turn into
Verdiferel, whose essence we would bind into the water so he could do no harm.
But we would offer him gifts instead, the bounty of the land. We would offer
him aruna. This thought came unbidden to me, but I realised it was pertinent.
Harlings, of course, could not participate in that aspect, but older hara could
disappear ghostlike into the landscape to perform this part of the rite. I’d be
happy to remain behind to keep an eye on the younger hara.

After this, a feast would be
held again at Meadow Mynd and songs would be sung. If Wyva wanted more than
this, which admittedly was quite freeform, we could discuss it. It occurred to
me then we could have our own book to sit on the shelves beside Flick Har
Roselane’s archetypal work. The yearly round of Gwyllion. I was sure Wyva would
like that idea.

When I was hungry I put away my tools, and went to
prepare dinner. I thought it was about time I visited the Mynd, but only when I
was sure everyhar there had eaten dinner. I didn’t want to feel Rinawne’s
accusing gaze across a table. But despite that, I was looking forward to having
company, being still high on the meeting with Nytethorne and unable to settle to
pursuits such as reading or painting.

I was just braiding my hair in
preparation to leave when I heard a sonorous knocking on my tower door. That
couldn’t be Rinawne, but who else?

I went downstairs, resisting the
temptation to ask ‘Who’s there?’ before opening it. This was Gwyllion; nohar
wishing me harm would knock.

Nytethorne stood on the step. I
was surprised, and yet not. Now was the time to be careful. ‘And so faintly you
came tapping – tapping at my door.’ I smiled. ‘Hello, Nytethorne. To what do I
owe this pleasure, may I ask?’