The Moonshawl: A Wraeththu Mythos Novel (7 page)

I remembered the way I’d felt
about Jass when I’d first met him, the aches and longings he’d inspired in me.
I remembered the utter conviction we should make a harling, and how my
stupidity had spoiled his pearl’s delivery for Jass. That he’d forgiven me then
was miraculous. No wonder his ability to forgive had worn away. Or maybe what
happened had eroded his love to a point where it was so thin it was less than a
ghost. Zeph was and is
his
son; they are close, a single beating heart.
Where Jass goes, Zeph follows. And now, as I thought of these things, another
realisation came to me: I’d lost them.

Perhaps it didn’t have to remain
that way. Perhaps I could change things. The question that had to be answered
was whether I wanted this. Even if my relationship with Jass was damaged beyond
repair, Zeph was still my son too, and I must not relinquish him so easily.

In the morning, as I was eating breakfast, I wrote
two letters – one to Jass, one to Zeph. To Jass I wrote of Wyva and his family,
and requested that a hamper of Jesith produce be sent up to them. I spoke of
how the landscape was inspiring for my work, and things were going well. I told
him of the tower, describing it in detail; this made for a fairly long, chatty
letter.

To Zeph I wrote more, of the
folklore stories I’d heard and read, of the magic of the land. I told him about
Myv and Porter, and how the dogs howled so strangely down at the farm at night.
I told him I was often alone, but not lonely; the land and the tower were my
company. And if I craved harish company, I could wander up to Meadow Mynd and
talk with hara there. I paused and thought for some minutes before adding the
final paragraph suggesting he might like to come and visit and that I was sure
he’d be welcome. In my heart, I knew that invitation would not be taken up, but
at least I’d made it.

Chapter Four

Rain came with the morning, turning the world grey
and dull. This would not have been good weather in which to wander about with
Rinawne, so we’d probably have had to cancel any planned walk anyway. The air
had gone chill, so I stoked up the stove in the kitchen, which soon became warm
and enfolding. After breakfast, I took up my letters and went to saddle Hercules.
He didn’t look very happy, standing beneath a dripping tree at the edge of his
field. As I didn’t know the area that well yet, I took the widest path that led
to the southeast of the farm. This meandered somewhat, but I rode as swiftly as
possible to Gwyllion and left my letters at the mail station, where they would
be picked up by the next courier travelling south. Then I returned to the tower
and stabled Hercules in knee deep straw with sweet hay to nibble at. I determined
not to venture forth in the rain again that day, and went inside to work.

The Wheel of the Year has
already been well-formed to fit harish beliefs by Flick Har Roselane, so most
scholars devising improvised versions begin with his work. It’s quite telling
that the circular story fits better into an androgynous version than it did in
the ancient human version of male and female. Perhaps this was the way it was
always meant to be for the sentient beings of this world, and yet the kingdoms
of animal and plant remain mostly divided into two genders. I feel that the
predominating forces of soume and ouana – or, crudely, female and male – should
not be overlooked or ignored, because these forces do have different ‘flavours’
and strengths, and represent specific things. Hara incorporate both these
aspects but utter balance is difficult, if not undesirable, to achieve. At
certain times, soume or ouana might dominate – and I don’t mean in a literal
sexual sense. I believe we exist upon a varying scale with ouana at one end of
it, and soume at the other. It is rare our being will rest blithely in the
centre of that scale. So, to me, celebrating these aspects in their pure form,
as well as their variations, should be part of spiritual practice. To deny this
reality seems to deny the true nature of our being.

I thought about myself at that
moment, snug in a cosy environment, writing up my thoughts. My soume aspect
welcomed the comfort and, I felt, was eager to bring colour and imagination to
the work. The ouana part was the scholar, wanting to be sure of his facts and
not go skipping off down fanciful roads. Both were needed, and in some parts of
my new system, perhaps one aspect would be foremost at certain seasons.
Natalia, in mid-winter, would be wholly soume because of its connection with
the birthing of pearls.

Feybraihatide, at the eve of
Flowermoon, had passed, so even though that month still reigned, I began work
upon Cuttingtide, which falls in the last third of Meadowmoon. I felt a frisson
of excitement course through me as I thought of this. The words were somehow
apt. Meadowmoon for the meadow, the moonshawl, and cutting... somehow that
seemed relevant too. Cuttingtide, being associated with the death of the dehar Morterrius,
is perhaps one of the more
daunting
festivals. Its celebrations can be
wild and cruel, and in many hidden corners involve sacrifice, as it had done
thousands of years before, among humans. I don’t mean that hara are literally
slaughtered in the fields, but animals would be, their blood cast upon the
growing crops to ensure their bounty. 

As I thought of images and
themes for a Cuttingtide festival for Gwyllion, I could not dispel the vision
of the helpless har who had come to me at the Pwll Siôl Lleuad. Was he
associated with a festival in some way, his trauma enacted upon a significant
date? Without Wyva telling me, I couldn’t see how I could find out, other than
trying to communicate further with the entity itself – a thought that didn’t
exactly fill me with joy. His tragedy wasn’t why I was here, and I could see
clearly he could sidetrack me, and perhaps bring me into conflict with the
Wyvachi.

‘Drop it,’ I said aloud to
myself, and dismissed all thoughts of the Pwll Siôl Lleuad from my mind. Wyva
had been firm that I mustn’t use any aspects of the story for my yearly round,
so the field, river and glade were out. I thought instead of my initial
impressions – a har rising from the mulch and leaves of the fallen year,
blossoming into Feybraihatide. At Cuttingtide he must fall himself, but I
decided not to make this cathartic or brutal. An arrow from his lover would
fragment him into a storm of petals, which would blow across the fields and
fall upon the crops. As a concession to the blood gift, I would make the petals
turn red as they fell and sank into the soil. I needed a location in which to
set my Cuttingtide drama, and as certain areas were off limits, this would
require some exploration on my part.

The weather cleared late in the afternoon and weak,
watery sunlight splashed down over the soaked landscape. Now I wanted to go
exploring again. I’d been studying a framed map I’d found upon the wall of the
spare bedroom. The map was drawn by hand in black, red and green ink and showed
the extent of the Wyvachi lands, plus the village of Gwyllion. I was pleased to
discover a shortcut to the village, which led through the farm, right to the inn
where I’d arranged to meet Gen later on.  This would be much quicker than the
route I’d used earlier. Before my walk, I let Hercules out into his field and
then set off, intending to explore some of the woodland nearby. I had debated
whether to ride or walk, but had eventually opted for walking, since this would
bring me closer to the earth, even though the damp might sink in through my
boots. I’d copied parts of the map onto smaller, manageable bits of paper, and
decided to begin my explorations with the Llwybr Llwynog, the Fox Run or Path, which
covered a small hill two miles or so from the tower.

As I descended my own hill, in
the opposite direction to the farm, the hounds started up their racket,
seemingly more of them than ever before. There was an undeniable annoying note
to their cries, which I found puzzling. Normally, the sound of hounds would
have excited me. There was something primal about the concept of the hunt,
associated with ancient pagan ways, that called to me. When I heard the voice
of a hunting dog, I saw in my mind ancient gods and spirits riding the wind,
rather than a struggling mass of yelping murderers intent on tearing apart one
poor animal ahead of them. With these hounds, murder seemed more likely than a
romantic vision; theirs was a cruel voice. I can put it no other way than that.

My walk to the Llwybr Llwynog was
uneventful, yet I could not help but be intoxicated by the atmosphere around
me, the breathing, living landscape. In every shadow I sensed elemental eyes;
the very air shimmered with imminence. The colours of the new summer flowers
were achingly vivid, glowing white and purple amid the forest lawns. Emerging
from a copse to cross a stile into a field, it was as if the land was shouting
its jubilation at reawakening. Birds wheeled in complex patterns above the
growing wheat. A hawk rested on the air currents, high above me; the dehar
Shadolan’s creature. All this filled my senses, made me slightly drunk. I
gathered items I thought useful for my temple room – a shard of tree bark
adorned with vivid moss, some white stones I came across at the foot of an oak,
pristine pigeon feathers, and so on. I visualised the dehar Elisin strolling
through this wood, touching the trees, his bare feet conjuring forest flowers
from the soil. I crossed a narrow stream, then decided to follow it, pleased to
discover that when I reached the Llwybr Llwynog hill, before me was a waterfall
where the stream fell into a pool.  This was not some showy, gushing fall, but
modest, somehow secret. Here, Elisin would pause, gaze at his shivering
reflection in the pool. I could see right to the bottom of it, which was about
two feet down, and was able to draw more small white stones from its floor; they
seemed to glow with their own light.

As I was examining my finds, I
heard childish laughter and turned round to see the brown faces of two harlings
looking at me; they were partly hiding behind a tree. ‘Good day, tiahaara!’ I
called, not wishing to seem in any way threatening or frightening. The harlings
only laughed further, and then one of them threw a hard lump of moss at me,
which bounced off my forehead. ‘Hey!’ I got to my feet, but the harlings were
already off, scampering swiftly through the trees. Sighing at the rudeness of
the harlings, I wiped my smarting forehead. Skirting round the pool, I found a
path up the hill, which had a gentle slope and didn’t look as if it would
present any problems for somehar seeking its summit.

As I climbed, I thought about the
cycle of Arotahar, as Flick har Roselane had named it, and how in many ways he
had stuck to the imagery and ideas of earlier pagan systems. This lent itself
well to adjustment, so that the beliefs of different areas could be
incorporated. However, I wanted to avoid generic images and ideas for the
spiritual system of Gwyllion. It would be too easy to drop into the ancient
tropes of horned god of the forest and harishly-rendered forms of ancient
goddesses. While these images had, of course, originally arisen from the land
and its people, the hara of this landscape deserved something new while derived
from the ancient, imagery more pertinent to modern times, reflecting our harish
being. The major dehar should be
of
the land, yet of
us
.

I did not expect to come across
this entity almost immediately.

I had wandered into the birch
groves of the Llwybr Llwynog, where the sunlight came down in golden coins onto
the sparse acid green grass beneath my feet. The sward was otherwise covered
with a haze of bluebells. My eyes were concentrated mainly on my feet and what
lay about me. I was humming to myself a tune that I was composing for
Cuttingtide, embellishing its melody, inserting a line of lyrics when they came
to me.

The sound of a horse’s stamping
hooves jerked me from my reverie. I looked up and saw what I first thought was
the vision of a dehar – Shadolan in fact – before me.

He rode a tall grey horse, standing
side on to me, whose mane was plaited into pairs of braids tied together at
their ends with brass medallions. The rider’s olive green cloak, fringed with
what appeared to be rabbit fur, spread over the horse’s haunches. This being
looked down at me through narrowed eyes. His face was like something from an
ancient painting, some fantasy creature: full-lips, perfectly-arched eyebrows,
and sculpted face. The skin was darkish in tone, but I couldn’t tell if that
was its natural colour or simply a tan. His beech-brown hair, braided like his
mount’s, was gathered in an ornate silver fillet at his neck, two braids
spilling forwards over his breast and three others cascading down his back. His
shirt and trousers were of brushed leather, as were his boots. I saw scratches
as if from brambles, and still smeared about with blood, on the backs of his
hands where they lay idly upon the reins. He was harish, real and whole, no
dehar – but what a har! His expression was difficult to determine –
disapproval, curiosity, welcome, hostility?

‘Good day, tiahaar,’ I said,
inclining my head.

The har continued to inspect me,
and now that I had ascertained his corporeality, the gaze was insulting. He did
not speak. The horse pawed the ground with a fore-hoof. I knew I wasn’t on land
I shouldn’t venture into, since this whole forest belonged to Wyva’s family. If
anything, this other was the interloper. He was stationed right in my path and
I’d have to walk round his horse to go further.

‘Tiahaar?’ I said.

His expression didn’t change and
it was clear he wasn’t going to communicate. I didn’t feel he wanted to hurt
me, but I sensed my presence in what he took to be his space didn’t please him.
Still, short of running me out of the forest, what could he do? I had only to
walk round him. Shrugging, to show him he didn’t intimidate me, I took a wide
path round the horse’s head. I wasn’t going to look back.

I pondered about him as I
continued my walk. At first, I wondered if he would follow me and threaten
harm, but eventually, when I did look back, there was nohar behind me. The har
had oozed a kind of authority; he had looked down on me in more than one way. I
laughed to myself. Well, there was my dehar, my version of Shadolan. Hostile,
rude, or not, I saw a template there.

Consulting my fragments of
redrawn map, I took a different path home, not wishing particularly to run into
my dehar again. As to who he might be, later I could interrogate Gen, who no
doubt knew everyhar within the local area. I had my own suspicions about the
identity of the rider, though.

Gen had suggested we eat together at The Crowned
Stag in Gwyllion, which was larger than The Rooting Boar, the inn I’d visited
on my arrival in the area. The Stag was built of light grey stone, misted with
mature wisteria, and faced the town green, where there was a wide pond fringed
by ancient willows.  Tables were set outside, but nohar sat there. When I
arrived, which was early in the evening, there were only a couple of customers
inside, who barely glanced at me, but Selyf, the har I’d met on my first night
in Gwyllion, came out from behind the bar to greet me. Gen had told him I was
expected. He ushered me into a private room at the back of the building, which
overlooked a garden. Here, Gen was seated at a table by the window, drinking a tankard
of ale. Soft globes of light illuminated the shrubs and trees outside as
evening cast its veils over the land. I wondered what the purpose of this
meeting was. Did he too plan a seduction of a new face? Or was I being too
cynical, and he wished merely to extend a hand of friendship?  He stood up to
greet me and asked for wine to be brought to our table.