Moon Called Read online

  The rain did strike again as they entered the lowlands, but not as a heavy storm, rather a soft drizzle, such as the farmers of the Craigs would have welcomed. This land was greening fast and there were bird songs. Thora held her face up to the sky, relishing the touch of the moisture on her skin. Though Malkin’s fur was soon plastered to her body even to that wild mass which crowned her head, she too did not seem to find this a state to cause distress.

  Before they reached the river the herd of wild cattle which had drunk there had scattered to graze. They were smaller than those with whom Thora was familiar. And she saw, sharing their pasturage, several ponies of the same breed the traders favored, dun gray of coat. Their manes were ragged and matted, as were their tails, and it was apparent they were not broken to the service of man.

  Kort kept well apart from the mixed herd, downwind. He had good reason to be wary of the cattle since they could be formidable opponents, especially with young calves among them. Also there was a bull—and, sighting the toss of that murderously horned head, Thora was very glad they were well away—even though this herd promised fresh meat for a hunter.

  The river was pocked by the falling rain, its waters swirling with a lacing of foam about large rocks which broke its surface here and there. Reeds stood tall and other water plants were near submerged to their tops, proving that the flood was above normal. Pieces of tree branch rode the swift central current and among those bobbed a flash of color which caught Thora’s eyes.

  Against the brownish water, in which mud and soil had thickened the flood, that was so bright it could not be missed. Something tumbled along there. Because it might be of importance to learn more of this land Thora hastily stripped and, with a wave of the hand to Kort, waded in.

  The object was still upstream. She thought she might snare it with her spear when it came within reach, though she would not venture into the main current. As swiftly as she might stab at a salmon, she struck for that which she could now see was a roll of stained and muddied cloth.

  Thora was nearly jerked from her feet where she stood thigh deep in the river. That wavering strip of cloth was anchored to something far heavier, rolling beneath the surface. She held on, whistling for Kort. The hound splashed in and swam out to the bundle, as the girl fought the pull of the water until he could reach it.

  Kort’s jaws closed on a mouthful of the cloth, and Thora threw her strength into a pull. Together they worked the bundle out of the main current, into the shallows and so, finally, up on the bank. The cloth was red and badly torn. Beneath its concealment was a shape which Thora found herself oddly reluctant to reveal.

  When she knelt to see the better, she caught sight of thongs lashed around and about—an end of one dangled, badly frayed, as if the leather cord had been broken. Perhaps the bundle had been weighted down and the water torn it free.

  Kort sniffed and drew back. His head went up and he gave a death howl. Man—no. This was far too small to be the remains of one of her own kind. Thora forced herself to use her knife and saw free those lashings.

  Though it required vast determination, the girl tugged at the sodden cloth, peeling it back. Promptly she flung herself away, bile sour in her mouth, as she stumbled farther off still, to lose all she had put in her stomach that morning. The stench seemed to cling to her, so she scrubbed her body with handsfull of grass. When she had herself under control again and returned it was to see Malkin calmly using her spear to drag the rest of the cloth well away.

  There was no mistaking what the river had carried. These pitiful remains were those of one of Malkin’s people. Also, it was just as plain that death had not come easily. There were wounds enough to show that the furred one had been barbarously used. While the covering which Malkin was now methodically spreading wide was just such a cloak as they had seen on the dead Dark One.

  The fabric was badly stained, in places looked charred as if fire had eaten it. There were two blackened holes high on one side—they might have been at heart level for a man.

  Malkin regarded the cloak and the thing which had been bound in it. Then she raised brightly blazing eyes. Her tongue flickered out, began those convulsions which proceeded speech.

  “Sssettt—wakesss—Seettt walkkks—”

  “Who?” The girl gestured to the dead. Did Malkin know him?

  “Aaaalkin—brotherrr one—Kaaaarn—likee Maakil—” She labored mightily. Now Malkin swung around to gaze upriver. Though there was nothing in the range of their sight but the water and the land.

  “Why?” Thora could not understand the sense of wrapping this dead one (it had been a male) in a covering plainly of the enemy.

  “Giveee tooo Ssssett sssooo — killll — binnnd—keeeppp sssspirit—bound—” Malkin stabbed the edge of the cloak, fury still afire in her eyes. “Deeeaad—ssservess Ssssettt—soooo—”

  “A sacrifice to the dead of Set’s people?”

  Malkin nodded.

  Thora tried to remember old tales. Yes, there had even been cases among her own people when the living had believed themselves in bondage to vengeful dead. And if that fear had not been ritually lifted they would have died, sure they were being drawn into the Dark Realm to serve their enemies. Here was evidence of a foul act—killing by torture—of a creature before it was wrapped in a cloak-of-Power, perhaps belonging to the newly dead, so that its life force could be drawn to the Dark.

  “No!” The girl rebelled. There was something—if she only knew more! To be on the edge of knowledge and yet lack it—! Still she was a Chosen and had she only last night not been granted a vision? She wore the Lady’s gem which by rights only a full priestess could place next to her skin—and the Mother had shown no resentment. Therefore—

  Malkin was watching her closely. Thora drew a deep breath. There were two ways of returning to that which had given one birth. Four elements were man’s to be used—not misused—earth and air, fire and water. Out of the earth came the harvest—into the fire and water went that which must be cleansed. But she could not use fire here and water had already been profaned—

  Or perhaps water had uncovered this evil by the Lady’s will. Again she felt that wave of helplessness—that she was caught up in a weaving over which she had no control.

  Therefore—it must be the earth which was to receive this remnant of one of the children of the Mother. Into that this torn and battered flesh must be laid so from what was no longer used might spring new life of a different kind.

  Thora dressed hurriedly. Then she selected a place beyond the sweep of the hanging willow branches, well above where any flood might reach. There, with the point of her spear, she marked out lines and set to work, cutting and levering out sod.

  Clawed hands came to her aid as Malkin knelt and worked with a will, jerking and pulling free the clods. It was a lengthy task when they had only the spears and their bare hands—but at last it was done. Malkin went into the meadow where she twisted free lengths of grass until she had blanketed the bottom of the hole. Thora returned to the other problem. She would not allow the dead to rest in the cloak of the enemy—to do so was to defeat her purpose. So she turned to the willows, began cutting withy lengths which she wove together, sacrificing strips of her hide to tie them into a mat. Then, swallowing her revulsion, and using more willow branches, she moved the body onto the flat bier. Malkin came again to help.

  When it lay so Malkin produced three stones from the stream edge, they had been fashioned by the action of the water into discs near as perfect as any gem stone of the Lady’s. Two of these she fitted over the pits of the eyes. The other she laid upon the rent flesh of the breast.

  Thora dragged the mat to the waiting grave and they lowered it in. More branches were laid across the body and then, working together, they shoveled back the earth and fitted the clods of sod as a cover. The place was not perfectly hidden but with the falling rain and the growing grass it soon would be.

  As she knelt beside the grave Thora brought out her gem. She moved it fr
om head to foot, on the breast level from right to left. From Malkin came a very low hissing as one who crooned a lullaby.

  But Thora spoke aloud:

  “Blessed be, Oh, Mother, for this one was Thy child—

  Blessed his eyes that he saw Thy path and walked therein.

  Blessed his mouth that he praised Thee in the day and the night.

  Blessed his heart that it beat with the life which Thou gavest him.

  Blessed his loins which were fashioned to bring forth life in Thy honor and to Thy service.

  Blessed his feet which walked in Thy pathways.

  Reach forth Thy loving hand to draw him into Thy own fair

  place where he may rejoice in Thy beauty and wait until it is

  Thy wish that his essence embody again.

  Blessed be—in Thy name.”

  As it had when she had danced beneath the waning moon so did it now seem to Thora that the singing of her companion fed and strengthened something deep within her. In those moments she was sure that she had broken through a barrier and her plea had indeed risen to the proper place.

  Why she did not know, save that the gesture seemed a fitting one—but she reached forth the hand in which the moon gem rested and held it once more over the grave. Out came Malkin’s right hand to cover hers so they were palm to palm, the jewel between them.

  Then the furred one drew back and Thora also arose. Malkin headed to where the stained cloak still draggled down the bank of the river. She caught it up on the point of her spear and dragged it after her, heading downstream.

  Not returning it to the water it had befouled, no. Rather she brought it to a tree which stood stark and dead, no hint of spring-renewing life about it. To the lowest branch of that she endeavored to raise the heavy, sodden folds. Seeing what she attempted Thora hastened to help, together they draped the tattered rag across a dead branch from which it hung in filthy tatters.

  Thora desired no camp by the river. She once more shouldered her pack and looking inquiringly to Malkin, sure that the furred one would wish to go on also. Kort who had been ranging the meadowland returned, to face upstream.

  Upstream, whence the corpse had come? Thora hesitated—even though she had learned long since to trust the hound. But Malkin also took a step or two in that direction, adjusting the roll of her own cloak about her.

  To go into what was not just the ordinary danger from beast—or of wandering traders— but close to something carrying the rottenness of Set—? That was a decision to be well considered. Thora’s hand sought her jewel, feeling it beneath her clothing where she had replaced it. If one had the Leaves of the Shrine to be tossed and their message read—only—perhaps in the end those would have told her the same thing. If there was any purpose to her wandering then it lay in that direction.

  Thus they went upstream, winding in and out among the patches of willow, tangles of bush and tree. There were game trails in plenty but nowhere any road. Oddly enough the farther they drew from the grave the lighter became Thora’s heart, the less her uneasiness of spirit.

  She longed for the ability to communicate freely with Malkin. If she could only learn more of these “familiars” and of those with whom they paired! In the old stories of her people it had been said that so dependent were the familiars upon their human links that they could not exist for long away from them. Yet Malkin had survived and seemed stronger each day. Therefore that part of the legend must be false. Only—Thora wanted so much to understand what fate had overwhelmed Malkin’s human—the man of her vision. Had he been slain? Was he prisoner of Set’s forces? The furred one had indicated that she had been used as bait to entrap him—that the plan failed with the coming of traders. Thora shook her head—if only she knew more!

  Mid-afternoon the rain ceased and the sky lightened. They had come a good distance and Thora was hungry. Even a small evoking of the Power could exhaust one and she had touched on it when she had used her jewel to “seal” the dead.

  In spite of her limp Malkin had kept a steady pace. Kort must have gone twice the distance scouting. Now Thora saw him waiting for them at the edge of a thicket which stood before a stand of trees of taller growth than any she had seen.

  There was something about those trees—Thora recognized them with a stir of rising excitement. Oaks! Though what such were doing in the middle of this open land she could not understand—unless they had been planted so. She quickened stride, passing Malkin. When she reached Kort she caught a glimpse of grey-white—a stone standing tall among the trees. Then she stopped, her head high. She might not be able to test the wind for scent as well as her four-footed companion, but there was another sense—that which recognized the stir of Power—that might carry either a welcome or a warning.

  5

  There was a scent borne by the air as Thora went forward slowly. In the grass growing about the bases of the stones shone color—blossoms of white, purple, yellow—violets in such quantities as she had never remembered seeing. And their perfume drove from her the last shadow of the horror she had faced this day.

  She approached the nearest stone, trying not to tread upon the clustered flowers. From this point she could see farther into this pocket of woodland. More white stones stood by trees—surely not just by chance. The curled heads of ferns pushed upwards. Here and there in small patches of bare ground lay acorns which displayed no signs of a season’s weathering, but rather appeared as if they had fallen only today. Thora’s fingers curled about some she stooped to gather. Acorns were a priestess’s true jewels, she wore such as a harvest necklace when she surrendered her wand to the Horned Hunter for the winter months.

  Cupping the nuts to her breast, the girl went on. Yes, the trees and the stones made a pattern—leading one forward into the heart of this miniature forest. There stood more stones, none marked by man’s defacing tools, yet set in a circle for a sky-roofed temple which was truly of the Lady. Thora entered that circle as might a child come safely home, dropping on her knees to the earth where the ground was bare save for a cushioning of moss, soft and brilliantly green.

  Kort threw himself down beside her and lay panting, resting his head upon his forepaws as would a hound at his own hearthside. Then Malkin came. The furred one moved with ceremony, facing in each of the Four Directions, her head a little to one side as if she listened. Her tongue flickered ceaselessly but she was not forcing any words. Instead she pulled from her shoulder the roll of cloak, shook out its folds with a whirl of arm so that its symboled side lay uppermost. When that was done to her satisfaction, she seated herself upon it, her hands between her knees.

  Peace wrapped them in. Thora wanted to stretch out as she might on a sun touched hillside, unburdened in body and mind. Only Malkin then stirred. Her hands moved in gestures, first slowly, and then with speed, as if what she wrought was an invisible fabric. Also she hummed, her hiss-song growing louder, taking up a more demanding beat.

  Thora strove to close her eyes that she might not watch that weaving. It demanded—she even thought she could see faint trailings in the air. The furred one played so with some force. The girl felt strangely light of head—she was being caught in a web.

  Then—Malkin brought her outstretched foreclaws together, stabbing down into the center of one of the symbols on the cloak—that of the spiral. She sat silent now, brooding, her talons pricking into the material, her eyes near closed. She might be looking inward, not outward.

  Thora had no wish to move, nor speak. Although questions gathered in her mind. However, stronger than any desire for answers was a feeling of expectation growing in her. What would come of Malkin’s ritual Thora could not guess. Her fingers brought out the moon jewel, which glowed even though this was only the beginning of twilight.

  The girl held the gem tight cupped between palm and palm. Forces were awaking, beginning to seek—No, she did not know what would happen. The gem was still cool yet its light strengthened. Power was gathering.

  Again Malkin’s fingers moved. From
the heart of the spiral she traced its line around and out. Once more she sang. The hair on her head arose from the tight sleek the rain had given it. Each strand quivered, twisted. Thora could feel a tingling along her own skin. Fear, yes—that tugged at her but that was only part of it. She was on the edge of something which perhaps only the Three-In-One among her own people knew.

  Round and round went those fingertips, outwards—an untying—a loosening. There was a drift of hazy smoke following that touch. When Malkin raised her hands a cone of vapor poured upward from the symbol. Pale against the dark cloak, against Malkin’s own fur, it was plain to see.

  That cone began to swirl though Malkin no longer guided it. Her hands once more fell limp between her knees, her shoulders drooped as if she tired.

  The spinning cone no longer kept its shape. Rather now it showed as a staff. Then it assumed vaguely humanoid form. At last there stood before the furred one a manikin, roughly formed, with but a ball for the head, the body closer to a collection of sticks. Still in the ball head opened pits and a slash—eyes and mouth.

  Those eyes fastened on Malkin, the mouth writhed open. From it issued a twittering sound as high pitched as the squeak of a mouse. Then with a speed which sparked Thora’s fear the stick legs pivoted and the creature whirled to face her.

  She could not look away. The dark hole eyes caught and held her gaze with such strength that she clutched her moon gem the tighter. Deep in those pits was a projection of power—not Malkin’s, the girl was certain. The furred one might have summoned this thing but she was not mistress of it.

  The mouth opened and the squeak became speech:

  “To the north—there is need—”

  Thora marveled at the authority, the command in that whisper of a voice. This thing was only a projection—but the will behind it pierced through her own cherished independence to fasten upon her.