Circle of Nine: Circle of Nine Trilogy 1 (41 page)

Illusions — all illusions. None of it has meaning.

*

Brushing my hair at night I gaze into the small wooden mirror on the vanity unit. My face is black, with rotten gums, empty sockets for eyes. I recoil in terror. I wear the face of death. My third breast leaks fluid, soaking the sheets at night. It is milk. Milk for a child that never was.

More illusions. A knocking at the door. I sit, eyes tightly shut, willing them away. The visitor leaves.

Finally he comes. Deep inside me I knew if I sat it out and waited he would come. It is daytime — an overcast day, and the plants in the garden are dying. I pull out rotten stem after rotten stem. Then I feel him, his audible energy, a buzzing in the air around me. He is clothed in golden light, and bliss and radiance steal through me as I stare into the face of the Stag Man. This time he has presented himself to me in his human form. His hair hangs to his waist. His face is frighteningly not of this world. His hands are a work of art. He is a bestial Michelangelo, and I am a broken shell, rotten like the plants I hold in my hand, a broken chrysalis.

‘Yes,’ he agrees, reading my mind. ‘You have served your purpose.’

I am shocked by his detachment, his cold indifference.

‘Maya?’ I ask, hope sprouting afresh.

‘No,’ he says. ‘Maya is where you cannot journey. You cannot cross.’

He has destroyed my last chance — and the pain of my heart breaking is swift. I have lived in the Blue Planet too long and a Bluite heart cannot hold too much grief, too much pain.

‘It is over,’ he repeats again.

He smiles and in his animal eyes conjures unimaginable wonders. He reaches lovingly, tenderly into my chest and pulls my sparrow out, soaked in blood. In his sculpted hands he holds my heart, a red rose against marble. He holds the sparrow out for me to examine. I am surprised at the strength and size of it. Black veins are gnarled and twisted, choking the sparrow, the life-force. As I examine my heart I begin to feel more compassion for myself. I forgive myself for not being able to save Maya, for not being stronger or more able to control my grief. For not loving my mother, and my mother for not loving me enough. For the shining. For not being more beautiful. For not being more gifted.

‘You have achieved your goals,’ the Stag Man says. His dark immemorial eyes blaze into mine.

The last of the veil of illusions begins to shift. For a second I feel raw panic. I am attached, I realise, to my frail, ageing, stinking body. I am attached to my house, to my grief and my pain. I see myself as a child momentarily, open, beautiful, shining. The Stag Man smiles again. I feel ashamed he has witnessed my fears and my panic. His hands scatter ashes over me and he begins to chant. The mind objects —
Not now. Not now.

There is a movement in the garden behind me. I turn to see the clothed, veiled figure of Hecate waiting. She walks slowly toward me. The Stag Man stands behind me. My fear has become his fear. We are one being, preparing for the final journey.

‘Now is the time,’ he breathes. ‘Look at her, Emma.’

Hecate prepares to lift the veil.

‘Emma,’ he says tenderly, ‘gaze into her face.’

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

EMMA JANE DEVELLE, ARTIST

It is with deep regret the Mountain Times announces the sudden passing of local resident Emma Develle. Her body was discovered on Sunday afternoon in her cottage garden by tourists Jason and Melinda Bell, aged 26 and 24, of England. The cause of death was a sudden aneurysm resulting in fatal cardiac arrest. Ms Develle, 43, had no previous known heart problems. There are no suspicious circumstances surrounding her death. Seven years ago Ms Develle’s aunt, Johanna Develle, was found murdered in Blue Mountains National Park, a crime which remains unsolved. Emma Develle was the principal beneficiary of Johanna’s will and moved into her aunt’s Leura cottage shortly after the murder. Although assumed to have been the parent of a young girl living with her some years ago, the identity of this child has not been verified and Ms Develle leaves no immediate family. The police have been unsuccessful in contacting any relatives.

—
Leura Mountain Times
, obituaries column

D
iomonna, Queen of Faeries, swept grandly into the Hollow Hills. The occupants of the Hills were unusually quiet for once, with the exception of the Faery harpist who continued to play as always. In anticipation, a light filled the Hills. Faeries stood hand in hand and with their arms around each other; even the Winskis had ceased their mad air-dancing and were gravely seated in crowds of thousands, minute hands cradling minute heads, as they waited. Except of course for Jig Boy, who sat with one wing heavily bandaged, keeping one eye on the proceedings, while he recorded the historic moment.

‘Where be the small one?’ Diomonna shouted into the silence, trembling with anticipation.

Her voice rang through the chambers beneath the Hills, although uneasy bushwalkers may have taken it for the wind. A shadow stepped forward. A Crossa midwife smiled gently down upon the bundle she held. Old Patricia watched through slitted eyes, mistrusting the way that the midwife carried the child. The Faery Queen stepped forward and drew back the pink baby blanket. Faery wings began to flutter. The noise of countless swarms of butterflies filled the air.

With awe, Diomonna studied the sleeping baby, wrinkling her delicate nose at its strong Bluite smell. Carefully she looked into its ears, its nostrils and was only prevented from examining the shut eyes by the scowling midwife. Finally satisfied, the Queen jumped high into the air, turning backward flips before landing lightly on the ground.

‘It is the Maya-smelling one!’ she called. ‘The Changeling is here. The small stink-one arrives!’

A cheer erupted from the mass of Faeries and Winskis. Diomonna, revelling in her triumph, temporarily forgot her heartache over Gwyndion and joined with them. The Imomm had the chosen one . . . the Eom would be theirs . . .

*

The Lightcaster sat on a makeshift bed inside a ramshackle inn on the outskirts of Faia. He had taken temporary residence in the Borderlands, a stinking maze of cobbled streets where rats and women were overbold and rubbish was thrown into decaying piles on the streets. The Looz Drem played games with street children, and people avoided your eyes as they walked past. Prostitutes beckoned shyly from every doorway. Mere country girls, mostly they were far less aggressive than their New Baffin rivals, where the Goddess Aphrodite openly encouraged prostitution in her temples. The Bluite High Priestess was a different matter. She had banned the sexual trade in Faia, pushing it outwards into the Borderlands. ‘What have you done to your people, Mary whore?’ the Lightcaster had asked himself when he had witnessed a Faian maid, nursing a sickly looking infant at her breast, lift her skirts to the waist in open invitation to the transient Shadow beings who inhabited the Borderlands. His heart had lightened, for now he knew his task was within reach. Now he half-regretted his decision to take on the job as he sat in his room watching a large, mustard-coloured rat run along his wall. However, he had little choice. The proprietors needed money and were not likely to ask him too many questions or close their doors to him.

He spent his time constructively, preparing his mind, body and instruments. This was a big job. In goddess-loving Faia it would be difficult to take out one of the most popular Crones. The Faiaites loved superstition and magic . . . but he was confident he could achieve his goal whatever the difficulties. He meditated on the energies that he could see clearly when he went deep inside himself. The old witch was aligned closely with the Bluite High Priestess. To agitate the Faiaites against Khartyn he would also have to set them against Mary.

He giggled to himself as he polished his pricker until it shone with light. No, it was no easy task, but he had had many triumphs in his career. He had whispered in the ear of Carpzou in Germany, a whisper which fetched signed death warrants for over 20 000 people. He had cheered from the sidelines as educated men ripped fetuses from pregnant witches’ bowels and cut the breasts from nubile young witches that they had secretly lusted for. He had encouraged Sir Matthew Hale to allow false testimonies in his English courts to secure convictions against innocent people. He had watched unblinkingly as popes allowed the torture of the Inquisition. Limbs were stretched and torn from bodies. There had been stonings and duckings and bloodings and burnings. Impalings and breaking of legs and arms and souls. Even the cats had not attracted his compassion; he had the church leaders order them all killed because of their association with witches. His precious rats ran free to spread triumphant plague all across Europe.

But it was the souls the Lightcaster was most interested in. For every persecutor who had ever drawn blood from a wretched grandmother had given his soul to the Lightcaster, allowing him to live, to exist, to breathe, to eat. Without their service and sacrifice he would only be a fantasy, a nightmare. It was easy for him on the Blue Planet. But here on Eronth where witches were held in high esteem and patriarchal religions scorned it was no easy task to gather more servants, more souls. But it was far from impossible.

The Lightcaster grinned, testing his pricker for its sharpness. Over the centuries he had helped to entice noblemen, doctors and church clergy to kill and to torture in senseless frenzies, in murderous madness. He had stood by as entire villages were razed to the ground and the inhabitants butchered. He had controlled hands that wrote laws forbidding women to inherit and own property, to be educated, to have abortions.

Two hundred thousand deaths had been accredited to him, but the Pricker knew that figure did not even touch the surface of his achievements. So many records had been destroyed and lost to history, so many recent killings had not even been recorded. There was so much killing on the Blue Planet, and now it was time to begin anew on Eronth. He sighed, lost in fond memories of how easy it was on the Blue Planet to bring terror into the hearts of people, to entice them to rape and torture and worse in the name of their gods. Over the centuries his work had continued. A whisper here . . . a dream placed there. He knew there were some that believed the Lightcaster’s work was obsolete, that the old witch-hunts had climaxed and run their course.

Still giggling, he began to polish his tongue presser, secure in the knowledge that nothing was further from the truth, and hundreds of Bluites were still persecuted as witches every year. He might have lost most of Europe — for now — but he was still happily causing untold misery all over the Blue Planet, particularly in parts of Africa. Sometimes the hate was disguised as political or religious differences, but the results were still the same. Wherever persecution, murder or massacres took place he was there to feed on the energy. I le knew that when a country was stressed and impoverished the opportunities were vastly increased for his vocation.

Now Faia was undergoing food shortages due to Persephone’s refusal to rise and descend at the ordained times. At the moment the Faiaites were merely irritated with the young goddess, but what if they transferred their irritation and their anger at the goddess onto Mary? Then all who were associated with Mary would be vulnerable. The Lightcaster sniffed the air, a smile on his face. He could smell a nascent fear spreading over the land. The Lightcaster, the Pricker of Witches, had arrived. His work had begun.

*

The proud foster parents stood cither side of the white poster-bed. The sleeping child smiled in her sleep, causing the angels to cry aloud in delight. Maya was a neverending source of joy to the Azephim couple.

‘The best thing we ever did!’ they continually marvelled to each other.

Sati felt no regret whatsoever at the fate of her Bindisore sister Emma. She had transferred from her Earth form and had served her purpose: to give Sati a child.

Ishran, to his great surprise, found himself in the unexpected position of enjoying the time he spent with Maya. As the Ghormho he had never expected to accept a child who was not first-egg-born. But in the child’s innocent eyes he saw no rejection or fear of him. Since the night Charmonzhla had left with Rachel, there had been no further manifestation of the angoli. But Ishran knew he was near.

Jessie, seated at the foot of the cradle, watched warily. When first stolen from her Earth home she had been terrified and had fretted for Emma constantly.

Jessie dimly remembered another time, on another world, when the baby was still with Emma and the Stag Man used to visit regularly. Emma had never seemed to be aware of his presence.

Then the Faeries had come, stealthily, confidently, and stolen the baby, replacing it with their enchantment and Glamour. One of their own took Maya’s form, and Emma had never seemed to suspect. Only Jessie, with her keen animal’s sense of smell, had detected there was a difference. The child had grown; but it was a mere cobweb, an illusion. Then that false, stinking child had disappeared, taken to Eronth by angels with dark claws and wings tinged with blood.

Jessie twitched her tail trying to work it all out. Then the angels had carried her here, a gift for their adopted child whom they believed was Maya. The angels were fools . . . the real Maya lay near . . . Jessie could smell her.

Jessie wondered whether the innocent child that slept in the Azephim white poster-bed realised she was an Imomm changeling. These thoughts and others continued to occupy the dog. Then there were the dreams she continued to have, dreams where Maya never really existed, where even Jessie had never existed. There were times Jessie felt the lack of her body, the stir of the Dreamer who dreamt her. Oh, there were vague memories of a world of bones and birds and earthy smells, but the dog was beginning to suspect that all of it had never really been.

She sighed again, watching the cooing Azephim couple with contempt, and, flopping her head onto the floor with a heavy sigh, hoped that feeding time was not too far away.

*

The Eom hummed silently, sensing the changes in the worlds about him. The triple alignment, a shooting star. Signs and shadows. Day turned to night and the Wheel of the Year turned. The Eom waited. On the surface he appeared dead, unresponsive, sterile. But inside, whole worlds were created and the creature within looked out through the facets, stirring in perfect silence. The Eom could be patient; it had destroyed entire universes over vast, immeasurable eons. Time to be still.

Suspended in their cocoons, the Webx Elders stood still; comatose but providing the Eom with a charge. But now a new Webx walked the earth and the Eom longed for his energy. He could wait, patience was as meaningless to him as time itself. He had sent a message and the Webx had answered his call. Everything would fall into place. The Wheel turned, breathing out war and carnage, loss of innocence, empires collapsing, black acid rain. The night was old, the shadows that surrounded the Eom so ancient and the day so young.

Time oscillated around him, touching him, caressing him, and he drew it in as pure sustenance. There was no time in the black veins that ran through his facets. Arteries dangled uselessly from his rotten black soul, crying to hold the energy he sucked from without. The Eom was well fed, linked as he was to all beings, but he needed a form. He required substance. He had taken form numerous times over the centuries, shifted atoms, experienced pain and death. And he would again. He reached out.

Far out on the lonely plains, the Blest Circle of Nine stood enveloped in early morning frost. The tallest monolith, Bwani, received with gratitude the Eom’s urgent call. Through the cold hard layers of rock, a stone heart began to beat.