The Malacia Tapestry (34 page)

I wondered if I was not at last loving Armida more than she wished to be loved. Perhaps there was a special way of loving each special person. I languished the day away with thoughts of her.

Julius and the Mantegan kin were helpful. The head groom of the Hoytola hunt pronounced my Capriccio unrideable and suggested he be chopped up to use as carnivore bait. Julius found me a small, black cob, a sturdy beast called Bramble. Bramble had a sardonic eye. He snuffed the oats in my palm suspiciously before I mounted him, whereupon he proved manageable.

The inhospitable weather was such that many of the guests who had ridden to hunt the day before declined to ride today. Some fifty of us assembled as the cloud brightened towards the west. For weapons we were permitted only spring-loaded spears, with short swords in reserve. We wore chest armour, and that too I borrowed from the Mantegans. Behind us on foot came a line of peasants with staves, our beaters, with a body of Hoytola's personal guard. The guard carried muzzle-loaders.

The great sight was the lines of ceremonial hunters mounted on ancestral steeds. Renardo favoured wattle tassets, Tuscady grave-dippers; other noble houses, like the Dios, had the one or the other, or both. Wattle tassets were the more massive beasts, some of them standing seven metres high – truly an impressive sight, blinkered as they were, standing upright on their clawed, three-toed feet, trailing massive tails. Their fore paws were harnessed, to prevent damage from their horned thumbs, and they were decked in the colours of their noble houses. They were proud beasts, the tassets, slow but virtually inexhaustible.

The grave-dippers – or duck-beaks, as the simple folk called them – were almost as tall but lighter in structure. Like the tassets, they are vegetarian. Riders of dippers sit higher up the backs of their mounts than is the case with tasset riders, to prevent them assuming a four-legged posture at speed. There was great variety among the grave-dippers; many had curiously shaped crests, rendered more bizarre by being adorned with the house emblems of their owners. Most of them were heavily blinkered and snaffled, often with an extra bit forced through their nostrils, for grave-dippers become nervous at the scent of carnivores like tyrant-greave or devil-jaw. Yet they are more popular than tassets because they can swim rapidly across rivers.

Needless to say, these valuable sporting animals were also useful in time of war.

As a seal of his approval, Gondale IX had sent up his two marshbags, rigged with banners for all their twenty-six-metre lengths. These perambulating bladders, with wrinkled skins and four enormous plodding legs, were useless on a big game hunt, yet added distinction to any occasion. Their clownish aspect – only their vast size made them alarming – was emphasized by the traditional use of eight dwarf riders. Each marshbag bore a rider at the extreme end of its long neck, just behind the skull, and another – this one armed with a goad – at the base of the tail, while six more dwarfs sat or performed acrobatics along a wooden saddle secured on the creature's back. Marshbags are traditionally escorted by a drummer. They respond to a regular beat and keep gravely in step.

Animals and men, we paraded nobly across the grass towards the forests. The rain died as trumpets hurried us forward.

What excitement to be there! Whatever befell, I would always remember the day. I wished that my father could see me, brave and warlike, taking part in an ancestral hunt. Already I saw more dashing ways in which I might play Albrizzi.

Hoytola laid claim to good hunting country. It was predominantly hilly with occasional outcrops of rock, well forested with lofty oak, acacia and chestnut, beneath the shelter of which ferns grew to the height of a man, affording cover for the game on which carnivores feed. The hills bred streams, and there were open spaces where succulent marsh and bog and stagnant water lay, the haunt of duck and many other varieties of fowl, all ready to take to the wing if disturbed.

In this whole region only an occasional forest ranger, woodman or charcoal burner was to be found. The larger carnivores are reputedly a dying breed; they are left to their own pursuits – except for the one occasion every year. Indeed, Hoytola's gamekeepers reared young devil-jaws, tyrant-greaves and shatterhorns from the egg, to try to keep up the numbers.

We forged deeper into the wilds. Silence became more intense. Not for years had I been out of earshot of another human voice. I whispered to Bramble and patted his neck. Occasionally I caught a glimpse of the next hunter to my left or right flank; but it was impossible to keep them in view when the lie of the land did not permit.

The territory became more broken, the path more boulder-strewn. As Bramble picked his way up an old river bed, trees closed in on either side. The span of sky became obscured, although at first I could see an infrequent leather-tooth sail overhead. Then foliage surrounded us completely, and large branches intertwined above our heads. We continued into the forest for some time.

We came out on a mound surmounted by thistle and rock. As I pushed Bramble through the undergrowth, I saw that the other side of the mound fell away sharply, leaving a recess or possibly a cave below. It provided a likely lair for a reptile. Dismounting, but keeping tight hold of Bramble's rein, I went to the edge of the drop, peering down and kicking a stone over the lip. Nothing stirred. Far away, I heard shouts, very faint. Somebody's sport had started. I stood where I was, listening. The shouts were not repeated. Silence had overtaken the forest.

Remounting, I urged Bramble back to a point where we could scramble down the bank and investigate the cave. We made a wide circle; I knew the speed of predatory reptiles.

There was a cave, as I suspected, most of its entrance hidden by shrubs. The undergrowth was trampled, although there was no sign of bones. I coaxed Bramble forward.

It was impossible to see how deep the cave went. As we were almost up to it, two creatures burst forth, uttering croaking screams as they rushed towards us. Though I had my spear ready, I was taken by surprise. I could do nothing but sit crouched in the saddle.

The animals were about the size of greyhounds with thick reptilian tails which they carried high as they rushed forward on their hind legs. They were of a mottled green and brown. One, as it swerved, gave a glimpse of yellow belly. They were jerks or clapper-diles or something similar, and very fleet, as befitted the small kind of the forest. And they ran with their mouths open, presenting a disconcertingly vivid green maw to their prey.

Not that I was their prey. They scattered in fright, one on either side of us, darted into the bush, and were gone. They were no more startled than I – or Bramble, who shied violently, wheeled about, and galloped madly among the trees.

My wits had gone for the moment. Bushes, branches, ferns, whipped by me in a blur. Head tight down against the cob's neck, I yelled to him to stop. Then I gathered myself and the little horsemanship I had, and endeavoured to calm him. Still he dashed on until we met with a stream half-hidden by clumps of bamboo. Whereupon Bramble stopped so abruptly that I nearly slid off his neck. He began mildly to crop grass.

I kept hold of the reins and dismounted, panting, finding myself considerably shaken.

‘Nothing to be scared of, old friend,' I said, glancing round nervously. I had lowered my voice.

A brownish tinge hung over the forest. Branches drooped without motion, as if caught in the midst of some depressing dispute. Water drops splashed to the ground. There was nothing to harm us; yet the idea of harm remained.

I led Bramble by the bank of the stream, following it without much forethought, listening for sounds of other hunters.

‘I should have cut down one of those clappers, Bramble,' I told him. ‘I missed my chance. We may see no other sport.'

This stream was about six metres wide, and shallow. It made suave noises as it slid past roots and rat holes bored in its muddy sides. The stands of bamboo became so dense that we were forced away from the banks. Yet I obstinately led the cob back to the water; the stream at least had a direction in which to go – I had lost that benefit. Once, I called loudly; the sound of my own unanswered voice disconcerted me.

After a diversion, we got back to the stream. It had become wider and shallower. Thickets of brambles intertwined with massed pines barred our way to one side, so that we were forced to enter the water to progress. Ahead, the way looked dark. These were the primaeval forests which had once covered the entire world.

Still leading Bramble, I pressed on through gnarled elder trees, their warty barks covered with moss. The stream's noise was harsh now, as it ran over cobbles. I was encouraged, thinking that we were moving into different territory and might be able to join with other people, or at least come on a landmark for guidance.

Instead, the stream disappeared. Pressing through more elders, heavy with purple berries, I stopped so abruptly that Bramble butted his head against my back, nearly pitching me into the water. A cliff rose sheer before us, its rock dark as a jailer's face, shattered pines hanging like unkempt hair over its brow. Our stream ran into a low mouth at the base of the rock, throwing up a small continuous wave before speeding into blackness.

The cliff formed part of a continuous rift in the ground which continued on either side, making it difficult to proceed in any direction. For a fanciful moment, I wondered if I had come to the end of Malacia, where an entirely opposed despotism began; the idea was reinforced by a change in vegetation marked by the rift, for the light-leafed deciduous trees died out by the cliff, to be replaced entirely by rows of pine and fir, stretching ahead as far as the eye could see, and towering upwards from the lip of the cliff. Their foliage was outlined against a distinctly brownish tint in the sky; dusk was coming on apace.

I found that I was being watched by a bearded man. He stood regardless of danger on the highest point of the cliff, above the mouth into which the stream flowed.

‘Which is the way to Juracia?' I called.

No answer. I could not see him clearly. He appeared to be naked except for a rough pair of trousers. His immobility was disquieting. I resented the way he stared down at me.

‘Have you a tongue, man?'

No answer. It was not a man but a statue. Not a statue of a man but a statue of a satyr. It was manlike from the loins upward; below that, it was a goat, and a pair of small goat horns nestled in its unruly hair.

I was disappointed yet relieved. Perhaps it is preferable to be ignored by a statue than a man.

So there I was, with my horse breathing softly beside me, his nose at my shoulder, and night coming on. I decided that we would ford the stream. The going looked easier on the other side.

Still leading Bramble, I moved through the water under the stony eye of the satyr, and climbed the other bank. As I was about to remount, my nostrils caught an odour of something burning. The scent moved to my brain and established dominance there, leading me as if by a leash, directing my feet, tugging at my clothes. All about me that corrupt sepia tinge increased, permeating atmosphere and forms, so that I understood how all those forms were united in the conspiracy of their birth, when they had been incarnated from the principle of Evil itself. That hideously dominating scent, together with the haggard light, emphasized that I moved among matter which was mere semblance, a phantasm of the breath of the Lord of Darkness and Chaos.

A lick of that darkness showed ahead and in the curly centre of the darkness, a tongue of fire. Bulky satyrs, their shapes barely distinguishable from the boles of trees, marched beside me, their goaty odour mingling with the smoke smell. They marched, I say, but movement like matter had been reduced to an impression. We were all strokes of an infernal paint-brush, shadowy recreations of greater dimensions, the only reality belonging to the bud of fire and the night ahead.

A great sinking took place within me – that movement was real enough to my spirit – as if I were slowly descending into rock and the unhallowed places of the earth. With the sinking went an oppressive emotion for which there is no name, unless it be intuition: an intuition, as devious as the serpentine layers of smoke ahead, that we are cast upon the stage of life in bodily form for reasons ever beyond our comprehensions – beyond, because the reasons are too inimical to be comprehended. To know them would entail total destruction. This intuition filled me with something more enduring than fear: recognition. The ancient wickedness about me became part of me, as I was a part of it. I choked on a dusty mouthful of recognition. Little different was I from the goat-lipped satyrs. With a sly motion, my amulet slithered from my arm and fell to the forest floor, where it writhed as if wounded.

The carnal flame burned on an altar decorated by carved heads standing out from the stone. Round the altar stood six monstrous figures. They were regarding me. Above their hunched shoulders perched an owl, its face no more inhuman than theirs. It sat on a low branch, its wings spread wide as if it were about to launch itself at my eyes. Again, the sense of recognition.

Of these six brutish figures, I could see only the first two clearly. The others were obscured behind the massive cylinder of the altar. The prominent two wore stiff draperies decorated with insignias proclaiming them – I did not doubt it – to be exponents of the Natural Religion. Their features were hideous, as if shaped long ago from rude forms of earth. The leading wizard was cruel and malign, his nose, his mouth, hooked into a sneer above the luxuriant, brownish-red beard he sported. He wore a ludicrous pancake hat and clutched at the bulge of a huge phallus beneath the folds of his drapery. Almost in his shadow crouched a woman, her naked back scraping against a satanic face adorning the altar. Her breasts hung naked, as if in dejection, full, slightly elongated under their own weight as they swung from her body. She appeared to have been desecrated. Her clothes lay in tatters by her feet. She wore only a shift, the whiteness of which was stained by filth and blood. The sight of her filled me with intense sorrow.