Tamara still stared intently into the pool, her brow creased. The towers of High Crag wavered within the rippling surface of the pool before her. She saw the long stretch of the gardens down to the cliff-top and there, on the crumbling lip of stone, stood her prince of light, with his feet curled dangerously over the very edge of the cliff. He was ready to fly. He would fly to her. She heard the siren song of the mer-women who haunted the cove below. They called to him in longing and desire, hungry for his beauty, for his pale, dry flesh. Tamara listened. Their song must become her song.
Yes, jump! Fly! Fall, my beautiful god! And I will lead you before the eyes of the slumbering one. Its serpent breath will make of me a goddess, and its power shall be ours! Together, we shall unleash it upon the world!
Then the tenuous form of a dark-haired woman rose up to command her visionary perception. This interloper reached out towards Tamara’s golden chief upon the cliff-top.
Oh, such love, such grace. Will Seference herself come to claim him? No, not Seference. Another goddess. She is his. He knows her as his only female love. Who is she? Cannot see her face. I can only see yours, my sun king. The light of every beacon fire shines from your eyes.
Tamara sensed that the scent and power of the dark-haired woman hung all around him. He was intoxicated with her power. Tamara felt desperate. She had to find out who this female figure was. She had to see her face. But even as she strained her concentration, the images began to break up in the pool. Only the sound of bells remained. Tamara knew the bells belonged to the dark one; gentle chimes like those worn at the ankles of sacred dancers. As she stared at the pool, it regained its normal appearance of a hard and glassy surface, like a mirror. Tamara’s own entranced face stared back at her. She felt a pain begin somewhere behind her eyes.
Although all the other women had finished their scrying some minutes earlier, Meggie, out of politeness, waited for Tamara to return to normal consciousness at her own pace. Trance was not a thing to be interrupted. Tamara seemed to become aware that her sisters were all sitting staring at her. She was breathing heavily and her limbs were shaking. She glanced up at Meggie with quick eyes. For a moment, Meggie was unnerved. There was something in Tamara’s expression she didn’t like, some hint of excitement or truculence, that flared out of her eyes before she could smother it.
‘We shall return to the house to discuss our findings,’ Meggie said, still holding Tamara with her eyes. The younger woman lowered her lashes, and there was a faint smile on her face as she rose to her feet.
Tom Penhaligon had prepared tea and hot food as usual, but there was a tense air around the kitchen table that night. Meggie did not feel hungry, even though the scones before her were fresh from the oven, exuding tendrils of delicious scent. She realised she would very much have liked to down a jug of Tom’s cider rather than tea. What was wrong? Agatha fidgeted and kicked her chair; a sound which filled Meggie with irritation. Tamara’s cheeks were faintly flushed along the bone. She had the look of a woman who nursed a secret, who had recently come from the bed of an illicit lover.
The women discussed what they had seen within the pool. Most had picked up the names again, and had glimpsed an image of High Crag, which seemed to confirm Shemyaza would either be drawn or taken there.
Tamara listened to the discussion, but added no comments of her own. In fact, she could not have spoken if she’d wanted to. She knew she had been the only one to see the future in the pool. No-one else had seen the beautiful Shemyaza poised upon the edge of a cliff, his golden hair flying back in the claws of the wind, the waves thundering beneath him. No-one had picked up the image of a woman superimposed over Shemyaza, a woman of indescribable beauty and power; a goddess. If the goddess withdrew from the Fallen One and hovered out over the ocean, he would walk from the edge of the cliff to reach her. This was important information. Tamara relived the things she had seen and felt the stirrings of love, lust and a desire for power churn within her. As usual, the Pelleth were being too cautious. They talked of drawing Shemyaza to them once he reached Cornwall, and seemed oblivious of the fact that, if he was in the nest of the Grigori, their task might not be easy. Still, their plans were irrelevant now. Tamara knew that Barbelo would be waiting for her at home, to hear all about what had happened at the scrying pool. Then, they could begin to formulate their own plans.
Meggie was talking now of preparing certain ancient sites for the advent of the Shining One. ‘When he comes, he will awaken the serpent, and the sites must be primed to channel this power.’
‘Which sites?’ Tamara asked. They had many to choose from.
Meggie glanced at her sharply. ‘The Giant’s Bed, Ezekiel’s Mount and Serpent’s Bower at Enoch’s Hall.’
‘Why not the Mermaid’s Cove at High Crag?’ Tamara’s words conjured a stiff silence.
Meggie blinked at the woman. ‘As you know, High Crag is forbidden territory. It belongs to the Grigori, and the cove beneath it is no different.’
Tamara shrugged. ‘True. Which is perhaps why we should claim it for our own.’
Meggie smiled, but it was clear the smile did not come easily. ‘No.’ The word was final. Around the table, other members of the Conclave murmured agreement.
Tamara made a gesture. ‘It was just a thought.’ She took a sip of tea, feeling absolved. Her sisters had refused to listen to her ideas, but at least she’d made the suggestion.
After the Conclave had all gone home, Betsy and Meggie remained seated at the table. Tom came in and made them a fresh brew, before withdrawing discreetly to his parlour.
‘I am concerned about Tamara,’ Meggie said. She wanted her sister’s opinions.
‘Hot and fiery,’ Betsy conceded. ‘She has a thirst on her.’
‘A thirst for power. I can’t keep a rein on her.’
Betsy heaved her rounded shoulders in a shrug. ‘Time will wear the edges off. The young ones are excited by the Fallen One, and his frequency affects them all. They’ll be high-spirited nags for a while.’
Meggie smiled. ‘I’m almost sad such feelings no longer affect me.’
Betsy shook her head with a frown. ‘I’m not.’ She took a sip of tea.
Barbelo was waiting in Tamara’s cottage, as Tamara had expected. She was sitting at the kitchen table reading a magazine. Next to her hand lay a talisman carved from serpentine; a double-headed serpent coiled around a staff. Even before she took off her coat, Tamara felt drawn to pick it up. Energy thrummed up her arms and she dropped the talisman quickly.
Barbelo directed a swift glance at her. ‘You must learn to hold it, for you will use it shortly.’
Tamara rubbed her hands together. ‘What for?’
‘To overcome the guardians at Mermaid’s Cove.’
Tamara felt a chill course through her belly. She wondered whether Barbelo was already aware of the conversation that had taken place at Meggie’s house. A thread of unease wriggled through her, but she banished it firmly. ‘Why would I want to do that?’
Barbelo smiled up at her. ‘We must construct a thought-form there, which will attract the Shining One. A thought-form of a woman.’
You know! Tamara thought. You know everything already! ‘I hardly think it’s worth me telling you what happened tonight,’ she said, ‘seeing as you seem to be aware of everything I saw or said!’
Barbelo laughed. ‘Not everything,’ she replied.
‘Who is the woman I saw in the pool?’
‘Her name, I suspect, is Ishtahar,’ Barbelo answered. ‘Sit down, Tamara. You have much to learn this night.’
Chapter Five
Stone-Scrying
Emma stood in the doorway, looking, as ever like a ‘Forties film star. Her pose — elegant, one hand held up beside her chin holding a cigarette, her rolls of dark hair, her red lips. She could have been anything between thirty and forty years old. She was nearly one hundred and fifty — a Grigori dependent, once left to rot by mentors who abandoned her, now restored to vitality by Shemyaza.
br />
‘If you’re not going to do anything about yourself, at least do something about the boy,’ she said.
Shem was lazing on the sagging sofa, staring listlessly at the TV. If the set had possessed a remote control, Emma had no doubt he’d spend the entire day just flicking from channel to channel, absorbing nothing. She was beginning to feel out of her depth, what with trying to look out for the kids and keeping her senses alert for pursuit. She feared it greatly, having seen the shadowy figures who’d emerged onto the High Place back in Little Moor, just at the time she’d managed to drag Shemyaza away. Shem dismissed her anxieties. She had guessed he simply did not care what happened to him now.
‘Which boy?’ he asked her, without looking away from the screen.
‘You know very well which boy,’ Emma responded. She marched into the room and positioned herself before the TV, forcing Shem to look at her. She didn’t like what she saw in his face. He looked burned out. Perhaps she’d been mad to flee Little Moor with him. There were other Grigori here who could care for her needs now. Had the time come to free herself of him? She had a responsibility towards Lily and Owen, because she’d promised their mother she’d always take care of them, but this wreck? No. His apathy made her angry. It seemed so self-indulgent. ‘Owen,’ she said.
Shem looked away from her. ‘There’s nothing I can do.’
‘I don’t believe you. You made him like that, so I presume you can unmake him. You are the Great Shemyaza, after all.’
Shem shook his head, smiling. ‘You make me sound like a TV magician. I’m not anything, Emma.’ He picked up a magazine and began to leaf through it.
‘If you stopped feeling sorry for yourself, it might help,’ she suggested. ‘Have you been to see Owen?’
‘You know that I haven’t.’
‘Well, if you did, it might prick your conscience. He’s lost his mind. I have to bathe him, dress him, feed him. Sometimes, he soils himself. It’s disgusting. No-one should live like that. Don’t you care what it might be doing to Lily and Daniel?’
‘None of them are my responsibility,’ Shem answered. ‘Nothing you can say will change my mind. Peverel Othman damaged Owen, not me. I can barely remember it.’
Emma did not believe these words. ‘Well, let me remind you then. One Thursday night, Owen disappeared into his room with you, and didn’t wake up for twenty-four hours.’ She struck a pose. ‘Now, let me see, what happened next? Ah, you took him out to the woods with you on the Friday evening. He was like an automaton, drugged perhaps. For some reason, Owen felt compelled to rape his lover for you, whom you had considerately laid out for him in a similar drugged state. Of course, I may have been hallucinating, but I swear I saw demons that night, Shem, and an attempt at a ritual sacrifice. Now, I might be wrong, but I can’t help feeling the condition of those kids is your responsibility. Daniel escaped with his mind intact because he’s — well — Daniel. Lily’s attempting to blot the whole thing out of her memory and Owen is catatonic. Didn’t your goddess tell you to care for the children, Shem? Have you forgotten so quickly?’
Shemyaza had listened to her speech without reacting. Emma had hoped to provoke him, but appeared to have failed. ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t me. I told you that.’
‘You can’t go on like this,’ Emma said.
Shem shrugged. ‘I can’t be what you or Daniel want me to be. I wish you’d both leave me alone.’
Emma made an angry noise and stormed out of the room, to secrete herself in the shadowy kitchen areas in the basement, where she had made friends with whom she could drink tea and whisky all day. She liked the Grigori who lived in the Rooms, but felt unable to confide in any of them.
Left alone, Shem put his head on his knees and covered it with his arms. He wanted to weep but couldn’t. If he only had some release, his mind might clear, he could feel alive again. Neither Emma nor Daniel were aware of, or understood, his torment. In one cruel stroke, he had been given awareness, and although the memories of his life as Peverel Othman were diminished, those that remained were stark in his mind, like matt black figures on a white background. He couldn’t help Owen because he couldn’t bear to face the boy. Also, to reverse the process, he’d have to touch Owen, and Shemyaza felt incapable of touching anyone now. Emma had tried once or twice when they’d first arrived at the Rooms, turning up in his bedroom in the middle of the night, clothed only in perfume. She had practised her art upon his flesh, but it had been as if he were paralysed. The thought of sex conjured murky, flickering memories of dark rituals he had performed, debasement, torture, unspeakable defilement of spirit and flesh. Despite his claims of indifference, he could not disassociate himself from those events. Part of Owen lived inside him, because he had stolen it. Only by giving it back could Owen be restored, but Shem was physically incapable of achieving that at present. He had forgotten how to give.
He knew how badly Daniel wanted him to express his potential as Shemyaza, but it was more than obstinacy and resentment that made it impossible. He felt that it was a mistake; he couldn’t really be this thing of power. Shemyaza had been dead for thousands of years.
He exhaled, long and slowly, and lowered himself to the sofa, stretching out his limbs, seeking comfort from the yielding yet gritty cushions. He closed his eyes, and red and purple patterns pulsed across his mind: the interference of the TV screen, flickering unheeded in the corner of the room, or the colours of his own pain. His mind drifted, and thoughts swam across his consciousness like winged dreams. He descended into semi-trance states whenever he was left alone, and then it felt as if his life as he lived it now was simply a fantasy.
What right had the universe to plant the memories of that ancient, forgotten life and subsequent torturous death in his mind? He could no longer eat meat, because he could remember the smell of his own flesh burning. Sometimes, a poignant memory would assail his mind, such as now, when his imagination flew free. He would expect to open his eyes, not to the crumbling decay of the Moses Assembly Rooms, but his ancient home, with its cool, lofty chambers and swaying draperies, and the translucent pleats of incense on the air. At any moment, his old friend and conspirator, Salamiel, might walk into the room, put his head on one side and say, ‘Are you coming, then? She’s waiting for you.’ And there would be a message from Ishtahar in his hands: a single sheaf of corn bound with ribbon, a wilting flower picked from the corn-fields. Or perhaps dark-eyed Penemue, another of the rebel cabal, would come to his chamber and fling himself on the bed, saying, ‘Listen to this,’ and read out his poetry; shivering lines about Ishtahar and her sisters. They had held each other once, Shemyaza and Penemue, in the perfumed opulence of Shemyaza’s palace. They had nuzzled each other’s flesh and whispered of the delights of human women, igniting their own desire with expectation and the excitement of taking that which was forbidden. Penemue had been innocent, wanting only to share his words and the ability to shape them with his human friends. For that, his people had killed him. Not for humankind the art of writing; they must be kept as animals, uneducated. In prison, Shemyaza had been brought word of how Penemue’s lowland woman had been stabbed through the belly by a Serafim guard. It had, of course, killed the baby, but she had lived. They had done something worse to her afterwards, like taking her tongue or her eyes, but thankfully Shem had forgotten the details. His own Ishtahar had suffered, and legends spoke of how her tears of grief had caused the Great Flood, but his people and hers had realised she was special. They had not maimed her.
Memories of his past life flooded his mind now, but they were intrusions. He did not want to own them, and pushed them away, fighting off the dream-state that seemed to want to enfold him with bittersweet recollections. He must stay conscious and refuse the past admission into his life.
With a cry of frustrated pain, Shemyaza sat up on the sofa, blinked at the TV ahead of him. Peverel Othman had been demonic in his obsessions, but he had never experienced doubt or regret. Shem yearned for that strength of indifference no
w.
Shem knew, in his heart, that Emma was probably right and that someone was looking for him. It was inevitable, because the Parzupheim were greedy for Shemyaza’s power, or what they believed it to be. Only by refusing to accept what he had become could he hope to hide from them. It was impossible to conceal himself physically from Grigori adepts, he knew that, but if they came to believe they were wrong about him, they might leave him alone. He realised this was probably a futile hope, but if anyone was in danger, it was only himself. The Parzupheim wouldn’t be interested in Emma or the others; they were insignificant.
Let them take me, he thought, raw with unshed tears. Let them destroy my body, break it and burn it. I owe them nothing. I will not be their scapegoat again and I will not ‘ be’ for them.
Lily Winter liked living in the Moses Assembly Rooms. The other occupants, who seemed to fill Daniel with apprehension and Emma with scorn, attracted her. At one time, the Rooms had been a gathering place of Grigori adepts, and perhaps strange rituals had taken place there. Certainly the multitude of bedrooms suggested that many people used to stay there; the servants’ quarters alone were huge. Since its hey-day in the Victorian age, it had declined and was now nothing more than a kind of hotel for Grigori who felt estranged from their people. Lily loved its fading grandeur and was fascinated by its eccentric inhabitants, who seemed to have nothing to do other than live out their own fantasies. Its caretaker — or perhaps owner, for the details were unclear — was lean Naomi, and it was from her that Lily had learned the Rooms’ history. Naomi had a twisted leg and a stooped body, as if she’d suffered some terrible accident years before. This alone was unusual, because Lily had already learned that Grigori could heal their bodies far more efficiently than humans could. It was impossible to guess Naomi’s age. She painted strange, ancient patterns on delicate silk, with which she adorned her body and the crumbling walls of her room. Lily spent a lot of time with Naomi who like to be read aloud to as she worked on her patterns. Her taste in literature was eclectic: sometimes she wanted to hear humorous fantasy tales, othertimes heavy, depressing modern novels, written by women who seemed to have been punished by life.