The aisle opened out into a circular space, ringed by workbenches. In the centre of the circle, a drain was set into the floor. Above it stood a sinister rubber topped gurney, with leather straps dangling from its sides. Looking at it, Lily felt sick. What would she hear and smell if she should touch the ancient rubber, the cracked leather? The urge to do so was great, so Lily hurried quickly through this area, keeping her eyes ahead.
It took ten minutes to cross the laboratory. Some of the things Lily saw fascinated her and drew her attention, others repulsed her and filled her with nausea. Good feelings came from the intricate models of inexplicable mechanisms, which she handled without fear, alert for the indistinct sounds that accompanied her contact with the objects. But there were other things, such as the snaking tubes of glass and rubber, the ranks of bottles filled with ancient, murky liquids, that she would not touch.
On one table stood an array of exquisitely fashioned, tiny glass bottles, filled with luminous liquids: blue, green pink. Lily thought they looked like perfume bottles, and picked one of them up to sniff the contents. But when she removed the cork stopper, a fierce, sour stench puffed out that made her cry out. Sweat burst from the pores of her back and shoulders. She heard a terrible scream, as of an infant in great pain. Disgusted, Lily threw the little bottle onto the floor, where it smashed, releasing a series of heart-rending whimpers. What had happened here? In her heart, she knew. The experiments the Murkasters had conducted on their human servants had been to do with reproduction, the creation of hybrids, and the study of these processes. She could feel their dispassion. They had not been cruel, but unable to look upon humans as anything but inferior to themselves. Sickened, Lily ran the short distance left to reach the far side of the room. She wanted to cry, filled with a enervating despair. Raven came after her, touched her shoulder with his reassuring paw-hand. Lily reached up to stroke it, grateful for his presence. ‘Were they bad people?’ she asked him. ‘Are all Grigori like them?’ Raven was not purring now.
They came to a wide doorway, which gave access to a flight of broad stone steps, leading downwards. Lily was unhappy with having to go further underground. How much farther down had the Murkasters tunnelled to hide their workrooms? However, Raven was already descending the steps, making it clear that this was the direction Lily had to go. She was not sorry to leave the laboratory behind, although she was aware she might have to cross it again to leave the house. This was not a cheering thought. She decided that instead she must direct her attention towards what lay ahead.
The walls on either side of the steps were threaded with thin veins of light, which provided weak illumination. Lily wondered where the light came from. When she touched the walls, they did not feel warm. The air smelled earthy, with a hint of stagnant pond water. Soon, Lily thought she could hear a faint echo of running water and the steps became damp beneath her feet, slippery with slime. The walls too were streaked with oily, fungal growths, channelled with thin streams of water. Lily was sure she must be passing deep beneath the lake in Long Eden’s grounds, although she had lost her sense of direction since descending the first flight of stairs to the workroom. The atmosphere had become very oppressive, and Lily was aware of a great weight pressing down upon her. She heard a low, booming sound and couldn’t dispel the image of the ceiling suddenly opening up above her, and water crashing down to drown and break her body. A seed of terror opened up within her. She wanted to turn back, run through the hideous laboratory, fly up the long flight of steps, scurry through the listening house of ghosts, find the sunlight. But she could not stop walking.
Gradually, the steps became shallower, until they levelled out into a wide tunnel. Here, the walls were still plastered, although the plaster was distinctly leprous, parts of it having fallen away in chunks. Lily could see that at one time the walls had been covered in paintings similar in design to the carved panels she had seen in the house, but twenty years of neglect had taken their toll, and now little remained intact. Lights were set into the ceiling in glass globes, but they didn’t look as if they were powered by electricity, being too similar to daylight, yet somehow flickering like the flames of candles. There were no longer veins of light in the walls, but that might be because they had been damaged by the damp.
The sound of water was much louder now — a muted roar — and within this sound Lily thought she could hear the echoes of cries that might have been human or the screams of birds.
Ahead of Lily, Raven ducked down beneath the lintel of an open doorway and disappeared. Lily disliked his habit of vanishing without waiting for her, but was still nervous of being alone and hurried to catch him up. She emerged into a round antechamber, which had a high, domed roof. The light was greener here. Raven had positioned himself in the centre of the room, and stood once more with folded arms, as if waiting for Lily to make her investigations of the surroundings. Around the edge of the chamber were seven columns of a soapy looking green stone, and to the left a great closed door. Opposite the entrance, another tunnel led out of the chamber.
Lily went up to one of the columns and touched it. As she did so, the stone resonated with a musical note. Hastily, she withdrew her hand and the sound ceased abruptly. ‘It’s like the things in the workroom,’ Lily said to the silent Raven. ‘When I touch something, a sound comes.’ She went to another column and put her hand against the stone. This column also resonated a note, but at a different frequency. It sounded as if it came from a musical instrument, but Lily could not think what kind. She dared to keep her hand upon the column for a minute or so, and closed her eyes. In her mind, she saw seven shadowy figures, wearing long, fringed robes like Raven’s, coming into the chamber. They were tall people, Grigori: three women and four men. Each member of the group approached a separate column and embraced it. To Lily it seemed as if they were in some way connecting with the columns and absorbing their distinct tones. She was sure that one of the group was Kashday. She opened her eyes and withdrew her hand. What was the purpose of this room? She was convinced Raven could tell her, but knew that interrogating him was pointless. For whatever reason, he was refusing to communicate with her in her own language. She eyed the cat-man speculatively. Had he always been here in Little Moor? Why had he appeared at Low Mede, and more importantly, was Verity aware of what kind of creature he was? Somehow, Lily doubted that. Verity was ordinary, a mortal woman, whereas Lily was half Grigori. Raven had revealed himself to her because she was different. I am becoming part of something, Lily thought. Yes, it is becoming easier now to accept what I am. I am not afraid of it. She held out her arms and threw back her head, spoke aloud to the sentinel columns. ‘Show me. Show me everything.’ Raven uttered a chirruping sound, which Lily took as approbation. She walked around the chamber, touching each column to conjure their notes. By keeping one hand on the column behind her, and reaching forward to the next, she could create a chord. The sounds were beautiful; she wished she could activate them all at once. What would happen then? Something she could not even imagine. When she reached the door on the left of the chamber, she saw that its central panel bore a carving of a cat-man, like Raven. Perhaps it even was Raven. Lily tried to open the door, but Raven uttered an admonishing or warning growl. A flash of light burst before Lily’s eyes. In her mind, she saw the door fly open, and knew that the stairway behind it led up to the temple she had dreamed about, on the island in the lake. She also knew she must not go up there. It wasn’t dangerous, but neither was it her destination. She stepped back from it, her fingers tingling. Raven uttered a soft, mewing sound and Lily went up to him. She felt compelled to put her arms around him and stood for a moment with her head resting just above his belly. She could hear the noises his body was making, ordinary sounds of digestion. How could such an unbelievable creature be alive and breathing, his body behaving in same ways as her own? Surely, he could only be a phantom or a visualised thought, yet he felt so real. Raven put his hands upon her head and lifted her face to look into her eyes. What was he thinking?
Lily wondered. After only a moment, he gently disengaged himself from her arms and gestured for her to follow him into the tunnel on the other side of the chamber. For a moment, Lily hesitated. Despite her earlier feelings of belonging, she felt suddenly that something hideous was waiting for her up ahead. Raven seemed to sense her misgivings and uttered soft meows of encouragement. I am with you. I will protect you. Reluctantly, Lily followed him.
The corridor beyond was not as well lit, and Lily stumbled as she jogged behind Raven. He appeared to be hurrying now, as if something important was waiting for their arrival. The floor began to slope upwards, the stone no longer damp beneath their feet. Raven continually increased his pace, until Lily was forced to run if she wanted to keep him in sight. The floor slanted so steeply, her legs began to ache. She cried out, ‘Wait!’ but Raven ignored her. Just as Lily decided she’d have to sit down and get her breath back, whether Raven waited for her or not, the tunnel opened out into another chamber. Lily stopped dead at the threshold, breathing hard, her hands braced upon her knees. Her whole body was soaked in sweat, yet she felt cold. There was a heavy pressure in the atmosphere, which leadened her limbs. After a few moments, Lily raised her head, bracing herself for whatever she’d have to face. She recognised the chamber immediately.
This is it, the end of my journey. I’m here now. Something will happen.
The ceiling was high and domed, shaped like a beehive. There was little light, and although Lily could see that the walls were painted with looming figures, she could not make out the details. The rough marble floor was deeply grooved with concentric rings, each of which were at least three inches across. Lily thought a person could easily trip crossing the floor, if they didn’t tread carefully. In the centre of the chamber was a wide pit, ringed with rough hewn ornamental stones, about six inches in diameter. Interspersed at regular intervals between the stones were seven pedestals, each supporting a huddled, shapeless form, wrapped in ancient grey and brown rags. They looked like petrified mummies, all facing the centre of the pit, as if whatever had once burned there had frozen them in time. Lily could see it now, pulsing in the middle of the pit, a seed of light, a burning, icy-blue glow.
I have been here before...
Lily remembered the time when Peverel Othman had made love to her at the High Place, and her visualised journey beneath the ground the wake the sacred flame. She had come to this place then: the hidden sanctuary of the Murkaster’s power source. Here, her father and his family had once enacted their secret rituals and the flame had burned high. Lily straightened up and stepped across the first ring on the floor. She kept her eyes fixed warily on the ragged shapes standing on the pedestals, but they appeared to be dead, or perhaps only half-crumbled statues wrapped in cloth. The figures were hideous, yet somehow fascinating. Lily felt a pull of repugnance start up in her belly as she looked at them, but was drawn to approach them. Carefully, she stepped over the grooves in the floor until she was close enough to touch the hunched figure that stood on the nearest pedestal. It emanated an acrid, powdery, dusty smell. With a trembling hand, Lily reached out and stroked the rotting cloth. Fragments of fibre came away beneath her fingers. ‘They are mummies,’ she said to herself, and shuddered, rubbing her hand on the front of her dress.
Raven had taken up a position opposite to Lily, on the other side of the fire-pit. His arms were folded. ‘They are guardians, like myself,’ he said.
Lily looked up at him and smiled in relief. ‘Ah, so now you can speak again!’
‘You must wait now,’ Raven said.
‘For what? Will you tell me why I’m here, or what’s going to happen?’
‘She will come,’ Raven answered shortly.
‘She,’ said Lily.
Raven sat down, cross-legged, outside the ring of stones surrounding the fire-pit. Lily did likewise. It seemed as if a faint thread of incense perfume was creeping into the room, gradually extinguishing the smells of rot and age. A ritual was about to begin. Lily closed her eyes and presently, began to dream.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Ishtahar
I am the daughter of Hebob, the farmer, who is held in esteem by the Shining Ones, the Lords who live in the High Place, beyond the lower plains. My father has spreading lands, here below the mountains. The Shining Ones came here in the time of my grandmother’s mother. Before this time, it is said we were like animals. Now we are more like them, the Tall Ones, the Anannage. They are very beautiful, but we see them rarely. Where they came from, nobody knows, but they have given us the knowledge of the mystery they call their Source, which is beyond the light of the stars. Perhaps the Anannage came down from this unfathomable place themselves, or perhaps they were once like us, smaller people, who changed. Only the male elders of the village know the answer to this. The Anannage tell us we will change, and one day our children will spread throughout the world, like they have, taking knowledge with them.
I am the Oracle of my people, the gate to the starry firmament. Without women of my kind, the knowledge and science that the Anannage teach us cannot be practised.
I am sacred.
Our temple has a tier of sloping roofs, and stands in the centre of a sea of corn, approached by four radial paths. The people of the lower plains come to it at sunset, when the swelling harvest moon hangs her belly in the sky, red as the blood of birthing. Tomorrow is the day of harvest and now I am priestess of the festival, giving sacrifice before the cutting. Here, in the temple, my sisters have helped me to feed the perpetual flame, and now it burns high, a blue blade of light. Usually, it is small, but it is never extinguished. The men sit around me in a circle as I enter the flame. They are farmers and astronomer-priests, my father among them. At this time of year, my people need guidance on how to align the position of the harvested crops with the right constellations . It is of great importance.
My sisters fan me with sweet incense, their low, lovely voices taking me deep into the sacred trance. Through me, the Renowned Old Ones, ancestors of the Anannage, will speak. I channel their wisdom to the men, yet the meaning of the words I speak is hidden from me. I am the fount of all knowledge. My womb is the all-seeing Eye. I am the stargate, whose mind can pass without challenge through the portal of the stellar veils. Without me, there can be no commerce with the ancestors, yet the men will not share their knowledge with me, or my sisters. It is forbidden.
The flame burns higher, excited by the voices of my sisters, their supple genuflexions. Their ankles are braceleted with bells, which utter sacred music. Their long hair sways like unravelled linen, their faces veiled to prevent their breath polluting the flame. I feel the stars descend upon me, their white fire in my skin, their empyreal voices in my head, behind my eyes. It comes to me, this cold, white feast of knowledge, yet I am only the taster, who must pass the plate on to the men who wait to feed. Why am I denied? I know I have the power to go further than my elders would allow. I can feel their sacred staffs pointed towards the flame, pointing towards me, and it feels like the weight of chains. Why can my spirit not fly free and move through the sacred spheres of knowledge without the commandments of men? I would bestow my power to all my sisters, and become queen of my people. The men can feel this. This is why I am denied. They fear me for they know nothing of the power of being female, generator of life and channeller of wisdom. They fear all women. Yes. It is this.
My spirit enters the gate in the constellation of Orion. The Renowned Old Ones approach me: I can sense their flaming presence, yet cannot see them with my eyes of flesh.
My lips move around sounds that have no meaning to me. The men say, ‘She speaks in tongues’ and they pour sand upon the floor in precise patterns to record my words. Later, they will argue over the symbols and signs, until they are sure they know their secrets. The secrets will not be revealed to me.
Before me: this beautiful being whom I cannot understand. Neither man or woman, there is no distinction in their kind. All I feel is the resonance of the tonal sounds they gene
rate and their invisible hands upon my brow, igniting the fibres of my soul. And the words come, passing into the world and the ears of men.
I beseech the ancestors: ‘Reveal to me the sacred names, for I would use them well. Give me the knowledge that men covet. Am I not worthy? Do you not look upon me with love and give me the touch of your holy hands?’
But still the words that tumble from my mouth are meaningless to me. If I try hard enough will the forms of the words change in my head, become real? No. I have tried. I always try.
The Renowned Old Ones draw away from me, and it is time to retreat from the stargate. I feel the pull in my skin, dragging my soul back into the temple. And yet, as my spirit travels, I sense an unseen Presence: something different. It seems to me as if a voice is speaking, and at last, the words have meaning: ‘You will gather the harvest of knowledge through your own power, the power that you have yet to discover, a power I have yet to use.’ The voice is male, and rings like a clarion across the heavens, yet whispers as soft as the feet of a mouse running over the grain. Now, I fly across the rippling fields of corn, and my spirit’s eye can see the roofs of the temple, ruddy in the harvest light. A perfume rises from the corn, the smell of ozone, a salty, male scent. And on the horizon, rising from the jagged mountains of Heaven, the dwelling place of the Shining Ones. A yearning presence envelops me.
I rise from my trance and my sisters hold out their hands, with their henna-red palms, to lead me from the flame. Already the men have dismissed me from their attention and apply themselves to debate, arguing over the patterns in the sand. I want to spit upon their symbols, muddle the pictograms with my hands so they cannot read them. The Presence is still with me: I can feel it all around. Something is coming.
Brushing aside my sisters, I am drawn out into the immensity of the spreading fields. Here, I am so small, it is a marvel. The grain sways for as far as I can see, and in the eastern distance the mountains are dark and secret against the sequins of the stars. It is as if the mountains are hanging above the earth, not part of it at all. The smell of the sky is overpowering out here. The earth god holds sway across the fields. I walk into the corn, and it caresses my body as I glide along the narrow path towards the mountains.