How dare they deny me! Within the words I give to them are the answers to the greatest questions: where we come from and what we are. The men are too stupid to see this, yet they are unwilling to question their gods, the Anannage, on these mysteries. Instead, they use me, unaware that I have the potential to be greater than them. Fools!
I throw back my head to the sky and scream in silence, Give me the answers!
Then, as I lower my eyes, they rest once again upon the mountains, the High Place. Women are forbidden to go there, too. I have never gazed upon one of the Anannage at close quarters. On the rare occasions they come to us, I have been shut inside the house with the other women. We looked through the slats across the windows and saw their tall shapes, but that was all. Now, as I walk this path, I defy the elders and begin to sing the forbidden tones of the Renowned Old Ones. My song is my greatest gift, and I sing it from my soul. I sing it to him whose presence is with me, and whose body is coming to me. As my song reaches its highest pitch, the tones rising through the sacred scale, a blinding light fills my mind and a powerful love fills my heart. He is coming to meet me, he is coming from the High Place, and when he arrives...? Oh, by all the names of all the gods, sacred and profane, I feel his soul: already it passes through mine like a veil of incense smoke, like a shower of rain at dawn. It shouts to me. May the Great Lady give me strength to bear his beauty and his power!
There. I see him upon the path, tall and pale, his robes swinging about him. He has heard my soul-song calling to him, I know this. As he draws closer, I can see that he wears a feathered cloak which hangs about him like wings. They are vulture feathers: black as night. Beneath the cloak, his robe, as I first thought, is white, belted with gold. Nearer. I can see his feathered head-dress, the plumes nodding against the night sky. He is so tall. Am I afraid? He wears the bones of a snake, wound around and around his long neck, the brittle, ivory head of the serpent gripping in its jaws the bony links of its tail. The symbol stitched in gold upon his breast is that of the Watchers. I have seen that seal before, and heard men mutter about it. They watch over us and take words of our activities back to the mountains. Usually, they hide themselves in clouds. But there are no clouds to conceal the one who comes to me now. He is a Watcher, high-ranking among his kind. Nearer. His face. I can see his face. What is it that I see? He is a serpent man, a feathered serpent, yet how lovely to behold. His eyes are like the eyes of a viper, filled with an ancient wisdom. My knees are weak, but I must not stumble. I must walk, walk towards him. He is looking up at the sky now, towards Orion. How bright the constellations shine this night, brighter than ever before. When he speaks, his voice will be familiar, yet we have never met. The smell coming from his body is the salt smell of the sky after a storm; it is so strong now, the essence of manhood.
Here: we meet. In the mid-path between the High and the Low. He looks down at me from his great height, and it is as if he is afraid. A flame of golden light burns around his body. Does it burn with desire? I have called him, and his body heard me.
‘Are you my god in Heaven?’ I ask him.
He holds out his hands to me and I take them in my own. ‘I can be, if you want me to be,’ he says, and there is a smile on his face. His hair falls from beneath the plumes on his head like a cascade of flowing white feathers. His eyes, even in the dusk, are the deepest blue.
In contrast to him, I am female power, the residue of Orion’s energy hangs about my body like a veil. He recognises this. I know it. He knows my function. Is this real? Am I still in trance? I want this man and the things that he might teach me. He enfolds me in his cloak, wings wrapped about my body. Pressed against him, I can hear his beating heart, feel the hardness in his loins.
I say to him, ‘If you are my heavenly god, tell me the hidden names, tell me what the men of the temple refuse to tell me.’
He takes my head between his long hands and looks into my face. ‘You have a need,’ he says, ‘as do I, to experience that which is forbidden to you. If you, my lady, give me the power of the earth and all the fire within her, I will do anything you ask of me. My Heaven is cold, my wings have grown tired of traversing the astral spheres and constellations, and my heart grows sick of the commandments from my brethren. The smell of the earth is ripe around you. The fruit of your body I long to taste. Seek not the stars for me, Ishtahar, oracle of Hebob. Lay open for me the depths of the earth, and the richness of her power. Please do not deny me the knowledge of this pleasure.’
There is knowledge, then, that the Anannage deny their own.
He lifts me in his arms and puts his mouth against my own. My hands steal beneath his eburneous mane. I press my wrists against the heat of his neck. His skin is smooth, like marble. He carries me into the corn and lays me down there. In the stillness of the night, I can hear the soft voices of my sisters in the temple, and the sound of it makes me aware of my flesh, my existence in the world. The air is cool now, like an urgent hand shaking the sleeper to wakefulness. The Shining One blots out the stars above me and I feel a fear rise up within my breast, like a serpent arranging itself to strike. He feels it too. As I start away from him, he leans down and grips my hand. ‘No, do not be afraid of me. For this act, you will be venerated as the highest goddess forevermore.’
I have been told the serpents are sacred. To lie with this serpent man must be a holy act. Our love has been waiting, like a star ready to fall. It is inexorable.
I take him in my arms and he breathes in my ear the first of the forbidden words. His name: Shemyaza.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Barbara Eager was overseeing operations at The White House. To a casual observer, it might have appeared that she was no different than she’d ever been, but Mrs Moon knew otherwise. Whispers had been circulating around the village all day, a condensation of rumours that had flown for a couple of weeks now. The Grigori were back. Like Eva Manden, Mrs Moon had a parent who had once been a Grigori dependant and, also like Eva, she welcomed their return with mixed feelings. Still, there was little anyone could do about the situation. If they’d come back, they’d come back, and that was that. The Eager woman was charmed, all right. You could see it on her like a dark glow. She was hysterical, but managed to hide it.
Peverel Othman made an appearance at six o’clock, just as a couple of the Perks boys were seeing to the barbecue in the garden. A few people had already begun to arrive, mostly oldsters, although a couple of new families were present, who had brought their children with them. Mrs Moon, watching from the kitchen window at the back of the pub, shook her head at that, and pursed her lips. Fodder! she thought, but it was not her place to judge.
Othman went up to Barbara, who was supervising the placement of bread rolls on a trestle table, which was covered with a glowing white cloth.
‘Is everything ready?’ he asked.
Barbara jumped at the sound of his voice, then turned to him with a smile. ‘Yes, Pev. Everything.’
He touched her face. ‘Good.’
‘Is Louis coming?’ Barbara asked.
‘Later,’ Othman replied. ‘We shall all be down later.’
‘What are you doing?’ Barbara’s eyes became momentarily alert.
Othman smiled at her gently. ‘A ceremony at the High Place. Don’t worry. Soon, all shall be as it was before.’
Before when? Barbara couldn’t help thinking, but the thought was quickly smothered. Misgivings had been tugging at her heart all day, indistinct fears and doubts, yet her body felt exuberant and sleek, more beautiful than it had felt for years. Barbara could sense youth creeping back into her bones and flesh. Whatever she had involved herself in, it had been a voluntary act. She must accept the consequences.
All the oldsters present were watching Peverel Othman with greedy, inquisitive eyes. He acknowledged each of them with eye contact, knowing that to risk more would prove to be a waste of his energy. Just the slightest touch could set them off, sucking and starving at his soul.
Emma Manden appea
red at the edge of the garden, dressed in a long, man’s raincoat, her abundant hair curled forties’ style around her shoulders, her lips a bruised smudge in the artificial light. Othman noticed her and thought that she looked as if she was getting ready to leave the place. Her attire spoke to him of stations and partings. She was obviously playing another role from her memory.
‘Emma!’ He summoned her.
She marched over to him briskly. ‘Well, everyone’s here! So what happens now?’
Othman led Emma aside. ‘In a few minutes, I shall leave for the High Place. I’ll be back in an hour or so.’
‘Can’t I come with you?’ Emma’s eyes were defiant.
Othman hesitated, then touched Emma’s arm. ‘My dear, this is a man’s ritual. I’m sorry. I wish you could be present, but it is impossible.’
‘I see.’ Emma narrowed her eyes. He is a little afraid of me, she thought. He was not as confident as he should be, appearing too nervy and jumpy.
‘It’s up to you to keep everyone happy here, Emma,’ Othman said. ‘I’m relying on you.’
Emma shuddered involuntarily. In an hour Daniel Cranton would be dead. She chided herself for feeling uneasy about it. In the past, she’d been aware of human deaths in Long Eden. Was this one so different?
‘Where is Lily?’ Othman asked her.
Emma shrugged. ‘I don’t know. ‘She wasn’t at the cottage when I left. I think she’s hiding. It’s frightening her, all this.’
‘She’s just jealous,’ Othman said, with a smile. ‘She wanted to be the one to empower the flame.’
And Emma thought, how can you be so wrong? She felt no fear for Lily, and had not even bothered to search for her. Othman clearly considered her unimportant to the proceedings, intent as he was on his ‘man’s ritual’. There was a tiny seed of feeling within Emma whispering that Lily might spring some surprises of her own. Emma did not question this. She only thought of their brief conversations concerning the key to Long Eden, and harboured a cautious hope. She realised then that she had faith in Lily. ‘Owen is ready,’ she said. ‘I’ve dressed him and put him in the kitchen.’
‘Thank you,’ Othman replied.
Emma watched him leave the garden of The White House, thinking, He’s not as clever as he believes himself to be.
Othman prowled the lanes of Little Moor, dragging his intentions behind him like smoke. The air was like needles against his skin, invisible pricks of light. He sensed a wave about to crest, a veil about to tear. Soon. Like Emma, he shuddered, half in anticipation, half in dread. He could not go back on his decision.
Ray Perks was lurking on the lawn of the Winter cottage, his two cronies, Bobby and Luke skulking behind him. Othman presumed Emma had directed them to be present. Although he had not thought of this, he saw the sense of it. They were Owen’s minions and protectors, always had been. This was their hour too, and later, if Owen was wise, he would reward them for their dumb loyalty.
Inside the cottage, Owen sat at the kitchen table, staring into space. He was dressed in loose white trousers and shirt — presumably, a hasty costume Emma or Lily had put together. Owen’s hair was a shocking aureole of light around his head and shoulders. He appeared blind, or mindless. Othman did not bother to address any remarks to Owen, but simply raised him by the arm and led him into the garden. Here, Othman directed Ray and the others to take Owen to the High Place. He would meet them there shortly.
For a few minutes, he sat upon the lawn in the cottage garden, composing his thoughts, condensing his strength. The sky shivered with dark colours, the stars were tiny shrieks of radiance, each proclaiming a legend, a history, a tragedy. The constellation of Orion hung like an omen high in the sky. Othman could feel them all converging on the High Place: Owen and his acolytes, Louis with his sacrificial son. Tonight, the veils between the worlds were thin. He would tear them open, blast them apart, clear the astral rags that blocked his way to the gateway. When it finally opened, understanding would come to him. He felt nervous, exhilarated, as if held in the throes of a great and powerful love.
As he walked down the lane towards Herman’s Wood, Peverel Othman’s thoughts were entirely on the ritual to come. He did not notice, nor could perceive, the liquid shadow that followed him. No unearthly predators, but Emma Manden, acute and aware, covering her own back, intent on seeing with her own eyes what would happen at the High Place.
As Othman clambered up through the bracken, figures were silhouetted against the orange-purple sky at the summit of the hill. All stood motionless, as if unable to move or act until he arrived. The sky, the earth, the air, were full of a vast imminence, the event waiting to happen. Othman felt breathless; hysteria scratched at his control. His fingers tingled, his belly churned with acid, his eyes ached. He felt like a vessel waiting to be filled, or a filled vessel waiting to be uncorked, to issue froth and foam in ferocious spurts. All eyes turned towards him as he crested the hill. Earlier in the day, he had visited the High Place to make certain preparations for the night. An unlit bonfire stood ready in the centre of the circle. This he intended to be the gateway to the flame below. Owen stood before the cone of branches and moss, his eyes downcast. Perks and his two companions were stationed around the edge of the circle, while Louis Cranton stood just outside, opposite Othman on the brow of the hill, his hands upon Daniel’s shoulders, who stood before him. Daniel, dosed with haoma, did not appear tranced like Owen, but aware and serene. It was almost, Othman thought, as if he knew what fate awaited him and accepted it. That, of course, could not be possible.
While the others waited in silence, Othman lit the bonfire. It did not crackle up greedily, despite the dryness of the tinder, but snapped and fizzed in a sullen manner, a dark red glow forming at its heart. All was as it should be.
Othman raised his arms, causing Owen to lift his head languidly. There seemed no recognition in his eyes, just stupefaction.
‘Tonight,’ Othman said, ‘we meet to reawaken the flame below. The power shall rise, and the gateway open.’ He lowered his arms. ‘Louis, bring forth the lamb.’
Hesitantly, Louis pushed Daniel before him into the circle. The dull ruby light of the fire did not seem to touch the boy. He was the lamb to the slaughter, pure, beautiful, burning with his own white light. Othman experienced a twinge which was almost regret; all that potential soon to be quenched, extinguished, gutted. He allowed himself to bask in the ray of pure love for Daniel which speared his being. Then he turned away to face the dark of the forest below, to invoke the elements.
In the eastern quarter, the direction of air, a wind started up as Othman chanted the invocation. It stirred the high branches of the trees, caused the bonfire to grow momentarily brighter. In the north, the direction of earth, Othman’s words conjured movement from the leaf mould at his feet, and the phallus of the green-wood thrust forth from the ground. In the south, for water, rain began to fall, but only on that side of the circle. In the west, as Othman conjured fire, earthlights flickered among the debris of the forest floor, and the bonfire in the centre flared up in great tongues of flame. It had begun.
Below the High Place, numb in the temple chamber, Lily opened her eyes. At first, she felt disorientated, unsure of her surroundings, still lost in the scrolls of history, reliving an ancient story of love. Ishtahar. She stood up. The air was warmer now, the incense perfume pervaded by the smells of corn and ozone. Across the fire-pit, Raven also got to his feet. Lily began to cry. Her heart was filled with grief, a great sense of loss. She ached for the arms of the Shining One. Shemyaza and Ishtahar’s story had ended in death and tragedy. All that was left was the memory of their great love, and the peoples who had come after them. Grigori. Lily herself.
Blinking, Lily stared into the perpetual flame. What use was this knowledge to her? She knew now that her mother and Kashday Murkaster had in some way seen themselves as reflections, or avatars, of Ishtahar and Shemyaza. Helen had tried to reopen the stargate which the Renowned Old Ones had closed after Shemyaz
a and his brethren committed transgressions with human women, turning away from the power of the stars and seeking the female power of the earth. Helen had failed. The flame here burned weakly, Lily understood that now. She held out her hand to it, willing it to reawaken. She felt that if the flame could fill her being it would burn away her grief.
Suddenly, without warning of any kind, the flame made a brief fizzing noise and then roared up towards the ceiling of the chamber in a buzzing blue-white column. Lily yelped in surprise, and cowered away, covering her head with her arms. Across from her, Raven uttered a panicked snarl and dropped to all fours, his ears back. The chamber was filled with a sound like electricity crackling. Lily looked up and saw the flame spattering across the ceiling. It is awake. Did I wake it?
Something creaked and rustled beside her. Lily shuffled backwards, her feet stumbling in the grooves on the stone floor. Around her, on their pedestals, the ancient guardians of the flame began to stir. As they stretched their desiccated forms, powder crumbled from between the cloths around their bodies. Withered limbs creaked, ruined throats strove to make sound. Lily covered her ears with her hands for she could not bear the dreadful squeaky whisperings. Something was happening above her; she could sense it. She wanted to flee the chamber, but also felt compelled to remain, even though she was afraid. Raven slunk around the circle and stationed himself behind her. She was grateful for his presence, his protection. Glancing up, she saw the domed ceiling of the chamber was laced with cracks. As the blue flame beat against it, chunks of plaster and stone began to crumble away, dropping to the floor where they exploded in clouds of dust. The flame was trying to break free into the world. I have done this, Lily thought.