Shaman of Stonewylde (31 page)

The talk was ribald, as it so often was at the Moon Fullness, and most of the lads were now drinking up ready to go for a stroll around the Village Green with a likely girl. The girls themselves were in huddle in the Great Barn, shrieking and giggling as they discussed the boys. They all could have stayed up at the Hall, and often did for the winter months when it was too cold for dalliances outside. But this very warm weather made the Village Green and surrounding woods, fields and haylofts a much more attractive option.

‘Are you coming then, Kes?’ asked Lapwing, a good-looking lad who’d recently turned sixteen. He had laughing blue eyes and a nice smile, and this, combined with his long legs and prowess at sport, made him popular with the girls.

Kes regarded him moodily and downed his tankard of cider to the dregs, banging it down on the table. He let out a loud belch and stood up. Lapwing and a few others headed for the door. Old George watched them fondly, reminiscing to the group of
old
men playing dice that they reminded him of his younger self, all that moonlust and laughter.

The wide wooden door stood open to the night and the lads ducked under the low lintel. But Kestrel hesitated and then turned back towards the table.

‘Kes!’ called Lapwing from outside. ‘Aren’t you coming?’

‘No,’ he muttered, ‘I can’t be bothered.’

He got another tankard of cider and sat down again, staring at nothing, his shoulders drooping. Jay and Sweyn appeared in the doorway and were surprised to see their mate there. Soon all three were sitting together drowning their sorrows.

‘I can’t stop thinking about her,’ said Kestrel. ‘I wonder what she’s doing right now? Do you reckon she’s thinking of me?’

‘I doubt it,’ said Jay gloomily. ‘Why would she be? Living up in London with all them smart people and paintings and stuff. Why would she be thinking of you?’

‘I heard they’re coming to do a fashion photoshoot maybe,’ said Kestrel. ‘My dad was talking about it. She’s bound to be with them, isn’t she?’

Sweyn shrugged and drank steadily from his tankard. The Moon Fullness was one of the times when Old George turned a bit of a blind eye to drunkenness, and didn’t chuck the younger ones out so early. Sweyn just wanted to forget everything. His recent encounter with Leveret had shaken him more than he admitted; she’d changed so much and he no longer felt he had the upper hand. He hated her more than ever, but could see no way of regaining his superiority over her. The lump on his head throbbed and he thought of what she’d said about getting it looked at. Much as he disliked the thought of taking her advice, he realised that perhaps he should.

‘Where’s Gefrin tonight?’ asked Jay.

Sweyn shrugged again.

‘He’s up at the Hall watching a film,’ he said. ‘He don’t want to drink ‘cos he says it’s bad for his skin.’

Jay roared with laughter at this.

‘Bloody hell! How daft is that? Who cares about his skin?’

‘He’s trying to sort it out before Lammas,’ said Sweyn and then suddenly remembered he was sworn to secrecy about this.

‘Lammas? Why?’

‘I dunno. Are you seeing Tansy tonight, Jay?’

‘Yeah, what happened to Tansy?’ asked Kestrel. ‘I thought you’d had a date with her a while back.’

Jay scowled and looked at the table.

‘Didn’t work out.’

‘But you took her up the quarry, didn’t you?’ asked Kestrel. ‘How did that go? Did you crack the nut?’

‘It weren’t that simple. There was something . . . I hadn’t really planned it proper and we went to the wrong part o’ the quarry I think. I ain’t been back there since, but soon I’ll go there in daylight and really explore the place. Then I’ll know where exactly to take a girl at the Moon Fullness.’

‘Will you take Tansy again?’

Jay shook his head and laughed harshly.

‘She’d never go there again. She were shit scared. It
is
scary there, I’ll give you that, but it’s a good sort of feeling. Deep, exciting. I ain’t never felt like that before. She were so spooked that it ended up spooking me. But I will go there again at the Moon Fullness, I tell you. It’s the sort of place I’d take a girl for a good seeing to. Not a girl I liked – a girl I wanted to put in her place. A girl who’d been too clever for her own good and needed bringing down to earth again with a bang.’

He laughed at this and took a long draught of cider, then stood up to get another round in.

‘You sound like you’ve got someone in mind, Jay,’ said Kestrel.

‘Oh yes,’ he grinned, his eyes bulging. ‘I have just the girl in mind. The time ain’t quite right yet, but as soon as it is I’ll know, and I’ll have her up there like a shot. And she’ll never be the same again, after I’ve done with her at Quarrycleave.’

Harold sat at his lonely screen in near darkness, reading through the e-mail and attachments for the umpteenth time. He wished it had come through earlier so he could’ve shared it with Sylvie.
Ideally
he’d have shared it with Yul, but he’d seen him disappear upstairs earlier with some bottles, and Harold had enough sense not to disturb him now. It was the Moon Fullness tonight, of course, so the whole of Stonewylde was in mild upheaval as it always was on such a night; the old ways ran deep.

Harold remembered back to when he was a lad, and Magus was the ruler. Then the Moon Fullnesses had held even more significance. All the girls in the servants’ quarters would be in a flutter about who he’d choose to spend the evening with, who was going to get lucky that month. And of course often it wasn’t one of them at all, but a Hallfolk woman or someone from the Village. Harold recalled laying the fire in the master’s rooms and how terrified he’d been of the man.

Lately he’d found himself thinking of Magus often; the sinister flashing red message on all the computer screens at Imbolc had had a profound effect on him. Many a time Harold found himself looking over his shoulder, feeling the hair on the back of his neck prickle for no apparent reason. He didn’t really believe in ghosts but, like most members of the community, he had a healthy respect for the Otherworld and its inhabitants. The possibility that perhaps Magus had somehow returned – as implied in that flashing message – was something he tried not to think about too much, especially at times such as now, when he was alone in Magus’ old office almost in the darkness. He shuddered at the thought.

Scrolling up again, he looked at the attachments. The office at Aitch had written that in view of the impressive quality of the items received, the company had decided to go ahead and use Stonewylde goods within their new Ethical Earth range for the winter collection. The attachment was a contract between Aitch and Stonewylde and the terms and conditions were extensive. Presumably Sylvie would have them checked over by a lawyer before they could be accepted. The other attachment was the order for goods for their new autumn and winter range and it was large – a huge number of felt hats, slippers and bags, wicker baskets, hemp scarves and a lot of Stonewylde leather boots and
belts
. It was an order worth a considerable amount of money.

Harold better than anyone understood why Stonewylde was in such desperate need of money. The community might appear to be self-sufficient, and in terms of food and most clothing, it was. But there were so many other things that must be paid for with hard cash, not least the farm vehicles and fuel to run them, and the agricultural equipment needed for food production and processing. The hardware for the computer network and all that entailed, funding for the students who attended college and university, medical supplies and equipment and items such as glasses and dentures – all these must be paid for somehow. And then there were even larger demands such as a new heating system and roof renovations for the Hall, glass for windows, solar panels and machinery for the wind farm. Much of the infrastructure at Stonewylde was in need of replacement and there was no money to pay for it; a source of income was now an urgent necessity, although few people in the community really understood the gravity of the situation.

In their e-mail, Aitch had said that once the contract was signed they’d arrange for the photoshoot to take place. There’d be preliminary auditions for suitable Stonewylde models to work alongside their professional ones, and they’d send their scout down at the earliest opportunity. Harold let out a deep breath; if this worked out it would kick-start the recovery after the disaster of
Stonewylde.com
. He had hoped that Yul would be amenable to Buzz’s offer, but had known in his heart Yul would never accept him back at Stonewylde. Even years later, Harold vividly recalled searching for Yul in the woods, the day after Buzz and his Hallfolk gang had beaten him up during the Spring Equinox celebrations. He remembered Yul’s fear at his summons to Magus’ presence in the Galleried Hall, and his sympathy with Yul’s sense of injustice. Harold remembered many incidents from their childhood at the Village School, when Yul was just a skinny little Village boy and big, sturdy Buzz had swaggered around bullying him with impunity. No wonder Yul had rejected Buzz’s offer of help now. But, perhaps this new initiative
with
Aitch would start to put Stonewylde’s financial affairs back on an even keel, and then maybe Yul would come round to the idea. Despite Yul’s difficult behaviour in recent months, Harold felt infinite respect for him and would never willingly let him down – which made the accusations of treachery all the more painful.

In the massive sitting room upstairs, Yul sat on the sofa and tried to drink himself into oblivion. The television blared inanity in the corner and a near empty bottle of mead sat on the small table. But stupor evaded him tonight, however hard he tried. Instead, his eyes were constantly drawn to the enormous painting still propped against a wall. There was his source of despair – his quicksilver angel, blessed with moonbeams and surrounded by her sacred hares, bringing down the moon magic bestowed by the Bright Lady, dancing it deep into the spirals of Stonewylde.

Yul gazed at the painting as he’d done constantly since the Solstice, and marvelled at Magpie’s insight. Somehow the boy had captured the very essence of the moondance, not only depicting his beautiful Sylvie, their daughter and the hares, but somehow making perfect sense of what was happening. Yul wondered yet again what must go on inside Magpie’s head. Despite being mute and his apparent lack of wit, the lad instinctively understood the mystical moondance and then, even more impressive, had the talent to recreate it on canvas for others to appreciate.

Now, in the aftermath of the debacle that was this summer’s longest day of the year, Yul couldn’t quite recall exactly why the painting had upset him so much when he’d stumbled into the Art Room. He still felt a sense of betrayal at having his secret and intimate relationship with his moongazy girl laid bare and public. But in reality, he understood that what had truly upset him that day wasn’t the painting at all. It was the sense of not belonging, of being excluded, of being on the outside looking in. That had hurt him in a place he hadn’t realised was still so
raw
, touching on emotions not felt for many years. And because of this . . .

Yul hung his head and began to sob. Deep, noisy sobs that he didn’t care if anyone heard, for he deserved the humiliation. He’d betrayed Sylvie. She was the reason he was here on this Earth, and nothing would ever be the same again. He felt such guilt that he wanted to drown himself in a lake of tears. He was stabbed by his awful, inexcusable treachery and infidelity, and wallowed in a pool of deep-red guilt. He could never go back, never undo what he’d done, never make it all perfect and beautiful again. He felt his deceit written all over his face and marvelled that none could see it. It was writ so large, so boldly, in letters of lurid, indelible, stinking fluid that could never be washed away. Sooner or later someone would actually look at him properly and notice it.

And as for Sylvie – she was walking around Stonewylde, eating, sleeping, caring for their daughters – and oblivious to his treason. She’d spoken to him and smiled at him, she’d looked at him in consternation and perplexity, felt annoyance and irritation – he’d been unable to respond to her because
UNTRUE
was on his shirt and in his heart and he was incapable of behaving normally. How could she not see his guilt? How did she not smell the stench of Rainbow all over him, oozing from every pore? How could he ever go near his beloved wife again, knowing that he was smeared with the unspeakable taint of that siren?

The mead at long last took its toll and his hand dropped the empty glass to the floor. His head sunk to his chest and merciful oblivion was finally his. As the small bright Hay Moon traversed the starry skies, the magus of Stonewylde slipped into drunken slumber.

16

S
ylvie and Clip stood together on the roof of the tower, somewhere private where they wouldn’t be overheard. They gazed at the rolling parkland stretching away to the distance on one side, the magnificent trees in full July robes. But the searing weather had taken its toll and not only was the grass ochre-gold, but the horse chestnuts were starting to brown already.

‘Surely it must rain soon,’ said Sylvie. ‘This summer has been unbelievably dry.’

‘Of course it will, and then there’ll be too much and everywhere will be flooded because the earth’s as hard as rock,’ Clip replied. ‘Sylvie, I have those papers here, signed as you asked.’

‘Thanks,’ she smiled. ‘That’s great – we can get the ball rolling then with this Aitch business. Do you think it’s a good idea?’

He shrugged, his lined face looking so drawn that she wanted to hug him. As usual, she held back.

‘I realise Stonewylde needs revenue,’ he said. ‘I suppose this is as good a means as any, although . . . there’s something about the fashion industry that somehow leaves a bad taste in my mouth. And my lawyer said this contract I’ve now signed is drawn up rather more in their favour than ours. If things don’t work out, we’re still bound to honour it, with no exceptions – there’s no get out clause. But if that’s okay with you . . .’

‘We don’t really have much choice right now,’ she said. ‘But we’ll have to come up with something else lucrative, I know. I agree with your reservations about the fashion trade – despite
their
“Earth Ethics” label, I’m not convinced the business is ethical at all. Still, better to have our folk working honestly and in lovely conditions, than to have some poor exploited workers in an illegal sweatshop lining their boss’s pockets with Aitch’s business.’