Stonehenge (55 page)

He raised that stone in the spring. The tripod was placed and the oxen were harnessed and when the beasts took the stone’s weight Saban heard the pillar’s clubbed foot scrunching the chalk and timbers, but at last it was standing and the hole could be filled and there were two pillars in the earth now, side by side and so close together at their base that a kitten could scarce wriggle between them, while at their tops the twin pillars tapered and so made a gap through which the winter sun would shine.

“When do you put the top stone on?” Camaban asked.

“In a year’s time,” Saban said, “or maybe two.”

“A year!” Camaban protested.

“The stones must settle,” Saban said. “We’ll be ramming and filling the holes all year.”

“So every pillar must stand a year?” Camaban asked, appalled.

“Two years would be better.”

Camaban became even more impatient then. He was frustrated when oxen were stubborn or ropes broke or, as happened twice, a tripod splintered. He hated it when stones ended up canted and it took days of hard work to haul them straight and ram their bases with rocks and soil.

It took three whole years to shape and raise the ten tall pillars of the sun’s house. The raising of the stones was the easiest part; the hardest was the grinding and shaping that still filled the temple with noise and dust. The knobs on the pillars’ tops, which would anchor the capstones, proved hardest to carve, for each was twice the width of a man’s hand and to make the knobs the slaves had to wear away the rest of the pillar’s top, which they did dust grain by dust grain. Saban also had them leave a lip around the stone’s edge so that the capstones would be held at their sides as well as by the protruding knobs.

Leir became a man in the year that the last of the sun house’s pillars was raised, the same year that six of the sky-ring stones were sunk in the ground. Leir passed his ordeals and gleefully broke the
chalk ball of his spirit into fragments. Saban gave him a bronze-headed spear, then hammered the tattoos of manhood into his son’s chest. “Will you go and show yourself to your mother?” he asked his son.

“She will not want to see me.”

“She will be proud of you,” Saban said, firmly, although he doubted that he spoke the truth.

Leir grimaced. “She will be disappointed in me.”

“Then go to see your sister,” Saban said, “and tell her I miss her.” He had not seen Lallic since he had taken Leir away from his mother, not since he had sworn her life on the skull pole.

“Lallic sees no one,” Leir said. “She is frightened. She shivers in the hut and cries if her mother leaves her.”

Saban feared his false oath had settled a dreadful curse on his daughter and he decided he would have to see Haragg, swear the high priest to silence, confess the truth and do whatever penance Haragg commanded.

But it was not to be. For on the night when the ordeals finished, before Saban could find him, Haragg gave a great cry and died. And Camaban went mad.

Camaban howled as he had when his mother had died. He howled in unassuageable grief, claiming that Haragg had been his father. “He was my father and my mother,” he shouted, “my only family!” He drove the slave girls from his hut and slashed himself with flints so that his naked body was laced with blood when he emerged into the daylight. He threw himself onto Haragg’s corpse, wailing that the high priest was not really dead at all, but sleeping, though when he tried to breathe his own life into Haragg’s soul, the corpse stubbornly remained dead. Camaban turned on Saban then. “If you had finished the temple, brother, he would not have died!” Camaban was quivering, scattering droplets of blood onto Haragg’s body, then he snatched up handfuls of turf and hurled them at Saban. “Go!” he shouted. “Go! You never really loved me! You never loved me, go!”

Gundur hurried Saban out of Camaban’s sight behind a hut. “He’ll kill you if you stay.” The warrior frowned as he listened to Camaban’s howls. “The gods are in him,” Gundur muttered.

“That was Haragg’s tragedy,” Saban answered dryly.

“His tragedy?”

Saban shrugged. “Haragg loved being a trader. He loved it. He was curious, you see, and he wandered the land to look for answers, but then he met Camaban and he believed he had found the truth. But he missed the trader’s life. He shouldn’t have stayed here as high priest, for he was never the same man after.”

Camaban insisted that Haragg’s body would not be taken to the Death Place, but must lie in the new temple’s death house and so
the corpse was carried on a hurdle and placed between the mother stone and the tallest pillars that still awaited their capstone. The whole tribe accompanied the body. Camaban wept all the way. He was still naked, his body a web of crusted blood, and at times he threw himself to the turf and had to be persuaded onwards by Aurenna who had come from Cathallo at the news of Haragg’s death. She wore a robe of gray wolf fur into which she had rubbed ashes. Her hair was disheveled. Lallic, almost grown now, was at her side. She was a wan and thin girl with pale eyes and a frightened expression. She looked startled when Saban approached her. “I will show you the stones,” he told Lallic, “and how we shape them.”

“She already knows,” Aurenna snapped. “Lahanna shows her the stones in her dreams.”

“Does she?” Saban asked Lallic.

“Every night,” the girl answered timidly.

“Lallic!” Aurenna summoned her, then glared at Saban. “You have taken one child from the goddess. You will not take another.”

The slaves stayed in their huts that day as the women of the tribe danced about the temple’s ditch and bank, singing Slaol’s lament. The men danced inside the temple, threading their heavy steps between the unfinished boulders and the emptied sledges. Camaban, some of his cuts reopened and bleeding, knelt beside the body and shrieked at the sky while Aurenna and Lallic, the only women who had been allowed to cross the temple causeway, cried loudly on either side of the corpse.

What shocked Saban was that two priests then led an ox into the temple. Haragg had hated the sacrifice of anything living, yet Camaban insisted the dead man’s soul needed blood. The beast was hamstrung, then its tail was lifted so that its head dropped and Camaban swung the bronze axe, but his blow merely glanced off one of the horns and gouged into the animal’s neck. It bellowed, Camaban struck again, missed again, and when a priest tried to take the axe from him he swung it round in a dangerous arc, just missing the man, then hacked at the animal in a maniacal frenzy. Blood spattered on the mother stone, on the corpse, on Aurenna and Lallic and Camaban, but at last the hobbled beast crumpled and Camaban drove the axe deep into its spine to end its torment.
He threw the axe down and dropped to his knees. “He will live!” he cried, “he will live again!”

“He will live,” Aurenna echoed, then she put her arms around Camaban and lifted him up. “Haragg will live,” she said softly, stroking Camaban, who was weeping on her shoulder.

The body of the heifer was dragged away and Saban angrily scuffed chalk dust over the blood splashes. “There was never supposed to be sacrifice here,” he said to Kilda.

“Who said so?” she asked.

“Haragg.”

“And Haragg is dead,” she answered grimly.

Haragg was dead and his body stayed in the sun house where it slowly decayed so that the stench of the dead priest was ever in the nostrils of the men digging the holes and shaping the stones. Ravens feasted on the corpse and maggots writhed in his rotting flesh. It took a whole year for the corpse to be reduced to bone, and even then Camaban refused to let it be buried. “It must stay there,” he decreed, and so the bones remained. Some were taken by animals, but Saban tried to keep the skeleton whole. Camaban recovered his wits during that year and declared that he would replace Haragg, which meant he was now chief and high priest. He insisted that Haragg’s bones needed the blood of sacrifices, therefore he brought sheep, goats, oxen, pigs and even birds to the temple and slaughtered them above the dry bones that became stained black with the constant blood. The slaves avoided the bones, though one day Saban was shocked to see Hanna crouching over the drenched skeleton. “Will he really live again?” she asked Saban.

“So Camaban says,” Saban answered.

Hanna shuddered, imagining the priest’s skeleton putting on flesh and skin, then climbing awkwardly to its feet and staggering like a stiff-legged drunk between the high stones. “And when you die,” she asked Saban, “will you lie in the temple?”

“When I die,” Saban told her, “you must bury me where there are no stones. No stones at all.”

Hanna frowned at him, then suddenly laughed. She was growing fast and in a year or two would be accounted a woman. She knew who her real mother was, and knew too that her life depended on never admitting it, so she called Kilda her mother and Saban her
father. She sometimes asked Saban if her real mother still lived, and Saban could only say that he hoped so, yet in truth he feared the opposite. Hanna reminded him more and more of the young Derrewyn: she had the same dark good looks, the same vigor, and the young men of Ratharryn were acutely aware of her. Saban reckoned in another year he might have to place a clay phallus and a skull on his hut’s roof. Leir was among Hanna’s admirers, and she in turn was fascinated by Saban’s son, who had grown tall, wore his dark hair plaited down his back and now had the first kill marks on his chest. It was rumored that Camaban wanted Leir to be the next chief, and most thought that a good thing for Leir was already achieving a reputation for boldness. He fought in Gundur’s band and was kept busy either defending Ratharryn’s wide borders or in the raids that went beyond those hazy frontiers to bring back oxen and slaves. Saban was proud of his son, though he saw little enough of him for Camaban, in the years following Haragg’s death, demanded that the work on the temple be hurried.

More slaves were sought, and to feed them and the tribe more war bands ranged in search of pigs, oxen and grain. The temple had become a great mouth to be fed, and still the stones came from Cathallo to be shaped by hammers, sweat and fire, and still Camaban fretted. “Why does it all take so long?” he constantly demanded.

“Because the stone is hard,” Saban constantly replied.

“Whip the slaves!” Camaban demanded.

“And it will take twice as long,” Saban threatened, and then Camaban would get angry and swear that Saban was his enemy.

When half the pillars of the sky ring were in place Camaban demanded a new refinement. “The sky ring will be level, won’t it?” he asked Saban.

“Level?”

“Flat!” Camaban said angrily, making a smoothing gesture with his hand. “Flat like the surface of a lake.”

Saban frowned. “The temple slopes,” he said, pointing to the gentle fall in the ground, “so if the sky ring’s pillars are all the same height then the ring of stone will follow the slope.”

“The ring must be flat!” Camaban insisted. “It must be flat!” He paused to watch Hanna walk away from the hut and a sly smile crossed his face. “She looks like Derrewyn.”

“She is young and dark haired,” Saban said carelessly, “that is all.”

“But your daughter’s life says she is not Derrewyn’s daughter,” Camaban said, still smiling, “does it not?”

“You heard my oath,” Saban said, and then to distract Camaban he promised to make the sky ring flat, although he knew that would take still more time. He laid light timbers across the tops of the pillars and on each timber in turn he laid a clay trough; when he filled the trough with water he could see whether or not the adjacent pillars were level. Some pillars stood too tall and slaves had to climb pegged ladders and hammer the pillar tops down. After that, because Saban dared not erect a stone that proved too short, he deliberately made the new pillars slightly too long so that each of them had to be hammered and scraped down until it stood level with its neighbors.

One stone almost broke as they erected it. It slid from its rollers, rammed into the facing timbers and a great crack showed in the stone, running diagonally up its face. Saban ordered it raised anyway and by some miracle it did not break as it swung into place, though the crack was still visible. “It will serve,” Camaban said, “it will serve.”

In another two years all the stones had come from Cathallo and half the sky ring’s pillars had been placed, but before those pillars could be completed Saban knew he had to drag the sun house capstones into the temple’s center and he did that in the summer. The stones were hauled by scores of slaves who manoeuvred the sledges so that each capstone stood squarely by the twin pillars it would surmount.

Saban had spent days and nights wondering how to lift those capstones. Thirty-five had to be raised into the sky, thirty of them for the sky ring and five on the arches of the sun house, and it had been deep in one winter’s night that the answer had come to him.

The answer was timber. A vast amount of timber that had to be cut from the forests and dragged to the temple where, with a team of sixteen slaves, Saban would try to make his idea work.

He began with the tallest arch. The sledge with the arch’s capstone lay parallel to the twin pillars and about two paces away from it and Saban ordered the slaves to lay an oblong of timbers all about the sledge so that when they were done it seemed as though the
long stone rested on a platform of wood. The slaves now used oak levers to raise one end of the capstone and Saban shoved a long timber underneath it, crosswise to the timbers in the bottom layer. He did the same at the stone’s other end, and now the capstone rested on two timbers a forearm’s height above the oblong platform.

More timbers were brought and laid all about the two supporting beams until, once again, the stone appeared to be resting on a platform, and then the stone was levered up again and propped on two blocks of wood. A new platform was laid about the blocks, using timbers that lay parallel with the beams of the first layer. The platform was now three layers high and was wide enough and long enough for men to work their levers under the stone with each subsequent raising.

Layer by layer the stone was raised until the boulder had been carried to the very top of the twin pillars and was poised there on a monstrous pile of stacked timbers. Twenty-five layers of wood now supported the capstone, but it still could not be slid across to the pillars for Saban had to measure the twin knobs on the pillars’ tops and make chalk marks on the capstone where the corresponding sockets should be bored. It had taken eleven days to raise the stone and another twenty were needed to hammer and grind the holes, and then the stone had to be turned over with levers, and two more layers of wood added beneath it before the slaves could lever it, finger’s breadth by finger’s breadth, across from the platform and onto two beams that carried the stone until its sockets were poised directly above the twin knobs on the pillar tops.