been
perfectly provided by the moonshawl sites I’d seen. I suppressed irritation.
There would be other sites. As usual, I elected to walk rather than ride – in
the week or so I’d been in Gwyllion I’d only ridden Hercules that once. Now he
grazed peacefully in the field below my tower, perhaps all memory of Jesith
gone. He’d been made to work there, often.
Consulting my copied maps, I
could see that the ancient river was flanked by fields on both sides. The river
did not flow too close to Meadow Mynd, however. The house was surrounded by woodland
on three sides, while on the fourth were the fields of Wyva’s personal crops.
These sites were quite a walk from the village. I needed a spot along the way
where hara could pause and enact a small rite. Again, irritation shivered
through me. Maes Siôl was close to the village and the pool not far from the
trail through the trees that led to the Mynd. I felt that any sites I chose
could only be second best to these eminently suitable places. Why couldn’t Wyva
put away the past and imprint new, positive memories over these areas, if bad
memories were associated with them? Perhaps, if I grew to know Wyva better I
could dare to broach carefully upon this subject, but not yet.
I planned to explore the woods
between my tower and the house, hoping to find a picturesque and atmospheric
glade. However, as I wandered, I found my steps taking me nearer to the Llwybr
Llwynog, which was rather out of the way. I wanted to see what lay beyond the
forest there, also what lay beyond the river. I was hoping to catch sight of
one of the Whitemanes again. There was no point denying they fascinated me,
mainly because of the way they’d been described to me. Also, perhaps part of me
sympathised with the outsiders, as the Whitemanes were in the eyes of the
Wyvachi. I knew how it was to occupy that role, to flex against it helplessly,
full of resentment.
The Llwybr Llwynog was deserted
of harish presences, although I sensed a watchful atmosphere. I stood on the
summit, where I found the remains of a tumbled building, most likely a folly
from the time of Wyva’s human ancestors. From there, I could see much of the
surrounding countryside. A pale band of fields hugged the glistening river and
beyond the water I could see more hedged fields, occasional spinneys and in the
distance the glitter of sunlight on glass. I shaded my eyes and stared at this
place. Was this another elderly pile like Meadow Mynd, where once human
families had ruled the land before falling into decline? Did anyhar live
there? Beyond the wide river valley, ancient mountains soared mistily towards
the sky, their flanks gold and russet beneath the sun.
I heard stifled laughter behind
me and turned at once. Two small brown faces were peering round the mossy
tumbled stones, grinning at me. I recognised the harlings of a few days before,
who’d thrown the moss at me. ‘We meet again,’ I said amiably. ‘Are you going to
run off as before, or perhaps pelt me with missiles?’
Today not shy, the harlings
came out from their hiding place and at first prowled around me like cats,
examining me intently. They seemed barely harish, but more like supernatural forest
creatures, born of loam and sticks. Their clothes were grubby; tunics and
trousers of a mud-coloured fabric. They wore no shoes and their grimy toes were
long. Their skins were as dark as the earth itself, yet their eyes were the
vivid green of young moss. Their hair was a riotous black tangle, glossy, yet full
of leaf fragments and twigs. ‘Where are you from?’ I asked them.
The harlings glanced at each
other and laughed, and then began to caper about me in a mad dance. They swooped
in to poke my legs with sharp little fingers, then wheeled out again to
continue their circling. It made me dizzy; they moved so fast. Then, I had the
presence of mind to grab one of the little pests when he swept in to poke me.
He struggled like a wild creature in my grasp, a
perfectly provided by the moonshawl sites I’d seen. I suppressed irritation.
There would be other sites. As usual, I elected to walk rather than ride – in
the week or so I’d been in Gwyllion I’d only ridden Hercules that once. Now he
grazed peacefully in the field below my tower, perhaps all memory of Jesith
gone. He’d been made to work there, often.
Consulting my copied maps, I
could see that the ancient river was flanked by fields on both sides. The river
did not flow too close to Meadow Mynd, however. The house was surrounded by woodland
on three sides, while on the fourth were the fields of Wyva’s personal crops.
These sites were quite a walk from the village. I needed a spot along the way
where hara could pause and enact a small rite. Again, irritation shivered
through me. Maes Siôl was close to the village and the pool not far from the
trail through the trees that led to the Mynd. I felt that any sites I chose
could only be second best to these eminently suitable places. Why couldn’t Wyva
put away the past and imprint new, positive memories over these areas, if bad
memories were associated with them? Perhaps, if I grew to know Wyva better I
could dare to broach carefully upon this subject, but not yet.
I planned to explore the woods
between my tower and the house, hoping to find a picturesque and atmospheric
glade. However, as I wandered, I found my steps taking me nearer to the Llwybr
Llwynog, which was rather out of the way. I wanted to see what lay beyond the
forest there, also what lay beyond the river. I was hoping to catch sight of
one of the Whitemanes again. There was no point denying they fascinated me,
mainly because of the way they’d been described to me. Also, perhaps part of me
sympathised with the outsiders, as the Whitemanes were in the eyes of the
Wyvachi. I knew how it was to occupy that role, to flex against it helplessly,
full of resentment.
The Llwybr Llwynog was deserted
of harish presences, although I sensed a watchful atmosphere. I stood on the
summit, where I found the remains of a tumbled building, most likely a folly
from the time of Wyva’s human ancestors. From there, I could see much of the
surrounding countryside. A pale band of fields hugged the glistening river and
beyond the water I could see more hedged fields, occasional spinneys and in the
distance the glitter of sunlight on glass. I shaded my eyes and stared at this
place. Was this another elderly pile like Meadow Mynd, where once human
families had ruled the land before falling into decline? Did anyhar live
there? Beyond the wide river valley, ancient mountains soared mistily towards
the sky, their flanks gold and russet beneath the sun.
I heard stifled laughter behind
me and turned at once. Two small brown faces were peering round the mossy
tumbled stones, grinning at me. I recognised the harlings of a few days before,
who’d thrown the moss at me. ‘We meet again,’ I said amiably. ‘Are you going to
run off as before, or perhaps pelt me with missiles?’
Today not shy, the harlings
came out from their hiding place and at first prowled around me like cats,
examining me intently. They seemed barely harish, but more like supernatural forest
creatures, born of loam and sticks. Their clothes were grubby; tunics and
trousers of a mud-coloured fabric. They wore no shoes and their grimy toes were
long. Their skins were as dark as the earth itself, yet their eyes were the
vivid green of young moss. Their hair was a riotous black tangle, glossy, yet full
of leaf fragments and twigs. ‘Where are you from?’ I asked them.
The harlings glanced at each
other and laughed, and then began to caper about me in a mad dance. They swooped
in to poke my legs with sharp little fingers, then wheeled out again to
continue their circling. It made me dizzy; they moved so fast. Then, I had the
presence of mind to grab one of the little pests when he swept in to poke me.
He struggled like a wild creature in my grasp, a
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