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Shadow on the Stones
Moyra Caldecott
a Mushroom eBooks sampler
Copyright © 2006, Moyra Caldecott
Moyra Caldecott has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the Author of this work.
First published by Rex Collings Ltd in 1979.
This Edition published in 2006 by Mushroom eBooks, an imprint of Mushroom Publishing, Bath, BA1 4EB, United Kingdom
www.mushroom-ebooks.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
ISBN of complete edition: 1843194414
This is a sampler of
Shadow on the Stones
by Moyra Caldecott. If you enjoy reading these sample chapters and would like to read the rest, you can buy the complete Mushroom eBook edition from the usual bookshops online, or find more details at
www.mushroom-ebooks.com.
Introduction
This is a story set in Bronze Age Britain,
c
.1500 BC, when the great circles of standing stones that were such a feature of the Neolithic Age, were already more than a thousand years old, yet still in use as sacred temples. Hundreds of stone circles have been found throughout Britain, the most famous today being Avebury and Stonehenge in Wiltshire. That such a homogeneous culture flourished in communities so widely separated by dense and dangerous forests, mountains, and wild and stormy seas, is extraordinary.
In this story, the Temple of the Sun at Avebury faces a dangerous threat from outside the tight-knit community. Kyra and her fellow priests have to use every power they have to combat his fell armies. Karne devises his own ingenious methods which, as author, I have based on material in ancient legends and on a study of the giant landscape images of the Nazco in Peru.
1
The Messenger
The traveller was exhausted. It had been many days and nights since he had eaten or had rested. His clothes were torn, his body filthy and his eyes wild and red. He knew that if he followed the ancient customs it might be a long time before he received an audience with the High Priest. There was no time left for such formality.
He had heard good reports of the dark stranger from over the sea and knew that his wife, the Lady Kyra, was noted not only for her exceptional powers as priest and Lord of the Sun, but for her sympathy and understanding of all who came to her in trouble. He knew also that she was of his own land, and no stranger to its problems.
It was not easy to find his way within the maze of wooden priest-houses and long student huts that clustered closely around the great Temple of the Sun, but he was desperate to deliver his message and his desperation gave him courage to dodge and hide. He came at last to the High Priest’s home, set back among trees and separated from the others, but otherwise hardly distinguishable from them, and not of the grandeur he would have expected.
There was no marker of crossed feathers above the skins that hung over the doorway to indicate that entry was not permitted, and indeed they were drawn aside and fastened so that the cool air and the light could pass into the interior.
He crossed the threshold swiftly before he could be seen or stopped.
‘My lord, I must speak with you,’ he cried in a voice breaking with weariness and urgency, and then almost stumbled and fell at the contrast between the vibrancy of the light in the outside world and the inner, still, darkness of the chamber.
He could see nothing.
Watching him in some alarm stood Deva, now thirteen summers old, alone in her mother’s chamber, dressed in her mother’s robes, her face painted with ceremonial paint, the crown of the priestess upon her head. She knew that she was not allowed to wear this even in play, but there had been no one to see her and the temptation to try it on had been too great.
Frightened, she stared at the rough, uncouth intruder. Was he human robber or demon drawn to her from the hidden realms by the sacrilege she had just committed?
To the man standing in the doorway, his eyes gradually adjusting to the dim light within the house, she was a priestess in full regalia, standing impassively and calmly, waiting for him to deliver his message.
‘My lady,’ he said softly, stumbling forward a few steps to fall on his knees before her.
‘I beseech you...’ he continued in a low voice. He found himself trembling and the words catching in his throat.
He had thought about this meeting many, many times as he had travelled the long, weary way from his home in the west country, but never had he imagined he would feel such awe in the presence of another human being. This must be the great Kyra, the Lady who had repelled an army with power from her slender hand. She was looking at him now with dark eyes, eyes as bright as jet, and the words he had rehearsed so many times would not come to his tongue.
She did not move.
‘My lady,’ he tried again at last. ‘Forgive me that I break in upon your home ... that I come to you with no preparation, no ceremony ... forgive me ... my appearance ... I would not have had it so, but the matters that I would bring to your attention are urgent beyond all ceremony, all appearance...’
His voice trailed away. She was so beautiful and there was a scent so strong and so holy about her that he could hardly bear it.
He dropped his eyes from her black gaze and stared helplessly at the point where her long cloak of white and blue touched the ground.
It would be easier to talk to the High Priest, her husband. He had never been at ease with beautiful women, and this one was beautiful beyond any he had ever seen.
* * * *
Meanwhile Deva, in her borrowed robes, was puzzling what to do. She knew she should acquaint the man at once with his mistake and lead him to her mother, but ... and here the little thread of mischief in her gave a tug ... she was enjoying the role of priestess and she saw no harm in playing it a moment or two longer.
She raised her hand with a graceful and imposing gesture.
‘Rise,’ she said as imperiously as she could. ‘There is no need to kneel to me.’
At least that was no lie, Deva told herself.
‘My lady,’ the man almost crawled forward. ‘May I touch your hand?’
Deva found herself lowering it to him grandly, flushing slightly at the thrill of power she felt stirring within her.
Instead of touching her fingers briefly as she had thought he would, he seized her hand and started covering it with kisses, tears streaming from his eyes and down his rough and dusty face.
Fear and pleasure fought for control over her. She was at once horrified at herself for allowing this to happen, and for enjoying it.
She pulled back her hand sharply.
The man gave a kind of sob and fell fainting at her feet.
Terrified, she stared at him.
She thought she would remember until the end of her days the tears in his eyes when he thought he was kissing the hand of the legendary Kyra. The story of Kyra’s part in Panora’s War had spread throughout the land and was sung by many a poet on feast days. She had become worshipped almost as though she were a god. Indeed Deva had heard her mother complaining about this to her husband, the Lord Khu-ren, and protesting that it was wrong for anyone to set her aside so from other people. Her powers were no greater than his or those of the former High Priest, the Lord Guiron. Together they had tricked the enemy into defeat, using what skill they had as human beings trained to work with the Spirit realms, the Lords of Light.
Her mother would not have allowed the man to grovel so, and Deva felt tears of shame in her own eyes for her part in the embarrassing scene.
With shaking hands she lifted the crown of the priestess off her head and struggled to unpin the robes about her shoulders. She was determined to be out of the clothes before anyone else saw her. Her mind was racing with thoughts of how she could undo the harm that she had done.
As soon as she was clad once more in her own tunic, she reached to fetch water for the man, spilling it from the earthenware beaker in her haste.
His eyes opened and he stared bewildered at the dark haired girl child leaning over him.
He shook his wet hair free from the water she had poured upon it, and dragged himself in confusion to his feet, gazing around himself, only half remembering what had occurred.
‘You must have had a vision,’ the girl was saying breathlessly. ‘A dream ... a vision...’ she gabbled, ‘you fainted ... you are better now!’
‘My lady...’ the man murmured, looking around the chamber, thinking of the stately priestess he had seen with gold upon her head.
‘No, she is not here. You had a vision,’ Deva insisted, her heart cold with the lie she was telling, and yet still telling it.
The man was silent.
He was tired, so tired he feared he might not be able to keep upright much longer.
‘I must...’ he said at last, painfully, pulling the words out of an aching body. ‘I must see her ... I need ... we need ... help...’
‘You will have it!’ promised Deva hastily. ‘Just do not fall down again.’ She pulled his arm and seated him upon a wooden bench.
She thrust a beaker full of water into his hands.
‘Drink that,’ she said with a semblance of control returning to her voice. ‘I will fetch the Lady. Do not fall!’ she added commandingly as he swayed.
He forced himself to remain upright.
‘Hurry...’ he whispered.
But she was already gone.
He saw the skins at the doorway still moving from the touch of her shoulder.
He thought it was a breeze that made him feel so cold and every moment colder.
* * * *
When an agitated Deva returned with her mother they found him lying on the floor, the earthenware beaker smashed to pieces beside him and the spilled water already seeping into the clay floor.
‘O no,’ cried Deva, ‘he has fainted again!’
She rushed for more water as Kyra kneeled beside him.
When she returned her mother was standing very tall and still beside the figure on the floor.
She lifted her hand to stop her daughter approaching any nearer.
‘He is dead,’ she said quietly.
Deva stood stunned.
She herself was near to fainting with the shock.
What had she done?
She had deceived a dying man and wasted precious moments in foolery when they were the only ones he had.
Kyra straightened the stranger’s dusty, crumpled body and asked Deva to join her in lifting him to lie with greater dignity upon the soft rush bed.
The girl shuddered as she touched his cold skin.
‘What will we do my lady?’ she whispered. ‘He asked for help but we know nothing of the nature of the help he wanted?’
Kyra was deep in thought.
‘Leave us,’ she said to Deva.
* * * *
As Deva withdrew Kyra sat quietly down beside the stranger, the stone sea urchin that was for her a talisman of power in one hand, the other upon his forehead.
There was no way she could call him back from the dead, he was not a priest who knew how to die in stages and with control, but a rough man of action who had fallen into death unwillingly and unprepared. Her only chance was to draw from the air around him the last vibrations of his thoughts before they moved beyond her reach on to another level of reality
2
The Shadow of Fear
Isar made camp in a small cleft between two hills. It would perhaps have been more sensible if he had chosen a position nearer the top of the hill where the view of the surrounding countryside would have given him warning of any approaching danger, but he foresaw no danger.
A spring bubbled from lichen-covered rock and the green fronds of ferns enclosed the place as though it were enchanted.
He set his fire carefully so as to disturb the harmony of the place as little as possible. The scent of the wood smoke rising through tall trees and leaning bushes tugged gently at his memory of other places and other times that had been so wreathed in peace and quietness that they had become special times, times that brought renewal and refreshment.
He enjoyed being alone and never felt lonely. In the silence amongst growing things he had often felt the subtle stirrings of communication between all that existed and himself. This was a gift his mother, Fern, had given him for a birth present as other mothers give sun-metal or moon-metal discs. Growing plants did not speak to him quite as they did to her, but his sense of vision was more than ordinarily developed, and an arrangement of leaf and twig that would pass unnoticed by others could be a potent source of joy and revelation to him.
No one knowing Isar would associate him with his natural father, the cruel magician Wardyke. He had all his mother’s features and qualities. He was slender and lithe, his hair the colour of copper, his face gentle, his eyes light hazel with flecks of gold. His tallness might be inherited from Wardyke, but that was all. The Spear-lord Karne had brought him up as his own son, and it was Karne he respected as his father since Wardyke’s death.
He was sitting now with his back against a rock, relaxed and sleepy, watching the night shadows gradually snuffing out the distinctive patternings around him, pleased by the graceful and sinuous dance of the thin thread of smoke from his small fire, when he fancied he saw a shadowy figure standing in the darkness behind the smoke. So tenuous was the impression that he narrowed his eyes to afford a better focus, but did not move a limb in case the disturbance either dispelled the vision (if it were a vision) or caused the animal to charge (if it were an animal).
As he stared and his eyes began to smart with staring, he began to ‘feel’ that it was Deva.
His ordinary senses gave him no evidence of this, but he began to have the feelings in himself that he always had when Deva was near, stirrings of happiness and warmth, protectiveness, and also, sometimes, a touch of amused irritation.
But now he felt that she was worried and afraid. She seemed to be weeping and reaching out to him.
Forgetting momentarily where he was, he moved to take her in his arms, but even as he did so he realized that she was not there and it was the night held at bay by the last flickering of his fire, that waited under the trees.
In the morning, after a restless night of bad dreams he could not remember when he woke, he decided to return home. The impression he had received of Deva in trouble had been strong, even though it had been indistinct. He was determined to find out more about it even if it did mean he would not meet Janak, the great man he was travelling to meet, the man who could make dead wood live again in new forms.
As he packed his few belongings in to the leather pouch he carried slung over his shoulder, and returned the ashes of his fire with gratitude to the forest from which they had come, he argued with himself about his decision. He knew Deva would have tried to stop him had she known that he was leaving upon such a long journey, however innocent, and it was for this reason that he had not told her of it himself. He knew she was spoilt in many ways and had innumerable tricks to twist events the way she wanted them. By now she would have found him gone and would be wanting him at her side again to torment and delight. As the daughter of two priests it would not surprise him if she had ways of reaching him not available to ordinary people.
And yet ... and yet there was something more to her pain this time ... something deeper ... more urgent ... more serious.
He would turn back.
As he reached the top of the eastern of the two hills that had sheltered him in the night, the one he had climbed down to find his camping place, he took a last yearning look to the west.
On the horizon he could see a dark and ominous cloud of smoke. At first he thought it might be an accumulation of cooking fires and was about to turn away, when something made him stay.
He was never afterwards sure whether it was the scent of fear in the air, the sense of someone standing beside him pointing to the smoke, instantly gone as he turned his head, or curiosity within himself, that made him travel towards the west and not the east that day, forgetting Deva.
He journeyed far into the day before he neared the place where the fire had been. The smoke had died down long before he reached it but he had marked its position in relation to rocky outcrops and free standing trees, and thus had no difficulty in finding it.
Several times he saw groups of strangers carrying weapons and an instinct made him avoid them. He had never been as far west as this before, but the descriptions he had had of the gentle people who lived in the country did not tally with those he saw. In each case the sound of their voices, talking in an unknown tongue, was aggressive and harsh. But it was only when he saw one shoot a bird and laugh to see it fall, drawing his arrow callously from the broken feathered body, that he knew for sure these were not his people.
* * * *
He took greater care in his journeying, keeping to the bushes and the trees, avoiding open places, his heart heavy and anxious.
When he caught sight of the silhouettes of a group of tall stones upon a rise of ground his spirits leapt. Here at last would be the real people of Klad, the people who worshipped the Lord of All, symbolized by the burning disc of the Sun and the Sacred Circle of Stones.
Although he was tired, his pace quickened and he ran the last part of the way.
Where there was a Circle there would be a priest and a village community. He would settle at last the questions that tugged and scratched at his mind.
But as he came within clearer sight of the Stones he went cold.
This was not as it should be.
The whole area was blackened and charred by fire. The village that had been sprawling comfortably around the base of the knoll was now no more than smouldering embers and a broken cooking pot or two.
There was no sign of life and the air carried an acrid stench and a dry warning of hurt and danger.
He turned to the stones and nausea and horror overcame him.
The beautiful circle that had stood since ancient times for communion amongst all the realms of Being, was desecrated beyond belief and seemed to crouch like a wounded and despairing animal waiting for death.
Slowly Isar’s eyes moved from stone to stone and at every one he saw the burnt and mutilated body of a man, in some cases the hide ropes that bound them had not quite burned through.
Their pain was still present and he fell to the ground with the weight of it.
‘O God,’ he sobbed, ‘O Lord of all that is! How could you let this happen?’
A small breeze drily stirred the ashes.
No answer came to him from the blind Circle of Stones.
* * * *
After this ... long after this ... he gathered himself together and turned back towards the east.
Now he would go home.
He would walk through the night.
He would not rest until he had left the pain and evil he felt in this place, far, far behind.
Night creatures called shrilly from the darkness.
Moonlight drew grotesque shadows from the trees.
Twigs cracked where no one walked.
The world that had enclosed him up to now with such loving care, had turned hostile.
At the dawn he found himself further west into the land of Klad than he had been the evening before, and no matter how fervently he wished it, he could make no progress towards the east.
It was a long time before he came upon a village that was inhabited.
He paused upon a neighbouring hill and watched it closely before he approached.
He longed for friendly human contact and a warm and comfortable place to sleep, but caution held him to his post and he lay still, marking all who came and went with close attention.
The village itself seemed unremarkable enough, a cluster of small homesteads of wood and turf, smoke from cooking fires rising steadily, the cattle and sheep driven to their separate enclosures of banked earth and thorn-brake by village lads. He saw girls drawing water from the stream and carrying it in leather bags and earthenware pots as in his own village. If he had not seen what he had seen, nor sensed the menace in the air, he might not have noticed that all he saw were moving sluggishly like a stream choked by weed in time of drought. Even the young girls carrying the water had no spring to their walk and instead of chattering and calling to the boys as girls in his own village used to do, they kept silent, with eyes down, and there was no whistling with the cattle drive or singing amongst the shepherd boys.
He moved closer, every sense alert. He noted heaviness of heart, slowness, inertia, lack of any kind of hope or will to live, but there seemed to be no immediate danger.
He looked at the sky and knew that heavy rain was very close.
He decided to trust the village and, light as a deer attuned to danger, he sprang down the hillside scarcely dislodging a pebble from its resting place.
He stopped at the edge of the village, facing an old man milking a cow.
As soon as the man became aware of Isar’s presence, he stiffened as though expecting some harm to come to him, not believing that there was any way to avert it. He stopped his milking and stood up, arms hanging limply at his sides, head bowed, waiting.
Isar stared at him.
It seemed that he, Isar, was the one to be feared.
He noticed that the man had an ugly sore at the centre of his forehead, but otherwise, apart from his weary docility, was not unlike a number of old men Isar had seen in his own community.
Isar waited for the customary greeting of host to traveller, but it was not forthcoming.
He was plainly expected to say the first words and, although it made him uncomfortable so to break with tradition, he felt obliged to do it.
‘I greet you, sir,’ he said gently, ‘and may the Spirit Helpers of the Lord Sun be with you, teach you their ways and keep you from harm.’
The age-old form of words that Isar had used so often as greeting that they had become commonplace to him, seemed to shatter the mood of waiting resignation in the man.
He looked up startled, his eyes instantly going to Isar’s forehead as though seeking something there, and being surprised that he did not find it.
The man was plainly confused, not knowing whether to return Isar’s greeting or to run for cover.
Isar slowly raised his hand in the salute to the Sun his mother had taught him before she had taught him to speak.
Fear in the man’s face began to give way to hope.
He opened his mouth, but no words would come.
Slowly, tentatively, he raised his own hand in answer, and then in terror looked around to see if it had been observed.
‘Do not fear me,’ Isar said. ‘I am a traveller. I know nothing of this land or what it is you fear. I seek only lodging for the night.’
Other villagers joined them, and stood behind the man, staring at Isar. His eyes went to their faces, seeking the one who was their Priest or Elder and who would speak for them without the fear the rest so plainly showed.
On each face, on each forehead, in the centre, was a sore still festering, or a scar that bore witness to a sore that had once been there.
His hand went involuntarily to his own forehead and he felt the smooth skin with relief, momentarily experiencing a twinge of fear that the mysterious power that seemed to hold this people subject had pierced his own forehead in some way since he had entered its realm.
The villagers watched him warily.
The man he had greeted turned to them and spoke at last.
‘He used the old greeting,’ he said with awe. ‘He is not one of them, nor of us. He is a traveller.’
The villagers moved closer, still wary, but their curiosity and the dawning of hope in their hearts driving them on.
‘Where are you from, traveller?’ the old man asked.
‘From the east, from Haylken, the Temple of the Sun.’
‘Groth?’ the man said.
Isar looked puzzled. He did not understand the word.
The blankness on his face worked on the people like rain on a parched land.
Suddenly there was movement and sound.
He was seized and bustled and jostled until he found himself in a small and crowded house. Some of the people had pushed in with him, but the rest had scattered like frightened birds from a farmer’s field-strip when the farmer’s son shouts and bangs sticks together.
The old man he had first approached seemed to be the one most in charge. Silent as the people had been before, now questions poured from them and their eagerness to hear his answers pulled him from side to side until he was dizzy.
‘How did you escape from the burning?’
‘How is it that the guards did not see you?’
‘Are you from the Temple itself?’
‘Were you sent?’
‘Do they know that we need help?’
‘Are they coming to help us?’
They touched him. They kissed him. Time and again hands stretched to his forehead and trembling fingers felt the smoothness of his brow.
‘Stop, stop!’ he called at last. ‘I cannot answer all your questions until I have asked you some of my own.’
‘Ask!’ they cried, eager now to communicate in any way possible.
They knew he was from the east.
They knew he did not understand the dread word Groth.
‘Why is it that you all have wounds upon your foreheads?’
‘It is the Mark,’ they said. ‘The Mark of Groth. We are slaves of Groth.’
‘This word Groth – what does it mean?’
The daring of his question silenced them for an instant and then they all tried to talk at once.
‘No,’ he laughed, holding up his hands to fend off the confused and flying words. ‘One at a time. I have not as many ears as you have voices!’
They looked at each other.
The old man Isar had first encountered, whose name he learned was Keel, was tacitly chosen to be their spokesman.
‘He is the new god,’ he said, and his voice carried fear even at his daring to speak the words so, without reverence.
Isar looked amazed and sceptical.
‘How can there be a
new
god?’ he said scornfully. ‘God has been from Always. There is no Before and no After.’
‘Ah yes,’ Keel lowered his voice and he spoke in the way a man speaks who has been told something, has accepted it, but has not understood it. ‘It is the same god – but before we did not know about him properly.’
‘And now you do?’
‘Na-Groth tells us about him.’
‘And who is this Na-Groth?’
Isar could feel the thrill of cold fear that went through the people at the tone of his voice.
‘He is Groth’s spokesman. Groth speaks through him.’
Isar was silent. It was plain that no amount of sceptical mockery from him would counteract the fear with which these people regarded Na-Groth and his god.
‘And what of the Spirits?’ he said at last. ‘Do they not speak to your hearts in the Silent times and tell you of your God and His ways?’
‘Na-Groth says we must not go into the Silence. He says that only he knows the ways of Groth. He says the Spirits do not exist. He says that nothing speaks to us in the Silence but our own desires and fears.’
Isar’s heart was beating fast. He began to see what had happened here and how far it had gone.
He too began to feel the fear and the despair.
Fear and despair! Were these the inward marks of the new religion, as wound and scar were the outward?
Was it possible his own people had misunderstood the nature of God?
He thought back to the quiet field-strips and villages he had left behind so recently, which now seemed locked in some bygone age, with his childhood. He thought of the confidence he used to feel that all the great and distant stars above his head and the familiar grains of sand beneath his feet were contributing with all the realms of Being, visible and invisible, to a pattern of great magnificence, each in harmony with each, each dependent on the other.
His silence worried the villagers. They began to move about uneasily. A lookout was posted at the doorway, and there was murmuring amongst them. Was the traveller a spy of Na-Groth after all? Had he falsely led them on to trap them?
Isar felt helpless.
Their anxiety preyed on his spirit. He felt it consuming him, and he had to work hard to regain his own inner strength.
‘No,’ he said at last, ‘I am no spy. I am a traveller and I am weary. Does this village not sleep when night comes to it?’
Keel took his arm, remembering suddenly with joy, the old ways of hospitality.
‘We sleep indeed, though dreams are not welcome to us these nights. But first we eat. Woman, what are you about that you have not prepared the evening meal?’
Isar felt the injustice of Keel’s remark for the woman, but she did not seem to mind.
Soon the bustle of preparing the evening meal did away with all the tension.
By the time they came to roll up in their rugs there was peace in the house and there were some who did not remember Na-Groth in their sleep.
Isar slept long and soundly, weary beyond any weariness he had ever felt before.
* * * *
The priests of the Temple of the Sun were able to turn Isar’s journey to meet the woodcarver Janak, to their advantage.
Through Kyra’s reading of the messenger’s last thoughts, they were now well aware of the situation in Klad, and the inner council decided that Isar was not to be brought home to safety, but was to be sent farther into Klad to seek out Na-Groth and destroy him.
The priesthood had great powers, but they were still limited to human frames and needed human channels for their work.
The priests of Klad had been killed, and though they might still be capable of helping in certain subtle ways within the deepest levels of consciousness, they too could only work through someone still physically upon the earth.
Isar, although not a priest or a novitiate, was sensitive to more levels of reality than most men. He could be of great help to them.
* * * *
The Lady Kyra and the Lord Khu-ren worked far into the night among the tall stones of the Temple to contact his spirit, to strengthen and instruct it in the task it had before it.
They called on the Spirit realms and were given Isar’s secret name, the one he had through all time and which was known only in the Spirit realms. There were times of crisis when it was possible for humans as highly evolved as the Lords of the Sun to call on the Spirits for this knowledge and be given it to hold in trust until the crisis had passed.
These secret names were not given lightly, for the knowledge of them carried great power and humans were not on the whole to be trusted with such authority.
Kyra and Khu-ren knew that when they had reached Isar his secret name would fall so deep into the hidden places of their minds that they would never again remember it with their surface consciousness. Nor would they forget it, for nothing that is experienced is ever totally forgotten.
It would be hidden until they too entered the Spirit realms and were capable of remembering it without danger to Isar.
Now, murmuring his names, his given name and his secret name, they passed from stone to stone of the inner sanctum, touching the Sacred Rocks with their foreheads. With each touching, the humming and vibrating of the rocks that was imperceptible to ordinary people, grew in their consciousness until it seemed to them the universe was filled with noise and energy through which the two names of Isar reverberated like giant drums.
In their home beside the Temple their daughter Deva lay staring into the dark, her eyes stubbornly open against sleep, daring the darkness and the evil god called Groth to touch her lord Isar. Her thoughts were fierce and protective but they were only the selfish thoughts of a young girl in love, and went no further than the chamber in which she lay.
Groth and Na-Groth were not aware of them.
Nor was Isar, lost to consciousness, deep in Kyra’s strangely refreshing sleep.
Nor were the villagers of Klad tossing uneasily at his side, worrying about the morning and what it would bring.
* * * *
Towards dawn Deva’s body refused to obey any longer the commands of her mind to vigilance. She fell asleep like a grey feather from a bird and lay snuggled in her fur rugs, a child again.
She had not been asleep long when she began to notice that she was in a place she had often visited before in dreams, particularly when she was troubled. It was a place she recognized when she was asleep, but not when she was awake. If she had been there at all, ever, during her waking time, it must have been in a former life.
The place was a garden. Flowers grew there that did not grow near her waking home. The earth was sandy and reddish and a ring of small fountains, catching the intense sunlight and reflecting it like silver, arose from a circular pool curbed with slabs of pure white stone.
Sometimes she stood on the stone pavement gazing down into the white slabs, noticing that they were of a crystalline structure so fine that she could look into them and see the crystals in the depths as easily as those on the surface.
At other times she looked towards the pool and through the veil of spinning, moving drops of silver liquid she could see purple water flowers growing, glowing with such intensity of light that it seemed they were alight themselves and were not reflecting the sun.
During one ‘dream’ she looked up and thought she saw a roof of transparent rock crystal held up by a ring of tall, slender white columns. The sunlight was concentrated through the rock crystal canopy in such a way that a beam of brilliance that hurt the eyes shone down upon the water flowers so that they seemed to dissolve in light and she could only ‘feel’ that they were there, ‘remember’ that they were there, but she could not see them.
At such times she felt great reverence and awe as though she were in the presence of something beyond our reality.
But there were times when, although the place was beautiful, it seemed ordinary, and she found herself playing among the trees and shrubs with a small, sleek black cat...
She was a child. This was her garden and her cat.
Once, enclosed in green shrubs, unseen, she watched two men walk in the garden. One was tall and vigorous, speaking with his hands to emphasize his words, the other a calmer, older man dressed with careful elegance.
She knew the older man was the king and the younger man was her father. She was proud of him. He was a great philosopher and architect, at this very moment engaged in supervising the construction of a remarkable building ... a building that pierced the sky with one sharp golden point, drawing power from the mysterious Spirit realms and dispersing it down the sloping triangular sides of stone into the earth, north, south, east and west.
This night when Deva, who lived now in the body in another time and another place, visited the ancient garden in her sleep, she carried with her the faint remembrance of Isar and his dangers. The beauty of the fountains and the water flowers could not hold her. She was impatient with her playmate cat and walked distractedly among the green bowers, searching for her father.
The parents of her present body would not bring Isar out of danger, but expected him alone to challenge the might of Na-Groth and his god.
She would ask nothing of them again.
Something in her longed for former times and homed upon an ancient love.
But she was too anxious, her mind too active and demanding. Instead of allowing the ‘dream’ to take her into the garden and make its own shape, she tried to force the image of her former father to appear, and he eluded her.
Dismayed she saw the lovely place dissolve around her and found herself awake with only longing in her heart and no comfort to sustain her through another day of anxiety.
That's the end of the sampler. We hope you enjoyed it. If you would like to find out what happens next, you can buy the complete Mushroom eBook edition from the usual online bookshops or through www.mushroom-ebooks.com.
For more information about Mushroom Publishing, please visit us at www.mushroompublishing.com.
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