Chapter 3
"Among the beliefs of the Eaters of the Dead was the idea that the soul of the consumed also commingled with any souls born to them after the consumption. In other words, children held the souls of hundreds, including traits of beasts eaten during sacred ceremonies. A pregnant woman who ate of a sacred male elk would have strong, fleet children who would also know the wisdom and beauty of the forests. If the elk was white, these children would also be great healers or spiritual leaders, and would hold too holy a position to be mere warriors. The same applies to any kingly or noble enemies eaten during religious ceremonies. Strength begets strength, and so not all warriors were consumed in this manner..." - Michael Rainsford, The Cities of the Sidhe
Rainsford and Knight were covered in sticky sap and needles as they carved their way through the denser thickets of the hillside. Knight was sure he was developing a rash, though he wouldn't admit it under torture to the bullheaded man in front of him. Actually, it was a sort of tar and feathering, as Rainsford scattered branches and quills behind him, remarkably always downwind and somehow, despite whatever path he tried to negotiate in the close brush, in Gabriel's exact direction. Bees and biting insects seemed especially attracted to the fragrant collection gathering in his locks, though Rainsford, much more hairless, didn't seem to take notice of them at all. The Shattenjager amulet seemed to have not a bit of power against ticks or stings. Knight would not complain, though.
"Um, Rainsford, why are we out here again?" Gab really hoped it didn't sound like whining.
Rainsford stopped, looked around as if surprised someone was speaking to him, let alone beside him, and merely said, "This area was the last place I showed her."
"Hmmm, last place you showed her? Hmmm, so if the last place I showed her was a public restroom, I should be there now? This isn't like a bus terminal."
Rainsford paused for a moment, then went back to flailing the hillside.
"I mean, look, what if she's just wandering around the city somewhere, or, just maybe lost in a foreign country she's never been in before, maybe? I don't think whoever trashed her apartment took her out here."
"Nobody trashed her apartment."
"Now, what WAS the theory behind that assumption again?"
"Nothing was taken from that apartment, nothing was even Looked for, everything was just flung about."
"Oh, so you've taken some crime scene classes during your stint as a History professor?"
Rainsford turned on Knight. "What are you trying to say, kid? You've actually taken a thinking course in your life? I thought Grace was the only intelligent person you've ever kept company with, though I really don't know what she could have derived from it. It can't be your looks." Rainsford continued lecturing in the predictable silence. "There were pieces of torn paper in that room, torn into 16th of an inch bits that even a shredding machine couldn't manage. Bits of broken dishes were broken again, into tiny piles, and even crushed underfoot. What burglar or kidnapper would take time to do all that? Only someone who was very angry, very confused, (and waiting for some sign, Michael thought in dread) ...would destroy things in that manner. And there were people who mentioned a very confused looking woman wondering town that fit Grace's description. And not too many people around here look like her."
"But what..."
"Look, kid. Some strange things have been happening that you know nothing about. And I can see that you really don't understand people very well at all, even people right in front of you - probably because you couldn't find an immediate use for them. So why don't you... just take my word for it, close your mouth and just keep your eyes open. Do you think you could do that?"
So many responses came to Knight's tongue that he found he couldn't say a word. Rainsford carried on. After a while, Gabriel did feel he had something important to mention, even if it was to a self-righteous ass who knew nothing (well, maybe a little something) about him. And Gracie.
"She did tell me a little. About some missing children, and the... " Knight couldn't think of the exact words, damn it. He knew he was being cowed. "The singing... fire... fireach?"
Rainsford turned around and looked at Knight. "You actually know anything about that, kid?"
"I read a little about it, after Grace mentioned it. Sometimes writers do read things besides reviews. A lot of battles took place around this area."
"Not just battles, kid. Wars. Wars for independence, wars for birthrights, wars between brother and brother. They were certainly not all righteous wars, but were fought with such fierce righteousness that warriors at times used their swords to pull themselves out of ground quick sanded with blood."
"Brother against brother? Betrayed blood? Blood claimed by the Farral Beithir?
Rainsford was surprised again, though he didn't show it. Maybe he would have to reassess this one, when he had the time. He looked at Knight. If he were a student asking for one of his classes, he probably would have turned him away. Arrogant, abrupt, not at all studious, and overconfident in his abilities to handle any situation, his demeanor gave away the whole of his life story. Rainsford was still trying to figure out the connection between this one and Grace. He turned back to the hillside, thinking. Certainly not an old boyfriend, he would disown Grace for that poor judgement. More like a scruffy, sick, mangy stray, something to take in and feel sorry for. Yet she managed to send him a signal before she was borne away. There was a trust there.
"The Farral Beithir shows up in many cultures, one way or another, Mr. Knight. The Serpent in Eden, chained beneath the earth but still free to enter people's desires. The Red Dragon, bringer of both wisdom and deception. Ouroboros, who subsists on its own flesh, life and death combined. Yet, unlike these other examples, the Farral Beithir has no duality. It is not a creature made to tempt or test the world. It has no desires for people's souls, or perhaps any desires at all. Its awakening will simply end the world from within, when people have pushed the limits of betrayal and destructiveness. And some people are really looking forward to that day.v
"Why?" Knight's voice faltered slightly, probably more from understanding than misunderstanding. He had had such dark thoughts, for himself alone, and had an inkling of such desires.
"I don't know, Mr. Knight. Lack of imagination?" Rainsford grinned, and warmed slightly. He had caught Knight's resonance, and horror, at what the professor had just said, and thought maybe, there was substance behind the facade. Michael looked around him. The sun was in the hottest part of midday, and heat rose off the rockier cliffs before him. He was sweating, and had to wipe his glasses to see the quartz veins in the mountainside, looking for any gold flecks that were sometimes associated with large deposits of crystal. He put his ear to the rock, and Knight looked at him very, very strangely, but said nothing. Sometimes when Rainsford came out here at twilight, the time between one world and another, he thought he could hear a humming off these mountains, these forests, or maybe from the coming of the night itself. He wasn't sure what he was going to find from this display, and he hated looking foolish in front of Knight, but this area always had rumors of hidden treasures and mysteries somewhere in its earth. Michael straightened himself up. It was still a number of hours until twilight. He was tired, hungry, snappish, and not with the best of company. Still, he had to begrudge some admiration for anyone who could tag along with a desperate, angry stranger who heaped strange trouble on both their heads. "Maybe it's time for a break, Mr. Knight." Rainsford started following the trail back out through the foliage. "So, you're a writer, you say. What do you write...."
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Gerde fumed by the phone, and knew it was no use. Gabriel never checked with her for messages or to update her on how he was. It was an extraordinarily bad and stupid habit. Wolfgang never indulged in it. Well, nothing to be done. She went back to her reading about Scottish legends, Gabriel's last destination.
Young animals held special sway over the God's during blood sacrifices. As with many cultures, the young, though physically smaller, weaker, and less fleshy than adults, represented fresh, unflawed lives, more precious in concept than their mature parents. From a purely social or even breeder's standpoint, it is the reproducing adults, of course, that sustain and are the true strong points of a community, and should actually be held in more esteem. It is only the anthropomorphic traits in most cultural beliefs that see the young as sinless" or "pure," with untried potentials, and unknown destinations. The young need to be protected, and to go against this instinct, to sacrifice such precious potential and innocence to other, stronger doctrines, shows the devoutness of the worshipers, and the lengths they will go to plead their beliefs. The act itself appeals to the Gods, who usually have no use for mere dead, mortal flesh, which is usually consumed by the disciples."
Gerde shuddered slightly. She had never had a child, but had wished someday to. She sometimes wondered where all her love (her family line always had plenty, she thought, and smiled) would now be held. Thoughts for another time and place, she sighed.
The rains beating against the stone walls caused hardly a response, and the castle continued its stoic silence. There was a break in it when a strange thumping noise started in the Ceremonial alcove, as if a window had been flung open and played with by the winds. Except that all those windows were double stained glass, and hardly prone to opening. Gerde never felt fearful in her home, for she felt it was protected (all those generations of Shattenjagers watching) and even holy in many ways. She walked easily to the rooms to investigate.
Dark, bat like shapes were hitting the precious windows, hitting and wetly dribbling down the panes. They were too wet for any living animal made of bone and fur, and for a second she thought they might be prankster's water balloons, filled with something dark. There were only a few impacts at first, and it was hard to make out what it was through the multicolored glass. One shape seemed to balance itself against a transparent part of a window, and she looked more closely at that spot. She first made out a blurry ear, and when it turned, a torn flap of its cheek flared out against the glass, revealing cheekbone and teeth beneath. The head danced, dismembered, as more flesh was torn away by shadow hands, proudly revealing the secrets beneath. "Look at this," the monstrosities seemed to say, "see the shininess and wonder of true flesh." More things were hitting the windows now, and she backed away from their sight and noise. Some were just clotted balls of blood being flung onto the precious panes, flung and then smeared by invisible hands down and across the glass. Others were heavier - strips of flesh, organs, muscles - an impromptu human butcher shop. The beautiful events of the Shattenjagger legends became parodies as noble shields filled with matter and saving hands with wormy meat. Copper cast light soiled the room, and she could almost hear the laughter as obscene wounds opened in the patient figures, grimy crosses outlined others, and scenes of death awaited each. Some hands even scrawled messages in the curtaining gore, telling of secrets that hurt her mind to understand. She fought a growing nausea to stand her ground in the room, her home, but her rebellion against fear seemed to just enrage the revelers. The beatings against the windows increased, and she feared that their beauty would be entirely lost if she remained. She walked away from the sanctuary, unhurried, as if she had just forgotten a boiling kettle that she needed to attend. As she thought, the actors ceased as their audience lost interest. In an hour's time, she went back to examine their stories. Spidery outlines of dried blood and shrunken flesh etched the windows, and though it were not possible though the glass, she retched at the imagined smell of graveyard blood. Gerde forced herself to look at some of the writing. It was mostly in a language she could not understand, and she was glad. Still, she jotted down the words, to examine peacefully in the Shattenjager library above. One sentence she did not need to translate.
"Gerde... help me... please, my love..."
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The two men were exhausted when twilight found them. Rainsford had taken to randomly searching the same areas, first starting in one direction, reversing, then branching off toward endlessly similar woods. Knight wasn't sure if they were going in circles or not, but half-believed if he just stood in a particular spot, he would be bound to see Rainsford pass by again every hour or so. Gabriel hated grinding his wheels for nothing, but didn't want to be stopped by the night. He was only partly surprised when Rainsford produced two oil lanterns from his pack, but was absolutely surprised when he talked about stopping to make a camp.
"Why?" he asked.
"I think this is a pretty good spot." Rainsford didn't really answer the question.
"Um..."
"Do you know how to hunt, Mr. Knight?"
"Hunt? A little. Don't we have food? I think I brought some..."
"How about setting a snare? Or at least, being able to tell when it's been triggered, and quickly capturing the prey?"
"Um..."
"Okay, why don't you just make the fire? Get some dry, older sticks from over..."
"I can do that, thanks."
"Oh, good. But I'll also need some stones. Flatish, as close to brick size and shape as you can find. Pile them about 20 feet in that direction, in that clearing. Try to make a pyre about 3 feet square, and about this tall." Rainsford indicated a height just below his chest. "Hmmm, this could take some time, but, well...," he looked at the setting sun, dark fires easing over the horizons. "Try to do it as quickly as possible, Mr. Knight." Rainsford walked off into the gathering darkness.
Knight worked on the pyre as he was instructed. At first, the stones wouldn't pile correctly, but then he found if he built the wood up first, weaving together the larger, outer branches, planting some supports, and then putting stones on top of each layer to weigh down the structure, it began to hold. Gabriel wasn't sure what the sacrifice would be (and besides Really hating the whole idea, he wondered what good it would do), but hoped it wouldn't be too large or smelly. As he labored, he tried to think of Gracie. She was somewhere out here, in this vast countryside, like the children, and others Rainsford had told him about. Knight had to believe that his family really had some sort of preternatural or sacred blood in it, and that somehow his life made sense. Oftentimes, he could barely think about the future, all the things he might see, all the people he could lose, all the ways he could fail. It would only take one failure, and then....
There was no use thinking about futures. He lived from task to task, and it was enough. (I'm just not smart enough to do all that and chew angst at the same time, so one has to go.) He paused from his work and looked at his hands, smudged with earth and rotten bark. They looked normal, now slightly toughened by his Shadow hunting experiences much more so than the writer's life - like his heart. It used to be immune to many things. He thought of Grace, trying to seek her heart.
Gabriel seldom dreamed of those closest to him. He was sure this was a defense mechanism, since such dreams always meant disaster. But he needed to come up with something now, and he knew there would be no sleeping tonight.
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She knew the sentence was a lie. Wolfgang would not hurt her in such a way. He would not send a message of such hopelessness and injustice from the shadow worlds. He would never even be sent to such a place. Gerde could not believe in such vulgarity. Still, she had been weeping for an hour now because of it. She was careful not to destroy her translations, though an errant tear occasionally caught the edges of her paper.
The Gaelic words (and it took a while in the library to figure out which language it was, but Gerde knew this had to be related to what Gabriel was doing) seemed to be speaking about a well of souls caught somewhere in a maze dedicated to a warrior goddess, or goddesses. These souls were tied to her, and abhorred their existence, and commands. Many of them could hardly write a sentence, and were more just emotional outbursts, or vulgarities, than anything sensible. Some had a very childlike way of expressing themselves. One, though, was a vague map of some place and structure. It even had some symbols that described forests and hills, and a mark that showed its location relative to a small town. Gerde didn't know what step to take next. Either she could wait for the off off chance that Gabriel would actually break a set pattern and call her for some information (a very slim possibility), or she could try to set out to find him with these very strange coordinates and Grace's last message.
(But who are you trying to find really, Gerde? Gabriel, or Wolfgang?)
Then again, how could she possible trust the rantings of the things that did this to her home? What kind of trap was this? To lure her out of there, and out of contact with Knight, and then...?
But Gerde knew she couldn't avoid this trap. They knew her too well. If there was any chance that Wolfgang needed her...
Wolfgang always told her that her instincts were good, sometimes even better than his own. And she was the sort of person who led with her heart, not necessarily the safest way to live, far from it, but one of the marks of greatness. Yet, good intentions alone make no defense whatsoever, and she knew she had to find some sort of protection against the things she would encounter. She was sure they would be much worse than blood spewed snowballs from ghostly pranksters.
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Rainsford had snared three rabbits in an hour's time. He helped Gabriel finish the altar, and balanced the three carcasses carefully on top of the structure. There was no time to clean or prepare them, but they weren't thinking of eating the remains in any case. Using some strangely patterned oil paper taken from his backpack, Michael cushioned each hare's head with the folded pages, and put expensive, old coins on each of their eyes. He also opened their mouths and forced some sort of dark berries into them, pushing a large quantity down each animal's throat.
"If I were doing this right, I'd have each rabbit's belly full of fruit. Sweets for the gods."
Gabriel got a little nauseous when he saw the lumps growing in each animal's dead throat. He even thought he saw one rabbit twitch slightly. Rainsford's hands became slightly scratched and marked from brushing against each animal's sharp incisors and teeth.
"You think this is a little sickening, Mr. Knight? I should tell you what some cults really did, sometime."
Gabriel smiled slightly. He had a few stories too, but didn't say a word. It was funny that the more Knight saw in his Shattenjager life, the less immune, not more, he grew to those sights. It was like something that was dead in him was resurrecting, and he never knew what really living meant, what real victories were, except from the edge of dying. Even fears grew greater, and he knew he thrilled in that. It was a sort of madness. Rainsford looked at him strangely, and finished preparing the bodies.
"Well, that should be pleasing. The burning should smell sweet now. I should really have gutted them and such, but time... time. How's your singing voice, Mr. Knight?"
"What?"
"I bet you could burst something forth out of those gruff pipes. Want to give it a try?"
"What?" Rainsford had the strangest, loopy grin on his face. Knight felt he was being set up for something. He remembered a little of Grace's warbling (but charming) voice on the tape she sent him before those other, devastating noises. Maybe the Whatever They Were went after the singer? The one who calls? That tape might be the last I'll ever hear from her, Gabriel thought, and suddenly grew very cold. "Okay, I'll do it."
Michael looked a little shocked. He probably didn't expect that fast a response, and Was trying to trick Knight into taking that risk. Someone had to, and Rainsford knew more about what to expect (and do) if something happened. It made sense. But now, Michael also knew that Knight understood.
"Well, maybe I could..." Michael began, hesitant now.
"What do I have to say?" Gabriel felt the amulet against his chest, clutching it slightly in fear, he knew. He decided to take it out, even though Rainsford still knew nothing about it. Michael stared at the richness of the gold, still shining even in the darkness. He said nothing.
Rainsford began slowly, a new awareness or admiration in him causing caution. "You have to name the Gods. Their names are sacred, and only the most worthy, vicious, or stupid would dare call them up by name."
"Oh, which one am I? Or is it all three?" Gabriel grinned, but knew he said the words with a little too much breath, his voice quaking near the end. The familiar, cold fear began in him.
That is not going to help, he began telling himself, an old mantra. It will only make me freeze when I most need to respond. I'm a Shadow Hunter, goddamn it. Or I should just chuck this damn heavy thing into the nearest hole.
Michael handed him a piece of music paper, that he could not read, but sorta knew what the up and down bits meant. Celtic words lined the music, with a rough English translation beneath, all hand written by Rainsford himself.
"I can't pronounce these words, " Gabriel said worriedly, and showed Rainsford his dilemma.
"Maybe I should say them," Michael began again.
"No. I can do it. But tell me if I'm saying it right, and only syllable by syllable. Don't say them yourself."
"Mr. Knight..."
"My name's Gabriel, God damn it."
"Okay, er... Gabriel." They both began carefully going over the chants.
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Gabriel felt ready. He touched the amulet, and took a deep breath. The altar blazed beside him, it's sweet breath rising to the heavens. Rainsford stood a fair distance away, in the darkness, waiting. The bait, Gabriel knew, wasn't mere animal carcasses. The Gods apparently also took delight in the helpless.
He had to have faith. Though he felt alone, Rainsford was out there, though Gabriel didn't have the slightest idea what he was planning. Grace was out there. Gerde would remember him, and what he had tried to do. There were people who actually believed in the burden around his neck. He had to be one of them.
"Amaid... amaid as a Cantainn Fireach, can a mi." Gabriel remembered Grace's lilting voice, and tried to imitate its softness. He was pleading to higher powers, and could not risk arrogance.
A bheil seach crein an bi bhur ambas ab iobairt, muin mi..." I will be your servant or sacrifice, teach me...
"Morrigan can a mi. Muin mi..."
Nothing was happening. From what he remembered, Grace only sang a few words, and that was enough. Something wasn't right here. The animals were blazing away, the night and cold had fully formed, he was out in the middle of nowhere. And he was sure he was saying the words right. Gabriel looked around. Everything was perfect!
It has to be me. I'm not being worshipful enough, or something. I'm not...
A rotted pinecone popped in the fire and sizzled past him. It caused a momentary echoed brightness beneath him.
Knight took off his family crest and flung it into the darkness.
The altar erupted like a volcano. If Knight hadn't taken a few, unnoticed steps to throw away the amulet, he would have been set alight by its sudden flames.
"Can A CREIN! Baobh Guth! Blasphemer!" Something hit Knight that was even hotter than the nightmare pyre. He thought the altar had exploded, and could hardly see through the ignited air, or his burning eyes. He heard his hair sizzling, and even the grass beneath him was warming in the frozen night. Gabriel tried to crawl in the direction he had flung the damn thing (good going!), but knew he had no idea where that was now. He did manage to get a little distance away, and looked up at the thing he had called.
It was the worm, Farral Beithir, and in its great, white, blind coils were three women. They looked like they had survived many battles, some wounds still fresh, some impossible scars outlined from chin to calf. The women had suffered many things, and revenged many more. They looked at the surrounding earth, and at him, with such merry hate. He wanted to crawl into the earth, as far as its blazing heart would let him, to get away from their vision, their powerful madness, but mortal strength would not even let him turn his head away. He felt his own anger, which he thought so strong (and righteous, the great Fool) leach, pap-like, away, and he was nothing beneath them. They knew his realization, and smiled.