When Prytani had finally removed the hard-baked figurine of Tamesis from the little vixen’s funeral fire, the only thing left of Nechtan’s collection of texts had been a charred remnant of his own notes.
‘Yesod: the fire of the holy ghost is at the base of the spine.’
‘Sulam Yaakov: Jacob’s ladder had 12 steps, with 2 humans flanking the base.’
Thinking about this now, Prytani realised that the routes through the stars the lady had shown her had had twelve stages, including its two starts, its two ends. The two humans could also represent the two routes to ascension.
Had the king vanished, Prytani wondered, because he had finally discovered the secret of the Seven Star Power?
*
Every so often, Prytani would come to a village full of terrifying tales of an unusually horrifying wolf attack. She would move on as soon as possible, realising that this, of course, was what the wolf would also have done.
The princess wouldn’t be here any longer. She would be far away, much farther than Prytani would be able to walk in a day. The princess, as a wolf, would move far swifter, far more tirelessly.
Whenever she heard tales of nearby villages that had suffered such attacks, she avoided them, for the same reasons.
She heard even more tales of the poor girls who, once they had tried on one of the princess’s shoes and found it fitted perfectly, had been excited that they would be taken to live in the king’s hall. Unfortunately, of course, these girls had been fooled by the stories told of the earlier girls who’d ended up there: now the girls were instantly struck down with a sword strike to the head, right in front of their horrified parents.
Rather than the tales she heard, Prytani preferred to rely instead on the strange tingles she would experience in the base of her spine. It wasn’t a sign that the princess was near, she’d reasoned, but it seemed she still retained some form of weak connection with the otherworld, or at least the energy streams that in every other way she could not sense, neither by sight nor touch. That slight vibrating of her spine told her she was close to and following one of these meandering flows.
Nechtan had said that he believed the princess was really the daughter of the mermaid queen and the Wolf King: a merwolf. That was why she could change at will, rather than just under a full moon. Why, too, she was able to walk around endlessly on her feet without showing any obvious signs of pain. As for her attendants, they could relieve each other, taking turns to seek relief in a brief return to the apsû’s astral waters.
It was just such a winding current that led her through a ridiculously dark forest, one that was as expertly woven together as a tapestry. There was little room between each tree, the branches reaching out, intertwining with their closest neighbours as if drawing all their life and energy from them. She would never have found her way in such a damp, dark place if the serpentine flow hadn’t shown her the only track, one well-trodden by some other person apparently aware of the coursing energy.
She came, eventually, to a small house hidden deep within the woods.
Covered in animal skins of every kind, it looked at first glance as if it were itself a strangely exotic creature, large and possibly edible. Whereas other houses were decorated with elaborately carved woodwork, this was ornamented with glisteningly white bone, all of which had been painstakingly and tirelessly formed into the most glorious shapes. A birdcage made of interlocking ribcages hung by the small porch, but its door was open; the bird had flown.
It was the perfect place for a wolf to live. And yet such a house could only have been constructed over a long period of time.
The door to the house was unlocked. Prytani stepped inside.
The furniture and furnishings were once again made of bone and animal hides, the bone as skilfully worked as any wood by a carpenter. There was some sort of game, all the pieces wondrously carved, each one a beautiful work of art in its own right. She picked one up, admiring its incredible detailing, the smoothness of its surface.
‘They belonged to a woodsman.’
Prytani whirled around.
The princess was standing in the doorway, blocking off any escape for her.
Naturally,’ the princess continued calmly, unhurriedly drawing closer towards Prytani, ‘I killed and ate him.’
*
Chapter 46
‘Some people who still depend on nature for their livelihood, like this woodsman, they still possess a weak contact with the astral streams.’
Anyone who wasn’t aware of the princess’s secret would wonder why such an incredibly beautiful and elegant woman was standing here in this hideously formed room. They were at completely opposite ends of the spectrum, the perfectly proportioned princess and the malformed house.
‘Originally, that was good for him,’ the princess continued, moving ever closer to Prytani even as she tried to back away. ‘Later, though, not so good: it led me here, when I was ravenous too.’
Prytani urgently glanced everywhere about her, looking for anything she might be able to use as a weapon.
Why had she come here? It was such a ridiculously mad idea.
‘The currents led you here, too, I think. I really can’t get rid you, can I, no matter how hard I try?’
‘You know me?’ Prytani asked, puzzled that the princess seemed to know her even though they had never really met before. ‘You want to get rid of me?’ she added more fearfully.
‘Not now!’ The princess emphasised the ‘now’ as if she thought Prytani was being ridiculous. ‘It’s way too late for that!’
‘I…I don’t understand? What do you mean, it’s too late?’
The princess broke into a tinkling, mischievous laugh.
‘Do you mean you don’t want it to be too late? Do you want me to kill and gobble you up?’
‘Well, no…I mean–’
‘No need to explain. I’m hungry so–’
Prytani jumped out of the way as the princess suddenly seemed to reach out to grab her.
She squirmed with embarrassment when she saw the princess had only been reaching for a loaf of bread after all.
‘Oh, we are nervous aren’t we?’ the princess chuckled again. ‘Don’t worry! I was only going to ask if you’d eaten too! You don’t look like you have!’
‘Then you…?’
‘Eat human flesh? Yes, of course, I used to. But I’m hoping the woodsman is the last one I have to kill.’
She broke off a large piece of the loaf and handed it to Prytani, who bit into it hungrily. As the princess broke off another piece for herself, she indicated the room with a casual rolling of her eyes.
‘This place, it’s so well hidden, so far away from any other humans, I can risk staying a wolf for longer and hunt enough deer and boar to keep me well fed.’
She seemed to guess the next question Prytani was about to ask.
‘You need far more animals than you do humans. Maybe it’s something to do with the types of blood and flesh being more adapted to a werewolf’s makeup.’
‘And the bread?’ Prytani asked, pointing to the thick, crusty loaf as the princess handed her another piece. ‘How does a princess learn to cook bread?’
‘Why, from the same place you’ve learned so many things, of course: from Olwen of the Six Hands.’
‘The lady in the tower?’ Prytani burst out excitedly. ‘You can get to the tower?’
‘Not anymore.’ The princess shook her head despondently. ‘The dead are watching for me along any streams heading that way. My attendants were allowed out, but none are now allowed back in – it’s me they want, obviously.’
The princess couldn’t fail to notice Prytani’s obvious disappointment.
‘But you can get there with your little–’
She halted, looking down towards Prytani’s feet for a silently seated Tamesis, suddenly realising she wasn’t there.
‘Where is your little fox?’ she added worriedly, full of concern. ‘Has she–’
Prytani had tightly
held in her sorrow over Tamesis’s loss for so long. She had had no one to talk to about how deeply lost she felt without Tamesis by her side. It wasn’t just a hole in her life – it was vast, deep, unfillable hole within her.
Now all that tightly constrained sorrow was all welling up inside her, rushing up and up from below her stomach (which was empty, so hollowly empty!), up and up towards her chest (where it hurt so much, like a great weight crushing her, preventing her from breathing!), up and up through her throat (such that it seemed she was being choked!), up and up to her brow (so, so hard to think straight, so much stabbing pain!), up and up into her head where, unable to go any farther, it rushes back upon itself, churning and churning endlessly, sending her towards the edge of madness, the agony like great, interminably pummelling waves.
Her head would explode, she was sure. And it did: she exploded into tears, an uncontrollably prolonged sobbing that painfully wracked her body.
The princess stepped closer towards Prytani – and hugged her in a way no one had ever held her.
*
Chapter 47
The high hill was part of the great forest. Rising up from densely packed woodland with its own thick growth of trees, it was like the swelling of a horsefly’s bite on a mare’s hide.
Comfortably seated within the wide crook of a tall tree, Prytani and the princess could look out towards where the impenetrably dark mass of the forest became the rolling hills of more cultivated areas. It was land which itself transformed here and there into the ramshackle wickerwork of small villages.
Everywhere they looked, huge bonfires blazed. Some had been burning so long that they had collapsed in upon themselves, now little more than glowing embers that only just illuminated the people circling them. Taking the ashes of the fire, the villagers were forming it into a circle surrounding the fire. Then, each taking a pebble, they placed this within the ashes towards the circle’s edge, hoping it would remain undisturbed there until morning – for, if it was found that it had been moved out of place, this would be a bad omen for the family.
There’s no moon. No moon to light up Tamesis, even though she sits on the sill of the window, where the night’s changing light and shadows often seem to bring the little clay figurine to life.
No moon, either, to distract us if we wish to venture into the netherworld. Sometimes, if we are to see into the otherworld, our mortal sight has to be obscured.
Around them, they can hear the Crone, cackling in the wind-stroked twigs, the patter of the rain that’s just beginning to fall, the leaves beyond their own dry shelter that bend beneath the striking of each drop.
Prytani is happy here. Happy living with the princess, Sabea. She still misses Tamesis, misses her visits to the lady. But this is wonderful in a different, unexpected way.
She has seen the princess as a mermaid, diving into the pools of water they bathe in. She has never seen a more wonderful, more beautiful sight.
Her scales flash bright green and blue, like the flash of a kingfisher, the swish of water burbling around a sun-struck salmon fighting its way upstream. Her hair is a captured beam of the moon itself, so white, so sparkling. Her lips are Mars, deliciously, frighteningly red, opening to reveal a darkness she would willingly let devour her. Her eyes are Venus, the irresistible glow of the Morning Star, the Evening Star, transporting Prytani to a better world each time Sabea joyously glances her way.
She has been born anew. This is life. Before, she was dead.
Sabea smiles, takes her hand.
How can a hand be at once so cool and yet so incredibly warm? So light, so delicate, so weak, yet hold her so strongly in its grip? A grip on her that she hopes will never, ever let go.
They needed to share the small house’s only bed – was that wrong?
‘Why didn’t you go?’ Sabea asks mysteriously. ‘I mean, the day I tried to rescue you from the men bringing you to Nechtan?’
It seems so long ago. Prytani can’t remember. Yes, she knows what Sabea means; the night she attacked as a wolf, telling Prytani – what did she tell her? To go?
‘I was on a donkey, remember?’ Prytani laughs, clenching Sabea’s elegantly slender hand harder. ‘It couldn’t outrun me!’
‘I was worried you’d know my secret. I thought you must have seen me in Olwen’s tower: sensed who I really was!’
‘I’d seen mermaids there. I’d never realised any were you.’
Strangely, Sabea pouted disappointedly, yet chuckled richly anyway.
‘Hah! I must admit – silly as it sounds – I was hoping, hoping you’d say, you know; that, perhaps, we were supposed to meet?’
Their hands instinctively clenched all the harder.
‘You mean,’ Prytani whispered hopefully, ‘like the sword and sheath?’
‘Let me,’ Sabea whispered hoarsely back, ‘let me tell you the tale of the sword and sheath.’
*
Chapter 48
Sparta’s Sword
In the time when great cities rose seemingly endlessly from the earth, it was, even so, a time when envy, bitterness, and avarice ruled men’s hearts.
As such, these great cities were almost permanently at war with each other, wreaking destruction on any that failed to grant the subservience another believed its rightful due.
Premier amongst these great states was proud Sparta. Not for them the pursuits of other cities: elegant poetry, wondrous sculpture, philosophical thought. Their every thought, every action, revolved around the pursuit of war.
What use a poem, unless it was to tell of the brave deeds of a victor, lament the failings of the vanquished?
Who desired a carving commentating their humiliating defeat and subjugation, as opposed to a towering celebration of triumph?
What philosophy ultimately counted, but the power of the sword?
Once you had conquered another city, you had more than enough slaves who could provide you with poems, sculptures, or explanations of how the world works.
Foremost amongst Sparta’s battle formations, in every way, was the phalanx led by King Charilaos. The best trained troops amongst troops that were better trained than any others in the known world.
An elite of an elite. Well disciplined, courageous, innovative, cunning, irresistible, ruthless, and, it would seem, ultimately unbeatable.
Thus, in any invasion of another state, any siege of a walled city, any attack on a battle line, Charilaos’ phalanx would be at the fore, striking deep into the enemy force.
They would thrust far into enemy territory, shattering any resistance, sapping their will to fight.
They would hack at a wall’s defenders, cleaving apart the most resolute formations, the first inside any city.
They would carve effortlessly through a foe’s own battle-hardened warriors, making them flee like the rawest recruits.
Hence, Charilaos and his phalanx both acquired their own, shared epithet – Sparta’s Sword.
And then one day Queen Cynisca, Charilaos’ wise and beautiful queen, announced that she was al last pregnant with a long-awaited heir.
In his joy Charilaos put down his sword, his anger, his bitterness at the world.
His men were astonished, the vast majority even disappointed. War was their trade, their way of life. But their wives, their children? For them, this was the most wonderful of times. No longer would they be at home while the men were at war, stoically putting to the back of their minds their worries that this would be the time their husband, their father, wouldn’t be returning.
No longer would they have to prepare to put on display their very own form of bravery, remaining tearless while they pretended to celebrate an heroic death.
So much fear that they had previously suffered in silence was, thankfully, no longer present in their life.
Charilaos’ enemies, however, even his close friends, his allies, laughed behind his back at the descent of his city into what they mocked as sybaritic splendour.
Those enemies,
of course, should have breathed a sigh of relief, perhaps even been joyously grateful, that Sparta’s Sword had been sheathed. Instead, they resented the violations of the past. They wanted revenge. And, in his inaction, they saw a chance to bring that vengeance down on him.
Why had we feared him so, they began to wonder?
Look at him now; a coward, refusing to fight.
A man who only wants to talk peace. To come to a compromise.
The ploys of a man beset by weakness.
Only one state seemed to truly welcome Charilaos’ adoption of peace in all its forms.
They sent their own emissaries of reconciliation. Men who wished to iron out trade agreements. To work out fair shares of sea routes and water courses. To arrange an annual tournament of sports, in which the men of both states could display their prowess in a means far less injurious than war.
Indeed, the latter was carefully arranged to avoid any hint of warlike actions. What were most sports, after all, but another form of military training? Archery, spear throwing, chariot racing, horse riding, even the discus: all had their roots in preparing for battle.
Each event would be a test of physical prowess, and nothing more: running, jumping, swimming, climbing, lifting weights, a limited form of wrestling. Wherever the tournament itself would be held, all weapons or even anything that could be utilised as a weapon – farm implements, cooking knives, certain builder’s tools – had to be removed.
So it was that Charilaos’ own city, chosen as the very first venue for the games, was rapidly striped of the weapons that had made it famous and feared. Their rivals in the games also arrived with neither weapons nor armour. Even the gathering crowds were checked, no one being allowed to carry anything that could be used to harm another.
The bread being sold in the now crowded shops and inns had to be broken, not cut. The only utensils allowed to prepare and cut food where sharpened pieces of flint, as if harking back to a more innocent age.
As soon as the games started, it was obvious to everyone that the teams were far from being equally matched. The physical attributes of Charilaos’ men were superior in every way, having been trained on a daily basis to wield heavy swords and shields, to run in full armour, to fight throughout a full day with neither sustenance nor water.