Suddenly she heard the deep call of the lioness and the sound of swift motion. Terrified, she glanced over her shoulder and saw the cub’s mother racing after her, golden eyes glowing, red mouth open. Isabeau screamed and fled. Then a massive paw struck her between the shoulder blades and she fell into the snow, banging her elbow on the rocks.
Shoulders hunched, arms over her head, she buried her head in the snow, expecting the agony of tearing flesh. When nothing happened she looked up cautiously. The lioness stood over her, warm breath clouding in the frosty air. Isabeau half rolled, trying desperately to purr, though her throat was dry with terror. The lioness bent her head and nudged Isabeau’s shoulder. Then she delicately licked Isabeau’s cheek, her tongue as rough as sandpaper. She was purring deep in her throat, the sound as loud and contented as a hive full of bees. Isabeau purred back and the lioness kneaded her shoulder briefly but painfully, then stood back, allowing Isabeau to gingerly get to her knees. Isabeau cautiously put up one hand and stroked the lioness’s plush white fur, and she in turn rubbed her head against Isabeau’s palm, purring still.
‘It was my pleasure,’ Isabeau said huskily. ‘I’m glad I was able to help.’
The lioness nudged her affectionately then turned and prowled away, her paws sinking deep into the snow. The cub frisked about her, attacking her black-tufted tail which swung gracefully behind her, and pretending to nip at her legs. Isabeau got to her feet, her throat thick with emotion, and saw the lion was watching her, his golden eyes inscrutable. She bowed to him and backed away, her legs shaking. At last she was out of sight and could turn and run, unable to shake off the fear the lion would decide she looked like a pleasant way of breaking his fast.
The sense that she was being followed did not dissipate as she hurried along the edge of the cliff, though she could hear nothing but the wail of the river and the occasional lonely cry of an eagle hovering far above. She turned often to scan the path behind her, but it was narrow and twisting here, following the bulges of the rock, so she could not see for any great distance. It began to angle downwards sharply so she had to jump down the rocks in several places, once slipping on a patch of ice in her haste. Isabeau heard stones rattle behind her and quickened her pace.
She reached an open stretch of snow with a wonderful view down to the river but did not pause, though her stomach grumbled with hunger. Some irrational fear drove her on, glancing often over her shoulder. Then she saw movement on the path several bluffs behind her. She stared intently and recognised the squat figures of the goblins, running swiftly. There were twenty or more of them now and terror seized her. She broke into a run, casting around for somewhere to hide. It was difficult to run in all her furs, with the skimmer and satchel banging on her back. Soon she was panting and sweating. From her sleeve she heard Buba protest sleepily, but she blundered on. She came to a stand of pine trees and leant against one, breathing harshly as she looked behind her. Then the goblins broke from the shadows and ran towards her, waving their clubs and spears, screaming with delight.
Isabeau threw down her satchel and skimmer and drew her axe from her belt. With a sweep of her hand she conjured a circle of flame about her. Maintaining fire with no fuel for it to feed on was exhausting work but she had no time to cut down dead branches from the trees. The goblins came to a halt beyond the flames, jeering and shouting and shaking their weapons. Then the biggest of them, a brute with a helmet made horribly from a dead wolf’s head, began shouting orders. Quickly the goblins gathered up handfuls of snow in their great spades of hands and threw them on the fire. As Isabeau desperately fought to keep the circle of flame burning, one raised a slingshot and slung a stone through the hissing, dancing flames. It caught her on the temple and she fell back, startled and hurt. The flames dropped for a second, long enough for two goblins to leap through. They struck at her with their weapons but she fought back, keeping one off with her staff while swiping at the other with the little axe. Her concentration broken, the fire fizzled away and then the goblins were upon her.
Isabeau was in danger of falling beneath the onslaught, hideous hands with filthy, broken claws dragging at her furs, clubs falling on her shoulders and back. She shook them free and leapt high into the air, catching hold of the branch above her and swinging into the tree. Four began to quarrel over her satchel, tearing it open and spilling her precious grain into the snow, while wolf-head caught hold of the tree and began to shake it. The goblin with the slingshot peppered her with stones while the other goblins swiped at her feet with their spears. Isabeau clung tightly to the tree and tried to climb high, out of their reach, though the tree was shaking alarmingly. Her maimed hand was wrenched free and she fell, swinging from the other and trying desperately to regain her hold. Her dangling feet were hammered with blows before she was able to swing her legs up and grip the branch. Wolf-head jumped up and down, swiping at her with his spear. Isabeau felt the fur of her coat tear, then a sharp sting as the spearhead broke her skin. She winced away from the pain, managed to climb onto the branch and then swung higher. A spear was thrown at her but hit a branch and fell back into the goblins crowding around the tree.
Suddenly a roar reverberated around the glade. Isabeau almost fell in her shock and the goblins screeched with dismay. Wolf-head swung round and then gibbered as he saw the huge white lion bounding down the slope towards him. The lion’s golden eyes were burning with rage and his mouth was wide open, his fangs gleaming. The goblins fell over each other in their haste to escape, but the lion was among them in seconds, claws ripping, great jaws tearing. Some fell screaming, the others all scattered and ran. Within moments the glade was still.
The snow lion sat and licked his bloody paw clean, staring up at Isabeau. Isabeau stared back. She watched the lion groom himself, wondering if he could climb and thinking unhappily that he probably could, faster and more easily than she could herself. He finished tidying himself up, wrapped his black-tufted tail around his paws, and settled down to staring at Isabeau with undivided attention.
Isabeau suddenly realised he was purring deep in his throat. She relaxed. He grinned at her, stretched, yawned and got to his feet. Every line of his body expressed satisfaction and pleasure. She watched his chest rise with his purring and longed to run her fingers through his magnificent mane and rub the velvet whiteness of his cheek. She was still too wary to come down, though, and so she watched in silence as he slowly padded back up the meadow and disappeared into the shadows. Only then did Isabeau climb down and shakily gather her things together, careful to avoid the bodies of the dead goblins.
The weather stayed clear and fine all day and Isabeau was able to make good time. She did not encounter any more goblins or lions, to her relief, though once she saw an ogre down in the river valley, crouched on the shore with a spear in his huge black hand. The cliff was not so steep or high here, with the land all about beginning to grow more gentle.
Late in the afternoon she rounded a bluff and saw a great wide sweep of snow running down to the river. Ahead the peak of the Skull of the World cut into the blue sky. The river wound down from the tall mountain, its waters running a pure blue-green and fringed on either side with copses of trees. All around were high cliffs and bluffs, while an eagle floated far above, wings black against the apple-green sky. Isabeau took a deep breath, unable to believe her journey’s end was so close. The sun was sinking towards the mountain peaks and so she drew Buba out of her sleeve, cupping her in her hands and rubbing her tufted ears.
‘Will ye find me a holt, dearling?’ she asked. The owl blinked her great golden eyes sleepily, rotated her head then stretched out her wings. With a soft hoot she took flight over the broad slope. The apprentice witch strapped on her little sleigh and began to skim gladly down the slope towards the river, the owl gliding ahead of her.
Isabeau sped so swiftly the wind roared in her ears and tears sprang to her eyes. She gave a little cry of exultation and leapt off a high mound of snow so she could spin in the air. It had been s
ome days since she had last been able to skim so freely. She landed with a hiss of ice flying, spun again and did a great swooping curve. From the corner of her eyes she saw something move, something huge. Her heart lurched. With a jerk of her body she came to a halt and pulled back her hood, shading her eyes with one hand.
Far above her a frost giant was lumbering down the slope. Twelve feet tall, with a shaggy mane of hair and beard all stiff with blue ice crystals, he was dressed in a motley of white furs. Carrying a long ice spear in one hand, his eyes shone with a cold blue light. Each blundering step caused snow to slide down the slope with frightening speed. He shook his spear at her and bellowed, and cold fear shuddered in Isabeau’s stomach. She took off, no longer swooping and swaying but fleeing straight down the middle of the slope. He leapt after her, gaining with every step, while a mass of snow raced ahead of him with a grinding, roaring noise as terrifying as his hoarse bellows.
There was a great whoosh. Isabeau ducked instinctively. The ice spear flashed past her, missing her by inches. It smashed into the hill before her, loosening another great chunk of snow. Isabeau swerved, her heart pounding sickeningly. She bent low, skimming as fast as she could, the ground rising and dropping below her. She risked a glance behind her. The avalanche was eating at her tracks, swallowing the sky.
Buba flew up into the air, calling to her desperately. Soar-hooh, the owl cried. Soar-hooh high-hooh.
Suddenly the world plunged away. The clamour of the avalanche rose up and engulfed her. Stars spun overhead. Although dusk had fallen, Isabeau could see clearly. The mass of snow was plunging down the mountain, drowning trees tiny as matches, sweeping out across the river and blanking its glimmer. The frost giant was swept away. Isabeau saw his agonised face disappear under the raging white torrent far, far below her. The world was tilting, a fiery rim of black mountains spanned by sweeping stars. The wind rocked under her like a river of cold fire. All was quiet. She was queen of the night, her wings binding the wind to her will, the stars streaming away behind her. She saw Buba glide before her, leading the way down into thick trees where the shadows gathered dark, but not too dark for her keen gaze to pierce. They came to rest on a branch.
I knew-hooh you-hooh were Owl, Buba said complacently.
Instinctively Isabeau’s talons flexed and gripped and she shuddered her wings. Her mind shrieked a denial. She stared at Buba, the bird’s round eye as big as the sun. The owl blinked once or twice and shifted from claw to claw. Isabeau looked around rather wildly. The branch they were sitting on was as large as an oak tree. The tree was like a tower. She could hear every sigh and murmur of the wind among the pine needles like the melody of an orchestra. She ducked her head down into her feathers, terribly afraid.
Why are you-hooh a-swoon? Buba asked. We flew-hooh together through moon cool-hooh, soar-swooped together as owls should-hooh.
But I am not really an owl, Isabeau replied shakily. I do-hooh not know how to-hooh change back.
Why would you-hooh want to-hooh? Buba said.
I’m not an owl, I’m a girl-hoooooh, Isabeau wailed. If she had had tear ducts she would have cried, but all that came out was a long mournful hoot.
Owl now-hooh.
Isabeau unclasped and clasped her talons anxiously. Buba huddled closer, rubbing her feathery head against her. Come soar-swoop through moon cool-hooh, the elf-owl said and took off into the darkness.
After a moment Isabeau spread her wings and flapped them. She was afraid to launch off as Buba had done. The ground was terribly far away. It would have been like jumping off the top of the Tower of Two Moons. She hooted anxiously and Buba materialised out of the darkness, white and silent as a snowflake. She landed beside Isabeau and, without warning, pushed her off the branch. Isabeau shrieked and flung open her wings. Effortlessly she glided through the darkness. A fretwork of twigs sprang towards her and she shrieked again and turned instinctively, narrowly missing a tree trunk. She ducked her head and flapped her wings, and her body obediently soared upwards. Euphoria filled her. She was flying! She experimented, stretching one wing then the other, flapping them, holding them still. Through the dark forest she bumped and bounced, Buba gliding beside her.
At last they came to the edge of the forest, looking out across the river to the shoulders of the mountain. The Skull of the World towered at the head of the valley. Isabeau’s euphoria faded abruptly. Here she was at her journey’s end, and she was trapped in the shape of an owl. How was she to complete her quest and return to the pride as an owl?
I have to-hooh remember how-hooh I changed shape, she said to Buba. If I can change shape once, I can surely do-hooh it again.
The elf-owl only stared at her unblinkingly. Isabeau stared back. She would have liked to have rubbed her eyes and yawned, for she was very tired. It was hard to think, her head felt stuffed with feathers.
Noon for snooze-hooh, moon cool for soar-swooping, Buba said. Snooze-hooh when sun comes.
So-hooh snoozy, Isabeau said. She could hardly stretch her wings out and thought if she had tried to fly, she would have dropped like a stone.
Come, Buba said. Creep inside tree and snooze-hooh. Owl shall pursue subdue for you-hooh.
Isabeau obeyed. Within the bole of the tree was a snug little cave, lined with sawdust and pine needles. She huddled her wings about her and closed her eyes, sleep falling down on her like a giant hammer.
When she woke Buba slept beside her, head sunk into her ruffled-up feathers, a little pile of half-eaten moths and grasshoppers beside her. Once Isabeau would have been revolted by the sight. Now she felt a savage hunger awake in her and devoured the insects hungrily. Once her appetite was sated, she poked her head out of the hole in the trunk. It was daytime and the sun dazzled her eyes. She snuggled back down into the burrow, hunched her head down into her wings, her ear tufts erect. Just as she was dropping back to sleep, she involuntarily burped up a little hard pellet of undigested shell and wing. Feeling much better, she settled down into sleep again.
It was night when she woke. Hunger was gnawing at her once more and so she made no complaint when Buba led her out to hunt. They flew through the forest, snapping at moths and little night insects, searching out grubs under bark, and breaking open cocoons with their sharp hooked beaks. Isabeau managed her wings with some skill this time, though she did not have the same effortless silence as Buba.
When they were replete, the owls flew on through the forest, flying for the sheer joy of it. They soared along the curve of the river and up the cliff, where two thin waterfalls created fantastical curtains of water, intricate as lace. As Isabeau soared up into the dark sky, a vague thought tugged at the back of her mind. She saw how the waterfalls streamed down on either side of a great yawning cave and said to herself, The Tears of the Gods.
She turned and swooped back, following the course of the falling water till she came again to the dark entrance of the cave. With her owl-sight she could see clearly in the darkness. With a great bulge of rock above the gaping cave and the two waterfalls streaming down from clefts on either side, the cliff face looked like a face contorted with grief. The entrance to the cave was like a mouth stretched into a howl. Memory came back to her, and with it a kind of horror. The World’s Mouth!
Isabeau fled back to the sanctuary of the trees, owl-thought and human-thought jostling together. She crept into the burrow in the bole of the tree, though this time she did not sleep, just huddled there, her head nervously rotating to one side then the other. Buba crept in and snuggled down close for comfort.
I have to-hooh change back, I have to-hooh change back, Isabeau thought frantically. How-hooh? How-hooh?
Buba gave a derisive cry. Why all this hooh-hooting? Just do-hooh it, she said. Not here-hooh though. Too-hooh huge for this nook-hooh.
Isabeau calmed a little. True-hooh.
It was almost dawn and Buba was sleepy. Snooze-hooh through noon-hooh, in moon cool you-hooh change, hooh-hooh?
Hooh-hooh, Isabeau agreed, coughing u
p a little pellet and settling down to sleep.
In the pine-scented darkness Isabeau crouched on the ground, her head sunk down into her wings as she concentrated as hard as she could. Buba sat on a branch above her, rotating her head occasionally to scan the forest, her round eyes unblinking.
Isabeau had absolutely no idea how she had managed to change shape. One moment she had been fleeing down the mountainside, an ocean of snow crashing down upon her. The next moment, she had been soaring up into the sky, a tiny white owl. There had been no conscious decision, no setting of her will as was usual with the working of witchcraft. All she had felt was an urgent need to escape, to fly into the sky as Buba did.
Shapechanging was not something witches could usually do. It was magic out of faerytales and myths, magic against the natural order of things. It was not like conjuring fire, which shivered always in the air between sky and earth. It was not like whistling up the wind, which coiled and shifted around the world in constant motion anyway. It was not like Meghan’s charm with animals, which came from loving them and understanding them, or Ishbel’s ability to fly, which came from reversing the natural forces of the universe which caused a stone to fall to the ground and the stars to swing in their courses.
Yet Isabeau had seen tadpoles grow legs and lungs and become frogs. She had seen caterpillars spin themselves silken cocoons in which to sleep, gnawing their way free in the spring with new wings glued to their backs, transformed into butterflies. Nature was full of transformations.
And Eileanan was full of magical creatures that shifted from one shape to another. Isabeau had watched her friend Lilanthe shift into the shape of a tree many times, flesh growing leaves and bark and flowers in a most disconcerting manner. She had seen Maya the Ensorcellor metamorphose into her sea-shape, shining with silvery scales, her back curving down into a great finned tail like a fish. She had even watched as her father had been transformed back into a man after seventeen years trapped in the body of a horse. Thinking about those metamorphoses, Isabeau remembered what Buba had said. Just do-hooh it.