Stonehenge Page 11

  Derrewyn shuddered. “I only met him once,” she said, “and I thought he was frightening.”

  “He’s just clumsy,” Saban said and half smiled. “I used to take him food and he liked to try and frighten me. He’d gibber and jump about, pretending to be mad.”

  “Pretending?”

  “He likes to pretend.”

  She shrugged, then shook her head as if Camaban’s fate were of no importance. South of the temple a group of men were tearing the wool from the backs of sheep, making the beasts bleat pitifully. Derrewyn laughed at the naked-looking animals, and Saban watched her, marveling at the delicacy of her face and the smoothness of her sun-browned legs. She was no older than he was, yet it seemed to Saban that Derrewyn had a confidence he lacked. Derrewyn herself pretended not to notice that she was being admired, but just turned to look at the Old Temple where Gilan was being helped by Galeth and his son, Mereth, who was just a year younger than Saban. Just a year, though because Saban was now a man the gap between him and Mereth seemed much wider.

  Gilan and his two helpers were trying to find the center of the shrine, and to do it they had stretched a string of woven bark fiber across the grassy circle within the inner bank. Once they were sure that they had discovered the widest space across the circle they doubled the string and tied a piece of grass about its looped end. That way they knew they had a line that was as long as the circle was wide, and that the grass knot marked the exact center of the line, and now they were stretching the line again and again across the circle’s width in an attempt to find the temple’s center. Galeth held one end of the string, Mereth the other, and Gilan stood in the middle forever wanting to know if his two helpers were standing right beside the bank, or on it, or just beyond it, and whenever he was satisfied that they were in their right places he would mark where the scrap of grass was tied about the string by planting a stick in the ground. There were now a dozen sticks, all within a few hands’ lengths of each other, though no two were marking exactly the same place and Gilan kept taking new measurements in the hope of finding two points that agreed.

  “Why do they need to find the middle of the temple?” Saban asked.

  “Because on midsummer’s morning,” Derrewyn said, “they’ll find exactly where Slaol rises and then they’ll draw a line from there to the temple’s center.” She was a priest’s daughter and knew such things. Gilan had now decided on one of the many sticks, so he plucked the others out of the soil before clumsily banging a stake into the ground to mark the shrine’s center. It seemed that was the extent of this day’s work, for Gilan now rolled the string into a ball and, after muttering a prayer, walked back toward Ratharryn.

  “You want to go hunting?” Galeth called to Saban.

  “No,” Saban called back.

  “Getting lazy now you’re a man?” Galeth asked good-naturedly, then waved and followed the high priest.

  “You don’t want to hunt?” Derrewyn asked Saban.

  “I’m a man now,” Saban said. “I can have my own hut, keep cattle and slaves, and I can take a woman into the forest.”

  “A woman?” Derrewyn asked.

  “You,” he said. He stood, picked up his spear, then held out his hand.

  Derrewyn looked at him for a heartbeat. “What happened last night in Slaol’s temple?”

  “There were seventeen men,” Saban said, “and fourteen girls. I slept.”

  “Why?”

  “I was waiting for you,” he said and his heart was full and tremulous for it seemed that what he did now was far more dangerous than sleeping in the dark trees among the Outfolk and outcast enemies. He touched the necklace of seashells she had given him. “I was waiting for you,” he said again.

  She stood. For an instant Saban thought she would turn away, but then she smiled and took his hand. “I’ve never been into the forest,” she said.

  “Then it is time you went,” Saban said, and led her eastward. He was a man.

  Chapter 6

  Saban and Derrewyn went eastward across Mai’s river, then north past the settlement until they reached a place where the valley was steep and narrow and thick trees arched high above the running water. Sunlight splashed through the leaves. The call of the corncrakes in the wheatfields had long faded and all they could hear now was the river’s rippling and the whisper of the wind and the scrabble of squirrels’ claws and the staccato flap of a pigeon bursting through the high leaves. Orchids grew purple among the water mint at the river’s edge while the haze of the fading bluebells clouded the shadows beneath the trees. Kingfishers whipped bright above the river where red-dabbed moorhen chicks paddled between the rushes.

  Saban took Derrewyn to an island in the river, a place where willow and ash grew thick above a bank of long grass and thick moss. They waded to the island, then lay on the moss and Derrewyn watched air bubbles breaking the leaf-shadowed water where otters twisted after fish. A doe came to the farther bank, but sprang away before she drank because Derrewyn sighed too loudly in admiration. Then Derrewyn wanted to catch fish, so she took Saban’s new spear and stood in the shallows and every now and then she would plunge the blade down at a trout or a grayling, but always missed. “Aim below them,” Saban told her.

  “Below them?”

  “See how the spear bends in the water?”

  “It just looks that way,” she said, then lunged, missed again and laughed. The spear was heavy and it tired her, so she tossed it onto the bank, then just stood letting the river run about her brown knees. “Do you want to be chief here?” she asked Saban after a while.

  He nodded. “I think so, yes.”

  She turned to look at him. “Why?”

  Saban did not have an answer. He had become accustomed to the idea, that was all. His father was chief, and though that did not mean that one of Hengall’s sons should necessarily be the next chief, the tribe would look to those sons first and Saban was now the only one who might succeed. “I think I want to be like my father,” he said carefully. “He’s a good chief.”

  “What makes a good chief?”

  “You keep people alive in winter,” Saban said, “you cut back the forests, you judge disputes fairly and protect the tribe from enemies.”

  “From Cathallo?” Derrewyn asked.

  “Only if Cathallo threatens us.”

  “They won’t. I shall make sure of that.”

  “You will?”

  “Kital likes me, and one of his sons will be the next chief and they’re all my cousins, and they all like me.” She looked at him shyly, as though he would find that surprising. “I shall insist that we all be friends,” she said fiercely. “It’s stupid being enemies. If men want to fight they should go and find the Outfolk.” She suddenly splashed him with water. “Can you swim?”

  “Yes.”

  “Teach me.”

  “Just throw yourself in,” Saban said.

  “And I’ll drown,” she said. “Two men in Cathallo drowned once and we didn’t find them for days and they were all swollen.” She pretended to half lose her balance. “And I’ll be like them, all swollen and nibbled by fish and it’ll be your fault because you wouldn’t teach me to swim.”

  Saban laughed, but stood and stripped off his new wolfskin tunic. Until a few days before he had always gone naked in summer, but now he felt embarrassed without the tunic. He ran fast into the water that was wonderfully cold after the heat under the trees and swam away from Derrewyn, going into a deep pool where the river swirled in dark ripples. Splashing to keep his head above water, once he had reached the pool’s center, he turned to call Derrewyn into the river, only to find that she was already there, very close behind him. She laughed at his shocked expression. “I learned to swim a long time ago,” she said, then took a deep breath, ducked her head and kicked her bare legs into the air so that she could dive down beneath Saban. She too was naked.

  Saban splashed back to the island where he lay on his belly in the grass. He watched Derrewyn dive and swim, and
still watched her as she came to the river’s edge and slowly walked from the water with her long black hair sleek and dripping. To Saban she appeared like the river goddess Mai herself, coming from the water in awesome beauty, and then she knelt beside him, making the skin of his back shiver where her hair touched the burn scars on his shoulder blades. He lay very still, conscious of her, but scarce daring to move in case he frightened her away. This, he told himself, was why he had asked her to come into the forest, though now that the moment was on him he was consumed by nervousness. Derrewyn must have known what he was thinking for she touched his shoulder, making him turn over, then she lowered herself into his arms. “You ate the clay, Saban,” she whispered, her wet hair cold on his shoulders, “so the skull’s curse cannot touch you.”

  “You know that?”

  “I promise that,” she whispered, and he shivered because it seemed to him as if Mai really had come in her splendor from the water. He held her close, very close, and like a fool he thought his joy could last forever.

  That afternoon, as Derrewyn and Saban waited for the sun to sink and the twilight to bring the shadows through which they could creep secretly home, they heard singing from the hill above the river’s western bank. They dressed, waded across the branch of the river, and climbed toward the sound that became louder with their every step. The two went slowly and cautiously, but they need not have worried about being seen for the singers were too intent on their task to notice two lovers among the leaves.

  The singers were women from Cathallo and they were lined up either side of seventy sweating men who were hauling on long ropes of twisted leather which were attached to a great oak sledge on which the first of Ratharryn’s eight stones sat. It was one of the smaller stones, yet its weight was such that the men were heaving and grunting to keep the cumbersome sledge moving along the rough woodland path. Other men went ahead to smooth the way, cutting out roots and kicking down tussocks of grass, but after a while the men on the ropes were simply too exhausted to continue. They had hauled all day, they had even pulled the great sledge up the hill south of Maden, and now they were spent so they left the sledge in the middle of the wood and walked south toward Ratharryn where they expected to be fed. Derrewyn gripped Saban’s arm. “I’ll go with them,” she whispered.

  “Why?”

  “Then I can say I came to meet them. That way no one will wonder where I’ve been.” She reached up, kissed his cheek, then ran after the retreating people.

  Saban waited until they had gone, then went and stroked the stone on its oak sledge. It was warm to the touch and, where the sun pierced the leaves to shine on the boulder, tiny flecks of light glinted in the rock. Touching the stone coincided with a great surge of happiness. He was a man, and he had a woman as beautiful as any in the land. He had held Derrewyn on the river’s bank and it seemed to Saban that life was as rich and hopeful as it could ever be. The gods loved him.

  Hengall hardly felt that the gods loved him for that evening a great crowd of Cathallo folk arrived at Ratharryn and they all needed to be fed and given places to sleep and he had not realized, when he paid the gold pieces for the eight stones, that they would cost him so much in food. He also had to provide more folk to help haul the stones, and those were found among the poorer families in the settlement and they had to be paid in meat and grain. Hengall saw his herds diminish and he began to doubt the wisdom of his bargain, but he did not try to repudiate it. He sent men to haul the stones and, day by day as the summer neared its height, the great boulders crept toward Ratharryn.

  The four larger stones proved difficult. There was a path across the stream-cut marshlands near Maden, but it was too narrow for the bigger stones and so Kital’s men hauled those boulders far to the west before turning south toward Ratharryn. But there was a hill in their path, not so steep as the hill up which the four smaller stones had already been hauled, but still a formidable obstacle that proved too much for the men dragging the first of the big boulders. More ropes were fetched and more men were harnessed to the sledge, but still the stone would not shift up the slope. They tried pulling the sledge with oxen, but when the beasts took the strain they bunched together and impeded each other and it was not until Galeth devised the idea of harnessing the oxen to a great bar of oak, and then attaching ropes from the oak bar to the sledge, that they managed to shift the great stone and so drag it to the hilltop where, with its runners now crushing the level grass, it was hauled onward. The other three heavy stones were fetched in the same way. The priests hung flowers from the oxen’s horns, the beasts were surrounded by singers and there was joy in Ratharryn for the summer was kind, the stones had come safely and it seemed that the ill omens of the past had all faded.

  Midsummer arrived. The fires were lit and Ratharryn’s men wore the bullskins and chased the women about Slaol’s temple. Saban did not run with the bull-men, though he could have, but instead he sat with Derrewyn and, as the fires died, they jumped the flames hand in hand. Gilan dispensed the liquor brewed for the night’s celebrations; some folk screamed as they saw visions, while others became belligerent or ill, but eventually they slept, except Saban, who stayed awake, for Jegar had been drunkenly searching for him with a spear in his left hand and revenge on his liquor-fuddled mind. Saban stayed close to the temple that night, sitting guard over the sleeping Derrewyn, though he dozed toward morning when he was woken by footfalls and quickly lifted his spear. A man was coming up the path from the settlement and Saban crouched, ready to lunge, then saw the reflection of dying firelight glint from the man’s bald head and realized it was Gilan, not Jegar.

  “Who’s that?” the high priest asked.

  “Saban.”

  “You can help me,” Gilan said cheerfully. “I need a helper. I was going to ask Neel, but he’s sleeping like a dog.”

  Saban woke Derrewyn and the two of them walked with Gilan to the Old Temple. It was the year’s shortest night and Gilan kept glancing at the north-eastern horizon for fear that the sun would rise before he reached the Old Temple. “I need to mark the rising sun,” he explained as they passed through the grave mounds. He bowed to the ancestors, then hurried on to where the eight stones waited on their sledges just outside the Old Temple’s ditch. The north-eastern sky was perceptibly lightening, but the sun had yet to blaze across the far wooded hills. “We need some markers,” Gilan said, and Saban went down into the ditch and found a half-dozen large lumps of chalk, then he stood in the entrance causeway while Gilan went to the stake that marked the temple’s center. Derrewyn, forbidden to enter the temple because she was a woman, waited between the ditches and banks of the newly cut sacred path.

  Saban turned to face the northeast. The horizon was shadowy and the hills in front of it were gray and sifted with the smoke from the dying midsummer fires that rose from Ratharryn’s valley. The cattle on the nearer slopes were white ghostly shapes.

  “Soon,” Gilan said, “soon,” and he prayed that the scatter of clouds on the horizon would not hide the sun’s rising.

  The clouds turned pink and the pink deepened and spread, becoming red, and Saban, watching where the blazing sky touched the jet black earth, saw a gap of sky above the trees and suddenly there was a fierce brightness in those distant woods as the sun’s upper edge slashed through the leaves.

  “To your left!” Gilan called. “Your left. One pace. No, back! There! There!”

  Saban placed a chalk marker at his feet, then stood to watch the sun chase away the stars. At first Slaol appeared like a flattened ball that leaked an ooze of fire along the wooded ridge, and then the red turned to white, too fierce for the eyes, and the first light of the new year shone straight along the new sacred path that led to the Old Temple’s entrance. Saban shaded his eyes and watched the night shadows shrink in the valleys. “To your right!” Gilan called. “To your right!” He made Saban place another marker at the spot where the sun was at last wholly visible above the horizon, and then he waited until the sun just showed above Saban’
s head and made him place a third marker. The sound of the tribe singing its welcome to the sun came gently across the grass.

  Gilan examined the markers Saban had laid and grunted happily when he saw that some of the old posts which had decayed in their sockets had evidently marked the same alignments. “We did a good job,” he said approvingly.

  “What do we do next?” Saban asked.

  Gilan gestured either side of the temple’s entrance. “We’ll plant two of the larger stones here as a gate,” he said, then pointed to where Derrewyn stood in the sacred path, “and put the other two there to frame the sun’s midsummer rising.”

  “And the four smaller stones?” Saban asked.

  “They’ll mark Lahanna’s wanderings,” the priest answered, and pointed across the river valley. “We’ll show where she appears farthest to the south,” he said, then turned and gestured in the opposite direction, “and where she vanishes in the north.” Gilan’s face seemed to glow with happiness in the early light. “It will be a simple temple,” he said softly, “but beautiful. Very beautiful. One line for Slaol and two for Lahanna, marking a place where they can meet beneath the sky.”

  “But they’re estranged,” Saban said.

  Gilan laughed. He was a kindly man, portly and bald, who had never shared Hirac’s fear of offending the gods. “We have to balance Slaol and Lahanna,” he explained. “They already have a temple apiece in Ratharryn, so how will Lahanna feel if we give Slaol a second shrine all of his own?” He left that question unanswered. “And we were wrong, I think, to keep Slaol and Lahanna apart. At Cathallo they use one shrine for all the gods, so why shouldn’t we worship Slaol and Lahanna in one place?”

  “But it’s still a temple to Slaol?” Saban asked anxiously, remembering how the sun god had helped him at the beginning of his ordeal.

  “It’s still a temple to Slaol,” Gilan agreed, “but now it will acknowledge Lahanna too, just like the shrine at Cathallo.” He smiled. “And at its dedication we shall marry you to Derrewyn as a foretaste of Slaol and Lahanna’s reunion.”