The Moon of Gomrath
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For Adam, Ellen & Katherine
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Map
Epigraph
1. The Elves of Sinadon
2. The Well
3. Atlendor
4. The Brollachan
5. “To a Woman yt was Dumpe”
6. Old Evil
7. Old Magic
8. Shining Tor
9. The Horsemen of Donn
10. Lord of the Herlathing
11. The Dale of Goyt
12. The Mere
13. The Bodach
14. The Wild Hunt
15. Errwood
16. The Howl of Ossar
17. The Witch-brand
18. The Dolorous Blow
19. The Children of Danu
20. The Last Ride
Notes
Praise
Also by the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
MAP
“And for to passe the tyme thys book shal be plesaunte to rede in, but for to gyve fayth and byleve that al is trewe that is conteyned herein, yet be at your lyberté.”
WILLIAM CAXTON
31 JULY 1485
CHAPTER 1
THE ELVES OF SINADON
It was bleak on Mottram road under the Edge, the wooded hill of Alderley. Trees roared high in the darkness. If any people had cause to be out in the night, they kept their heads deep in their collars, and their faces screwed blindly against the Pennine wind. And it was as well they did, for among the trees something was happening that was not meant for human eyes.
From a rib of the Edge a shaft of blue light cut the darkness. It came from a narrow opening in a high, tooth-shaped rock, and within the opening was a pair of iron gates thrown wide, and beyond them a tunnel. Shadows moved on the trees as a strange procession entered through the gates and down into the hill.
They were a small people, not more than four feet high, deep-chested, with narrow waists, and long, slender arms and legs. They wore short tunics, belted and sleeveless, and their feet were bare. Some had cloaks of white eagle feathers, though these were marks of rank rather than a protection. They carried deeply curved bows, and from their belts hung on one side quivers of white arrows, and on the other broad stabbing swords. Each rode a small white horse, and some sat proudly erect, though most drooped over the pommels of their saddles, and a few lay irrevocably still across their horses’ necks, and the reins were held by others. All together they numbered close on five hundred.
Beside the iron gates stood an old man. He was very tall, and thin as a young birch tree. His white robes, and long white hair and beard flew with the gale, and he held a white staff in his hand.
Slowly the horsemen filed through the gates into the glimmering tunnel, and when they were all inside, the old man turned, and followed them. The iron gates swung shut behind him, and there was just a bare rock in the wind.
In this way the elves of Sinadon came unnoticed to Fundindelve, last stronghold of the High Magic in our days, and were met by Cadellin Silverbrow, a great wizard, and guardian of the secret places of the Edge.
CHAPTER 2
THE WELL
“Eh up,” said Gowther Mossock, “what’s this?”
“What’s what?” said Colin.
“This here in the Advertiser.”
Colin and Susan leant forward to look where Gowther’s finger pointed to a headline near the middle of the page.
PLUMBING THE DEPTHS
Speculation has been aroused by the discovery of what appears to be a thirty-foot well, during excavations in front of the Trafford Arms Hotel, Alderley Edge.
While workmen employed by Isaac Massey and Sons were digging to trace a surface water drain they moved a stone flag and discovered a cavity. The lowering of a weighted string showed that the depth was thirty feet, with fifteen feet of water. The well was in no way connected with the drain, and although the whole of the covering was not removed it was estimated that the cavity was about six feet square with stone walls covered with slabs of stone.
It has been suggested that at one time there was a pump in front of the hotel and that excavations have revealed the well from which water was pumped.
Another theory is that it may probably be an air shaft connected with the ancient mines, which extend for a considerable distance in the direction of the village.
“The funny thing is,” said Gowther when the children had finished reading, “as long as I con remember it’s always been said there’s a tunnel from the copper mines comes out in the cellars of the Trafford. And now theer’s this. I wonder what the answer is.”
“I dunner see as it matters,” said Bess Mossock. “Yon’s nobbut a wet hole, choose how you look at it. And it con stay theer, for me.”
Gowther laughed. “Nay, lass, wheer’s your curiosity?”
“When you’re my age,” said Bess, “and getting as fat as Pig Ellen, theer’s other things to bother your head with, besides holes with water in them.
“Now come on, let’s be having you. I’ve my shopping to do, and you’ve not finished yet, either.”
“Could we have a look at the hole before we start?” said Susan.
“That’s what I was going to suggest,” said Gowther. “It’s only round the corner. It wunner take but a couple of minutes.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” said Bess. “I hope you enjoy yourselves. But dunner take all day, will you?”
They went out from the chip shop into the village street. Among all the parked cars, the Mossocks’ green cart, with their white horse, Prince, between the shafts, stood thirty years behind its surroundings. And the Mossocks were the same. Bess, in her full coat, and round, brimmed hat held with a pin, and Gowther, in his waistcoat and breeches – they had seen no reason to change the way of life that suited them. Once a week they rode down from Highmost Redmanhey, their farm on the southern slope of the Edge, to deliver eggs, poultry, and vegetables to customers in Alderley village. When Colin and Susan had first come to stay at Highmost Redmanhey everything had seemed very strange, but they had quickly settled into the Mossocks’ pattern.
Gowther and the children walked at Prince’s head for the short distance up the street to the De Trafford Arms, a public house built to Victorian ideas of beauty in half-timbered gothic.
A trench about three feet deep had been dug along the front of the building, close against the wall. Gowther mounted the pile of earth and clay that stood beside it, and looked down into the trench.
“Ay, this is it.”
Colin and Susan stepped up to join him.
The corner of a stone slab was sticking out of the trench wall a little way above the floor. A piece of the slab had broken off, making a hole three inches wide: that was all. Susan took a pebble, and dropped it through the gap. A second later there was a resonant ‘plunk’ as it hit water.
“It dunner tell you much, does it?” said Gowther. “Con you see owt?”
Susan had jumped into the trench, and was squinting through the hole.
“It’s – a round – shaft. There seems to be something like a pipe sticking into it. I can’t see any more.”
“Happen it’s nobbut a well,” said Gowther. “Pity: I’ve always liked to think theer’s summat in the owd tale.”
They went back to the cart, and when Bess had done her shopping they continued on their round of deliveries. It was late afternoon before all was finished.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting to walk home through the wood again,” said Gowther.
“Yes, please,” said Colin.
“Ay, well, I think you’d do best to leave it alone, myself,” said Gowther. “But if you’re set on going, you mun go – though I doubt you’ll find much. And think on you come straight home; it’ll be dark in an hour, and them woods are treacherous at neet. You could be down a mine hole as soon as wink.”
Colin and Susan walked along the foot of the Edge. Every week they did this, while Bess and Gowther rode home in the cart, and any free time they had was also spent wandering on this hill, searching—
For a quarter of a mile, safe suburban gardens bounded the road, then fields began to show, and soon they were clear of the village. On their right the vertical north face of the Edge rose over them straight from the footpath, beeches poised above the road, and the crest harsh with pine and rock.
They left the road, and for a long time they climbed in silence, deep into the wood. Then Susan spoke:
“But what do you think’s the matter? Why can’t we find Cadellin now?”
“Oh, don’t start that again,” said Colin. “We never did know how to open the iron gates, or the Holywell entrance, so we’re not likely to be able to find him.”
“Yes, but why shouldn’t he want to see us? I could understand it before, when he knew it wasn’t safe to come here, but not now. What is there to be scared of now that the Morrigan’s out of the way?”
“That’s it,” said Colin. “Is she?”
“But she must be,” said Susan. “Gowther says her house is empty, and it’s the talk of the village.”
“But whether she’s alive or not, she still wouldn’t be at the house,” said Colin. “I’ve been thinking about it: the only other time Cadellin did this to us was when he thought she was around. He’s either got tired of us, or there’s trouble. Why else would it always be like this?”
They had reached the Holywell. It lay at the foot of a cliff in one of the many valleys of the Edge. It was a shallow, oblong, stone trough, into which water dripped from the rock. Beside it was a smaller, fan-shaped basin, and above it a crack in the rock face, and that, the children knew, was the second gate of Fundindelve. But now, as for weeks past, their calling was not answered.
How Colin and Susan were first drawn into the world of Magic that lies as near and unknown to us as the back of a shadow is not part of this story. But having once experienced the friendship of Cadellin Silverbrow, they were deeply hurt now that he seemed to have abandoned them without reason or warning. Almost they wished that they had never discovered enchantment: they found it unbearable that the woods for them should be empty of anything but loveliness, that the boulder that hid the iron gates should remain a boulder, that the cliff above the Holywell should be just a cliff.
“Come on,” said Colin. “Staring won’t open it. And if we don’t hurry, we shan’t be home before dark, and you know how Bess likes to fuss.”
They climbed out of the valley on to the top of the Edge. It was dusk: branches stood against the sky, and twilight ran in the grass, and gathered black in the chasms and tunnel eyes of the old mines which scarred the woodland with their spoil of sand and rock. There was the sound of wind, though the trees did not move.
“But Cadellin would have told us if we couldn’t—”
“Wait a minute!” said Colin. “What’s down there? Can you see?”
They were walking along the side of a quarry. It had not been worked for many years, and its floor was covered with grass, so that only its bare walls made it different from the other valleys of the Edge. But their sheerness gave the place a primitive atmosphere, a seclusion that was both brooding and peaceful. Here night was gathering very quickly.
“Where?” said Susan.
“At the other end of the quarry: a bit to the left of that tree.”
“No—”
“There it goes! Sue! What is it?”
The hollows of the valley were in darkness, and a patch of the darkness was moving, blacker than the rest. It flowed across the grass, shapeless, flat, changing in size, and up the cliff face. Somewhere near the middle, if there was a middle, were two red points of light. It slipped over the edge of the quarry, and was absorbed into the bracken.
“Did you see it?” said Colin.
“Yes: if there was anything there. It may just have – been the light.”
“Do you think it was?”
“No.”
CHAPTER 3
ATLENDOR
They hurried now. Whether the change was in themselves or in the wood, Colin and Susan felt it. The Edge had suddenly become, not quite malevolent, but alien, unsafe. And they longed to be clear of the trees: for either the light, or nerves, or both, seemed to be playing still further tricks on them. They kept imagining that there was white movement among the tree tops – nothing clear, but suggested, and elusive.
“Do you think there was anything in the quarry?” said Susan.
“I don’t know. And, anyway, what? I think it must have been the light – don’t you?”
But before Susan could answer, there was a hissing in the air, and the children leapt aside as sand spurted between them at their feet: then they saw that there was an arrow, small and white, imbedded in the path, and as they stared, an impassive voice spoke out of the dusk above their heads.
“Move not a sinew of your sinews, nor a vein of your veins, nor a hair of your heads, or I shall send down of slender oaken darts enough to sew you to the earth.”
Instinctively Colin and Susan looked up. Before them a very old silver birch threw its trunk in an arch across the path, and among the branches stood a slight figure, man-like, yet not four feet high. He wore a white tunic, and his skin was wind-brown. The locks of his hair lay close to his head like tongues of silver fire: and his eyes – were the eyes of a goat. They held a light that was mirrored from nothing in the wood, and in his hand was a deeply-curved bow.
At first, Colin and Susan stood, unable to speak, then the tension of the last few minutes broke in Colin.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he shouted. “You nearly hit us with that thing!”
“Oh, the Donas! Oh, the holy Mothan! It is himself that can speak to elves!”
Colin and Susan started at the sound of this rich voice that welled with laughter. They turned, and saw another small, but stockier, figure standing on the path behind them, his red hair glowing darkly in the last light. They had rarely seen such an ugly face. It was big-lipped, gap-toothed, warted, potato-nosed, shaggily thatched and bearded, the skin tanned like brambles at New Year. The left eye was covered with a black patch, but the right eye had the life of two in it. He was unmistakably a dwarf. He came forward and clapped Colin on the shoulder, and Colin rocked under the blow.
“And it is I, Uthecar Hornskin, that love you for it! Hey now! Will his mightiness come down out of yon tree and speak with his friends?” The white figure in the tree did not move: he seemed not to hear what was said. “I am thinking there is more need of elf-shot in other parts of the wood this night than here! I see Albanac coming, and he in no quiet mood!”
The dwarf looked down the path beyond Colin and Susan. They could not see far in the dark, but they heard the faint sound of hoofs pounding towards them. Nearer and louder they grew, and then out of the night came a black horse, wild-eyed and sweating, and halted in a spray of sand. Its rider, a tall man, himself clothed in black, called up into the tree. “My lord Atlendor! We have found it, but it is free of the wood to the south, and moving too fast for me. Ermid son of Erbin, Riogan son of Moren, and Anwas the Winged, with half their cantrefs, have it in sight, but they are not enough. Hurry!” His straight hair hung black upon his shoulders, gold glinted at his ear, and his eyes were like burning ice. A deep-crowned, wide-brimmed hat was on his head, and about his shoulders was a cloak fastened with a silver buckle.
“I go. Albanac shall teach my will to these folk.” The elf ran lightly along the birch trunk and disappeared into the crown. There was a rush of white in the surrounding trees, like swirling snow, and a noise like wind in the branches.
For some time nobody spoke. The dwarf gave the impression that he was enjoying the situation and was happy to let others make the next move; the man called Albanac looked at the children; and Colin and Susan were recovering from their surprise, and taking in the fact that they were back in the world of Magic – by accident, it seemed; and now that they were back, they remembered that this was a world of deep shadows as well as of enchantment.
They had been walking into it ever since they reached the quarry. If they could have recognised this atmosphere for what it was, the successive shocks of elf, dwarf, and rider would not have been so breathless.
“I think now,” said Albanac, “that the matter is out of Cadellin’s hands.”
“What do you mean?” said Colin. “And what’s all this about?”
“As for what I mean, that will take some telling, and what it is about is the same thing. And the place for it all is Fundindelve, so let us go together.”
“Is there not more urgent business in the wood this night?” said Uthecar.
“Nothing that we can do,” said Albanac. “The speed and the eyes of elves are the only hope, and I fear they will not be enough.”
He dismounted from his horse, and walked with the children and the dwarf back along the path. But after a little while, Susan noticed that they were not making for the Holywell.
“Wouldn’t it be quicker that way?” she said, pointing to their left.
“It would be,” said Albanac, “but this way the path is broader, which is a good thing this night.”
They came to a wide expanse of stone and sand which spilled down the face of the Edge. This was Stormy Point, a place of fine views in daylight, but now it was friendless. From here they crossed over the rocks to Saddlebole, which was a spur of the hill jutting into the plain, and half-way along this stood a tall boulder.
“Will you open the gates, Susan?” said Albanac.
“But I can’t,” said Susan. “I’ve tried often enough.”
“Colin,” said Albanac, “will you put your right hand to the rock, and say the word ‘Emalagra’?”
“What, like this?”
“Yes.”
“Emalagra?”
“Again.”
“Emalagra! Emalagra!”
Nothing happened. Colin stood back, looking foolish.
“Now Susan,” said Albanac.
Susan stepped up to the boulder, and put her right hand against it.
“Emalagra. See? It’s no good. I’ve tried every—”
A crack appeared in the rock; it grew wider, revealing a pair of iron gates, and beyond these a tunnel lit by a blue light.
CHAPTER 4
THE BROLLACHAN
“Will you open the gates?” said Albanac.
Susan stretched out her hand, and touched the iron gates. They swung open.
“Quickly now,” said Uthecar. “It is a healthier night within than without.”
He hurried the children through the gates, and the rock closed after them the moment they were all inside.
“Why did they open? They wouldn’t before,” said Susan.
“Because you spoke the word, and for another reason that we shall talk about,” said Albanac.
They went with Albanac down the paths of Fundindelve. Tunnel entered cave, and cave gave way to tunnel: caves, and tunnels, each different and the same: there seemed to be no end.
As they went deeper the blue light grew pale and strong, and by this the children knew that they were nearing the Cave of the Sleepers, for whose sake the old dwarf-mine of Fundindelve had been charged with the greatest magic of an age, and its guardian was Cadellin Silverbrow. Here in this cave, waiting through the centuries for the day when Cadellin should rouse him from his enchanted sleep to fight the last battle of the world, lay a king, surrounded by his knights, each with his milk-white mare.
The children looked about them, at the cold flames, now white in the core of the magic, flickering over the silver armour, at the horses, and the men, and listened to the muted, echoing murmur of their breathing, the beating of the heart of Fundindelve.
From the Cave of the Sleepers the way led uphill, by more tunnels, by stark, high-arching bridges over unknown depths, along narrow paths in the roofs of caves, across vaulted plains of sand, to the furthest caverns of the mine. And finally they came to a small cave close behind the Holywell that the wizard used for his quarters. In it were a few chairs, a long table, and a bed of skins.
“Where’s Cadellin?” said Susan.
“He will be with the lios-alfar, the elves,” said Albanac. “Many of them are ill of the smoke-sickness: but until he comes, rest you here. There is doubtless much you would know.”
“There certainly is!” said Colin. “Who was that shooting arrows at us?”
“The elf-lord, Atlendor son of Naf: he needs your help.”
“Needs our help?” said Colin. “He went a funny way about getting it!”
“But I never thought elves would be like that!” said Susan.
“No,” said Albanac. “You are both too hasty. Remember, he is under fear at this time. Danger besets him; he is tired, alone – and he is a king. Remember, too, that no elf has a natural love of men; for it is the dirt and ugliness and unclean air that men have worshipped these two hundred years that have driven the lios-alfar to the trackless places and the broken lands. You should see the smoke-sickness in the elves of Talebolion and Sinadon. You should hear it in their lungs. That is what men have done.”
“But how can we help?” said Susan.
“I will show you,” said Albanac. “Cadellin has spoken against this for many days, and he has good reason, but now you are here, and I think we must tell you what is wrong.
“In brief, it is this. There is something hiding in the dead wastes of the Northland, in far Prydein where the last kingdom of the elves has been made. For a long while now the numbers of the lios-alfar have been growing less – not through the smoke-sickness, as is happening in the west, but for some cause that we have not found. Elves vanish. They go without a sign. At first it was by ones and twos, but not long since a whole cantref, the cantref of Grannos, was lost, horses and weapons: not an arrow was seen. Some great wrong is at work, and to find it, and destroy it, Atlendor is bringing his people to him from the south and the west, gathering what magic he can. Susan, will you let him take the Mark of Fohla?”
“What’s that?” said Susan.
“It is the bracelet that Angharad Goldenhand gave to you.”
“This?” said Susan. “I didn’t know it had a name. What good is it to Atlendor?”
“I do not know,” said Albanac. “But any magic may help him – and you have magic there. Did you not open the gates?”
Susan looked at the band of ancient silver that she wore on her wrist. It was all she had brought with her out of the wreckage of their last encounter with this world, and it had been given to her, on a night of danger and enchantment, by Angharad Goldenhand, the Lady of the Lake. Susan did not know the meaning of the heavy letters that were traced in black, in a forgotten script, upon the silver, yet she knew that it was no ordinary bracelet, and she did not wear it lightly.