Moon Song (24 page)

‘Go home,’ came a voice in her head. ‘No need to tell Mark. Wait. Watch. You’ll know what to do.’

‘Will Tristan be there?’

‘No.’

Isoldé let out a sigh of relief.

‘Not yet anyway,’ the mare added. Isoldé could have sworn there was a chuckle in the voice in her head. ‘You have work to do. You have planted the seed of the song.’

Isoldé stared. ‘You don’t mean I’m pregnant?’ she gasped.

‘No …’ The chuckle sounded again in her head. ‘He is!’

If a horse could grin, Isoldé would have sworn the black mare did. With a flick of her tail she gave a little jump and galloped off toward the cliff. Watching, Isoldé saw she didn’t slow down but leapt up and out over the sea.

Isoldé was getting used to being in the house on her own. She was used to living alone but living alone at Caergollo was different. The house was alive with energy, with invisible things – well mostly invisible – that she could sense. The flats in London had not been like that. And there was always Embar. He had completely taken to her, would be with her whenever he could. He still went to Mark – Isoldé was glad of that, she didn’t want to take anything away from him – but she was included in Embar’s life, like he was her familiar spirit.

‘He was Tristan’s familiar,’ Mark had told her.

That thought, now, felt uncomfortable. She didn’t want to take Embar away from either Mark or Tristan. But …the cat seemed to have made up his own mind, he wanted to be with her.

It had been three days now since she’d been through the Lady’s Window. The house was quiet, the days dragged. Embar had been with her for most of that dead time, sat with her in her study or down in the library, under her feet in the kitchen. Mrs P kept a weather eye on them both, with the odd amused snuffle as though she suspected something or other. Isoldé had told nobody anything, not even where she’d gone, and she’d skilfully avoided any questions.

‘Damn the song!’ Isoldé exploded.

Embar mewled softly, wrapping his tail round her legs. He’d been trying to get her to go back up to the cottage, she’d refused. Even after everything that had happened it still felt very odd to know exactly what a cat was thinking, no possibility of being wrong, mistaken. ‘I probably ought to be sectioned,’ she muttered.

Uncle Brian would have understood. He always knew what animals were thinking, what they were saying to him, trees too. Isoldé had never been able to properly believe it. She knew it was
so, at least with Uncle Brian, but …how? Perhaps it was just some people who were able to hear that way. Not her …except now it was.

She sat down. Embar jumped into her lap. They sat together in the window seat looking out across the lawn. ‘I know, Embar, I know. I have to go up the cottage, but I can’t. I can’t. Not yet. He’ll be there. I know he will. I can’t face him yet.’ She paused, stroking Embar’s long dark fur. ‘Perhaps not ever.’

A sense of warmth crept over her, a confidence she hadn’t felt since before she went to the Lady’s Window. Embar’s purring was having an effect. Maybe she could face Tristan again. If she was to get the song she’d have to. She looked out across the lawn. He was there.

Isoldé jerked upright. Embar dug his claws into her leg. It stopped her. She sat still watching.

Tristan was on the other side of the lawn, at the edge of the trees. He stood at ease, weight into his right leg, his thumbs hooked into his trouser pockets, jacket tucked behind them, his shirt open, bandana fluttering slightly, along with the birch leaves of the tree he stood under. How was he here? Was he here? Was the place he stood even in the same world as the place she sat?

He looked up, saw her at the window. A hand came out of the pocket and waved dreamily to her. Without thinking, Isoldé waved back. Embar got up, went to the door, she followed him. It seemed events were making up her mind for her.

Down in the library, standing at the French windows, Isoldé saw Tristan hadn’t moved. The mare had told her he wouldn’t be at Caergollo. No …that wasn’t quite what she’d said. She’d said ‘not yet, anyway’ and that had been three days ago. Damn! Damn them all! Isoldé was angry, felt out of control, not something she was used to. ‘And I don’t want to get used to it either,’ she muttered.

But there was Tristan, stood across the lawn under the trees,
watching her. Embar brushed past her ankles and stalked out across the lawn, tail straight up like a mast and purring fit to bust. Tristan saw him immediately, crouched down, his face breaking into a smile. ‘Oh! Embar! It’s so good to see you again.’

Isoldé heard the joy and wistfulness in his voice and, despite her crossness, it pulled at her heart. Was it possible to be lonely, to miss your friends, when you’d passed over? Perhaps it was. She followed the cat across the grass. Tristan got up, they stood looking at each other, the cat purring and doing figures of eight around and between their legs.

After the silence had gone on for too long, Tristan began to speak, his voice croaked, he tried again. ‘How are you doing with the song?’

‘I’m not,’ Isoldé replied. She paused a moment, then went on, realising she’d sounded more brusque than she’d intended. ‘I’ve not tried. I don’t know how to try.’

‘Hmm!’ Tristan folded himself onto the grass. Isoldé sat on a log a pace away from him. Tristan’s rueful smile told her he understood why she didn’t want to get too close. ‘I don’t know if I want to do all that again either,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Not that I didn’t enjoy it,’ he added quickly. ‘I did. I …I’m just not used to it. Not with people. I mean real people …’ he trailed off, watching her.

Isoldé thought for a moment. ‘You mean …you mean you …your lovers …they’re the gods?’

Tristan chuckled. ‘I don’t think they call themselves that.’

‘No,’ Isoldé snorted in her turn. ‘That’s sort of what Gideon said …I think.’

‘But the answer to your question is yes.’

‘Rhiannon …?’

Tristan nodded. ‘You met her as the black mare, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘She was, is, my muse, my inspiration.’

‘She told me you’re pregnant with the song …’

They stared at each other.

‘So I have to give birth …?’

Isoldé took a deep breath. ‘I suppose you do …’ Her eyes narrowed as she studied Tristan.

‘How are we going to do that?’

Isoldé sighed. ‘I haven’t the foggiest,’ she replied. ‘In fact, since you’re here …and have been there …and have far more experience than I do, I’d rather hoped you would know. Or at least have some idea how to find out.’

‘Well I don’t.’ Tristan almost sounded sulky.

‘Oh! For the gods’ sake!’ Isoldé exploded at him. ‘I’m the neophyte here, not you. Why couldn’t you have hung on, finished the job. I don’t want the damn job. I don’t want to do this. All I want is to love Mark, to be with him. I don’t want all this stuff with you. All I want is him.’

She buried her face in her hands, shaking with dry sobs. Tristan wanted to comfort her but something about her stopped him, like a force field around her. He looked again and realised that there was a field there, like an aura around her, he could feel it repelling him. Isoldé stood up suddenly, ran back across the lawn. Embar leapt up and ran after her.

Tristan sat still, watched her go. As she got to the French windows there was a bright flash and she was gone. Tristan shook his head at the soundless noise, his ears ringing. He was no longer at Caergollo, he was back in Otherworld and Isoldé was in the everyday.

Back in the library, Isoldé came to a halt, panting, angry. Tristan was useless, she told herself. How the hell was she going to do what Otherworld wanted with a helpless creature like him? What the hell had happened to him when he passed over the moonpath? It was like being with a wet rag, a sulky brat. She hated him.

Slowly, her breathing calmed down, she began to be able to see further than six inches in front of her nose. Gideon sat on the piano stool watching her.

‘Problems?’ he asked, a quizzical look in his eye.

‘Oh damn you!’ Isoldé muttered, walking away from him, over to the fireplace. ‘He’s a useless piece of shit! What the hell am I supposed to do with him? All he wants now is to get his leg over again and, good as that was that one time, that’s not what I’m here for. I want Mark, not Tristan. I’m here for Mark.’

‘And to do the job,’ Gideon reminded her.

‘Ha! I’ve a mind to say no, renege, let it go. It’s too hard!’ Gideon looked at her. She felt herself colour up.

‘You promised …’ he said.

‘Oh damn and damn and damn and damn!’ Isoldé turned to the fireplace and stood there with her head on her arms, sobbing.

Gideon came over to her, turned her about and enfolded her in his arms. Despite his attractiveness Isoldé didn’t feel any sexual urge as he touched her this time, she just folded against him, sucking in support from him and letting her feelings go, just for once. Gideon held her, rocking her gently like a child and humming softly into her hair. Slowly the sobs subsided, she began to pull away from him. He led her over to the sofa, sat down opposite her. ‘I know it’s hard,’ he said.

‘Why doesn’t Tristan know?’ she asked him. ‘Why is he so thick, stupid, childish? Why have I got to carry it all myself?’

Gideon studied her for a moment. ‘Well …’ he began, ‘Tristan
shouldn’t have passed over the moonpath when he did.’

‘I know that,’ Isoldé interrupted crossly. ‘But did it fry his brains as well or something?’

‘In a word, yes.’

Isoldé stared. ‘You mean …he’s not all there? Because he died too early? Something got lost?’

‘That’s about it,’ Gideon told her, his mouth quirked in a sour smile.

Isoldé thought about it. ‘Is that what happens to suicides then?’

‘No, not always, it depends on why they do it, and if they should know better.’

‘Ha! And Tristan should certainly have known better.’

‘Yes, he should, did. But he thought he could get away with it. He rejected us and so rejected a part of himself, the part that can stay focused, write songs. You have to get that back to him.’

‘You mean I’m holding it, that part of him?’

‘You are. That happened when you made love. It came into you rather than wither in the wilderness where he had left it.’

‘Oh shit …’ Isoldé struggled with the enormity of the job. ‘Thanks for not telling me all this before,’ she told Gideon sourly.

‘You wouldn’t have said yes, would you?’

She looked at him. Suddenly she began to smile. ‘Of course I wouldn’t. I’d have been so ultra careful of my personal self but that’s not how things work across the worlds is it?’

‘No. You humans call us tricksters and so we are but our concern is with the Earth, with everything here, not just one little human incarnation.’

‘And I’ve plenty more of those to do, haven’t I?’ she paused, thinking. Ideas were sparking in her mind. ‘Had Tristan walked the moonpath before then? That’s different than what I did with Rhiannon to find him in the grove, isn’t it? I know I went through the Lady’s Window but there was no moon and no moonpath, she just floated me there somehow.’

Gideon chuckled. ‘I said, when I first met you, you’re a quick study. Yes, that’s right, she did float you over. And yes, Tristan had walked the moonpath and come back, several times.’

‘So it’s possible for a living human to walk the path and return?’

‘It’s what shamans do, what we want you to do.’

‘He said that, Tristan did, about shamans,’ Isoldé paused then continued. ‘Are you certain of the return bit?’ She glared at Gideon.

‘Tristan did. If he did, you can.’

‘Are you saying I’m better than him?’

‘Aren’t you?’

That was hard. Tristan had been her hero all her life, to think herself better than him was almost sacrilege.

‘He doesn’t see clearly, not now,’ Gideon went on. ‘You do. But he has the song even if it’s stuck somewhere inside him and he no longer has the tools to create it. The lovemaking stirred it in him and gave you the connection, as well as a home for his rejected soul-part, through the passion. But we need him to sing it here, in Middleworld, and to record it so everyone can hear it. His voice is part of the enchantment. Someone else’s voice, however good, won’t have the same effect. Not until Tristan has sung it and been heard. After that, everyone will be able to sing it as the threads will have been made, the pattern begun.’

‘So he has to be here. Damn!’ She looked out the window; there was no sign of Tristan under the birch tree. ‘He was just here! I ran away from him. I should have held onto him.’ She looked at Gideon. ‘I screwed up, but I didn’t know what was happening and he was so different from when I met him through the Lady’s Window. Oh damn!’

‘That’s because he’s missing the soul-part that enables him to function here. It’s not the end of the world. You’ll just have to go get him. We always thought you would have to.’

‘Cross the moonpath …gee thanks!’ Isoldé glared again. ‘And
return …?’

‘And return,’ Gideon told her firmly.

‘I think I need to know a lot more about this stuff. I’m not usually like this, I mostly don’t care about the knowledge stuff. I suppose it’s because I’m now up to my neck in it I want to know more. What are these patterns, are they like ley lines? How does it all work?’

Gideon looked at her. She meant it; he could see it in her. ‘Everything is everything,’ he began.

‘Shit! You sound just like Darshan,’ she said.

He laughed. ‘Even new-agers can speak true now and again, and even when they don’t really know what they’re talking about.’

‘OK, so go on, tell me.’

Gideon sat quiet for a moment, looking inward. ‘There are three worlds, you know that. They’re on what we call the vertical axis. It’s like the warp, the threads you weave the pattern on when you’re weaving, they hold the structure so the pattern has shape.’

‘Yes …I can see that. I saw that when I heard the songs. The first three are about that, the threeness, the vertical. Then the next four are about the four elements and how they work.’

‘Yes. And that structure is in everything, Isoldé, from the smallest atom to the largest creature, to the planet herself. On that warp the pattern of life is woven. That’s the vertical axis, the warp of the universe. The horizontal axis is made up of the four elements, they are the weft.’