Moon Song (9 page)

Isoldé followed, but the hare was soon out of sight. She continued along the path until, rounding another corner, she came on a girl picking herbs. Isoldé stopped short, began to
speak, stopped. The girl looked up, a startled look in her wide brown eyes then she looked quickly away and hurried further down the path around a rock. Surprised, Isoldé followed but not too fast, it was obvious the girl didn’t want company, when she rounded the rock in her turn, there was no-one there. The girl must have known the path and the cliffs very well, she would have had somewhere out of sight to hide until the stranger had gone. Isoldé went on towards the sea. As she came to the next bend she couldn’t resist looking back. There, sat beside the rock, was the hare.

Isoldé stood a moment, watching while the hare loped off behind the rocks again, then carried on until she came to a small waterfall. There she stopped to sit on a stone, listening to its song. The morning was still amongst all the water noise, she felt herself drifting off, lulled by the continuous soft voice of the fall.

Something warm and wet blew on her hand. She froze, looked round. The hare was back and sat beside her, whiskers whiffling, nose within an inch of her hand. ‘What is it?’ she whispered, ‘what do you want?’

The hare stared at her out of wide brown eyes then nuzzled her hand again.

A cold feeling crept into Isoldé’s stomach and the hair on her arms stood up. She kept perfectly still as the hare’s face began to shift, melting, flowing into the face of the girl, just for a moment. Then the creature flicked away, leaping and rolling on the bright grass, all hare again. The last Isoldé saw of her was her white scut disappearing over the rocky outcrop. Slowly, she returned to the house and the smells of breakfast.

‘You went for a walk?’

Mark’s smile, over his shoulder as he turned eggs in the frying pan, lit her up. ‘I did so …’ She hesitated slightly, unsure how to tell him. ‘I went down towards the sea, as far as the waterfall.’ She paused again. ‘I met someone …’

Mark glanced at her, slightly down his nose, as he pulled plates of food out of the oven where they’d been keeping warm, added the eggs and brought them to the table. ‘Who …what …did you see?’ he asked as he sat down opposite her.

‘I saw a hare,’ she began then forked some bacon and egg into her mouth.

‘You did …?’

Isoldé hesitated again. ‘It was like a fairy story coming to life …I saw a hare begin to turn into a girl. It was only for a moment, then she was gone, as a hare, leaping back over the cliffs.’

Mark let out a soft, whistling breath. ‘The faer …’ Mark breathed. He paused, then ate a mouthful. ‘Tristan used to see them all the time,’ he went on. ‘Sometimes I do too, glimpses. I’m not good at that, like Tristan was. Seems you are though.’

He was smiling, just a slight wistful look at the back of his eyes that Isoldé could see. ‘He wrote his songs for them,’ Mark added

‘He saw this hare-girl?’ Isoldé prodded. ‘Who is she? What is she? Are there more of them?’

Mark let out a long breath. ‘Where to begin,’ he said. ‘Well …the shapeshifters in the old stories are real. There’s some I’ve seen in the valley here, including the hare-girl who met you this morning, but I only see her very rarely. There’s the root-mother who’s often out in the woods. Her face is all folds, like the petals of an old rose and her clothes fold round her in layers too, like mossy green leaves and browns with faded yellow edges like autumn leaves. Then there’s water-sprite-girl, all blue-white skin and silver-blue hair, with a long pointed face and elfin ears. The air spirit, dryad-girl is all silver and green like a beech sapling, very young, thin, skinny, with wispy clothing like cobwebs, and green-gold hair. The fire-spirit is slender with creamy skin and red hair threaded through with autumn vines. They’re all small, short, only about waist high on me. They’re faer folk, the spirits of earth, water, air and fire.’ Mark paused.

‘Then there’s Gideon,’ Mark went on. ‘He’s strange. Most of the time he just looks like a good-looking Gypsy of about thirtyfive, in fact that’s what some people think he is,’ Mark paused. ‘But you see he’s been looking about thirty-five since I first met him, when I was ten.’

Isoldé swallowed a piece of fried bread too fast and began to choke. Mark came round and patted her on the back.

‘Ye gods!’ Isoldé croaked once the coughing had stopped. ‘You mean they’re immortal?’

‘I don’t know about that but time works differently for them than us.’

Isoldé was silent.

‘They are the faer folk, the woodfolk,’ Mark repeated, ‘the fairies of the stories. They’re real. Like the little people in Ireland I expect.’

Again, Isoldé was silent for a moment. ‘My Uncle Brian, who brought me up, he was a druid. He believed in the faer. I don’t know if he ever met any though. I never did when I used to go out in the woods with him. He was good with animals too but not like you, although, one night, an adder came and crawled round his wrist. It lay coiled there for ages, keeping warm, before it slithered off.’

‘I thought there were no snakes in Ireland,’ Mark said.

‘There aren’t.’

They sat watching each other for a few minutes, sipping their coffee.

‘Seems like there’s more to you than meets the eye,’ Mark said eventually.

‘You too.’ Isoldé grinned lopsidedly back at him.

‘Hmm!’ Mark decided a change of subject would be good, began collecting plates and putting them in the dishwasher. ‘What would you like to do today?’

Isoldé felt relieved too, followed his lead. ‘The weather’s cleared, like you said, what’s good for us to go and see? I’d like
to go out. I’ve never been to Cornwall before. Can I see some of the special places?’

‘Certainly can.’ Mark paused for a moment, running an itinerary through his brain. ‘Including a pub lunch?’

‘Sounds good,’ Isoldé replied.

Isoldé pulled off her boots and left them in the scullery, padding up the stairs to change. After she’d showered she pulled on fresh jeans and shirt, towelled her hair and left it hanging loose to dry out then came back downstairs. She went to the library and opened the door.

A man sat at the desk, over by the window which looked out on the stream and the bridge. He appeared to be writing. Isoldé froze. As far as she knew there was no-one in the house but herself and Mark. The man turned, looked at her.

Behind her, Mrs Protheroe came in and turned on the main light. ‘Shall I bring you a cup of tea? I’ve took your things and put them in the washing machine, they’ll be fine again for tomorrow.’

Isoldé jumped, turned, she’d totally forgotten Mark’s housekeeper. ‘Oh! Yes …thank you …a cup of tea would be nice …and …’

‘Right you are,’ Mrs Protheroe interrupted. ‘I’ll bring it along in a minute.’ She headed back down to the kitchen.

Isoldé turned back to the desk. There was no-one there. Slowly, she walked across. There was a piece of paper on it, an old fashioned fountain pen lying across it with the top still off. The ink shone as if it was still wet. Isoldé picked it up.

Mark turned the letter over and over in his hands, read it again.

‘He was sat in that chair,’ Isoldé broke the silence, pointing to it. ‘He seemed to turn then Mrs Protheroe switched the light on. I jumped, then looked back, there was no-one there. I went over to the desk, found the letter. It was Tristan,’ she finished.

‘It’s incredible, crazy,’ Mark began.

They were sat on the floor in front of the fire in the library. Tension grew between them, the letter was too close, too personal, the letter of a lover.

‘I’ve never seen him since he died,’ Mark spoke softly, trying to get close again. ‘I hear him. I hear the piano sometimes but when I open the door, come in, there’s no-one here.’ Mark paused, the wistful look back again. ‘There was a strange line in the will,’ he went on, ‘about there being more music here, waiting to be found.’

‘That’s like what he says in the letter.’ Isoldé touched it again. ‘Where he says
“I have left the Moon Song for you”
. Why me? Why
not you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I don’t want to take it from you.’ She touched his hand. ‘He was your master, not mine, and I can’t play a note anyway. He would be much better leaving it to you.’

‘But he hasn’t.’ Mark looked at her.

There was so much sadness in his voice; Isoldé could feel the ache in him. She touched his hand. He looked at her and again she felt herself melting. Their lips met, she didn’t resist. He carried her up to bed.

Woodfolk, Hag-Stones and the Sight

Later, when the night was waning and dawn not too far away, two figures stood beside the spiral maze in the rock face by Caergollo’s back door. Both were small, short, only coming up to an adult human’s waist. One was round, her face crinkled into folds like the leaves of a cabbage or the petals of an old rose; her clothes folded round her in layers of mossy greens and browns with faded yellow edges like autumn leaves. When she stood still in the woods people would walk right past her thinking she was no more than a large plant. The other was slender, skinny and a little taller than her companion, smooth skinned like a beech sapling. Wisps of clothing floated round her like cobwebs, tangling with the green-gold hair. She appeared much younger than the other woman. Both had huge eyes, like animals, deer maybe, or owls, no white showing, just glowing hazel-brown with deep blackness at their centre.

The older, dumpy one put a root-like finger into the pattern and turned it. There was a clunk behind them as the lock in the door turned, they pushed it open and went up the stairs.

Isoldé was sleeping on her side, turned away from Mark, one hand stretched out from under the duvet. The dumpy woman’s eyes crinkled into a satisfied smile, she extended a claw and placed a hag-stone in Isoldé’s open palm, curled her fingers
around it.

‘Go’orn then,’ she told her companion. ‘You give to her now.’

The younger licked a finger and touched Isoldé’s eyelids with it.

‘That’s right,’ the old one hooted softly. ‘She’ll need the full sight.’

‘Now we gotta take something from her too.’ The young one took a single golden hair between her fingers and pulled it out.

The two women jumped as Isoldé frowned and moaned but she didn’t wake up so the older one crept close again. A tear trickled out from under Isoldé’s eyelid, the old one caught it on her root-claw finger, dripped it into a little bottle she’d pulled out from under her skirts.

‘C’mon!’ she hissed and the young one followed her back down and out into the woods.

Later still, Isoldé moaned again in her sleep. Mark held her gently.

‘Oh, Isoldé, I want you so much,’ he told her, burying his face in her hair so she wouldn’t have to hear.

Over breakfast, Mark held something out to Isoldé in his closed hand. She took it.

‘What on earth …?’

‘It’s a hag-stone,’ he told her.

‘A who …?’

The stone fell out of her hand and rolled onto the floor. Mark picked it up and gave it back to her. She was goggling at him.

‘Hag-stone,’ Mark repeated, grinning at her. ‘It was in the bed when I got up this morning. I lay on it, that’s how I noticed. Where’d you get it? On your walk yesterday?’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before …’ She stopped, something tugged at her memory.

Mark watched her brow furrow.

‘I think …’ she began, ‘I think I had a dream. Someone …an old woman, gave it to me.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t remember.’

‘Hmm …?’ Now his eyebrows went up.

She handed it back to him. He turned it over in his hand.

‘It’s lucky,’ he went on. ‘Witches use them to ward off the evil eye or hang them in the trees sometimes, to show a place is sacred.’

Isoldé stared again.

‘We do ave all thicky ol customs down yere in the boonies.’ He put on the accent, ‘There’s many as still follow the old ways, though nobody talks about it, like I told ee.’

Isoldé swallowed that. ‘So …’ She smiled quizzically at him. ‘Then what do I do with this sacred hag stone, oh wise one?’

‘Hang it round your neck. I’ve got a spare silver chain upstairs you can have. And,’ he said, smiling at her, ‘if you don’t know where it came from, if it did come from someone in a dream, then it really is special. Now,’ he turned the subject, ‘yesterday you said you’d like to see Tintagel, go out to the island. The weather’s
still good, shall we do that?’

Isoldé agreed. Mark fetched the chain, put the hag-stone on it and fastened it round her throat. The chain was quite long so the stone fell down out of sight between her breasts.

‘That’s good,’ Mark said, watching her face. He dropped a kiss on her forehead before turning to the coat rack and handing her a warm jacket. They kitted up for walking and set off again in the truck.