Scenting Hallowed Blood (3 page)

The Pelleth always consisted of
women, but for the oracle. The Conclave of Seven were led by the
eldest members of the group, and various other offices were held by
women of a prescribed age and appearance. The oracle, Delmar, was
the son of the Tremaynes, who owned Enoch’s Hall outside the
village. Ellen Tremayne, his mother, was a member of the Pelleth,
but as she was not a member of the Conclave, she never witnessed
her son’s trances. Delmar had been marked for the position of
oracle even before his birth. The Pelleth had delivered him in a
sacred pool that was hidden in a sea-cave and refreshed by the
tides every day. Sea-born boy; on land, or out of trance, he seemed
barely alive.

The group walked back through
the rain to the grey-stone house. Smoke curled from the chimney to
be dispersed by the wind, indicating that Meggie’s youngest son,
Tom, had arrived home to stoke up the fire, and hopefully greet the
women with hot tea and toast. About thirty yards from the house,
the rambling garden stopped at a wall, beyond which was the
cultivated area that Meggie and her family had tended for
generations. Here, she and Betsy grew their herbs and special
plants. Locally, they were regarded as healers of the ancient
kind.

Tamara pushed open the soaked
wooden gate set into the wall, having to give it a good shove with
her shoulder because the damp had warped it, and led the line of
women up the path towards the back door of the house. Agatha hung
back, gazing out through the gate at the slope of the
wilderness.

‘Come on, girl,’ Meggie said.
She smiled, envying and admiring the fact that the child seemed
oblivious of the bitter wind and slicing rain.

Agatha glanced round at the
older woman. ‘Gran, will we see the giants one day?’

Meggie laughed, and stroked the
girl’s wet hair back from her forehead. Not too much had been
explained to Agatha, yet she’d made her own connection between
mention of Shemyaza and his half-breed descendants, who had come to
England so many thousands of years ago. ‘Child, the giants are dead
and gone. All that remains is the memory of their power, and...’
Here the old woman grimaced. ‘...those that came from them. But
they are not the same.’ She shook her head. ‘Come now, shut the
gate, will you? My old bones are calling for the hearth.’

Agatha obediently pushed her
small body against the old wooden slats and fastened the latch. She
skipped beside Meggie as they went towards the house. ‘Shemyaza is
a giant, though, isn’t he, and the goddess said he’s here
again?’

‘Hush now!’ Meggie chided. ‘We
don’t talk that way in the open, now do we?’

‘Sorry,’ Agatha said, covering
her smile with her hands. ‘But will you answer me, Gran, just this
once?’

Meggie put her arm around
Agatha’s shoulder and pulled her close. ‘Yes, he is a giant. Tall
and strong and fearsome, with a shining face. He is an angel,
darling, fallen from grace. You could not look upon him, you know,
for it would burn out your eyes.’

Agatha giggled. ‘Oh, Gran!’

‘No laughing matter,’ Meggie
said, though without harshness. ‘It is all true, which is why it’s
a frightening thing to hear he’s abroad in the world.’

‘Then it would be dangerous for
him to come to us?’ Agatha’s smile had faded a little.

Meggie nodded. ‘No doubt of it!
This is our heritage, child, our curse and our blessing. We shall
have to be careful and cunning, won’t we?’

Agatha nodded gravely. ‘Yes,
but you and Aunt Betsy will keep us safe.’

They had reached the back door,
which stood open, as everyone else had already gone into the house.
Meggie was warmed by the child’s confidence in her, but found it
difficult to share. What form would Shemyaza wear in the world? She
did not think he would be clothed in light or visibly inhuman. They
already knew that the body he wore, and the mind that contained his
essence, were not yet aware of what and who he was. He would have
been born to one of the descendants of the giants, of this she was
sure. Although the Pelleth had no direct contact with these people,
it was known that they called themselves Grigori. Long ago, the
Pelleth had attuned to the faint power that the giants had left in
the area. They respected the great serpent that had been left
slumbering beneath the earth. But Meggie and her sisters would have
nothing to do with the Grigori, despite the fact they carried the
blood, however thin, of the giants. In the eyes of the Pelleth, the
Grigori were corrupt, greedy for wealth and temporal power, and
made all the more dangerous because they possessed vestiges of the
great powers of their ancestors. They lurked behind every rumour of
conspiracy: they broke the backs of world leaders, sacred kings and
wise prophets upon the cruel, hard wheels of their complex web of
power. Meggie despised the Grigori. She knew the ancient Kingdom of
Cornwall was rife with them, because this was the place where their
ancestors had made landfall, but she also knew they must be
scattered all over the country, if not the world. The Grigori were
doubtless already aware that Shemyaza had returned, and they too
would be eager to draw him to them. Wizards and charlatans,
power-mongers and wheeler-dealers; that was how Meggie saw the
Grigori. They would want Shemyaza with them to increase their own
power. Meggie’s people had different ideas. Shemyaza and his
colleagues had fallen from grace because of their love of humanity.
The knowledge they possessed they had wanted to share. But the
Grigori were jealous of their power and looked down upon those who
were not of their kind. They would not want to share Shemyaza’s
light with Meggie’s people, or indeed any other pure-born humans.
Therefore, it was the Pelleth’s duty to get to Shemyaza first and
protect him and his knowledge from his greedy descendants.

The kitchen was the heart of
the Penhaligon house: a massive room, complete with a temperamental
old range, as well as a modern, fitted oven and hob. An enormous
table filled its centre, and this was where much of the business of
the Pelleth was discussed, as well as all manner of things
pertaining to the welfare of the villagers and the surrounding
countryside. It was also where Meggie and Betsy held their
‘surgeries’, when they prescribed herbal remedies, or else read the
cards for tourists. The house was very old and had a sunken,
relaxed appearance, its gables sway-backed like an old mare. In the
summer, Meggie and Betsy, aided by a couple of girls, served cream
teas in the garden, and sold strawberries grown by their own hands.
Meggie liked talking to ‘foreigners’ — as she referred to anyone
not born in Cornwall — and was rarely hostile to tourists. Once,
she had been asked by archaeologists to give her permission to
examine the cove below the house; a request she had politely
refused. There was nothing of interest there, she said, and if they
did not believe her, they realised the futility of pressing the
matter. As the years passed, the Pelleth knew that more and more
people were paying attention to the old legends, and were waking up
to the fact that once England had been known as the island of
giants. Scholars were putting two and two together and coming up
with ridiculous numbers, especially concerning the connection
between the giants and the legends of fallen angels from the Middle
East. It did not bother the Pelleth, quite the opposite, in fact.
They knew that eventually, the whole world would have to wake up to
this knowledge, but in the meantime they guarded it carefully.
Sometimes, if necessary, they would employ extreme means to keep
their secrets, and it was not unknown for the over-curious and
persistent to disappear during one of the vicious wind-storms that
assailed the Cornish coast. The Pelleth regarded themselves as the
Keepers of Knowledge, and knew that the time had not yet come when
it could be revealed.

Tom Penhaligon was Meggie’s
youngest son; she had borne him in her fortieth year. Now, he was
thirty-five: a lean, stooped man, who was still handsome, although
he had never bothered to take a wife. Meggie knew he considered
himself part of her secret work, even though he knew virtually
nothing about it. It was his job to make sure the house was warm
when the women came back from the beach, that the tea-urn was
freshly-filled, and hot food available. He took pleasure in these
tasks, and never pried into matters that did not concern him. Now
he moved quietly about the kitchen, as the women divested
themselves of their wet cloaks, shaking out their dripping hair,
chattering and laughing amongst themselves. Meggie signalled Tom to
escort the oracle, Delmar Tremayne, from the room. The boy was
shivering and needed a hot bath and to change into warm clothes.
Also, the women had important matters to discuss, and not even the
oracle was privy to that.

Once Tom had closed the kitchen
door softly behind him, Meggie and Betsy took their places at
either end of the long table. Tom had already poured out steaming
mugs of tea, and two plates of hot crumpets steamed enticingly
before them, salty butter sliding over their crisp surfaces. For a
few minutes the women drank and ate in comparative silence, their
hair steaming in the warmth from the range.

Meggie was the first to speak.
She put her mug down upon the table. ‘Well, the news we have been
waiting for has been delivered. This day will be marked in our
records as one of great importance.’

Tamara spoke up. Although her
body was voluptuous, her eyes were narrow and her lips thin; marks
of the snake in an otherwise moonish face. Her long blond hair hung
raggedly around her shoulders. ‘We know the gist of what this
information means. What concerns me is what the Grigori will do
about it. We can’t imagine we’re the only ones privy to this
knowledge.’

Meggie wished Tamara had not
spoken the obvious. ‘We must draw the Hanged One to us.’

Tamara shook her head and
smiled. ‘Our psychic beacons will be forever eclipsed by the great
light-houses of Grigori awareness.’

Meggie had the distinct
impression that Tamara was playing with words, almost as if she was
initiating this argument purely for the sake of it. ‘We have to
suppose the man, if not what he represents, will have some
autonomy.’

‘No doubt he will want to be
with his own people.’ Tamara threw up her hands. ‘We must face it,
Megs, this will be a difficult task. Why should Shemyaza ally with
us? We can assume his power outstrips our own. The Grigori will use
him to awaken the serpent, and once that is done, they will claim
its power as their own. We have tended the dreams of the serpent
for generations, yet once it is free, it will be attracted to the
Grigori because they carry within them a memory of their
ancestors.’

Meggie’s eyes had become dark.
‘Enough!’ She slapped the tabletop with her palms. ‘What is this
useless talk? We must plan and prepare the ancient sites for the
time when the serpent wakes and the Hanged One walks this soil. The
task may be hard, yes, but not impossible. It is what the Pelleth
was formed for. It is our function.’

Tamara shrugged in a
conciliatory manner. ‘I am not arguing with you, Megs, but merely
stating the obstacles. They must be confronted.’

‘We all agree to that,’ Betsy
said from the other end of the table. She spoke rarely and only
when she felt she had something important to offer. ‘If the Hanged
One is drawn to the Grigori in these parts, all to the good. It
halves our work for us. When the time comes, we must lure him to
us. The Shining Ones will give us the knowledge on how to do this
when we need it. In the meantime, we must do as my sister suggests
and prime our sacred sites in readiness. The storm-beasts gather in
the clouds. They feel him drawing near.’ She put her hands flat
upon the table, and threw back her head. ‘Yes. He will come to the
Grigori, and in their pride, they will overlook us. The season
becomes darker and the winds cry for the sun, but his spirit walks
always back to the land of his people.’

In the silence that followed,
Agatha shyly brought forth a peg-doll from her robe pocket.
Gravely, she held it over the table. It was crowned with yellow
woollen hair and wore a shapeless robe of sacking. Gripping it by
its waist, Agatha made it walk slowly along the tabletop before
her. Its wooden legs could not bend. It was a stiff-limbed, zombie,
drunken walk. All the women glanced down at it.

‘Where did you get that, dear?’
asked Tamara.

Agatha did not move her eyes
from the stalking doll, sinister in its very simplicity; a golem.
‘Del made it for me,’ she said.

After the meeting, Tamara drove
home in her red VW Golf, navigating the sharp bends of the winding
cliff road with almost masculine zeal. She was suffused with a
sense of hysterical excitement, but it was pricked by a nagging
needle of annoyance. The Conclave were so dim-sighted! Tamara
couldn’t believe their naiveté. They spoke with scorn about the
Grigori, maintaining an obsolete feud that was rooted only in
ignorance and superstition. The time of change was imminent, and
clinging to outworn beliefs and opinions could only obstruct their
work. The Pelleth needed to listen to the voice of reform, a voice
that Tamara firmly believed spoke clearly through her, but she knew
this voice must be heard as a seductive whisper, not an
ear-splitting shout. She must be patient.

Tamara had been born in
Cornwall, but had spent her childhood and teens in North America.
As a young girl, the Native American culture had intrigued her and
she read books on the subject voraciously, filling her bedroom
walls with posters of young braves on horseback and the feather and
thong concoctions available at ethnic craft stores. At High School,
she met a girl whose mother was of Hopi descent, and put a lot of
effort into befriending her intimately. Although the girl herself
had scant interest in her heritage, Tamara saw her as a means
through which she could meet the Hopi people. Part of her hungered
for this, and when, after a lot of pleading and blackmailing, her
wish was granted, she was not disappointed. The memory would never
fade in her mind. Her friend’s grandfather had been a true medicine
man, and from the moment of meeting Tamara had recognised the
thirst for magic within her. Tamara had always been able to charm
men, and this sage shaman had been no exception. He had been happy
to teach her the things she desperately yearned to know: how to
call spirits from the waterfall and the fire, how to dance the
Ghost Dance. On her eighteenth birthday, he had given her a
prophecy. He spoke of a great serpent that slumbered beneath the
land of her father, and that in its sleep, it dreamed of her. He
spoke of a great sun chief who would come to her. As priestess of
the sea, she must lead him to his destiny. But he warned her that
her heart must be true, for only the light of love would lead the
sun chief to the great serpent.