His eyes opened.
The music had quickened; it was a dance again, and the tambourines were playing, and as he let his head roll to one side, he saw between him and the immense blaze the leaping, dancing figures of the Forest Gentry. Silhouetted against the flames, they danced arm in arm, and swinging in circles like old peasant people have always danced, their lithe and graceful bodies beautiful in silhouette against the fire as they ran on around it, then stopped to make their fancy circling steps again, laughing, whooping, calling to one another. Their song was rising, falling, in time with their steps, a blending of glorious soprano voices and deeper tenor and baritone. For one moment, it seemed they shimmered, became transparent as if they would dissolve, and then were solid once more, with the thud of their feet on the earth beneath them.
He was laughing with delight as he watched them, their hair flying, the women’s skirts flying, the little children forming chains to circle the elders.
And here came the Morphenkinder with them.
There was Sergei marching, leaping, turning, with them, and here came the familiar figure of Thibault.
Slowly, he rose, rousing Laura with nuzzling and wet kisses.
They climbed to their feet and joined the others. How ancient and Celtic the music sounded now, joined again with violins and stringed instruments far deeper and darker than violins, and the clear metallic notes of the dulcimer.
He was drunk now. He was terribly drunk. Drunk from the mead, drunk from making love, drunk from gorging on the living flesh of boar—drunk on the night and on the sizzling, hissing flames against his eyelids. An icy wind gusted into the clearing, raking the fire into a new fury, and tantalizing him with the very light fistfuls of rain.
Hmmm. Scent on the wind, scent mingled with the rain. Scent of a human? Not possible. Worry not. This is Modranicht.
He kept dancing. Turning, twisting, moving along, and the music bubbled and boiled and pushed and hurried him along, the drums pounding faster and faster, one rolling riff crashing into another.
Someone cried out. It was a male voice, a voice full of rage. A loud strangled scream tore the night. Never had he heard a Morphenkind scream in that fashion.
The music had stopped. The singing of the Forest Gentry had stopped. The night was empty, then suddenly filled with the crackling and exploding of the fire.
He opened his eyes. They were all rushing round the fire now to the place of the musicians and the cauldron.
There was that scent, stronger now. A human scent, distinctly human like nothing in this clearing, like nothing that should have been in this clearing or in these woods tonight.
In the flickering half-light all the Morphenkinder were crowded into a circle, but the cauldron was not the center of this circle. That was way off to the side. There was something else in the center of this circle. The Forest Gentry hung back whispering and murmuring restlessly.
Hockan was roaring at Margon, and from the other male voices he knew came a rising chorus of fury.
“Dear God,” said Laura. “It’s your father.”
22
REUBEN PUSHED HIS WAY through the Morphenkinder blocking him, with Laura right behind him.
There stood Phil facing the fire, his eyes wide with shock, his body swaying and stumbling as he sought to stand upright. He wore the old gray sweatpants and sweatshirt he always wore for sleep, and his feet were bare in the dirt. He seemed on the verge of passing out, and suddenly one of the female Morphenkinder grabbed him roughly by the shoulder, jerking him upright.
“He should die for this,” she roared. “Coming unbidden to our revels. I tell you, he should die! Who dares to say otherwise?”
“Stop, Fiona,” cried Felix. He rushed forward just as Reuben did, and gripped Fiona’s arm, quickly overpowering her with his masculine advantage and forcing her back as she moaned in rage, struggling against him.
Reuben reached out and grabbed Phil under the arms to steady him, but what in God’s name could he say to Phil? How could he make himself known to Phil without further shattering his sanity, and it was clear that Phil was losing all semblance of reasoning as he stared around him.
Suddenly as Reuben let him go, so as not to frighten him more, there came a gleam of recognition into Phil’s pale eyes, and he cried out: “Elthram, Elthram, help me. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what this is! What’s happening to me?”
Out of the shadows Elthram came towards him saying loudly, “I’m here, my friend. And no harm, I swear it, will come to you!”
At once three of the female Morphenkinder began to roar, advancing on Phil and Felix and Reuben. “Back, out of here,” screamed Fiona. “The dead don’t talk at our revels. The dead don’t say who lives or dies amongst us!” The others were closing in as well, roaring at Elthram and menacing him with barks and growls.
“Get back!” Felix roared. Sergei, Thibault, and Frank moved in. The taller figure of Stuart charged up to Felix’s shoulder.
Elthram did not move. There was a faint smile on his lips.
“This is a matter of flesh and blood!” cried Fiona, one paw raised. “Who didn’t know the utter folly of these Morphenkinder to bring this human being right to their own hearth? Who did not see this coming?”
Margon took up a spot directly behind Fiona, unseen by her, but not unseen by those with her. Slowly, one female was moving away. Surely this was Berenice. She moved silently away from the females and towards Frank, taking up her stand behind him.
“No one is harming this man!” said Felix. “And no one will say one more word about death on this hallowed night and on this hallowed ground! You want a human sacrifice! That’s what you want. And you won’t have it here.”
All of a chorus the women roared.
“Death has always been a part of Modranicht!” said one of the women, surely the Russian, but Reuben could not clearly picture her now or recall her name. “Sacrifice has always been a part of Modranicht.” The other females gave their loud assent, stepping forward and then back and then dangerously forward again.
“Modranicht!” Phil whispered.
“Not in our time!” declared Sergei. “And not here on our land, and not this man who is blood kin to one of us. Not this man who
It seemed every figure present was in some kind of motion, yet some dynamic tension held back the inevitable brawl.
“You came to our secret revels,” Fiona cried out as she faced Phil, the stubbed fingers of her hairy hand visible as she spread them out, claws fully extended. “You dared come when you were told not to come. Why should you not be the sacrifice? Aren’t you a gift from fortune, you blundering fool?”
“No!” Phil cried. “I didn’t come! I don’t know how I got here.”
Right through the band of females came Lisa suddenly, throwing back her hood, the glare of the fire full on her face. Margon motioned for her to stay back and so did Sergei but she would not.
