Anger flared in Banouin, fuelled by self-loathing. Why did I not see it? he asked himself. The truth was as nakedly bright as the moon above. He had seen it, but had pushed it away to a dark, and hopefully forgotten, corner of his mind, concentrating instead on the more positive aspects of city life: the university and the Great Museum, the libraries and the architecture. In this way his selfish dream had stayed alive. But coming here, to the Temple, this place of concentrated evil, had lit a torch, and by its light all the ugliness of Stone was laid bare.
He wished he could run from here, all the way to the Park of Phesus, to sit beneath the willow and free his spirit to soar in the sweetness and purity of the night.
‘Come sit with me, Banouin,’ came a voice. Banouin surged to his feet and spun round. The doorway to his room had disappeared. Where the frame had been was now a bower of honeysuckle, thick and heavily scented. The room had disappeared also, and he saw the Morrigu, heavily veiled and sitting on a tree trunk just beyond the honeysuckle. A fire was glowing in a circle of stones before her, and Banouin could smell the musky odours of the forest: wet earth and rotting leaves.
The Morrigu beckoned to him, and he moved to the fire, squatting down beside it and pushing his hands into the soft earth. The scent and sounds of the forest soaked into him, filling his spirit. Drawing his hands from the earth he held them to his face, and drew in a deep breath.
‘Look at you, citizen of Stone,’ said the Morrigu, ‘grubbing your hands into the soil like an animal. Do you miss the dirt, Banouin?’
‘You may mock me, lady, and perhaps I deserve it. But I never smelled a sweeter scent in all my life.’
‘And do you know why?’
‘Yes I do,’ he told her. There is life in this earth, vibrant life. There are seeds waiting to grow, and insects are burrowing through the soil. It is rich and fertile, and crying out for growth. It is beautiful,’ he said.
‘Ah then, perhaps you can take a handful back to the city with you. You can carry it to the university and say to them: “Look, the Rigante boy has brought you some mud.” And they will garland you with flowers, and perhaps declare a day of celebration in your honour.’
‘You are in a foul mood today,’ he said.
‘I delivered you, Banouin. Your little eyes were closed against the brightness of the lantern’s glare. They have remained closed ever since. Now they begin to open. You want me to applaud? You hold that earth in your hands and you talk of its fertility. All that is true. But why is it feeding you now? Why does it lift you? Answer me that!’
‘I . . . I don’t know.’
‘Stupid child. It is not your flesh that it feeds. It is your spirit. And from your spirit comes your power. I have watched you in Stone, running to old willow and freeing your spirit to fly back to Caer Druagh. Oh, how happy you were. Did you never question why old willow brought you freedom? Or why you could not use your talents to the full anywhere else in Stone? No, of course you did not. You were so full of your selfish dreams. Old willow stands on the last sacred spot in these five hills. All the others are covered now. Entombed. And the spirit of the land withers and dies.’
‘I know it now,’ said Banouin. ‘I understand that Stone is a city of evil. And I am sorry it has taken me so long to realize it.’
‘Trust me, child, you still do not realize the significance. This world – all worlds – survive only because of the harmony between spirit and matter. The dirt in your hands is charged with spirit, fresh and full and wondrously magical. Without the spirit it would be lifeless. No seeds would grow, no insects thrive. Once – when I was young – this world was ablaze with spirit. Throw a seed into the air and wherever it landed it would sprout and grow tall. The Seidh prospered here – along with scores of thousands of spirit creatures. Men called us gods, and worshipped us. And we helped man. We raised him from the earth, and taught him to look at the stars. Did we do this because we loved man? No. It was because we saw in man a creature capable of feeding the spirit of the world. Each act of selflessness, of love, of courage and compassion added to the world’s energy.’ She gave a harsh laugh and threw another dry stick to the fire. ‘Of course every act of greed and vileness drained the spirit. It will surprise you not at all to learn that evil men devour the spirit many times faster than good men can enhance it. Like a statue, I suppose. A good craftsman can create a masterpiece in four or five years. A fool with a hammer can destroy it in a few heartbeats.