Doctor Who_ Cats Cradle_ Witch Mark - Andrew Hunt [44]
‘This country must seem a terrifying place, with its dark red skies and Arawn' s Wheel in the ascendancy, but it was not always like this. His eyes were unfocused, drifting back in time to an age when the sun warmed the green, rolling hills and the expansive oak woodlands where man and beast lived in harmony, living in a good-natured symbiosis with the beautiful land.
'What's Arawn's Wheel?' asked Ace.
Dryfid recalled his mind from his wanderings. It pained him to do so, for when he let his thoughts roam, he was almost back there with Wynne in their cottage on the outskirts of the Sidhe forest. Her death, late one night, had finally brought him to Dinorben to do his duty. Her death, lit by the foul light of Arawn's Wheel. 'Ah, a foolish name for the red sun used by superstitious peasants and more educated people like myself when the fear and oppression get to be too much. They used to say that Arawn and Dagda chased across the sky in fiery chariots and once every fifteen days Dagda would obliterate his ancient enemy, only for him to be reborn from Dagda's flesh.’ A look of confusion crossed his face.
'Where was I?'
'It wasn't always like this,' prompted the Doctor, again hushing Ace.
'Indeed. It used to be so different, such a wonderful place. Full of joy and life and richness.' A trickle of a tear inched its way down his cheek, catching the orange firelight, until it mingled with the grey hairs of his beard. Every day he shed a tear for Wynne and her lost chances, their lost chances. He turned his head towards the fire to hide his expression, but Ace could hear the sadness in his voice. The Doctor leaned forward in his chair to listen.
‘I worked so hard, when the sky was blue. Worked for peace, worked for cooperation. I had to, that was all there was for me. And then one morning it was all destroyed. It had all been for nothing. With a single blow our lives were transformed to the mean, miserable, pointless existence that we lead now. All taken away as easily as you take a toy from an errant child.
'One morning the sun didn't rise, however much we prayed, or wished, or weeped, or hoped. It was as though we had fallen from grace.
‘There was a man, a man called Goibhnie. He was wise beyond worlds and had helped us through adversity before. In our foolishness we thought that he would help us now. The Tuatha sent an emissary to Goibhnie. He did not return. There were those who claimed that the Fomoir, or the Firbolg, or the Sidhe or even the Ceffyl had turned against us and had killed the messenger. I refused to believe it, but Nuada decided to take a small band of his Guards to Goibhnie’s Island. When he got there, oh horror, a horde of demons swarmed from the sea. All of Nuada's men were massacred, brutally murdered. And during their dying agonies, Goibhnie danced and exhorted them to further atrocities from his battlements. Only Nuada survived. Why, Goibhnie? Why? Why?'
Dryfid's tremulous words dissolved in a flood of tears that stripped the layers of grime from his face, but he recovered his composure quickly and continued. ‘Before he changed, Goibhnie was a good ...
man. He helped us, gave us things, guided us. But he changed so much. So much. He took away the sun, unleashed the plague of demons. Nuada says we must flee Tír na n-Óg and seek refuge amongst the seething masses of Earth. Perhaps he is right. Is he?'
He looked beseechingly at Ace who could only shrug her shoulders. He seemed not to have noticed, or perhaps he had, for he returned his gaze to the dancing flames.
'I … I believe it is a test, a