The Moon of Gomrath by Alan Garner

Goloring!
    From heat of the sun, and cold of the moon,
    Come, Garanhir! Gorlassar! Lord of the Herlathing!
    All was quiet. No one moved. Then faintly, from a distance, there came a voice, clear, like a blend of trees and wind, rivers and starlight; nearer, nearer, chanting, wild:
    And am I not he that is called Gorlassar?
    Am I not a prince in darkness?
    Garanhir, the torment of battle!
    Where are my Reapers that sing of war
    And a lance-darting trembling of slaughter;
    Of the blooming of shields in the cry of the sword,
    The bite of the blue-headed spear in the flesh,
    The thirst of the deep-drinking arrows of wrath,
    And ravens red with the warring?
    And away among the trees appeared the figure of a man. He came loping to the Beacon along the old, straight track, and the light played on the muscles of his body in rippling patterns of black and red. He was huge and powerful, yet with the grace of an animal; at least seven feet tall, and he ran effortlessly. His face was long and thin, his nose pointed, and nostrils flared; his eyes night-browed, up-sweeping, dark as rubies; his hair red curls; and among the curls grew the antlers of a stag.
    The horseman answered him:
    Swift the hoof, and free the wind!
    Wakeful are we to the flame of the Goloring!
    From heat of the sun, and cold of the moon,
    Hail, Garanhir! Gorlassar! Lord of the Herlathing!
    Then he backed slowly from the fire, and when the runner came to the circle and sprang in a stride to the top of the mound, all the horses knelt, and the riders lifted their arms in silence.
    Susan looked at him and was not afraid. Her mind could not accept him, but something deeper could. She knew what made the horses kneel. Here was the heart of all wild things. Here were thunder, lightning, storm; the slow beat of tides and seasons, birth and death, the needto kill and the need to make. His eyes were on her, yet she could not be afraid.
    He stood alone and still in the cold flames, and they flowed round him and took his shape, so that he was outlined in blood, and scarlet tongues streamed upwards from the points of his antlers. He seemed to draw the light of the fire to himself; it dwindled, and the flames sank as though they were being pulled down through his flesh, and he grew, not in size, but in power, until the only light was that of the moon, and he stood black against it.
    Then he spoke. “It is long since wendfire kindled the Goloring. What men have remembered the Eve of Gomrath?”
    The two riders carrying the children moved forward.
    Colin felt deep eyes sweep through him, and an exhilaration, breathless as fear, lifted the pain from his body.
    â€œIt is good to wake when the moon stands on the hill.”
    Something close to laughter stirred in his voice, and he bent down and set Colin upright astride the horse’s neck. Then he turned to Susan, and was about to speak, when the rider lifted Susan’s arm and showed the Mark of Fohla white on her wrist. It glowed with more than reflected silver, and the black characters engraved on it trembled as though they had life.
    Lightly and briefly and without a word, the dark majesty dropped on one knee and Susan’s hand was taken and laid upon a cold brow. Then he rose and lifted Colin and Susan from the horses, and put them down at the top of the mound, and turned away.
    â€œRide, Einheriar of the Herlathing!”
    â€œWe ride! We ride!”
    Turf spattered the children, and for an instant the night was a tumult of rushing darkness, and then the children were alone.
    They sank down on the stones, and looked at each other. “That’s – that’s what I saw in the farmyard,” said Colin. “That’s what followed me.”
    â€œThey didn’t care what happened to us,” said Susan blankly. “They weren’t interested in us at all.”
    â€œHe followed me right back to the farm.”
    â€œBut perhaps it’s just as well,” said Susan: “I wouldn’t