Silver in the Wood

by Emily Tesh

  Then Fabian had put his hand on Tobias’s sleeve.

  “What’s your hurry, Toby?” he’d said, and smiled his lovely smile. “One more round before we go.”

  He’d emptied his purse on the bar, and ordered the host to open a new cask; beer for the whole lot of them, every man in the village, and Fabian had sat back down and drunk his pint with lip-smacking enjoyment, eyes bright, his hand still on Tobias’s sleeve. Then together they’d stood and walked out of the warm firelit room and into the breezy March night.

  There was no moon, but the sky was washed with stars. Fabian whistled a tune as they walked into the woods: and there to help the lady down was bloody-handed Toby. Behind them in the distance Tobias heard the men, the hounds, the hunt.

  “Nothing to worry about,” Fabian said. “Not in Greenhallow.” He smiled, his white teeth bright in the gloom. “Not in my wood.”

  Tobias walked beside him in petrified silence, while the hunters blundered and crashed in the undergrowth far behind, until they reached the old shrine.

  “Ever seen the Wild Man, Toby?” Fabian said.

  “Fairy stories,” Tobias answered.

  “Something like that,” said Fabian, eyes bright and terrible, and he’d picked up a big white stone from near the shrine’s base and weighed it in his hand.

  Then he’d turned and smashed Tobias over the head with it. Tobias still remembered the feeling of his own temple crumpling, the split-second knowledge of his own end, and the darkness afterwards.

  He’d woken at the foot of the old oak with time hanging heavy and green around him. He’d said Fabian’s name, but there had been no one there. Not till the next spring did he finally meet the Lord of Summer, with his bright eyes, his lovely smile, his long red hair, and his company of dead men’s souls. Toby! he’d cried.

  Tobias had thought and thought about it, for four hundred years, until he’d reached the conclusion that Fabian must have loved him, after all, in his own way. That was the worst of it. The thing that woke now every year was always glad to see him. Tobias didn’t know where he slept in between. The cavalcade of spectres that travelled with him had been mortal men themselves once, sure enough. What had Fabian found, woken, joined himself to in Greenhallow Wood? Something old, even older than the trees; something that should have been dead long ago.

  Well. Another summer, and then he’d be gone again. And no need for him to ever clap eyes on Silver.

  * * *

  The day of the equinox dawned blustery and bright. Tobias saw sparks and shadows in the corners of his vision all the day long. Pearl refused to set foot outside his cottage all day; she curled on his bed and yowled at him whenever he came near. Bramble moved restlessly between the trees, trailing thorns wherever she went. Greenhallow waited.

  And then near dusk Bramble lifted her head sharply and said, “Your fellow, your friend. He’s here.”

  Tobias rolled his shoulders out and lifted his head slowly, and through the cloudy panes of his one good window he saw Henry Silver, good coat and mud-coloured curls and all, there in the midst of Tobias’s wood on the very night Greenhallow’s spectres would rise. “Damn him!” said Tobias. He jumped to his feet and rushed out.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me, Mr Finch,” said Silver when he saw Tobias. “I know you weren’t expecting to see me today, but the fact of the matter is that my mother has come to visit unexpectedly, and she has a number of opinions on the progress of my current research which . . . well. I could do with the company of a friend. I brought a book, if you’d like me to read; or I could sing to you again, or . . .”

  He looked uncertain. There were heavy shadows under his eyes. Tobias stared at him. On this night of all nights, hiding from his mother: damn him, damn him. He couldn’t go back to the Hall alone, and walking with him would be as good as shining a lantern on him. Tobias licked his lips and said, “You’d better stay here, then. You and Pearl can fight for the bed.”

  Silver’s tired eyes lit up. “Thank you,” he said. He pressed Tobias’s hand as he passed him on the way into the cottage: too worn down to recall his manners, even. Tobias stood looking out into the dark under the trees for a moment, looking for movement, gleaming eyes, a flash of red. Nothing. Tobias took a deep breath and raised both his hands.

  The trees crowded in close, leaving only a respectful space for the old oak; the path disappeared; mist descended thick beneath the branches. Bramble kicked up the earth—in the vegetable garden again, bless her—and dug her knotted toes into the soil, raising her thorns in earnest. Maybe the Lord of Summer would never know there’d been a mortal in his wood this night. Maybe he’d take his hungry ghosts and go down to the Fox and Feathers, up to the hills, out east to the boggy meadows there; they’d find some traveller, some beggar, some lost stranger, and that would be their prey for the season. Not Silver.

  Tobias let his breath out in a long explosive sigh and turned and went into the cottage.

  Fabian was already there.

  “Evening, Toby,” he said.

  He was sitting on the floor by the fireplace, one long leg stretched out, his head tilted, wearing that friendly smile. Silver had taken Tobias’s chair by the window. His good coat was hung over the back of it. You needed helping in and out of that coat, Tobias thought. Fabian must have done it, must have put his hands to Silver’s shoulders and drawn it off and set it aside.

  Silver’s eyebrows were high. Fabian was dressed all in a grey that glimmered, and his old-fashioned cloak was pooling around him. His teeth were very white in his smiling face, a face that was almost lovelier now than it had been four hundred years ago when it had been lit by moonlight on the path down to the shrine. He spoke to Tobias but did not look at him: he was watching Silver with a steady, patient gaze. Pearl was crouched in the corner of the room with her tail lashing back and forth.

  Something in Tobias’s stomach twisted tight.

  He’d known already this would happen. He’d known and hadn’t let himself think of it. But whatever Tobias was, whatever he’d become when he woke under the old oak, was part of the Lord of Summer’s domain.

  “Who’s this, Toby?” said Fabian. The glimmer was not just his cloak: it was him as well. “I thought you hadn’t any friends but me.”

  Tobias said nothing. Silver cast him an astonished gaze and then introduced himself politely.

  “Silver,” repeated Fabian caressingly. “What sort of a man are you, Silver?”

  A bizarre question, plainly put. Silver stumbled and then said, “Well, a folklorist, I suppose. And an amateur—very amateur—archaeologist.”

  “I’m surprised you and Toby have anything to say to one another,” said Fabian. “He’s never thought much of fairy tales.”

  Silver blinked at that and visibly decided not to answer. “And you are?” he said instead.

  Fabian’s smile broadened, lovely, lazy, and he said, “I think you already know.”

  “Fabian,” said Tobias.

  “I heard you singing as I slept,” Fabian said confidingly. “Sweet among the branches, under the old oak. I heard your voice calling my name, here in the Hallow, my domain. Silver singing in my wood; silver songs for summer’s prince.” Silver was blinking over and over, brow crumpling in a confused frown. “What a sweetmeat,” Fabian said. “What a gift, Toby. My generous friend.”

  “Not this one,” Tobias said. “No, Fabian, find another.”

  “Living in my house,” said Fabian, and his eyes shone bright, and his smile was fearsome. “No, Toby, I think it must be this one.”

  “I’m terribly sorry,” mumbled Silver, “but did you say—I think you said—”

  He trailed off.

  Tobias said, “Fay, an you ever loved me.”

  Fabian stood up. He went and put his hand on the back of Silver’s neck, proprietary, under the curls. It was more than Tobias had ever touched him. Silver got to his feet slowly. Tobias, not believing his own hand’s daring, reached for the flint knife he kept at his be
lt. Fabian grinned.

  The knife shattered in Tobias’s grip.

  “You may be Greenhallow’s greatest servant, Toby,” Fabian said, “but I am its master. Come, sweet.” That to Silver, who followed him, stumbling a little, to the door, and then turned to Tobias and said slowly, “Mr Finch, could I ask—that is—”

  He looked vaguely in the direction of his coat, still hanging on the back of Tobias’s chair. “My notebook,” he said.

  “You shan’t need it now,” said Fabian softly, his mouth near Silver’s ear.

  “Of course not. Of course. If you could give it to my mother,” said Silver. “Thank you. Yes . . . thank you. Good night.”

  “Good night, Toby,” added Fabian, and he dropped his arm around Silver’s shoulders as he steered him away. Shadows fell across his fair face as he turned away from the firelight, painting dark shapes across his brow, a bruise-hollow near his temple. Then he was gone. They both were gone.

  Tobias pulled himself out of his stunned stillness and rushed out after them, but Fabian had vanished, of course. Of course. The trees were crowded close and the mist hung underneath them. Tobias could hear the sound of distant voices, stamping and shouting, the tinkling of bridle bells. He’d seen them only a few times over the centuries, but he heard them every year.

  Bramble was there, but Tobias could not bring himself to speak. He went back inside and lay down on his old bed. Pearl never came and jumped up beside him. In the morning when he woke he found she’d curled herself on the chair with Silver’s coat.

  Tobias picked the coat up. He folded it carefully over his arm. He could feel the weight of Silver’s little leather-bound notebook in an inner pocket. He thought of nothing. He set out for the Hall.

  He did not try to step past the boundaries of the wood, but the young sapling that Bramble had made out of the walking stick Silver had given him months ago was still there, healthy and strong. Tobias carefully draped the coat over a low-hanging branch. Someone would find it, and Silver’s notebook with it. That was all he could do.

  At least there was no need to watch the village now, or patrol the borders, or do any of the things he normally did from March to September trying to keep Fabian well away from the world he no longer belonged to. With a handsome young playfellow to keep him amused Fabian was no threat to anyone for a season. That hadn’t changed from the old days, when Fabian Rafela was master of Greenhallow Hall and Toby Finch was his faithful servant. Only what happened to the lad after was different now.

  Tobias went back to his cottage and continued thinking of nothing.

  II

  “MR FINCH! MR FINCH! MR FINCH.”

  The voice had been calling for some time. Tobias did not look up from the flint he was working on. He needed another knife. The cottage could not be found as long as the wood kept it hidden.

  “Mr Finch, I can stand here all day and I will,” said the voice. Tobias looked up. Bramble, at the window, gave him a long questioning look: Shall I?

  “And don’t think you can send me off with thorns in my ears,” added the voice tartly. “The very idea! I don’t approve of you using a dryad for a guard dog, either. She’s much too old to be running about this way; you’ll go peculiar, young lady, if you keep this up.”

  “Who’s there?” said Tobias, suddenly wary.

  “Aha!” said the stranger. “I knew you must be around here somewhere. Come on out; let’s have a look at you.”

  Tobias picked up his crossbow, loaded it, and went outside.

  He recognised Silver’s mother at once, though he’d never seen her before. She was shorter than he’d expected from Silver’s description, and plumper. Her hair was scraped neatly back from her face, and greying, but it had the same muddy colour and loose wisps hung in the same curls. “Mr Finch,” she said. “There will be no need for the crossbow. You are the Tobias Finch my son has been visiting regularly, yes?”

  “The same,” said Tobias.

  She nodded, once. “And you are also, I believe, the individual known to local legend as Bloody-Handed Toby, a bandit and general good-for-nothing who haunted these environs some four hundred years ago as a member of Fabian Rafela’s robber band.” She brought up a hand and Tobias flinched, but all she was holding was Silver’s little leather-bound notebook. “And you are, of course, the Wild Man of Greenhollow Wood. Or Greenhallow, perhaps I should say. Henry’s notes comment several times on your unusual pronunciation.”

  “Ma’am,” began Tobias.

  “Henry appears to have taken an embarrassingly long time reaching the obvious conclusions,” said Silver’s mother, “but then, he is rather new to this sort of thing. I am Mrs Adela Silver. You may call me Mrs Silver. And you, young lady?”

  Bramble glowered suspiciously at her.

  “I call her Bramble,” said Tobias hoarsely.

  “Bramble. Very good. Mr Finch,” said Mrs Silver, “do put that crossbow down. You shall not need it in the immediate future. Let us sit down like civilised people, and then you will tell me what has happened to my son.”

  Tobias didn’t move as she walked past him to the cottage door. “Mr Finch,” she said in a voice like the snap of a whip, and he finally followed her in.

  In the end he barely needed to speak. Mrs Silver seemed to know almost as much about his wood as he did. “Greenhollow has been a source of professional curiosity for some time,” she said briskly, “but since it was plainly also being managed, quite adeptly, it was hardly a priority for investigation. Henry has always been more curious than practical, and although I attempted to dissuade him he could not resist the challenge. I take it you are in fact the manager.” Her eyes flicked to his crossbow, his knives—flint and steel.

  “You’re another folklorist,” said Tobias, trying to keep up.

  “A practical folklorist,” said Mrs Silver. “Vampires eliminated, ghouls laid to rest, fairies discouraged, and so on. It was my late husband’s profession and now it is mine. And, in a small way, Henry’s too, although he does not really have the stomach for some of the more hands-on elements. Now, I have read through his notes on Greenhollow and I believe I already know most of what is going on here, but there are some important pieces missing. Henry was convinced your Lord of Summer was some sort of fairy king and it seems to me he was on the wrong track entirely. The whole tangle here is plainly knotted up in the fate of the Rafela gang—five of whom were hanged, one of whom”—she nodded at Tobias—“is accounted for, and one of whom—”

  “Fay took him,” said Tobias. “Your son. Henry.” He’d never used Silver’s given name aloud before. It felt strange on his lips.

  “Took him,” said Mrs Silver, and her mouth went thin and her jaw tightened. “That answers one question. My other concerns the tree behind your little shack.”

  “The oak?” said Tobias.

  “What is it?”

  Tobias blinked at her. “The oak is the oak.”

  “According to my son’s notes,” said Mrs Silver, “that tree is the only thing in this wood apart from the old shrine which doesn’t move. He noted that your cottage always appeared to be near it regardless of how else the landscape changed. Now, what is it, Mr Finch? A dryad of some description?”

  “Him?” said Tobias. “No.”

  “Male dryads are uncommon but not unheard of—”

  “No,” said Tobias.

  She subsided. “Well, I suppose the Wild Man should know,” she said, slightly pettish. Then she sighed deeply and stood up. “A dryad would have been simpler. There’s nothing else for it. The tree had better come down.”

  Tobias was on his feet before he’d made the decision. He stood grimly over her, knowing he was looming, trying to use his size to scare a human being for the first time in four centuries. Mrs Silver looked up at him with pale, sharp eyes that were, Tobias thought, remarkably like her son’s. She did not sound the least bit kind as she said, “I am afraid you will not be able to prevent this. The wood is Henry’s property, and I have his pow
er of attorney.”

  “The wood is mine,” said Tobias.

  “No, I don’t believe it is. Not by any measure.”

  “You—”

  “Mr Finch,” said Mrs Silver, “you have told me that my son has been taken by your Lord of Summer, who is some species of spectre or possibly an unusual type of higher revenant; not a vampire but not dissimilar. Do you know where he is?”

  Tobias said nothing.

  “Do you believe you can find him? Do you believe you can save him? Do you have any ability to command, control, or otherwise manage Fabian Rafela?”

  “I’m bound up in that tree, woman,” said Tobias abruptly. He’d never said it before. “Do you mean to murder me?”

  She regarded him coolly. “Mr Finch, if I understand the situation correctly, you have already outlived your proper lifespan by some four hundred years,” she said. “My son is twenty-three.”

  Tobias’s hands were shaking. He could not speak.

  “I will do this with your cooperation or without it,” said Mrs Silver. “But if the old oak is Greenhollow’s heart, then Rafela is as bound to it as you are. It must come down.”

  “He’s likely dead already,” said Tobias, feeling his insides as hollow and rotten-soft as any dying thing.

  Mrs Silver raised her eyebrows. “The Lord of Summer rides from March till September,” she said. “I doubt he has finished with Henry yet.”

  There was a long silence as they looked at each other.

  “You’ll want Charlie Bondee,” said Tobias at last. “Ask in the village. He’s a decent shot as well as a good woodsman. Might be needful.”

  “I shall be back tomorrow,” said Mrs Silver.

  * * *

  Tobias was up before the sun, but Mrs Silver didn’t appear until noon. He spent the morning finishing the edge on his new flint knife. Then he fetched his axe from the woodblock and sharpened it, sitting on his doorstep with his bare feet in the earth. Bramble paced worriedly around and around the cottage. Pearl watched her with her tail lashing. Tobias kept his eyes down, watching the flick of Pearl’s tail, the tangled thorns of Bramble’s movement, his own big square fingers on the axe handle across his knees. If he looked up, he would see the old oak with his spreading branches.