Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman

by Charlotte E. English

  Grunewald did not hesitate, but strode away at once and passed rapidly beneath an enormous door in the wall. Isabel and Sophy followed. The corridors beyond were likewise swarming with fae, and Grunewald was obliged to repeat his terrible cry twice more as they wound their way through curving corridors and up spiralling stairs.

  Isabel was out of breath by the time they finally stopped in a round-walled chamber far above the ground. Its great, heavy door had shut out the fae, but Grunewald had forced it open. The windows were indeed agape, but there was no sign of any living presence; dust lay thickly over the curving window-seats and the round table and chairs which occupied the centre of the room. Bookcases bore an air of neglect, as though their contents had lain untouched for many years.

  The chamber was small; she and Sophy, Grunewald and his three fae followers barely all fit inside it together. She spared a moment’s gratitude for Sir Guntifer’s foresight in electing to remain below. He was just visible from the window, a great Elder oak stationed near to the main doors of the Palace. He bore the appearance of being on guard, which reassured Isabel to some degree. She did not know what the fae were doing in the palace in such numbers, nor whether they were a threat. But Grunewald appeared to be able to control them, and Sir Guntifer would keep others away.

  ‘But this cannot be everything,’ she said in confusion, for there were but few books and scrolls in evidence. Could this be the collected histories of all of Aylfenhame, these scant records?

  ‘Why, no, my dearest child,’ said Grunewald. ‘Of course, it is not everything. One may not simply walk into the Chronicler’s Tower and take from it as one pleases. Behold.’ A curious glyph was inlaid into the centre of the table in silver; Grunewald leaned forward and laid his hand over it. At once an image flickered into being over the table: a beast, translucent and ethereal, clearly an imagining of some kind and not a real creature. It bore the shape of a wispy dragon, its hide glittering with white scales and its eyes gleaming bright blue.

  ‘I seek entrance,’ said Grunewald.

  The dragon sniffed, sending wisps of ethereal smoke drifting forth from its nostrils. ‘The Goblin King,’ it said in a dusty voice. ‘You are not permitted to access the Chronicles.’ Having completed this laconic announcement, the dragon disappeared in a puff of mist.

  Grunewald sighed and turned away. ‘One would almost be tempted to think that Anthelaena didn’t trust me.’

  ‘I cannot think why,’ said Sophy dryly. ‘What possible reason could you have for accessing the Chronicles?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Grunewald softly, with a catlike smile. ‘Perfectly unexceptionable, selfish, highly questionable reasons, of course.’

  Sophy smiled. ‘Quite so.’

  Isabel stepped forward. ‘I had better try,’ she said, a trifle doubtfully. ‘As it is my task.’ She laid her hand over the glyph, and the dragon puffed back into being.

  ‘I seek entrance,’ said Isabel, smiling hesitantly at the dragon. Its expression had turned a little forbidding.

  ‘Mister Grunewald,’ said the dragon. ‘I will not be granting you entrance to—’ The dragon broke off abruptly as its eyes focused upon Isabel, and its forbidding air evaporated. ‘Well, now!’ it said, visibly brightening. ‘This is most unusual. What are you? Aylir? Goblin? Something else? It is a very good Glamour.’

  ‘Neither of those, sir,’ said Isabel. ‘I am human. It is no Glamour.’

  The dragon blinked at her, then drifted down to examine her more closely. ‘Why, so you are! And you have brought another. Two humans at once, in the Chronicler’s Tower? My very goodness.’ The dragon’s gaze fell once more upon Grunewald and his darkling entourage, and a scowl crossed its ethereal features. ‘And in company with His Most DisRespectable Majesty! Something very odd is afoot.’

  ‘Are you the Chronicler?’ Isabel asked.

  The dragon appeared shocked by such a question. ‘Certainly not! I am the Keeper.’

  ‘I see. And… what is that?’

  The dragon-Seeming swelled in size. ‘Why, a fashioning of the Chronicler’s! I am appointed to guard the entrance to his great creation.’

  The Keeper spoke of the Chronicler in terms of such reverence, Isabel began to feel unnerved. Would she ever be permitted to access the records?

  ‘Is… is he here?’ she said.

  The dragon appeared suddenly to wither, coils of mist shrinking in upon themselves. ‘The Chronicler is not in residence,’ it intoned, its voice odd and inflectionless — as though it had been given the line to speak.

  ‘Will he return?’

  The Keeper shrank a little further. ‘Perhaps,’ it said in a whisper.

  Isabel thought for a moment. She had hoped to consult the Chronicler himself, for he must certainly know whether his collection contained the information she needed, and where it was to be found.

  ‘I still seek entrance,’ Isabel said firmly. She could not turn back without making any attempt, for the Ferryman relied upon her. Who else would help him?

  The Keeper puffed itself back up to its former proportions, and gazed at her. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am Miss Isabel Ellerby, of Ferndeane, in England.’

  The Keeper mulled this over in silence for an instant, and then said simply: ‘Why?’

  ‘I seek information,’ said Isabel guardedly. Should she reveal her full errand to this creature, or not? Would the Keeper approve, or would it share the doubtful opinion of the Ferryman she had heard from others?

  ‘To what end?’ replied the Keeper in ringing tones. ‘Seek not the Chronicles for the exaltation of the Self, for it shall not be permitted. Is your errand for the good of Aylfenhame?’

  ‘Do not try to lie,’ Grunewald warned from behind Isabel. ‘I tried that, the first time. It did not go well.’ His tone was wry; Isabel could picture the deprecating smile that he often wore.

  ‘I could not think of lying,’ said Isabel with a touch of indignation. How like Grunewald to imagine that everyone thought and acted like him! But she suffered a moment’s doubt. Her errand had nothing to do with exalting herself, but was it for the good of Aylfenhame? ‘I seek to aid another,’ she said at last. ‘To gain his freedom.’

  ‘Ah, Curse-breaking,’ said the Keeper in a more normal tone of voice. ‘Though it is unusual for any to venture here in the service of another.’

  ‘I consider that unfortunate,’ said Isabel, ‘for are we not all in need of aid, from time to time?’

  ‘Does this “other” propose to cause harm to Aylfenhame?’ continued the dragon, as though Isabel had not spoken.

  ‘I have no reason to believe that he does,’ she replied, conscious all the while of how little she knew about the Ferryman. Was he the congenial soul she imagined him to be, or had he deserved the Curse laid upon him?’

  The Keeper huffed a little, emitting another puff of mist from its mouth. ‘The Test must be administered,’ it pronounced, and swelled to a formidable size. ‘You must answer one question, Isabel of Ferndeane, and you shall have but one attempt to answer correctly. Do you accept?’

  Isabel mustered as much confidence as she could, and nodded. ‘I accept.’

  ‘Very well.’ The Keeper swelled a little more, the mists comprising its draconic shape turning a sober shade of blue. It was now so big that its head hovered directly beneath the ceiling, and its misty coils had begun to spill out of the windows. ‘The question is thus: If a faefly drifts a thousand leagues in Greyling and its wings turn cerulean, what colour is the Queen to wear on Beltane three summers ago?’

  Isabel blinked. Her mouth opened, closed again, and she swallowed. ‘Have you perhaps misspoken the question, sir?’ she enquired. Something was gravely amiss with the latter part, for he had spoken of the Queen’s attire on a future Beltane and then named it as three summers past. And that was merely the first point of confusion; for what was a faefly, or Greyling? What did it matter what colours its wings were, or how far it had travelled?

  ‘Of course I did not,�
�� said the Keeper. ‘Will you hear it again?’

  Isabel nodded, and waited in silence as the Keeper repeated the question. Nothing more occurred to her upon the second speaking than the first, and her heart sank.

  ‘I cannot answer,’ she said in shame.

  ‘Of course you cannot, Isabel of England,’ said the Keeper, shrinking down somewhat from its heights. ‘You must seek aid. If those who Know are prepared to assist you, then I will consider your request.’

  Isabel turned away from the table in despair. ‘Who could possibly know the answer to such a question?’ she sighed. No one answered her; the expressions upon the faces of Sophy, Grunewald, Yangveld, Palchis and Ertof were alike in their blank incomprehension.

  Isabel felt hopelessly unequal to the task she had set herself. In order to find the Ferryman’s name, she first had to find someone who knew what it had been. But in order to find the Chronicler — or at least, the books he had left behind — she now had to find someone else who could answer the strangest question she had ever heard in her life! And where was she to start?

  A vision of the Ferryman passed through her thoughts, and she sighed inwardly once more. She had made him believe that she would help him; would she so easily give up?

  ‘Tafferty?’ she said softly.

  The catterdandy was sitting by the door, with her tail wrapped neatly over her front paws. She had taken no part whatsoever in anything that had happened since they had discovered Grunewald’s camp, and Isabel felt uncomfortable appealing to her. But she had sensed before that Tafferty’s knowledge of Aylfenhame was broad, perhaps surprisingly so. Besides, she was Isabel’s companion, whether she appreciated the idea or not.

  Tafferty’s head had been drooping towards the floor; perhaps she was asleep. But her head came up abruptly as Isabel spoke her name, and she opened her eyes wide. ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘The Keeper’s question,’ Isabel prompted. ‘Do you know who could answer?’

  Tafferty’s tail twitched and she glanced away. ‘That Ferryman,’ she said. ‘He may help his own self! Thou art under no obligation t’ assist him.’

  ‘I do not see how he can!’ Isabel cried. ‘He cannot leave the boat.’

  ‘Perhaps he may remember, if he tried a mite harder.’

  ‘He has had many years to remember, and he has not. The Curse will make sure he does not, we may assume.’

  Tafferty fixed her eyes on Isabel’s face, and narrowed them. ‘Why art thou so eager t’ help the likes of him anyhow?’

  ‘Would you like to find yourself in such a situation, Tafferty?’ Isabel demanded. She was beginning to grow irritated with the catterdandy’s ungenerous attitude. How anyone could consent to leave a fellow being languishing under such a Curse without even trying to help was beyond her comprehension!

  ‘I would be far too wise an’ clever t’ get myself into such a mess in the first place!’ retorted Tafferty. ‘I would know better’n t’ tangle meself up wi’ the likes o’ the Kostigern, too, an’ the Ferryman is his creature entire.’

  ‘Do you know that to be the truth? Or is it mere rumour? Oh! Do we not owe it to each other to be kind? How cruel it is, to condemn another on mere gossip alone!’

  ‘And if it is not gossip?’

  ‘If it is not, then he has been punished enough,’ said Isabel firmly. ‘If he has transgressed in the past, I am sure he is sorry for it now, and he ought to be given the chance to redeem himself.’

  Tafferty made a noise of disgust. ‘Thou art sure,’ she said mockingly. ‘Sure thou art, and basin’ that opinion on what, exactly?’

  ‘I feel it to be the truth,’ said Isabel. ‘If I am wrong…’

  ‘If thou art mistaken, thou wilt unleash a liability upon Aylfenhame,’ said Tafferty. ‘The Keeper is right t’ deny entrance t’ thee.’

  ‘Tafferty. Do you know the answer to the Keeper’s question?’

  Tafferty growled. ‘I do.’

  ‘Then I beg you, share it with me! If we are to be companions, then we must trust and help one another.’

  ‘Thou art but an infant in the ways of Aylfenhame,’ Tafferty retorted. ‘Tis my duty t’ keep thee from doin’ thyself — or the rest of us — any harm.’

  Isabel, speechless with indignation and dismay, could find no fitting response. Stubborn creature! Could she never be persuaded to give the Ferryman a chance? Her heart ached at the prospect of leaving her promise unfulfilled, and the Ferryman bound to his boat forever.

  Her mind returned to the conversation she had had with him during her elongated journey to Grenlowe. She had liked him. It was difficult to decide precisely why she had liked him so much, but no mere rumour could dislodge her confidence in him! Her heart swelled with indignation at the very idea. If only he could speak to Tafferty himself — if only he could be given the opportunity to address these persistent and damaging rumours!

  But he could. Isabel’s mind flew to the parting gift he had given her — the whistle. She groped in her reticule, half in a panic lest she had mislaid it, but she had not; there it lay, safe at the bottom of the little bag. She drew it out.

  ‘We will resolve this!’ she said. ‘Tafferty, please come with me.’ She did not wait to allow her companion any opportunity to argue, but turned at once and left the tower. She was halfway down the stairs before she heard sounds of anyone following her.

  ‘Isabel!’ Sophy called. ‘Do, please, take care!’

  Isabel paused to reassure her friend, and as she did so Grunewald swept past, glancing sideways at her as he did so. ‘Reckless, that,’ he said with a twinkle, and not disapprovingly. ‘Allow me!’ He strode back down to the hallway, sending darkling fae scurrying out of his path with every step. Isabel, Sophy and Tafferty followed in his wake.

  The moment Isabel stepped out into the warm morning air, she lifted the delicate whistle to her lips and blew. The sound that emerged was not the high-pitched, single note she had expected. A ripple of notes poured forth in a clear melody, which seemed to expand until it filled all the air around her. She waited, her heart pounding. Would he come?

  She was not obliged to wait for very long. Two or three minutes passed, though it felt a great deal longer to Isabel, in her state of anticipation. Then a cloud rippled upon the horizon, puffing out a great cloud of mist, and the boat materialised in the centre of it. It sailed swiftly down to land in between the trees outside of the palace, hovering some little way above the ground. The Ferryman stood tall and straight in the prow.

  He considered Isabel for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then his eyes flicked to take in her odd assortment of companions, and the palace of Mirramay behind.

  ‘I ‘ad thought ye would use the whistle when ye were ready t' return t' England,’ he said in a conversational tone. ‘I ‘ad not imagined I would find ye in Mirramay. Nor that ye’d be keepin’ company wi’ darklin’s, an’ one o’ the tree-giants o’ myth — not t’ mention the Goblin King his own self.’ The Ferryman made Grunewald a bow as he spoke this last, though the gesture was ironical.

  Grunewald made a far more flamboyant bow in response, his mouth curling into a grin. ‘Ah, the Ferryman. A fine figure of mystery, and how good of you to come. Something of a myth yourself, are you not?’

  ‘Myths may live an’ breathe, that I know.’ He looked once again at Isabel, and raised one eyebrow. ‘Is it passage ye seek? If so, I cannot fit ye all within, I fear. Yer human friend I may, an’ His Majesty, if he so chooses. His Majesty’s entourage, an’ yer mounts — that’s trickier. Yer giant friend? Not a chance, I do fear.’

  ‘I do not seek to travel at this time, sir,’ said Isabel. ‘We have come here in search of your name, and have encountered an obstacle which only you can remove.’

  Both of the Ferryman’s brows went up at these words, and his mouth opened a little in shock. ‘Ye came t’ Mirramay in search o’ my name?’ he repeated. ‘An’ wi’ the Goblin King?’

  ‘Not precisely with Grunewald,’ Isabel said cautiously
. ‘We discovered that he was already here, and he has been kind enough to assist us.’

  The Ferryman’s brows rose higher still at her use of the name Grunewald, and he turned outright incredulous at the rest of her sentence. ‘Kind!’ he said. ‘He is not known fer kindness, His Majesty.’

  ‘I have never known him to be anything other than kind!’ Isabel retorted. ‘He has been Miss Landon’s acquaintance this past year, and has been everything of the kindest to her. And to me.’

  The Ferryman surveyed Sophy, his expression markedly sceptical. ‘I can see there is more t’ ye than I guessed,’ he said, returning his gaze to Isabel. ‘Still, I would warn ye t’ take some care wi’ his Kingship. Tricky folk, goblins.’

  ‘I might say the same of you,’ said Grunewald smoothly. ‘In fact, the catterdandy there is vehemently opposed to anybody’s helping you at all.’

  The Ferryman’s face darkened with some unnameable emotion. ‘She is right enough,’ he said shortly.

  ‘She is not,’ Isabel protested. ‘I cannot convince her of your worthiness, but you can! That is why I have summoned you. She possesses the answer to a question posed by the Keeper of the Chronicles, but she will not share it; and without it, I cannot get inside. Please, tell her that she is mistaken about you! There are rumours abroad, but they may be easily contradicted.’

  The Ferryman merely looked at her. It struck her that he appeared wearied, if not in body then perhaps in spirit. His dark hair was a little disordered, coming loose from the ribbon he used to tie it back; his golden skin looked, she thought, a little paler than when she had seen him before; and his eyes were deeply shadowed. ‘Whatever they are,’ he said slowly, ‘they are probably naught but the truth.’

  ‘They cannot be,’ Isabel said. ‘They refer to — to —’

  ‘T’ the Kostigern?’ he interrupted. ‘An’ ye, little innocent, cannot even say his name. Such a mind as ye possess could never fathom why any soul’d consent t’ be one o’ his, considerin’ his actions. But yer mind is a place o’ naught but light; ye cannot see the shadows in everyone else’s.’