by Ian Richards
His last hope, he told himself, was an exhibition at the British Museum he had seen advertised in a free newspaper: ‘Secret Histories: Myth & Folklore In British Society.’ On the day the exhibition opened, a chilly Wednesday morning dappled with rain, he was the first in line. Inside he wandered amongst life-sized replicas of Stonehenge rocks, searching for information about Faerie amongst enormous displays devoted to King Arthur, Robin Hood, Dick Turpin and others. To his disappointment, he found little of note. Next to a cabinet of corn dollies he saw a collection of what some claimed to be fairy jewelry. And along from this were several black and white photographs supposedly depicting fairies at play in the early 1920s. (He had no doubt that the creature who had kidnapped Martell and Vanessa was nothing like these inch-high sprites, all of whom had butterfly wings, wore acorn caps on their heads, and danced gleefully on the tips of flowers.) He was moments away from giving up altogether when he caught sight of something that stopped him cold. A tapestry hung on the wall in the corner of the exhibition room, framed between a pair of glass cabinets displaying sketches of boggarts and hobgoblins. He moved closer, drawn to it as if by magic.
The tapestry was roughly six feet wide and four feet tall. It had a worn, ragged quality that the lights pointed at it did their best to disguise. Tony imagined it to be very fragile. The colors had faded with time, and at its bottom several threads had already begun to work themselves loose. What captivated him the most were the red-haired creatures depicted in its centre. These were no childish cut-outs. They were fairies, he could tell at once. They matched the descriptions in his books almost exactly.
He assessed the picture closely, taking in every detail. The fairies were dressed in leaf-green clothing and had been depicted skipping around an enormous blazing bonfire. There were perhaps a dozen of them in all. Though the image seemed primitive in many respects—childish almost—there was a certain maliciousness about the expressions on the faces of these fairies that he didn’t particularly care for. Their grins were slightly too knowing. Their eyes seemed to shimmer in the glare of the flames.
He turned to a nearby assistant and raised his hand. ‘Excuse me, but what can you tell me about this tapestry, please?’
The man frowned and suggested that the curator would probably be a better person to ask about that. Tony waited a few moments while he went to fetch her. She arrived moments later carrying a clipboard and smiling happily. Tony guessed her to be the type of person who liked it when members of the public asked questions about her displays. He used to feel the same way himself when customers asked about antiques back in the shop.
‘Good morning, young man.’ She shook his hand. ‘Abigail Hunter, curator of the exhibition. I hear you had a question about our tapestry?’
‘Hello, miss. I did. I’m interested in fairies, you see. I’m doing a project on them for school.’
‘And what is it you’d like to know?’
‘Everything,’ Tony said. ‘Whatever you’ve got.’
For the next ten minutes they talked: about the tapestry, fairies, and British history, a topic in which Tony was more than capable of holding his own. He learnt about different styles of tapestries. They discussed the role of fairies in art and literature. Mrs. Hunter even took him through a side door into her office to get him a computer print-out of a paper she had written on the subject a few years ago.
‘I must say it is quite refreshing to meet a youngster with such enthusiasm for history.’ She sat back in her chair as Tony took in the decor of her office. It was reassuringly cluttered. There were stacks of books on her desk, newspaper articles pinned to the walls, and an overflowing wastepaper bin that looked as if it hadn’t been emptied in weeks. It reminded him of Martell’s Antiques. As Abigail Hunter tapped away at her computer, he tried to convince himself that somehow an academic essay about fairies in English literature would show him the way to Marshwood. He knew it wouldn’t, of course. Every avenue he had tried so far had lead to a dead-end, and this one would be no different. Sure enough, when she handed over the printed pages—‘On The Use Of Fairy Motifs In Shakespearean Drama’—his stomach sank. All of this information, all of her knowledge, it danced around what he really wanted to know like the fairies in the tapestry. That was the key. The tapestry had either been woven by a fairy or by someone who had at one time had been granted access to Faerie, he was sure of that. This was where he should be looking, not in essays or books.
‘Where did it come from though?’ he said when they were back outside. The tapestry loomed in front of them on the wall. Though he couldn’t say for certain, he had a feeling that it had changed slightly from when he had looked at it last. Were some of the fairies in different positions? Were the flames rising that little bit higher?
‘It was a donation,’ Mrs. Hunter answered. ‘We date it back to around 1590. Possibly a decade or so either way. The style is consistent with the kind used in England at the time.’
‘Who donated it?’
‘A gentleman from Knightsbridge. I can’t remember his name off the top of my head. It’s in my records somewhere. I can pass on his details if you’d like. Although—’ She paused, as if suddenly remembering herself. ‘No. No, it’s probably best if I don’t. I don’t think he’s the sort of man who would take kindly to questions. From what I recall he was rather unwelcoming.’
‘Please?’ Tony asked.
She relented and wrote down an address on the back of her business card. ‘You can’t miss it,’ she said. ‘It’s a huge property. But two things: Firstly, don’t mention my name or the museum. We have a hard enough time attracting donors as it is. We really can’t afford to annoy any of our current ones.’
‘And the second?’ He took her card and read the address.
‘If you contact him, make sure your mum or dad go with you.’
‘My mum or dad?’
‘Just to be on the safe side.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course.’
The bus that took him to Knightsbridge was a double-decker filled mostly with office workers who had clocked off for the day. The driver wore a Santa hat and a tinsel boa. Tony guessed that his merriness had been enforced by official decree, because the closest he got to a smile was when he had to turn away a confused tourist for not having the correct fare.
It was dark now. The nights were drawing in earlier every day, and as he rested his head against the window he let the lights of the city wash over him. Neon advertising hoardings, flashing shop signs, traffic lights, headlights, galaxies of Christmas lights that flickered and flared in the most intricate of patterns.
He didn’t know what he could expect to find in Knightsbridge. From what the museum curator had told him, the gentleman who had donated the tapestry would probably send him away immediately. And then what would he do? That would be it, every possible route to Marshwood chased down. Back to square one. He would have to choose between freeing the genie or using his final wish to get to Marshwood.
The address took him to a large mansion overlooking Hyde Park. No lights were on, and as he trudged up the gravel-coated drive, surrounded on either side by rising hedgerows, he shivered at the thought of what lay ahead of him. What if nobody was in? What if the owners had jetted off on holiday for the winter?
An electronic buzzer had been affixed to the wall next to the door. Beneath it, a handwritten sign warned off potential visitors. Tony couldn’t help but read its contents in the voice of a retired colonel.
‘No door-to-door salesmen. No charity fundraisers. No canvassers. No free newspapers. No Jehovah’s Witnesses. No religious groups of any other denomination. No politicians. No pets. No boy scouts. No girl guides. No survey takers. No meter checkers.’
Beneath this, in capital letters, the message concluded:
‘NO VISITORS WITHOUT AN APPOINTMENT!!’
As he read through this litany of hostility the last bit of fight inside him drained away. What hope did he have of getting anything out of the person who had tho
ught a sign like this necessary? He debated walking away then and there, but he had come so far, the least he could do was try. Having a miserable old man shout at him would hardly be the worst thing he had experienced recently.
He pushed the buzzer. Bzzzzzzzz. Even the sound of it was angry, as if he had disturbed a nest of hornets. A light switched on upstairs.
Seconds later the intercom crackled and a gruff voice barked through.
‘Who the devil are you? What do you want?’
The figure on the other end of the line sounded even sharper than Tony had anticipated.
‘Good afternoon,’ he replied, taking care to speak as politely as possible. ‘My name is Tony Lott, I’m doing a school project and I was just wondering if you might be able to—’
Before he could finish the connection clicked off. From inside the house he heard a door slamming loudly upstairs. This was followed by a series of thunderous footsteps that stomped down the stairs then hurried towards the door at speed.
The door flew open with such force that Tony took a step back in fright.
In front of him loomed a tall, dark man with an enormous beard.
Tony recognized him at once.
‘Sir Roderick?!’
‘Tony Lott,’ he bellowed delightedly. ‘Martell’s boy! Good to see you again, young man. Come here, give me a hug.’ There was no time to protest. A beefy pair of arms seized him around the shoulders and drew him into an embrace. He felt the air shoot out from his lungs, and was glad to be set down again. ‘But whatever are you doing here? Why are you skulking about in my garden?’
‘I was after information, Sir Roderick. I’m looking to find out about fairies.’
‘Fairies!’ Sir Roderick managed to somehow sound outraged and delighted at the same time. ‘Brilliant! What on earth do you want to know about those tricksy things for? They’re nothing but trouble, you know. You can trust a fairy about as far as you can throw him. And if there was one here right now then throw him is exactly what I’d do. Right onto his magical behind.’
Sir Roderick led him into his house. The insides spoke of wealth and luxury. Enormous mirrors hung on the walls. Exotic rugs lay stretched out on the polished floorboards.
‘Do you think you would be able to help me then?’ Tony asked. A queasy excitement had begun to grip him. He recognized it as the gambler’s rush: the all-or-nothing moment in which futures are made or lost forever.
‘Help you?’ Sir Roderick laughed. ‘I should think so. If you want to find out about fairies, you’ve come to the right place, Tony.’
‘You can tell me about them then?’
‘Ha!’ Sir Roderick unscrewed his hip-flask and took a hearty drink. ‘Oh, my boy’ he grinned. ‘I can do better than that. I can introduce you to one.’
32 - Vanessa In Marshwood
Vanessa was ready for a fight.
She had never been the type of girl willing to sit quietly in the corner if trouble came calling. Back in Crete she had a fearsome reputation throughout the village as someone who never backed down, no matter the odds against her. Once she had taken on a gang of six girls she had found throwing stones at a cat. They were older than her, stronger than her, and meaner than her. They had beaten her terribly, so much so that afterwards she could hardly stand. But stand she had, fists ready to go another round, her bloodied face snarling with determination. Eventually this resilience had frightened the others away. No, standing up for herself was something Vanessa had never had a problem with. In her opinion those who stayed quiet and kept their heads down were cowards. Decent people didn’t do that. They stood up for what they believed in. They were prepared to fight. She couldn’t imagine backing down on anything if she believed in it enough. Never ever. There was an old saying, better to die on your feet than live on your knees. She had always liked that one. It resonated with her.
On days like this it was virtually a mantra.
And so as she sat in her cell, several floors underground, buried in the dirt like a dead thing, she had no doubt whatsoever that the next person to visit her was going to feel the full force of her rage. So far the only visitors had been sniveling servants who had given her food and a change of clothes and then left again without answering any of her questions. At first she had tried to look at it from their point of view. They don’t mean any harm, they’re just doing their job. They’ve probably been told not to talk to me. But now, after goodness knows how many hours of being kept in this miserable little hole, she was ready to unleash her anger on the next person to come calling, whether they were a servant or not.
Deep down she hoped it would be Mr. Krook. The thought of driving her fist into that hideous little face was delightful. Back in London he had surprised her with his speed. She hadn’t had a chance to fight back. ‘Move it, girlie. Walk.’ In any other circumstances she would have blasted the odious creature so hard there would be nothing left of him but a pair of smoldering shoes. But with his blade pressed against her, what chance had she had? The slightest move and then schlick, that would have been it. Goodnight Vanessa.
She shook her head. What a ridiculous situation to find herself in.
Kidnapped!
Her!
Of all people!
She could have accepted someone else being kidnapped, some dunderhead heiress perhaps, or a minor royal. But her? She didn’t know whether she should feel angry or embarrassed. In the end a cool combination of the two won out. She was embarrassed, yes. Who wouldn’t be? But she was angry, too. Very angry. And she would prove it. The next fairy she saw was going down hard.
The darkness in the dungeon felt rich and silky. A pair of blazing lanterns cast flickering firelight across its earthen walls. She let her eyes sweep over the cell again. It was a cold, characterless prison. A lone door provided the exit but it remained tightly locked and her spells had had no success in opening it. This didn’t entirely surprise her. The whole house was steeped in enchantments. She had sensed it from the moment she got here. There was something in the air—a heaviness that pricked up the hairs on the back of her neck and tightened the nerves.
She froze. Someone was coming. She could hear footsteps drawing closer.
Instinctively she tensed herself, balling up her fists and rising to her feet.
‘All right,’ she whispered. ‘Which one of you is going to get it?’
To her disappointment it was another servant who entered, a reedy, simpering fairy who wore spectacles and came in cowering for mercy. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘My name is Thomas Silvertongue, we don’t have much time, but—’
She clocked him one anyway, a left hook to the jaw that sent him spiraling to the floor. The ease with which he crumbled surprised her—it was like hitting a skeleton; an avalanche of bones—but there was no time for an appraisal of the punch, she had to go, now, while the door was still—
Bam. It slammed shut in her face. She turned to see the creature sprawled out on the floor with his hand outstretched towards the door.
‘Open it,’ she said. ‘Open it now or I’ll make you regret it.’
‘Listen,’ the fairy hissed, trying to pick itself up. A large welt had already begun to form on its face. ‘I’m not your enemy. I’m on your side.’
‘Bollocks you are,’ Vanessa snapped. ‘Why should I trust you?’
‘Because,’ he snarled, ‘I’m friends with Martell. And I want to get out of this mess just as much as you do.’
Martell. She eyed the fairy carefully, unsure whether or not to believe him. ‘So you’re on my side?’
‘Yes.’
‘Even though you just stopped me from escaping?’
‘Escaping? You can’t escape from Marshwood. No-one can. I came here to try and help you.’
‘Right. And how were you going to do that?’
Before he could answer, the door opened again and an even more frightful creature waltzed into the room. Unlike the bag-of-bones assistant in the spectacles, this fairy appeared cruel and confident. He had
high cheekbones, piercing green eyes, and wore a cloak that changed color even as he spoke. ‘Vanessa. My beloved. How nice to finally make your acquaintance.’ He bowed lowly, grinning at her as he did so. ‘And you, Silvertongue,’ he continued, righting himself. His eyebrows knitted together with confusion. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’
‘I’m just checking in on the prisoner, Lord Firefox. Making sure everything is in order.’ From the way he groveled, Vanessa felt glad she had hit him. She had no time for sycophants. And yet his nervous disposition—the way he stumbled over his excuses—could he have been telling her the truth after all? He looked like somebody who had just been caught out, somebody desperate to cover up for himself.
‘Let me guess,’ she said, turning her attention back to the dandy in the magic cape. ‘You’re the one in charge around here.’
‘Lord Firefox, at your service, dear.’ He bowed again. This time the gesture seemed willfully sarcastic.
‘That’s good to know,’ Vanessa nodded. Without warning she tried to shoot a bolt of green lightning at his face. Nothing happened.
The fairy roared with laughter. ‘Haroo, haroo! We’ve brought home a wildcat, Silvertongue. Look how she tried to zap me. Not even a moment’s hesitation. Haroo!’
Vanessa tried again, but the result was the same. She couldn’t produce even the smallest of sparks.
‘I’m afraid, my dear,’ Firefox smiled, ‘that you’re in Marshwood now, where the only one with any power is me. Were we in your world then yes, I have no doubt that our roles would be reversed. I daresay you could fry me like sausage in a pan. But alas, unfortunately for you, we are not. And that rather means you will have to learn to do as I tell you.’
