Dark Waters of Hagwood

by Robin Jarvis

  “What you were saying before,” Bufus continued. “About the big folk, them who ran off and escaped. You didn’t say where they went. How can they hide from all the High Lady’s soldiers?”

  The Tower Lubber gave a short laugh. “You have forgotten the Smith!” he said. “They were hidden by his cunning and by his arts. Do not underestimate the skill of the Puccas. They did more than shoe the elfin horses. Many arts were known to them.”

  “That silver fire devil!” Tollychook spluttered. “What Old Nanna Thingummy had ’round her neck and how she nipped in and out her gypsy disguise. That were a magic wotnot made by the Smith!”

  “Yes,” the Tower Lubber said. “Both daughters of Ragallach were given such a talisman, Fikil and Harkul the fire devils were named, and great pleasure they brought them, donning strange forms and masquerading as others. Clarisant used hers for merriment only, but Morthanna’s was always a tool for deceit, discovering secrets and spreading poison—turning friend against friend and brewing dissent.”

  “We don’t need silver fire devils to change what we look like!” Bufus cried proudly. “I can wergle into a mouse really well. Do you want to see?”

  He had been so eager to show off his talent that he had momentarily forgotten about the Tower Lubber’s eyes. Once again the Doolan boy regretted his thoughtlessness and bit on his tongue.

  “Tell me,” Liffidia said hastily. “What was Prince Tammedor like? Was he handsome?”

  They had reached the bottom of the ridge where the ground dipped gently toward the forest’s outlying trees. The Tower Lubber hesitated before moving any farther.

  “Handsome?” he repeated, and his brows knotted above the wooden pegs. “Yes, they said he was handsome. Tall and strong of hand, with a clear, penetrating gaze and a reckless spirit burning within him.”

  “How far away was his home? Why did no one come searching for him?”

  “Oh, a long way over the mountains and then some. Maybe they did come seeking him. Maybe Rhiannon tricked them and sent them back, or maybe she put them to death. I do not know.”

  “And where is the prince now?”

  “Lost in the dark, my little friend, lost in the dark.”

  He would say no more.

  A well-trodden track was worn into the ground before them, leading to the edge of the forest, and he strode along it, his face set and deep in thought.

  The werlings pondered on his words. What brought him from his tower every morning? What was in this glade he was taking them to? How could they find the answers to their questions there?

  They passed the first of the trees, and a song thrush alighted upon a low branch, opened its beak, and began a fluting song of welcome.

  Somewhere close by, a blackbird joined in, pouring out all the love in its tiny heart for he who cared for all birds. Presently that corner of the wood was ringing with the sweetest music, and Liffidia caught her breath as she listened.

  A trio of linnets came fluttering from the treetops and hopped from bough to bough, following their progress and twittering a gleeful chorus.

  And then the oaks and birches began to thin once more, and the track wound into a wide sun-filled glade.

  The werlings stared ahead curiously. The clearing was an empty stretch of grass and wildflowers. But there, right in the center, was a large, low ring built of stone.

  “What be that?” Tollychook asked.

  The Tower Lubber continued on his way, heading straight for it. The unusual structure was only as high as his waist, but there was no sign that it had ever been the foundations of a small tower; no blocks of broken stone lay in the surrounding grass. None of the big folk could ever have hoped to dwell within such a cramped space. The Tower Lubber could easily reach his long arms across the circle’s width.

  An iron hoop was fixed to the side, and, tethered to this, a thick rope trailed up and over the stones, disappearing into the shadowy center.

  As they drew near, the werlings smelled a reek of damp, dark water, and they glanced at one another in puzzlement.

  When he reached it, the Tower Lubber halted and leaned forward, lowering his cradling arms.

  Abruptly the birdsong ceased and all was deathly quiet.

  “Step down, my friends,” he told the werlings. “But be careful, do not venture too close to the edge. The moss is slippery and you will be lost.”

  Cautiously, they obeyed. Clambering down, they stood upon the stone wall and peered into the circle’s interior.

  “Lumme!” Tollychook wailed immediately. “I doesn’t like it! ’Tain’t right. Pick me up, pick me up!” And he limped back to the Tower Lubber and held on tightly to the sleeves of his jacket.

  Liffidia shivered. A cold breath of dank, stale air blew up into her face, and she drew back, afraid.

  Only Bufus managed to stare into the darkness that the wall contained. The stone circle penetrated deep into the ground, far beyond the reach of sunlight, beneath the farthest roots, down into the secret middle of the world.

  “It’s an upside-down tower!” he marveled. “It’s the most crackers thing I ever saw. What’s the point of that then? And what’s this rope for? How far down does it reach? Barking mad, that’s what this is! Or has it sunk into the ground? Did something big and horrible pull it down into the dark?”

  The Tower Lubber chuckled to himself.

  “This is the watch well; it belongs to the tower. Here the men of old would daily draw their fresh water and so too do I. Have you no wells in your land?”

  “No,” Bufus snorted. “Is there a bucket at the end of this rope then? What a lot of effort, hoisting it up all this way!”

  “It is not merely the water that brings me here,” the Tower Lubber answered.

  “What then?” Liffidia asked. “And how does this answer all our questions?”

  “Yes,” Bufus chimed in. “Where’s the gold box and the princess and the prince?”

  The Tower Lubber put a finger to his lips for silence, lifted his face to the sky, and gave a long trilling whistle.

  Then he waited.

  The werlings looked around them, but there was no time to wonder, for a small bird came flying swiftly from the woodland and perched upon one of the Tower Lubber’s large ears.

  It was a bullfinch, and in its beak it carried a single yellow primrose.

  “My thanks,” the Tower Lubber said when the pale flower was dropped on to his outstretched palm. “For generations, without fail your line has plucked a bloom every sunrise and brought it to me here. Yet this may prove to be the final day of your generosity. Tomorrow will see the changing of many things.”

  The bird chattered to him and shook its feathers, puffing out its pinkish-red chest.

  “Go then,” the Tower Lubber nodded. “Your family needs you; be with them. A blessing upon your nest, most faithful of friends.”

  With a final chirrup, the bullfinch flew off, and the Tower Lubber gave a sorrowful smile.

  “Yes,” he murmured. “The changing of many things.”

  Liffidia stared at the primrose in his hand but could not understand what he would do with it.

  “Is it to make a medicine?” she ventured.

  The Tower Lubber laughed and shook his head. “This is not for me,” he said. “None of the flowers were ever for me. They are for her. They are always for her.”

  “Who you talking about?” Bufus asked.

  “Listen,” the Tower Lubber whispered. “Can you not hear?”

  The werlings glanced at one another in puzzlement. All they could hear were the sounds of the forest: the leaves rustling in the trees as the wind sighed through the branches and the distant call of birds. And then, one by one, they heard.

  Very faint and from the stagnant depths of the well came the most unexpected and astonishing sound. Somewhere, far below, in the cold belly of the earth, in that profound, clammy darkness, a harp was playing.

  The lilting music of its strings floated up the immense shaft, rising like warm ai
r into the glade where it climbed into the welcoming spring morning and evaporated like flakes of snow in the sunshine.

  Liffidia could scarcely believe her ears, but there it was, a simple, melancholy tune.

  “That’s pretty,” Tollychook mumbled with a sniff. “Makes me think of home and me mam, that do.”

  “It’s haunted,” Bufus breathed.

  “No,” the Tower Lubber told him softly. “At least not in the way you mean. Every dawn, for over three hundred years, she has sat below and played that same tune, over and over. No other refrain ever sounds in those deep shadows, only that, only that.”

  “But who is it?” Liffidia asked.

  The Tower Lubber’s raw eyelids watered more than usual, and in a low, wavering voice he began to sing.

  Three young chicks are chirping in the nest:

  One a princeling with gold on his crest.

  Another the fairest, with love in her breast.

  One the darkest, more quiet than the rest.

  Little birds, little birds, your father so adores you.

  By the joy that you bring, his kingdom is all for you.

  With deepest love, the Hollow Hill implores you,

  To reign one day—may faerie gold shower o’er you.

  When the song was over, he hung his head, and Liffidia saw that his hand was trembling.

  “That was the nursery song of the Hollow Hill,” the Tower Lubber explained in a voice thick with emotion. “The song that King Ragallach composed for his three children when they were young. For Alisander, Morthanna, and Clarisant.”

  “So who’s plucking about down there?” Bufus asked.

  Even as he voiced the question, the music faltered and died.

  Solemnly the Tower Lubber reached his hand across the well and let the primrose fall.

  Down it fluttered, twirling into the suffocating darkness.

  “For you, my love,” he murmured.

  Liffidia gasped and at last she understood.

  “It’s her!” the girl cried.

  The Tower Lubber turned his ugly face to her, and the sadness graven there was too painful to look on, and she covered her eyes with her hands.

  “Yes,” he said. “It is she. Every morning she plays that song, and every morning I cast a flower down to her. That is all we have, our only exchange and contact. Soft, tender words and caresses are denied us. The mere rumor of her music must see me through each day without her, and my humble offering reminds her of the light and my undying love.”

  “I don’t get it,” Bufus piped up, annoyed at not grasping what they were talking about. “Go on, spill. Who is it down there then?”

  “The hottest blood of my heart,” the Tower Lubber answered.

  “Who?”

  Tollychook wiped his nose on his sleeve; even he understood now. “It’s the princess,” he blubbed.

  Bufus Doolan’s mouth dropped open. “The High Lady’s sister?” he exclaimed. “No!”

  “Down there she dwells,” the Tower Lubber breathed. “My beautiful Clarisant, the one and only love of my life. Alone in the caves and caverns, sitting out these despairing, sundered years in the dark, far from the spying eyes of her sister’s agents.”

  “And she has the gold casket?” Liffidia asked. “Down there with her?”

  “Yes, she has it in her keeping. The Smith entrusted it to her. But he took the key with him when he began his wanderings. He was bringing it here to me when Rhiannon’s thorn creatures slew him. We were so near to bringing Her cruel reign to an end, so near.”

  Liffidia clapped her hands excitedly. “But that’s it!” she cried. “Don’t you see? The thorn ogres never found the key! They searched and searched, but the Smith didn’t have it with him when he died. He knew he was in danger so he passed it on to someone else.”

  The Tower Lubber smiled. “That is just what he would do, and that is why the High Lady is in doubt and Her fear has driven Her from the Hill to discover what She can for Herself. She trusts no one but Her owl, the one bird in all creation I would happily let die.”

  “But we was the last to see old Smith afore he got hacked and butchered,” Tollychook said.

  “Us and Gamaliel and Finnen,” Liffidia reminded him. “That’s why they disappeared. The Smith must have given the key to them! They’ve gone to find the casket and open it themselves. They must have shown the key to Mr. Mattock and so he went with them.”

  Bufus groaned. Then he ran his hands through his curly hair in exasperated confusion and said, “Hold on. So if those two clots have gone on a quest with Misery Mattock, like I said before, they’ve probably got themselves eaten by now or worse, or at the very least lost the stupid key down a ditch someplace. And, all right, supposing that is the princess down there, although I’m not saying I believe it is, what I really want to know is this …”

  He jabbed his finger at the Tower Lubber’s arm and asked bluntly, “Who in Hagwood does that make you then?”

  The Tower Lubber turned his blind eyes to Liffidia. “You know, don’t you?” he said.

  “Yes,” she answered sadly. “You’re the one who journeyed so far from his own land to court the High Lady of the Hollow Hill, but fell in love with Her sister instead, and so to punish you, She put out your eyes. You are Prince Tammedor.”

  Bufus took a step backward. “You’re kidding,” he cried.

  “And Old Smith, he magicked you into that shape,” Tollychook continued. “He were clever, he were. That’s what I calls a good bit of werglin’.”

  Bufus grimaced. “Well, I wouldn’t have been happy with that shape,” he muttered. “’Specially not the ears!”

  “Secrecy was all,” the Tower Lubber said. “It mattered not what form we took. To hide from Rhiannon Rigantona was the most urgent need, and we cannot return to our former selves till Her reign is ended. Clarisant took refuge in the secret places of the deep dark, I made my abode in the broken tower, and the years rolled over us both. I have not seen her since the night of our escape. I fear for her.”

  “Why?” Liffidia asked. “If she’s safe down there …”

  The Tower Lubber shook his head. “I have my winged children to fill my days and keep my wits sharp,” he replied. “What does she have down in those nameless regions and endlessly dripping caves? What stale thoughts have eaten away at her mind? Why does she only play that one old nursery tune and no other? Every waking moment the worry is with me, and dread plagues my dreams.”

  “If Finnen and Gamaliel succeed,” the girl said gently, “the fears of everyone will soon be over.”

  Bufus was about to add an acid comment about that when the Tower Lubber raised his hand and hushed him into silence.

  The sound of the birdcalls in the distance had changed, even the werlings could tell that.

  “They sound scared,” Tollychook muttered.

  “Scared and angry,” Liffidia added.

  The Tower Lubber drew his breath, and his face set hard and grim. “And so they are,” he answered. “The battle marches towards us.”

  “What battle?” Bufus demanded. “What do you hear?”

  “They are crying that the Hollow Hill has opened,” the Tower Lubber said. “And from its halls a legion of spriggans has come pouring, stealing through the forest, armed with sword and spear, knife and mace.”

  “Stealing this way?” Liffidia asked.

  “Yes, the High Lady’s owl leads them, and the dark tyrant Herself is galloping with all speed through the forest to join Her vicious foot soldiers.”

  Tollychook uttered a wretched sob. “What’ll we do?” he cried. “We’m done fer.”

  “How long have we got?” Bufus asked. “If we could get away in time …”

  Suddenly a great din sounded behind them. High on the ridge, around the tower, the geese were honking, screaming out their warning.

  “Too late,” the Tower Lubber declared. “The enemy is upon us. The battle has begun.”

  CHAPTER 16 *

&nbs
p; TREASURE AND MUSIC

  NO LONGER WEARING THE SHAPE of a mouse, Kernella Tumpin was now a mournful-looking rabbit. Sitting beside the large figure of Peg-tooth Meg upon the great clay throne in the chamber of glimmering crystal, she sucked her teeth and felt thoroughly miserable. There was no hope of escaping this awful subterranean place.

  At the base of the boulder upon which the throne stood, the slug­lung that had once been Finnen Lufkin stared vacantly at the ground. His jerkin was tight across his shoulders, and his jellylike hands bulged from the constricting sleeves, but if it were not for his clothes, he would have been indistinguishable from the rest of the sluglung guards.

  Kernella gazed down at him, and her long ears drooped sadly.

  Since he had been forced to drink the dark waters, Finnen did not seem to know her and had even forgotten who he was. When she called his name, he merely blinked those goggling, froglike eyes and looked at her stupidly.

  What was she to do? Even if, by some miracle, she managed to escape with him, what sort of life would he have in the upper world? Perhaps he could live in some damp hole in the bank of the Lonely Mere?

  “Change is good.” Meg’s voice suddenly cut into her dejection. “All must change.”

  Kernella nodded, pretending to agree, and drew her cape about her.

  “You understand,” Meg said with a wide grin that revealed her eight green teeth. “Your kind knows the importance and beauty of change. Meg will share with you her deepest secrets—too long has she waited for a friend. Very close we will be.”

  “Like sisters?”

  Meg shuddered and the grin vanished.

  “No,” she answered sharply, and her gray flesh crawled. Then she shifted around so that her back was to the werling girl and stroked one of the many large snails that slithered about the throne, ignoring her completely.

  The rabbit-shaped Kernella clasped her front paws and swung her legs for a while, wondering what she had done wrong. Peg-tooth Meg was muttering to herself. She was bewildering. Her moods changed so fast that it was almost impossible to keep up with her.