The room was crowded with crested arks and dark cabinets thickly carved with leaves, rosettes and lions. A clear, red fire burned in the grate, beneath a chimney-piece whose side-panels were a carved marble relief depicting the beautiful water-wights, the Asrai, lyres held in their slender fingers. Inscrutable footmen in the pale-blue-and-gold livery of Ercildoune stood to attention at the doors.
The Duke of Ercildoune welcomed his guests and settled them near the hearth. His apprentice Toby strummed softly. A small lynx purred on a ragged appliqué cushion that it had previously shredded with its claws. Five tiny moths flitted along the ornately carved friezes and architrave moldings then fluttered down to the thickets of candles, to dance with death. Viviana arranged her mistress’s skirts. The Duchess of Roxburgh toyed with a tasseled fan, occasionally glancing at the velvet-draped windows that looked out over the Winter Garden, across the city to the ocean. A chill mist was rising from the river. The first star of evening had already punctured a sky both clear and dark. In the still and crystalline air, frost threatened.
To the Bard, Rohain said, ‘Your Grace, during these days I have passed at Court I have heard somewhat of the Fair Realm, and it has whetted my appetite, for I have little knowledge of the place or its denizens. Will you tell me more?’
Ercildoune’s demeanor altered subtly at her words. From being the jovial host, he seemed to metamorphose, to become a stranger, remote, staring now into the fire.
‘The stars,’ he said suddenly. His visage sharpened to a wistful look.
Rohain waited.
After a pause, he continued: ‘The stars. So beautiful, so mysterious, so alluring are they—so unreachable, pure, strange, and glorious that they could only be of Faêrie. Go into the wilderness on a clear night and look up. Look long. Then you will have seen something of Faêrie.’ His voice roughened to an uncharacteristic huskiness. ‘Or behold, at dusk in Springtime, drifts of white pear blossom glimmering palely through the gloom, for the turn of the seasons is evanescent as the beauty of the Fair Realm, which slipped through mortal fingers like handfuls of seed-pearls. The power of the Fair Realm cannot be comprehended.’
He gazed into the fire’s red world. Eventually he added, ‘The Realm is a place with no frontiers.’
‘You speak with longing and love, Your Grace,’ said Rohain wonderingly.
‘Anyone would long and love, who had heard even a tenth of what I have heard.’
‘Yet is it a place? Did it exist?’
‘Fie! Never say that it did not—I will not brook it!’
‘Forgive me! I did not seek to denigrate that which stirs your passion.’
‘Nay,’ the Bard replied hastily, ‘you must forgive me, Rohain—I spoke too harshly just now.’
‘Well then,’ she answered lightly, bantering in the manner she had learned at Court, ‘if I am to forgive you, you must give me a tale about the Faêran, so that I can come to know them better.’
‘Gladly, for this is a subject dear to my heart.’
He drew his chair closer to the hearth.
The Faêran,’ he began, pronouncing the word as if he spoke some ancient, arcane spell, ‘had many names; the Gentry, the Strangers, the Secret Ones, the Lords of Gramarye, and other kennings. Their Realm had many names also. Some called it the Land of the Long Leaves. Before that, it was called Tirnan Alainn.
‘Most of the Fair Folk were well-disposed towards mortals, but there were those who harboured ill-feeling for, dare I say, the deeds of mortals are not always courteous. Of all the faults of Men condemned by the Faêran, they despised spying and stealing most of all.
‘Long ago, before the ways between the Fair Realm and Aia were closed forever, there were places in Erith which the Faêran favoured above others. Willowvale, in northern Eldaraigne, was one of these. At night, the Faêran would ride out through a right-of-way that used to lie under the green hill called the Culver, and go down to Willowvale. There they would bathe in the river and sing in harmony with the water as it flowed over its rocky bed, glinting beneath the moon’s glow.
‘One blossom-scented twilight in Spring, a little girl who was gathering primroses by the waterside heard the sound of laughter and music coming from the Culver, so she walked up the hill to investigate. The right-of-way lay open and she dared to peep inside. There she saw a sight to gladden her spirits: the Faêran folk, in their beauty and their gorgeous raiment. Some were banqueting, others were whirling about in graceful, lithesome dances. The child hastened home to inform her father, but the good farmer could not share her delight, because he knew that the Faêran would come for her. They guarded their privacy jealously. Any mortal who spied on them would either be sorely punished or else taken away to dwell forever with them, and he did not doubt that they would choose to take a little girl so fair and mild.
‘Because he cherished his daughter and could not bear to upset her, the farmer did not tell her what would happen to her for spying on the Faêran. He hastened straight to a wise carlin who knew something of the laws of the Gentry.
‘“They will come for your daughter at midnight tonight,” she told him, “yet they will be powerless to take her if utter silence is maintained throughout your farmstead. When they come, you must ensure that there is no noise, apart from any made by the Faêran themselves. Even the faintest sigh, the softest tap of a fingernail, will shatter the charm.”
‘Away to his house hurried the farmer. That night, he waited until his daughter had fallen asleep in her bed. Then he herded all the geese and hens into their coops, removed the bells from the necks of the milch-cows before shutting them into the byres, and locked the horses into the stables. He gave the dogs such a large dinner of bones and scraps that they lay down to sleep at once, their stomachs distended. He tied down anything that might sway or squeak in the slightest breeze. Then he went indoors, and laid the rocking-chair on its side, that it would not rock, and doused the hearth-fire so that there should be no spitting or snapping of sparks, and he sat down in the dark, cold, silent cottage to await the Faêran.
‘At midnight they came.
‘The latch on the garden gate went click and the hinges creaked as it swung open, then the farmer heard the clopping crunch of horses’ hooves coming up the path. When they discovered the place so soundless and frozen, the riders hesitated. The farmer sat motionless and held his breath, lest they should hear even the slight whisper of the exhalation. The silence deepened, the minutes lengthened. The blood pounding at his temples sounded to him as loud as a blacksmith’s hammer. Then he heard the clatter of hooves turning around—the Faêran were leaving. He let go of his breath with no noise at all, but alas, he had overlooked one thing. At the sound of the Faêran horses beneath the window, the little spaniel that slept at the foot of his daughter’s bed jumped up and barked. The charm was shattered. Instantly the farmer hastened up the stairs, his heart bolting, only to discover his worst fears realised. The bed was empty. His daughter was gone.
‘Devastated by his bereavement, he resolved to try everything in his power to regain her. So wild was he with anguish that immediately, without waiting for the dawn, without eating or drinking, he made haste again to consult the carlin.
‘“Even in this extremity I can give you advice,” said she. “Nonetheless, the challenge will be fraught with difficulty. You must take a sprig of rowan for protection and go to the Culver every night and lie down on top of it. Should they Themselves come to inquire your purpose, you must ask them to give back your daughter, but I warn you, what they may ask in return may not be easily guessed.”
‘The farmer did as she had advised and on the third night the Faêran appeared before him and asked him why he should be so bold as to lie down on top of the Culver.
‘“I am come to ask for my daughter who you took from me,” he said.
‘“Well then, you shall have her back,” they said, “if, before Whiteflower’s Day you bring to us three gifts—a cherry without a stone, a living bird that has no bone, a
nd, from the oldest creature on your farm, a part of its body given without the shedding of any blood. If you come back with those three things, we will give you your daughter.”
‘Hope sprang afresh in the farmer’s heart as he departed. But then, he asked himself, “How can there be a cherry without a stone, save that I should cut the stone out of it? But I am certain that is not what they mean. As for the bird, I could kill a hen and take its bones out, but how shall I find a living bird with no bone? And what of the last part of the riddle—could it mean milk from my old cow, Buttercup? Yet milk is not really part of an animal’s body. What if I cut off the tips of her horns? But wait—is not Dobbin the cart-horse older than Buttercup?” He tormented himself looking for the answers but could find none, and the carlin could not help him further. Unable to rest, he took to roaming through the countryside, asking himself those questions over and over, and querying whomsoever he met, but with no success at all, and Whiteflower’s Day was drawing closer.’
The Bard leaned to caress the soft fur of the lynx. Taking advantage of the interlude, the Duchess of Roxburgh said, ‘Whenever I hear this tale I wonder at the thickheadedness of that farmer. How could anyone not guess the answers to such simple riddles?’
The Bard smiled, saying, ‘Not all folk are as clever as Alys of Roxburgh.’
‘Hmph!’ she returned, feinting a slap at him with her folded fan. ‘Go on with the tale!’
‘Barely three weeks remained before Whiteflower’s Day,’ resumed Ercildoune, ‘when, as he trudged along the road, the farmer met a beggar.
‘“Prithee, sir,” said the ragged fellow, “can you spare a crust? I am famished!”
‘“A crust and more,” said the farmer feelingly. Opening his leather wallet, he generously handed out bread, cheese, and apples. “I know what suffering is,” he said sadly, “and I would alleviate the distress of others if I am able.”
‘“You have succored me,” said the beggar as he accepted the food, “and in turn I will give you aid. The answer to your first question is: a cherry when it is a blossom, clasps no stone.”
‘In amazement the farmer stared at the beggar, but the old fellow just walked away, smiling. Although he seemed to walk slowly he was along up the road in a trice and quickly disappeared around the corner. The farmer ran to catch up with him but when he rounded the bend all that he saw was the long, empty road stretching away to the distance, and no traveller upon it.
‘Marveling, the farmer walked on. He was passing a spinney of chestnuts when he saw a thrush trying to escape from a kestrel, which stooped to kill it. Momentarily setting aside his woes, he seized a pebble from the roadside and hurled it at the hunting hawk. The kestrel fled, but the thrush returned. It fluttered down to perch on the bough of a thorn bush, regarding its rescuer with a bright and knowing eye.
‘Seeing such a look, the farmer was hardly surprised when the bird opened its beak and spoke to him in melodious tones.
‘“You acted in kindness. Now I will reward you with the answer to your second question. If a broody hen sits on an egg for fifteen days, that egg will hold a chicken without a bone yet formed in its body.” The man gaped at the little brown bird, but it trilled three musical notes and flew away.
‘The farmer was vastly encouraged. “Two answers!” he said triumphantly to himself. “Two answers have I!” Then he thought, “But what good are they if I cannot find the answer to the last question?” And he almost despaired.
‘As he tramped on his way, frowning and cogitating about the third riddle, there came to his ears a pathetic wailing. In the hedges bordering the road, a rabbit was trapped in a wire snare. Its crying moved the man to pity. Crouching beside the creature, he gently set it free, expecting it to run away forthwith.
‘Like the thrush, it focused its gaze upon him. This time, he was not astonished, yet a sense of wonder welled in him.
“‘Sir,” piped the rabbit, “you have done me a favour, therefore here is the final answer you require. If you cut off a lock of hair, it will come away from the body without shedding one drop of blood. As for the oldest creature on your farm, why the looking-glass will answer that.”
‘When the farmer blinked the rabbit was gone, but he threw his cap into the air and ran jubilantly home. Hurrying to the chicken coop, he placed an egg under a broody hen. When fifteen days were past he took the shears and chopped off a lock of his own hair. Then he went out into the orchard and gathered a great bough of pink-and-white cherry blossom. Throwing his cap in the air, he whooped for joy.
‘He could hardly wait for night to fall. At sunset, he stuck a sprig of rowan in his cap and went down Willowvale and up to the top of the Culver. There he sat down and bided his time, and the stars came out over his head, and the night was warm and still, and yet he kept vigil. After a time he heard music and laughter, which seemed to be emanating from beneath the hill, and soon the Faêran came. They were annoyed to see him there, but they could not touch him because of the sprig of rowan, and they could not abduct him because he had failed to transgress their code. When he showed them the blossom, the egg, and the lock of hair, they had to give him back his daughter. At first she gazed at her father in bewilderment, as one who has woken from a dream, but then she gave a cry of happiness and threw her arms around him. They returned home together, and never again did she try to spy on the Faêran.’
With a discordant twang, a string broke on Toby’s lyre. At the sound, the listeners started.
The Faêran had their own laws,’ continued Ercildoune after a sidelong glance at his apprentice, ‘as this tale shows. And when those laws were broken, they meted out their own forms of punishment. Yet they were not unmerciful. First, they gave the farmer opportunity to reclaim his kin. Secondly, they tested him to see if he was worthy of reward. Because he showed kindness, they themselves gave him the answers to the riddles. Kindness in mortals was a virtue which they esteemed highly.’
‘Also great courage,’ Alys contributed.
‘Aye, and neatness and cleanliness, and true love, and the keeping of promises,’ added the Bard.
With a practiced air, Toby removed the broken string from his lyre and unrolled a new one.
‘I have learned,’ said Rohain, ‘that they delighted also in feasting, dancing, and riddles—a merry race, it seems they were, but also dangerous.’
Ercildoune, leaning on his elbow, called for a page.
‘Bring piment!’ he said. ‘Does m’lady like piment?’ he added, turning to Rohain.
‘I know not what it is.’
‘A brew of red wine, honey, and spices.’
‘I am certain it would please me.’
The Bard snapped his fingers and the lad hurried away. Toby plucked a rising scale of liquid notes to tune the string as he tightened it.
‘Did they live under the hills?’ pursued Rohain. ‘Was their Realm underground, in caves?’
Ercildoune laughed. ‘Not underground, not under water, not under or over anything. Faêrie lay elsewhere. It was Away. The traverses that linked Aia and the Fair Realm—some called it the Perilous Realm—used to lie in such places as eldritch wights now see fit to haunt. There was an access under the Culver, as under certain other hills. These green mounds were known by many names, such as raths, knowes, brughs, lisses, and sitheans or shians, but passage existed also under lakes, in coppices, in wells, in high places and low. So you understand, Rohain, the little girl gathering primroses did not look into an underground cavern—she looked through a traverse into the Realm itself.’
‘Well,’ said Rohain, ‘abduction seems severe retribution for an unwary glance.’
‘It seems so to us,’ agreed Ercildoune. ‘Howbeit, bearing in mind that the Fair Realm could be a place of delight, the Faêran may have viewed it merely as a way of preventing the child from telling others all that she had seen, and thus pre-empting an influx of human gawkers. Generally, they considered mortal spying to be an outrageous crime and they were swift to avenge, as I shall
relate. But first allow me to provide you with a further example of traverses and mortal transgression.’
A hallmarked lore-master, ever enthused by his trade, the Bard launched into another story.
‘There was once a Faêran right-of-way at Lake Coumluch in the mountains of Finvarna. Coumluch is a solitary lake with a mist of white vapors ever on it and lofty cliffs rising all around. For most of the year the lake waters were unbroken by any reef, rock, or isle, but every Whiteflower’s Day there would be an island in the lake’s centre, and at the same time a Door would appear in the face of the cliffs. The Door stood open, and if anyone should dare to enter they would follow a winding stair descending to a long, level passageway. This traverse beneath the lake was a right-of-way into the Fair Realm. At the top of a second stairway, another Door led out onto the island. Fair and stately was this domain, with its long, verdant lawns, its great drifts of perfumed flowers like clouds of coloured silks and confetti, its arbors dappled with freckles of golden light and lacy shade.
‘The Faêran made their bedazzled guests welcome, bedecking them with garlands of flowers. They plied them with dainty viands and refreshing draughts, which were not of the Fair Realm but had been brought—stolen, perhaps—from Erith; for the Fair Folk did not wish to capture their guests, only to entertain them, before letting them go. Neither would they allow the Longing for Faêrie to come over them. Eldritch wights struck up tunes on their fiddles—Faêran musicians rarely played for the amusement of mortals—and the guests were invited to join the dancing. In mirth and revelry the day fled by, and as evening drew in the mortals must take their leave.
‘The Faêran imposed only one condition on their visitors: that none should take anything from the island. Not so much as a blade of grass or a pebble must be removed. The gifts of flowers must all be put aside before the guests went down the stair to the passage beneath the lake.
‘For centuries, this condition was met. Eventually, however, one man’s curiosity overcame him. Just to see what would happen, he plucked a rosebud from his garland before he put it aside, and slipped the bud into the pocket of his coat.
The Bitterbynde Trilogy Page 61
