by Robin Jarvis
Quickly, Ysabelle twined her long hair in nimble fingers until two braids hung down her back. Then, with a little help from Griselda, she coiled these upon her head and sprinkled some water over her face.
The mouse scrutinised her critically, smoothing and patting with her small pink paws before she would let Ysabelle go.
“Did you see the stilt walkers?” her charge asked. “They really are so clever.”
“Tomfools the lot!” Griselda tartly replied. “If they wanted to be so tall they should have got themselves born saplings. There, you’re presentable now, M’lady. Get you on down.”
Ysabelle rushed for the door, then halted, came running back, gave the mouse a grateful kiss and dashed down the stairs.
“Don’t you forget any of your steps mind!” Griselda called after her. “I’ll be along shortly!”
Outside, the dew had melted from the grass and the early spring flowers had thrown back their heads to release their perfume to the air.
A merrytotter—or see-saw—had been set up under the shade of one of the nine hazels and children were queuing up for a ride on it.
Beneath a fluttering canopy, two large chairs had been arranged and around them many courtiers scurried, preparing for the arrival of their lord and lady. Some were busy raising banners and hoisting the standard of the Hazel Realm to the top of the central oak, while others made certain that everything was ready for the all-important dance.
By now the voles had managed to perfect their act and, to the wonder of the crowds, were leaping about the lawns and flipping each other into the air to great applause.
Winter finally seemed to be over and the subjects of the Lady Ninnia had determined not to miss a moment of the revels. From stall to stall they scampered, visiting each new entertainment with wonder and delight.
Only when a horn blew was their attention diverted from the amusements, for this was the signal for the main part of the morning to begin.
From the central oak, a procession of squirrels came, and those in the clearing parted to let them through. Out marched the counsellors—the four advisers to the sovereign. All were old, black squirrels, with sombre expressions upon their proud faces. They were led by the eldest and most learned of their number—Godfrey Gelenos. One of his many duties was to teach the young princess the histories and customs of the land and he never went anywhere without a book or manuscript tucked under his arm. Nothing gave him greater pleasure than to spend long hours with his nose pressed against the pages of some scholarly document, and it was rumoured that even the Lady Ninnia had bowed to his judgement on more than one occasion.
Following the humourless-looking advisers, came nine maidens who tried to be serious but kept breaking into fits of giggles. Ysabelle was among them and it was she who led the laughter. Behind these came a red squirrel carrying a cushion of purple velvet in his paws, upon which a number of alder wands were laid and the bearer positively strutted along to be so honoured this day. The crowd cheered when they saw him and he winked proudly at his friends.
Then the noise subsided to an expectant babble as many guards paraded from the entrance, their swords brandished in the air—heralding the arrival of their monarch.
So came the Lady Ninnia with the Lord Cyllinus at her side.
She was an elegant squirrel, whose serene face held a timeless beauty which nothing could wither. Her features were delicate as any bloom and, covering her ears, she wore a veil of some fine gossamer-like material which floated on the air as lightly as the strands of a spider’s web. Every step she took was gracefully majestic and all who saw her bowed or curtsied. Hanging around the Lady’s neck, a bronze hazelnut gleamed in the early sunshine and upon her long, tapering fingers she wore rings of silver and gold set with precious gems.
At the canopy, the procession came to a halt. The lady and her consort took their seats and the counsellors assumed places beside them. Then the wand bearer came forward, pointed his toe and made a perfect bow, offering the cushion up to her.
The Lady Ninnia gave a warm smile and took the nine alder wands in her hand.
“’My thanks,” she said to the red squirrel, “’twas expertly done.”
The bearer blushed to the ears and burbled something inaudible before stepping aside.
The lady’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before turning to the maidens who were impatiently waiting nearby. “Aldertide has worked its charm once again,” she observed, glancing at each. “In my youth, I too was an alder maid, and great was my excitement that morning when first I danced. Rejoice in the ceremony, thrill to every note that the fiddlers play—for the dance shall lead you into adulthood. Every step guides you to a new life; just as the trees which you waken begin the year afresh, so too shall you bloom.” With that her eyes rested tenderly upon her daughter.
Then Ninnia addressed the rest of her subjects. “The life of the trees is sacred to us,” she declared, “and by them we measure our seasons and years.
Few occasions can rival the joy that Alder Day brings—for with it comes the rebirth. Let us all now celebrate another dawning. Begin the music!”
At once the fiddlers struck up the alder tune and the pipers followed their lead. This was the cue for the maidens to step up to the thrones and receive their wands. When this was done they all curtsied then proceeded to dance in a line towards the avenue of trees.
The first tree that the maidens reached was the birch and, with laughter in their voices, they raised their wands and shouted to the indwelling spirit. “Awake! Awake!” they sang. “Thy sleep is ended.”
Then, just to make sure, they danced round the trunk and beat the bark with the wands—crying, “Have no fear for Spring is come! Put out thy leaves, oh sleepy one!”
After that, they danced to the next tree, which was the mountain ash, and repeated the performance.
Everybody came to watch this age-old ritual, even the tradesfolk left their stalls and it was the entertainers’ turn to be enthralled. Only the voles appeared to continue their act, but they were actually balancing on each other’s shoulders to obtain a better view.
The dancers visited each tree in the avenue before returning to the nine hazels where a small fire had been lit and into this they threw their wands. A great clamour of cheering and applause burst out, hats were thrown into the blue sky and the air was shrill with whistles as the other festivities resumed.
Breathlessly, Ysabelle ran back to her parents and they both held their arms out to her.
“My dearest,” the Lady Ninnia cried, “how proud you have made me this morning.”
Ysabelle held onto her tightly before giving her father a hug.
The Lord Cyllinus stroked his daughter’s hair and kissed her forehead lovingly. He was a quiet, thoughtful squirrel, head of a house of princes, and he adored his child more than anything in the land.
“Did you see me, father?” she asked. “How was my dancing? Did it compare to the others?”
With paw on heart, the Lord had to admit that he had not even noticed that there had been any other dancers. “You were as the sun and they the stars,” he told her, “you did outshine them all. Why, I doubt if there is a soul present who was able to take his eyes from you.”
Ysabelle gurgled with pleasure. “I did stumble and falter on three occasions at least!” she chuckled. “But what a perfect morning this is. Have you ever seen such a day before? Everyone is so happy—if I could, I would wish for it to last forever.”
At this the lady Ninnia glanced at her husband and laid her paw lightly on his arm. “I think our daughter yearns to join the merrymaking,” she said, “and at Aldertide a princess may do as she pleases. Let her roam amongst our subjects and enjoy the entertainments.”
Cyllinus gave her a doubtful look, then relented when he saw the eagerness on his daughter’s face. “Off with you, my Belle,” he told her. “Go partake of the revels.”
Ysabelle kissed him. “Do you think the stilt walkers would let me attempt to match
their skill?” she asked.
Her father nodded, “Who could refuse you aught?” he smiled. “I know that I cannot—go child.”
So, into the joyful crowds Ysabelle disappeared. There was so much to see and to do—only a fraction had she spied from the branches of the oak and her heart beat excitedly in her breast.
The delicious smells of the pie-stalls now mingled with the scents of the flowers. All the fruits of last autumn’s preserving jars were there: apple tarts, blackberry buns, pear sponges, plum pies, walnut scones and a dozen varieties of seed cake. These sumptuous delicacies were all on display and many squirrels munched contentedly while others stood entranced at the antics of the entertainers.
A hedgehog had impaled hundreds of coloured ribbons upon her spines and was flitting around a cleared space with the bright streamers billowing behind as she whirled and capered. It was not a very successful act however for the hedgehog was quite plump and her steps rather ungainly, deteriorating at times into bizarre duck-like waddles. The folk who watched were not sure whether they ought to laugh and many politely covered their grins with their paws. One small squirrel was heartily tucking into a damson tartlet when the prickly performer tripped over one of the ribbons and tumbled head over heels into the audience. The poor squirrel nearly choked as fragments of damson and pastry exploded from his mouth when uncontrollable laughter consumed him.
Nearby, the troupe of voles were having more success. The Daredevil Pyramid had been completed twice already and now they were encouraging some of the onlookers to take part in the act. Ysabelle admired them tremendously and wondered if she would be picked.
“Are there any amongst you kind and goodly people,” cried one of the voles as he balanced upon a wooden ball. “Just one, who dares to attempt the simplest of our heroic feats?”
Before Ysabelle could raise her paw, someone grabbed her arm and tutted crossly in her ear.
“What are you thinking of, M’lady?” squeaked Griselda at her side. “Think of your position—the royal houses can’t partake of such frivolities. Why, one day—and may it be far off—you’ll have to follow your mother and govern these folk. How could you command their respect if they remember you acting the fool? I never ever did hear of such a thing!”
“But ’tis only in fun,” Ysabelle argued. “Surely there’s no harm in merriment?”
The mousemaid brushed the floppy brim of her cap from her eyes and huffed coldly. “Such things aren’t for you!” she reminded her. “Why, it might be one of your irresponsible red cousins I was talking to—instead of the future lady of the Hazel. In truth, I am shocked.”
The young squirrel knew it was pointless to continue. “Very well,” she relented, “I will behave, and in the solemn, tedious way which befits my station.”
Griselda brightened immediately. “Thank you, M’lady,” she said. “Now, we’ll have no more talk of joining the revels—observing only shall be enjoyment enough. Besides, I do think some rain is coming—then will this nonsense be washed away.”
Ysabelle looked at the sky. The mouse was right, a great storm cloud was rolling over the forest roof towards them, but it still seemed many hours distant and she pleaded to be allowed to enjoy the morning whilst she could.
“Oh very well,” the maid relented, “but remember thy conduct, M’lady. I know, come see the jester—I did hear he is most amusing.”
Through the milling throng the mouse led her mistress, passing by many of the stalls Ysabelle had wanted to visit.
There, a trio of sparrows chirped, aided by the lilting voice of a speckled thrush; next to them the fire-eating weasel had begun plying his second trade and was busily telling fortunes. Past the acorn shy Griselda bustled, squirming between the gathered folk until they came to where many creatures were laughing.
In the midst of them, the stoat jester had set up his pitch. Sitting upon his outlandish cart he had been performing a comical play with the aid of humorous and insulting puppets.
A cruel caricature of a black squirrel was in his right paw, whilst in his left a red squirrel jiggled and twitched.
The assembled onlookers were applauding warmly as Griselda and Ysabelle squeezed to the front.
The puppets were put away and the stoat took something else from his cart. It was an inflated rat’s bladder tied to the end of a stick and he leapt onto the grass with the ridiculous looking object clutched in his paws.
“Who am I?” he cried, pulling a sour and serious expression.
“A jester!” one of the red squirrels piped up.
The stoat glared at him with feigned anger and began beating the unfortunate creature about the head with the bladder.
“Is there naught inside thy noggin?” he demanded. “What? Do they not teach thee thy lessons here?”
A gleeful murmur issued from the crowd as they recognised the impudent impression.
“Why, ’tis Master Godfrey!” they giggled. “He’s Master Godfrey!”
The jester strode about the cleared space, bashing the noses of those who sniggered, whilst all the time the daylight grew dim as the storm cloud moved swiftly through the sky. “Verily ’tis I,” he announced, “Godfrey Gelenos—prime counsellor of the Lady Ninnia. Yet, why do you laugh so? Are all your wits so dull? Do you all have need of some sense? Shall I knock it into you?”
Someone blew a raspberry and the stoat set about him at once, to the great amusement of everyone else—everyone except Griselda that is.
“Scandalous,” she said with pursed lips. “’Tis vulgarity of the lowest sort. Come M’lady—I was wrong to bring you hither, the fellow’s nothing but rude.”
Unfortunately for the mouse, the stoat heard her and he spun round to face the owner of this dissenting voice.
“What have we here?” he yelled, throwing the bladderstick behind him. “A mouseling, I believe. Come, my dearest little nibbler—let us dance a jig together.”
Before Griselda could stop him, the stoat plucked her from Ysabelle’s side and whirled her round in a mad dance. The mouse shrieked, and the laughter of the audience increased tenfold. Round and round the jester spun her, ignoring her pleas for mercy. There was nothing she could do except trot and caper as best she could, for her awful partner was strong and the jig so fast. Then her cap fell off and landed on the head of a cheeky youngster who ran away and hurled it into the branches of a tree.
And then, when Griselda thought she would faint, the dreadful stoat stopped the dance and jumped to one side, leaving her lurching and lumbering in a wobbly circle—dazed like a drunken rat.
“Oh my!” the mouse sobbed, once the world had stopped spinning. “Oh my! I feel terrible.” She rounded on the jester, ignoring the laughter which thundered in her burning ears and scolded him crossly. “How dare you!” she shrieked. “Never have I been so ill used!” But the insolent wretch only smiled and poor Griselda had to salvage what little dignity she had left and escape as quickly as she could.
With her head in the air and her tail erect, the mousemaid stomped from the dreadful scene and went in search of her cap.
Ysabelle’s ribs were aching. She felt sorry for Griselda but it had been very funny. She looked back at the jester and, to her surprise, found that his eyes were upon her. For a moment Ysabelle feared she would be next in the crazy dance but the stoat merely made a swift bow that set the bells of his head-dress jingling.
“I crave your pardon,” he said humbly, “methinks I outraged your companion. ’Twas all in the name of mirth, I assure you—no harm was meant.”
“I’ll be glad to tell her that,” Ysabelle replied, “but tell me, who shall I say apologised? What is your name?”
The jester raised both his arms and suddenly there was a blue acorn in his left paw. With a wave of his right, a yellow and a red appeared beside it and he began juggling them at once.
“Wendel, my mother did name me,” he said. “Wendel Maculatum. A travelling duncefellow am I and accomplished fool—never have I met such a simple gowk as
the one who stands before you. From the pot of learning I did but take a sip and found it so bitter to my taste that I did spit out what I supped. Beneath my tinkling hat, not an ounce of brains do I possess and that I like full well. My life is a happy one and for nothing would I exchange it.”
No sooner had he spoken than one of the acorns dropped onto his head with a loud ‘Crack’. The jester let out a strange cry, allowed the other acorns to fall to the ground, then did a spectacular backwards somersault—landing on his knees with his arms outstretched.
“So I beg thee again, Mistress,” he called with a laugh, “tell thy companion that Wendel is awash with regret for the indignity he did cause her.”
“I shall indeed,” smiled Ysabelle, not believing his remorse for an instant, “and now I had better find her.”
She gave the stoat one last smile, then made her way through the crowd.
Suddenly a shrill blast echoed over the lawns. The music died on the piper’s lips and the dancers staggered to a standstill as the alarm trumpeted its warning.
All festivities ceased and everyone held their breath—only the direst emergency would cause the border guards to give such an alarm and many hearts fluttered fearfully.
The face of every creature slowly turned heavenwards, and there, in the middle of the bright clear sky, a vast black storm cloud blotted out the morning sun and everywhere was plunged into an icy gloom.
Upon her throne, the lady Ninnia stared at the immense blackness overhead and its shade seemed to enter her spirit. It was a strange, dark mass—not like a real cloud at all. “Green spare us!” she whispered when she realised the truth.
“What manner of evil vapour is that?” asked her husband. “How can it move across the firmament so swiftly when only the slightest of breezes blow?”
But Ninnia had risen to her feet and spoke quickly to her counsellors. “Hurry!” she commanded, “find my daughter—take her to safety at once!”
Master Godfrey stared at her questioningly, then he too realised the peril that had come upon them. Without further hesitation, the prime counsellor gave a yelp and barged into the silent and watchful crowd.
