by Robin Jarvis
It was a dreary wilderness, bereft of colour, and the melancholy of their surroundings soon entered the spirits of the four companions and they all yearned to walk in the warm sunlight once more.
Then the cold began.
Vesper was the first to notice it—the sensitive membrane of his wings caught the chill airs and he let out a startled gasp.
“What is the matter with the batling?” Giraldus called.
“Uuggh!” the bat replied with a shiver. “’Twas as if icy breath did blow upon me.”
The mole quested the air with his snout. “I can detect naught amiss,” he said.
As if in answer, another icy blast blew upon them—colder and with more force than before.
Everyone shuddered and Ysabelle rubbed her arms where goosepimples had suddenly appeared.
“As I feared,” Giraldus commented, “in the forest’s heart the winter lingers—no doubt we shall become increasingly aware of its ghastly presence.”
The mole was right and, by midday, it was as if the alder month had not yet arrived and the world was still locked within the time of the rowan.
Frosty cobwebs gleamed white and sparkled like strands of spun diamonds over the trees and branches. The leaves which the pilgrims walked upon were laced with ice and the muddy pools they came across were covered by an intricate lattice of cold.
The air they breathed steamed from their mouths in great clouds and Giraldus pulled his pointed hood down over his face to keep out the chill draughts.
As she trod on the brittle leaves—keeping her tail close about her, a disturbing thought occurred to Ysabelle. In this wintry place the power of the Green was dormant and she urged the others to hurry.
Long, thin icicles dripped from sagging boughs in huge glittering curtains that tinkled ever so faintly before the glacial airs, and the still, blanketing quiet that oppressed the frozen forest echoed to these bleak and tuneless chimes.
A hoary rime now covered everything and the ground was almost too cold to walk over. Threads of icy white mist clung to the trees—throttling them with the numbing death of winter.
Vesper flapped his wings several times in an effort to keep warm and his wispy beard had become clotted with a frosty dew.
Tysle’s teeth chattered uncontrollably and his directions to his master were halting and broken as he tried to control his shivering speech.
No one could believe the ice-bound world which bit and pinched at them and Giraldus uttered psalm after psalm to keep himself going. Leading the way, some distance in front, Tysle gave a shout and they all stopped in their tracks.
The shrew held up a paw that trembled with more than mere cold and Ysabelle and Vesper stared at what he had found.
“Bless us!” the young bat whispered.
Ysabelle clutched her amulet but the silver was frozen and she had to tear her paws away in shock.
“What is it? Giraldus boomed, peering from beneath his hood. “Tysle, what have you discovered?”
The shrew leaned heavily upon his crutch and turned towards his master. “Hobb posts,” he breathed.
Impaled upon sharpened twigs, were the bodies of five sparrows and next to them, the picked-clean skulls of three weasels grinned and gaped.
“So,” Giraldus murmured once Tysle had explained, “the cult of the Raith Sidhe is strong hereabouts. This no doubt is a warning to travellers such as we.”
Tysle looked down from the macabre totems and spat on the freezing ground. “If’n I sees one o’them foul villains, they’ll be sorry!” he promised.
“Ssshhh!” hissed Vesper suddenly.
Swiftly, he pulled Tysle from the path and herded Ysabelle and Giraldus behind the bole of a tree.
“Listen,” he told them.
Everyone held their breath and then they heard—something was approaching.
Crunching footsteps were coming towards them along the path and Ysabelle looked at Vesper in horror.
“Who is it?” Giraldus murmured, muffling the bell on his staff with his paw.
“Can’t tell yet,” said Tysle, whipping out his tiny knife and jabbing it in readiness.
As the footsteps drew closer, Ysabelle took hold of her own blade and the bitter steel that had once belonged to the bloody-bones shone grimly.
“How many are there?” she asked.
“More than one,” Vesper answered, “though I can’t quite...”
From behind the screen of silvery twigs and the ragged shreds of icy mist, two figures emerged.
Tysle lowered his knife in disappointment, Vesper laughed and Ysabelle put her paw to her brow—sighing in relief.
“What is it?” asked Giraldus.
“Nothing to worry about,” Vesper chortled, “only a couple of mice collecting firewood.
Standing on the path, two strangers squinted at the tree which seemed to be speaking with many voices. Both mice were plump creatures, with knitted scarves wound about their mouths and necks and swaddled inside long woollen tunics which came down to their knees. Bundles of twigs were stacked precariously upon their backs and they looked at each other nervously.
One of them pulled the scarf away from his mouth and asked cautiously, “Did ee hear that, Mahtild?”
The second mouse nodded. “That I did, Pountfrey,” she returned, adjusting the teetering pile of fuel she bore.
“Tha doesn’t think it’s..?”
“Nay, ’tis too early for they to be out yet.”
The first mouse mulled this over and agreed with her. “Right,” he said sternly, “then whoever it is skulking yonder had best show their faces!”
Vesper and Ysabelle stepped from behind the tree—followed by Tysle. The two mice squeaked in surprise then their mouths fell open and their eyes bulged as Giraldus came ambling after.
“’Tis a leper!” the one called Pountfrey yelled.
“Stay back!” squawked the other. “Fancy a-coming across a band of roguish disease carriers virtually on our doorstep!”
Giraldus roared for silence and told the mice that he would not harm them. They looked at him and the others doubtfully for a moment and their whiskers twitched furiously, then they relaxed and gruffly introduced themselves.
“Name’s Pountfrey and this be my good lady Mahtild. “Scuse the nerves but you done give us a bit of a start you did. Don’t meet many folk on the road these days.”
“Not like it was, is it?” his wife sadly reflected. “Oh the comings and goings then when I was a teeny wee lass.”
Pountfrey waited until she finished then continued. “Got to know who is what if’n you live in these parts,” he explained, “you gets a smell for it you might say—there’s been fairer than ee traipsing these woods that I would’na trust.”
“Ooh, a frighty bad set of vagabonds and cut-purses the lot,” Mahtild put in.
“Hobbers?” asked Tysle excitedly.
The mice looked uncomfortable and fidgeted with their bundles of firewood. “Aye,” Pountfrey finally admitted, “them do have a hold here, yet we have nowt to do with the likes of they. Keep usselves to usselves and bolt the door when the evening comes.”
“We not ones for upping sticks like all else!” his wife blurted.
“Tush dear!” he told her. “Not now.”
“Been here all these years!” she ranted. “Why, my brass was given to me ’neath yon beech tree—and they ’spect me to go off all calm like? Shan’t do it, I says!”
“And we won’t!”
“Don’t ee get any notions, Pountfrey Gromyn—I still says what I said then!”
“I knowed that!”
“Good an’ well—no one’s to uproot us! Adhere we will!”
Giraldus jiggled his staff and the bell clanged the bickering mice into silence.
“Forgive me,” he begged, “yet my fellows and me are bewildered—what do you mean? Who wanted you to leave—was it the Hobb cult?”
“Pooh!” said Mahtild scornfully, “’Tweren’t they—no, ’twas them other wood
landers all deciding to band together.”
“We weren’t for joining them!”
“Not quitting our snug wee home.”
“Let them go and fight if they can—we didn’t want aught to do with it!”
“Still don’t!”
“We’re not saying as we likes having foul brigands as neighbours, though. We hates ’em as much as the others but if’n we keep the door locked us doesn’t see the purpose in grouping together and playing at soldiers.”
Ysabelle’s head spun trying to keep up with what the mice were saying. “Do you mean some of you actually formed an army to fight against the Hobbers?”
“Not us!” Mahtild smartly replied. “’Twere others—they upped and went, abandoned thems homes and started waving swords and knives and the like—I ask you.”
“Should have known better, the lot of them.”
“I told them didn’t I?”
“That you did.”
“Plain crazy notion I said. Them’ll all be sorry for it, mark you.”
“If they’re still alive.”
“Well that’d be a lesson to them to go off and not adhering.”
Taking advantage of a rare pause, Vesper interrupted. “Where exactly did they go?” he asked. “Was it far away?”
The mice sniffed and pursed their lips truculently. “Don’t know, don’t care,” Pountfrey declared. “Good riddance—we doesn’t need their company does we, Missus?”
“Certainly not,” she tartly replied, “only accidents ever come of playing with sharp blades, I told ’em.”
“That you did.”
“I knowed I did. Anyways, we’re still here and happy.”
“Though cold; ’tas been awful nippy like this fer too long to my thinking.”
“Well let’s not stand here any longer catching our deaths,” she scolded him. “A nice crackling fire we can have now and there’s a bit of broth to put on it—soon be toasty and warm.”
“Pleasant talking with you folks,” Pountfrey waved as they turned to leave.
“Wait,” Giraldus cried, “there is much you do not know—there is much we have to tell.”
Mahtild wrinkled her nose at him and shook her head. “Not today,” she said, “no time for chatter, lots to do, haven’t we, my chuck?”
“Plenty,” he replied.
“But the land of Greenreach!” the mole called out. “That blessed place has been destroyed and it is our beholden duty to restore a Starwife to the throne! Rejoice that you too can play a part in this most honourable quest—this is a time of destiny, when great deeds must be done!”
“Which broth will that be then?” Pountfrey inquired mildly.
“The chestnut and maple.”
“Not the rose-hip?”
“Away with you. Mister Gromyn! We haven’t set eyes on a rose-hip for nigh on six month!”
Giraldus thumped his staff angrily. “Cast aside thy wordly goods!” he shouted. “Let fall those burdens which trammel thy journey to the blessed Green!”
“Master,” Tysle chirped, “’tain’t no use—they’ve gone.”
“Join us upon our noble quest!”
“Didn’t even invite us back to have some of that broth,” Tysle grumbled.
Giraldus let out a weary sigh. “Ah well,” he said at length, “the way of the pilgrim is not for all.”
“I wish those mice had told us where those woodlanders had gone to,” said Vesper. “If they really have formed some kind of fighting force against the Hobbers, we might need their help if we haven’t come across your shrine by tonight.”
“Have faith,” the mole told him.
“Oh I have faith all right,” commented the bat. “Faith in those who skewered them poor birds and weasels—I believe in them absolutely.”
As they set off along the path once more, Ysabelle glanced behind, and the grinning skulls seemed to watch them depart.
For the rest of the afternoon, they tramped through the frozen forest and at every turn of the track there was some new sign to remind them in whose country they walked.
The severed heads of those who would not join the infernal congregations became a common sight and Ysabelle was astonished and appalled at herself that she could grow accustomed to such horrific and grisly objects. Alongside the mutilated remains, which the gore crows had picked and pecked at, vicious and crude drawings were daubed on the tree trunks—depictions of the Raith Sidhe, scenes of murder and evil-looking symbols whose meaning they were all relieved not to be able to interpret.
They met only one other creature and that was a gaunt rabbit—out foraging for food. When Giraldus asked him to lay down his possessions and follow them to Greenreach, the rabbit swore and rudely clicked his fingers at the mole.
“Clear the way,” the buck-toothed stranger said crossly, “the evening comes and I’ve a mind to get away from this place before then.”
Giraldus spread his arms wide and tried to prevent the creature passing—determined this time to finish his sermon.
The rabbit bounced in front of him for several moments, glaring at each of the company until he stopped and stared at Ysabelle.
“What’s this? What’s this?” the rabbit cried skittishly. “A maiden? What are you doing, dear Lady? Leave these benighted woods—escape while you may! Art thou ignorant of the horror which haunts the forest? A tithe of flesh does that pagan crew pay to their evil master!” He tugged at the squirrel’s arm and glowered at the others for leading her into such peril.
Ysabelle pulled away. “My road lies this way!” she told him. “I cannot turn back now—though my death might be around the next corner I am bound to press on.”
“Then seek shelter!” the rabbit told her. “Go to the woodlanders who resist the hellish brethren. Find them and be safe! For mercy’s sake!”
“Do you know where they are?” Vesper asked. “We should be very grate...”
The young bat faltered, for a dramatic change had come over the rabbit. The creature’s long ears pricked up suddenly and his mouth fell open as a look of sheer terror spread over his face.
“Too late!” the rabbit shrieked. “Too late! No more time! They are coming—out of my way, Scabface!”
With a terrific leap, he jumped over Giraldus and scooted away. “Fools!” his fading voice cried as he vanished into the distance. “You’ll never leave these woods alive!”
Vesper stroked his frosty beard, deep in troubled thought. “I wonder what he heard?” he muttered after listening to the sounds of the wintry forest and finding nothing unusual.
“Probably just the poor thing’s nerves,” said Ysabelle. “It’s growing dark and he was frightened, that is all.”
“Well, I have no wish to be abroad in this terrible place after nightfall either,” said Vesper. “Let us resume the march.”
They set off once more and after a short time, Ysabelle shook her head. “I wish that fellow had told us where we might find the woodlanders,” she said regretfully.
Vesper looked at her and his brow creased into many furrows. The gathering gloom was making him nervous also and he snapped at Ysabelle before he knew what he was doing. “If it wasn’t for your kind,” he told her, “I would be able to find them myself.”
“How?” she asked, taken aback.
“Insight,” he said promptly. “That is the birthright of the Moonriders.”
“Well why put the blame on us?”
“It was the old Starwife who denied it to my people!” he told her. “It was she who started the holy war!”
Ysabelle threw back her head and laughed. “Nonsense!” she hooted, but the sound of her own voice startled her and it was then she realised that she and the bat had been hissing at one another in whispers.
“I don’t like this,” Vesper murmured. “I may not have insight—but I can feel that all is not well. The rabbit was right, something is out there.”
The squirrel maiden looked around them, the dismal light of the wintry day was already beg
inning to fail, yet there was something else—something that made the hair on the back of her neck prickle and stand on end.
Even Giraldus noticed the growing atmosphere of unease and he tugged at Tysle’s string to hurry the shrew along.
Presently they were all walking hastily over the path, their pace quickening as the shadows grew longer.
It was as if the forest was aware of them—listening to everything they said and following their movements with hostile interest.
“Is it just my imaginings,” Ysabelle asked Vesper, “or are we being watched?”
The bat gazed about the stark, frost-covered trees. “If that is so, then whoever it is—their sight is better than mine,” he answered. “I see nothing!”
As their disquiet increased, only Tysle seemed unafraid. With his knife in his paw, the shrew was ready for anything and greatly looked forward to encountering any Hobbers. “If they want a fight,” he said with an expectant grin lighting up his face, “then let them come—I’ll give ’em a bashing they never bargained for. I’ll teach the filth not to tackle the Symkins twice!”
“Now, now,” Giraldus scolded, cuffing the shrew’s head, “you know how I deplore violence of any kind.”
Vesper had gone pale, “If it comes to a fight,” he said, remembering the hellish throng around the standing stones, “we shan’t last very long.”
“Please!” Ysabelle begged. “We’re only frightening each other. “’Tis all the fault of that long-toothed rabbit, he started this—why, here we are walking as fast as we can for no reason at all. None have seen or heard anything out of the ordinary—’tis only our fancy...”
Suddenly a high, mocking sound rang through the trees.
“YIP-YIP-YIP!”
“What was that?” Ysabelle cried, whirling around.
Giraldus twisted his head to listen. “Some kind of bird, no doubt,” he suggested, but his strides had widened and he almost trod on Tysle’s bandaged heel.
“That was no bird I know of,” muttered Vesper, “that was a call of some kind.”
