The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  Tysle beamed from ear to ear. “Wouldst thou really?” he whispered eagerly.

  Wendel laughed again. “Or perhaps a squirrel maiden,” he teased. “What of that, Mistress? How should you like it if I carved this in thine image?”

  Startled, Ysabelle looked round. She had not been listening; her attention was taken by the dark silent lake and she had been gazing at it for some time. “Pardon?” she said. “Oh yes—do as you wish, Master Jester.”

  Rising, the squirrel stretched and added, “I think I shall take a walk before I close my eyes—do not fear, I shan’t go far, just along the shore a little way.”

  The stoat bowed his head. “You need only call if you require assistance,” he told her. “Meanwhiles I shall resume my work.” And in a blur, his quick and clever paws moved over the wood.

  Tysle was disappointed, but perhaps the jester could make another puppet—of him next time. The little shrew was beguiled by Wendel’s talents, already the head was taking shape and he watched fascinated as a squirrel’s nose appeared through the shavings. Then his gaze wandered over to the stoat’s cart.

  His sparkling brown eyes traced the patterns of the garish paintwork and lingered over the intriguing prop chests.

  “You know, Master Jester,” he sighed, “I reckon you must be the cleverest and most interesting fellow I ever did meet.”

  Wendel laughed and began relating a long and funny tale which tickled the shrew so much that he giggled and kicked his legs in the air.

  Sitting on his own, Giraldus no longer felt the heat from the fire—all was cold and though his eyes were dry, inwardly he wept.

  The gloomy shore stretched dismally before her and with only the rustle of the mournful willows to break the unnatural quiet, the lake was an eerie place. As Ysabelle slowly walked over the cold mud, she found the strangest thoughts creeping into her head. It was as if every bitter tear that the world had shed had found its way to this secluded spot, making it a distillation of melancholy and despondence that was estranged from the living world.

  “Vespertilio was right,” she murmured. “I fear nothing dwells nigh to this forlorn lake. Surely someone would have seen our fire by now. We ought to have stayed to the path—then would the journey be nearer to its end.”

  She thought about what that meant for her. Even if she managed to reach the holy land, there was still much to be done and many dangers to face. The noble forces of Coll Regalis may have arrived at Greenreach already, yet her mother had told her that only the combined might of all the squirrel houses could drive the bats from the blessed hill and purge it of them forever. How it was to be achieved, Ysabelle had no idea and wished more than ever that the silver acorn had not come into her possession.

  She stared across the mysterious black water—here too the bat had spoken correctly: it was a putrid mere. The dark night made it impossible for her to see the far shore, and in her fancy, she felt as if she was standing on the edge of the earth. It was as though, at this desolate place, everything ended and only a cold void now stretched before her.

  “I wish the skies were clear,” she breathed, “then at least would the stars be reflected in the lake and make it less forlorn.”

  The squirrel strolled on, beside the dark, icy water—staring at times at her own distorted reflection. The acorn about her neck gleamed in the stagnant mirror and she touched it reverently. The rust-coloured stains of Gwydion’s blood still tarnished the amulet and, as she turned it over in her fingers, she wondered if it would ever be cleansed.

  Suddenly she gasped, and sharply pulled her paw away—the amulet had burned her fingers.

  Ysabelle stared at it in fear. The dark blood stains seemed to swirl over the surface of the silver and veins of glowing crimson glittered faintly from its depths.

  The squirrel almost tore the thing from her neck in terror—then she heard...

  From many leagues beneath the earth, a dreadful roar thundered, making the shore tremble and quake. The willow trees nearby shook, and their agitated rustling disturbed the water in which their branches trailed. Great ripples fanned out towards the centre of the enormous pool, churning the scum which covered the surface and the nauseous smell grew stronger.

  Ysabelle stood transfixed as she listened to the frightful shrieks that echoed deep below the ground. Some tremendous creature was bellowing and the squirrel swallowed nervously as she felt the curse the high priest had damned her with descend upon her.

  “Hobb!” she gasped. “It’s him! He’s coming for me.”

  The rumbling voice raged fiercely, but it was still a great distance away. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the roaring ceased and all was quiet once more. The tremulous ripples that marred the perfect calm, vanished from the lake and it was as if nothing had happened.

  For several moments, Ysabelle could do nothing as the full horror of this sank in. Everything she had striven for would come to nothing—if Hobb were indeed to appear, then all her hopes would be in vain.

  Shivering with fear, Ysabelle turned and fled.

  “Hey!” cried Vesper as she ran blindly into him. “Watch out!” He caught hold of her then saw the terror graven in her face. “What is it? Are there Hobbers? Have they found us?”

  The squirrel glared at him. “Did you not hear?” she asked. “You cannot have done otherwise—the mighty roar, the frightful voice...”

  The bat looked puzzled and it was obvious that he had heard nothing. “I did but follow you to talk,” he told her mystified. “What was it frightened you?”

  “Never mind,” Ysabelle said, pushing past him impatiently. “It would matter nought to you anyway.” She glanced back to where she had heard the awful sound then stared down at her amulet.

  The silver acorn was now dull and cold—and the blood stains immovable as before.

  “I... I must have been mistaken,” she said, although her tone fooled no one. “Fatigue can play strange tricks on the mind. An illusion conjured up by my weary brain—nothing more.”

  Vesper decided that it would be wiser not to continue, so he quickly changed the subject.

  “When I told you about the birthright of my race,” he began, “I said that the Starwife had withheld it from we Moonriders, yet you laughed. What was the reason?”

  “Exactly the one I gave,” Ysabelle replied, “it was just so much nonsense. Why should a Handmaiden of Orion trouble to do such a thing? I doubt if she had even given thy kind much thought until you started attacking the outposts and laying waste the smaller colonies!”

  “But my Lord Hrethel has told us the blame lies with her!” Vesper insisted. “To regain our gifts of prophecy and insight we would do battle till the end of all things. That is what started the holy wars.”

  Ysabelle shook her head. “Then they have been waged for nothing,” she told him, “for I am certain we had no part in withholding those things from you.”

  Vesper stroked his beard, confused.

  A mild breeze stirred the willows which fringed the shore and the young bat gazed at them with a faraway look on his face. “The osier is beloved of the Lady Moon,” he murmured, “it is said that she owns it and at whiles would come down to walk beneath the graceful boughs.” He gave a regretful sigh and added, “There were no withy trees near my home, and when I was a-weaning I would dream of finding one and spending the delicious hours of night there—hoping to catch a glimpse of her.”

  “I do not think your Lady would visit this dreary place,” Ysabelle said. “Is it not strange? My folk call the willow, or saille, the tree of enchantment. Only witches know its virtues, I was told.”

  She looked at the bat and managed a smile. “But then, I was told many things,” she said. “I have learned a great deal since first we met—Griselda used to tell me your kind were brutal and savage. She had many tales of squirrel children taken and devoured by bats, and would repeat them time and again with much relish. I used to think you and the Hobbers were all in league with one another.”

  V
esper nodded. “My mother used to relate the exact tale of you!” he exclaimed. “Only your folk would make sacrifices to the trees you worshipped and feed their roots with blood.”

  The squirrel smiled, then nibbled her lip thoughtfully. “How we have altered in this short time,” she said. “Oh, I pray Griselda is safe, I have not dared to think what has become of her.”

  “Wendel seemed to think she was alive when he was parted from your army.”

  “I have been a fool,” Ysabelle confided. “If it was not for me we would not be here. Why did I listen to Wendel? His heart is full of good intentions, yet he is the first to agree that his brain is the weakest point about him. Coming here was a stupid mistake, yet I was too hard-headed to realise. I ought to have listened to you.”

  “A princess of the royal house taking advice from a bat?” Vesper teased her.

  “If I had we should be well on our way still,” she replied, “not forced to endure this foul place. Do you think we shall ever see sight or sign of those mythical woodland folk?”

  “Not unless the jester carves them himself!”

  They laughed, but it was a strained sound and they could not sustain it.

  Ysabelle gazed at the bat’s furry face and lowered her eyes. “You do realise that when this journey is complete, we shall be enemies again. When I take up the silver, it is laid upon me to rid the holy land of your kind.”

  “You are mistaken,” Vesper said firmly. “There will be no more Starwives—their time is ended forever. You have not seen the full strength of our legions; if you had then you would not be so confident. I tell you, if Rhogar wants that amulet you bear, it will eventually come to him. Would it not be best to give up this hopeless task that you are chasing? The only possible outcome will be your death—I promise you that.”

  He held back from saying any more and wondered why he had been so harsh. The words had fallen from his tongue before he could check them and had sounded threatening. Now he regretted what he had said, but Ysabelle had heard enough.

  The squirrel moved away from him. “We shall see who will die,” she said sadly. “It would appear that neither of us has changed after all. Now I shall return to the others—goodnight to you, Vespertilio.”

  Quickly she retraced her steps and left the bat gazing wistfully into the night.

  The campfire was still burning when she arrived there, but only Wendel had remained awake. Giraldus was lying on his side, snoring loudly, and at his feet a guilt-ridden Tysle had crawled and curled into a snug ball.

  The jester pressed a finger to his lips when he saw her and Ysabelle came to sit next to him.

  “How does the puppet progress?” she asked.

  Wendel shaved off some irregular bumps before showing it to her. “Soon I shall paint it,” he said with a strange smile on his face, “then make the body from some cloth.”

  “I hope it will amuse those who see it,” she said absently, “but for myself I am too tired.”

  She yawned and spread dry leaves and grasses over the ground where she would sleep.

  Wendel watched her all the while until he finally put his work down.

  “May those sprites who grant peaceful slumber visit you,” he said, “and bear thee to a fairer place than this in thy dreams.”

  Ysabelle sat on the prepared ground and made herself as comfortable as she could.

  “Tell me,” Wendel began in a quiet voice, “now there are none to overhear us, may I speak openly with you, Mistress?”

  The squirrel frowned, “Of course,” she said. “What is it that troubles you?”

  The stoat pointed at Giraldus and looked most disapproving. “I did ask you before,” he said, “but now I ask again. Do you think it is fitting for one of thy rank and station to travel with such as he?”

  “Why should I not?” Ysabelle answered in surprise. “The mole and his servant have shown me naught but kindness.”

  Wendel threw a stick into the fire and stared at the flurry of sparks which flew out. “Nevertheless,” he intoned, “the daughter of Ninnia, at such close quarters to a leper? His company is not to be borne—what would Gelenos say?”

  “Godfrey is dead!” the squirrel replied. “And I’m sure he would be glad I was not alone. These pilgrims are my friends now.”

  “Are they?” the jester asked mildly. “In truth, how much dost thou really know of their intents and purposes? I do not wish to be a sower of such dark and doubting seeds, Mistress, yet is it prudent to trust them so readily?”

  “Perhaps not,” she replied. “’Tis true that all they have told us might be a pack of falsehoods—and yet they are so sincere.”

  Wendel drew patterns in the thawed mud with a twig. “Maybe I am wrong,” he muttered, “yet I was most dismayed to find you freely conversing with that detestable Moonrider—have you forgotten how your parents died?”

  Ysabelle glared at him, but there was truth in his words. She remembered the warning given to her by the Green, and instead of rebuking Wendel, thanked him for keeping her alert to the dangers.

  “What else should I do?” came his simple answer. “Thou art the last one of a noble line—most high in the world. I would not see you betrayed and that majestic light snuffed out forever.”

  Ysabelle settled down for the night and wrapped her tail about her. Wendel looked at her with a smile on his lips, wandered over to his cart and took a reed pipe from one of the chests. Then, sitting just beyond the circle of firelight so that the dancing glow illuminated only the tip of his nose, he put it to his lips.

  A slow, drowsy tune floated from the instrument. It was a lulling melody that dragged Ysabelle’s eyelids down and poured sleep into her ears.

  Nearby, Giraldus snorted in his slumber and a happy smile stole over Tysle’s face as the lilting music permeated their dreams.

  The jester’s skilful fingers played languidly over the pipe and the delicious refrain flowed out over the dark waters of the mere.

  Suddenly Ysabelle awoke.

  “What was that?” she cried.

  The stoat took the pipe from his mouth. “A lullaby, taught me by my grandmother,” he answered.

  Ysabelle stared at him, “Not that!” she said. “I did hear a cry!”

  Wendel raised his eyebrows and looked at her oddly. “I did not hear anything,” he said.

  The squirrel gazed about her, then she heard it again. A high voice, shouting in panic and fear. She jumped to her feet and whirled round.

  “That is Vespertilio!” she declared. “He is in danger!”

  Taking up her long knife, she dashed forward but, before she could run along the shore, Wendel raced over to her.

  “Stay, Mistress!” he told her sternly. “Thou must not imperil thyself—think of thy mission. Thou art too precious to waste and he is only a bat when all is said.”

  Ysabelle scowled at him then tore away.

  Since the squirrel had left him there, Vesper had been sitting thoughtfully upon the shore. His heart was troubled, but when the strains of Wendel’s melodious music reached him, he had forgotten his sorrows and it had been a struggle to remain awake.

  As his head nodded for the third time, the bat sat up with a jolt, rubbed his eyes and realised that he was not alone.

  Something was moving within the lake, slow, turgid ripples broke against the frozen mud and Vesper cautiously clicked his tongue to try and see what had caused them.

  “Bless me!” the bat uttered. ”What in Hrethel’s name..?”

  In the middle of the loathsome mere, vile shapes writhed and twisted, out of the stinking water they rose—dripping filth and slime as they reared. Up into the reeking airs the horrors floated, then they began to move swiftly towards the shore.

  Over the surface of the lake, the spectres of long-drowned creatures silently skimmed.

  Vesper fell back in fear as they glided closer. He had never seen anything so hideous in all his young life.

  The spectres were revolting masses of bones, sticks and cl
inging pond weed. Bound together by the malevolent spirits which animated them, they were ghastly imitations of life, a confused and gangling mess of tattered shreds. On one of them a rotting fish tail slapped the water and the bundle of twigs which served as legs galloped quickly up the muddy shore.

  “Aaaaaarrrgghhh!” Vesper screamed as the apparition bore down.

  The nightmare clattered after him and long fingers of yellowing bone came snapping for the bat’s throat.

  Vesper turned, but another of the abominations was rising from the water’s edge. Amongst the foul fronds of its shaggy mane, it had the putrefying head of a fish, and from the open mouth a hollow shriek issued.

  This second spectre lunged forward with crablike movements, scuttling over the mud and leaving a trail of stinking black slime behind it.

  Vesper tried to run, but the vile phantoms were too quick. Fast as lightning they snaked after and a mangled claw flashed out—grabbing him by the neck.

  “Help!” Vesper cried. “Help me!”

  The decaying head stared down—the empty sockets where its eyes should have been, burning into him.

  Vesper nearly swooned before the overpowering stench of death and corruption which flowed out from it and he howled when cold fingers squeezed around his body.

  Now the rattling bundles of bone and scale swept their twigs over Vesper’s squirming form covetously. The spirits of those unwary creatures that had drowned in the haunted mere resented anything that had life—life that they too had once owned, life that they had lost in that freezing darkness below the water.

  Their malignant souls screeched for the warm blood that flowed through their victim’s veins—they hated it with all their accursed strength. But most of all, they despised the breath that filled Vesper’s lungs.

  Long ago these unclean spirits had been dragged down into the mire. Then they had been even as he, living breathing animals who strayed too close to the forbidding waters and were lost. Deep under that lake their chests had burst and bubbles trapped their screams. The struggle for breath was the last they remembered and now they were intent on bestowing that agony upon Vesper.