The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  The first thing he wanted to do was rush out of the tree and declare his presence—overjoyed to see folk of his own kind.

  “You get out there, Vespertilio!” he urged himself. “How shocked them Knights of the Moon will be to see thee—and just think of the honour that will be thine. The enemy they seek is here, you can deliver her to them and receive great praise and renown.”

  He ventured closer to the opening in the trunk, but stopped himself just in time.

  “Ha!” shrieked the bat above. “Was that not a fine night, when we were victorious over that stinking colony? How those tree rats fled before the fire-eggs. Didst thou see that circle of hazel trees ablaze?”

  “Mine gauntlets fair bathed in the vile blood of those heathens.”

  “Mine also, yet what puny sentries guarded the borders. A good thing it was that our enemies were only squirrels, otherwise I would have balked at killing children and womenfolk.”

  “’Twas no wonder the sport did not last long.”

  Vesper felt sick, and he looked guiltily across to where Ysabelle soundly slept.

  The squirrel maiden was lying peacefully on a bed of dry leaves and spongy green moss—innocent of the exchange uttered above. Her large brown eyes were closed and her raven dark hair fell silkily over her shoulders, entwining with the tip of her bushy tail. Ysabelle’s breaths were soft as a butterfly’s and, as the sun’s rays stole further inside the hollow tree, her fur glinted and shimmered.

  The young bat gazed at her lovely face and, knowing what would happen if his kind caught her, turned cold and looked away. He could never betray her—not now.

  “I would dearly like to find that wicked creature,” came the voice of Leofa. “Did you hear those reports of the great burning? ’Twould appear she set light to an entire village—scorched bodies everywhere! A sordid black heart that tree rat must have.”

  “But what of those poor unfortunates impaled hereabouts?” returned the other. “What manner of monster spears birds and the like of those we found upon sharpened twigs? No ordinary foe is she—not a shred of remorse must she have, no trace of right and wrong can beat in her barbaric breast.”

  “’Tis just as the old tales tell, those savages are the most loathsome vermin ever to sully the world. Didst thou hear that our brothers found a mouse’s head wrapped in a scarf?”

  “She did that?”

  “Aye! And no doubt ’twas she who poisoned that lake and caused the rain to wash away her trail—dreadful powers of enchantment are hers to command, they say. Pacts with demons has she signed—for no soul does she possess now and all pure things shun her.”

  “Much would I give to run my talons through her throat.”

  “Or see her guts spill onto the ground,” Leofa sighed wistfully, “then would all our troubles be over and the birthright returned to us.”

  “Even now she keeps the mighty spell strong to deny the gift of the Lady—I could kill her over and over!”

  Vesper shook his head; nothing the bats believed was true and more than ever he knew that the holy war had been a terrible waste of life.

  The bats continued to grumble to one another until they finally decided it was time to resume the search. With a beat of their leathery wings the Moonriders rose from the branches of the dead tree and disappeared over the forest roof.

  When all was quiet and he was sure they were gone, Vesper’s eyes grew moist and a solitary tear rolled down his cheek.

  A short while later, once he had composed himself, the young bat crawled from the hollow tree and stepped outside.

  The morning was already growing late, but it was a heavenly day. It was as if the entire world had been cleansed and reborn. The air was sharp and clear, the glistening trees dripped diamonds and the forest floor was free of frost.

  Vesper breathed deeply and stretched—he felt completely refreshed. Lazily, he flapped his wings and, to his astonishment and joy, he began to rise from the ground.

  “My wing!” he cried. “It is healed!”

  Cautiously, the bat beat his wings faster until he soared into the air. There was still a dull ache in his shoulder, but apart from that all seemed well and he spent several happy minutes flitting about the trees, spiralling around them and swooping down in great, graceful arcs.

  It was a glorious feeling, to be master of the breeze and tear through the shafts of golden sunlight. Breathlessly, he lighted upon a high branch and let out a rejoicing shout.

  “I CAN FLY!”

  He was so happy that he did not know what to do. “I could leave now,” he told himself, “fly back to my home. Wouldn’t Mother be surprised to see me after all these days! I need not say anything of the squirrel maiden’s whereabouts—I could feign ignorance and none would be the wiser.”

  He was giddy with the possibilities—no more skulking about the forest, having to march with the others, no more running from the terrifying Hobbers, no more nightmares to hound him. In the air Vesper was free, and the dangerous paths he had been forced to tread were already forgotten.

  Up he soared, up through the highest branches and out above the treetops where the forest became a soft blur of rolling colours.

  Up he sped, over the horse-chestnuts and beeches below—his eyes squinting under the blinding sun. Yet what did he care? Soon he would be safe at home, safe in the ruined tower, where no peril could reach him, where nothing ever happened and no squirrels ever ventured.

  Vesper’s laughter died in his throat and his fiercely beating wings slowed to the merest flick to remain airborne. The young bat stared down. There was the withered tree and, as a feeling he had never thought possible kindled in his heart, he knew that he could never leave.

  A terrible sadness overwhelmed him and all thoughts of home melted silently away as his winged form sank back to earth.

  It was not until midday that the others stirred. First out of the hollow tree came Tysle who blinked like an owl and yawned in the middle of guiding his master through the opening.

  Giraldus emerged sniffing the air and clutching his staff. “A wholesome day,” he announced, then feeling the warm sun on his face tutted at the lateness of the hour. “Noon already,” he said. “Perfidious shrew, why did you let me sleep so long?”

  “Good morning!” Vesper greeted them.

  The pair turned and there was the bat, sitting on a low bough where he had been keeping a look-out.

  “And to thee, batling,” Giraldus hailed him. “Is it not a day of the Green’s own making? All the fearful shadows of the night have fled and we are left to bask in the bright sunlight.”

  With a sudden jingling of bells, the jester poked his head from the tree and gave a nervous grin.

  “A merry morning, my friends,” he said.

  Only Tysle bothered to return the greeting, for the others had not forgotten the stoat’s cowardly actions.

  “How do,” the shrew piped up.

  Wendel gave him a grateful smile then stepped out and padded over to his camouflaged cart.

  Giraldus closed his ears to the jester’s pathetic attempts at mirth and addressed himself to Vesper.

  “If we are not misled this day,” he rumbled with an obvious and scathing allusion to the previous night’s diversion to the lake, “come evening, the blessed hill of Grinuvicia should be in view.”

  Vesper was only half listening to him, for at that moment Ysabelle left the hollow tree and the young bat’s face lit up with a wide and special smile.

  As there was nothing to eat for breakfast, the company set off as soon as they were ready. With their stomachs growling they found their bearings and followed the now gurgling stream back to the holy well and from there returned to the path.

  The day continued fine and warm and it was heartening to see that spring seemed to have arrived in that part of the forest at last. Gone were the cascading icicles and the ground was soft underfoot.

  As they marched, Wendel fussed and made such a nuisance of himself, profusely begging their forg
iveness for leaving them to the spectres of the mere, that in the end they forgave him—if only to shut him up.

  During this time Vesper said nothing about his mended wing and contented himself with walking alongside them as before. He did not want to mention it—not just yet—and his twinkling eyes looked increasingly in Ysabelle’s direction.

  The scenery around them gradually changed; the densely growing trees began to thin and, here and there, spring flowers were sprinkled beside the path. Wood anemones cheered them with their purplish-white petals, a clump of marsh marigolds toasted them with their golden cups raised to the sky and blue periwinkles pricked through the grass like tiny stars in a heaven of green.

  The woods they now traversed seemed friendlier than before and had a sleepy air about them. Many oaks grew stout and stately with enough room to spread and flourish.

  Ysabelle felt less uneasy than she had done for many days and, once Wendel had been forgiven, listened gladly to his rambling, idiotic talk.

  Tysle listened too and his infectious chuckling filtered through the pleasant woods, much to Giraldus’s irritation, and the pious mole was shocked and scandalised to hear Vesper’s voice joining the laughter.

  As the sunny afternoon beamed about him, the leper reflected sadly that his companions seemed to have forgotten the gravity of their situation. It was almost as if they were simply strolling through the woods at their leisure, having no fears to dampen their spirits. He walked on with his head lowered and wondering if they ought not to sample a caterpillar or two to bring them back to their senses.

  Eventually, the path led them to a beautifully sunny glade and Ysabelle clapped her paws in delight.

  Growing there were hundreds of daffodils and their golden trumpets mirrored the sunshine, casting buttery lights that danced about the clearing as the flowers gently nodded and swayed.

  The squirrel maiden capered into their midst and the glimmering reflections shone upon her twirling figure, transforming her ebony body into a moving statue of the richest gold—an idol that had sprung into jubilant life.

  “Is it not a marvellous sight?” she cried. “What beauty the forest contains. May we rest here a while?”

  The others agreed and they trailed into the daffodil glade like merry children. Even Giraldus could sense the wonder of the blooms and his nose thrilled with the delicate scents.

  Where the ground rose slightly, they sat on the sweet grass and drank in the shimmering sea of yellow and gold around them.

  Whistling a jaunty little ditty, Wendel took the carving from one of his prop chests and resumed his work on it.

  Tysle beamed, intoxicated by the glamour of the flowers and the jester’s skill. The wooden head was nearly finished—all it needed was careful painting.

  “Then shall I make the body,” said Wendel, still anxious to please everyone and atone for last night. “And once that is done, shall I make one of us all? Wouldst thou like a puppet of thyself, Master Moonrider? I already have one of a bat which could easily be remodelled to resemble thee.”

  Before Vesper could answer, Tysle blurted out that he would dearly love to see himself carved in wood. “Whittle a likeness of me,” he beseeched. “Oh, please do!”

  “Tysle!” the mole’s voice cut in abruptly. “These things are but vanities! Thy head should not be filled with the lust for them!”

  The shrew meekly murmured an apology, but his eyes stole to where the brilliantly painted cart seemed to glow in the sunlight and he longed to ask Wendel to perform some tricks.

  Basking in the golden glory of the flowers, Ysabelle chatted with Vesper, encouraging him to speak of his life and the ways of the Moonriders.

  “All our folk look to the five counsellors for guidance,” he began shyly. “Each are venerable creatures with white beards and much wisdom. The first has the title of ‘Lord of the Twilight’, the second is ‘Keeper of the Hidden Ways’, then there is ‘The Consort of the Lady’.”

  “What of the other two?” she asked.

  “Fourth comes ‘The Guardian of Battle’,” he answered, “whose office is to ensure the legions are always ready for war.”

  Ysabelle looked away. “And the fifth?” she inquired.

  “The final counsellor is the Lord Hrethel, ‘Warden of the Great Book’,” he said. “He is the most learned of the five, for from the Book of Mystery he has gained much wisdom. All Knights of the Moon respect him and obey his every command.”

  “Did you not say that ’twas he who blamed the loss of your birthright upon the last Starwife?”

  “Yes,” answered Vesper, “never has he been known to err before and I marvel that he should make such a grievous blunder.”

  “‘Marvel’ is hardly the word I would choose,” said Ysabelle.

  “No,” the bat replied and they fell into an uncomfortable silence.

  Around the golden glade, amid the pale shade of the tall oaks and beeches, a pair of curious eyes stared at the unsuspecting travellers. Then others appeared as many shadowy figures crept around the outskirts of the clearing. Stealthily they surrounded the beautiful daffodils, and waited.

  Giraldus cocked his head to one side and a frown wrinkled his mottled brow. “’Tis time we set off,” he said quickly. “Too long have we idled here already—come Tysle!”

  Just as the shrew rose to his feet, an arrow flew through the air and embedded itself in the ground where he had been sitting.

  “Eeek!” he yelped. “Hobbers!”

  Before anyone could move, there came an angry shout and from all sides leapt a ferocious host of armed creatures.

  “Hold!” commanded their attackers. “Move and you die!”

  Bows were strung and swords slid from their sheaths as they hurried to where the travellers sat amazed and afraid.

  Tysle groped for his knife, but a leaf-shaped blade was pressed against his throat and he pretended that he had only wanted to scratch his bandaged leg.

  Two dozen fully-armed and stem-looking animals formed a tight circle about them. There were mice and hedgehogs, rabbits and weasels and all were robed in cloaks of dark green.

  “Oh woe!” wailed Wendel, his lip quivering in fright. “Don’t let them hurt us!” He waggled the carved head at them in a pitifully feeble attempt to amuse, but one of the hedgehogs growled and knocked it from his grasp. “Oh make it a swift ending!” the jester bleated. “No lingering agony, I beg thee!”

  Vesper and Ysabelle moved closely together and the bat spread one of his wings about the squirrel maiden’s shoulders, baring his teeth at any who came too close.

  “What have we hear?” one of the mice snarled, leering at Giraldus. “A scab-riddled mole tied to a shrew! The children of the Raith Sidhe must be desperate indeed if they are recruiting from the infirm and diseased!”

  Giraldus stiffened and stomped his staff on the ground. “How dare thee!” his booming voice blared. “No worshipper of that hellish triad am I, nor is mine servant!”

  “Hobbers the lot!” spat the hedgehog. “Only them and us walk the woods—I say kill ’em now!”

  Vesper folded his wings and he eyed the strangers keenly. “Then are you not in the service of Hobb?” he asked.

  “Are we Hobbers!” another mouse exclaimed.

  “Don’t let them squirm out of it!” the hedgehog insisted. “You know how tricky they can be!”

  Tysle’s ears were purple with rage and he suddenly exploded. “Three generations of my family them devils murdered!” he roared. “My old grandam, my parents and four sweet sisters were hauled out of our home and put to the peeler! So don’t you ever call me a worshipper of that horned rat god or I’ll knock your blocks off—every one!”

  His impassioned outburst amazed everyone, except Giraldus who drew on the string and put his paw on the shrew’s head. “Peace,” he whispered. “Think not of that dark time. I am here, be still.”

  Tysle sniffed but he continued to stare angrily at those around them.

  Ysabelle looked from one
member of the cloaked gang to another. “If you are not in that evil brotherhood, then who are you?” she asked.

  They stared back at her; Tysle’s protests had taken them all by surprise and they mumbled to one another in bemusement.

  “Now you looks at them,” a short mouse admitted, “they doesn’t look like Hobbers—none that I seen, anyhows.”

  “What’ll us be doing with them then?” piped up the rabbit.

  “’Taint up to me!”

  Then their talk ceased, for at the rear of the attacking party, a hedgehog hissed, “Fenny approaches.”

  “That’ll sort it,” they all murmured.

  Whilst Giraldus comforted Tysle and Wendel’s knees knocked together, Ysabelle and Vesper waited for the one called Fenny to arrive.

  From the surrounding trees strode the tallest mouse either of them had ever seen. Like the others, he wore a cloak of green, but, fastened about the neck, a silver badge in the shape of a leaping hare gleamed in the sunlight. The mouse was a dark brown colour and his face was grim and determined. A finely proportioned nose sat between two deep-set eyes that were steady and resolute and which, by the merest glance, could either inspire or instil fear. In a leather band tied about his head, three small woodpecker feathers denoted his leadership, and he came forward with the easy motion of one who possesses natural authority. When he passed the others they stood aside and put their paws to their breasts in salutation.

  “Captain!” the hedgehog declared. “See what trespassers we have captured!”

  The mouse looked at each of them in turn. Not a flicker in those deep eyes, nor a twitch at the corners of his mouth, betrayed his impressions.

  Giraldus, Tysle and Wendel he seemed to take little interest in, but when he saw Vesper and Ysabelle the fixed expression changed and they heard him speak for the first time.

  “Now here is a strange spectacle,” he declared. “A bat and a squirrel travelling together! There are tales to tell here or I am no judge. Tell me, from whence do you come? What are you doing here?”

  Ysabelle folded her arms and gazed back at him haughtily. “I am the daughter of Ninnia!” she proclaimed. “Last of the royal house of the Hazel, and these are my companions. We mean you no harm, but are all foes of the Hobb cult and if you wish to do them injury then let us be about our business.”