by Robin Jarvis
All the youngsters turned their heads as Fenny and the two strangers passed and they nudged each other excitedly.
“Those are Hobbers!” one of them hissed in an audible whisper.
“She’s too pretty!” piped up another.
The weasel tapped the floor impatiently until he had the attention of all of them and then resumed the lesson.
Across the expansive hall, the mouse captain led Vesper and Ysabelle and when they came to a wide archway, he passed beneath and they followed closely behind.
“What do you think is waiting for us?” Vesper murmured to the squirrel.
“I know not,” she answered, “but did you see how pale Fenny went at the mere mention of it? We had better prepare ourselves.”
The passage they were now in began to slope downwards, before it joined another and then a third, till both Vesper and Ysabelle’s heads swam in confusion. The interior of the hill was a maze of walkways and caves and after only a few minutes, they had totally lost all sense of direction. Even if they had tried to escape, neither of them would have known which was the way back to the hall and the entrance. The only course they could take was to follow Fenny—he seemed to know where he was going.
Then, at a crossroads, where four tunnels met, the mouse hesitated and looked uncertain.
“What is wrong?” asked Ysabelle. “Have you forgotten the way?”
The captain pulled his cloak about him. “How can I have forgotten that which I never knew?” came his reply. “For never have my errands or wants taken me down this far.”
He spent a moment tentatively peering into each of the possible tunnels before deciding. “This one,” he declared, “I feel sure it must be—it is the only way that smells old and mouldering enough.”
Vesper raised his eyebrows and glanced at Ysabelle. “What can that mean?” he wondered.
The tunnel that Fenny had chosen sloped downwards more steeply than any they had yet been in and seemed to curve steadily round in an ever-descending spiral. Deep below the mound they journeyed—their way lit by small lanterns which were suspended from the earthen ceiling at long intervals. These lanterns illuminated only a small area of the winding path, and the spaces between their glimmering boundaries were engulfed in pools of sombre darkness.
The smell in that gloomy, twisting tunnel was like the stale, dry must of old hay. No other scents drifted on the still airs—only a centuries old, muted aroma of great age and shabby neglect tingled like pepper in their nostrils. Ysabelle was reminded of her late tutor, Godfrey—whose room in the Hazel Realm was always filled with fusty-smelling scrolls and charts.
As they continued along this seldom-trod path, Vesper and Ysabelle saw that, occasionally, large fragments of stone protruded from the soil walls. The irregular pieces of rubble were covered in what had once been elaborate carvings and the images could still be discerned. Even Fenny took time to slow down and look at them.
There were chiselled pictures of distant lands and strange vessels which crossed the rolling seas with many war-like creatures on board—all fierce-looking and armed to the teeth. At one point a tall, reclining figure formed part of the passage wall and they stepped alongside the sleeping effigy with their gaze trained upon the sculpted features.
Fenny narrowed his eyes as he examined these remnants of another age and nodded his head with understanding. “’Tis said this mound was a place where old kings were entombed,” he muttered. “’Twould seem the tale is borne out.”
As they pressed deeper, large, pointed flints began to litter the passage floor, and in the walls dull gleams were picked out by the lamps—for treasure had been interred with the forgotten dead and the exposed gold threw back the light of the lanterns over the ground.
Eventually, however, they came to a flight of granite steps, carved with many swirls and interlocking circles. Down this stair the mouse led them until they found themselves standing in an arched cave, the end of which was covered by a faded tapestry depicting the sickle moon. Vesper’s eyes opened wide and at the back of his mind some distant memory began to surface.
“This is the place,” Fenny told them and they could tell that he was just as excited and nervous as they were—more so, perhaps.
Striding up to the tapestry, he was about to draw it aside when the material twitched and a velvety snout emerged from behind its folds.
Into the cave a mole—shorter and with less bulk than Giraldus—trotted. He blinked several times, then bowed gravely and said, “The Ancient awaits thee.” And with that he took hold of the tapestry and pulled it aside.
A dimly-lit cavern lay beyond the faded curtain. Inside, tapering fires flickered within two basins of stone and images of the moon, in all her phases, adorned the smooth stone floor.
Yet behind the flames, all was shadow and Ysabelle peered into the void, where small shapes were constantly moving.
“Welcome,” said a voice from the darkness, and at that sound Fenny fell on one knee—humbly lowering his head.
“Welcome to thee, Captain Fenlyn Purfote,” the rich voice hailed. “Rise—there is much worth in thee, most valiant of mice.”
Fenny did as he was bid and, as Ysabelle listened, she thought the voice sounded warm and kind—then she heard her own name called.
“Welcome to thee, Ysabelle,” it said, “daughter of Ninnia and Cyllinus—fairest sapling of Coll Regalis, valiant also art thou.”
Fenny looked up when he heard this—amazed that the squirrel had been speaking the truth—but the voice continued.
“And finally,” it purred, “welcome to thee, Vespertilio—a true Knight of the Moon, despite thy tender years.”
Vesper nibbled his beard and his wings opened as, at last, he guessed.
“I... I know you,” he stammered, “or a least—of you!”
Gentle laughter flowed from the shadows and a look of extreme wonder stole over the bat’s face.
In the gloom, the small shapes moved towards the light and three moles came to stand beside one of the stone basins. Then they took up a lamp and lit it in the flames before retreating to dispel the darkness beyond.
Then Ysabelle and Vesper saw him—the Ancient.
There, sitting in a shallow dip in the floor, brindled with extreme age, and with his eyes closed in meditation, was a great and wizened hare.
Ysabelle uttered a cry of surprise and Fenny fell to his knees once again.
Upon its wrinkled and hoary brow, the creature wore a crown of dried leaves. The passage of time had etched many lines over the hare’s face, and frosty whiskers stubbled its chin. For many ages the Ancient had dwelled there, long before the old kings had chosen to be buried above him. Dispensing his unbounded wisdom to those who would listen, he was the wisest sage that had ever breathed—a figure from the mythology of all cultures.
“The messenger of the Moon Goddess!” Vesper breathed in hushed respect. “He who took on earthly form with raiment of flesh—can it really be true?”
With his eyes still closed, the Ancient smiled faintly and, when he next spoke, it was in a dry whisper. “Verily ’tis I,” he answered; “the purblind one, the dew-hopper, the furze cat, the stag of the stubble, he with the leathery horns, the legs of the four winds—the moon-sent angel.”
Tears came unbidden to Vesper’s eyes. All who venerated the Lady knew that the first creature to walk the earth was the hare—for in that form did her divine messenger descend and speak with the spirit of the Green. But that was many, many thousands of years ago and that creature was thought to have perished from this world and his soul returned to the Goddess.
Now Vesper had come face to face with a power far greater than he had ever imagined and he, like Fenny, sank to his knees then prostrated himself before this awesome creature.
Ysabelle was left standing alone before the Ancient and she nervously put her paw to her mouth.
“What... what do you want of us?” she asked in a tremulous voice.
The Ancient raised his head
a little and the crown of leaves rustled faintly. “Come forward—child of the Hazel,” he said. “Mine old eyes would see the countenance of the new Starwife.”
Ysabelle looked uncomfortably at Vesper, but he was weeping into his wings—so she took a step nearer to the great creature.
Then, very slowly, the Ancient’s eyelids opened and the squirrel maiden recoiled—almost crying out in fear. The eyes which the creature turned on her, and which stared so keenly in her direction, were of the brightest, purest silver.
“Be not afraid,” the hare said soothingly, “for there is naught here to harm thee.”
“Your... your eyes,” Ysabelle stuttered.
A smile played about the Ancient’s mouth. “Why dost thou fear them?” he asked, “Dost thou fear the moon when it shines above thee?”
“No.”
“Then be not afraid now, for I look on you with the sight of one who has seen the Lady in the splendour of her youth and in mine eyes that vision is forever mirrored. Step closer once more.”
Ysabelle obeyed, and the silver eyes gazed long at her—fixing at last upon the acorn around her neck.
“A dreadful burden is laid upon thee,” he declared. “In thy paws are the fates of many held. Tell me, what is thine intent once thou arrivest at the place thou knowest as Greenreach?”
The squirrel glanced nervously back to where Vesper lay on the ground. “I must drive the Moonriders from the holy land,” she told him.
“And how is this to be achieved by one lone daughter of the Hazel?”
“I shall not be alone,” she said, “for there my army awaits me.”
At this Vesper stirred and looked at her suspiciously—how could she know that?
The Ancient muttered to himself. His shining eyes seemed to look into Ysabelle’s mind and she knew he was aware of her conversation with the Green that night in the orchard of Duir.
“And if thy forces can rid the land of the bats?” he asked.
“Then shall I take up the starwifeship and rule as my predecessors before me. A wall of defence shall I weave about the blessed hill so no one may assail it ever again.”
The silver eyes stared at her a moment longer then the Ancient called for Vesper to approach.
Ysabelle stepped back as the young bat rose from his knees and awkwardly came forward.
“Vespertilio,” the hare began, “why dost thou journey and keep company with a mortal enemy of thine own race?”
Vesper mumbled incoherently but the Ancient spoke again.
“The war between the Knights of the Moon and the five houses of the squirrels has been waged for many years. What hast made thee turn traitor and betray thy mother’s kindred?”
“I have not done such a black deed!” cried the bat, stung at last out of his fearful reverence. “I was taken captive by Ysabelle’s guards, that is all—I have betrayed no one.”
The Ancient laughed kindly. “That I know,” he whispered, “yours is a true heart, Vespertilio—beware of it, for it is surely too large for thy chest to contain. Now, tell me of thine own legion’s plans.”
“I... I know nothing,” Vesper replied, staring at the ground.
The hare muttered to himself again. “Didst thou learn naught from Leofa?” he mildly asked the young bat.
Vesper looked up quickly—how could he know of that? “Leofa?” he began.
“One of the two Moonriders thou didst hear speaking this morning,” the Ancient reminded him.
This time it was Ysabelle’s turn to stir and she listened keenly to what the bat had to say.
Vesper gazed into the silver eyes and folded his wings behind his back as he answered, while wondering all the time what Ysabelle was thinking.
“The two said that the search was still underway,” he told the hare. “They and the forces of Hrethel are intent on finding Ysabelle and... and killing her.”
“Dost thou know why that is?”
“Because they think she is evil and denies us our birthright.”
“And what dost thou believe, Vespertilio?”
The bat shook his head. “I do not know any longer,” he replied with a mounting anxiety rising in his voice. “Only that nothing Leofa and his companion said with such certainty had any foundation in truth, and... and...”
“Proceed.”
“And I find that I am questioning many things now!” he exclaimed. “I do not know why the holy wars were begun and increasingly they appear not holy at all—but bloody and savage! Ysabelle is not like any of the squirrels in the old tales—she is kind and brave and...”
The Ancient did not press him on this point, but his eyes seemed to burn into the young bat, studying and assessing, yet under their influence Vesper became calm and his anxieties faded.
“Vespertilio,” the wizened hare said, “most proud should thy mother be of her offspring. Of all creatures, thou art the only one who has learned—both sides canst thou see and the truth is but a glimmer away. Now do I pronounce mine judgement—Fenlyn Purfote, rise and approach.”
The mouse captain staggered to his feet and came to stand beside Vesper. “What is your will?” he asked meekly.
“Hear now the wisdom of the moon-sent angel,” the Ancient addressed them all. “Here you stand, three emissaries from differing lands. To each, the fortunes of their own house must come above all others and blindly do they pursue their goals—and unto the ruin of all things would they go.”
Here the hare’s voice became harsh and the flames in the stone basins shot upwards, roaring and boiling to the ceiling.
“Know this,” the Ancient angrily told them, “amid the petty wars of bat, squirrel and woodlander, there will come a foe more terrifying than anything that has been, since first I danced under the new-born moon.”
“You mean the Hobbers?” Ysabelle asked. “But, once I bring the acorn to the Starglass, I can cast an enchantment against them...”
“Against the seething tide which rises against thee now, nothing can stand!” the hare warned. “None in this time know of the terror that was before the rising of the moon and the budding of the first spring, when the triad ruled the unholy night.”
Now the flames dwindled and, except for the lamps which the attendant moles still held, all became dark.
“Those who do think themselves safe from the advancing hordes,” murmured the Ancient, “shall be proved cruelly wrong when they strike. The armour of the Moonriders shall be no protection from the talons of the baseborn birds which are mustering. Carrion crows, jackdaws, rooks and ravens now gather to feed on the battlefield flesh they have been promised. Soon their mighty number shall strike at the very heart of the winged legions and the forces of Hrethel shall fail before them.
“Then shall the paltry strength of the remaining houses be assailed and all squirrels shall perish. The land shall flow with blood and the children of the triad shall carouse in rivers of crimson. Then shall all fortresses be overthrown and the last strongholds be unearthed and conquered—not a life shall be spared that will not worship the horned rat god.”
Ysabelle and Vesper said nothing, for in their minds, the Ancient’s words conjured up ghastly images of a world plunged into chaos and madness. Darkness would smother all and the land would be without order: murder and war would reign and, in this nightmare, Hobb alone would rule.
Fenny lifted his face and despair was ingrained upon it. “Then is there to be no hope?” he asked. “Are we all to fall?”
The silver eyes closed and the Ancient sighed. “It need not be so,” came his answer. “The vision of darkness I have shown unto you can still be averted—but in one circumstance only.”
“Then how?” asked Ysabelle. “What is it we can do?”
“Only if all the enemies of the triad unite and do battle together can this be done. Only then shall the land be cleansed and order restored.”
“All the enemies?” repeated Ysabelle, glancing at Vesper.
“Then it cannot be!” the bat cried. “My fol
k would never join with the squirrels—their hatred of them is too deep!”
The eyes opened again and their brightness pierced him. “Yet that hatred thou hast turned into a different passion, Vespertilio,” the hare muttered.
Vesper looked shyly at Ysabelle. “But no other Knight of the Moon could be persuaded!” he mumbled.
“Vespertilio,” the Ancient said, softly chanting his name, “hearken to me now and know the destiny which is mapped out for thee.”
The bat flinched, but he could not tear his eyes from those which now blazed fiercely before him with a radiance all their own.
“Unto thee the task is given,” the hare said. “Thy duty it shall be to bring the two opposing forces together—bat and squirrel. If only for a short time they must act as one. And should thou fail, then the world is doomed and condemned to the dark.”
“But... but I cannot!” Vesper spluttered. “Such a thing is impossible! Who would listen? All Knights of the Moon believe the squirrels withhold their birthright—I might ask the sun to cease rising for all the good it would do!”
To everyone’s dismay, the brindled hare let out a horrible growl and the moles scurried around him to placate and soothe.
“A time may come when the sun shall indeed rise no more if thou shouldst refuse the task!” he roared. “Yet know this and let the knowledge be the instrument of thy success in this venture.” The Ancient lowered his voice and the words he spoke left Vesper feeling empty and cheated beyond belief.
“The gifts of prophecy and insight can be bestowed or denied by no other creature than the one to whom they were given. Listen to me, Vespertilio, thy true enemy was never the Starwife—but none other than the Lord Hrethel himself!”
“That cannot be!” Vesper objected. “It cannot...”
“He it was who denied the birthright of his fellows,” the hare said. “The gifts of the Lady were a danger to him, for with their aid thy kind would see into his black heart and the dark malice that simmered there would be revealed. Know now, Vespertilio, thy beloved and revered Warden of the Great Book hath become enamoured of his charge and gloats jealously over the charmed pages, allowing no other sight nor touch of it. By the powers of the Great Book was he able to wrench away thy birthright, yet dissembling his evil thoughts and intent, he did place the blame at the Starwife’s door.”
