by Robin Jarvis
“No,” Vesper gasped.
“Thou knowest it to be true; have thee not already suspected? Never was so terrible a treachery perpetrated, save in Greenreach alone; yet see in his vile lies the seeds that will bloom under the realm that is to come. Lies breed distrust and distrust brings conflict.”
Vesper was too stunned by this awful revelation to think. “But... but,” he stammered, “what can I do? No one will believe me! Would you not come to persuade them? My folk would listen to you—but they won’t even look at one small weaning!”
At that, one of the moles came up to Vesper carrying a leather bag and strapped it about the bat’s shoulders.
“The herbs and powders that pouch contains,” the Ancient said, “will summon all thy kind. Should thou cast it into a fire then all Knights of the Moon will gather—they shall attend to thee then. Yet that is all; no virtue to persuade them does it have—that task is thine alone, for never shall I leave this place, such is thy destiny, Vespertilio—turn their hearts and unite against the common foe.”
Vesper fell silent, he was no great orator—perhaps if the Ancient had given the mission to Giraldus, then they might have stood a chance.
The eyes of the hare left him and were turned to blaze at Fenny. “Now is this discourse at an end,” he said. “Guide these honoured guests up to the great hall once more and treat them and their companions with the respect due to each. When they desire to leave, go with them. Now the time is come when this place must be left behind, for skulking and secrecy shall protect no longer.”
The Ancient’s gaze held the mouse for a moment, then, for the last time, it turned to Ysabelle.
“About thy neck the acorn is stained with blood,” he told her, “and by that blood was Hobb invoked. Thrice was it steeped and thrice was he called and by those very marks shall the monster be drawn from the Pit. Unto thee shall he come—art thou prepared for this?”
“No,” she admitted, “and when I heard him bellowing beneath the ground I was very afraid.”
The eyes narrowed. “Then already he has awoken,” the hare said with a trace of alarm in his voice. “I did not expect it should be so soon—mighty in strength must the magic of the amulet be, yet now it works for evil. How many times hast thou heard the unholy one?”
“Only once,” Ysabelle said, “by the shore of the haunted mere last night.”
“Then only one day remains,” the hare muttered, “for assuredly tonight thou shalt hear him again, but on the third occasion, Hobb will come. From the depths of the underworld, the Lord of the Raith Sidhe shall emerge and, unless the acorn is brought to the Starglass before that time, no power on earth can stop him and thou—daughter of Ninnia—shalt be his first victim.”
The hare uttered a weary sigh and his eyelids fluttered shut. “Now all of you may go,” he said, “and may my blessing go with each. Herein, my part in the story of the world is ended and I will have no further dealings with mortal concerns. For the good of all, I pray thy missions succeed—fare thee well.”
The moles came bearing their lamps and the most ancient and magical creature that ever danced beneath the moon was lost in darkness once more.
In stricken silence. Fenny led the others back up the stairs and along the winding tunnels. Ysabelle clasped her amulet fearfully; there was so little time and yet so much still had to be done.
But the squirrel maiden did not know that when she had heard Hobb bellowing beneath her, it was in truth the second night of his awakening. If she had realised, then she would have abandoned all hope completely. Outside, the afternoon was already drawing to a close.
“Tysle!” Giraldus bawled. “Tell thy friend to stop his infernal prattling—I can stand it no more! Penance I will gladly suffer, yet the unceasing babble of his nonsense would make saints shriek and stop up their ears!”
Wendel pulled a rude face. Ever since Vesper and Ysabelle had been taken away, he had been hatching the most ludicrous escape plots and gabbling them to Tysle in the most confused manner, making wild gestures with his paws, attempting to make him comprehend. Now he was trying to get Giraldus to help him but so far had met with no success—but the stoat was not deterred.
“Please!” he implored. “’Tis the only way left to us! Soon that felonious mouse will return and we shall be the next ones sent to our deaths. Canst thou not see—most sagacious and doughty mole? Thou art our only chance.”
“Tysle!” Giraldus rumbled.
The shrew turned to Wendel and tried to make him stop—he could see that his master was becoming more and more agitated. “That’s enough, Master Jester,” he urged him, “’twon’t work, I tell you! Best leave well alone!”
“Course it will!” Wendel replied. “What else are a mole’s paws for—if not to dig? Such a perfect solution to our predicament, if thy friend would but listen. He alone can save us!”
“Silence!” roared Giraldus. “If you do not keep a hold on thy tongue I shall tie it about one of those bars!”
The stoat opened his mouth to protest but the mole snapped at him before he could utter a word.
“See these paws of mine!” Giraldus cried, tearing the bandages away. “What use do you think they would be?”
Wendel stared at the leper’s diseased fists, and looked away, sickened.
“All tunnelling is denied to me!” ranted the mole. “Must you continually torment me? Be quiet—you absurd dolt!”
Carefully, he bound the strips of cloth back around his remaining fingers and sat in a brooding temper.
Tysle crept beside him, and racked his brains to think of something to say. In the end it was his stomach which spoke. A loud groan issued from it and the shrew glumly reflected on how ravenous he was.
“I have only one caterpillar left,” Giraldus offered. “I fear the snails have slithered out of my bag. If you wish you are most welcome to have it.”
Tysle was so hungry that he almost accepted, then they all heard footsteps coming down the tunnel towards them.
“This is it!” Wendel howled. “Our time is up!”
Desperately, they waited as the sound came closer, then Tysle jumped for joy and cried, “Why! ’Tis the fair damsel and the batling—Master, they are returned.”
“So too the mouse captain!” put in Wendel.
Giraldus hauled himself to his feet as the barred door was unlocked. “A most joyous event is this!” he thundered. “Our blackest fears are unfounded!”
Fenny smiled and held the door wide open. “Well,” he said, “are you going to remain in there all night? Come, you are freed!”
“What new deception is this?” Wendel asked suspiciously. “Are we to cross that threshold only to feel a knife in our backs? No trust do I have in thee, mousie, and it would take more than thy words to make me draw nigh.”
Vesper pushed past Fenny. “’Tis true,” he told the stoat. “The woodlanders no longer believe we are in league with the Hobbers.”
Still Wendel doubted. “By what miracle did thou manage that?” he asked. “I shall not leave this gaol unless my Lady herself assures me all is well—for is she not strangely silent?”
Ysabelle stirred. “Have no fear,” she said, “you have nothing to worry about. Fenny speaks the truth.”
“Glad is my heart,” said Giraldus. “Green be praised!”
Wendel looked curiously at Ysabelle, for the squirrel maiden really was unusually quiet and thoughtful.
“Mistress,” he began, “why so melancholy? If we are indeed free to leave, then surely this is a time of celebration, not sad faces.”
Ysabelle nodded, but she was troubled with dark thoughts and turned quickly to Fenny. “We must go at once,” she said, “I must arrive at Greenreach before tomorrow’s nightfall.”
The mouse agreed, but told her, “My folk require some time if they too are to leave this place—I fear we cannot depart till sunrise.”
“But that may be too late.”
The shadow of a smile flickered over Fenny’s lips.
“Follow me,” he murmured.
To the great hall they went and Giraldus was once more moved by the magnificence of the subterranean architecture. Excitedly tugging on Tysle’s string, he drew the shrew aside.
“Let us remain here a while,” he said, “we can follow the others later. For myself I yearn to explore this wondrous warren to my heart’s content. Never would I have believed that such a marvellous place existed. Most fortunate of shrews, that you may behold its remarkable splendour.”
Tysle smiled, although his master was strict and pious, he had one weakness. Ever since his affliction had denied Giraldus the true use of his paws, the mole had been haunted, and continually ached to do that which was now impossible. He was only truly happy when a ceiling of soil reared over his head and many were the times when he had compelled his guide to lead him into an earth or burrow. Tysle enjoyed indulging him and, though he would have liked to go with the others, he understood that Giraldus’s foibles and wants must be pandered to.
“Come Tysle,” the leper declared, “describe unto me the exact details of this glorious underground and leave out not the slightest thing.”
And so, as the mouse captain led Vesper, Ysabelle and Wendel to the heavily studded doorway, the two pilgrims journeyed about the hall. The woodlanders they came across leapt in surprise when they saw the leper and before either Giraldus or Tysle had time to greet them, they fled in all directions.
The sun was low over the treetops, gilding the new spring leaves when Fenny guided the others from the mound and through the clump of dandelions, and the whole world seemed calm and peaceful—bathed in the mellow radiance of dusk.
“Why have you brought us out here?” Ysabelle asked.
“Climb with me, to the top of the hill,” the mouse told her.
“All the way up there?” Wendel objected. “Why, mine poor legs do refuse to carry me up such a steepness.”
“Then you stay here,” Fenny told him.
The stoat put out his bottom lip sulkily and returned to the entrance, kicking the plant stems on his way.
“Strange companions, you travel with,” Fenny muttered with a sorry shake of his head, “yet it is not for me to question the daughter of Ninnia. Now, unless you or the Moonrider wish to follow him, we had best ascend before it grows dark.”
Up the mound they climbed, and the forest sank around them. Through the lush, daisy-freckled grass they went, until at last they reached the top and, as they caught their breaths, a most unexpected and marvellous sight awaited.
“There she is,” Fenny declared, unsheathing his sword and pointing it into the hazy distance.
Over the trees, Ysabelle gazed and the heaviness of her heart lifted.
Rising above the forest roof, a large hill, far greater than the one on which they stood, reared into the dimming sky. There, unmistakeably, was the land of Greenreach, where the Starwives had ruled since the time of the first stars, and though Ysabelle had only seen images of it in old manuscripts—she recognised the blessed hill at once.
“The holy land,” she breathed.
“Barely a day’s march away,” Fenny told her. “If we set out at first light, then by the evening we shall arrive there.”
Vesper stared at the vast shape in astonishment. “I did not think we were so close,” he remarked. “Yet if we are, then yonder must be my home.” He turned his face towards the north and thought he could just make out the highest steeples and towers of the medieval city of London, shimmering in a pale blur.
Fenny sniffed the air and glanced at the fiery ball that was the dying sun. “Evening falls,” he murmured, “we would do well to return inside the mound—no doubt the Hobbers will be abroad this night. They beset and besiege us with their heathen barbarity and though we do what little we can, my folk fear the night and those which stalk in the darkness.”
“I too have reason to fear the night,” Vesper said regretfully. “Once I revelled in the rich nocturnal airs—yet now only horror and lurking menace do I see beneath the moon. I shall never regain that feeling for as long as I live. The once sumptuous night is forbidden me now and I yearn for the day to break.”
Ysabelle continued to gaze at the distant hill, for there her destiny or doom awaited her. “I should like to remain here a little while longer,” she said. “There is much for me to think of.”
The mouse captain bowed. “Then I shall take my leave of you,” he said. “Yet do not tarry overlong. Aside from the danger, we woodlanders would deem it an honour for your party to be our guests this night. A feast we shall give and, come the morning, if it is still your wish, with you shall we go.”
“Thank you,” she answered. “Now I know the holy land is so close, to stay here is the best solution. Also, we have not eaten this day—we would be delighted to sit at your table.”
“So be it,” said Fenny and he began to descend.
Ysabelle stared out over the forest; her fate lay upon that immense hill and her mind was filled with nothing but dread.
“I wish I knew how to persuade my folk to join forces with thine,” commented Vesper forlornly.
Ysabelle started, for she had forgotten the bat was still beside her.
“I can see no way of achieving this impossible task,” he continued.
Ysabelle managed to tear her eyes from the horizon and frowned at him. “The Ancient thought it could be done,” she reminded the young bat, “else he would not have suggested it—he must hold you in high regard.”
“You think so?”
“Most certainly; you would not have been chosen otherwise.”
“Maybe,” sighed Vesper, only slightly encouraged.
The squirrel maiden’s eyes returned to stare at the holy land. Already the blessed hill was fading from view and merging with the shadows that surrounded it.
“This will be our last night as we are,” she said, “for tomorrow our lives will change and be sundered forever. I must bring the acorn to the Starglass and you must return to the Knights of the Moon.”
Vesper looked at the ground. “I know,” he uttered sadly. “I wish it were not so.”
Ysabelle furrowed her brow. “Why is that?” she asked. “Do you not wish to return to your home?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “A small part of me does, but another—the most important—does not. Can you not tell why? Do you in truth not know?”
“You speak in riddles,” she said, turning back to the near invisible hill. “I doubt if I shall ever understand your kind.”
Vesper bit his lip and looked away.
Ysabelle’s paws reached up to the amulet and as the crown of the holy land disappeared into the deep shadows of evening, she felt the weight of the high priest’s curse fall upon her.
“Hobb is coming for me,” she whispered. “If I could throw this wretched acorn away I would! Yet without it there can be no Starwife. Oh Vespertilio, what am I to do? I dare not think what will happen—how can I face such an evil force?”
She fell into weeping, and the bat stood awkwardly at her side, not knowing how to comfort her. He longed to stretch out and put his wings around the squirrel’s shoulders and tell her that all would be well—yet how could he? She was a child of the Hazel Realm and he one of the reviled enemy of her race. His heart bled inside and again he told himself that nothing was fair—the world was indeed a cruel, harsh place.
As Ysabelle sobbed, Vesper felt totally helpless; she might as well have been on the other side of the world for the good he could do. He reproached and scolded himself but his wings remained by his side and the squirrel was forced to cry alone and the gulf between them seemed to widen.
Then, from the far distant city of London, which was now hidden behind a dim veil of purple shadow, a church bell rang. The lonely sound floated on the dusk, out over the trees and to the mound where they stood.
Vesper trembled when he heard it, for now he felt his own doom draw tightly about him and he closed his eyes in anguish.
Besid
e him, Ysabelle listened to the dismal ringing and she alone in all the world knew how the bat was feeling. Instinctively, her paw reached out for him and, as the sun blazed crimson beneath the treetops, Vesper took it into his wing.
Not far away, with a secret smile traced over his face, Wendel crouched out of sight—not wanting the couple to see him.
“Ah,” he murmured, “so my Lady hath found him and he her.”
In his paws, the jester held two puppets—the now finished one of Ysabelle and that of a bat. Sniggering softly, he brought the two together and the wooden heads kissed.
As the last rays of the setting sun shone faintly over the grassy mound, flickering over the closing daisies and turning all things a delicate rose. Vesper gazed deep into Ysabelle’s eyes and brought her close.
Tittering mildly to himself, Wendel looked away.
The lips of the bat touched those of the squirrel maiden and for an instant, all their cares melted and were forgotten.
“Let us not think of tomorrow,” Vesper said gently, “this night let all thoughts of darkness and horror be forgotten.”
The jester crawled down the mound as silently as he could and slunk over to a patch of weeds, where he took from a pouch around his belt, a small cone of incense.
“Now,” he whispered, “the time has come.”
With his tinder box, he lit the strange cone and, as a thread of smoke curled into the air, the stoat backed away and hurriedly sought the iron-studded doorway to the mound once more.
12 - Within the Ruis Chest
That evening, in the great hall, the folk of the mound held a feast for their guests. It was partly to make up for the way the visitors had at first been treated, but it was also a farewell to that place which for so long had been the woodlanders’ home and stronghold.
About the curving walls they hung small jars of patterned green glass in which small candles brightly burned. Between them, garlands of spring flowers were strung and their honey-sweet fragrance quickly filled the cavernous vaulted chamber. Around the central supporting pillars, and in a large circle, sixteen long tables had been arranged and upon them the feast was being set out by the countless different animals who dwelt beneath the guarded mound.
