The Starthorn Tree

by Kate Forsyth

  No-one dared move or speak. Even Pedrin stopped playing his flute, giving no thought at all to the hobhenkies who merely squatted down and began to play marbles on the worn cobbles of the courtyard. The only sound was the clink of their marbles and their low, growling conversation.

  ‘No, Smash, mine!’

  ‘Mine! Not Crash’s, Smash’s!’

  After a long, tense moment spent watching every twitch of the grogoyle’s hide and every flicker of his leathery eyelids, Sedgely and the children at last moved a little, murmuring to each other.

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘He’s asleep. Do we dare try and get to the house without a-waking him?’

  ‘We cannot stand here all day. Pedrin, go bang that front door knocker!’

  ‘If you think I’m a-going to walk right under the nose of a grogoyle, well, you’re very much mistaken. Do it yourself!’

  ‘Very well, I will,’ Lisandre said rather surprisingly. She took a deep breath and straightened her red silk dress with both hands. Then, with her head held high, she glided across the courtyard towards the great, arched door.

  The grogoyle opened one eye. Lisandre stopped. Everyone stood very, very still. The flaming red eye regarded the starkin girl for a long moment, then the grogoyle rolled back the other leathery eyelid so both eyes were open, burning as red and hungry as the furnaces at the glass factory. The grogoyle yawned, sending out a little blast of fire and smoke, then stretched out one paw and then the other, extending and retracting his cruel, curved claws. Lisandre took a trembling step back. The grogoyle yawned again, turned round and round on the spot, then settled down to sleep once more, his back now turned towards the children.

  Lisandre walked rather unsteadily up the three curving steps to the door and laid her hand upon the knocker. It had been forged to resemble the cruel face of the grogoyle, with slitted eyes and two pointed horns protruding from the vigorous waving mane. The ring of the door knocker was held in its fanged mouth.

  As Lisandre laid her hand upon the knocker, the eyes suddenly opened, glaring red. The door knocker said malevolently, ‘What is your business with the Erlrune?’

  Lisandre screamed and stumbled back, dropping the knocker. The eyes did not shut, however, the voice repeating sharply, ‘What is your business with the Erlrune?’

  ‘I . . . I . . . I wish to . . . consult . . .’ Lisandre stammered.

  ‘Visiting hours are from nine o’clock in the morning to one o’clock in the afternoon,’ the door knocker said. ‘Please return tomorrow.’ Its eyes shut.

  Lisandre glanced up at the sun which was directly overhead. ‘But . . . but it’s only midday,’ she protested. There was no response. She seized the door knocker with both hands and pounded it vigorously. The eyes snapped open.

  ‘What is your business with the Erlrune?’

  ‘I wish to consult the Erlrune’s acclaimed wisdom and insight,’ Lisandre said courteously.

  ‘Visiting hours are from nine o’clock in the morning to one o’clock in the afternoon,’ the door knocker said. ‘Please return tomorrow.’

  ‘But it is only midday,’ Lisandre said. ‘See, the sun is still high overhead.’

  ‘Visiting hours are from nine o’clock in the morning to noon,’ the door knocker said. ‘Please return tomorrow.’

  ‘But that’s not fair!’ Lisandre cried. The door knocker’s eyes had shut, however. Once more she pounded upon the door. Behind her, the living grogoyle twitched and hissed, sending out a plume of smoke and ashes. Although Lisandre flinched, she did not let go of the knocker, banging it until the door knocker’s red eyes snapped open once more.

  ‘What is your business with the Erlrune?’

  ‘Please, I must see the Erlrune! My brother Ziggy is ill, dying, poisoned . . .’ Her voice broke. She steadied herself with an effort and rushed on, ‘We do not have much time! Only until the first snow falls. Please . . .’

  ‘Visiting hours are from nine o’clock in the morning to noon,’ the door knocker said. ‘Please return tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, but, please . . .’ Lisandre pleaded as the glowing eyes once again shut.

  ‘’Tis no use a-trying to argue with it,’ a sweet, rather faded voice said. ‘I’m afraid it’s very old now and rather cranky.’

  Everyone spun around in surprise. An old woman stood at the edge of the courtyard. She was dressed in a faded gingham dress, very saggy about the knees and stained with soil, a disreputable straw hat and gardening gloves. On one arm she carried a basket full of carrots and cabbages, and in the other hand was a very dirty spade.

  ‘Perhaps you could tell me what it is you want?’

  ‘Oh, please, we must see the Erlrune,’ Lisandre said in a rush. ‘We have come so far and we have so little time left. My brother Zygmunt, the Count of Estelliana, has been poisoned or cursed, we do not rightly know. He will die if I do not find the cure. Please, can you not ask the Erlrune to help us?’

  ‘But I am the Erlrune, my dear,’ the old woman said. ‘And I really have no idea what you think I could be doing for you.’

  ‘You are the Erlrune?’ Lisandre stared at her incredulously.

  ‘Yes, my dear.’ Then, as Lisandre’s face crumpled and she began to cry, the old woman came forward, stripping off her muddy gloves so she could pat the starkin girl’s arm. ‘Come, come, can it be so bad? Why don’t you all come in and we’ll have a spot of lunch and you can tell me the whole story.’

  Pedrin’s face brightened considerably at the mention of lunch, and he came forward in a rush, shoving his flute into his pocket. The grogoyle leapt to his feet with a warning gust of flame and smoke. Pedrin recoiled as if he had been stung by the creature’s cruel, barbed tail.

  The old woman patted the thick, golden fur. ‘No need to fret, Gnash my dear, go back to sleep, there’s a good grogoyle.’ Grumbling in his throat, the grogoyle turned round and round on the spot and settled back down again, though he still glared at the intruders with his flaming slits of eyes.

  ‘Please excuse Gnash. He’s very protective of me, as you can see. All my friends are, and I cannot but be grateful, irksome as it is at times. Come in, come in. Please don’t mind the mess.’

  Rather warily, the six companions made their way past the crouching grogoyle and in through the great oaken door. Within was a rather dark hallway, panelled in wood, with a staircase at the far end. Rubbing the banister with beeswax was a wizened old wildkin, not much higher than Pedrin’s waist, with a pair of velvety grey wings like a moth’s. At the sight of the strangers, she gave a frightened little murmur and flew behind the banister, where she crouched, peering at them through the bars.

  ‘Look, Flutter, guests! We have not had anyone come to stay for such a long time. Will you go and turn down the beds for me, dear? Make sure you give the sheets a good airing, there is naught worse than damp sheets.’

  As she spoke, the Erlrune laid down her gloves and spade on a hall-stand set against the side wall. She hung her shabby straw hat upon a hook, next to some other old, battered hats, an unravelling shawl and a very faded blue cloak with a fur-lined hood. A bucket crammed full of walking sticks and magic wands stood next to the hall-stand, along with a collection of muddy boots, some tiny, others so huge they could only belong to the hobhenkies.

  The Erlrune led them down the hall and through a door into the kitchen. This was a big, warm, welcoming room, rather thick with smoke from the fire, with onions and garlic hanging in ropes from the mantelpiece, along with many bunches of dried herbs and flowers. Copper pots, pans and ladles dangled from hooks in the beams and there was a hand pump in one corner, above a wooden bucket standing in a puddle of water. Dirty pans and plates were piled on the bench, and there was a basket of kittens under the kitchen table.

  ‘Do, please, excuse the mess, I warn’t expecting visitors,’ the Erlrune said, dumping her basket of cabbages and carrots on the floor.

  ‘I thought the Erlrune was meant to be a powerful enchantress, able to see the f
uture,’ Lisandre hissed at Briony.

  The old woman turned and twinkled at her. ‘Only if I look, my dear.’

  Both the hobhenkies had followed Pedrin and were now crowding into the kitchen, banging their heads against the copper pans hanging from the beams. ‘Ow! Smash crashed head! Ow! Crash smashed head!’ they howled.

  ‘Smash, Crash, what are you doing in here? Outside! Outside!’

  ‘Boy pretty tune play,’ they said, rubbing their heads and pointing at Pedrin.

  ‘Oh, and you do so love music, don’t you? Well, mebbe he will play for you again this afternoon. He’s hungry now, though, and wants his lunch.’

  ‘Smash, Crash, hungry too,’ the hobhenkies said.

  ‘Of course you are. When are hobhenkies ever not hungry? You boys go outside and I’ll put a bucket of stew out for you in just a moment. Good boys! Out you go!’ She ushered the hobhenkies out the back door and shut it smartly behind them. ‘Such dear boys, but they can’t help smashing and crashing everything and I’m running rather short on china. Please, sit down, sit down.’

  Rather bemused, the children cleared the kitchen chairs of buckets of apples, jars of pickled onions, marmalade and chutney, sacks of flour and spices, and piles and piles of books with names like The Genealogy of Grogoyles, and Divination and Demonolatry. The old woman bustled about, stirring pots and pans, all the while talking genially about the weather. Lisandre looked despondent, leaning her head on her hand and occasionally giving a heavy sigh. The others were all very animated, however, looking about them with interest and telling the Erlrune some of their adventures. She exclaimed with admiration, setting the table with a motley collection of china, all rather chipped and cracked.

  ‘Well, well, I daresay you could all do with a good meal then,’ she said. ‘Come, let us eat!’

  THIRTY

  ‘Jumping Jimjinny!’ Pedrin exclaimed, his eyes widening as he took in what could only be described as a truly magnificent feast. The long kitchen table was absolutely laden with delicacies of all kinds, all steaming and smelling delicious. ‘Roast pork with crackling and apple chutney,’ Durrik exclaimed in satisfaction. ‘My favourite!’

  ‘Mmmm, fried fish and baked potatoes,’ Sedgely said, tucking a napkin into his beard and beginning to eat with relish.

  ‘And a nice drop of apple-ale,’ the Erlrune said with a twinkle, pouring him a cup. The river-roan heaved a huge sigh of happiness and drained his cup. The Erlrune filled it up again and he drained his cup again. ‘A very nice drop, ma’am,’ he said at last, his words rather slurred.

  ‘Thank you, I made it myself,’ she replied. ‘Here, Pedrin, try this.’

  ‘Chicken-and-bacon pie,’ Pedrin said in amazement. ‘Just like me ma’s.’

  ‘What’s the best thing to put into a pie?’ Durrik said with a puckish grin.

  ‘Your teeth!’ Pedrin cried and demonstrated enthusiastically.

  ‘Lobster bouillon!’ Lisandre’s miserable expression disappeared like magic. ‘And can that be roast peacock? And asparagus with hollandaise sauce?’

  ‘Indeed it is. Eat up, eat up! Enjoy.’

  ‘Oh, bully beef! A nice steak with mushrooms. I’ve been longing for a nice bit of steak.’

  Briony looked down at her bowl, which was filled to brimming with potato-and-tarragon soup. ‘How could you know?’ she said slowly. ‘How could you possibly know?’

  ‘But I am the Erlrune, my dear. Of course I know.’

  Everyone else stopped eating and looked at Briony, and then down at each other’s plates, marvelling as they realised they each had been given their very favourite dish.

  A little murmur of surprise and contentment rose, then everyone hurried on with their eating, only pausing to ask someone to pass the salt or to refill their cup. Lisandre was drinking a goblet of foaming sherbet, Pedrin had a tankard of sweet apple cider, Mags a mug of hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows, and Durrik was enjoying a frothy concoction of fruit and ice. The expression on Briony’s face as she sipped a little glass of some clear golden liquid was that of mingled bliss and sorrow, so that Pedrin nudged her and asked, in an undertone, ‘What’s that you’re a-drinking?’

  ‘A cordial made from elderflowers,’ she said rather shortly. ‘The old witch who raised me used to make it. It was a secret family recipe of hers. I’ve always loved it and wished I knew the recipe.’

  Pedrin shook his head admiringly. ‘That Erlrune!’

  As soon as all the plates were wiped clean, the Erlrune gave a little wave of her hand and the table cleared itself, a whole host of new dishes waltzing in to settle down. Once again everyone exclaimed with delight.

  ‘Blackberry tart,’ cried Pedrin. ‘Me favourite!’

  ‘Passionfruit soufflé!’

  ‘Jam tarts. Yum yum.’

  ‘Oh goody, apricot turnovers,’ said Durrik.

  ‘So why did the jam roll?’ Pedrin asked, before Durrik could.

  ‘Because it saw the apricot turnover,’ his friend responded, laughing. ‘You a-stealing my jokes now, Pedrin?’

  Somehow they all managed to find room for the puddings, all except Sedgely, who was busying himself emptying the Erlrune’s barrel of apple-ale. At last Pedrin pushed his chair away from the table with a groan, holding his stomach with both hands. ‘That was the best meal I’ve eaten in me whole life,’ he pronounced.

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ the Erlrune said with a quizzical smile. She turned from the fire, where she was stirring a big black pot.

  ‘I don’t think I can move,’ Mags said.

  ‘Good,’ the Erlrune said.

  Briony looked up sharply and then tried to rise. She was unable to do so, her arms and legs refusing to respond. With sudden frightened cries, the others tried to move too, but all were held fast in their chairs by some invisible force.

  ‘We’ve been enchanted,’ Briony said, her voice cold with dread. ‘How? Why didn’t I sense it?’

  The Erlrune smiled. There was nothing left of the amiable old woman they had thought her. She was all hard bone and implacable power.

  ‘Do you really think my power so unsubtle that a little girl with no education at all could be a-sensing it? My dear Briony.’

  The wildkin girl went crimson. They had never seen her so discomposed. She dropped her eyes and stared at her dirty plate, biting her lip.

  ‘But why?’ Pedrin said indignantly, struggling to move but unable to lift even a finger. ‘Why enchant us? We mean you no harm.’

  She frowned and instinctively he shrank back. ‘My island is strongly protected indeed and yet you were able to come a-walking right up to my very door, unhindered. That does not happen often. It speaks of great determination, at the very least. Few have the wit and courage and, yes, the power, to come a-knocking on my door as if I were merely some old country dame with a few simples to sell. This house, this garden, the Evenlinn itself, are very old. Many an Erlrune has lived and worked here and their magic has soaked in deep. From the moment you set foot inside my gate, the house and garden have been a-working to protect me, to lull and stupefy you.’

  The six friends were silent for a moment, each castigating themselves for being so unwary and foolish.

  Then the Erlrune glared at them with a look of such fierce intensity that they all pressed their spines against the back of their chairs. ‘Nonetheless, do you really think you would be here, in my house, if I had not allowed you to come? Do you think the perils of the Perilous Forest so easily overcome?’

  ‘The wood-sprites,’ Pedrin said, remembering how they had laughed and waved mockingly as the children had escaped on their seed-wings.

  ‘The grogoyle!’ Briony cried. ‘It was your grogoyle that saved me on the log bridge.’

  ‘Gnash is not mine,’ the Erlrune replied austerely. ‘One does not make a pet of a grogoyle.’

  ‘But it was Gnash, warn’t it, who killed the soldiers before they could a-shoot me?’

  ‘I have no liking for starkin soldiers,�
� the Erlrune said coldly.

  As they absorbed the implications of what the Erlrune had said, she called, in sweet, lilting tones, ‘Grim, Grisly, wake up, my dears.’

  Managing to roll his eyes upwards, Pedrin saw with a horrible little jerk of his heart that two omen-imps were perched on the rafters right above their heads. With wings like bats, hideous little faces with fangs and pointed ears, orange fur all over their bodies and black scales on their arms and legs, they were ugly enough to turn milk sour.

  The omen-imps stretched and yawned, then flew down, screeching, to land with a thump on the table. Nimbly they jumped over the dirty plates and cups, and searched through all their bags and pockets with quick and agile fingers. Once again, Pedrin’s precious silver crown was stolen and he could do nothing to prevent the theft. He swore crossly, and the omen-imp only giggled and tweaked his nose derisively. They pinched Mags’s arm, pulled Briony’s long brown plait, tugged Sedgely’s knotted white beard, and quarrelled over Lisandre’s glittering christening egg. Suddenly the egg opened up, revealing the tiny jewelled bird within and causing the two omen-imps to tumble back head-over-heels. They lay amidst the piles of dirty bowls, their mouths open in surprise, then shrieked with laughter, drowning out the sweet song of the bird. When the egg had once again folded its petals and hidden its secret heart, they dragged it to join the big pile of belongings in the middle of the kitchen table.

  ‘Good boys,’ the Erlrune said and scratched one omen-imp between his pointy black ears. He wriggled and squirmed with pleasure, then flew to perch on the back of one of the chairs, grinning with malicious glee.

  The Erlrune turned over all their belongings, frowning a little, then picked up the two jewelled christening eggs in her hands. ‘Starkin artifacts,’ she mused. ‘Only limited powers, but interesting. Yeah, interesting.’ She laid them down on the table and turned to look them all over. ‘So you have come to ask for my help. Why?’