by James Fahy
This last issue niggled him so much, that he even swallowed his pride and admitted this fear to his tutor one afternoon.
“Sometimes I worry that the Puck is stronger than I am,” he said. “His voice is getting louder.”
Calypso had considered this for a second, standing with her arms folded by the poolside.
“If he is getting louder, you will not be heard by treading softly, Robin Fellows. You must shout!”
And with that she blasted him mercilessly off his feet with a well-aimed Waterwhip.
Robin saw nothing of the strange sisters, even at mealtimes now. He only remembered they were in the house at all when he occasionally turned a corner to see the greyish hem of a long skirt disappearing around another bend or through a decorative archway with a papery whisper, encouraging him with a shiver to alter his route. And as for the exhausting Mr Ffoulkes, he, it seemed, had finally found someone willing to listen to his bluster and pomp. Having discovered a captive audience in the housekeeper, Hestia, he now spent much of his time in the kitchens, regaling the woman with various long-winded and highly unlikely stories and anecdotes. Robin could hear his voice bouncing down the hallways, often accompanied by Hestia’s uncharacteristic titter, making his skin crawl. Those two were made for each other, he shuddered.
*
It was a particularly windy Sunday, leaves blown against every window in rattling waves, when from sheer curiosity, Robin found himself outside the room that had been allocated to Jackalope. He paused at the door, hand raised to knock, and considered if this was a good idea or not. The only person who had seen him since his talk with Irene had been Hestia, bringing his meals up on a silver dome-covered tray like he was some shut-in invalid. As far as Robin knew, the older boy hadn’t ventured from his room at all. He hadn’t shown the slightest inclination to join the rest of them or to explore the house.
Well tough, Robin thought decisively. He was bored and irritable. You can’t just skulk around forever.
He knocked on the wood. When, after several long seconds there was no response, he pushed open the door.
“Hello? It’s just me,” he called out. “I’m coming in, okay?”
He had half expected to find the boy asleep. There had been no response to his knocking, and he had grown so accustomed to seeing the Fae motionless like some carved statue in the past few months. But Jackalope was up, standing at the window and peering out at the blustery autumn. He looked very odd to Robin, dressed in human world clothes of dark jeans and a pale grey hoodie, his hands thrust into his pockets. He might have passed for human at a glance, had his hair not been such an odd light shade of grey and sprouting sawn-off horn stubs. He didn’t look around as Robin entered. He gave no indication that he had even noticed his visitor.
“Is it okay if I come in?” Robin asked again, closing the door behind him.
“Could I stop you even if I wanted to?” the older boy replied flatly. “This is your house. Go where you wish.”
“You’re looking … better,” Robin said, ignoring this less than friendly greeting. And it was true. The tall Fae looked much less wild and frantic. He was staring out at the gardens pensively.
“After you strangled me with dark magic, you mean?” Jackalope said. “Yes, I suppose I do.”
“Sorry about that,” Robin said, matching the other boy's flatness of tone. “You kind of brought it on yourself though, grabbing Henry that way. We were only trying to help.”
The Fae at the window sighed and finally looked at Robin, his expression curious. “Yes. I suppose you’re right,” he admitted. He considered a moment. “I should apologise to the human boy. I forget they are so frail.”
Robin was surprised by the frank admission.
“I don’t think calling Henry ‘frail’ is going to make him warm to you, you know,” Robin pointed out.
“Why did you do it?” Jackalope asked. He leaned back against the windowsill, folding his arms.
“You provoked me, I just said.”
“No, not that.” The Fae shook his silver head, clearly not interested in discussing their earlier scuffle. “Why did you … take me in? Your aunt told me what happened. How you found me on the lake. You could have left me there. Why bring me into your home? I betrayed you. All of you.”
“Well … at least you admit that,” Robin shrugged. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It was just the right thing to do, I suppose. People generally do the right thing, right? You could have left me in the snow, let Peryl bash my head in with a rock, but you didn’t.”
“So now we’re even?” Jackalope asked.
“I suppose,” Robin frowned. “Jack, look. You don’t owe me anything. I’m not expecting anything from you. None of us are. Like Aunt Irene said, you’re not a prisoner here. You can leave if you want to.”
“And yet you harbour no hatred toward me?” Jackalope was frowning, his expression intense, as though trying to figure out if Robin were an idiot. “I sided against you. With a Grimm of all people.” His stare was challenging, defiant, although beneath his tone, Robin thought he sounded a little revolted with himself.
“People make bad choices when they’re scared,” he reasoned.
“I wasn’t scared,” Jackalope said firmly, his silver eyes flashing.
“Okay, okay … desperate then, out of options, whatever.” Robin held his hands up. “No, I don’t blame you. I left you for dead down in the tomb remember, when it was flooding. I wasn’t completely myself at the time. It’s hard to explain. There’s kind of another ‘me’ in me, and he’s pretty hardcore. But I shouldn’t have left you down there, regardless.” He shrugged. “We all have things we wish we’d done differently.”
Jackalope looked away out of the window again, frowning. “Leaving me there makes sense. It was your best chance of getting out. I would have done the same in your position, in a heartbeat.”
Robin smirked. “Looking after number one, eh?”
“You can only rely on yourself in this life,” the other boy countered decisively. “If you think differently, here in this place, you’re wrong.”
“Stick around and find out,” Robin said. “I know you have it in your head that Erlking is the worst possible place for you to be, but trust me, it’s not.”
Jackalope sneered, looking out at the russet treetops of the forest beyond the lawns. “It’s a noble offer, but this isn’t the place for me … I don’t belong here.”
“None of us do, really.” Robin said, raising his eyebrows. “That’s kind of the point of Erlking. We’re all outcasts here.”
Jackalope made a noise down his nose. “But you’re different.” he said. “You’re all ‘good’ people.”
Seeming to shake himself out of his thoughts, he ran his hands over his head, making him look for a moment just like a normal teenager.
“Well, are you going to stay up here until Halloween, brooding out of the window like you’re in some Bronte novel,” Robin asked, leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed. “Because if you are, that’s fine. I mean, I’ve got to hand it to you, you’ve got the brooding at windows look down pat. I can even dig a bonnet out for you if you want.”
Jackalope glanced over at Robin’s dry teasing.
“Or are you going to come and help me annoy our housekeeper? She keeps flirting with one of our guests and clearly doesn’t have enough to do.” He smirked. “It’s quite ghastly, really. She’s a pain, but a good cook.”
Jackalope considered this for a moment, still looking out over the distant trees and the grey, scudding clouds above. Eventually, he turned away from the windows, hands thrust into the front pockets of his jeans.
“Well,” he admitted with a kind of reluctant and haughty stubbornness. “I am a bit hungry.”
*
The short glowering woman was busy with a mountain of dishes, up to her elbows in soapy water and looking harassed as ever. Hestia eyed both boys suspiciously as they entered the kitchen, and upon Robin’s request for a quick
sandwich, made many loud and put-upon noises, listing the lamentations of pandering to the whims of what she referred to as ‘the bottomless pits of teenage boys’ stomachs’. Hestia had never yet made Robin so much as a crust without complaining about it. It was almost her own special seasoning.
She watched them, sitting at the kitchen table, wolfing down their food, her black beady eyes filled with scowling interest, speaking only to demand they both take their elbows off the table top.
Jackalope devoured his food with record speed, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He looked up at the housekeeper with his own frowning, serious stare. “This is the best food I have ever had.”
Hestia peered at him oddly, as though he had spoken a foreign language.
“It’s just ham and cheese,” she replied, quite defensively. Jackalope pushed his plate toward her.
“Make me another,” he demanded.
“‘Please’ …” Robin muttered under his breath to the other boy around the corner of his own sandwich. He was waiting for Hestia to explode in anger.
Hestia stared at the empty plate, and then at the pale boy with his direct and unblinking stare. She seemed to be noticing how thin he was.
She snatched the plate with a put-upon tut, and made Jackalope a further three sandwiches without complaint. Robin was aghast. Had he himself dared to speak to her in that tone, he would certainly have got a clip around the ear.
She didn't make Robin any more of course, just Jackalope, her new BFF apparently.
Jackalope, after some cajoling, joined Robin and Woad that evening in Robin’s room. The wind was howling fiercely in the night, and battered even the windows of the high tower with the odd smattering of dry leaves. The fire roared and the silver-haired boy sat silently before it, staring into the flames and apparently content to be still and silent, while elsewhere in the room, Robin read to his faun from the book he had received for his birthday.
“Can you read The Subtle Gnome?” Woad asked, sitting cross-legged on the bed. “Inky likes that one.”
Inky the kraken, encased in his large enchanted bubble, was rolling from the head of the bed, where Woad sat, down to the footboard, where Robin perched, and back again. Woad had explained that when the creature got restless like this, he needed entertainment or feeding.
“Kind of like me.”
Robin flicked through the book. "There's always The Cursed Custard of Ceridwen. We only got half way through it last time."
The faun shuddered. "And half way we will stay, Pinky. I'm still having nightmares about ducks."
“What about this one?” Robin suggested, turning the page. “The Banshee and the Bard?” He looked up at Woad. “What’s a banshee anyway?” he asked. “Are they Panthea?”
The faun shook his head. “There's more in the Netherworlde than Fae and Panthea you know, Pinky,” he said. “You’re still such a clueless lump. Redcaps, lantern-claws, sloe, bog-hags. These are all their own critters, and banshees are just the same.”
“They are restless spirits,” Jackalope said from the fireplace.
Robin looked over. “Do you want to come and listen?” he offered. “There’s plenty of room. We’ve been reading a story every night.”
“I’m a little old for slumber parties and fairy tales,” Jackalope replied. “Anyway. I can hear you from here. Banshees. They’re vengeful things, I think. Ghosts. I remember stories about them from when I was a child. Before the war.”
Robin frowned, dislodging Inky from under the pillow where he'd gotten stuck. "We've met a ghost. He was really nice. Helped us out of a tight spot, didn't he?" Robin nodded to Woad, gently rolling Inky to him.
"Yeah, but he was just a dead version of himself. Banshees are what happens when ghosts forget who they were," the faun replied, nuzzling the bubble. “Aren't they, my ickle wickle Inky boo?” The bubble wobbled manically in ecstatic kraken frenzy.
“If they exist at all,” Jackalope's said. Robin raised an eyebrow questioningly. “No one's ever seen one.”
Woad sniggered. “There's even more in the Netherworlde that's just legends, Pinky.”
Robin rolled his eyes. “Well, fake fictitious banshee ghosts sound like a safe bet, then. Are we sitting comfortably?”
“Don't blame me when you're having nightmares about ghosts stealing your face and making you live your worst fears,” Jackalope said with a shrug.
Woad shuddered. “It can't be worse than … the custard.”
Robin looked down at the illustration in the book. It looked like a grim reaper, looming over a helpless victim. Only a rough sketch, with long, cruel-looking claws poised to strike. Nothing visible under the hood but two pin-pricks of light in a black void.
“Maybe,” Robin decided at length. “We should read the Subtle Gnome tonight.”
*
When the weather was dry and fine, Calypso took their lessons outside, into the grounds. She had set up several scarecrow targets for Robin at the end of the long lawn beneath the trees, and he took them all down, day after day, with Galestrikes, Waterwhips, and Needlepoints. Jackalope, whose health was fast recovering, also used this space for training. The boy had no mana-stone and thus no magic, but Robin and the others soon discovered he was rather agile, and his aim and accuracy with a thrown knife was impressive.
Woad enjoyed outside lessons. He would tire of watching the two Fae after a time, and scurry off into the autumn woods or down to the lake, claiming he was teaching Inky to be a proper companion and hunt squirrels. The wobbling watery ball of tentacles bouncing alongside him like an energetic puppy as they disappeared into the trees.
Sometimes, Karya came out to watch Robin and Jackalope train, offering rather sharply critical observations of Robin’s skills, and quiet rather awkward compliments on Jackalope’s manoeuvres as he scissor-kicked a scarecrow to pieces or deftly dropped a target with a hurtling blade.
Henry sometimes came around, though he largely rolled his eyes at the two Fae and their combat skills, sitting moodily on a log with Karya.
“I think they’re both quite good actually,” Karya replied to his grumbles.
“Yeah yeah, bloody superheroes, both of them,” Henry half-joked picking at the bark of the log with his fingernail. “Don’t see why Jackalope has to do all his twirly tai-chi knife juggling with his shirt off though. It’s bloody freezing. He’s just ridiculous.”
“He lived on the Gravis,” Karya argued defensively, pulling her own large coat around her against the cold. “This is just probably warm to him, that’s all.”
“Yeah sure,” Henry muttered, giving her a sly, sidelong look. “I’m sure your sudden active interest in outdoor sparring and combat training is completely professional.”
The tips of Karya’s ears reddened and she stood up quickly. “I’m going inside,” she said haughtily, nose in the air. “It must be nearly suppertime anyway.”
Henry got to his feet too, stretching. “I’m not staying for dinner,” he said, a bit apologetically. “Got some stuff to do.”
He shouted Robin to tell him to come inside and eat.
“You too, Jackie Chan,” he yelled to Jackalope. “Put your abs away and get indoors, before Hestia bakes you a shirt made of cake or something.”
As Robin and Jackalope tidied away their tools and straightened the scarecrows, Robin noticed the older Fae staring off into the trees, his expression wary.
“What’s up?”
Jackalope shook his head. “Something moving in the trees,” he murmured distractedly. “Watching us.”
Robin shrugged. “Probably just Woad on his way back from the hunt,” he reasoned. “He’s decided Inky clearly isn’t enough of a cold blooded killer. He’s quite proud about being the first person to train a land-kraken to terrorise squirrels.”
Jackalope shook his head, looking curious. “It looked like leaves.”
Robin raised one eyebrow. “Well … it is a wood, Jack,” he said. “Leaves are pretty normal. Generally speaking, they move
about in autumn too, generally downwards.”
“These leaves were moving sideways,” the silver-eyed boy said blankly. “Like a whirlwind shaped like a man, stepping between the trees. But … they’ve gone now.”
Robin couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. He wondered if Jackalope was pushing himself too hard, determined to get back to full strength in time for Halloween, so he could pass through to the Netherworlde and leave with the other guests. He seemed determined to leave as soon as possible.
“I think the only solution to this terrible, leaf-based mystery,” Robin said, feeling his mana stone cold and heavy on his chest after the day's exertions. “Is a good dose of Hestia's roly-polly pudding.”
This information managed to tear the other boy’s eyes away from the trees. “I have never heard of such a pudding,” he frowned, seriously. “This is interesting to me.”
A THIEF AT ALL-HALLOWS
The morning of Halloween, Aunt Irene announced rather abruptly that she would be travelling. She had business in the South where she hoped to shed more light on the mystery of the library book. She would be taking rooms in London, she explained, and spending a great deal of time at the British Library, where she intended to unearth as much information on the cataloguing system of the nineteen-twenties as possible. As riveting an adventure as this sounded, she explained to Robin over breakfast, he would not be accompanying her. His duty was to remain at Erlking and, as the nominal highest ranking Erlkinger, to see to the eventual departure of their guests after the traditional Halloween feast that evening.
She left, along with Henry’s father, on what had turned out to be a crisp and bright morning, taking Mr Ffoulkes' vintage car, much to Mr Drover's secret delight and the Fire Panthea's earnest insistence. He would no longer be requiring it, he assured her, his business in the Netherworlde would take up much of his time, and the car had only recently been acquired anyway. Robin couldn’t help but wonder at that often used term, ‘acquired’, and silently hoped that Aunt Irene and Mr Drover were not pulled over by the police during their trip to the capital.
