Tom's Inheritance

by T J Green

  Ignoring his question again, she said, “There is something else I want you to do while you are here.”

  “What could you possibly want me to do?” he asked, increasingly confused by the conversation.

  “I need you to wake the King who lies sleeping on the Isle of Avalon. Your grandfather’s friend Fahey once tried to wake the King, many years ago, but it wasn’t time and I sent him far from here. However, Queen Gavina has become dangerous; she hunts her own people, the Aerikeen. This is the time to wake the King, and you are the one who must wake him.”

  Tom sat there dumbfounded. “What king? On where? How can I wake him if this Fahey, or whatever his name is, couldn’t?”

  “Because you have something Fahey didn’t.”

  The woman held out a supple, fresh, living twig, ripe with spring growth.

  “This will enable you to wake the King. Only with the bough can you do this.”

  Tom felt panic building in him again. “But how? I don’t know where this place is. What king? Why me? And who are you?”

  “Ask Woodsmoke. He can show you the way. It is important Tom. The Queen’s people need your help. You are linked to the King by your blood, and only someone of his blood can wake him. And you must hurry. You have taken far too long to get here.” There was a hint of impatience in her tone.

  Too long? What was she talking about? Just as he was about to ask, Tom felt a weight in his lap and, looking down, saw that the twig had magically appeared there, and had turned from a living branch to solid silver. He picked it up, wondering how she had managed such a clever trick.

  As he held it, a ball of light grew within the woman until it was so bright that Tom had to close his eyes and cover them with his hands. When the light faded, she had gone, and he was sitting alone in bright sunshine.

  Tom sat dazed. The distant shouts of his friends finally disturbed his trance, and he stumbled to his feet. “I’m here, over here!” he called.

  A large, black, glossy-plumed bird burst into the clearing and, spotting him, swooped off again. Brenna, gone to guide the others.

  When they finally found him, Beansprout was exasperated. “Tom, where have you been? We’ve been calling for hours!”

  Brenna turned to Woodsmoke. “I swear I flew over here earlier, but I couldn’t see him!”

  Woodsmoke said, “Are you OK, Tom? You look odd.”

  “I’ve had a weird encounter.”

  “What do you mean? With whom?”

  “A really old woman with long white hair, dressed in grey. Except she didn’t seem old. Not really.”

  Brenna and Woodsmoke stood gaping at Tom. Brenna gathered herself first. “You met the Lady of the Lake?”

  “I don’t know. Did I?” Tom shrugged.

  “What did she want, Tom?”

  “She said I have to wake the King.”

  Woodsmoke groaned and sat suddenly on the ground, as if his legs had given way. Brenna patted his shoulder in sympathy and sat next to him. For a while they sat silently, deep in thought, while Tom wondered where he’d heard the woman’s name before.

  Beansprout broke the silence. “Will someone please tell me what’s going on? Who’s the King that Tom has to wake? Why is he asleep?”

  “Years ago,” Woodsmoke said, “there was a famous king. He was much loved, and saved the ancient Britons from attack many times. He was given a magical sword, and he had the help of a powerful wizard. Does this ring any bells for you?”

  “It sounds like King Arthur,” Tom said.

  “That’s exactly who it is. He has been asleep for centuries, and now it seems you must wake him.”

  Tom stared at Woodsmoke. “But he died. At least fifteen hundred years ago – if he ever existed at all.”

  “Oh, he was real, Tom. It is said he will reappear when he’s most needed. Our stories say he will awaken here.”

  “But he’s dead.”

  Woodsmoke shook his head. “No, he’s asleep – a deep enchanted sleep, in a tomb on the Isle of Avalon. In exchange for the sword, Excalibur, Merlin made a deal with the fey, and therefore so did Arthur, and close to death he was brought here to rest until he was needed again. The island can only be reached by summoning the Lady of the Lake who will take you across on a boat. It’s old magic, Tom.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Because my grandfather is a bard, a teller of stories, and that was his favourite. Arthur was the king my grandfather tried to wake.”

  “The woman told me that, but she said it was the wrong time and he was the wrong person. So why did he try to wake him?”

  “He was trying to help a friend. And it seemed like fun.”

  Tom looked at him suspiciously. “Really?”

  “You’ll see when you meet him.” He rolled his eyes. “But I don’t understand why we need the King now.”

  “She said something about Queen Gavina ‘hunting her own.’ What does that mean?”

  Woodsmoke looked with alarm at Brenna. She went pale and stuttered, “I suppose that means she’s hunting her own people. But why would she do that?” She stared at Tom. “How are you to wake him? She must have said.”

  “She told me to use this.” Tom produced the silver twig with a flourish. “And she said you would show me the way, Woodsmoke. And that we should hurry.”

  “Did she now?” Woodsmoke took the silver twig off him, examining it closely. “I have no idea what this is, but Fahey might. We need to get back home as soon as possible. Come on, let’s go.” And with that he stood up and gestured down through the forest and to the west. “We know where we are, and that’s where we need to go.”

  Tom stood, putting the silver twig in his pack. He extended a hand to Beansprout, pulling her to her feet.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, frowning. “Why do you have to do this?”

  Tom laughed. “Something about me being his blood.”

  “What?” she exclaimed. “So you’re related to King Arthur?”

  “Mmm, I suppose so.”

  “So I am too?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t say. Maybe it’s on my mum’s side?”

  With a shrug he strolled off after the others, leaving Beansprout open-mouthed behind him.

  The pines thinned out, and became mixed with oak, birch and beech trees. Spring flowers grew underfoot, and the scent of blossom filled the air. The powerful feeling of magic had gone, but Tom could still feel a tingle, like static. Woodsmoke strode ahead, while Brenna flew most of the time.

  Woodsmoke explained that when they left the wood, they would enter the orchard terraces that ran above the river, adding that he’d heard rumours about attacks from the wood sprites that had left Aeriken Forest to hunt further afield.

  Tom laughed. “What? Tiny little wood sprites with bells on their hats? How can they be dangerous?”

  “Because they are not small,” said Brenna, “and they have vicious sharp teeth. In fact, they are deadly hunters.”

  “Oh,” was all Tom could think of to reply.

  Beansprout smirked. “Idiot.”

  They had been walking for hours and the sun was sinking into the west. The woodland was now behind them, on the slopes of the mountain. The pines straggled upwards to meet the snow, which glowed in the fading light. The peak was lost in clouds. Beyond the mountain was a series of ridges retreating into a misty blueness.

  They snaked down the slopes and across broad sprawling terraces, filled with unruly trees covered in blossom. Mouldy fruit was rotting on the ground. Between the trees the grass grew tall, and they stumbled over fallen branches and abandoned tools.

  “What happened here?” Beansprout asked.

  “The wood sprites have been busy,” said Woodsmoke. “Everyone’s abandoned this place. Be careful – we don’t know if the sprites are still close.”

  They progressed steadily through the deserted terraces. About halfway down they heard the river roaring in the distance, and saw a collection of stone buildings which l
ooked abandoned.

  “Perfect,” said Woodsmoke, “we can stay here for the night.”

  Cautiously he entered the closest one. Inside, baskets were strewn across the floor, and wooden tables had been overturned, suggesting a fight.

  In the corner was a ladder leading to the upper floor. Brenna pulled her sword free and climbed up, peering slowly over the edge. “It’s empty,” she called down.

  Woodsmoke looked at Tom. “Come with me, we’ll check the other buildings.” Tom was glad to help. He’d felt useless in the cavern when the dectopus attacked, and now he’d been told he had to wake the King he felt he should prove his worth. As they entered the other buildings he stood watch at the door while Woodsmoke checked inside.

  Once satisfied there was no one else there, they strolled to the far edge of the terraces and Woodsmoke pulled out his longbow, saying, “I’ll see if I can get us some dinner.”

  Tom watched him for a few moments and then asked, “Is waking the King dangerous?”

  Woodsmoke kept his gaze ahead. “I have no idea, Tom. I’m sure it won’t be easy.”

  “But you will help me get there?”

  “Of course. We’ll take you to the lakeshore, but I don’t know what to expect any more than you do. I wonder what the Queen is up to?” He quickly released three arrows, which disappeared in the long grass. “Dinner,” he said, strolling over to pick up the limp rabbits.

  7 Beneath the Hill

  The evening was uneventful. They were all tired and hungry, and thankful for Woodsmoke’s rabbit stew. After collecting sacking from the floor to use as blankets, they were soon asleep.

  The next morning the four carried on towards the river, a ribbon of light in the distance. Tom was distracted by thoughts of the silver twig and waking the King. He didn’t know how he was going to do it, but couldn’t help feeling excited. He had read so many stories about King Arthur and his knights; he tried to imagine what he would be like. Occasionally he glanced back to where Beansprout lagged behind, stopping often to gaze across the landscape. Exasperated, he shouted, “Beansprout, keep up!”

  She ignored him, giving an occasional wave to keep him happy, and eventually he gave up, figuring she’d catch up when they stopped.

  The sun burned hot and the day was still, without a breath of wind. Tom was also distracted, by strange sounds around him. Every now and then he heard singing, and sometimes whispering, but he couldn’t work out where the sound was coming from. It was always just out of reach, and when he thought it was getting louder, it disappeared completely.

  At last they reached the river, which meandered across the base of the terraces, separating them from the broad flower-filled meadows beyond. Out of the meadows rose a large mound that glowed a fierce green, vigorous with life, drawing their gaze.

  The river was too wide and deep to cross, so they headed for a stone bridge they could see in the distance. It was a high, single-spanned arch, and as they got closer they saw that big chunks of stone had fallen, tumbling into the river below. Woodsmoke went across first, saying, “Tread carefully, and let’s keep some distance between us.”

  Brenna flew ahead while Woodsmoke kept to the edge by the low stone wall, avoiding gaping holes beneath which the water passed lazily.

  The large mound, a perfect half-sphere and covered with smooth cropped grass, was now over to their left. They followed the road from the bridge, and as they drew level with the mound they heard a deep rumbling sound, which travelled up through Tom’s feet and into his chest. He stopped and looked around with alarm. A large dark opening appeared in the side of the hill, and out of it came bloodcurdling cries. A crowd of what Tom assumed to be wood sprites came pouring from the open doorway, heading across the meadows towards them. They were tall, their limbs sinewy with muscle, and there was a faint greenish tinge to their skin.

  Woodsmoke yelled, “Wood sprites! Tom, Beansprout, get behind me!” Ahead of them, Brenna swooped down to earth, turned back into her humanlike form and pulled her sword from its scabbard.

  Turning, Tom saw that Beansprout was still some way behind them. He couldn’t tell if she’d seen what was happening, but hoped she would stay where she was – it would be safer.

  Woodsmoke and Tom raced across the meadows to Brenna’s side. She relentlessly attacked the sprites, ploughing through the middle of them, her sword flashing in the sunlight. Some of the sprites fell at her feet, covered in blood. Arrows from Woodsmoke’s bow hissed through the air, thudding into the sprites. They stumbled and fell and were trampled by others close behind them.

  As Tom grew closer he could see their lips pulled back as they whooped, their sharp teeth gleaming, but it seemed they were only after Brenna. She ran backwards, towards Tom and Woodsmoke, but there were too many sprites. A large net was thrown over her, knocking her to the ground, and she disappeared from view.

  Tom and Woodsmoke were trapped. Some of the sprites had separated from the pack and blocked them from Brenna. Tom rolled to the ground, trying to fight his way through legs and spears, but the butts jammed repeatedly into him. He frantically scrabbled around and finally fought his way clear, staggering to his feet, bloodied and bruised, only to see the main pack dragging Brenna behind them through the dark doorway. He raced towards them and then, hearing thundering footsteps behind him, dived into the long grass. In seconds the last few sprites passed him, and he heard the groan of the doorway starting to close. With one final effort, Tom threw himself into the narrowing entrance before it clanged shut behind him.

  He lay breathless, his face against the floor, for precious seconds, hoping he would go undetected. As the sprites’ shouts faded down a corridor to his left, he sat up, his back pressed against the doorway.

  If he had given any thought to what was inside the mound, he would have imagined a warren of corridors made from earth and rock. But it was far from that. He was in an ornate, richly carved passageway stretching to his left and right. The roof was high overhead, arched and glinting with a silver inlay, while the floor beneath him was shiny black marble. Directly ahead was a broad set of stairs climbing steeply upwards into blackness.

  The sprites had headed left, so that was the way he must go. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself and started creeping down the passageway. Before long the light became brighter and he heard voices and laughter. Peering cautiously around a bend, he saw a small group of wood sprites talking, and no way of going around them. He’d have to turn back and find Brenna another way. She should be safe for now; he had the feeling that if they’d wanted to kill her, she’d be dead already. He decided to try to understand the layout of the mound so that when he found her, he’d know how to get out.

  He retraced his steps and then followed the path to the right. It ran in a gentle curve, following the contours of the hill. Veins of gold and silver illuminated the walls and floors with a dim light, and clusters of glowing jewel-like stones hung like tempting fruit from the high ceiling. Steps ran off the path to lower levels, but he ignored them, and soon came to an antechamber lit by three torches that flamed and flickered on the walls. He cautiously opened one of the three doors leading off the chamber. The room beyond glowed with the same faint light. There was no one in sight.

  The room was magnificent. There were shelves full of books, and more were stacked on the floor, on desks and on chairs. He ran his hands along their covers and wondered what the strange curled writing meant. On the walls were carved wood panels and large, richly embroidered tapestries. But the room had no other doorways – it was a dead end.

  The second room was equally magnificent. It was like a reception room, with sofas and well-padded chairs. The third door led to another corridor, but this became so winding and twisted, and there were so many turnings off it, that Tom became afraid he would get lost, so he carefully retraced his steps.

  Back in the antechamber he followed the original corridor back to the entrance, and then climbed up the staircase. There was no sign of the wood sprites, and To
m was so intrigued at what appeared to be a palace under the hill that he forgot to be afraid. At the top of the stairs was another antechamber and an ornate double doorway. Passing through it he found himself in a huge mirrored ballroom barely lit by the pale silvery light. He pulled a torch out of his backpack and shone the beam around the room, angling it quickly downwards when shattered light sparkled at him from all directions.

  Piles of clothing were strewn across the ballroom floor. He picked his way through, and then, stooping to take a closer look, nearly dropped his torch in shock. He leapt backwards, his heart pounding.

  These weren’t just clothes. There were people inside them.

  At first Tom thought they were dead, but as he looked closer he realised they were sleeping. Hundreds of them – not people, he saw, but faeries, with high arched eyebrows and a slight point to their ears, lying where they must have fallen, in a deep enchanted sleep.

  Dust lay across their clothes and faces, and flew up from the floor as he walked. He tried not to sneeze. This was the creepiest thing he’d ever seen. With every step he took, he thought one of them would awake and grab his foot, but he kept moving. He could see doorways leading off to other rooms, also filled with enchanted faeries. They had fallen asleep upon chairs and tables, their faces landing on plates of food, their drinks abandoned.

  His ears were playing tricks on him – he thought he heard whispers as soft, violet-scented breezes caressed his face. He repeated to himself, “They’re asleep, they’re asleep, keep going.”

  He crossed to doors on the far side of the room and found they opened onto a long broad balcony with stairs at either end. The balcony was also filled with sleepers, and it was here that Tom nearly gave himself away.

  Below him was a vast hall, dominated by a cavernous fireplace in which blazed a huge fire. And there were more sleeping faeries. And wood sprites – dozens of them. Quickly turning off his torch, Tom dropped down next to the sleepers and wriggled forward to peer through the carved railings.

  They seemed to be celebrating, probably because they’d captured Brenna. They passed round drinks, shouting and singing, while a smaller group clustered together, their heads close, their voices hushed. Tom could smell roasting meat, and his stomach rumbled.