Tom's Inheritance

by T J Green

  “We’ll try to make it to the river, find a boat. It will be quicker and certainly easier. And then we go to the Isle of Avalon.”

  9 Vanishing Hall

  The sky started to lighten, a green wash spreading across the eastern horizon. Tom had barely slept. He was cold and stiff, and was torn between going back to sleep – for days – and wanting to get moving, just to be warm. And he was very hungry. It had been hours since he’d eaten and he had only a few biscuits left.

  He rummaged in his pack as Brenna stirred. Woodsmoke was gently shaking Beansprout. She woke, her face ashen in the early morning light, and struggled to sit up.

  “My arm’s so sore,” she said, wincing as she wriggled it.

  “Are you able to walk today, or do you need more rest?” said Woodsmoke.

  “I’ll be OK to walk, but I may not be very fast.”

  “I can’t fly, either,” said Brenna. “I hurt my shoulder yesterday. I don’t want to risk it.”

  “We’ll walk to the river, see if there’s a boat we can get on. I know we’re all hungry, but we should press on.”

  Beansprout looked over at Tom and Brenna. “I was worried we’d never see you again. How did you get out?”

  Brenna laughed. “It’s quite a story, we’ll tell you as we walk,” she said.

  At about midday they reached the Little Endevorr River, a tributary of the main river they had crossed the day before. It ran slowly, its waters clear, the riverbed visible in the shallows.

  They had been following it for a short time when a boat appeared, heading downstream. A man called out, “Is that you, Brenna?” Haven’t seen you for a while.”

  Brenna waved. “Fews! How are you? I don’t suppose you’re taking passengers?”

  “Well I don’t normally, but I can make an exception for you.”

  He steered his boat over to the bank. It was long, like a barge, and filled with sacks and barrels. Fews was grey haired with a wrinkled brown face like an old apple. When he smiled, his eyes almost disappeared into his wrinkles, and Tom saw he’d lost most of his teeth.

  “You must know Woodsmoke?” said Brenna.

  “I reckon I know your face,” he answered, looking Woodsmoke up and down. “You’re Fahey’s grandchild?”

  “I am,” said Woodsmoke, smiling.

  “So who are these two? They don’t look like they’re from round here.”

  “They’re humans, come to visit their grandfather, Jack,” Brenna answered.

  Tom and Beansprout said hello as they clambered into the centre of the boat and settled themselves in the gaps between the sacks.

  “Oh, I see, we’re having some cross-cultural relations are we? Well welcome to my boat, and don’t squash anything!”

  He made sure they were all settled before setting off again. “What you done to your shoulder, Brenna?”

  “Had a run-in with some wood sprites by the Starfall Under-Palace.”

  Fews’ smile disappeared. “They’re getting closer, then. I hope you got rid of a few?”

  “Of course. They came off worse.”

  “Good. There’s far too many around for my liking. Don’t know what’s bringing them out of the forest really. Usually don’t like the open.”

  Tom dozed in the warmth of the sun, the sacks comfortable beneath him. But every time he closed his eyes, images from the previous day raced through his mind. He could see the Prince’s malevolent smile, and hear him describing what the palace could do. Once again he realised how far he was from home and how strange this place was.

  His stomach rumbled, but even hunger couldn’t keep him awake. Finally, he slept deeply.

  He woke up when the boat changed direction and bumped the riverbank. A murmur of voices prodded his consciousness and his eyes flickered open. It was dusk and the birds called loudly, swooping over the water, black against a pale-grey sky.

  He sat up and found they were surrounded by other boats, moored up and down the river around them, nudging each other in the current. They were mostly deserted, with just the odd light shining from masts and bows. On either side, high banks blocked his view beyond the river, but overhead he could see bridges crisscrossing back and forth.

  Brenna and Woodsmoke stood on the riverbank talking to a short squat man who looked like a toad. He nodded a few times before hopping from view in one bound.

  Tom nudged Beansprout. “Wake up madam. We’re here, wherever that is.”

  She roused and stretched, stopping short when her injured arm hurt. “God I’m so exhausted. I want a proper bed.”

  “Well, we might get one tonight, and we might find Granddad too.”

  She sat up quickly. “Of course, I forgot. He’s going to be surprised to see us. Have you any idea where we’re going now?”

  “Nope, I’m just doing as I’m told.”

  “Well, that makes a change.”

  They made their way to the top of the bank where they could see their surroundings more clearly.

  On either side of the river was a sprawling village, its edges melting into the twilight. There was a jumble of buildings and market stalls, several running alongside the river. Walkways and bridges linked the buildings and spanned the river, some high above the ground. Lights twinkled in the dusk. Strange-looking people were milling around, and music and singing drifted through the air. Tempting scents mingled and beckoned; Tom could smell food. His mouth watered.

  Woodsmoke called them over to where he stood at the crossroads of the road and a bridge. “I’m borrowing a horse and cart to take us home; we should be there by midnight.” He looked tired but pleased, and ran his hand through his long hair. He had unslung his bow and it rested at his feet while he flexed his shoulders up and down. Brenna stood next to him, deep in thought as she gazed across the village and the surrounding countryside.

  “So where are we?” Beansprout asked.

  “Endevorr Village. And that,” Woodsmoke pointed across the river, “is Vanishing Wood, where we live.”

  “That’s great. I’m starving. Can we get some food?” Tom asked.

  Beansprout nodded. “Me too! Please don’t make me wait.”

  “All right,” said Woodsmoke. “I’m pretty hungry myself. We have a while before the cart arrives.”

  They strolled across to the nearest stalls and gazed at the displays of food. There was a big roast pig turning on a spit, the fat hissing as it dripped onto the fire; plates full of pies and pastries, and dishes of fruit that looked sweet and juicy.

  “I want it all,” Tom said, drooling.

  “I’ll get you some pies,” said Woodsmoke. “Trust me, they’re good!” He handed over some money and received a tray of thick crust pies in return. They tucked in, groaning with pleasure.

  Distracted by the rumbling of wheels, Tom looked around and saw a horse and cart being driven by the short toad-like man he’d seen before. He hopped down and threw the reins at Woodsmoke, saying in a gruff voice, “See you sometime tomorrow then, Woodsmoke. Safe journey.”

  He took little interest in the rest of them and headed off over the bridge, the strange lollop in his walk making the curve of his upper spine more noticeable.

  They bought some more food for the journey, then Woodsmoke jumped up onto the front of the cart and grabbed the reins. The others climbed into the back, snuggling under blankets.

  They trundled along the road next to the river, but while Brenna slept, Tom and Beansprout were wide awake, staring at everything around them. Small lanes tunnelled between the buildings, burrowing into the heart of the village. They were full of strange beings hurrying about their business. The people – or rather faeries, Tom corrected himself – looked like something out of a story book. Some were tall and stately, and glided along without appearing to walk. Most of them had long hair, which the women wore elaborately braided and piled on top of their heads.

  There were also little people that looked like pixies, olive skinned and sharp featured, as well as creatures that were half-animal,
half-human. A man with the enormous ears of a hare walked past, and Tom thought he saw a satyr down by the river.

  Eventually they passed out of the village and into woodland, where the twilight thickened and midges rose in clouds. The crowds thinned, and before long all they could hear was the jingle of the reins and the clomp of hooves.

  They travelled for several hours before turning off on to a road that led into thicker woodland. It was now deep night, and the starlight was blocked by the canopy of leaves. Occasionally Tom saw flickering lights in the distance, but they quickly disappeared before he could work out what they were. Then, at last, a mass of golden lights appeared through the trees.

  They entered a clearing containing a well, and a grassy area on which several horses were grazing. Lanterns hung from the trees, illuminating a rambling building of wood and stone that spread in a semi-circle around them. Assorted towers sprouted out of it, some short and squat, others tall and spindly, piercing the canopy high overhead. Vast tree trunks lay at angles to form part of the buildings, and rooms seemed suspended in the branches. It was the oddest collection of buildings Tom had ever seen, and they looked as if they would topple down at any minute.

  Woodsmoke directed the horse through an archway into a courtyard, and jumped down, the rest of them following. A door at the base of one of the corkscrew towers flew open and a figure strode out saying, “Who’s there? We’re not expecting guests.”

  “Well we’re not guests! It’s me, Woodsmoke, with Brenna and a couple of friends.”

  “Oh the Gods – you’re back! We were wondering what was taking you so long.” The figure strode into view and Tom saw an older faerie with feathered eyebrows and a shock of white hair shot through with red. He trailed sparks, and thick black smoke billowed out of the doorway behind him.

  “Are you burning the place down, Father?” Woodsmoke asked.

  “No, just experimenting. Have a little faith,” he said. “My my my, so you’ve brought Jack’s grandchildren. How very pleased I am to meet you.” He shook their hands and reached to kiss Brenna on both cheeks. His hand was firm and dry and he smelt of gunpowder. His clothes were patched and ripped and speckled with burns and singed edges, and across his cheek was a smear of a grey glittery substance. There was a wild distraction in his eyes; he looked as if he wasn’t quite all there.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re back. Your grandfather’s somewhere in the main house,” he said, striding back towards the tower. “I’ll leave you to it!”

  “Typical,” muttered Woodsmoke. “He’s more interested in his experiments than in what’s happening anywhere else. You go ahead, I’ll sort the horse and see you in a minute.”

  They followed Brenna into the house and across a huge high-ceilinged kitchen lit only by a smouldering fire. They wound their way through room after room and up several stairways inside tree trunks, before coming out into a big square room dimly lit by candles.

  Tom saw two figures in front of the fire. One was standing with his arms outstretched, as if performing to an audience. The other sat watching and listening. They were both so absorbed that Tom hesitated to interrupt; instead the three of them listened at the door as the man who was standing said, “And he flung his club so far and so high that he knocked a star from the sky. The star skittered across the night sky leaving a blazing trail of light behind it until, gathering speed, it fell to earth.”

  And then they were spotted, and the man sitting in the chair jumped to his feet and shouted, “Tom! Beansprout! What are you doing here?” He was already trotting across the room, arms outstretched and a big grin on his face. “I thought I’d never see you again!”

  Tom and Beansprout ran across the room to meet him, and he crushed them in bear hugs. Tom felt himself become shaky, and had an urge to sit down. He could hardly believe that Granddad was actually here.

  “Hello Fahey,” said Brenna, greeting the other man with a half-hug, betraying the injury to her shoulder.

  Tom’s grandfather turned to Fahey, his eyes bright and his voice slightly breathless. “My grandchildren, they’re here!”

  “Well I can see that, Jack. I’m not blind! What are we all standing for? Come on, sit down and tell us why you’re here. Longfoot!” he yelled. “Bring us drinks and snacks.”

  After a bustle of moving chairs they sat around the fire and looked at each other, a silence falling momentarily as they all wondered where to start. Jack spoke first. “So why – and how – are you here?”

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t start there.” Beansprout winced slightly. “It’s sort of an accident. But how are you? And how did you get here?” He looked so well that she added, “You look great!”

  “I am, I am! But you’ve grown since I last saw you, and it’s only been a few months.”

  “Longer than that, Granddad,” she said. “It’s been over a year!”

  Jack looked open-mouthed at Fahey who shrugged and said, “I told you so.”

  Tom hadn’t wanted to criticise, but seeing his grandfather all warm and happy in front of the fire made him suddenly cross. “We’ve been really worried about you! How could you just go?”

  Jack looked stricken. “I’m sorry, Tom. I realise it seems thoughtless, but at the time it felt like the right thing to do.”

  “But how? Why? Didn’t you think we’d be worried?”

  “That’s why I left the note.” Panic crossed his face. “You did see the note, didn’t you?”

  “Yes we did, but it was still odd!”

  Beansprout interrupted. “Tom, maybe we should talk about this later?” She turned to Jack and smiled. “It’s so good to see you! I swear you look younger!”

  Tom was still fuming, but he bit his tongue. He realised Beansprout was right – Granddad did look younger, almost fresher.

  “It’s the air in this place, it does marvellous things to you. I’ve learnt to ride a horse!”

  “Have you? That’s so exciting! And you live here?” said Beansprout.

  “He certainly does,” said Fahey. “He helps me with my storytelling.”

  Tom looked at Fahey with dislike. He was about to say something to him when he saw Beansprout glaring, so he continued to sit in silence.

  Beansprout turned to Fahey and asked, “So is that what you do, tell stories?”

  “I do. I am a bard, and a very good one,” he said proudly. He had a noble face with silver hair that was combed and shining and tied back in a ponytail secured by a black ribbon.

  “Oh he is – and what stories!” said Jack. “Tom, you’d love them.” He smiled nervously, as if fearing another outburst. Tom looked at him in stony silence.

  While the others talked, Tom fumed. This wasn’t the reunion he’d hoped for. He’d expected his grandfather to be worn out and tired, desperate to return home – but he didn’t look desperate at all.

  Longfoot arrived, a plump faerie in a long frock coat, with a face that was a little mouse-like. His nose twitched ever so slightly, and he had long quivering whiskers arching over a small pink mouth. He carried a large tray on which were crowded glasses of wine and pots of tea, and a pile of toast and butter, which they all tucked into with relish – even Tom who, although grumpy, was still starving.

  When Woodsmoke arrived they told Jack and Fahey about their journey. It was a chaotic, much-interrupted story, but before they could tell them about the Lady of the Lake, Woodsmoke said, “Enough. It’s late. Everyone’s tired, and two of us are injured, so we should go to bed. We can continue this tomorrow.” He said this with such finality and authority that no one argued.

  Longfoot was summoned, and Tom and Beansprout were escorted to bedrooms, somewhere in the cavernous house.

  10 Old Tales

  The house was old and ramshackle with warmth that seemed to ooze out of the walls. It creaked and moaned unexpectedly, and seemed to mutter to itself, which gave Tom a restless night full of vivid dreams that chased themselves around and around in his head.

  His grumpiness was still ap
parent the next morning. He brooded and scowled as Longfoot escorted them through the confusion of rooms to the first-floor breakfast room, perched in the leafy branches of a large oak.

  “Stop it, Tom,” hissed Beansprout. “You’re behaving like a child.”

  He ignored her and picked up a plate, loading it with a large breakfast from the selection laid out on the sideboard.

  It wasn’t long before Fahey and Jack arrived. Beansprout gave her grandfather a kiss on the cheek, but Tom just grumbled a greeting under his breath. No one else seemed to notice his bad mood; they started chatting without him, Beansprout asking about the house and why they lived in the middle of the wood.

  Fahey took a last bite of scrambled egg and buttery toast, sighed contentedly and said, “Can I tell you The Tale of Vanishing Hall?”

  Tom rolled his eyes, but Beansprout, remembering how mesmerising his story had been the previous night, said, “Yes please!”

  Fahey began. “Once upon a time there lived a count – Count Slipple – one of the fey who lived in the under-palace of the House of Evernight. The under-palace was a warren of vast halls, twisted corridors and shadowy rooms, hidden under the earth in a great grassy mound. Time moved differently in this place, slipping quickly like ghosts through walls, and all of its inhabitants were as old as the earth that buried them, although by a quirk of their race their skin looked as smooth and fresh as thick cream.

  “One day, Count Slipple had a terrible argument with Prince Vastness, the head of the House of Evernight. Prince Vastness was powerful and vengeful, and his words carried great power, but Count Slipple was stronger than the Prince realised. Years of resentment rose between them and their words spat back and forth like fireworks. The air steamed and hissed, and fiery barbs and stings snatched at their skin and scorched their hair, until their clothes hung from them in tatters. Grand faerie noblemen, ladies and courtiers ran shrieking into dark hollows and hidden corners as the air crackled with harmful intent. Eventually the evil in their words manifested into a great black tornado before which Count Slipple ran for his life.