by T J Green
“He fled to the stables deep below the under-palace and, flinging himself upon his horse, he whispered the magic words. The hillside rumbled opened above him, starlight pouring through. He raced across the plains and into the tangled woods, pursued by black stallions carrying Prince Vastness and his royal guard. Branches whipped his face and grabbed at his clothes until, in the middle of the woods, he fell from his horse. Exhausted and injured he lay face down in the oil-dark earth, the slime of autumn leaves crushed beneath him, the scent of decay heavy in his nostrils. The ground thundered with the hooves of the pursuing horses and he realised if they found him, he would die.
“Inches from his eyes he saw an acorn resting on the forest floor, and he imagined how warm and safe he would feel in such a small tidy space. As the wild screams of the stallions grew closer he reached for the acorn, and holding it in his hand, whispered, ‘I wish, I wish, I wish.’
“The next thing he knew, he was cushioned in a cocoon of velvety blackness. He could still feel the thudding of the black stallions and the ground shook beneath him, but he was warm and content. The thundering hooves fell silent, replaced by the taunts and threats of the riders, which carried menacingly across the still glade. He lay there for what seemed like hours, maybe days, exhausted and weak, sometimes sleeping, other times thinking and regretting.
“Eventually, when he felt better, and when the percussion of hooves and voices had ceased, replaced by the murmur of wind and rain and the creep of roots beneath him, he decided it was time to leave his cocoon. He thought he would wish himself out of it as he had wished himself in, but however hard he tried, nothing happened. Frustrated, he shouted and cursed and uttered magical incantations, but his howls were swallowed by his prison.
“He tried another way, pushing against his boundaries with his fingers, toes, hands, feet, elbows, knees, shoulders and head, and as he pushed he grew and grew, and the acorn grew with him. It was exhausting work, but slowly a crack appeared in the shell of the acorn and light glinted in the Count’s eyes; a gleam of gold in the velvety blackness that dazzled his light-bewildered gaze.
“Eventually there came a time when he stopped growing, but the acorn didn’t. It grew around him until it was the size of a room, and the crack in the acorn was the size of his arm; a slice of silver pierced the space, cutting the floor in two.
“The Count lay and gathered his strength, admiring the rippled walls that looked like the surface of water. He thought that, as he had no place to live, it would make a fine house and would hide him from those seeking to find him. But he was hungry and needed food, so he made the crack wider and wider until he could step out, and found himself where he had fallen earlier.
“He stood under the glow of the moon. Seeing soft green foliage all around, he realised he had lain in the acorn for months. He heard an insistent splash and, walking a small distance, saw a spring bubbling up from the ground. In the distance, deer were grazing. His horse had long since disappeared.
“Smiling, he looked back at the now giant acorn and saw that it was continuing to grow, roots pushing beneath the ground with blind urgency. Its roof was arched and branches grew from its rounded sides, contorting and twisting into towers that shot vertically upwards, reaching to the stars. The walls were as shiny as a polished apple and slivers of light slid across its curved walls like a smile.
“The Count slipped through the shadows of the tangled wood, his footfall soft on the ground. He looked for signs that the Prince or his men might still be watching, and he was wary of traps in the undergrowth. But apart from the hoots of owls, the wood was silent. He walked as far as the edge of the wood, and gazing across the plains saw the grassy mound in the distance; an absence against the dark night sky. He sighed, knowing he could never return there.
“He walked back across the forest as the ground mist rose and the trees announced themselves in the pale dawn light; beeches and oaks that locked branches against intruders but which, recognising him as their own, let him pass with an unravelling whisper before knotting themselves thickly in his wake. Bird calls rose in a mass, and soon he walked through an ever-increasing crescendo of noise back to the acorn that had sheltered him.
So Count Slipple turned his back on the under-palace and became Lord Vanishing, and the acorn became Vanishing Hall. In time he took a wife and had many children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and it wasn’t until he was on his deathbed that he told them who he really was, and what lay beneath the great green mound in the distance.
“And all of his descendants lived to an uncanny old age. Their skin had a creamy whiteness, their eyes a vivid greenness that captured the fruitfulness of the forest, and their tempers were as vicious as the summer storms that lit the landscape with the unexpected flash and sizzle of lightening.”
By the time Fahey had finished his tale he was standing, waving his arms around, his face animated and excited.
“So this house is from that acorn?” said Beansprout. “That’s so amazing!”
Even Tom had to admit that was interesting.
Woodsmoke, who had walked in unnoticed, so engrossed were they in the story, said, “Are you telling tall tales again, Grandfather?”
Fahey looked slightly put out. “It’s not a tall tale, and I shall show you the original room later.” He turned to Beansprout and Tom. “It’s slightly damp now so we don’t use it much anymore. Obviously it’s been built on over the years, bits added by different generations, but it’s essentially the same place, and every now and then a new tower will sprout or an old one will collapse. It’s a wonderful place to live. In fact, when I was away the old spindle tower completely disappeared.” He sighed and a shadow briefly fell across his face. “I missed this place when I was away.”
Jack patted his shoulder. “Don’t think of that time, Fahey. You’re back now.”
“Talking of old tales,” said Woodsmoke, “we have something to tell you. Tom met the Lady of the Lake, and she gave him a job to do.”
Fahey slapped the table and looked at Woodsmoke with ill-concealed hunger, and a touch of wariness. “He met who? What did she want?”
“He has to wake the King.”
“No!” Jack interrupted immediately. “He will not. I won’t have him put in danger. He shouldn’t even be here, Woodsmoke. It’s your fault he’s here.”
Tom was shocked at his grandfather’s outburst. What did he know that made him think it was dangerous? He looked at Woodsmoke, wondering what he would say, but Woodsmoke nodded saying, “Tell them what happened, Tom.”
There was an air of expectancy, as if they knew something that he didn’t, but he told them of his encounter in the Greenwood and what the wood sprites were threatening in the House of Evernight. He ended by saying, “I don’t think I have much choice. And besides, Prince Finnlugh, Bringer of Starfall and Chaos might be able to help.”
“Well well well.” There was a fire burning in Fahey’s eyes now. “You can’t rely on the old Royal Houses, Tom. They have their own interests. But show me the silver twig.”
Tom still felt a bit resentful of Fahey’s friendship with his grandfather, and now of his interference with his task, so he shrugged and said, “I haven’t got it now. It’s in my room.”
Fahey looked at him thoughtfully. “All right, I’ll have a look later. But Tom, don’t underestimate how hard this will be, even with this silver twig – which, by the way, is probably a powerful charm giving you some protection as you travel through this realm.”
“How do you know it’s a dangerous task?” Tom snapped.
“Because I tried to wake him myself, and was imprisoned for decades for my efforts!” Fahey looked annoyed.
“But that’s because it wasn’t meant to happen then. Now it is. She imprisoned you, but she told me it was time.”
Jack intervened. “I still don’t want you doing this. This isn’t your fight.”
“Actually,” said Woodsmoke, “it is now. You don’t refuse the Lady of the Lake. And
besides, apparently he’s related.”
“To whom?” asked Fahey.
“The King.”
“How can he possibly be related to King Arthur?” Jack spluttered.
“Because she said so! And I don’t know how!” Tom yelled.
“I don’t care if you are. You are not doing this,” persisted Jack.
Fahey smiled grimly. “It isn’t a case of what we want, Jack. The best thing we can do is to help. It will take a few days’ riding to get to the Isle, and we can go too. In fact, the sooner we go the better. I presume you’ll come?”
Jack looked across at Beansprout. “I suppose you’ll go too? Even though I don’t want you to.”
“Sorry, Granddad, but yes.” She looked sheepish as she added, “You came here without asking anyone!”
Tom glared at him. “Yes, you did.”
Jack pushed away from the table and paced around the room, running his hands through his hair just as Tom did when he was thinking. He muttered to himself, “Well it’s a fine example I gave, I suppose.”
“You did say you wanted adventure, Jack,” said Fahey.
Jack turned to Tom, now very annoyed. “Tom, this wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t come. I told you I was fine. Why doesn’t anybody ever listen to me?”
“Well, you can be sure I won’t bother again!” Tom yelled as he marched out of the door.
Jack yelled after him. “Well you’re stuck with me for now, because I’m coming too!”
Tom retrieved the charm from his room and left the house.
“So what are you so grumpy about?”
Tom turned to see Woodsmoke following him. He shrugged. “Nothing, I’m fine.”
“You are not fine, you’re sulking like a child.”
Tom glared at him. “Well you’re not the one who’s travelled here to find his grandfather, only to find he’s not even been missed!”
“Oh, so that’s what this is all about!” Woodsmoke looked at Tom in puzzlement.
Tom ignored him and headed towards what he presumed were the stables. He could hear the horses snickering and he smelt sweet hay and manure. In the far corner was the twisted tower where Woodsmoke’s father lived. It was a beautiful day; cool in the shade but hot in the sun. The sky was blue and the trees were flush with bright green leaves. It was difficult to believe they were somewhere other than the world he was so familiar with. He looked at the silver bough in his hands and felt the world tilt slightly. This was not familiar. He was in a strange place being asked to do things he didn’t quite understand. It was supposed to be simple – find Granddad and go home. His resentment grew – he was having to do something for people he didn’t really know, and for a place that wasn’t his home.
He wheeled round and shouted to Woodsmoke. “Actually, I don’t see why I should have to do this.” He waved the bough in the air. “We’ve found Granddad, and he doesn’t seem that bothered to see us. I may as well go home. All this,” he gestured wildly at everything, “is not my problem.”
“I thought you wanted to help? She asked you – specifically you!”
“I did, but now I don’t.” Tom stared fiercely at Woodsmoke, his anger now obvious. “I’ve changed my mind, and I’m sick of being here. Just leave me alone – I don’t want to talk about it any more.” He turned his back and strode off. He had no idea where he was going and he didn’t care.
Tom’s angry thoughts led him out beyond the stables, where he meandered through the trees. Here they were well-spaced, like trees in a park. He found a large flat rock, beyond which was a tangled thicket of trees. This must be the boundary of Woodsmoke’s land. He lay on the rock sunning himself, mulling over the disaster of finally being reunited with Granddad.
His thoughts were interrupted by a voice calling some way behind him. It was Beansprout, sounding forlorn.
“Tom, where are you? It’s me.”
He ignored her, hoping she wouldn’t see him and would go away.
She shouted again. She was getting closer. He lay still, hoping the silver twig gave him powers of invisibility, when suddenly she spoke right next to him, making him jump.
“Tom, stop ignoring me. I’ve come to see if you’re okay. Are you?”
“As you can see, I’m fine,” he said, refusing to look at her.
She shuffled herself into a spot next to him on the rock, and he reluctantly gave way.
“What do you want?”
“Oh, aren’t you gracious? Like I said, I’ve come to see if you’re all right. Woodsmoke said you’d marched off in a strop. He thinks you’re crazy. I explained this is normal for you. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I’ve just had enough and it’s time to go.” He looked anywhere but at her.
“But you’ve been given a task–”
“Who cares about the task?” Tom interrupted. “Why should you care, why should I? This isn’t our world or our problem. It’s theirs.”
“Well, that will make Granddad happy, at least. He didn’t want you to do it.”
Tom snorted with impatience. “Like that’s supposed to make it so much better? He doesn’t care that we’re here anyway.”
“That’s not true and you know it!” Beansprout shot back. “Although it would help if you’d actually speak to him. We’ve travelled all this way and you’ve barely looked at him!”
“Well it hardly looks like he’s missed us. Look where he’s living!”
“Isn’t that a good thing? What kind of people would we be if we wanted him to be miserable?”
Tom glared into the distance, saying nothing.
“Seriously, Tom, what did you think would happen?”
Tom remained silent.
“I don’t think he’ll be coming back with us. You know that, right? If he’s going to stay here, shouldn’t we make sure it’s safe for him? If we can?”
“No!” Tom replied, finally. “If he decides to stay he’ll have to cope with whatever happens, wood sprites or not! That’s his choice, just like it was his choice to come here.”
Beansprout sighed. “Why do you always get like this?”
“Get like what?” he snapped.
“Get sulky when what happens in your head doesn’t happen in real life.”
“I do not get sulky.”
“You do it all the time.”
Tom didn’t reply, trying to ignore the little voice inside telling him it was true.
Beansprout sat looking at the side of Tom’s head. “I’d do it, using your twig thingy, but she didn’t ask me,” she said, a note of regret in her voice.
Tom pulled the little silver twig out of his pocket. He’d put it there meaning to show Jack and Fahey. He turned it slowly in his hands.
For the first time since Beansprout had sat down, Tom turned and looked at her properly. He scratched absently at the sole of his trainer as he spoke. “I don’t know what I want to do – or anything, really.”
For a few minutes they sat in silence, then Beansprout pushed her hair back behind her ears, saying, “So what’s the plan? Are we going home?”
He continued to pick at his shoe and sighed. “No, I suppose we’ll stay.”
“And are you going to speak to Granddad – properly?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Don’t nag, it’s unattractive.”
“Well don’t wait too long then, or I will!” And with that she slipped off the rock and started walking back, a smile of triumph on her face.
Tom didn’t yet feel ready to return to the hall. He lay on the rock feeling its warmth beneath him and the sun on his face, and wondered what he really had expected once he got here. He hadn’t thought beyond finding Jack. He’d assumed Jack must be in trouble, even though his note said he wasn’t, because Tom couldn’t imagine why he’d want to leave. He groaned inwardly. Why didn’t he think about things more? Oh well, too late now. He was here and he had a sort of job to do, and he had no idea why he’d been asked to do it. Why hadn’t he asked more questions at the time? In
stead he’d sat there blankly, just nodding, without a clue what it was all about. In fact, the only one who seemed to know anything was Fahey, and Tom had been so rude to him. He groaned again. Now he was going to have to go back and be pleasant and apologise for behaving like an ass.
But he wanted to put that moment off for a while, so he continued to lie on the rock, eyes closed against the sun, holding the bough loosely in his hands.
Hearing noises, he sat up and looked around, thinking there was someone there … but he was alone. After another cautious scan of his surroundings, he lay down and closed his eyes again. He could hear the wind in the treetops; it sounded like voices, a soft muttering of encouragement to the leaves to grow. He could hear the movement of small creatures in the earth below him, and something that felt like a pulse, like hearing his own blood moving through his body. He could feel the bough, warm beneath his fingers. A sudden image shot into his mind, of an island: fields of fruit trees, golden wheat, flowers and bees, and in the centre a large, dark, deep cave. He felt dread in the pit of his stomach, like a nightmare, and opened his eyes again quickly to chase away the image. He hoped it wasn’t what he thought it was.
11 The Hidden Isle
The shadows around them lengthened and the air grew cool as the day drew to a close. A chill wind blew, carrying the smell of rain and wet earth across the tufts of springy grass and purple and yellow heathers that covered the moor. Huge rocks, blunt and misshapen, rose from the ground, some big enough to offer shelter. Ahead of them was the massive granite formation of Fell Tor.
They had been travelling for well over a week, climbing to the higher ground of the moor. Vanishing Wood, and the neighbouring Fret Woods, were far behind them and the summery weather had also gone. Tom was aching, cold and saddle-sore. No matter how many layers he wore, the wind seemed to find its way through them, and it wasn’t until they sheltered at night he could even begin to get warm.
Night brought its own problems. The wind carried howls, whispers and threats. The fire they huddled around gave off only a meagre amount of light, as if the surrounding darkness was sucking it up. After nightfall, the ground mist rose and ghostly figures appeared, standing just beyond the edge of the firelight, watching and listening. When they emerged, Tom felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle, and goosebumps rise along his skin. Woodsmoke, Brenna and Fahey took little notice of the watchers, but Tom, Beansprout and Jack were nervous and slept badly, even though they had a night watch.
