by Lisa Tuttle
“I should love to learn more about them,” he said wistfully.
She took a few steps back. “Go away.”
“You are making a mistake, Maria,” said Reverend Ringer loudly. “I shall pray on the matter, but I tell you now, these so-called friends of yours are not Christians. You put your soul, and the soul of your child, in danger by keeping company with them. For the last time, I implore you—come home.”
“This is my home now.” She turned her back on him, but Mr. Jesperson touched her shoulder.
“Wait,” he said, “Let me give you this—not in trade, as I had planned, but only as a gift, a token of my respect.” He fumbled inside his jacket until he found the old book and held it out to her. She gave him a wary look.
“Take it,” he urged. “It is theirs—or it belonged to their forefathers once. Give it to them and say it is from Jasper Jesperson, with his respects, and he hopes we may meet as friends someday.”
“You will not hurt them?”
“Never. I swear it,” he said earnestly.
Seemingly mollified, she accepted the book and tucked it away in an inner pocket of her skirt before she lowered herself into the pit.
Hurrying after, holding out our lanterns, we saw how fearlessly she thrust her head into the hole that now gaped in the side of the pit, and watched her push and wriggle her way into the earth. Bit by bit she disappeared until, with a final kick of her feet, she vanished from view.
Once again we heard the high, shrill sound, as of a distant gale, and heard it grow in volume and intensity to an unholy shriek that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. This time, we saw the dark hole into which Maria had gone gradually shrink as the stone slab moved back into place and covered it again.
“Some sort of pulley system, I suppose,” Mr. Jesperson muttered. “I suppose the noise must be involved with that; it may be on a track, or…Hmmm…I wonder…”
“We can find out soon enough, when we start digging,” said Dr. Ringer.
“Dig—not when we have promised her,” I protested.
“I made no such promise,” he said sharply. “And even if I had, I should not consider it binding—not when a Christian soul is at stake. I only wish we had brought shovels with us and could make a start now. But I suppose we will work better in daylight—and I will enlist the aid of five or six strong men from the village.”
“You must not,” I said anxiously. “She does not want to be rescued, as she told you quite plainly.”
“She is a silly little girl,” he said, cutting me off and suggesting by his manner that he meant the same words to apply to me. “I have a duty of care to her—and to her child—and I will not be dissuaded by any of her nonsense about friends.”
He gave a huffing breath and turned away from the pit. “It will be better in daylight—too much chance of being misled in the dark—those creatures, whatever they are, might manage to evade us now, but not in the light of day.” He turned his challenging glare on Mr. Jesperson. “What about you—may I count on your help?”
“I gave her my word, and I mean to keep it. I wish you would reconsider—remember that she asked—”
“Asked to be thrown into the pits of hell? Would you collude in her damnation? And what of the babe—unbaptized? Would you have the destruction of those two young souls upon your conscience?”
“I do not think—”
“You do not think of what is right and good for her soul; that is my job. I shall dig into the side of that pit until I find the demon’s hiding place—and I shall fetch out Maria and her babe—with or without your help. Then I shall exorcise the ground, sprinkle holy water, and say all the requisite prayers and offices. The girls will be safe, and any abominations who dwelled in this place shall be destroyed and driven out forever.”
He turned and made his way back to the path, saying, “They do not know what is coming!”
“Oh, I think they do,” said Mr. Jesperson under his breath as we followed after.
When we reached the road, Mr. Jesperson bid Dr. Ringer good evening. The man looked affronted. “What, you are so far lost to reason that you will not walk back with me?”
“I can hardly abandon Miss Lane to make her way alone along this dark highway. Surely you recall that she is no longer welcome at the Vicarage, even if you remain my host,” he responded coldly.
The vicar shifted uncomfortably, stretching his neck and grimacing. “Yes…yes, of course. Terribly sorry for that misunderstanding…but Mrs. Ringer does have her little…well, she has always been in charge of such matters, and I must not quarrel with my good wife, no matter how much I might disagree with some of her decisions. Well…good night and Godspeed, Miss Lane. Will you be back for dinner, Jasper?”
“No. Please tender my apologies to Mrs. Ringer.”
Dr. Ringer nodded. “Very well. But take care not to stay out too late, or you must bed down in the stable. With all this unpleasant business lately, my good wife insists the doors are locked before we go to bed, and with Maria gone, there will be no one to let you in.”
“I understand. The prospect of a night in the open holds no fear for me, sir. But you may expect to see me for breakfast.”
Once the vicar was out of earshot, Mr. Jesperson explained that we should probably both be spending most of the night in the woods, and that he had brought blankets to deal with that possibility.
I stared at him in bewilderment. “But why?”
“Because I want to see them—don’t you?” He grinned, and I saw that he was practically fizzing with excitement. “Since Doctor Ringer has promised destruction to come in the morning, I do not expect they will linger for long. The fairies will be flitting tonight.”
—
How many people living today can say they have seen the fairies? And these were very likely the last two fairies in Norfolk.
Before we left the roadside to set up our hidden camp in the woods, Mr. Jesperson revealed that the contents of his mysteriously bulging bag included not only rugs and shawls to keep us warm, but also a loaf of bread, a slab of cheese, slices of beef, a fruitcake, and slabs of chocolate—all food we could quietly consume while waiting. He had also brought a flask of coffee, “to stop us dozing off.”
“Cold coffee?” It sounded nasty, but he told me that he had mixed it with milk and sugar, and I should put aside my preconceptions.
Earlier, although I had been quite unaware of it, Mr. Jesperson had scouted out the best positions for observation, and now he led me slowly and cautiously through the dark woods to the chosen place, one well shielded by trees and bushes, but still offering a good view of the area around the shrieking pit.
We set up our rough camp and made ourselves as comfortable as possible. Mr. Jesperson sank easily into stillness, but I found it more difficult. How odd it was to sit in the dark and cold—and how quickly one felt the cold when forced to keep still. I was particularly grateful for the food, which I consumed in small quantities, spacing it out, to have something to do. Eating in the dark was another unusual experience; I recognized each morsel by touch and smell, rather than sight, and with nothing else to distract me from it, the taste was somehow more intense, richer, and more rewarding, whether it was a mouthful of bread, a sliver of cheese, or a crumb of chocolate. It was good to have an occupation; chewing and tasting warmed me, if only for a moment, and helped the time to pass. Mr. Jesperson was right about the cold coffee—although I should have preferred a hot drink, under the circumstances, it was actually very nice; I thought I might like to try it again sometime, but on a warm, sunny day.
Time passed slowly. Unable to speak to my friend as in ordinary circumstances, I could only reflect on matters as if I had been alone. I wondered again about the nature of Maria’s new friends. Were they human? If not, were they animals, or spirits, or something else entirely? I wondered, too, at Jesperson’s stillness. He was such a quick and lively person—restless, I should have said—but whereas I kept shifting my position, and could not ho
ld back the occasional yawn, I never felt a fidget or sigh from the warm statue so close beside me in the dark.
I had to pinch myself to stay awake, and mentally recited poems and lists of kings and queens and other such material learned in the schoolroom as I wondered if there was really any purpose to our vigil. What if they had already gone away through the underground tunnels Mr. Jesperson had suggested must link all the remaining shrieking pits? At this moment, they might even be emerging unseen in the field opposite the Vicarage, and we should be colder but no wiser when the morning came.
But at last—later we concluded the time must have been around midnight—we heard that same distant wailing that rose gradually to the unearthly, inhuman shriek that was responsible for the name and legend of the pits. Even though I had been wishing to hear it again, the sound made me shudder with an archaic and unreasoning fear, and I had a struggle to remain where I was and not run away. The noise stretched out, ghastly and unnatural, before it finally died. With the silence came a glimmer of light—so fleeting I thought I had imagined it. But no, there it was again, and it issued from the pit.
Along with the light came other sounds, soft and muffled, and as the light grew, we glimpsed people clambering up out of the pit.
The first to emerge was a little man, no bigger than a three-year-old child, but looking like a vigorous, sturdy, well-proportioned man of advanced years, dressed in the manner of a Renaissance prince. He wore layers of sumptuous clothing, silks and velvets and furs, and there were rings on the fingers of his tiny hands, glittering golden in the eerie, seemingly sourceless light.
Next out of the pit, helped up by the courteous gentleman, was a little lady, even smaller than he, and dressed in similarly rich, antique style. Beneath a fur-lined velvet cloak, her dark-green dress was studded with pearls and winking gems, and her pale-silver hair was piled atop her head and caught in a jeweled net.
Both these little people were encased in a glimmering glow, as if they wore halos of light. At the edge of the pit, the man bent down and took hold of two bags that were handed up to him by one who remained at the bottom; he stepped back with them to allow the woman to bend down to accept a smaller but more precious burden.
A moment later Maria scrambled up beside them, pulling herself out of the pit as we had seen her do before. As she towered over her two little companions by at least a foot and a half, she seemed a clumsy, malproportioned giant. She took the warmly wrapped bundle from the lady, kissed it several times, and then cuddled it close to her breast.
The little man hoisted the bags, slinging one over each shoulder, and without any pause for discussion set off walking. His lady followed close behind, Maria in their wake.
Maria appeared wide-awake and self-possessed; it was clearly her considered decision to follow the little people rather than be forced to give up her baby; I only hoped she would not regret it. But it was not for us to say if she had made the right choice—unlike the vicar, we could not feel justified in “rescuing” her against her will.
So we sat and watched the strange, glowing figures and Maria until they vanished in the darkness of the woods.
Chapter 22
Explanation for a Death
I slept late the next morning, trapped by dreams in which I followed a ball of light through forests and across heathland, into mines and through tunnels underground.
When at last I woke, I blinked groggily at the ceiling, still wondering what sort of life Maria would have now. Mr. Jesperson thought the West Country was probably their destination. The ancient, troglodytic race remembered as goblins, elves, and fairies must have died out in most of Britain, but survivors may have found homes in the souterrains and tin mines of Cornwall, or hidden away in caves on Dartmoor; the mountains of Wales were another strong possibility—beyond that, Scotland or Ireland.
Downstairs, I found Bella entertaining Mr. Jesperson in the library.
“Your friend has been telling me what you witnessed,” she said as I entered. Her eyes and cheeks glowed with excitement. “How marvelous! I never imagined there could be truth in those old stories…now I understand I have been too quick to dismiss some of Felix’s ideas.”
“The folk we saw were more ancient even than the ancient Brits,” said Mr. Jesperson. “They were here, probably, before our earliest ancestors.”
“Are they immortal?”
“Is any living creature? I doubt it. They may be longer-lived than we are, but—”
“But their clothes! You said they were attired like members of court in the sixteenth century.”
“No, I said that was how they appeared. Their appearance, including the light that suffused them, and which would protect them from attack by any religiously inclined or superstitious people who saw them, is an aspect of their glamour. You know that term, I think?”
She nodded, frowning slightly. “Of course. A spell. You suggest they are able to perform magic?”
“If you include as ‘magic’ all the arts of the conjurer.” He shrugged, smiling. “Is it magic, or illusion? Just as some animals are able to blend into the background to escape their predators, our ‘good neighbors’ must have their own protective coloration, the ability to disguise themselves. Folklore suggests that in reality they are naked, or clothed only in a few ragged scraps—another reason they avoid civilized society. The reason for their style of clothing may be tradition, or it may be a personal preference—how can we know?”
A shadow crossed his eyes and he looked wistful. “I wish…I wish I could study them and their ways. How wonderful, to be in Maria’s position—but she will not make use of it as I should.”
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean she will simply accept them—she already has. She is part of their family now, and if she does come back to our world, she will say nothing of her sojourn in fairyland. She will protect them, and carry their secrets to the grave.”
“Felix may uncover their secrets,” said Bella. She spoke with a simple faith, and her eyes were bright at the thought of it. “I think—do not you?—that these…people, and their ways, may be just what he has been searching for—something that belongs at the very heart of his School!”
“Perhaps, but now that the last two fairies in Norfolk have made their escape, he has lost whatever small chance he might have had.” Mr. Jesperson leaned back in his chair, tapping his long fingers on a padded armrest and looking obscurely dissatisfied, or perhaps impatient at needing to explain. “They are gone, and their knowledge with them. When Doctor Ringer digs up their former home he will find no treasures, nothing of any value left behind.”
Bella seemed struck by this phrase and repeated it: “Nothing of any value…Because they have so few real possessions? Because their things are illusory, products of the glamour?”
I felt suddenly apprehensive, and tried to think of something to say to turn the conversation, but it was too late; Bella had remembered.
“There was something! A book—my grandfather bought it from the cunning man.”
“Bought? The cunning man said stolen.”
She looked reproachful. “My grandfather was always overgenerous in his valuations and payments as a collector. If anyone stole that book, it was the cunning man himself. I have heard him brag about besting others; he was proud of himself for having tricked a dirty little man into letting him get his hands on a book neither of them could read. Once it was in his possession, he would not give it back. He brought it to my grandfather, thinking that as he had traveled in so many different lands, and knew so many of the world’s languages, he might be able to translate it. But it was like no language on earth, my grandfather said; certainly it was none that he had ever seen before.”
She got to her feet and began to wander along the shelves, peering up at the array of spines. “I remember, it was handwritten, with many drawings. I could recognize some of the plants, but not many. The pictures were more of roots than of leaves or flowers. And mushrooms; many mushrooms, and
crystals…I wonder what has become of it?”
“Ott mentioned it to me,” said Mr. Jesperson. “He told me that it was in search of that book that he first came to Wayside Cross, and met you.”
Bella smoothed her hair—a quick, unconscious response that made the large orange stone in her ring flash. “Yes, I was unable to find the book for him. Perhaps I did not try as hard as I might have…but his eagerness made me suspicious. He made a ridiculous offer for it; an absurd valuation for a book he had never seen, one that features in no bibliographies or booksellers’ catalogs. He called it a grimoire.”
“You think it is not?”
She shook her head. “My grandfather was of the opinion that it was either a diary or a botanist’s guide, written by someone well acquainted with our local area, in a private code or a made-up language. A curiosity; of no practical use to anyone.”
“Except to the person who wrote it.”
“Well, yes, but he was unlikely still to be alive.” Her eyes widened. “Of course! You mean it was written by one of those…those…others. The ‘little man’ Cunning Verrell got it from.”
“He told us he dug it up in a field,” I said.
She turned away, her eyes sweeping the room. “It must be here somewhere. I recall it as a very small, slender volume, with no lettering or design on the spine…easily overlooked.” She began to pace and scan the shelves again. “Probably it is tucked away on a high shelf.”
“Do you mean after all to sell it to Mr. Ott?”
“Not sell it. But now that the little people have left, and I cannot restore it to them, Felix is the best person to have it. His School could be something very important to our country. He may do much good by preserving traditions and knowledge on the verge of being lost forever.”
A rusty scraping sound made me start, and I ducked my head at a rush of wings. The crow, until then invisible in a shadowy recess at the top of a bookcase, flapped across the room to land on the windowsill, where he let out another rasping caw.