She urged her mount forwards and fell in behind the Princess, Sophy and Aubranael trailing behind. The whole party set off back into the Outwoods at some speed, obliged to ride at a fast trot to keep pace with their troll guide. Isabel could not tell whether Mr. Balligumph’s speed stemmed merely from enthusiasm, or from some sense of urgency, but he maintained his rapid pace for fully half an hour, without slowing for so much as an instant.
The vast trees of the Outwoods provided ample shade, but the air was hot and dense, and Isabel grew unpleasantly warm and uncomfortable. Clouds of midges haunted the glades beneath the leaves, many of which she was obliged to ride through, holding her breath to keep from inhaling any of the wretched insects. As pleasant as the scenery may be, therefore, she was glad to see Balligumph come to a halt ahead of them, and to rein in her mare accordingly.
The troll had stopped abruptly, and not as though they had arrived at their destination. He stood very still, staring up into the canopy. One fat finger stroked absently along the length of one tusk, a gesture Isabel was beginning to understand meant that he was deep in thought.
‘I reckon it is!’ boomed the troll at last, a broad grin wreathing his face. ‘It’s ye, up there! That one, there, wi’ the trailin’ bits an’ the frilly leaves. Ye always were a one fer the fancy fashions, Gunty!’
Isabel stared. Balligumph was talking to empty air, as far as Isabel could tell, for nobody stood before him. More than that, she could have sworn that he was addressing a tree. He had stopped in the midst of a neat ring of particularly tall trees, their trunks at least five feet wide. They towered so far overhead, Isabel felt a little dizzied when she looked up into their branches. What intrigued her the most was their colouring: there were seven of them in total, and each was decked in leaves and frondy vines of rainbow colours. The nearest to her was predominantly red, with crimson foliage and scarlet vines; its next neighbour was orange, saffron and cinnamon; and so on around the circle. The arrangement was attractive to the eye, but strange indeed, and Isabel could not imagine that they had grown naturally in such a state.
Balligumph’s words died away, leaving nothing but silence. ‘Come on!’ he bellowed into the air. ‘I know ye’re there! Nappin’, I shouldn’t wonder, but ye’ve done more’n enough o’ that, Sir! Wake yerself an’ meet some very good folk. They ‘ave come a long way to meet ye.’
Nothing happened. Isabel’s mount grew restive, perhaps resenting the warmth and weight of Tafferty curled up upon her neck. Isabel devoted a moment or two to soothing her with gentle pats and soft words, and in so doing, missed whatever it was that encouraged Balligumph to shout with rousing delight: ‘Thas the way! Good! Tis a matter o’ some importance, ye collect, or I would leave ye be. Not tha’ ye deserve it, ye old dog! Come on, now. A bit more o’ that, an’ ye’ll be fit fer company.’
Isabel looked up from her mount and stared into the colourful circle of trees. Where all seven had previously been eerily still, now one of them displayed some slight movement. The green-hued tree was decked in velvet moss and sprouting pale green flowers; long, twisting vines hung from its higher branches, each one fabulously striped in jade and sage. The vines were swaying gently, and — did her eyes deceive her? — the star-shaped flowers were opening and closing, as though stretching themselves after a long sleep. As she watched, a strong shudder descended from the tree’s branches to its trunk, raining bits of moss and leaves down upon Balligumph’s head.
‘Hah!’ he barked, shaking himself. ‘A pretty trick, but mayhap I ‘ave deserved it. Come on, now. We ‘aven’t got all day.’ He turned and winked at Isabel. ‘He can be a mite sluggish, Miss, but he’ll wake. It’s because o’ the long slumber. Tricky habit to shake off, that one.’
Isabel nodded, trying to look as though she possessed some faint inkling as to what he referred. She did not. As far as she could tell, Balligumph was talking to a tree and receiving some manner of response. How did that make any sense?
But the tree was shrinking, its distant boughs growing gradually but undeniably closer to the ground. Its bark smoothed and softened, branches shrank and faded away, and its trunk narrowed. The transformation was rapid, once begun: Isabel saw a vast, green-decked tree, and then she saw a giant.
He was bigger than Balligumph. Isabel judged his height at perhaps ten feet, with girth to match. In fact, he was only a giant on the top half, a great, mighty-looking man-like creature wearing green velvet and a soft, baggy hat. From the waist down, he was still a tree, his trunk firmly rooted into the ground.
Those velvets were odd to Isabel’s eye, though not wholly unfamiliar. She had seen garb like it in old portraits, and sometimes in books. He was wearing a doublet, well-fitted, with long sleeves and a point at the hem. Whether it was indeed made from velvet, or whether he had taken the mosses which adorned his trunk and fashioned them into the semblance of clothing, she could not tell. It was liberally strewn with the same star-shaped flowers that decked the base of his trunk, and more of them covered the brim of his hat. The effect was flamboyant and rich — an effect he furthered in the next moment by performing a grave and surprisingly graceful bow to the company.
‘Thou hast the manners of a swine,’ the giant informed Balligumph. ‘Motley-minded and a miscreant, troll! A reeky, knotty-pated malt-worm!’ He glared down at the troll, who was laughing uproariously at this barrage of insults, and added, ‘I was but two instants from forming the most perfect leaf I have sculpt’d in all the long ages of my life.’
Balligumph swept off his hat and bowed low to the giant. ‘My apologies, then! I am sure ye will make more.’
The giant’s glare vanished, and abruptly he grinned. His eyes were jewel-green and they began, now, to twinkle; his leathery face wrinkled further as he grinned. ‘Miscreant!’ he repeated. ‘Thou art a plague upon giant-kind.’
Balligumph nodded agreement. ‘That I am, an’ an honour it is to be so.’
The giant’s gaze moved past Balligumph, and settled upon the rest of his party. ‘A merry band of travellers! Wherefore hast thou conveyed such colourful folk hither?’
‘Tis yer help we’re after,’ Balligumph said. He motioned the riders forward, and gestured for them to dismount. Isabel found herself standing almost upon the protruding roots of the violet-decked tree, and carefully avoided them, for what if they were all giants?
‘This is Sir Guntifer,’ Balligumph said, beaming. ‘One o’ my oldest friends, when he is not slumberin’ like an old lazybones.’
‘I am an old lazybones,’ interjected Sir Guntifer.
‘Well, an’ I was bein’ charitable,’ said Balligumph. ‘But if ye prefer, I will tell the truth. A more frippery fellow ye scarce ‘ave met in yer lives, an’ lazy to boot. But he is loyal, an’ clever, an’ he knows more about anythin’ ye can think up than anyone.’ His grin widened. ‘Even me.’
Isabel’s brows rose as Balligumph spoke of his friendship with the giant, for the insults they had hurled at each other were fresh in her mind. There was no mistaking the gleam of affection in Sir Guntifer’s eyes, though, as he looked at the troll; nor the true geniality of Balligumph’s smile.
The tree-giant’s form began subtly to alter once more, and soon he stood a giant entire, his trunk gone in favour of stout legs in tall boots up to the knee and laced britches the colour of oak-tree bark. He carried a weapon like a rapier at his side. He took off his hat, from the brim of which sprang a cluster of tumbling vines finer than any feather, and swept them another bow. This was still more fluid and flamboyant than the first, displaying the grace and manners of a courtier. Isabel stared, astonished, and only belatedly remembered to curtsey in response.
‘Fine folk,’ pronounced Sir Guntifer, restoring his hat to his head. ‘I am Sir Guntifer Winlowe! Once I was guard to the Royal Family of Aylfenhame, in lost and thrice-mourned Mirramay. Now, I am as you see me: slumbersome and adrift.’
‘An’ a trifle melancholy,’ said Balligumph, patting Sir Guntifer gently on the back. ‘But
‘tis just because ye ‘ave been asleep too long. Ye’ll rouse. An’ I have a task to help ye along.’ He grinned and, with a swift glance at Lihyaen, added, ‘Nigh on a century, no? P’raps more? A fine, long rest.’
Lihyaen had become visibly more alert at this mention of the Royal Family, and no wonder, for the possibility that he might have known her parents immediately presented itself. Perhaps he even knew what had become of her father — or the person who had taken Lihyaen herself! But at Balligumph’s shrewd words these hopes faded and she settled once more. One hundred years and more was far too long ago; when the king had vanished and the queen had died, Sir Guntifer must have been asleep.
‘Very well,’ rumbled Sir Guntifer. His voice was very deep and rough, like tumbling rocks. ‘Pray you, then: tell me of this errand.’
Balligumph took off his hat and scratched at his head, frowning. ‘Did ye ever have cause to make use o’ the ferries-as-was?’ he said.
Sir Guntifer shook his head. ‘Nay, I had nought to do with the Ferry-folk.’
‘But ye’ll remember Kostigern, I’ll wager.’
Sir Guntifer’s face darkened. ‘Aye. That I do.’
‘In the wake o’ that, every one o’ the Ferries was disbanded — all save one, an’ its Keeper was cursed t’ toil upon it forever. Can ye recall word o’ such?’
‘The Last Keeper.’ Sir Guntifer peered at Balligumph. ‘What is the nature of thy business with such as he, old friend?’
‘It don’t sound as ye like the fellow overmuch,’ Balligumph commented.
Sir Guntifer shrugged his wide shoulders, sending puffs of moss and dirt into the air. ‘Ne’r have I met the Keeper, but tidings of him reached me in ages past.’ He paused, frowning. ‘Tis his merited punishment, some say, for his support of the one called Kostigern in the Times of Trial.’
Isabel opened her mouth to object, but caught herself in time. Support of Kostigern, the traitor? Remembering the Ferryman’s congenial manner, his kindness, and above all his loneliness, her heart cried out at the allegation. But good sense intervened before she could make a fool of herself. What did she know of the Ferryman, in truth? Little indeed. A mere hour’s conversation with a man she found pleasant could not render him incapable of wrong-doing. But the thought troubled her.
‘Aye,’ Balligumph was saying. ‘I ‘ave come across such tales me own self. I dunnot know if there’s a scrap o’ truth in ‘em.’ He glanced at Isabel as he spoke, and she was warmed to detect a note of concern in his eyes — warmed and embarrassed, for had her liking for the Ferryman been so obvious?
‘Ye don’t know, then, how the curse came t’ be bestowed, or by who?’ Balligumph continued.
Sir Guntifer shook his head. ‘That is not known to me.’
‘An’ therefore, ye don’t know who he was before he was the Ferryman.’
Sir Guntifer shook his head again. ‘I would that it were not so, for I see I am of no help to thee.’
Balligumph sighed, his shoulders slumping. ‘I ‘ad hopes,’ he admitted. ‘Tis said tha’ to lift the curse his name ‘as to be found. I was hopin’ ye might know, old as ye are.’
The giant stuck a vine into his mouth and chewed upon it. ‘Mm,’ he said.
‘Tis a thorny problem.’
‘Verily.’ The giant thought some more. ‘Wherefore dost thou wish the Ferryman’s freedom?’ he enquired. ‘He may be a foe, but if he is not that, he is certainly no friend.’
‘The young lady,’ said Balligumph with a slight cough and a gesture towards Isabel, ‘is possessed of a heart o’ gold, an’ she has made somethin’ along the lines of an unwise promise to the lad.’
Sir Guntifer’s gaze settled upon Isabel, and she found herself surveyed with discomfiting keenness. ‘Has she,’ he said.
Isabel looked at her feet, colouring. Never had she felt so foolish as she felt now, speared by that intense, ancient gaze. She felt that every part of her folly was displayed to his discerning eye, without hope of respite. ‘I felt…’ she began, but her words died away.
‘Ye felt?’ prompted Balligumph. ‘Come now, lass. Ye’re among friends. Ye must tell us everythin’, the better we’ll be able to help ye.’
Isabel lifted her chin. ‘I felt sympathy for his plight,’ she said. ‘No one deserves such a fate, and I do not care what he has done.’
‘Some people do,’ muttered Aubranael, and Lihyaen nodded. If they were thinking of the one who had taken Lihyaen, then she could not disagree; but the possibility that the Ferryman was capable of such villainy seemed, to her, utterly impossible.
To her relief, Sir Guntifer smiled upon her, and even patted her upon the head — crushing her bonnet entirely, she feared. ‘A sweet maid,’ he said. ‘I hope for thy sake, little one, that he is worthy of thy belief in him.’
‘Me too,’ growled Balligumph.
Sir Guntifer stretched mightily, and shook himself. ‘If it were some two centuries ago at this moment,’ he said, ‘I would say that the Chronicler is the person who would know. But thou art late indeed.’
Balligumph’s eyes brightened. ‘The Chronicler! I heard word o’ him, once upon a time. Royal record-keeper, or some such, back in the golden days o’ the Royals?’
‘Aye,’ said the giant. ‘Every event of note went into his books, and he knew all. But he is gone. Gone since Kostigern.’
‘Gone?’ said Balligumph. ‘Or destroyed?’
‘That is not known.’
A wide smile split Balligumph’s face. ‘Ye were gone an awful long time,’ he said to Sir Guntifer.
The giant raised a shaggy eyebrow.
‘Come t’ think of it, the Ferryman was also scarce fer the odd decade or two.’
‘Aye,’ said Sir Guntifer. ‘Thou art thinking that, mayhap, the Chronicler has also returned.’
‘There’s a slim chance, do ye not think?’
‘Slender indeed.’
‘Thin an’ feeble an’ scarce worth the name o’ hope, but a chance! Now, I’m thinkin’.’ Balligumph tugged his hat from his head and began to turn it about in his hands, pulling at the brim and chewing upon his lips as he thought. ‘Last seen in Mirramay, most like?’ he said at last, looking at Sir Guntifer.
‘Aye.’
‘Then to Mirramay ye must go!’ Balligumph stuck his hat back onto his head and tapped upon it with a pleased smile. ‘Lots goin’ on in me noggin,’ he announced. ‘The Missie, now. She’s ‘ere fer witch-trainin’, ain’t that the truth? Well, so. Send ‘er to Mirramay wi’ the right sort o’ companions an’ she’ll get all the trainin’ she’ll need — an’ a mite of perspective, like. Maybe she’ll find the Chronicler there an’ maybe she won’t, but a great deal may happen on such a journey. A very great deal.’
Balligumph concluded this speech with a wise nod and a beaming smile at Isabel, who involuntarily stepped back a pace. ‘Mirramay!’ she said. ‘Gracious me, I really… that is, I have not the smallest notion where that may be. Or what manner of place it is.’
‘Not a worry!’ said Balligumph promptly. ‘Ye will have a guide. It is the largest an’ finest city in all of Aylfenhame, an’ the site o’ the Royal Court.’ His smile faded into a scowl, and he shrugged. ‘Or it was. ‘Tis all broken down, now, in the absence o’ the Royal family.’
Isabel glanced uncertainly around at her companions, seeking signs of enthusiasm for this plan. They looked as blank as she, though Lihyaen wore an expression of intent interest. ‘Is it very far away?’ Isabel asked.
‘Oh, a deal o’ distance,’ said Balligumph with unimpaired cheer.
‘Then surely I cannot. I am here without my Mama’s knowledge, and before long I must return to England.’ She blushed with shame at owning such a piece of misconduct and deceit, though it had been embarked upon at her aunt’s urging — and more than urging. But nobody looked shocked at such an admission. If anything, the sparkle in Sophy’s eyes denoted approval.
‘Yer Ma will manage without ye fer a week or two,’ said Balligumph. ‘An’
ye may trust yer aunt to take care o’ such matters as that.’
‘She cannot conceal my absence forever!’ Isabel protested. ‘Nor explain it, once it is discovered! I must not place her in such a difficult position.’
Balligumph grinned. ‘Seems to me yer aunt ‘as more put ye in a difficult position, an’ fer good reason. Don’t ye worry yer ‘ead about Eliza Grey. She is more than equal to the challenges, an’ it was ‘er own doin’ at that.’
Isabel’s mouth opened, but no further objections spilled forth. Not because she was disinclined to make any, but because she could think of no further reasons to refuse, besides her own deep reluctance to undertake any such journey. She ought to be paying morning calls with her aunt and attending York assemblies, not gadding about in Aylfenhame! Besides, how was she to manage such a journey? She was not so physically robust as Sophy, and it would surely be arduous.
‘I will go with you,’ Sophy said, her voice pitched low. It was typically considerate of her. Not for the world would she loudly push Isabel into any scheme she disliked, but she would always support her if her help was required. Isabel smiled gratefully at her.
‘I thank you,’ she said softly. ‘But I… cannot.’
‘You are afraid, I think?’ said Sophy.
Isabel bit her lip, and nodded. ‘I do not know how I am to manage,’ she confessed. ‘And it does not seem that we are likely to find this Chronicler in Mirramay.’
Sophy tucked her arm through Isabel’s. ‘It is remarkable what we can manage, when we are compelled to make the attempt,’ she said. ‘Or when we compel ourselves.’
Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman Page 9