Chasing the Bard

by Philippa Ballantine

  Their little legs scurried to escape so much strangeness, but they had become turned about in confusion. Will couldn’t understand it—they had surely not walked so very far into the wood as not to be able to find their way out again.

  “We’ve only gone a few steps,” he muttered to himself.

  The bushes rustled ominously around the boys. Things shifted in the trees all the worse because they remained unseen. It could be deer, Will supposed—he hoped.

  White Cat darted down from his tree and scampered to the boys. His colourless fur was all puffed up, even his tail. White Cat was never afraid of anything, but now his big golden eyes were almost black with alarm. He opened his mouth and let out a frightening hiss, not directed at the boys, but at the surrounding wood.

  Gil had jammed his hands over his face and whimpered. A sickly lump welled up in Will’s throat as he put a comforting arm around his younger brother, his own tears threatening. Every muscle in his young body clenched with alarm

  “We’re alright, we’re alright,” was his newfound litany.

  And then something dark and many clawed leapt out at them from the right. The boys had a glimpse of a drooling wide mouth, and hot red eyes. Both screamed, and stumbled back, landing on their bottoms as the thing sprang at them, gibbering like one of Bridie’s worst tales made flesh.

  It could and would have ended there; two frightened children alone in the woods attacked by something that defied description, but had plenty of hate and hunger. It bore down on them in long strides, made on its oddly jointed hind legs, and on its hairless knuckles, swinging from terribly long arms. Then White Cat was there. Will caught sight of his mighty leap, blurring against his eye like a lightning strike, but full of hope and magic.

  In one brief instant the cat had flickered to a far more ferocious mirror form. A powerful striped feline, all orange and black stripes, long ivory teeth, and bunches of terrible muscles. This shape roared loud enough to shake the two boys’ bones, and with one supple move caught the approaching dark menace in its mouth. A sharp crunch and shake, and the thing was dead, like so many rats before it. The large cat spat its victim to the ground and turned its savage golden eyes on the boys.

  Horrified Will yelled and yanked Gilbert to his feet with sweaty hands. He didn’t know which he was more afraid of, the sudden charge of the horror, or the calm ferocity of that which had been his childhood companion. He only knew that he had to get his brother to safety. He could already imagine his mother’s cries, and his mind boiled over with that one thought; save Gilbert. Half-pulling half-carrying his brother, he plunged further into the woods. Luckily profound shock had set in, and Gil was silent and limp in his arms. If only he had someone to guide him as he was doing for his brother, but there was no one else. He had never felt more foolish or alone.

  Leaves and trees ran at them, striking tender young skin, and every stone turned against them. They blundered into sharp twigs and brambles, only to pull loose, hardly feeling the welts and scratches they received. Around the two boys, the forest was alive with pursuit; behind the heavy strike of heavy feline paws on their trail, and to the side even more frightening unidentified scuttling.

  Gilbert stumbled and cried out, his tender foot catching in a traitorous branch. Will picked him up, heaving his not inconsiderable childish weight over one shoulder, and running on. Now there were the sounds of more roars, and screams of pain behind. Whatever those things were, they sounded all too human when injured. He reached a small stream, and though he sensed them closing in on him, Will’s heart leapt. He splashed through the few inches of water and stopped on the other side to catch his breath.

  Dropping Gil onto his own feet once more, he hugged him tight, “S’alright Gil. Remember Bridie said they can’t cross running water.” In their infant world, Bridie was the font of all knowledge.

  Two of the creatures burst from the undergrowth snarling and spitting. They barrelled right up to the water, eyes locked on the children—and then stopped.

  Will smiled in triumph—even though they were only yards from them. He was proud that he had managed to save them both—without any adult help.

  “Will,” his brother stammered, choking over his tears, and pulling at his sleeve.

  Low growls from behind made Will turn, heart stammering in his chest once more. Four horrors were emerging from the half-light of the trees on this side of the stream. Will almost gagged on the stench of them. It was far worse than his father’s whittawering, which was the worst smell he knew. They spread their full lips, grinning at the two boys, and the eyes above those terrible mouths were full of cold intelligence.

  The lead one paced towards them, assured now of its prey. Will gathered Gilbert behind him, though his own immature body was shaking, and scarcely protection against what must follow. He tried in vain to remember all the other things his nurse had told him. Reciting scripture was an assured way of banishing such evil. His treacherous memory failed, and his mouth choked and dried before he could say anything.

  The creature was now so close he could feel the unnatural heat its body gave off. It shuffled forward, jaws swinging open to reveal teeth the colour of plump maggots.

  Something shifted within the young boy between one breath and that which would become his last. Suddenly, the entire world narrowed down to this creature and himself. The tautness between them was like a bowstring. The wood, the stench, his brother’s whimpers, all disappeared. A little smile flitted across the elder brother’s lips—why, it was all so simple. Calmly Will raised his hand and pointed at it.

  “I see you, and you see me, so I command, this shall not be.” It was a foolish, silly little piece of rhyme, and yet there was a childish power to it.

  The beast’s spiky black fur rippled, as if it were a wind-touched wave, its muscles heaved, and then it obeyed. It was simply Not. It disappeared into the nothingness. A slight displacement of the air was all that marked its end. Not even a hair remained in the paw prints it had made in the soft earth.

  Will grinned with triumph, his mind already locking on the other two, but then the world narrowed further, becoming a darkening, constricting tunnel. He had taken too much from himself and this realm. A terrible lethargy swept over him, muscles were no longer his to command, and legs crumpled under the weight of his body. Gil’s scream of horror was the last thing to reach him before the darkness washed over him and drew him to it.

  4

  Who will not change a raven for a dove?

  He was righteous fury, and unstoppable strength. He was tooth, and claw, and flesh, whose sole purpose was to rid the world of these horrors. Puck lashed out with a deep snarl, sending boogarts tumbling left and right. The taste of their vile blood filled his mouth, hot and metallic, but in this tiger’s form it felt good. It made his rage all the greater, and he grew strong on the fear he was creating amongst them.

  But there were a terrible number of them in the wood. So many could not be mere chance. Something was planning to kill the young Shakespeare this day, and worst of all Puck could not be sure they hadn’t succeeded. The unworldly horrors were keeping him far too busy to chase after the children.

  More boogarts leapt from the trees, landing all around him, two on his striped back, one burying its teeth in his vulnerable ear, and three even clenching onto his lashing tail.

  Puck snarled and batted at them, eliciting yowls of agony, but he could not manage to dispatch them quickly enough, being buried by their weight.

  How odd that what might be his last thought was for Will and Gilbert. If he were to die now, there would be no hope for the boys. So he had no choice; there was nothing else to do. Now he dared to do what none had ever done. Puck Spun his Art into the Fey, and one sharp dagger of consciousness pierced his cousin through.

  A clap of fierce thunder lit up the wood in pure white as Sive exploded into the mortal realm. Her silver-edged sword caught a boogart mid-leap before its wielder had even taken two steps into this world. The cleaved remain
s tumbled unmourned into the undergrowth. As always there was time to admire his cousin. Sive wore her Armor of burnished silver, dull costume being for dull mortals, and about it her dark hair circled with a powerful life of its own. Sive had not danced her web of death on this realm for generations. Catching a charging boogart on her shield and slamming it into the ground by her feet, she pierced it through, thus sending it on to whatever miserable afterlife could await such as these. The blade was the least of Sive’s weapons. Her Art burned through the undergrowth, lancing out with flashes of light exploding the attackers where they lurked, or simply making them Not.

  Puck had always known that he was in love with his cousin, but in that moment he would have given his life to be hers, even for one heady breath. To be held close, to lose himself in her would be sweet. It was a dangerous fancy, and the dark patterns she wove about them reminded him of that.

  In a few moments together they had cleared the boogarts. Sive brushed hair from her eyes, and glared about, sword still shuddering naked in her hand, “Where is the boy, Puck?”

  Politeness or civility had never been Sive’s area of expertise. Puck was about to point this out to her, and maybe ask if he wasn’t at least deserving of a thank you for all his mortal years spent babysitting, when they both heard it, a shrill childish scream some distance off.

  Sive’s head came up, eyes narrowed, and then without so much as a ‘by your leave Puck’, she swirled her cloak about them and Carried them to the sound. His cousin’s Art and heady scent disoriented Puck for a moment. It took him another breath to get his bearings. They were by a patch of running water across which he could see the two boys, lying almost obscured by some ferns.

  Little Gilbert was clutching his brother who was lying quiet and still as a stone on the ground before two advancing boogarts. Will’s chest was moving, and his pulse beat like a trapped butterfly at his throat, but for how much longer?

  The boogarts’ heads came up, swivelling towards the suddenly arrived Fey. They might be only low animals, but they sensed when their time was up, and, gibbering and howling, made startling leaps for the children. Puck called out in horror and bounded across the small stream—but Sive was faster by far. Her hand lanced out, and lightning danced where she pointed. In a flash of power that left the earth trembling, both boogarts vanished.

  Just then Will’s head lifted from the ground and looking right past his weeping brother he met Sive’s gaze.

  Puck paused, wondering how the young bard and the ancient Fey would seem to each other. Sive looked curious, almost entranced. Will remained very still, but totally aware of that which he was seeing—the very heart of Sive the Shining. It was not a look that would please her. Something flickered between them, and then she moved swift as she had been with the lightning, wrapped a glamour of sleep around the boys.

  Puck shifted to his proper Fey shape and ran to catch them before their heads met the ground. Sive could be so thoughtless sometimes, but both boys looked to have escaped unscathed. He straightened their little limbs, and with small flickers of his Art healed their scrapes and cuts.

  But it seemed she had already dismissed them, showing only her back to Puck as he tended to the boys. Instead, striding over to where the boogarts had been, she scuffed her boot in the leaf litter.

  “They’ll be fine,” Puck told her, “Thank you for asking. Naturally, I’ll have to use a glamour to bury all this from their memory. They’d have nightmares for years otherwise.”

  “Only the eldest is our concern,” Sive shot the remark over one shoulder, as she bent to examine the boogarts, tracks. “Do not waste your Art on simple humans, cousin.”

  Puck made a face behind her back, but heedless cast the glamour on both boys. Gilbert was a good lad, and it would be a shame to spoil him because he wasn’t considered important. For though Gilbert showed none of the Art, he still had as much Fey in him as Will, and Puck had come to think of the whole family as kin.

  After ascertaining that they would sleep for a good long while, he went to Sive’s side. “Well, this is nice!” he snapped, “Eight years of living my life in a skinny cat’s body and not even a ‘hello’. I suppose it would be too much to ask for a ‘I’ve missed you, Puck’, or a ‘How have you been, Puck’?”

  “It has only been a month in the Fey, but I can see nothing has changed with you, cousin. Still, it’s comforting to see your sorry hide intact.” Sometimes it was hard to tell if Sive was joking or not, those dark and alien violet eyes giving little away.

  “Well that’s something I suppose,” he sighed. "I should be glad that you even noticed my absence—I would have thought you were too busy with your new husband.”

  Sive’s mouth worked, and the pale light of the Fey seemed to dim around her. “I can say... Mordant is not what I expected. He is more powerful than I imagined.”

  An icy chill played havoc on Puck’s spine. “Are you all right, cousin? Does he treat you ill?” He couldn't imagine a situation where Sive would allow that to happen, but something about her expression tumbled the words out of his mouth.

  She laughed at that. “No—it is this realm. I mislike the air, it makes me feel quite... odd.”

  “The human realm is not to the taste of every Fey.” Puck tucked Gilbert’s thumb into his mouth, “But I have found it suits me well enough. They even like my jokes.”

  Sive shot him a brief unexpected smile, but bent as something caught her eye.

  “Admiring your handiwork, are we?” Puck muttered.

  “Not just mine,” she replied, “Look here, another set of paw prints. There was a third boogart before we even arrived.”

  Puck frowned and scratched his head, “A third? But how could that be?”

  Sive looked over her shoulder at the sleeping boys. “It seems our young bard may have had his first taste of Art. He must have commanded Not.” Though this proclaimed the lad’s talent, her expression was unfathomable.

  Puck rocked back on his heels, for once unable to find words. Not was one of the highest Fey spells, only attempted by a master. He worked his tongue around in his mouth, trying to find anything but surprise. “Well,” he managed, “It seems to have taken it out of him.”

  Sive stood over Will, looking down, and probing with Art. “He is young, yes, but it is the mortal realm’s lack of power that has done this. He must have called on his own reserves to perform the Not. In the Fey he wouldn’t have to.”

  “Then Brigit was right about him,” Puck raised one eyebrow. “Who’d have guessed.”

  “And who can say what he might have achieved had he been in the Fey realm. The boy is not ready for that experience. He still has much to learn. You must watch him closely, Puck. He might draw more dangers to himself as he discovers his power.”

  Her cousin nodded, in what he hoped was a sage manner. Many things walked the Between, nightmares of many worlds, and sometimes Art drew them into the human realm.

  “More years in a cat body for me then, I suppose,” he grumbled. Sive’s strong hand caught his elbow, dragging him into the shadow of her Art. Her words when they reached him were not soft, “You are doing well, Puck—I can trust no other. You have my thanks, and will have this mortal’s too when he learns of it.”

  That was one thing Puck was more than a little doubtful on—in his time with mortals he had already learned they were flighty things, and stubborn too. How the young Shakespeare would react to the Fey was unknown. Still, Sive’s presence kept that thought unvoiced.

  Breaking loose, he brushed at the invisible creases in his sleeve. “Well, I suppose I should get these two back home. I don’t want to turn into a pony this late in the day though, so I’d appreciate some help. You know how I hate making an ass of myself...”

  Lips twitched despite her best efforts, and as she flared her cloak once more wide Puck grinned up at her.

  He could bear anything if it meant being close to Sive, even for a moment. Surely there could be no wrong in such a simple pleasure.
/>   * * *

  Mordant’s hall was everything that the home of the Lord of darkness and blood could be. Sive returned to it with great reluctance; even the human realm was more attractive than this. She had left Puck tucking the two boys into their straight little beds, and for a moment had envied the simplicity of his task; not for him the dread cold of a lonely hall, or the weight of cold eyes on his back. A warm hearth and the laughter of children did not seem such a terrible thing to her now.

  She wished she could have spoken to Puck about this place, but her husband’s glamour would not allow it. The bitter words simmered within her unshared. And the leash of his power pulled her back to his hall, always back here. She could not stay long away before it started to seem like an ache within her. Only being in its dark presence could satisfy her after a while.

  Where a decent Fey home tunnelled into the ground, Mordant’s home perched high on a stony outcrop. It looked not to the bright forests that were the centre of this world, but outwards to the purple mists that encompassed the Fey. The hall hunched upon the hilltop, its back turned to all that the Fey had been and loved.

  Made of rock and twisted wood, it did not resemble human or Fey construction, having no windows or chimneys, nor the relentless cloud of sprites that clustered around Fey halls. Seemingly they had more intelligence and sense than her brother who had latched onto Mordant since the wedding. He was Sive’s only chance of a visitor in the hall, and little comfort that bought.

  Her mother would have blasted it clean, ridding the Fey of its abhorrence. Auberon, apparently only her son in body and not soul, rattled around the fell structure and spoke of eccentricities. Sive couldn’t decide what was worse, the place itself, or her people’s acceptance of it.

  Her husband perverted the beautiful nature of the Fey world and cowed its inhabitants. And though she could not put a name to the source of his power, she knew it was terribly wrong.