Faerie Fruit

by Charlotte E. English

  When she looked up, she noticed that the central image in the key itself was different from anything she had seen before. Neither the golden apple nor the pear were visible, quite, for they had merged into a seamless melding of the two.

  ‘What a fine trick,’ she said admiringly. ‘All it really wanted was the right light.’

  The old woman looked sharply at Hattie. ‘That is all any of us wants,’ she said, incomprehensibly. She pointed at the map. ‘Look,’ she said to her fellows. ‘There is but one left.’

  ‘One what?’ said Hattie, for though she knew that the question was not addressed to her, she refused to be left out of the business.

  ‘One river.’ Hattie’s confusion did not lessen, for she could clearly see seven distinct rivers winding their way through the landscape.

  But they were not all alike. Most were ribbons of colourless space, discernible only in contrast with the vivid green-and-blue terrain around them. One end of each waterway disappeared beyond the confines of the image, flowing away into who-knew-where.

  Only one was different. The seventh river was a bright band of silver, like a thin stream of moonlight coiling through the land. Both its source and its end could be traced, and Hattie felt at last that she began to understand.

  ‘This is Faerie!’ she said, pointing at the map.

  ‘Aqua pura faerie,’ Theodosius said, almost at the same time.

  ‘This shows the current borders,’ Hattie continued. ‘They have contracted so much, most of the rivers now flow out of Faerie — or they flow in from outside.’

  ‘Out, beyond the light,’ said the old woman with a sigh. ‘And in, bringing with them the mortal taint of iron. Only one runs true and pure, and who can say how long it will endure?’

  Theodosius pointed a finger at the trinket, still hovering in the air above their heads. ‘Those fruits,’ he said. ‘Are they what is meant by melaeon?’

  ‘They are,’ said the fog-haired woman. ‘Melaeon is why we are here.’

  Brewer’s Yard! But a brew made from orchard fruits was…

  ‘You make cider?’ said Hattie in disbelief. She knew of it; everyone did, though few now living could say that they had ever tasted it. Berrie was once famed for the fruit and the produce created therefrom, though all of that had faded long ago.

  After it crossed over from Faerie, Hattie realised.

  ‘Not anymore,’ said the man with the bronze hair.

  ‘We are most of the way to a tincture, then,’ said Theodosius, and he told them about the contents of Tobias’s strongbox. ‘Though I do not know how much use you will be able to get out of them, for there are not a great many,’ he finished.

  His words electrified the company, for they all began to talk at once, demanding in their various ways that Theodosius bring the fruits here immediately and at once.

  ‘I dare not remove them!’ said Theo.

  ‘Then we will bring the box!’ retorted the man with the bronze hair, and he got up out of his rocking chair. Three others followed suit, and they were halfway to the wall before Hattie fully realised what was afoot.

  ‘But the starlight!’ cried she. ‘What of that?’

  ‘Greensleeves has it in hand,’ said the oldest of the women, and Hattie was obliged to be contented with that, for she said no more.

  Theodosius was all but frogmarched through the wall by the fae, and Hattie hastened after him in some concern. Surely they did not intend to burst into the Moss and Mist without invitation, and carry off Tobias’s treasures!

  But they did, for they hesitated not at the door to the tavern, and went in all as a group. Hattie saw at once that John Quartermane had carried through his promise of re-opening the establishment that very evening, for it was full of drinkers, and Quartermane himself stood in Tobias’s usual position behind the bar.

  The tavern fell silent as the fae stormed in, and Hattie saw a sea of familiar faces all staring in shock.

  ‘Penderglass?’ demanded John Quartermane. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  He was not answered. Indeed, he was pushed aside by the fae, and none too gently either, for he stood in front of the strongbox and was decidedly in the way. The fae picked up the box with no visible effort, each of the four grasping one of its four corners, and away they went again without so much as glancing at the barkeep.

  ‘That box belongs to the Mist!’ spluttered Quartermane in impotent indignation. His protestations went as unheeded as his questions, and within moments the door of the Moss and Mist had shut behind the four relentless fae, and Theodosius and Hattie with them.

  ‘Well!’ said Hattie, and dissolved into laughter. ‘I shall cherish that look on Quartermane’s face for many a year, I should think.’

  ‘Serves him right for stealing Tobias’s place,’ Theodosius agreed. ‘Hurry now, Hat, or we will be left behind.’

  The fae vanished back through the wall, and Hattie and Theodosius squeezed through in their wake.

  The strongbox was set down upon the stones of the courtyard and already opened by the time they caught up. The fruits inside shone in the eternal sunlight in a way they had never done before — eternal, Hattie thought, because though it was full dark in the streets of Berrie, not one whit had the light changed here in Brewer’s Yard. It was as though time did not pass there at all, and perhaps that was precisely it; perhaps it did not.

  ‘Not a great many,’ confirmed the eldest of the women. ‘It will barely suffice, but suffice it will. Quickly, now.’ She took the key from the lid of the strongbox and handed it to Hattie. ‘Aqua pura faerie,’ she instructed. ‘Make haste!’

  ‘But how can I find the way!’ Hattie protested, alarmed. ‘Shall not one of you go? For you will be far quicker than we.’ In truth she did not at all wish to give up the expedition, but the making of the tincture must be urgent indeed to explain the tearing hurry of the brewers, and she feared to prove herself inadequate for the task.

  ‘To set foot into Faerie is to sicken,’ said the fog-haired woman. ‘Some fae blood you both must have in you, but there is enough of the mortal to protect you. Only do not linger long! For your own sakes, and for ours.’

  ‘Where, then, is the way?’ said Hattie, mustering her resolution.

  The woman with fog for hair pointed at the far wall, on the opposite side of the courtyard.

  ‘The young man will require Boots,’ said the eldest of the women, and the bronze-haired man immediately removed his own. They were as blue as peacocks and trimmed in pearl grey, as unsuitable for Theodosius as Hattie could imagine. She watched in delight as her brother discarded his own footwear and pulled on the Boots.

  ‘They fit very well,’ he said in surprise.

  ‘Hasten,’ said the eldest. Theodosius abandoned his admiration of his borrowed Boots and made an obedient salute.

  ‘Onward!’ said Hattie, and strode away. Theodosius followed. They marched at the wall without hesitation, and passed straight through into Faerie.

  Chapter Four

  Considering the nature of the portal, Hattie expected to find another town on the other side, or at least somewhere that might naturally be supposed to have a stone-built wall somewhere in its environs. She also assumed that the hour in Brewer’s Yard would largely reflect that of Faerie Proper.

  Instead, she and Theodosius stepped into a deep twilight. After the bright sunlight of the courtyard, Hattie’s eyes took a little time to adjust, and she almost walked into a tree before she realised that she stood in the midst of an arbour of some kind.

  ‘Trees, Theo!’ she warned, though a muffled ouch from behind her suggested that her helpful warning had come slightly too late.

  ‘Thank you, Hat,’ grumbled Theodosius.

  Hattie took a moment to look around. The dark silhouettes of contorted trees loomed in all directions, branches hanging so low she would have to take care not to brain herself upon them in passing. Once her eyes had adjusted to the lower light, the sky no longer appeared fully dark, but rather a se
rene, deep blue. There was even a ruddy glow somewhere in the distance, the dying light of a setting sun.

  ‘Let’s go that way,’ Hattie decided, and set out with a confident stride. She did her utmost to navigate the woodland without crashing into trees, tripping over tree roots, bumping her head upon low-hanging boughs or otherwise disgracing herself, and for the most part she contrived very well. Until, that is, the ground abruptly vanished from beneath her feet and she fell, with an indignant shriek, into a swift-rushing flow of cold water.

  She might have been swept away at once if not for the quickness of Theodosius, who caught the back of her coat before she could disappear beyond his reach.

  ‘Well done, Hat,’ he complimented her. ‘I believe you have found a river!’

  ‘Clever of me,’ Hattie agreed, shivering. ‘But if you would be so obliging as to pull me out of it again, I shall be more than a little bit grateful.’

  Theodosius granted this request forthwith, and the procedure was performed with only a little complaining on his side, and only a little cursing on Hattie’s. Afterwards she lay in a sodden heap in the grass, staring up at the intertwined branches above her head and hurling imprecations at her Boots.

  ‘I do not know what is the point of them if they are so faithless as to walk me into a river!’ she complained.

  ‘I believe you walked yourself into the river,’ said Theodosius without sympathy.

  ‘They might have prevented me! Instead of standing idly by while I blunder straight over the bank. And what is worse, Theo? I do believe the wretched things are laughing at me.’ It was not easy to determine the degree of mirth experienced by a pair of Boots but Hattie could swear that her toes wriggled with a most ungenerous giggle.

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Theodosius — who, despite his appalling lack of sympathy, had at least got her out of the water and refrained from laughing at her. Brothers were good for something, Hattie thought grudgingly. ‘Is it the right river?’

  Hattie sat up, shivering. ‘I do not see how I am expected to know,’ she muttered. ‘It is as cold and unpleasant as any river I have known. I may have measured my length in it but I have no more idea than you as to whether or not it qualifies as aqua pura faerie. But I should think it highly unlikely. If the river were so close as all that, would not the fae of Brewer’s Yard have come for it themselves? They spoke as though it were a bit of a journey.’

  ‘It is,’ came a new voice out of the darkness.

  Hattie shot up at once, alarmed, for who could say what manner of person or creature might be encountered in Faerie? She did not even know where in Faerie they were.

  Theodosius, however, demonstrably did not share her alarm. On the contrary he appeared to be delighted. ‘Tobias!’ he exclaimed. ‘Gracious, man, we have been wishing for your return this age.’

  Tobias? Hattie could discern little save a tall, rather hulking figure and could not by any means feel certain that it was indeed Tobias Dwerryhouse. Theodosius had no such concerns, for he hurled himself upon said hulking figure and hugged it exuberantly.

  ‘You found the key, then, Theo?’ said Tobias.

  ‘Hattie did.’

  ‘And the fruit? The good ones?’

  ‘They’re at Brewer’s Yard.’

  ‘Thank goodness.’ Tobias sounded much relieved.

  A lantern lit up moments later — held, not by Tobias, but by a woman with yellow hair and a fine woven shawl which Hattie recognised as her own work.

  ‘Why, Clarimond!’ said she. ‘Are we, then, in Southtown? But how wonderful!’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Tobias — and it was indeed he, she could now conclude, for his dark hair and beard and dark, friendly gaze were illuminated by the lantern his betrothed held. ‘This orchard was never truly of Berrie, though it crossed over with the rest of the town in my great-grandfather’s day.’

  ‘What have you been about all this time?’ demanded Theodosius. ‘Do you realise that John Quartermane has taken over the Mist? You are sorely wanted, for he is an atrocious barkeep.’

  Tobias smiled faintly. ‘Better that he should than that the Mist goes untended,’ he said placidly enough. ‘Though I shall take the greatest pleasure in turning him out of it again upon my return, I assure you.’

  ‘You do, then, mean to return,’ said Theo in relief. ‘I am glad to hear it. And you, Mistress Honeysett?’

  Clarimond looked different, Hattie thought. Oh, she was recognisable beyond doubt, and at first it was difficult to identify what precisely had changed about her. She was dressed in the same modest, respectable fashion as always, though her green gown, black coat and half-boots were not, perhaps, as neat as they might once have been. Her hair had tumbled out of its pins and been permitted to remain in its disordered state, which was a little out of the ordinary.

  It was more her manner, though, that struck Hattie. Something in her posture, her movements, the expression of her eyes, suggested that she was no longer the same Mistress Honeysett that Southtown had once known.

  ‘I do not know what I shall do,’ said Clarimond. ‘I should wish to return to my home, of course! But my house is lost in Faerie with Southtown, and so the matter is a little more complicated for me than it is for Tobias.’

  ‘What have you been doing?’ said Hattie curiously. ‘And how has it happened to bring you here?’

  ‘On which topic,’ interjected Theodosius, ‘Where is here, exactly?’

  ‘Some say it used to be the very centre of Faerie,’ answered Tobias. ‘Long centuries ago, before the diminishing began. It was an orchard of great beauty, fruits grown under the purest light of Faerie. Moon and Sun reigned jointly over the skies, and coaxed forth their own particular favourites from the trees below: golden apples on the eastern bank of the river, and silver pears upon the west.’

  Hattie’s ears pricked up at those words, and Theodosius was clearly as much struck as she. ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘I will have a word or two to speak to you about that, Tobias.’

  Clarimond took up the tale. ‘But when the orchard crossed over, something changed. Moon is gone and Sun grieves and the orchard has not fruited in many, many years. Without their light, Faerie sickens and fades. Ironically, the things required to cure that sickness are the very things which no longer grow under the failing light. We have lingered because we are trying to help.’

  ‘Cornelius’s tincture!’ said Hattie. ‘That is also why we are here. But, oh dear. If the river we want is so far away, I do not know how we are to contrive to reach it in time!’

  ‘We have already undertaken the journey,’ said Tobias, ‘and brought back some of its waters. I have been there before, as a younger man, and had no difficulty remembering the way.’

  ‘We are here in search of a way into Brewer’s Yard,’ said Clarimond, ‘which Greensleeves assures us is somewhere here about.’

  Hattie opened her mouth to assist, before realising with dismay that she had no notion which tree they had emerged out of.

  ‘It is that way,’ said Theodosius, pointing behind Tobias. ‘I tied my cravat around a branch.’

  ‘But do you have Boots?’ Hattie looked at Tobias’s feet and Clarimond’s, but could not tell whether they were furnished with sufficiently obliging footwear.

  ‘The way will open for us,’ said Clarimond.

  ‘Well, Hat, it seems we are not needed,’ said Theodosius.

  But Hattie had no intention of being dragged back to Northtown so soon. ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘What do you mean, Moon is gone and Sun grieves?’

  Clarimond pointed up at the darkening sky, wherein the barest sliver of a crescent moon hung. ‘Moon neither waxes nor wanes over Faerie any longer. She has been that way for a century.’

  She. Both Tobias and Clarimond had spoken of the two heavenly bodies as though they were people, and why should they not be, in Faerie? Things were different here.

  ‘You mean to say that Sun has been grieving for the loss of Moon for a whole century, and because she no longe
r shines the whole land is fading away?’ Hattie felt a wave of indignation. ‘Why, how selfish!’

  ‘They are sisters,’ said Clarimond softly. ‘And close. Or they were, before the death of Moon.’

  Hattie was unmoved. ‘What rot! If Theo were to jaunt off someplace and forget to come back, is it to be imagined that I would be so absorbed by my own sorrows as to leave a whole land languishing in sickness because of it? It is not to be borne.’

  ‘There is nothing to be done about it, Hat,’ said Theodosius — glancing nervously in the direction of the dying sun as he spoke, as though she might hear and be mortally offended.

  ‘Of course there is.’ Hattie glanced towards the west, too, and bethought herself of an obstacle. ‘There is a bridge somewhere hereabouts, I suppose?’

  Tobias pointed back in the direction from which he and Clarimond had arrived.

  ‘Thank you.’ Hattie and her Boots turned about and marched away, muttering something about self-absorption and absurdity between themselves as they went.

  ‘Hat!’ called Theodosius, and she heard the sounds of a furious rushing-through-undergrowth behind her as he hurried to catch up. ‘Hattie? What are you planning to do?’

  ‘Why, I am going to go and talk to her, of course!’ Hattie cried. ‘Somebody needs to pull the blankets off slug-a-bed!’ Tobias protested, of course, and raised a number of objections which no doubt appeared perfectly reasonable to him. Hattie let them all pass, and walked on.

  It took her a little time, and considerable effort, to find the bridge Tobias had pointed out. She arrived there at last, scratched and overheated and more than a little bit cross, but before she could set foot upon the bridge itself she realised that, once again, she and Theo were not alone. Two figures stood before her, reasonably well illuminated by the light of a pair of lanterns. One of them was an elderly man with a mane of pale hair and watery blue eyes: Ambrose Dale, from whom Hattie had bought flowers every week for as long as she could remember.