Despite taking these precautions himself, he was still reluctant to speak of the Giant’s table. He urged me not to ride through the woods after dark, and never, if it could be avoided, alone. I assured him that my cloth gave me protection, a notion he clearly did not agree with, but, out of respect to myself, only related the following story as proof of the inhabitants of the wood’s danger.
Two siblings lived in a cottage on the edge of the village, the same cottage now used by a local farmer to store his hay. The elder sister was industrious, devoting herself to the running of the farm. She put the cattle out to pasture and brought them back in, milked the cows, churned the butter, made the cheese and sold it at market. On top of all of that, she had the rearing of her younger brother, who had been a child when their parents died, and was much indulged by his sister. He had a talent for music, and by clever arranging and saving, she had contrived to buy for him a violin. The boy spent most of his time playing this instrument. His dream was to become a famous musician, and he appeared well on his way to achieving that dream when the events of this story took place.
It was the height of summer and the entire district was making hay. Every hand that could hold a scythe or bundle grass was pressed into service. The boy was spared most arduous labour thanks to his sister’s hard work, but when the time came to make hay, he had to work as hard as anyone else. The boy did not like it. The hay scratched his arms and stung his eyes, and the hot sun parched his throat. He saw an opportunity to sneak away and did, taking his violin to the one place he knew he would be undisturbed—the wood.
The wood was as cool and refreshing as the hay fields had been hot and dusty. The boy found himself a comfortable seat in grass so thick and soft he might have been sitting on a cushion and began to play. He finished one song and started another. He could not say how long he’d been playing when he realised he was not alone.
A man leaned against the trunk of a tree opposite. He was dressed in fine clothes and was handsome, his face delicate in feature and unlined, though his beard was silver. It was the man’s eyes that really struck the boy, a piercing blue that made him feel quite peculiar.
“You’re not a bad player,” the man said. “As it happens, I am on my way to a wedding and we are short a fiddler. Will you come with me? You will be well paid for your time.”
The boy was not likely to say no to that, was he? He climbed up on the horse behind the silver-haired man, and they rode through the wood and out of it, up to a well-appointed house that the boy did not remember ever seeing before, though he’d lived in the district all his life.
He did not have time to wonder at it, however. As soon as they arrived, the silver-haired man was greeted with joy by the other guests—beautiful people dressed in fine, if old-fashioned clothes. Once they understood the boy was a fiddler, they hailed him enthusiastically, and gave him a stool in the great hall where he could play for the dancers. The boy got to work. The wedded couple sat at a long table at the head of the hall, watching the dancing. Reel followed reel, but the dancers did not tire.
As they boy played, it occurred to him that all the people gathered were strangers to him, although before that day he’d have sworn he knew most people in the district. The dancers moved with uncommon grace and speed. No matter how quick the tune, they never seemed to hurry to keep up with it. The boy recalled hushed tales whispered in the still of the night about the fair folk that lived within the woods and knew he had only one hope of returning home: giving his hosts satisfaction.
Finally, the wedded couple took their place on the dance floor. The bride entreated the silver-haired man to play for them. He demurred, but as she insisted, asked to borrow the boy’s fiddle. The boy obliged, curious to hear the man play. Why had he gone to such lengths as to find a fiddler if he was a musician?
The silver-haired man raised the bow. The fiddle sang. Not the simple country reels played by the boy, but a piece he was never able to describe except as a dream put down in music. It went straight into the boy’s soul and lodged there. This was fairy music, far beyond the skill of any man—and it hurt the boy to know that though he might practice for the rest of his days, he would never play as the silver-haired man now played.
At last the silver-haired man laid down the bow and the guests sat down to eat. The boy was invited to sit at the table and plied with food and drink, but his heart was too heavy for him to even think of food. It was the song he hungered for. Knowing that he would never play as the silver-haired man played would gnaw at him the rest of his life, no matter how successful he became.
At last the party broke up and the silver-haired man took the boy home. “Well then,” the silver-haired man said when they reached the tree where he had met the boy. “What is your price, my small fiddler?”
The correct thing to do would be to name a small sum—to say nothing and leave the fairies in your debt is almost as dangerous as to test their generosity. The boy knew this and yet, he could not help but ask. “Teach me to play as you do.”
“My music is the music of my people,” the man said. “No one can play it but us.”
“It’s told in the stories you can grant men powers beyond those of any man,” the boy persisted. “You can do it, I’m sure you can.”
“I can do it,” the silver-haired man allowed. “But in return, I will take the thing you love most.”
The boy swallowed, feeling the weight of his fiddle in its case. He took as good care of it as a mother might her baby. The thought of parting with it made him sick… But as he hesitated, the wind rose, and he heard again the refrain of the fairy music. “Agreed.”
“Let us shake on it.” The silver-haired man held out his hand.
The boy had been warned against making a deal with one of the fair folk. He knew the danger, that such a deal only ever ended in regret. He stuck out his hand. “Deal.”
The silver-haired man’s hand clasped his own, and instantly the boy felt as one swept up in a dizzying dance. His vision swam, his ears rang with other-worldly music. His fingers twitched, reconstructing the airs that danced through his head. He did not know how long he stood there, but when he blinked, it was to find the soft light of dawn illuminating the forest and dew fresh on the ground. The silver-haired man was gone.
The boy was silent a moment, digesting his new knowledge. He knelt, reaching for the fiddle case. To his surprise, it felt heavy. Opening it, he found his fiddle there, safe and sound. Had the silver-haired man changed his mind? Perhaps he’d thought that a fiddler without an instrument was no musician at all and had left it to the boy. Or maybe he intended to collect the fiddle later. Either way, the boy, case in hand, set out for home, humming a merry tune under his breath. With the knowledge he now possessed, success as a musician was assured. Never had a morning seemed fuller of promise, never had the country lanes seemed brighter or more cheerful.
As the boy reached his house, he saw the curtains still drawn. Strange. His sister was never one to lay abed in the morning. He hurried to the door and flung it open. Two places were set at the table and the fire lit, but of his sister there was no sign. No sign? No, a loaf of bread was on the table and the knife beside it, as if she had been called away in the act of cutting off a slice.
The boy stared at the table. It was not like his sister to leave a task undone. He called his sister’s name, but there was no response. A hasty search of the house revealed she was not within. Nor was she in the dairy, or out in the fields. As the boy stood in the kitchen, weighing his next move, the breeze from the open door caused something to rustle. Kneeling, he discovered the kitchen was littered with leaves—leaves that resembled those of the tree beneath which he’d first seen the silver-haired man. The boy understood the bad bargain he’d made. He had indeed lost the thing he loved most—his sister.
This is not an unusual specimen of a fairy tale, involving a moral and a warning both. However, it is the sequel that I find so arresting. The warden continued on as follows.
T
he neighbours put aside their hay making, and a search was made for her, but no trace was ever found of the girl or the silver-haired man, although voices and music was heard frequently in the weeks after her disappearance. A few months later, however, the noises stopped, the fair folk evidently having departed. After them went the boy, determined to find them again and win his sister’s freedom.
I, assuming that this was where the story ended, asked what became of the boy. To my surprise, I was told that he visited the district periodically to enquire if anything more had been seen of the fair folk or his sister, and indeed, had been present only a few months previous. I, most unfortunately, had been relieving a fellow vicar who had taken ill at the time. I quizzed my curate, and he remembered that a man answering the warden’s description had been present one Sunday, that he had seemed ordinary if somewhat flippant, and that he had played the church organ uncommonly well. I cannot recollect another instance where a fairy tale has such modern roots as to include a man still living, and I look forward to his next return to our parish.
The vicar’s narrative turned to Parish matters and the problems of finding a regular organist. Julian set the book down. If it weren’t for the beard, the author might have been describing the boy who turned into a cat. He shifted uneasily. What had Dawson said at the Louvre? The cat had the eyes he’d seen in his dream? This was the story Scott had meant him to find—the leaves, the sounds of music, the fairy abduction, it was all the same.
“But fairies aren’t real.” They were just stories—weren’t they?
There was a metallic clatter. Julian jumped to his feet. Something had moved in the locked, empty room.
16
The lock clicked as Cross turned the key. He nudged the door, but something stopped it swinging open. “The horseshoe. It must have fallen off the door.”
“Or been knocked off,” Julian added from the hallway.
“Impossible,” Dawson said. “We all saw the door locked. No one’s been inside this room.”
“No one?” Cross moved aside.
Julian took a step closer, Dawson right behind him. There in the flour was the clear imprints of bare feet. Even as Julian’s conscious mind protested the impossibility of what he saw, his other self was alert, tracing the footsteps back to the painting.
“There must be another key,” Dawson said, but he sounded very unlike himself. “Someone in the hotel—a practical joke.”
“Rather an obscure joke.” Cross locked the door again. “Julian, you said there was something else you wanted to tell us?”
“Mr Scott said last night that if anything happened, we had everything we needed. I think he meant this book.” Julian carefully paged through Concerning the Ancient Beliefs and Not So Ancient Beliefs of Upper Wrangleford until he reached the story he sought. “Here.”
Cross took it with a raised eyebrow. After a moment, he indicated the living room. “This seems like it would bear further investigation.”
They all retired to the living room. Cross took his time reading the story, slowly digesting every word. Julian lay on his stomach on the floor, in the middle of the carpet. Dawson sank back into his armchair, but he fidgeted, his fingers tapping an irregular beat on the armrest. Like Julian, he watched Cross read.
Cross must have been aware of his audience, but it did not change his behaviour any. He was silent a moment when he finished, his brow creased before he passed the book to Dawson. “What conclusions have you come to, Julian?”
Cross was asking him? “I don’t know.”
“Something must have struck you as curious.”
Julian looked down at the carpet he lay on. “Well… The leaves left behind after the sister vanished, that’s the same. And the silver-haired man, the description of him sounds a lot like the man Dawson saw.”
Dawson looked up from the book, his brow creased. “I didn’t describe the man.”
“Didn’t you? I thought—” Julian paused. “You said his eyes were like those of the cat, and its eyes were blue.” But those blue eyes had belonged to the silver-haired boy.
“I didn’t say anything about his hair,” Dawson said. “At least, I don’t think I did.” He looked to Cross for confirmation.
Cross stroked his beard. “I don’t believe you did. Is Julian mistaken in his assumption?”
“No,” Dawson said slowly. “I can’t say he is. The description matches—matches too well for my peace of mind.” He turned to the next page with a slowness on par with Cross’s. “It can’t actually be fair folk, can it?”
Cross cocked an eyebrow. “Interesting that you should use that name.”
Julian bit his tongue. It had been coincidence, surely, that the horseshoe had fallen as he’d said ‘fairies’—nothing more. And yet…
There were too many coincidences. “What are we supposed to do now? We can’t tell the police about this.”
“I am relieved you recognise that impossibility. We must find Scott ourselves.” Cross left off tugging his beard. “What luck we have your father’s collection of books with us. Now that we know what we’re looking for, we may be able to find something that will tell us how to rescue Scott.”
“This is absurd,” Dawson said. “You can’t seriously think Scott has been abducted by fairies?”
Julian tensed, ears pricked, turning towards the locked door. No sound within. He found it hard to relax, his other self hissing a warning.
“The fair folk are often drawn to artists and musicians,” Cross said. “The silver-haired man of the story is similar enough to the man in your dreams—”
“Nightmares,” Dawson said shortly.
No one ever interrupted Cross. Julian tensed, but Cross simply continued. “Nightmares, then. But the resemblance gives you pause. You’ve said yourself you could not explain your paintings, and you sought out an expert in superstition because—”
Dawson sighed, rubbing his forehead. “All right. This is beyond anything that can be explained rationally. Your suggestion makes as much sense as any. If only Leighton were here!”
Julian flinched. If he hadn’t indulged his other self, might Pip have solved this mystery already and Scott be back where he belonged?
Cross leaned down, placing his hand on Julian’s head. Its weight comforted. “I have a letter from Pip with the address of the hospital. I will write to him, but it will take time for his reply to reach us. I don’t propose that we waste any time. The two of you should start your research.”
“Yes, sir.” Back to work, was it? Julian stood. Why was it that no matter what happened, he ended up reading something educational?
Dawson and Julian sat at the living room table, the pile of books in front of them. Julian skimmed through a recent reprint of Huon de Bordeaux, while Dawson took the Concerning the Ancient Beliefs and Not So Ancient Beliefs of Upper Wrangleford. He’d flick through the pages rapidly and then would stall, several minutes passing in silence. Then, with a jerk, he would turn again to his task.
Julian pressed his lips together and didn’t look up from his book. He had a feeling that something was coming.
He was right.
Dawson dropped the book onto the table. “What is the use of this?”
“We’re learning,” Julian said. “For example, we know iron repels fairies—”
“My nanny could have told you that. No, what I want to know isn’t in any of these books. Have you told us everything?”
Julian put his book down. “You asked me this before.”
“But that was before Scott went missing. You’re sure—” Dawson broke off. “Listen to me! I sound like a hysteric.” He reached in his jacket pocket for his tobacco pouch. He stuffed his pipe, his movements jerky.
“What makes you think there’s something I know about this?” The question was dangerous, but if Julian could figure out what he was doing that well brought up gentlemen did not do, he could avoid it.
“The way you reacted to my painting. Jumping on the easel. And then, running
off into Paris after that cat the first night here—” Dawson looked up sharply. “Was that really a cat?”
Julian forced his voice into a light tone. “Of course. What else could it be?”
“That’s what I’m wondering. You—in Armadale. You knew about Leith, how?”
“Angus told me the old stories.” Julian looked at Dawson’s tightly drawn mouth and relented. “And he smelled different. Like salt and seaweed.”
“Just like you smelled the turpentine on me.” Dawson’s frown deepened. “You’ve got a keen nose.”
“They say that children’s sense of smell is more developed than an adult’s,” Cross observed from the doorway. “As we age, the olfactory faculties diminish.”
“True.” Dawson still looked at Julian. “Do you smell anything now?”
“Books.” Julian squirmed on his chair. With Cross present, it was even harder to know what he might say. “There is a scent of old leaves in the locked room. Like a forest.”
“I noticed that too.” Cross took a seat at the table. “Not that I gave it much thought at the time, but the lobby smelled like a garden.”
“You’re right.” Dawson tapped his pipe against the table. “I was more preoccupied with the watchman, but now I cast my mind back, I remember thinking it smelled like autumn. Do you suppose it might be possible to trace the scent?”
“No,” Lord Cross said. “Not for a human nose. But there’s something in what you say. The crowd the watchman described, I imagine that they would have drawn attention as they passed through Paris. It’s possible—”
“We might find someone who saw them pass by?” Dawson surged to his feet. “What are waiting for? Let’s go at once.”
The Worst Behaved Werewolf Page 9