The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  The figure flung its arms wide and gave a horrible laugh. “Now my lambs,” it shrieked, “do you not wish the peeling knife had done its work? To the terror of thy fortunes I leave thee—farewell!” And with that, the high priest turned and vanished into the night.

  Quickly, the green light faded from the stream and the forest was dark once more. Ysabelle stared at the ditch’s edge where now only shadows mocked her and shook herself. Lowering her eyes, she looked at the young bat by her side and he gazed back in fear.

  “Did you hear that?” she asked. “Did you hear what he said?”

  “He said I would die, surrounded by the sound of bells!” Vesper muttered. “I’m going to die!”

  “What does that matter?” she cried. “Did you not hear him say that Hobb is coming? Godfrey feared this would happen—he said the amulet had the power. What am I to do?”

  Vesper stared at her and anger overcame his present fright. “This is all thy fault!” he shouted. “By thy name was I cursed—and by the stupid rogue’s misunderstanding! ’Twas not I who helped you to escape, it was thee who untied me! By what unjust ruling am I now doomed? It isn’t fair—it never, never is! Would that I could roll back the days and prevent myself flying after the others. Then would I have been spared the sight of thy foul and ugly countenance.”

  “And I thine!” she snapped back. “Wait, where are you going?”

  Vesper kicked at the water around him and stomped through it crossly. “’Tis enough!” he bawled. “I’m away and shall take my leave whether you will or no. Many leagues would I like to put between us.”

  “Your curse won’t be lifted that way!” she called after him.

  The bat said nothing but waded miserably upstream, hanging his head sorrowfully, the thought of his approaching death bearing down upon his spirits.

  Ysabelle stamped her feet angrily. She needed him to show her the way to Greenreach—if she could only find some way to persuade him. She gazed down at the amulet which hung about her neck and shivered. The silver was tarnished, covered as it was by dried blood. Hastily, she unfastened the fine chain and tried to clean it in the stream. But the blood would not wash off and the acorn remained dulled by the brown-red stains.

  The squirrel maiden looked up and watched helplessly as Vesper barged further away. Fastening the amulet around her neck once more, she cast her gaze desperately about the ditch, and then she saw the high priest’s knife embedded in the soft mud. Quickly she ran over and pulled it free.

  It was an evil looking weapon—mysterious and ghastly symbols had been scratched into the steel, inscribing charms of death and destruction. Ysabelle shuddered in disgust as she held it—but there was nothing else she could do.

  Hurriedly she clasped it tightly in her paw, then set off after Vesper.

  “Halt!” the squirrel shouted as she splashed upstream.

  Vesper ignored her and plodded further on. He could hear her crashing towards him, but there was nothing she could do to change his mind—or so he thought.

  “Now!” Ysabelle cried, catching up with him. “You are going to obey my commands!”

  The bat was about to blow a raspberry, when he felt a sharp pain in his back as Ysabelle pressed the point of the knife against his spine. Twisting his head, Vesper saw the blade glitter and he swore under his breath.

  “Craven scum!” he muttered. “Are you so base you would use the weapons of that Hobber fiend—the same one that slew your adviser?”

  Ysabelle’s paw shook, she hated doing this but she had to get to Greenreach. “Be silent!” she told Vesper. “If you don’t want to die here, then be my guide.”

  The bat sighed wearily—he was extremely tired of hearing that squirrel’s voice. “Very well,” he grumbled. “I will show thee the way.”

  He lifted his head and sniffed at the air. Even on a dark night like this one, a bat could sense where he was. A hundred and more scents thrilled through his nostrils; the smell of blood and burning was strong on the breeze, but mingled with it were other fragrances. The numbing chill of the forest’s icy heart, the dankness of stagnant water, the distant echo of a great river, and there—the faint rumour of the city.

  Vesper nodded, satisfied with the evidence of his nose and turned slowly, not wanting to alarm the squirrel into causing an accident with the knife. Then he began retracing his steps downstream.

  “Are you sure it lies in this direction?” Ysabelle asked.

  “As certain as Hrethel is my Lord,” he flatly replied.

  So the pair of them waded further along the ditch until the shadows of the tangled forest engulfed them.

  Oily black smoke issued from the countless cracks and fissures that split the charred ground. Here and there, amongst the rubble of ash and glowing embers, the roasted body of some unrecognisable creature lay twisted and scorched amidst the soot. It was a terrible scene, even the standing stones had fractured under the fierce heat of the blaze—but now the fires had died.

  Into the choking cloud of floating ash and smoke that hung above the dell, the high priest came. Through the eye slits of his mask he looked on the devastation and his temper boiled inside—yet he had paid back his enemies with fates more terrible than this and that knowledge soothed him a little.

  Carefully, he stepped over charcoal roots, to where the cindered earth sloped down into the ring of Banbha. But the bloody-bones did not venture any further, for already the ground scalded his feet and the fumes of burnt fur and feather made him reel backwards. The sound of lamentation was everywhere as the singed survivors licked their wounds and whimpered in shock.

  The mournful cries rang piteously in the high priest’s ears, but he was oblivious to them all. His eyes glinted like two diamonds—and his heart was just as hard.

  “Many have fallen this night,” his bitter voice hissed through his teeth, “many of Hobb’s children have perished in the flames. Yet, they were but a fraction—the forest is filled with many more believers.”

  He whirled around and strode purposefully to one of the smouldering yew trees. As the figure swept aside a withered curtain of flaking ash, it looked at the blackened dell one last time and hurried down a steep flight of steps. “Soon all shall know what has occurred here,” he vowed, “and every corner of the wild woods will know who is to blame.”

  Deep below the blistered earth, the high priest descended. The heats had reached even here and the walls of the passages were baked dry and hard. Quickly, he made for an arched doorway and passed inside.

  The chamber beyond was large and the two Hobb lanterns which were fixed to the walls were not enough to illuminate the whole of it. The place was bare, except for that which dominated the far wall.

  It was a hideous carving, crudely done in wood and clay; the subject, however, was unmistakeable. Towering in the darkness, the image of an enormous rat head leered, its face contorted into a repulsive scream.

  The bloody-bones closed the door behind him and walked briskly over to where the immense jaws gaped and the fangs spiked down.

  The light of the lanterns played over the frozen features, giving them a semblance of life and for a moment the high priest stared about him doubtfully. Then he made a humble bow and gazed into the great mouth of the terrible carving.

  Upon the wooden tongue, two bright golden discs stared back at him.

  “I wish to speak with Her!” the bloody-bones commanded.

  The discs blinked and the creature they belonged to prepared itself.

  It was a small, yellow toad who sat before the high priest. Warts covered its fat body and slime glistened down its pot belly. With its large, bulbous eyes, it considered the figure for a moment, then shifted its weight upon the carved tongue and gave a slow nod.

  The high priest took from his costume a pouch containing incense and cast a quantity of it into the Hobb lanterns nearby.

  As the chamber filled with a sickly-sweet smell, the toad’s head waggled and its jowls quivered like jelly. Slowly the bulging eyes c
losed until only the merest slivers of gold shone in the flickering gloom.

  The bloody-bones bowed once more and looked intently at the squat creature. “Is everything ready?” he asked.

  No reply came, for the toad had successfully put itself into a trance. Then the wide mouth of the beast gaped open and the high priest knew it was time and he removed his mask.

  “Mistress of the distant land,” he called, “priestess to Mabb and destroyer of our enemies—hear me.”

  The sleeping toad gave a little shudder and all its loose flesh wobbled and squelched. Then, from its open mouth, a cruel voice issued—yet it was not the toad’s own.

  “Quickly,” it cried, “tell me—did you find the amulet—is all well?”

  The high priest glanced nervously at the floor. “Alas!” he began. “The acorn was indeed in my grasp...”

  “You did not let it slip from you?” the voice shrieked. “Fool! Have you lost it? You know why we need its power! Without it all our designs shall go astray—Hrethel grows suspicious. I need that amulet! Where is it?”

  “Mistress,” the bloody-bones tried to explain, “the squirrels were more cunning than I anticipated, they did steal the acorn from me.”

  “Idiot!” came the screeching reply. “Must I attend to everything? Can I not put my trust in anyone? Who has the device now?”

  “A maiden,” he spluttered, “the daughter of the royal house.”

  There was a pause and, during the silence, the high priest fidgeted awkwardly. When the voice spoke again it was filled with doubt and concern.

  “This maiden must not become the Starwife,” it hissed. “Find this princess—prove that I have not trusted you in vain.”

  “It shall be done,” the high priest assured her. “Already I have lain curses upon her.”

  “I am not interested in your curses!” it screamed. “Seek out this maiden and destroy her with your own hand. The acorn must come to me—nothing must get in the way. Do you comprehend that?”

  The high priest bowed. “I do,” he said, “and I vow that I shall personally lead the hunt for our enemies—they will not get far.”

  “Just see to it that none of your vile followers decide to steal the amulet for themselves!” the voice warned.

  “As you command,” the bloody-bones promised, “I shall obey. The acorn will be found.”

  “It had better be,” the voice threatened, “or you shall suffer.”

  The conversation was at an end and the toad shuddered and only gargled belches now issued from its mouth. Slowly it opened its eyes and watched timidly as the high priest replaced his mask and stormed from the chamber.

  Far away, in the land of Greenreach, the Lady Morwenna stepped back from an identical carving, situated in the middle of a marshy island deep beneath the Hallowed Oak. As her toad began to stir she pulled a sour expression and spat upon the floor.

  “The silver acorn must come to me,” she breathed, “it must be mine!”

  Vesper trudged wearily through the ditch—the high priest’s knife still pressed into his back.

  For nearly an hour, he and Ysabelle had followed the course of the stream and both were extremely tired and hungry.

  The lids of Ysabelle’s eyes fluttered shut as she stumbled along and she had to pinch herself to remain awake. She couldn’t fall asleep now—not while the bat could snatch the knife away and use it against her. The only way she had discovered to remain alert was to keep talking and, as they waded through the cold water, she chattered incessantly.

  “Godfrey used to tell me about the sacred streams,” she prattled. “In the old time the forest was filled with them. They linked the sacred shrines with one another and it was a great honour to tend them, making sure no weeds clogged the banks or halted the flow.”

  “Really,” Vesper mumbled without enthusiasm.

  “Yes, and those who lived at the shrines were all members of royal houses. It was they who guarded the holy wells and hallowed orchards and kept the evil at bay.”

  The bat groaned, how much longer could the squirrel go on squawking? “What happened to them then?” he asked sarcastically. “Someone should tell them they are not doing such a good job.”

  “I suppose the Hobbers came,” Ysabelle answered. “We never really believed the rumours though. One by one the shrines are being defiled and their wardens murdered—soon there won’t be any left.”

  “You and your precious Green spirit!” Vesper scoffed. “A barrel load lot of use he is!”

  “It was His power that saved you before!” she cried. “You were glad of it then!”

  Vesper snorted. “He didn’t stop the Hobbers ruining His shrines though, did He?” he scoffed.

  The squirrel frowned. “They must have attacked in winter!” she declared—not liking the bat’s disrespectful tone. “That’s when His power is weakest. Has your kind never heard of Him?”

  “We don’t care for the barbarities of you tree worshippers,” he replied, “we venerate the Lady of the Moon and have no need of false gods.”

  “False!” she cried. “It’s you who are deluded—and we do not worship trees! It’s the spirit of spring and new life we honour—you’d soon miss it if the Green vanished from the world, and if the Hobbers get their way that might just happen. If all the holy places are destroyed, the land will be a darker, uglier place where the only growing things are moulds and fungus. That’s why I have to get to Greenreach; the lights of hope must not be extinguished.”

  Vesper scowled and her words echoed in his mind. Strange that a squirrel should be so concerned for the future of the world. He fell silent and his thoughts were fixed upon reaching his own home, where his mother would be waiting.

  After another hour’s walk, the water of the ditch began to dry up. The trickling stream grew even narrower and the thick mud spread more thickly about the banks. Eventually the trickle became solitary puddles and then disappeared completely as the ditch was clogged with dense tangles of weed.

  “That’s the end of it,” Vesper said. “Do you want me to push through those nettles or do we scramble out of this gully and continue the march up there?”

  Ysabelle looked about them. “I don’t like this,” she said, “away from the stream the power of the Green no longer protects us.”

  “But there is no more stream!” he argued. “Not unless we start walking back along it. Is that what you want to do—spend the rest of your days tramping up and down the course of this wretched brook?”

  “Of course not,” she replied, “but neither do I wish to be caught by the children of Hobb.” She pointed the dagger up the bank and told the bat to start climbing. “For the remainder of the night we shall rest,” she told him. “I will feel a lot safer with the sun in the sky.”

  “I shan’t!” Vesper countered. “The daylight confounds me—how will I guide you then?”

  “You’ll find a way,” she said, pressing the knife-point into his fur. That quelled any more argument and the bat began to clamber up the side of the ditch, swiftly followed by Ysabelle.

  When they stood upon the forest floor the squirrel immediately set about looking for shelter. “We need a place to hide,” she muttered, “away from the trackways.”

  Vesper pointed to the dark bulk of a fallen tree. “What about there?” he suggested. “It may be hollow.”

  The squirrel shook her head, “No, I think we ought to stay in the open—I do not wish to be trapped in such a confined place.”

  Through a carpet of ground ivy, she led him over to where the shaggy silhouette of a large bramble bush stretched above them.

  “This will suit our needs,” she nodded, “from under there we can see any enemies before they see us.”

  “Didn’t do me much good when your sentries found me,” Vesper piped up.

  Ysabelle ignored him, it was the best the forest had to offer and she wanted to rest.

  Waving the knife before her, she made Vesper step under the brambles first then, after gatherin
g up some ivy, followed him in.

  Once beneath the thorny boughs, the bat sat down and tried to make himself comfortable. Curiously, he eyed Ysabelle as she came up to him, carrying lengths of vine.

  “Turn around,” she instructed, “and hold your wings out behind you.”

  “Hoy!” the bat cried as she used the ivy to bind him. “Not so tight—even the Hobbers weren’t that cruel. Oooch! Mind my sore wing.”

  “There,” she said brightly, tying the Moonrider against a large, solid branch, “I’ll feel a lot safer knowing you can’t take the knife from me and slit my throat whilst I sleep.”

  “As if I would,” Vesper protested.

  “Oh you would,” she answered, “and well you know it. I’ve kept you alive because you’re useful—but I know you have no use for me. Our kind are sworn enemies, I don’t trust you any more than you do me.”

  “How your words wound me,” he chuckled grimly.

  The squirrel made sure the vines were secure then settled down a little distance away.

  “You won’t succeed, you know,” Vesper told her. “You won’t be able to keep me a prisoner all the way to Greenreach. Something will happen, your vigilance will falter and then the tables will be turned.”

  “Oh, be quiet,” she said. “I’m tired and hungry and I just want to get some sleep.”

  Vesper said nothing and his ears twitched excitedly.

  “What is it?” Ysabelle asked, straining to catch what he had heard.

  The bat seemed flustered for a moment, then coughed loudly and remarked in a voice that was almost a shout. “Oh, nothing! There’s absolutely nothing the matter with me—my dearest squirrel!”

  Ysabelle stared at him and wondered what he was up to. He was making the most dreadful noise, as though he wanted to be heard by every creature in the forest.

  “Hold your tongue!” she whispered. The bat started to whistle so Ysabelle hurried forward and pressed the knife against his throat. The whistling ceased and Vesper made no more noise.