by Robin Jarvis
“Then there is naught left?” the mole asked in disbelief. “You say the groves are destroyed and the Starwife killed?”
“A wounded survivor of the attack on my mother’s realm told us.”
Giraldus whipped round to where Vesper sat. “Why?” he murmured despondently. “What for did your forces destroy all my hopes? Is it too much to ask for a fair green place in this dismal world?”
Vesper said nothing; for the first time he had heard the full story and he felt ashamed for what his kind had done. He had not realised the amount of slaughter that had taken place and though he had not taken part in the countless murders he felt just as guilty.
“No,” Ysabelle told the mole, “it was not this bat I spoke of, but another—I don’t think this one was even there when Greenreach was attacked.” She looked at Vesper and remembered that he had spared her life this night. “No blood stains the wings of this Moonrider,” she said.
Giraldus still frowned, however, and Tysle pulled on the string until he was able to waddle over to the young bat and growl at him.
With a forlorn groan, the large mole slid from the log, sank to his knees, then slumped upon the path. “All is lost,” he mumbled, “all our efforts have been in vain, we have journeyed for naught—for now no end can I envisage. Giraldus will gradually fall into pieces. Have I not noticed the disease stealing over me more each day? Now there are no chances left.” He lay his staff across his lap and sobbed as huge tears sprang from his tiny eyes.
Tysle hopped with agitation and dismay to see his master so stricken. “Now, now,” he said brightly, “’tain’t no use a moping and a wailing! A goodly way have we travelled and a merry old time of it have we had so far—the pilgrimage is just as much about getting there as arriving, Master. “Twould be a poorly shame to turn back now, why I do believe it’s downright wrong to even think it!”
Giraldus sniffed a little as he contemplated the shrew’s words. “Yes,” he agreed at last, “I see that now—’twas the evil one trying to subdue me and afflict my faith. Help me up, lad.”
The shrew grunted and puffed as he heaved the bulky mole back to his feet. Then, leaning upon his staff once more, Giraldus affectionately tweaked the end of Tysle’s nose.
“Two staffs do I possess,” he told Ysabelle. “The wooden one I require for my infirm body, but Tysle is my soul’s support. ’Tis he who props my sinking spirits and sets them spinning with his unfailing optimism.”
“Are you still going to Greenreach?” Ysabelle asked.
The mole pulled the pointed hood back over his head. “That was our destination when first we set out,” he answered, “and it has not altered, though what we may find when we arrive might not be to our liking. That is where we are bound.”
The squirrel maiden wrung her paws together. “Let me go with you!” she asked abruptly.
Both Tysle and Giraldus stared at her and a gasp came from Vesper.
“But you can’t go with them!” the young bat hissed.
“Why not?” she cried. “That is where I’m headed, after all, and if our paths lie together...”
“But... but...”
Giraldus gave an understanding smile. “I believe your friend fears for your safety,” he said gently, “and I must admit that I too am amazed at your suggestion. Mark me well. Lady, I am a leper and as such not a fitting companion for anyone.”
“Excepting me, o’course!” trilled Tysle.
Ysabelle shook her head. “Nonsense,” she protested. “From all I have seen and heard, I do not believe I could have met two more trustworthy creatures as yourselves. It would be an honour to me if you would let me accompany you.”
Giraldus bowed his head. “You do me and my servant much kindness,” he breathed, “and such a stout heart will not go unrewarded. The Green will watch over you, Mistress.”
Vesper was astonished at Ysabelle’s compassion for these strangers, and the doubts which had only just begun to surface in his mind about the holy wars, took root.
“What about me?” he asked suddenly.
Ysabelle stared at him. “You are free to go,” she said dismissively. “I have two guides now; you are a captive no longer.”
“Glad am I to hear it!” he cried. “Yet what of me? My way also lies with you—for a great part at least.”
“Then come with us,” she said.
Vesper eyed her uncertainly; he had no desire to brave the vast forest on his own, it would be much wiser to be a member of a larger group. And yet—there was something about the mole he did not trust. That warning bell rang whenever the staff moved and the young bat had not forgotten the curse laid on him.
“Very well,” he replied. “I’ll join you also.”
“My heart is lifted,” Giraldus proclaimed, “but, before we depart, let us offer up a prayer to He who has brought us together.” Lacing his remaining fingers, the mole muttered a Green Psalm.
“Now,” he said cheerfully, “let us be off—three summer worms, Tysle!”
A faint pinkish light was rising over the towering treetops as the dawn broke over the world. The mists which covered the path were tinted a delicate orange and seemed to glow as the sun climbed into the sky. Bathed in the golden morning, the forest looked a much safer place and the clean scent of the dew refreshed each of the strange party who wandered through the fragrant carpet of leaves.
It was not long before Ysabelle remembered that the last time she had eaten was two days ago. On hearing this, Giraldus pulled on the string and sent Tysle off in search of mushrooms. It was here that he explained the method of measuring the shrew’s lead. Each particular length related to a memorable worm the mole had once had the pleasure of eating. Spring worms were the shortest, and the longest allowance of string was accounted in autumn rain worms.
Given a lead of twenty of the latter, Tysle hurried off—only to reappear some minutes later with a quantity of freshly harvested mushrooms. Together with some bread and cheese which the shrew carried in his satchel—or scrip, as he called it—they formed an excellent start to the day and both Ysabelle and Vesper tucked into the meal with much enthusiasm.
“No, no,” Giraldus refused, when Ysabelle offered him some, “if you would excuse me, I think I shall break my fast over yonder.” And with that, the mole wandered several summer worms away and sat down with his back to the rest of them.
Vesper chewed a mushroom, absently wondering why the mole had declined to join them.
“’Tis a penance, you see,” Tysle explained, “for his doubt afore—bad news ever takes him like that and he’s always sorry for it. Lack of faith, he says, so he takes it upon himself to do this penance.”
“And what form does it take?” Ysabelle inquired.
The shrew put down the lump of cheese he had been nibbling and lowered his voice in case his master overheard. “’Tis his food,” he whispered. “You might have noticed the fine girth my Lord has about his middle—well, he didn’t get that not liking his victuals—mighty good appetite he has, that’s why he does it.”
“But what does he do?”
“Caterpillars!” Tysle hissed. “When he feels he’s doubted he forces himself to eat caterpillars.”
“Yuk!” said Vesper pulling a face.
“Just as you says,” the shrew agreed, “terrible bitter them furry wigglers are and how he despises them—but that’s the penance he feels he has to do for being found wanting, so to speak.”
“But why must he eat them over there?” asked Ysabelle still puzzled.
“Done that to spare your stomachs, I reckon,” the shrew said. “’Tain’t no pretty sight seeing them caterpillars go down, and watching his screwed up face ain’t no better. Poor Master, he ain’t had a real juicy worm for weeks now—the road’s been a mighty tough one thus far.”
After that, neither the squirrel nor the bat felt very hungry but they finished the mushrooms Tysle offered them so as not to hurt his feelings.
When Giraldus came back, he was wiping h
is cracked lips and airing his stinging tongue. The after-taste was most unpleasant, but he told himself that it would serve as a reminder not to lose faith so readily in the future.
For the rest of the morning Tysle was put on a three winter worm string and they made excellent time along the paths.
At first Ysabelle had been shocked at Giraldus’s treatment of the little shrew, at times thinking that he was a bully and a tyrant, but now her opinion had changed. It was true that the mole depended on Tysle for practically everything, but the same was also true of Tysle. Both were reliant on each other and, as the sun rose to its highest point, the squirrel maiden and Vesper learned how the two pilgrims came to meet.
Nearly four years ago, Tysle and the rest of his family had been living in a peaceful riverside hamlet. By the banks of this sleepy backwater, they led a contented and happy life, then word began to spread about the growth of the Hobb cult. It was said that the Hobbers were rampaging through the woodlands in search of new recruits to be initiated into their infernal brotherhood.
But, in their idyllic world, beneath the shade of the willow leaves, no one had paid much attention to the hushed whispers. When they should have been securing their homes and furnishing themselves with weapons, the shrews and their neighbours continued to engage in the relaxing pastimes the river afforded them. Then, one dark night, their peace was shattered forever. Without warning, a raiding party of Hobbers attacked the hamlet, dragging out its inhabitants and forcing them to join their foul legions. Many refused, yet a great number accepted through sheer fright and were never seen again.
As he recounted the tale, Tysle’s face clouded with anger and his normally cheerful self sank beneath his hatred for the children of the Raith Sidhe. “When it came to my turn to be hauled from my home,” he said in a wavering voice, “I saw what them villains had already done to most of our folk. Those who wouldn’t follow them had been strung up as an example to the rest. “’Twas an evil sight and I shan’t never forget it.” He paused for a moment as his heart became filled with the horror of that night once more.
Ambling behind him, Giraldus gave the string a gentle tug—just to remind his friend that he was there—and Tysle drew strength from this gesture but fell silent, as though to continue would be too much for him to bear.
“It was the next morning when I chanced upon the river bank,” the mole told the others, “and I thanked the Green then, and I do so now, that mine eyes were too weak to see the full and terrible nature of the violence which had been visited upon those goodly folk. “’Twas a chilling discovery none the less and I set about doing what services I could.”
“You tended to the wounded?” asked Vesper.
Giraldus glowered and his usually thunderous voice was soft and murmuring. “Wounded?” he said. “Weren’t no wounded there, young batling. No, the only services I in my small way could perform were the rites of burial. None were left alive, you see, and many were the graves I had to dig. I might add that in those times my affliction was not so advanced and my paws were still of use.”
At this Tysle stirred from his brooding and interrupted. “Don’t you believe it, my sweet Lady,” he put in, giving Ysabelle a nudge. “Master’d do it all over, even today.”
The mole flicked the back of his servant’s head and resumed his tale. “There I was,” he told them, “with the morning gone and still a sorrowful quantity of the deceased to inhume, when I hear a small voice gasping beneath the mound of mortal remains—and what do you think I did find in the midst of that ghoulish heap?”
“It was me!” Tysle cried.
“I know that!” the other declared. “I was just coming to it—you hasty, long-nosed river-dweller!”
“Beggin’ your pardon,” the shrew uttered meekly.
Giraldus sniffed authoritatively and continued, ignoring any further interruptions. “Then did I find this self-same shrew,” he told Ysabelle and Vesper, “Tysle Symkyn, but the poor little fellow was in a dreadful way. The Hobbers had left him for dead, you see, having delivered unto him grievous injuries.”
“Worst of it were my leg, though,” added the shrew forlornly.
“I am no leech-master,” admitted Giraldus, “but did what I could to heal my find and together we saw to it that my original task was finished there.”
“And you have travelled with each other ever since?” marvelled Ysabelle.
“That we have, Mistress,” said Tysle, “and a most high honour it is for me to be in my Master’s service. Why, there aren’t many as pious and venerable as he! Grateful I was at first and followed him round like a real daft head, until one day I sees how I might be of real use to him. ‘Why, you could be that great personage’s guide, Tysle Symkyn!’ declared the thought which just popped clean into my head—and a true and respectable vocation it is to be sure.”
Ysabelle smiled, and thought that it was strange how something good had actually come out of one of the Hobb cult’s raids.
Walking beside her, Vesper was lost in his own thoughts—the attack of the Hobbers sounded very much like the way his race had destroyed Greenreach. Was the squirrel maiden right—were the Knights of the Moon no better than rats? He blinked in the strong spring sunshine and contributed very little to the subsequent conversations.
As the afternoon wore on, the talk ranged from many things and all learned something about each of their travelling companions. Giraldus, at Tysle’s invitation, gladly showed everyone his collection of items brought from the shrines he had visited. There were bottles of holy water from the sacred wells and springs, bunches of dried leaves which hailed from blessed groves and in one special purse he reverently carried a relic of the Green himself—being a preserved grain of wheat said to have fallen from the spirit’s woven crown.
It was a most pleasant time and Ysabelle nearly forgot the nightmarish few days that had gone before. With the warm sunlight shining upon her, it was difficult to believe that anything as evil as the followers of the Raith Sidhe could exist. Yet she knew that as soon as night fell, the forest would be full of fear once more.
Eventually the sun began to sink in the heavens and the clear daylight was tinged with the sombre colours of the encroaching evening.
“We ought to find shelter,” Ysabelle said nervously, as the shadows deepened about her.
“Fear not,” Giraldus rumbled, “for we are very close to the next shrine which we must visit—are we not, Tysle?”
The shrew nodded, slipping a rolled up map from a pocket in the satchel. “Before the night closes round us,” he said jovially, “I reckon we’ll be there. Be careful of this hollow—two summer worms ahead!”
“The Orchard of Duir,” Giraldus muttered to himself, “where the seven trees were planted by the Green in the time before the winter came to kill the year. Much would I give for mine eyes to see that blessed sight.”
Tysle chuckled and gave Ysabelle a secret wink. “Master says that every time,” he whispered.
Presently, the trees which they passed grew very close together and Tysle was kept busy shouting his directions to Giraldus, warning him to avoid fallen branches and treacherous roots.
From then on, the party’s progress slowed considerably as the obstacles in the pilgrims’ way steadily increased. Once the mole stumbled and fell to the ground. In a trice, Tysle had bounded over to him to see if he was injured, but his master pushed him away and hauled himself up with the aid of his staff, mouthing a rainbow of oaths which he instantly regretted.
“That means caterpillars for his supper,” the shrew mumbled to himself.
“It’s getting very dark,” Ysabelle said at length. “Should we not be sighting your next shrine?”
“I can’t see any orchard,” commented Vesper.
“We shall not miss it,” stated Giraldus, “a beauteous arboreal collection marked out by its divinity.”
But as the darkness deepened about them, no sign of this orchard could they see. Tysle was put on a twenty autumn wormer to scout
the way ahead and as the moon began to shine over the uppermost branches, his excited voice called to them.
“Master!” he cried. “The marker—I’ve found the marker!”
Giraldus pounded his staff in delight. “The marker of Duir!” he boomed. “The entrance to the hallowed orchard—what an occasion for rejoicing.”
With Tysle shouting eager directions, the mole bowled over the ground—leaving Ysabelle and Vesper to hurry along behind.
When they found Tysle, the little shrew was sitting upon a square, grey rock—swinging his legs in time to a tune he hummed to himself. The marker was surrounded by weeds and a low wall made up of smaller stones curved away on either side, forming an immense circle in the forest.
But the wall was overgrown with ivy and the ever-advancing roots of the surrounding trees had ploughed beneath it, breaching and scattering the stones over the earth for creepers to smother.
Giraldus tapped the staff before him until it struck the marker stone, then reached out with his fingers and stroked the weathered surface with a rapturous expression upon his face.
“To think,” he breathed enchantedly, “that once He placed this very boundary here—girdling His orchard in a last attempt to keep the ice and snow of the winter at bay. What a wondrous sight it must be for you lucky youngsters—does the blessed place not fill you with awe?”
Vesper stared beyond the tumbledown wall and grimaced at Ysabelle.
It was a sad, shabby place. Within the ruined circle, a chaotic tangle of wildness met his eyes. Of the seven fruit trees mentioned in the old legends, and which had been planted when the world was young, only three remained and they were so ancient that Vesper was amazed they were still standing. Both the pear and the cherry tree were beyond bearing anything except ragged leaves, not managing a spray of blossom between them. The apple which had once grown in the exact centre of the orchard, and whose fruit had inspired bards to compose the first songs, had withered and died long ago—being now fenced inside a mesh of knotted beech and spindle-trees.