The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  Everywhere, the lesser trees of the forest had sprung up, usurping their position and strangling any scions which the original inhabitants of the orchard had attempted to put out. Now the area inside the broken wall was more overcrowded than anywhere else in the forest—as if the rich soil that had once nourished the divine fruit now fed more than was natural.

  The soft moonlight filtered through the matted branches and Ysabelle looked sorrowfully at Giraldus, knowing how disappointed he must feel.

  But the mole could not see the overcrowded mesh of bough and twig—to his dim-sighted eyes the place was perfect.

  “Tysle,” he murmured, “is it just as we thought?”

  The shrew glanced quickly at the squirrel and Vesper and gave a broad grin. “Why, ’tis a comely vision, Master,” he blithely lied. “Never did I see such a lovely orchard. There’s plum trees, apples, cherries, pear, chestnut, rowan and hazel—magnificent all of them.”

  Giraldus clapped his paws together in delight and sniffed expectantly. “I cannot smell the blossom!” he said uncertainly.

  “Ah well,” Tysle quickly put in, “none of the trees are in flower as yet, but there’s a goodly array of buds just a waiting to burst.”

  “Oh yes,” the mole conceded, “in the heart of the forest winter does tend to linger—though I should have dearly liked to inhale the heady mingling of scents. Perhaps on our return journey, Tysle. Once we are cured of our ills we shall abide here a while.”

  The shrew gazed at the near impenetrable thickets within the circle and raised his eyebrows. “Nothing sweeter,” he replied.

  Ysabelle and Vesper stared at the shrew—how could he deceive Giraldus so unashamedly? Tysle returned their stares unabashed and jumped from the marker stone. “’Tis better this way,” he mouthed as he took hold of his master’s paw.

  “Lead me in,” Giraldus instructed. “Let me touch each of the hallowed trees so that I might offer up a prayer to Him.”

  The shrew twitched his whiskers and gave a doubtful cough. “That be a good idea,” he said, “but what about finding a place to put our heads down for the night? These young folks must fancy a bite to eat—been a long march since we munched last.”

  Giraldus nodded. “Forgive me,” he said, turning to where he thought Ysabelle and Vesper stood. “In my excitement I did forget myself. Tysle—fourteen spring worms, seek out a suitable bower for us to spend the night. I must confess that yea, by the Green’s whiskers I am weary of the road myself.”

  Before limping away, the shrew gave the others a look that warned them not to tell his master the truth, then hurried around the circle obediently.

  Giraldus leaned his staff against the stone and carefully felt the roughly shapen sides with his fingertips. “Here they are,” his deep voice said eagerly, “the inscriptions that Duir carved into the rock—can you read them, child?”

  Ysabelle realised that he was talking to her and she stared at the marker stone intently. Just visible were a series of grooves and swirls carved into the rock. But the long years of neglect had filled the ancient symbols with grime and mould and centuries of hard winters had worn them smooth in places. The squirrel maiden glanced from this to the mole’s expectant face, but she could not lie to him as Tysle had done.

  “No,” she said slowly, “I cannot; the writing is too weathered.”

  Giraldus looked disappointed, but he groped for his staff and smiled. “A pity,” he sighed, “I should have liked to know what words Duir put into the stone—the histories do not tell us that.”

  Vesper frowned at Ysabelle, he saw no harm in humouring the mole, she might have made something up. “Never mind,” he said brightly, “at least you are here and a wonderous sight it is.”

  The squirrel maiden turned away—exasperated, but Giraldus grinned and was happy.

  When Tysle returned, the mole had shuffled forward a few paces and was squinting at the orchard with his head on one side—as if forming a picture of its beauty in his mind.

  “Well, Master,” the shrew declared, “at twelve spring worms there’s a fine old oak tree whose low branches would make as fair a place to spend the night as is possible to think of.”

  “An oak?” cried Giraldus. “Surely that must be the self same tree that the Green finally took shelter in when the ice overcame His defences!”

  “I reckon so,” said Tysle indulgently. “Why, it does seem awful ancient to mine eyes.”

  “And in those I trust,” the mole answered solemnly, “lead me there my faithful servant.”

  Ysabelle took a deep breath and reproachfully shook her head at Tysle as he guided his master over the broken wall.

  “It is not right,” she told Vesper, “the shrew is not being fair to him.”

  “I have found that there is little fairness in this world,” the bat replied as he followed them.

  When Ysabelle caught up with them they were already settling down for the rest of the night.

  The oak tree Tysle had found was indeed ancient and the squirrel could almost believe that it was the one in the legend. It was a squat, gnarled creation whose roots radiated from it in fat, twisting spokes. The bole of the oak was swollen and horrid bulges sagged beneath the crumbling, moss-covered bark. The weirdly shaped branches wove a jagged web overhead, yet no new leaves adorned them—only the dried-up relics of ages past which had never fallen.

  Not too far from the ground, two of these unshapely branches forked from the trunk and it was upon these that Vesper and the others were sitting.

  The many unsightly lumps and ulcerous growths which ruptured and blistered about the oak tree made climbing extremely easy and Ysabelle was soon sitting on a branch, not too far from Tysle and his master.

  The shrew foraged inside his scrip and shared the remaining bread and cheese whilst Giraldus contemplated another meal of caterpillars. In the end the mole decided to do without altogether and begged pardon for any growls that his stomach might make.

  With his eyes reflecting the silver moonlight, Vesper scanned the surrounding woodland and clicked his tongue. Nothing. They were alone in that part of the forest—no other creature stirred and for that he was grateful. Perhaps this night he could sleep soundly, knowing that the disciples of the Hobb cult were nowhere near. He thought it might still be prudent to keep a watch but when he suggested this Giraldus vehemently shook his head.

  “What for should we fear?” he cried. “Within this place we are protected by the Green, He shall not let any harm befall us. No, my winged friend, lay thy head down and rest—for tomorrow’s march shall be long also. Tysle and I hope to find the last of the shrines upon our journey before we reach the holy land.”

  “We shall, Master,” assured the shrew in a drowsy voice, “we shall.”

  “Goodnight then,” Vesper said to them, “and may you get more sleep than you did yesterday, princess,” he told Ysabelle.

  But the squirrel was already fast asleep and Vesper shrugged, then leant against the tree trunk where he fell into a deep and much-needed slumber.

  “In the arms of the Green,” Giraldus muttered to himself, “once more we consign our spirits into Thy care for you to guard this night—bless our humble company Lord and see us safe till the morning.” The mole closed his blind eyes and joined his paws over his stout and solid stomach, then he began to snore.

  The moon-filled night closed over them and the long-dead leaves of the oak tree rustled in the whispering airs above.

  Empty hours rolled by, not even the voice of an owl disturbed the deep hollowness of the dark and all the forest was still.

  A warmth beat upon Ysabelle’s cheek. Groaning in her sleep, the squirrel turned over, burying her face deeper into her tail to escape the dawn.

  “Child,” a voice spoke in her ear.

  Ysabelle squirmed lazily, surely it wasn’t time to get up yet? She tried to sink back into the delicious realm of her sleep but the voice spoke again—only this time it seemed to be right inside her head.

&n
bsp; “Awaken, child,” it said gently.

  Gradually the maiden surfaced from her dreams and rubbed her bleary eyes.

  Suddenly Ysabelle sat bolt upright and stared wildly round.

  A glorious light, like nothing she had ever seen before, now blazed all about her. Gold and green it burned, edging her fur with glittering stars and dancing in her astonished eyes. Yet that was not all, the oak tree was different—it was young again.

  No longer was it a misshapen ogre; its bark was smooth, having a lustrous, silken sheen that threw back the sumptuous gold of the light. New leaves were opening and they too were fringed with the delicious flame. The acorns which budded and swelled in their cups were of pure gold and they shone like tiny lamps. It was a bewitching vision and she could only gape as it unfolded before her.

  Heavenly fragrances filled the warm air—perfumes so exquisite that the squirrel almost wept from sheer joy. For now the whole orchard had changed. Gone were the unruly tangles of the lesser trees—now only the original seven grew there and all were magically in bloom. The heart of each blossom brimmed with a glimmering dew and the petals fluttered in a pink and white snowfall to the verdant grass below. The boughs of the trees were laden with burgeoning fruit, yet the blossoms continued to bud and burst open.

  Ysabelle closed her eyes and swayed unsteadily—giddy from the spectacular celebration of life and growth which overwhelmed her senses.

  “Giraldus!” she called. “Tysle, Vespertilio!”

  “Your friends cannot hear you!” the voice said in her mind.

  Ysabelle whirled round. “Who’s there?” she demanded. “Who is it?”

  “Do you not know—child of the Hazel Realm?”

  The squirrel felt herself tremble as she finally guessed and she humbly lowered her eyes.

  “Forgive me,” she implored, “I... I...”

  Kindly laughter shook the brilliant foliage that surrounded her. “Naught is there to forgive,” came the tender reply. “Raise thy head. Handmaiden of Orion—thou hast borne thyself well thus far. Look on me now and take heart.”

  Ysabelle lifted her gaze and let out a cry of fear. There, amid the shining leaves of the flourishing oak tree—two great green eyes stared at her.

  Within their emerald depths, the fires of spring flashed and sparked—kindling all things into vibrant life.

  “Have no fear,” the voice told her, “for in thee lies the hope of all—only thou can deliver the land from darkness.”

  “How can I?” she asked. “I am just one against so many.”

  The eyes gleamed behind the dappling leaves. “Yet the smallest acorn may become the tallest oak,” came the answer. “Despair no more, child, for help is near to thee. Know now that thine army is safe and but a little distance away.”

  “Then the Hobbers didn’t destroy them!”

  “They did not—and now thy forces are continuing their march to the land thou knowest as Greenreach.”

  “I must find them!” she cried. “How far away are they?”

  “Not far, if thou adhere to the straight paths and are swift, all will be well. Yet if thou falter and go astray then all shall be lost. My power will protect thee for as long as it may—but shouldst thou wander away from my streams and the places where my will still flows through the forest, then thou art beyond my help.”

  Ysabelle promised that she would not let anything stop or mislead her. Then her gaze fell upon the sleeping form of Vesper and she touched the silver acorn about her neck.

  “What of the Moonriders?” she asked. “Are we to destroy them all?”

  “The Knights of the Moon are not wholly at fault,” the voice told her.

  “But they murdered everyone in the holy land!” she said. “Then they attacked my home!”

  “Not all perished in the first onslaught,” came the swift reply, “and the bats were but tools of the true enemies of light and reason. Thy friend’s people were misguided and I do forgive them—thou must learn to do the same or thou shalt never ascend to the Oaken Throne.”

  Ysabelle thought of all the misery and terror that the forces of Hrethel had caused her subjects. “I... I do not know if I can,” she said honestly.

  “Time will heal,” the voice assured, “your hatred shall melt—already thou hast forgiven this Moonrider.”

  “He spared my life when he could easily have killed me,” she hastily explained.

  “Then be not overquick to judge the rest of his kind—for other forces are at work and strive to confound thee with anger.”

  The squirrel maiden looked doubtful, then she asked about Tysle and Giraldus. “What of these stout-hearted pilgrims? Is it possible for them to be cured?”

  “When thou bringest the silver to the Starglass, all things will be possible, child.”

  Then the light of the eyes dimmed and the voice was filled with warning. “Yet have a care—for my heart forewarns that one of thy companions shall betray thee. Beware thy trust of them, for assuredly one of their number will stop at naught to bring all our designs unto ruin.”

  Ysabelle stared at the sleeping figures nearby—a shocked and stricken expression frozen on her face. “Which one?” she asked. “Which is it to be—who will betray me?”

  But around her the light was growing dim and the eyes were fading from sight. “My time with you is at an end,” said the ever-diminishing voice. “Remember—trust only in thine own self and judgement and fare thee well.”

  “Wait!” Ysabelle cried. “I must know!”

  Only a chill breeze answered her and the world was dark once more. The bleak silhouettes of the overgrown orchard crowded round and the cold moonlight shone starkly upon Ysabelle’s face.

  “Which one?” she asked herself, gazing at her fellow travellers. “Who among them is thinking of betraying me—and to whom?”

  Even as she tried to concentrate on this disturbing thought an overpowering drowsiness crept over her. Perhaps it was a lingering gift of the Almighty Green—bestowing a deep, restful sleep upon the squirrel maiden to refresh her for the times ahead. Within moments, Ysabelle was sleeping soundly.

  So it was that she failed to hear the sound which disturbed the eerie peace of the orchard. From the fathomless, molten reaches beneath the earth, there came a tremendous bellowing. In the Pit something was stirring and making its terrible way upwards—up to where the squirrel slept, her paws clasped about the blood-stained amulet which had summoned it back to the waking world.

  8 - The Time of the Rowan

  A dull, insistent clanging jolted Vesper from his sleep and he unfurled his wings—momentarily panic-stricken. The young bat’s dreams had been haunted by images of the dreaded high priest and the bloody-bones costume had flitted before him, repeating the curse and revelling in Vesper’s approaching doom.

  The bell continued to ring, yet to his relief, the bat discovered that it was only Giraldus taking up his staff and shaking it at Tysle.

  It was a pleasant, warm morning. Ysabelle was already awake and occupied in braiding her hair. The dazzling memory of her visions the previous night made her paws shake and her mind reeled at the recollection. She had actually spoken with the Almighty Green and wanted to shout the fact out loud. But the warning she had been given weighed heavily upon her and the squirrel said nothing to the others about it.

  Tysle had some trouble preventing his master exploring the orchard but Vesper came to the shrew’s aid and insisted that they could not dawdle and ought to set off immediately.

  “That’s right!” Tysle broke in. “And Greenreach be a mighty long way still. Why, this day we must put a goodly distance ’tween us and this place if we’re to make the last shrine before the night—and that be in the most deadly heart of the wild forest.”

  “Remember,” Vesper added, “that thus far we have been extremely fortunate, having seen no sign of the Hobbers. Our luck may not last for much longer.”

  Reluctantly Giraldus consented to be led away—but he made Tysle promise him tha
t they would return to this beautiful place when they had both been cured of their ills.

  So the four travellers left the Orchard of Duir behind them and pressed deeper into the forest. Bright sunlight sparkled through the naked branches overhead and shone upon the ground in ripples of bright gold.

  Giraldus was in a fine mood; it was good to feel the sun on his diseased skin and a benign smile split his face.

  “By this evening we should reach the last holy place on the road to Grinuvicia,” he said. “It is a holy well and tomorrow you youngsters ought to be able to espy the hallowed hill itself in the distance.”

  Vesper laughed, “There’s glad tidings,” he said. “Why, I shall be able to return home—you’ll be happy to see the back of me won’t you, princess?”

  “I shall not be happy until the acorn is brought to the Starglass,” she said curtly, “and your kind is driven from Greenreach.”

  Vesper chuckled and gave several quick hops to catch up with Tysle.

  The morning passed slowly and the group penetrated deeper into the forest’s heart. Knowing that he would soon be able to see the familiar towers of his home, Vesper’s spirits were high and he regaled them with amusing stories of his life and those that he knew. His wing was less painful today than it had been, and though it was still not strong enough for flight, the encouraging signs that it was on the mend kept his toothy smile forever on his lips.

  Through dense stretches of tall ferns they pushed. Once, in a damp clearing, they came upon a slimy gathering of snails. Hundreds upon hundreds of curly shells and glistening bodies had to be carefully stepped over and, as Tysle diligently guided him, Giraldus brought the shrew sharply to a standstill. After a few moments searching with his fingers, the leprous mole popped dozens of snails into his food bag, muttering that his supply of furry wigglers would not last for much longer.

  Once the clearing was left behind, the travellers were compelled to journey in a gathering gloom. No ivy crept over the ground and no weeds clogged the track—for now the trees grew so closely together that only pale shadows covered the forest floor. In their perpetual competition for light and space, the trees seemed to jostle one another and through the matted ceiling of branches which they had created, nothing could penetrate.