The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  “Hobbers,” Ysabelle gasped fretfully. “They’re here, aren’t they?”

  Tysle jumped up and down. “Why don’t they show themselves?” he chirped. “Why do they hide?”

  “They’re watching us,” Vesper replied, “probably waiting for the right moment.”

  “What shall we do?” asked the squirrel. “Should we run?”

  “No,” he said quickly, “without a doubt that is what they want—send us dashing off, scared and witless, and right into their midst.”

  “We must continue along the path,” Giraldus agreed. “Do not let them afright us.”

  So they continued on their way, but from deep within the shadows of the trees which surrounded and pressed in on every side, they began to hear strange voices and rustlings.

  “They are moving with us,” Vesper whispered.

  Ysabelle bit her lip to stop from crying out. The tension was unbearable. “They don’t care that we can hear them now,” she wept. “They no longer try to disguise their presence.”

  “I wonder when they will show themselves,” said Giraldus and he too sounded afraid.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Ysabelle thought she saw something dart between the trees, but when she looked there was nothing.

  “I... I could have sworn I saw a movement,” she stammered.

  The sounds were louder now, twigs were breaking beneath eager feet and tree trunks slapped impatiently. An excited babble of wicked voices murmured to one another—from some dark place two sticks were struck together, beating out a horrible rhythm that gave a pulse to the seething woodland.

  Ysabelle could not stand much more; she felt like screaming and tearing off down the path. Her breath came in short gasps and her eyes flicked from side to side, dreading the moment when she would catch a glimpse of the unseen enemies.

  It was Vesper who saw them first.

  “Look!” the bat cried. “Up there in the treetops.”

  Ysabelle and Tysle stared upwards. In the high branches of an elm tree a large black carrion crow sat hunched and ready. With red-rimmed eyes, it returned the anxious looks of the travellers and gave a croaking cackle.

  “’Tis only a bird,” Tysle murmured. “Master did say the first call were a bird.”

  “No,” Vesper told him, “by Hrethel’s name, that creature is a servant of Hobb. See how it regards us!”

  “I pray that is all it does!” said Ysabelle.

  Giraldus tutted and told them not to fear. “For the shrine cannot be far—the holy well is almost within our reach!”

  “It had better be,” said Vesper, “for there are two crows up there now.”

  Sure enough, another of the ugly carrion birds had joined the first and it too let out a chilling, ghastly caw.

  Ysabelle shivered and turned away, but her eyes saw a furry shape leap through the darkness and she took hold of Vesper’s wing in fear.

  “They’re going to jump out at us!” she cried. “Any moment now we shall be overwhelmed and cut to pieces!”

  Vesper said nothing, for his own eyes had seen a figure skulking in the shadows. It was a monstrous rat with a glittering sword in its claw and for an instant it bared its fangs before stepping back into the gloom.

  “Cast your eyes upwards,” said Tysle slowly.

  Above them, dozens more crows had alighted. With greedy eyes they watched those passing beneath and a number sharpened their beaks upon the frozen bark. The trees were smothered with them now—it was as though a vile black foliage had burst into life upon the previously bare branches.

  Hundreds of eyes were shining within the dense forest. Cruel, narrow slits which burned with savagery and hunger.

  Then a chant began; soft at first, it gradually spread until the whole world seemed filled by the raucous and discordant sound.

  Ysabelle no longer dared to look around her, now she kept her eyes fixed on the path at her feet, yet the evil words that the children of the Raith Sidhe endlessly recited made her feel sick and faint.

  Four fine morsels, see how they run,

  Rip out their hearts until their lives done.

  Peck out their eyes and do a good job.

  Peel off their skins and give them to Hobb.

  “Hobb,” they all hissed. “Hobb! Hobb! Hobb!”

  Vesper saw the strain on Ysabelle’s face as the squirrel gritted her teeth and tried not to break into a run. “Don’t,” he told her, “try not to listen—think of something else.”

  Behind him Giraldus uttered Green psalms to try and block out the hideous chorus but his voice wavered as the foul mouths of the Hobbers shouted all the more loudly.

  On corpse flesh shall we dine,

  Hot blood shall be our wine.

  Ysabelle tried to do as Vesper said. She tried to remember the vision she had seen the night before and fill her mind with those emerald eyes—but that seemed so long ago now and her strength began to fail her.

  From out of the ranks of the trees a hunch-backed rat poked its snout and tittered at her. The squirrel took hold of the silver acorn and repeated over and over to herself. “I am not afraid, I am not afraid!”

  A disgusting gurgle issued from the shadows and Vesper pulled Ysabelle back as a large missile was hurled onto the path.

  Ysabelle stared at it fearfully and the terrible voices of the Hobb cult grew silent.

  At the squirrel’s feet, was a round bundle—it seemed to have been knitted from wool and for a moment neither Vesper, Ysabelle or Tysle recognised it.

  The shrew blinked at the thing then ventured forward—there appeared to be something inside.

  Using the end of his crutch, Tysle gave the large, lumpy ball a nudge and a part of the knitting fell away.

  Blood oozed over the icy ground, staining the frost pink in an ever-widening circle.

  A ghastly laugh was sent up throughout the forest and Vesper squeezed his eyes shut to blot out the grisly sight.

  “Pountfrey,” he breathed.

  “Filthy Hobbers!” Tysle shrieked.

  Terror and panic finally overcame Ysabelle. Screaming, she tore down the path.

  “No!” Vesper called after her. “We mustn’t separate, that’s what they want.” He turned quickly to the others and told them to follow and run as best they could.

  As the bat set off, Tysle yanked on the string and Giraldus scurried over the ground behind him.

  But the game was over now—the children of Hobb had had their sport.

  A wild howl screeched above the din of the sniggering laughter and, in the trees, the carrion crows flapped their great wings and swooped downwards, like some terrible dark swirl of autumn leaves.

  “Tysle!” Giraldus cried. “What is happening? Tysle?” The mole hurried along as best he could but the noises disorientated him. He fumbled at his belt where the lead string should have been looped but the hook had fallen and for the first time in many years he was alone and without guidance. “Tysle!” he bellowed as the shrieking cries grew closer.

  “Forward, forward!” the shrew called. “Mind the root at two summer worms, forward, forward—left now!”

  Tysle skidded to a halt, something was wrong—no answering tug yanked on the string and he spun round desperately. The string was slack and his master was not attached to the end of it.

  “Aaaaiiyeee!” he squealed, limping back the way he had come. “Master! Master!”

  There was Giraldus thrashing his staff over his head as a sea of carrion crows plucked and tormented him.

  “Leave me!” he howled in a high, frightened voice. “Leave me!”

  The crows mocked him and pecked at the sores on his face, scratching his mottled velvet with their claws.

  “Warm red blood to drip from our beaks!” they croaked eagerly. “Rich ruby honey to slake our thirsts!”

  Giraldus was floundering; the staff whirled less intensely now and his pitiful cries were drowned by the furious beating of the ebony wings.

  Down he dropped, onto his knees, and the
carrion birds tore at him.

  Suddenly, into the frenzied mass of feather and claw, a bitter little blade flashed and stabbed.

  “Master!” roared Tysle in a voice larger than himself. “Don’t worry—I’m here! I’ll rip out their quills and stuff them up their parsons noses!”

  Brandishing his tiny knife, the shrew lunged at those who pecked at Giraldus and so furious was his temper that the birds fell back dismayed.

  “Get you up!” Tysle said to the mole. “Take the end of my string and fear no more—we’ll be no crow bait!”

  A cloud of bloody feathers flew about the shrew as he rampaged around his master, seeing off any who dared approach. Then he gave a tug on the string and the pair of them hastened down the path. But the maddened crows came after them and, with wings outstretched, they screeched for their deaths.

  Ysabelle was too afraid to stop. She could hear Vesper calling to her but the fiendish cries of the Hobbers filled her with despair and she raced beneath the crowded trees as fast as she could.

  The rats and other evil worshippers of the unholy triad were chasing her—leaving the crows to finish off the leper and his guide.

  With cudgels in their grasp, they beat the trees as they pursued her, reaching out with their twisted claws, saliva dribbling from their open jaws.

  “Fly!” their deadly voices coldly rang. “Run to your doom! Speed to your death! A necklace shall we make of your entrails and down our gullets shall your torn flesh slip.”

  The squirrel maiden ran blindly on, the trampling feet of her enemies gaining on her with every anxious stride.

  From the darkness ahead an enormous badger loomed, rearing up—directly in front of her.

  In the creature’s wide and vicious mouth, the tail of a mouse dangled and, sucking it in, it then licked the blood from the knife it clutched in its claws.

  Ysabelle covered her face and swerved to one side, bounding wildly through the forest away from the path.

  An outstretched wing wrapped itself around her waist and she screamed in terror.

  “It’s me!” cried Vesper as he fended off her fists. “Stop it, you stupid squirrel!”

  Ysabelle wept but Vesper grabbed her wrist and dragged her further into the trees. “This way!” he shouted.

  As they ran, black-feathered arrows sang past their heads and a dagger spiralled through the air—just missing the bat’s right ear.

  “We shan’t make it!” Ysabelle sobbed. “Those devils will hound us till we drop!”

  “Stop squawking and run!” Vesper yelled. “I’ll be no meal for the likes of them!”

  Plunging further from the path, they came to where a thick hedge covered the ground and barred the way in all directions.

  “Trapped!” Ysabelle cried.

  “Not yet!” Vesper said, bundling her through a narrow gap and leaping after.

  But Ysabelle had stopped just beyond the opening and the bat crashed into her and fell on his face.

  “What are you doing?” he cried. “Are you mad? Hurry!”

  Ysabelle could only gaze at the sight which lay before them.

  “Vespertilio!” she whispered. “We are here!”

  Brushing flakes of ice from his wings, Vesper looked up in surprise. “The holy well!” he uttered in astonishment. Then he, like Ysabelle could only stand and gape.

  Behind them there came a frantic series of cries and howls as the others found them.

  “Here we come!” squealed Tysle dashing through the hedge. “Forward, forward—squeeze in!”

  Giraldus came lumbering after, his large girth barely managing the narrow way.

  “Bum in the eternal fires of damnation—scavengers of the underworld!” he trumpeted, brandishing his staff once more. “Tysle—where are they? Are the corbies regrouping for another assault?”

  The shrew peered into the sky but it was clear. He pattered back to the gap in the hedge and stared at the way they had come—not a sign of the carrion crows could he see, neither were the rats following them and suddenly the forest was quiet.

  “They’ve plum vanished!” he cried in amazement. “Why do you think they left us like that? I did think we was done for, good and proper!”

  “Who can fathom the wiles of the heathen hordes?” Giraldus muttered. “Let us be grateful for the present—yet I fear the respite will be all too brief.”

  Tysle opened his mouth to answer, then he saw where they were.

  “The last shrine!” he squeaked. “Master—we reached it!”

  The mole let out a joyous yell and clapped his paws together. “Then the Green has protected us!” he bellowed. “That is why the vermin of the skies could no longer hound us and the loathsome wights of the woods have abandoned their chase.”

  Tysle swallowed doubtfully and wandered over to Ysabelle and Vesper who stood speechless and aghast.

  “Tysle?” Giraldus called. “Lead me to the holy water.”

  The shrew gazed up at Ysabelle and the squirrel shook her head at him. “You cannot lie this time,” she said.

  Tysle knew she was right and he stared at the vile scene one last time before returning to his master to explain.

  In a small clearing, fringed by twelve elder trees and the rambling hedge, the Well of Ruis had remained for centuries. It was square in shape—its sides being cut by the cunning craft of those who had lived long ago. In this place it was said the entire forest was first born and many were the streams which owed their sources to this enchanted, crystal water.

  The virtues of the well were legendary: heroes had gained great strength after drinking there, wishes had been granted and many wounds had been magically healed after bathing in it. At one time a warden had tended the site but like so many other of the sacred shrines it had been deserted for untold years.

  Ysabelle looked at the sorrowful sight and a tear streaked down her cheek.

  The holy well had become a hideous place—for the children of the Raith Sidhe had come and left their infernal marks there.

  Locked in the grip of the pervading winter, the divine power of the holy well was weak and the spirit of the Green had not been able to defend it. Now the place was a repellent parody of its former glory. Black ice sealed the well-head, yet the trapped water within was dark and foul. The Hobbers had defiled it with their filth, and the once pure water was polluted beyond redemption.

  Nothing had escaped the evil vigilance of the hellish brethren. Once the well had been poisoned, they had turned their dastardly attentions to the surrounding area. Many of the elder trees had been cruelly hacked at, some still bore the scorch marks where wicked fires had burned them, others were no more than a miserable collection of pathetic stumps, but everywhere was covered by obscene scrawls.

  The nightmare images that the travellers had seen earlier by the wayside were nothing compared to this devilish work. On all sides, depraved scratches had been gouged into the wounded trees, indecent charcoal scribbles and base messages defaced the broken stone which had once covered the well and the most disgusting drawings filled any spare space.

  Beside the blackened, frozen well a great heap of charred branches and lopped boughs had been assembled and Vesper guessed that here was another meeting place for the unholy worshippers of Hobb.

  Giraldus gripped his staff tightly when Tysle described the scene to him. “Is there to be no haven?” he asked hoarsely. “Are the powers of the dark to conquer all?”

  Vesper lifted his face to the darkening sky and scowled. “I do not understand,” he said. “The power of the Green no longer defends this place, so why did the Hobbers abandon their attack?”

  “Maybe they still think of it as a place of dread to be avoided,” suggested Ysabelle.

  The bat dismissed that idea. “No,” he said, “look at that pile of branches—it’s just like the fire in the dell where we were their prisoners. The Hobb cult have been congregating here for a long time by the looks of things.”

  He took several hesitant steps towards the bu
rned wood, then he quickly turned away and buried his face in his wings.

  “What is it?” Ysabelle asked fearfully.

  The young bat parted his wings and the look in his eyes shocked her into silence.

  It was Tysle who went to discover what Vesper had found. Unravelling plenty of string, the shrew hobbled over to where Vesper was standing and stared behind the blackened heap.

  The shrew staggered backwards and it was some time before he could speak. “’Tis... ’tis the worst mine eyes ever beheld,” he said at last. “No, don’t you come over here, sweet Mistress. You’ll never sleep peaceably again.”

  Ysabelle glanced at Vesper and the bat shuddered. “It’s the remains of a stag,” he told her in a wavering voice, “just the head, of course, the Hobbers seem to have a special liking for them—first Pountfrey and now this.”

  Tysle felt faint. “How could they?” he whimpered. “The poor beast’s antlers all sawn off... and... and...”

  Giraldus pulled on the string and the shrew quickly came back to him.

  “What are we to do?” Ysabelle asked.

  “We cannot remain here!” Vesper told her. “It has become an evil, accursed place. I can think of nowhere less dangerous.”

  Giraldus had been listening to all this with a grave look upon his face. Now he raised his immense paw and said softly, “Hush—we are not alone.”

  Everyone stared at him; then, from somewhere behind the mutilated elders, they heard a voice—and it was sobbing.

  “Oh woe,” it blubbered, “what a sorry pickle you have landed thyself in—why, oh why could he who doled out brains not have bestowed any upon thee, unhappy dolt?”

  Ysabelle caught her breath—she knew that voice!

  “It cannot... it cannot be,” she stuttered, “and yet...”

  Without a word to the others she hurried in the direction of the self-pitying voice and let out a delighted cry.

  There, in the dreary shade of the broken trees, sitting upon his cart and with his head in his paws—was Wendel Maculatum.

  9 - By the Mournful Willows

  At the sound of the squirrel’s voice, the jester leapt to his feet and backed away in terror.

  “Oh!” he yowled. “A phantom! A phantom is come to haunt me! Avaunt, dreaded spectre—begone!”