The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  Ysabelle smiled. “Wendel!” she cried. “I am no ghost—’tis I, Ysabelle, the daughter of Ninnia.”

  The stoat wrung his paws before him. “Alas, wretched shade,” he said nodding gloomily, “only too well do I know thine countenance—and how it was taken from this world.”

  “I am not dead,” Ysabelle insisted. “The Hobbers carried me off to one of their dungeons, but I am most certainly alive.” To prove this, she stepped up to the jester and took his paw in hers.

  At first, Wendel flinched and tried to wriggle away, then his eyes grew round as he realised she was indeed flesh and blood. “Mistress!” he cried falling to his knees. “Then ’tis true—oh I did fear all was lost when those figures attacked the camp.”

  “So did we all,” she said, “but it is so wonderful to find you—how did you come to be here?”

  The jester put his fingers to his lips and spoke in a hushed tone, as if the mention of those events would bring some terrible calamity upon them. “’Twas all confusion,” he told her. “There was I, ready for the snoozing, when out those villains sprang and madness was everywhere. I recall that thy nibbler screamed that they had taken you and everyone lamented. But in the chaos that followed—when thy guards did give chase to the midnight hordes—I and my cart were left behind and poor Wendel has not seen them since.”

  “But how did you get here?”

  “For days have I wandered, lost in the wilds. In terror have I spent my nights—listening to the shrill sounds of those who prowl in the dark. I had all but given up hope when I came upon this dismal place and then those hideous noises began again. I thought they were finally coming to get me and thus you found me a-quaking and sobbing. Oh, how mine heart does rejoice now!”

  He kissed the squirrel’s paw and laughed rather hysterically.

  Standing a little way behind, Vesper peered at the stoat and frowned. “It does appear to me,” he said, “that you have been extremely fortunate so far.”

  For the first time, Wendel seemed to notice him. “Why, ’tis the Moonrider!” he declared. “Yet where are his bonds? Why is he not trussed and bound?” Before anyone could answer, he then saw Giraldus and Tysle.

  “Don’t worry,” Ysabelle said hastily when she saw the look of horror steal over the jester’s face, “these are all my friends and the bat has saved my life more than once since last I saw you.”

  “Is that so?” the stoat mumbled, staring aghast at the leprous mole and his lame guide. “I’ll own that your roads have been darker than mine, if this company seems fair to thee. What have we here? A runty shrew with a game leg and the most ill-favoured knave I have ever bruised mine eyes to look on—no ornaments are they.”

  “Here!” growled Tysle. “Who is this bad-mannered rogue? I’ll not have him looking down his nose at us!”

  Wendel looked startled at the shrew’s retaliation, then made a comical bow. “Forgive me, goodly sirs,” he apologised. “In the sudden shock of finding this jewel of the Hazel Realm alive, I did forget myself, but am now recovered. Take not the slightest notice of aught I prattle—I am what the Green made me, a simpleton who knows no better. Wendel Maculatum, forever stupid, a dotard before his time.”

  “Ah well,” Tysle grunted, “can’t say fairer than that—just so long as you don’t go calling us names again.”

  “May the Green wash out my mouth if I do,” he replied humbly.

  Giraldus sniffed while Tysle introduced himself and his master. He was not sure if he approved of the stoat’s irreverent tone and the mole assumed a stiff-necked piety which none of Wendel’s jokes could thaw.

  “I should dearly like to know why the Hobbers stopped chasing us,” said Vesper glancing back at the defiled well, “they could have killed us easily.”

  The jester raised a paw to silence him. “Be glad that they did not,” he said. “Why question such a happy occurrence?”

  “Because it doesn’t make any sense,” the bat replied.

  “To those odious malefactors it does!” Wendel exclaimed. “It seems to me that they revel in teasing and taunting their victims. Have I not heard them night after night calling to me and making my flesh creep? To toy with our fears is their delight.”

  Vesper was still doubtful; why did he have the feeling that they had been purposely driven to this place? He tried to put his thoughts into words, but the simple stoat was so ecstatic at finding Ysabelle that he was now capering madly around her. The three bells upon the jester’s head-dress tinkled sweetly and Vesper recalled the curse laid on him and said nothing. Now there were two sources to constantly remind him of his doom.

  In spite of herself, Ysabelle could not stop laughing. It was as though all the emotions she had been forced to keep under control would not be bottled up any longer and burst to the surface—released in one insane fit of giggles.

  Then the tears flowed and she gasped for breath between the mingling of sobs and mirth.

  During this time, Wendel pranced around, somersaulting and juggling three acorns which he snatched from his cart. Tysle gazed at him admiringly—the life of a pilgrim allowed for no frivolity such as this and he marvelled at the jester’s antics.

  Giraldus listened to all this and was most unimpressed—the stoat seemed to have infected them with inane silliness. He gave a slight tug on the string but Tysle was so busy chortling that he failed to notice.

  Vesper was not pleased by the effect the jester had on Ysabelle—had she forgotten that a few minutes ago they had barely escaped with their lives? The darkness was complete now and he feared what the dead of night would bring.

  “We ought to be moving on,” the bat said brusquely. “We dare not stay here.”

  Ysabelle and Tysle broke off from their merriment and stared at him for a second, then they collapsed into more giggles.

  “Your face,” the squirrel cried, “it’s so serious!”

  Wendel put his paws to the side of his head, pretending they were Vesper’s ears and a morose expression dragged his mouth into a make-believe frown.

  “We Knights of the Moon have no time for laughter,” the jester said dolefully. “There is no honour in a titter.”

  Vesper ignored him and stomped back to the well area. “You may do as you wish,” he said flatly, “but I’m going to leave now.”

  Giraldus turned his head towards him and agreed absolutely. “The batling speaks wisely,” he rumbled, “let us not linger here—we must put the ice and cold behind us this night.” He gave the string another tug, only a little more sharply this time and Tysle was nearly yanked off balance.

  Wendel put the coloured acorns into one of his prop chests and wheeled the cart into the clearing.

  “I too have no desire to remain in this grim spot,” he said. “Whither are you bound?”

  “Greenreach,” Ysabelle told him. “That plan has not changed.”

  “But without thine army?” the jester asked. “Surely that is not the course that one with so full a brain pan would contemplate. Is it not still swarming with thy winged friend’s forces?”

  Ysabelle looked uncomfortably at Vesper; she had not told them that she knew her army would be there when she arrived. “Master Jester, she answered with a smile, “let us not think so far ahead—tonight is the present problem. What are we to do? Find the path again and risk another chase?”

  “I know of no other way to Greenreach,” said Vesper curtly.

  The stoat gave a theatrical shiver and the bells of his head-dress jangled loudly. “In the dark wilds!” he exclaimed. “I do fear it already.”

  “No one relishes the idea,” Vesper told him, “but no other choice is open to us.”

  Tysle stuck out his bottom lip. “A sore shame it is that we never found them woodlanders.”

  “They were probably just so much rumour,” the bat said.

  Wendel pricked up his ears and his paws fluttered in agitated excitement. “Woodlanders!” he cried. “Why, I too have heard of those valiant warriors. On one of my travels t
he village was rife with the news. Oh, if only we could seek them out, then would we be safe for sure.”

  “Did you learn where they live?” asked Ysabelle quickly.

  The stoat closed his eyes and slapped his forehead trying to remember. “A long time ago it now seems,” he groaned, “before the celebrations of Yule—oh what was it I heard? Wendel Maculatum, thy mind is like unto a pickled onion! Aha! This much I recall—by the shore of a lake the place was!”

  Giraldus blinked and snorted huffily. “How does that help us?”

  “Why, if we could discover the whereabouts of this great pool, then surely their sentries would find us and take us to their hideaway!”

  Vesper shook his head. “That’s nonsense!” he said. “How are we to reach this lake? It might be anywhere—I would rather keep to the path, the danger would be exactly the same and we do know where it leads.”

  “Be not so hasty, my damaged Moonrider,” Wendel tutted. “This very afternoon I did come across a stream—if we followed it then most certainly it would guide us there.”

  “But it could lead either to or from the lake!” Vesper protested. “That’s if it has anything to do with it at all—which I sincerely doubt!”

  Ysabelle folded her arms and glared at the young bat. “What ails you?” she asked. “I think the plan has merit—we can see which of the courses we take seems the likely one. Perhaps when we find the woodland folk we can persuade them to accompany us to Greenreach.”

  “I don’t think they’ll have a litter for you to sit on!” Vesper snapped back.

  The squirrel turned to the others.

  Giraldus stroked his chin and gave the matter long deliberation. “A stream might lend us protection,” he finally consented, “providing it is not frozen.”

  Tysle readily agreed with his master. He liked the stoat already, and the brief glimpse he had had of the prop chest’s contents tantalised him, and he longed to peek inside the others.

  So, against Vesper’s better judgement, it was decided to hurry to the stream and follow it to the lake. Taking the handles of his cart, Wendel led them further away from where the path cut through the forest and, reluctantly, Vesper trailed behind.

  On a three autumn worm string, Tysle trotted alongside the jester and drank in all that he said, chuckling at the funny or downright ridiculous comments he made.

  Ysabelle was overjoyed to have found him again. The stoat was a reminder of her home and the happy time before she was burdened with the silver acorn. For a brief moment she felt as she had done when she was an alder maid—free from care with nothing to trouble her.

  Walking beside Vesper, Giraldus stumbled often, for Tysle had become so engrossed in the jester’s humorous tales that he forgot to direct the mole properly and so roots and stones were kicked and tripped over by the poor leper.

  The way to the stream was longer than Wendel remembered and for over an hour they had to traipse through the chill darkness.

  “Beware of a dip in the ground just here,” said Vesper clicking his tongue and guiding the mole in Tysle’s stead.

  “Thank you,” Giraldus replied. “’Twould seem my erstwhile companion has found a more absorbing vocation.”

  When they eventually found the stream, it was frozen and choked with weeds.

  “So the power of the Green is dead here also,” the mole muttered.

  But Ysabelle was determined to continue and so they began following the stream to its source.

  Under the oppressive blanket of night they journeyed, and Vesper soon tired of hearing the stoat’s light-hearted and cheery voice. With the bell on Giraldus’ staff clanging sombrely and those on the jester’s ludicrous head-gear tinkling away, the bat felt surrounded by the incessant sound and a shadow crept over his soul.

  The forest was trackless here and they were forced to pick their way over difficult terrain. The mole suffered the most, and at one point fell headlong into some thorns. Tysle quickly came to the rescue and, after that, stayed with his master—feeling terribly ashamed to have neglected him for the sake of this newcomer. Giraldus patted the shrew on the head and said no more about it. The thorns had speared one of the leper’s diseased fingers and torn it from his paw, yet he clenched his teeth and told no one, wrapping his bandages tightly about his fist so they could not see.

  Eventually the trees began to thin out and patches of sky appeared through the thick canopy above. The frozen stream grew wider, the ground dipped in a gentle slope and then they saw it—the lake.

  It was a cheerless, dreary place. Dark water stretched before them in all directions, and though a slight breeze ruffled through their fur, the surface of the lake was still and unbroken. No rippling waves lapped against the shore—there was only a bleak meeting of turgid water and liver-coloured mud, marred only by occasional webs of ice that spiked away from the land.

  Great sad willows wept over the dismal drink and their drooping branches were untidily cluttered by the unfallen leaves of many summers.

  Clouds of gnats hovered about the shore and a stagnant reek poured out from the centre of the silent lake. Ysabelle coughed into her paw and Tysle pinched his long nose.

  “’Tis a foul, stinking place that you have brought us to,” Vesper told the jester. “Why, ’tis more a putrid mere than a lake. I’ll warrant nothing lives in it.”

  “Verily this drabness is not what I expected,” a dejected Wendel admitted.

  Ysabelle batted away the insects that buzzed about her face. “I cannot imagine anything wanting to live near this forbidding water,” she said. “It is a hateful spot. This is worse than the holy well—at least that was beautiful once, but this has never been anything but ugly.”

  “It do give me the creeps too,” put in Tysle, “and what a whiff wafts over the horrid water—smells like something too long dead and not yet buried.”

  “I said we should have returned to the path,” Vesper told them.

  The jester rested his cart in the frozen mud and tried to salvage the situation. “A noxious malodour to be sure,” he said, trying to sound cheerful, “but no doubt we shall soon accustom our hooters to the staleness.”

  Giraldus could not believe his ears. “What did the juggins say?” he cried. “Tysle, tell me he does not intend for us to remain in this Green-forsaken spot.”

  “What else can we do?” Wendel answered. “I, for one, am too weary to march back the way we came, and I can tell that my Lady is also in much need of sleep.”

  The mole cast the pointed hood from his head and grumbled under his breath. “I have no desire to tarry here—all mine senses tell me nay. Some devilment is brewing; this lonely mere holds nothing wholesome I’ll be bound.”

  Wendel sat on his cart and shrugged. “Be that as it may,” he said, “it is still our only hope of finding shelter. If those gallant foes of the enemy do dwell hereabouts, then for the Gracious Lady’s sake should we not do our utmost to discover them?”

  “And how do we do that?” Giraldus inquired. “Shout at the top of our voices, I suppose, and bring the forces of the Hobb cult down on our heads for our labours.”

  “Simpler than that, blueskin,” said the stoat, rummaging inside one of his chests and bringing out a tinder box. “We light a fire.”

  “You must be crazed!” cried Vesper. “That will certainly bring the Hobbers running. Why do we not just go looking for them—or drown ourselves in this foul lake? ’Twill have the same outcome!”

  Wendel gave the bat an indulgent look, then sighed. “I do not think the followers of Hobb are our main worry once the fire is burning,” he said gravely. “No, ’tis the hunting parties of thy folk we ought to beware. On my midnight wanderings since I was left behind, I have seen many Moonriders coursing through the heavens, searching for my Lady. We must pray that the woodland folk espy our campfire before they do.”

  He turned to Ysabelle and the squirrel gave him permission to build the fire.

  It was a matter of minutes for them to collect enough
sticks and branches and, presently, tongues of yellow flame crackled into life.

  The fire did much to lift their spirits, for it dispelled the all-pervading gloom and they toasted their palms gladly before the flames, waiting in hope for the band of woodlanders to show themselves.

  Only Vesper sat apart from the group. Preferring not to sit around the hearty blaze, the bat crouched in the darkness near the water’s edge and mulled things over in his mind.

  After a short while, Wendel pattered away and began searching beneath the willows. There, he discovered a chunk of wood which he brought back to the campfire and began carving with a sharp little knife.

  Tysle sat beside him and he watched entranced while a rough shape slowly emerged from the whittled wood.

  “What is it you do?” he asked at length. “Is it to be a figure of the Green or a statue of a blessed martyr?”

  The jester laughed. “I sincerely hope not!” he chuckled. “What would I want with anything so dull and yawnsome?”

  Giraldus shifted on the ground nearby and solemnly pressed his paws together.

  “Then what can it be?” the shrew breathed.

  “A puppet, of course!” Wendel replied, waggling the unfinished head at him. “Something to bring a smile to the lips of the miserable and raise a cackle to the dullards of this world.” He gave Tysle a nudge and pointed the knife at his master. “Mind you,” he added with a snigger, “’t’would have to be one of extreme comicality to put even the shadow of a smirk upon that pompous face. How do you bear the ill-countenanced fellow?”

  Tysle glanced hastily back at Giraldus who was staring intently into the flames. He had never thought of the mole as being dull before and his kind nature berated him for thinking it now. Compared with the colourful jester, however, the shrew saw that it was true. Tysle blinked sheepishly and wondered if Giraldus had heard what had been said, but the other made no sign that he had and the shrew soon relaxed and resumed watching Wendel at work.

  “What shall the puppet be of?” he asked.

  The stoat winked at him. “Perhaps I’ll fashion it into the likeness of a shrew,” he said.