The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  “Deliver the hated life unto the deep,” their empty voices shrieked. “Drown it in the consuming dark.”

  Down to the water’s edge they dragged the kicking and wailing bat. Into the sinister lake, the two grisly apparitions hauled him—pulling the Moonrider into their freezing and unholy grave.

  Vesper was powerless to stop them. The bones which gripped his throat and tore at his wings were as strong as death itself and though he flailed and struggled, it was all in vain.

  The shroud rags of cadaverous flesh and rank weed clung to the bat’s face, smothering and suffocating his gasping mouth as the spectres dragged him down.

  “Join us in the deep,” their icy voices rang. “Walk no more under the sun. Come rot, let your flesh dissolve and take on other guises.”

  Vesper’s wings beat against them in a last futile attempt, as many other creatures had done before him. But the blighted, mouldering bones and twigs tightened and he felt the last breath throttled from his body.

  Stinking water filled the bat’s mouth as they started to pull him under, and the unnatural claws tugged his head below the surface.

  A numb darkness engulfed Vesper—and the shades of the cackling dead prepared to accept another life essence into their rotting number. The body of the bat went limp in their strangling grasp and they began to drift away from the shore, their unholy work done. Yet their macabre appetite would never be quenched.

  “Another soul,” they chanted horribly. “Another wraith to hate the living. We must find more—there can never be enough—let us find another.”

  “Vespertilio!” Ysabelle yelled. “Come back!”

  As she ran along the shore, following the bat’s urgent screams, the squirrel maiden had seen the ghoulish apparitions drag him into the mire.

  Without pausing to think, Ysabelle leaped from the edge and plunged into the lake. The touch of the foul water made her balk, but she splashed towards the sinking horrors, keeping an anxious eye on the motionless winged body tangled in their midst.

  “Let go of him!” she bawled, holding the knife out before her. The water was up to her waist now and she pushed through the waving weed-filled mere, desperate to save Vesper.

  The knife thrashed in the water as she hacked blindly. Through putrid fish skin and brittle bones it tore, cutting a path through to the stricken Moonrider.

  The lake seethed as the spectres turned their fury upon the squirrel, but Ysabelle’s desperation had made her fearless. Against the tendrils and twigs which rose against her she lashed and thrust, valiantly parrying their outraged assaults.

  Slime-covered finger bones snapped and fish spines buckled before her ferocious blade. Finally the tenacious claws which clutched at Vesper released him and came reaching for her.

  Ysabelle darted beneath the outstretched claws and grabbed at the bat, calling his name over and over.

  But the ghostly fingers closed round her, tearing at the squirrel’s tail and plucking at her hair.

  “Cast your life aside,” the ghosts wailed. “Slip beneath the waves and be free.”

  With a tremendous shout, Ysabelle spun round and brought the knife crashing down. Splinters of wood and fragments of diseased scale exploded about her as the hellish claw flew apart.

  Swiftly, Ysabelle seized the moment and rushed towards the shore, trawling Vesper after her.

  When she stood upon the muddy bank, the squirrel quickly threw the bat to the ground and pushed her paws against his chest.

  At once Vesper choked and a fount of black water spouted from his mouth. For several minutes he retched and turning on his side, spat out the poisonous filth of the mere.

  “They wanted... wanted to drown me,” he spluttered. “When they took me to the water I knew what they wanted. I was to be like them... a stinking ghost delighting in murder!”

  Ysabelle stared out to where the dark shapes of the spectres regarded her from the lake, but the ordeal was not over yet.

  “Vespertilio,” she whispered. “Can you stand?”

  “I... I think so,” he coughed.

  “Then do it,” she hissed. “Those creatures are coming back!”

  Gagging, Vesper raised his head. The tattered shapes were rising from the water once more and heading straight for them.

  Ysabelle took hold of his wing and heaved him to his feet, but even as they headed back to the camp, they heard Tysle’s voice squealing and the resounding tones of Giraldus raised in panic.

  “There are more of the foul creatures!” Ysabelle cried. “They’re attacking the others!”

  The squirrel and bat sped along the shore, while behind them the spectres came clattering over the mud.

  “Embrace the dark,” they called. “Let us take you. Come to us. Join us.”

  Around the camp fire, three other phantoms had found their victims.

  “Put me down!” Tysle squeaked. “Put me down!”

  Two of the ghastly, spirit-enslaved jumbles had snatched the shrew and were now bearing him towards the lake.

  “Master!” Tysle called. “Master!”

  The string which joined them was taut and, though Giraldus had not yet been caught by the third bundle of putrescence, he was nevertheless being hauled to his doom.

  “What is happening?” the blind mole howled. “What madness is this?”

  “Eeeeek!” squawked Tysle as the twigs and water-logged bones plucked him from the ground and carried him into the water.

  Giraldus waved his staff in fear as the string drew him over the shore. He could not see that the third spectre was stalking up behind him.

  Cold laughter issued from dark gashes in the animated weed as it entered the lake once more.

  “Master!” Tysle shrieked. “I’ll be drownded!”

  Giraldus drove the staff into the icy mud with all his might and clung to it desperately.

  The string creaked and the progress of the spectres was halted.

  Hissing, they heaved on their prize and at the other end of the lead, the mole gritted his teeth.

  It was like some ghastly parody of a tug-of-war, but it did not last for long.

  “A life!” came the echoing voice behind Giraldus as the third phantom claimed him.

  The mole roared in fear, as clammy, scaly claws wrapped about his neck and plucked his paws from around the anchoring staff.

  “And the Green did bring light to the darkness!” he wailed. “The Green is my salvation—in Him am I redeemed!”

  Into this horrible scene Ysabelle and Vesper came tearing.

  “Get Tysle!” the bat called to her and they both hurried to where the small shrew floundered, half submerged in the water.

  Ysabelle stabbed the gristle and knotted twigs which clutched him and Vesper tore the smothering black weed from Tysle’s face.

  As soon as the shrew’s arms were freed, he struck at the spectres with his fists.

  “You keep your filthy claws off me!” he stormed.

  But they were not about to let him go so easily and frantically wrapped more slimy strands about his body. Then the hideously decayed arms of some cruelly-murdered animal whipped out and knocked the knife from Ysabelle’s grasp.

  “Into the dark,” the spirits cackled, “we will take your life. Follow us down—moulder with us.”

  Ysabelle raked at the shrew’s bonds with her bare paws but it was no use. Without the knife it was impossible to free him nor could she find the blade in the stale, muddy water.

  “Tysle,” she cried. “I’m sorry!”

  The eyes of the poor shrew were wide with terror as the water covered his nose and filled his ears. Ysabelle tried to pull him back, but the malevolent will of the dead was too strong for her.

  “Vespertilio,” she pleaded. “Help me, Tysle will drown!”

  But Vesper was not there. She looked round wildly, fearing that he had been pulled into the lake—then she saw him.

  With a burning branch plucked from the campfire in his grasp—the Moonrider charged back to the
lakeside.

  “Keep back!” he howled, thrusting the flames into the heart of the tangled bundles of death.

  “Noooooooooo!” the hollow voices shrieked. “Not the burning fires! Noooooooooo!”

  They fell back before the flames, their claws and tendrils snaking away from Tysle and leaving the shrew free to clamber back to shore.

  Vesper waved the torch at them threateningly and the phantoms cowered further into the water, gibbering with woeful moans.

  Tysle shook his fist at them, then he remembered his master and glanced round quickly.

  Giraldus was surrounded; the wraiths that had first captured Vesper had joined forces with the remaining spectre and all clawed at the mole—herding him to the water’s edge.

  Tysle gave a yell and hobbled for the fire, but the string was not long enough and he sped round in a wide circle before charging headfirst into one of the grisly apparitions and beginning to beat it with his crutch.

  Then Vesper came to his aid, and Ysabelle followed, also carrying a burning torch. The ghosts slunk away, wailing and groaning.

  Giraldus was left on the ground and Tysle came hurrying up to see if he was harmed. The mole breathlessly told him that he was not hurt and was about to thank the Green when Tysle sprang away, running after the retreating spectres.

  Giraldus felt the string go taut as the shrew strained to reach them but he pulled the little fellow back and then staggered to his feet.

  Vesper and Ysabelle strode about the water’s edge, making sure the unholy spirits sank below the surface. Then the grim lake was still and silent once more, but they were certain that hostile eyes still watched them.

  “Do you think they will stay away?” Ysabelle asked.

  “Not for long,” Vesper told her. “Their hatred for us and the lives we own will soon conquer their fear of the fire. We must leave this terrible place at once!”

  Ysabelle was only too glad to agree—then she remembered Wendel.

  “Where is he?” she cried. “Oh no, were we too late? Had those vile things already dragged him under before we returned? Wendel—Wendel!”

  She ran up and down the shore to see if there was any sign, and by Giraldus’s side, Tysle was dismayed to hear her.

  “Please no,” he whispered, “don’t let the jolly jester have perished.”

  Vesper ran after the distraught Ysabelle and spun her round. “We haven’t time to find him!” he told her. “If he’s dead then there’s naught you can do!”

  “But if he is not,” she implored, “he might be unconscious somewhere and if those things return...”

  From out of the trees where the forest began, a tall figure bashfully stepped.

  Tysle saw him first and his face cracked into an enormous grin. “Wendel!” he shouted.

  The stoat wrung his paws and padded down the shore muttering wretchedly to himself. “How can you forgive me?” he blubbered. “What must you be thinking? Oh, a craven stoat am I! When the first of those slimy horrors rose from the dank water I did squeal and hare into the trees, leaving my friends to their callous mercy. Oh please! I know ’twas a cowardly and unspeakable action—no, don’t tell me, I know it too well! A thousand curses would not repay me for such a yellow deed.”

  The others merely stared at him, not knowing what to say. The cowardly jester had left them to die and nobody, not even Tysle, could find any words to say to him.

  Vesper avoided the stoat’s gaze and told Giraldus and the shrew to pack up their belongings so they could leave immediately.

  “Dear friends!” Wendel whimpered. “Forgive me, I beseech thee! I know not what came over me, but I know I would have been of little use combating those frightful monsters.”

  He ran up to Ysabelle and trotted beside her, pleading for her understanding. “Mistress,” he burbled, “think not too lowly of this, thy humble servant—was it my fault my nerves are as weak as mine brain?”

  “I don’t understand,” the squirrel said. “You were not so craven when you saved me from the bats.”

  “Alas!” Wendel bemoaned. “That was before I had spent long nights alone in the forest; if I had not learned swiftly to conceal myself when danger came near I should not be here now.”

  “You had best collect your cart,” Ysabelle told him, “we are not staying here.”

  The jester scurried to his painted wagon and thrust his scattered knife and half-finished puppet into a chest.

  “What of thee, little shrew?” he asked Tysle. “Art thou angry at this follysome idiot? I could not bear it if all were to scorn me.”

  Before Tysle could answer, Giraldus tugged the string and he was compelled to begin leading the mole up the shore. But he gave the stoat a disappointed and mournful scowl.

  “Pray don’t bother to waste your breath,” Vesper said when the jester caught his eye. “Just wheel your cart and keep quiet from now on.”

  Wendel whined miserably to himself. “Oh my,” he bleated, “was there ever one so reviled? I could punish myself—truly I could.”

  Vesper shook his head in disgust, then hurried to catch up with Ysabelle.

  “Thank you,” he told her, “you did save my life in that stinksome mere. You acted most bravely and I am in thy debt.”

  “Call it a debt repaid,” she said with a smile.

  “Very well,” he answered, “but let us march swiftly and find somewhere safe to rest for what remains of this night—I feel as though I could sleep for an entire week.”

  And so the five travellers passed once more into the forest and the haunted mere was left far behind.

  10 - From the Shade of the Beeches

  It was fatigue which finally forced them to halt. The urgent and anxious steps that had carried them swiftly from the shore soon dwindled into faltering stumbles. Then, very softly, it began to rain.

  At first it was no more than a gentle, refreshing drizzle which they all welcomed, and lifted their faces so the fine, sprinkling drops might cleanse them of the mere’s festering stink. But it was not long before it became a steady downpour which splashed over the frozen forest floor and turned the dead leaves into a slippery mulch, treacherous to the weary travellers.

  Skidding and sliding through the now pelting storm, the five soaked figures sought shelter. The deluge fell in thick grey sheets which battered against their cheeks, stinging them with cold, and made it almost impossible to see where they were going. Then, finally, from out of the driving, drenching rain, reared the dark silhouette of a dead and hollow tree.

  Through a hole in the trunk they scurried and cast themselves on the soft moss within. Soon the aches and fears of the past hours vanished as sleep gradually garnered them to its bosom.

  The rest of the night belonged to the storm and the unceasing rain drummed on the bark of the hollow tree, like the din of ten thousand tiny hammers chiming on an anvil. High above, the gushing water trickled along the branches and came sluicing in swollen rivulets down the withered trunk. Over the sopping ground the surging rain flooded; old stream beds overflowed and new pools filled the dips and dells. Then, when it seemed the torrent would never be stilled, the clouds scattered and the last hour before sunrise was silent. The uncovered stars glittered over the newly-washed forest, glinting in the brimming ponds and sparkling over the dripping branches.

  A bleary dawn edged into the heavens and, within the hollow tree, as the sun climbed higher, the travellers slept on.

  Vesper nuzzled his face into his wing, lost in a deep slumber. That night he had been too exhausted to dream and no images of the high priest came to haunt him.

  He rolled over, but from the hole in the trunk a bright beam of sunlight came slanting in and he unwittingly brought his face directly into it.

  The dazzling rays beat upon his eyelids and the bat groaned—opening them a chink.

  Grudgingly, he sat up and gazed sleepily at the outside world. Then Vesper’s ears twitched and he caught his breath—someone was out there.

  “How much longer ca
n this plaguey hunt continue?” complained a voice.

  “Till the enemy is found and captured,” said another.

  “Then I crave that shall be soon. I tell thee, Leofa, if I have to cross this forsaken forest many more times, then I shall be driven crazed.”

  “For myself, I am at a loss to fathom how the wretched creature hath managed to evade us thus far. Have we not despatched our brethren far and wide and still no sign have they seen. Each day the captains return with naught to report—it maketh me think we chase after ghosts.”

  “I did believe the ashes of that fire by the side of that drearsome lake did hold a clue—a sore pity the rain washed all traces and footmarks away.”

  “Perfect fools, that is what our enemy has made of us!”

  Vesper allowed a grin to cross his face, pleased that they had caused the Hobb cult so much trouble. Yet he hoped that neither of those unseen speakers decided to peer inside this hollow tree and was relieved that he had made Wendel cover his cart with fallen branches and twigs before retiring the previous night. Then the smile faded from his lips as he realised that the voices had not been speaking in the common tongue.

  “Bah,” the one called Leofa spat, “we ought not to be compelled to suffer this—Rohgar hath made a pretty mess of things.”

  “’Tis rumoured that Hrethel hath withdrawn into his underground chamber and suffers no other to enter.”

  “Ah, he will not fail us.”

  Vesper uttered a startled cry—it was a couple of bats he had been sleepily listening to.

  “What was that?” one of the bats hissed in Vesper’s own language. “Didst thou mark that sound?”

  The other paused to listen. “Nay,” he replied, “’tis thine ears a-playing games with thee.”

  “Canst thou expect aught else under the garish scrutiny of the Daystar? How can other creatures bear it? ’Tis all I can do to keep from falling from this bough, mine senses are so bewildered.”

  “Another flaw in Rohgar’s reckoning. How can he expect us to spy that hated tree worshipper in this dazzle?”

  As their conversation continued, Vesper’s mind reeled and whirled in a confusing clash of thoughts.