Gloswise thought. ‘Now I think of the matter, yes. There was that.’
‘As though you had been dragged through?’
‘Something of that sort. But it ought only to have thrown me off balance, no particularly great pressure being exerted. How did I come to fall? And how did the road fall away beneath me?’
Ilsevel began to form a theory. There was a person somewhere, perhaps tucked away in the Hollow itself, who had the means of wresting open a door between England and the Hollow Hills, and of hauling people through it. Apparently upon command or instruction, for Ilsevel’s own capture had certainly not been by chance, and Gloswise’s was most likely not either.
‘Is there any part of the valley which is particularly difficult to get into?’ Ilsevel enquired. ‘Or better yet, impossible?’
‘No,’ answered Gloswise. ‘Every inch of it is accounted for.’
Of course it was; those obliged to live in such a confined world would certainly make the most of it. But where, then, might such an odd creature find to hide itself? Underground, perhaps — but then, the trows’ knowes were all partially dug below, and they were everywhere about. Would not some one or other of them have run across the creature by now, if it were down in the earth?
But there was also that maze of a wood — the place where Ilsevel had herself arrived, and also, she surmised, the place where Pandigorth the poison-maker had disappeared. Judging from Peech’s words, few ventured to enter those woods without good reason. ‘Gloswise,’ she said. ‘Think a little more, if you please. You said you woke up in a snowdrift, when you first came here. Where was that snowdrift?’
‘In the woods,’ said Gloswise promptly. ‘I almost died of exposure before Peech found me.’
Peech again. Ilsevel retreated to the window seat, thinking. She had been staying with Gloswise for two days now, the cottage being better suited to accommodate her than Peech’s more cramped dwelling. Peech had not returned since that first day, so if Ilsevel wished to question her, she would have to venture out into what promised to become a blizzard before long, and find the trow woman’s knowe. She was beginning to feel that the expedition would be worth it. Did anybody but Peech ever wander those woods? How came Peech to do so with such equanimity? For it seemed more than probable that something among those dizzying trees was responsible for the presence of both Gloswise and Ilsevel at Winter’s Hollow, and possibly others besides. If she wanted to go in search of it, she would need a guide.
Ilsevel cast a brief, dismayed glance at the outside world, what little she could see of it through the driving snow, and stood up. ‘I need to find Peech,’ she told Gloswise.
Gloswise, too, looked to the window. ‘Can it not wait until the snow stops?’
‘It is quite urgent. I do not ask you to take me there, if you would rather not, but do, pray, furnish me with directions.’
Gloswise put down her embroidery with a sigh. ‘No, you will never find it in those conditions. I will come with you.’ She rose from her seat beside the fire and put a thick coat on over her outdated gown, and donned stout boots and a wide-brimmed hat to match. ‘You may borrow that one,’ she said to Ilsevel, pointing at a second coat which hung near the door.
But Ilsevel declined. ‘These garments keep me warm enough, though they do not look capable of it.’ Only her feet were in any danger, but no boots of Gloswise’s could serve better than Ilsevel’s own. Ignoring Gloswise’s sceptical look, she threw open the door and marched out into the wind. She shivered mightily, more because one normally would than because she felt much of the cold. The snow was so thick as almost to blind her; her enchanted gown could do nothing whatsoever about that.
No matter. Onward she must go, and so onward she would go. She waited only long enough for Gloswise to catch up with her before venturing off into the inclement weather, thankful at least that it was not yet dark.
Pops opened the door, and stared at them with the air of a man seeing visions. ‘What! And in all this snow? Come in, come in.’
‘I need Peech,’ said Ilsevel, politely but firmly declining the invitation. The trows’ little parlour radiated warmth, and looked dangerously snug from outside; she would not permit herself to be too tempted to linger.
Peech appeared at the door a few moments later, shooing Pops out of her way. ‘Wist! What is this?’
‘I am going into the woods,’ said Ilsevel. ‘And I would be grateful for a guide, Peech.’
The trow looked Ilsevel over from head to toe, her expression one of frank disapproval. ‘Tis madness, that’s what,’ she pronounced. ‘And I thought you of sound mind, My Lady Silver.’
‘My Lady Silver chafes rather under captivity, and being in possession of some small theory as to a mode of escape, is anxious to explore the possibility without delay.’
‘Oh, aye?’ answered Peech. ‘That tired of the snow, are you? And here not more’n two days, at that.’ She tsked and tutted, but she went to fetch her coat and shawl regardless, and came out into the cold. ‘Quickly, then. Me dinner’s here soon.’
She suited action to words, setting off through the snow at such a rapid pace that she was almost lost to sight before Ilsevel had quite realised she had gone. She hurried to catch up, and only belatedly realised that Gloswise was not at her heels.
‘We have lost Gloswise!’ she called.
‘Gloswise is a woman of sound sense,’ called back Peech. ‘And has doubtless thought it wiser to stay by my nice, warm hearth wi’ Pops.’
The implication, of course, was that Ilsevel was not a woman of sense. Well, so be it then! If only madness could secure her release from this strange place, then madness she would gladly embrace.
She was hard pressed to keep pace with Peech, for though the trow was much shorter than Ilsevel she contrived to move at a startlingly rapid trot. There was no further time, breath or opportunity for conversation; all her efforts were bent upon keeping Peech within sight, and not falling too far behind. They soon passed from the expanse of the valley, dotted here and there with the trows’ dwellings, and into the dark, knotted trees of the snow-drowned woods. Try though she might, Ilsevel could discern no pattern to Peech’s movements, and soon felt hopelessly lost among those craggy old trees. Peech, though, never hesitated.
At last, the trow stopped. ‘This is the middle,’ she announced.
Ilsevel, looking around, discerned nothing to differentiate this spot from any other in the wood. ‘Is there something significant about the middle?’
‘Tis the oldest bit,’ explained Peech. She stood, arms folded around herself and beginning to shiver with the cold.
‘Thank you,’ murmured Ilsevel, momentarily stymied. What now? She thought rapidly. ‘This may seem an odd question,’ she began.
‘Belike,’ said Peech. ‘You are an odd woman.’
Ilsevel smiled briefly. ‘But,’ she persevered, ‘have you ever seen anything out in these woods that resembled a chest?’
Peech frowned. ‘A chest? Like the one in me house?’
‘Well, perhaps not exactly resembling that. But some form of container, which might be enchanted in similar fashion to your own, or Gloswise’s.’ She had visited the residences of some few of the denizens of Winter’s Hollow by now, and had noticed that they were all equipped with some form or other of the magical chests — and all of the residents performed some useful task or another, usually the crafting of saleable objects or the gathering of rare materials. Well, then. Supposing there was someone here whose appointed task was to import residents from time to time, it stood to reason that it would be cared for, and effectively paid, in similar fashion.
Peech was thinking. ‘Odd question, aye,’ she finally pronounced. ‘What would a chest be doing out here?’
‘Satisfying the requirements of a creature who might be living out here,’ said Ilsevel.
‘Nobody lives out here. Ain’t never seen a house, or anything like that.’
‘It might not be the sort of being who would choose
to live in a house. Or if it was, the house might not be visible.’ She stamped once in the snow, illustrating her point.
‘I’d have seen somethin’ of a creature like that, or somebody would.’
‘Perhaps not.’
Peech sighed. ‘I think yer mad, My Lady Silver, but if you’re quite set on it, come wi’ me.’ And off she went again, darting hither and thither through the trees like a sparrow. As near as Ilsevel could tell, they proceeded to walk in a more or less perfect circle, but when Peech stopped again they had arrived at a quite different spot. The boughs hung lower, and there was an unusual, heavy stillness to the air.
Lifting her stoutly-booted foot, Peech kicked at something which gave a hollow thud. ‘Here. I noticed this a time or two, and wondered what it might be. Cannot say as it looks like a chest, though.’
Ilsevel went nearer. The object in question was an odd bank of earth protruding from the base of a vast tree-trunk, though so drenched in snow that Ilsevel could discern nothing further about it. She set to, scooping snow away with her hands, until more detail emerged: it was a mess of gnarly roots all twisted up together, and though the arrangement was by no means box-shaped she could well imagine that it might function as some form of container.
There was, however, no sign of anything that might function as a lid, or a lock, or any means of entrance at all.
‘Excellent,’ she murmured. ‘I think this is the very thing, Peech.’
‘Good. And what now are you fixin’ to do with it?’
Ilsevel had not the smallest idea, but she was in no way disposed to admit it. So she sat on it. ‘Wait,’ she said, with a brilliant smile for Peech.
‘Wait? You will die of the cold.’
‘Unlikely.’
‘Not impossible.’
‘But unlikely.’ Ilsevel smoothed the front of her enchanted gown, striving to look as unconcerned as possible. She was a touch worried about the long-term effects of the weather, but it would not to do be deterred by it.
‘I cannot wait wi’ you,’ said Peech. ‘You may be cold-proof, but I am not.’
Ilsevel’s heart sank, but it was the response she had expected. ‘I understand.’
‘Right.’ Peech hesitated, eyeing Ilsevel uncertainly. ‘You cannot find your way out of this wood alone. You do know that?’
‘Peech. If you would be so good as to pass this way again tomorrow, I would be much obliged to you. If you should find me here, half-frozen but breathing, pray take me home. If I am dead, dispose of my remains. But I think and I hope that you will find me gone.’
Peech’s face soured. ‘Yer a mighty cool one, ain’t you?’
‘Not much ruffles me.’ And when it did, Ilsevel would rather die than make a display of herself.
‘Good luck to you,’ said Peech shortly, and marched off into the driving snow, futilely tugging her shawl tighter about her shoulders.
Ilsevel watched her go, and flatly refused to feel forlorn.
‘Right,’ she murmured, and settled herself more comfortably atop the mound of roots.
Gradually, the light faded. Evening drew in, bringing with it a lessening of the snow but an increase of the biting wind. Even shrouded in enchantments as she was, Ilsevel began to feel its effects, for the wind howled through the close-crowding trees like a wild creature, making merry with her hair, and sending sprays of snow into her face. ‘Stop that!’ she said, sharply.
Chastened, the wind slunk sulkily away.
That interested Ilsevel. The elements had not responded to her commands since Anthelaena’s fall, and they still did not in Aylfenhame. What manner of place was this, that the wind recognised the faded authority of My Lady Silver?
She sat mulling this over, ignoring the way the darkness grew denser and more oppressive as night crept in. If there was a moon, it was hidden away behind the thick, unfriendly clouds, and not a glimmer of its light filtered through to the woods where Ilsevel sat alone. She could see nothing, not even the shape of her own hand.
But the darkness and the intense silence seemed to amplify her hearing, for she heard a great deal. The swaying of the boughs in the somewhat gentled breeze, and the occasional thud of snow falling from the branches to the ground. A scritching and a scratching somewhere: a tiny wild thing sought, probably futilely, for its dinner. That smote Ilsevel’s heart, to her dismay, and struck her equally as a means of experiment.
‘Food for the animal,’ she said crisply. ‘And a light.’
There came light, a sudden blossoming of clear starlight and silvery moonglow: a pair of wisps had leapt to answer her summons. ‘Thank you,’ she told them with a smile, and they bobbed and brightened.
By their combined light, she could see that the branches all about were bristling with berries, bright red and glossy black. These dropped to the floor in a steady rain of fruit, and the animals she had heard darted forth to claim them: mice, and shrews. Tenacious little beings, to survive the endless Winter.
But… need it be endless? For if she held sway over this place then might she not alter such punishing conditions?
Hmm.
‘Enough of winter!’ she proclaimed. ‘Let the seasons be restored.’
The snow stopped, but she had not time to observe whether her will was carried out in all its particulars, for there came a groaning and a creaking beneath her: the roots were come loose, and writhing madly about. Speedily, she hopped off the mound and stood a little way apart, watching by wisp-light as the great pile of roots unwound itself to reveal a gaping, dark hole.
Abruptly, she understood. ‘There is no creature!’ she declared, and her hand darted out to catch one of the snaking roots. It fought her grip, but she held it fast. ‘It is a tree,’ she hissed. ‘You are responsible for bringing me here, are you not? One of your wretched roots reached up, and caught me down! But who told you to do it?’
The tree, or at least its roots, flew into a frenzy of distress, but Ilsevel stood firm. ‘You begin to comprehend the extent of your error, I perceive,’ she said coolly. ‘But your master, whoever that may be, does not. You will take me to him.’ With that, she released the root and let it fall, and stepped smartly into the dark space that yawned in the tree’s trunk.
All lights winked out, leaving Ilsevel in darkness. And then, as before, she fell.
She emerged somewhere so blazing with bright, golden lights that her eyes were quite blinded, and for some moments she could only clench them tightly shut against the assault. At length, cautiously, she peeped with one eye.
Nothing that she saw made the slightest sense.
A comfortable couch upholstered in bright green silk was beneath her, and she lounged upon it as though she had arranged herself there. But there was an end to idle luxury, for all about her was thriving industry and furious effort. She sat in a rather large hall, wood-panelled and crowded with tables. A goblin sat at each one, surrounded by heaped piles of cloth in every possible colour, and frantically engaged in sewing. A great chest, taller than any goblin, dominated the far wall, its lid open; perched on a shelf above it was yet another goblin, a huge pile of completed garments waiting on his other side. As she watched, this goblin snatched up a gown — a pretty printed cotton creation, made after the same fashions as Peech and Gloswise wore — and hurled it carelessly into the chest. ‘Family Snowdrop,’ said the goblin in a bored tone. Another dress followed. ‘The Borage household.’ And so on, garment after garment, breeches and shirts and jackets and shawls, every one of them far outdated in style.
So mesmerised was she by this curious factory that she failed at first to notice another figure, not a goblin but a hobgoblin, who stood against one wall, silently observing the proceedings. He wore a dark red mantle swathed around his stooped shoulders, its hood hiding his face in deep shadow.
She would know him anywhere.
‘Wodebean!’ she gasped, momentarily stunned beyond words. So long and frustrating a search and then there he suddenly was, standing there as calm as you please,
just as though he had not been leading her a merry dance all these many weeks long!
Then, recovering from her surprise, she launched herself off the gorgeous couch and descended upon him, blazing fury. ‘How dare you imprison me!’ she intoned. ‘How dare you evade me! We had a deal, Wodebean!’
Not even the vision of My Lady Silver descending upon him in a mood of flaming wrath could disconcert Wodebean. His head turned her way; a pair of eyes glinted at her from within the depths of his hood; and he made her a deep, deep bow. It was not ironical, not even to her unamused eye. ‘Welcome, My Lady Silver,’ he said in his dry way, and Ilsevel was flabbergasted. For unlike the insult of a note she had received, this was no mockery. She heard the ring of truth in the hobgoblin’s voice: he meant it, every word.
Chapter Fourteen
Goblin tailors, eh? Odd lot, them. Last I heard they was workin’ fer Grunewald, the Goblin King — or he was sponsorin’ the rabble. Somethin’ along them lines. There’s nothin’ they love better’n to sew, an’ they’ll do it all day an’ night. Perfect fer the likes o’ Wodebean, no? How they came t’ pass into his employ is somethin’ I will ask His Majesty, next time I get the chance.
Meantime, clever of My Lady Silver t’ find his elusive self! I don’t mind admittin’, though — I weren’t any nearer t’understandin’ his conduct than Her Ladyship. I had been gettin’ an inklin’ meself that sommat were not makin’ sense wi’ him. Consider them passwords. Mirramay? The royal city. Anthelaena? Her Majesty’s name, afore she were gone. Lookin’ remarkably like a loyal supporter o’ the Crown of Aylfenhame, no? But he were certainly no such thing back when it mattered. Change of heart, mayhap? We’ll find out.
‘Anthelaena,’ intoned Balligumph.
Phineas stood beneath the great gate of the castle at Lincoln, unconsciously holding his breath as he waited for something to happen.
Nothing did. No whirl of uncanny energy, no whisking away of Phineas and Balligumph to places distant and strange, not even a sparkling light or an odd, inexplicable sound. The wind softly blew, cold rain fell upon Phineas’s nose, and they remained exactly where they were.
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