Elder Isles 2: The Green Pearl (27 page)

Visbhume scratched his long nose. Fast travel was a lore which he must inveigle from Tamurello, when circumstances were favorable. To date, Tamurello had revealed nothing whatever; indeed his attitude was often ambiguous, and his tart comments had hurt Visbhume deeply, so that now Visbhume felt reluctant to seek help from Tamurello for fear of another hurtful rebuff.

Yet, where else could he turn? The fairies were the most capricious of creatures; to win their favor, or to gain their knowledge, one must entertain them, or delight their senses, or arouse their avarice, or perhaps only their curiosity. Or their fear.

Visbhume reflected at length, to no effect, and presently went to his couch.

In the morning, he attacked his quandary again. “I am Visbhume!” he told himself. “I am the clever, the clear-eyed, the bold! I am Visbhume the magician who pipes up the dawn and marches through life with his forehead wreathed in rainbows, riding the surge of a glorious music!”

But then, using another voice, he told himself: “Quite so and all very well, but in the present case, exactly how shall I exercise my power?”

No response vouchsafed itself, from either of the voices. Halfway through the morning, as he sat on the bench, he was approached by a burly black-bearded Moor garbed in turban and djellaba. The Moor stood looking down at him with quizzical amusement and presently said: “So then, Visbhume! How goes it?”

Visbhume looked up sharply, then said: “Sir, you have the advantage of me. Are we truly acquainted?”

The Moor chuckled. “Ask yourself, Visbhume, who knows of your presence in Lyonesse Town?”

“They are three: King Casmir, his servant Rosko, and a certain other person whose name need not be mentioned, by reason of discretion.”

“Might ‘Tamurello’ be the name which, in your wise restraint, you do not choose to mention?”

“Precisely so.” Visbhume studied the black-bearded face. “This is an unfamiliar semblance.”

Tamurello nodded. “As a matter of fact, it is close to my natural likeness, and therefore comfortable. You seem to be at loggerheads. What is your difficulty?”

Visbhume explained his problem in all frankness. “King Casmir commands that I draw information from the fairies, and I sit here among a dozen procedures, none of which serve the purpose. If truth be known, I fear fairy-tricks. They will transform me into a heron, or pull my nose out a clothyaid’s length, or send me riding across the sky in a whirlwind.”

“The dangers are real,” said Tamurello. “To avoid them you must use the skill of a lover with his coy mistress, or else seduce them with marvels.”

“All very well,” bleated Vishbume, “but how?” Tamurello looked off across the harbour. After a moment he said: “Go to the market, and buy eight skeins of red yarn and eight skeins of blue yarn, and bring them here; then we shall see.”

Visbhume marched swiftly away to do Tamurello’s bidding. He returned to find Tamurello sitting at his ease on the bench. Visbhume started to sit also, but Tamurello made a signal. “There is room only for one. You may sit presently. Show me the yarn… . Aha, that will do splendidly. You must wind the red yarn into a ball, and the blue yarn into another ball. I have here a bobbin apparently carved from a maple burl; observe it, if you will.” Tamurello exhibited an object about two inches in diameter. “You will notice that it is perforated by a hole, and indeed is not truly made of wood.”

“What then might it be?”

“A clever little creature which has received my instructions. Now listen with all attention! Do exactly as I say; otherwise you must come to grief, and fly Madling Meadow as a heron or, more likely, a crow; the fairies at times are over-mordant in their humour.”

“You need never worry; when I listen I hear and what I hear I retain forever, since my memory is like a record carved into stone!”

“A useful trait. Go to Madling Meadow, and show yourself about two hours after sunrise. At the center of the meadow you will notice a hummock. From its side grows a crooked old oak tree. This is Thripsey Shee.

“Go out on the meadow, heeding neither sounds, nor yet blows, tweaks, nor pinches: they are meaningless. The fairies idly amuse themselves, and will not truly harm you, unless you give them reason, by kicking or cursing or simply glaring about. Go with pleasant dignity, and in their curiosity they will not think even to harass you.

“When you arrive at the crooked oak tree, tie one end of the red yarn to a branch, then come back toward a pair of birch saplings, trading the red yarn along the meadow behind you.

“Arriving at the birch saplings, toss the ball of red yarn between the trunks. Do not walk through yourself. Then thread the end of the blue yarn through the hole in the bobbin and knot it, so that it will not pull through. Toss the blue yarn after the red, then utter the words which I will now teach you.” Tamurello spoke aside to the bobbin: “Do not heed me now; I speak in rehearsal only. Visbhume, attention! At the proper time, utter this charge: ‘Bobbin, be at your business!’ Then stand back. Do not watch the bobbin; do not look between the trees. Is so much clear?”

“Absolutely, and in every respect. What then?”

“I cannot predict. If the fairies ask questions you must say: ‘Who talks? Show yourself; no wise man reveals his wisdom to the air!’ Then, after they show themselves you must deny knowledge of the shee, so that they may not accuse you of special purpose. When they ask what you have wrought, you must say: ‘This is a nexus into Hai-Hao, but nothing can pass without my permission.’”

“Is this truly so?” asked Visbhume, charmed by the wonderful concept.

“What matters is, will the fairies believe you? The question is nuncupatory.”

“Suppose in all innocence I should swindle them, and they remember and send out owls to haunt me, as they did poor Tootleman of Hoar Hill?”

“The point is well taken! However, the nexus is real but perdurable only so long as the wind allows.”

Visbhume asked further questions, exploring contingencies until at last Tamurello grew restive, and rose to depart.

“One last matter!” cried Visbhume. “If they will respond to my questions, perhaps they will grant me other favors, such as a Hat of Wisdom, or Fast Shoes, or a Purse of Plenty to supply my needs.”

“Ask as you like,” said Tamurello, smiling in a manner which Visbhume felt might be somewhat contemptuous. “A word of caution, however: the fairies are notably unsympathetic in regard to greed.” With this, Tamurello rose from the bench and strolled away, across the square and up the Sfer Arct.

Visbhume looked darkly after him. Tamurello’s manner was not always gracious and kindly, as befitted a true comrade. … Ah well, when all was said and done, Tamurello was no doubt a worthy fellow. One must be prepared for quirks and crotchets; that was indeed the essence of friendship.

The day being still young, Visbhume also set off up the Sfer Arct. At Haidion he sought out Resko the underchamberlain. “I am the gentleman Visbhume. His Majesty has granted me a purse of gold and silver coins, a horse of fine quality, with proper furniture, and all else needful. By the king’s command, you are instructed to fulfill these requirements.”

“Wait here,” said Rosko. “I must verify every detail of this request.”

“That is insulting!” stormed Visbhume. “I shall report you to King Casmir!”

“Report away!” said Rosko and went off to instruct the groom.

An hour later Visbhume rode north from Lyonesse Town astride a stately white mare with a wide rump and a hanging head. In a strident and reedy voice of outrage, Visbhume had demanded of the groom a mount of braver mettle: “Must I fare forth on the king’s business like some lumpkin out to deliver a sack of turnips? Is there no pride in the stables of Haidion, that they furnish sway-backed nags to gentlemen?”

The groom tapped his ears, to indicate what Visbhume half-suspected to be feigned deafness; in any event, Visbhume was forced to accept the proffered mount, nor did his purse reveal the warm shine of gold.

Coming into Old Street, he turned eastward and rode until sunset, arriving at the village Pinkersley where he took lodging at the Fox and Grapes. On the following day, he came to Little Saffield, and at the crossroad turned north. He passed the night in Tawn Timble, and the next day proceeded to Glymwode. During the afternoon he reconnoitered the neighborhood, and by dint of careful questions, learned the location of Madling Meadow, a mile along a woodcutter’s track into the Forest of Tantrevalles. Visbhume returned to Glymwode and passed the night at the Yellow Man Inn.

Early in the morning Visbhume set forth riding up the woodcutter’s lane and presently came to Madling Meadow. He alighted and tied his horse to a tree, then, standing in the forest shade, surveyed the meadow. He perceived a scene of bucolic peace, with no sound but the hum of insects. Buttercups, daisies, mallows, corn-flowers and a dozen other flowers spotted the green grass with colour. In the soft blue sky floated a few puffs of white cloud. At the center of the meadow rose a hummock on which grew a gnarled old oak. No living creature could be seen.

Visbhume readied his balls of yarn, then, stepping forward from the concealment of the forest shade, walked out into the sunlight. The silence seemed even more intense than before.

Visbhume marched confidently across the meadow, looking neither right nor left. At the hummock he halted and now something tugged at his cloak. Visbhume paid no heed. He brought out the ball of red yarn and tied an end to a low branch of the old oak.

From behind the hummock came a small mewing laugh, quickly stifled. Visbhume seemed not to hear. He turned about and, paying out the red yarn, walked back toward two young birch saplings not far from the edge of the meadow. At his back came a rustling sound, and muted whispers. Visbhume seemed to hear nothing. Again something tugged at his cloak; as before Visbhume paid no heed, and continued across the meadow leaving the red strand behind him. He stopped in front of the birch saplings and sent the ball of red yarn, now somewhat depleted, rolling between. He brought out the blue yarn, and, following Tamurello’s instructions, attached the bobbin to the yarn. He rolled the blue yarn after the red, tossed the bobbin into the air and cried out: “Bobbin, be at your business!”

Mindful of Tamurello’s list of heeds and cautions, Visbhume danced on nimble long legs off to the side and away from the birches. With eyes half-closed and mouth pursed in a beatific smile, Visbhume gazed benignly across the meadow, while from somewhere beyond the scope of his vision came a shrill keening sound, as of an awl drawn smartly along a taut wire.

Visbhume’s narrow shoulder-blades twitched and crawled for curiosity, but even more intense was the emotion of fear; he hunched down his neck as a dog might draw its tail between its legs. “A sorry fool I would be to ignore the admonitions!” So Visbhume told himself. “And, more than all else, I am not a fool!”

Something kicked at his lean shank. Visbhume paid no heed. A pair of fingers tweaked his buttocks, provoking from Visbhume both a startled squeak and a reflexive jerk, which evoked a sputter of quiet titters.

Indignant words rose to Visbhume’s lips; the fairies were taking overly broad liberties with his person… . Visbhume stalked ten paces to the side. Half-turning, he glanced across Madling Meadow and, marvel of marvels! Through bright mist swirling around the hummock he glimpsed a wonderful structure of jet and milk-glass. Slender columns supported domes and tall arcades and higher domes, and still more, ranked one above the other, along with a hundred terraces and balconies and, higher yet, a cluster of towers flying pennons and banderoles. In the shadowed halls hung chandeliers encrusted with diamonds and moonstones, which gave off glints of red, blue, green and purple light. … So much Visbhume thought to see, but as soon as he tried to trace out a form in all clarity, it swam away into the mist.

Other shapes blurred in and out of focus. The strand of red yarn which Visbhume had laid across the meadow he now apprehended as a fairy avenue of polished red porphyry, between a pair of splendid balustrades. Along this avenue fairies ran back and forth, testing the footing, pointing first to the bobbin’s pattern, then to the shee. Others ran and hopped and performed foolish antics on the top of the balustrades, and all seemed to approve this marvellous novelty. At closer hand, arranged in solemn contemplation of the bobbin’s work, sat clusters of fairies, quarreling, nudging and teasing, or simply frolicking among the grasses, but, most of all, they pondered the pattern created by the bobbin, which held a whole throng caught up in wonder. From the comer of his eye and almost beyond his volition, Visbhume sensed a most peculiar configuration, which even at a fleeting glimpse fascinated his mind.

A voice spoke, thin and clean “Low human fellow, mortal fellow, intrusive fellow: why do you do what you have done?”

Visbhume looked here and there, feigning bewilderment. He spoke as if apostrophizing the sky: “How oddly the winds rustle the leaves! Almost I thought to hear a voice! Ah, voice of the wind, speak and tell me of your wild roaming! Speak, wind!”

“Fool! The wind speaks no words!”

“I heard a voice! Voice, did you speak? If so, be brave! Show yourself, as I cannot compromise myself at random.”

“Look then, mortal, and see what you see.”

The mists swirled away from the hummock, revealing the full splendour of the fairy castle. A host of fairies surrounded Visbhume, some sitting, others hiding in the grass. At a distance of twenty feet stood King Throbius and Queen Bossum, in full regalia. Throbius wore a crown worked from sceleone, that fragile metal forged from water-reflected gleams of moonlight. Slender cusps surrounding the crown terminated in pale blue sapphires. The robes of Throbius were blue velvet woven from the bloom of willow catkins; they trailed ten feet behind him and were carried by six round-faced skew-eyed implings, smirking sidelong with noses wrinkled. Some lagged, others tugged at the robe to bring up the laggards; sometimes they played a sly game of tug-of-war with the train, always with one eye on Throbius, the better to avoid his chastisement should their game be detected.