Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman (17 page)

‘We
must take more care,’ said Sir Guntifer, and the smile faded from
Isabel’s face. ‘I had not expected to find such creatures so near
to Mirramay, and methinks they will not be the only loathsome band
lurking in these parts.’

‘What
are “trows”, Sir Guntifer?’ asked Isabel.

‘They
are part of the Goblin King’s Court,’ the giant replied. ‘Darkling
beasts, full of mischief and noise, but no true threat to such as
our party. However, worse may follow.’ He glanced around at the
dark trees that crowded close to the road, his twisting brows drawn
together. ‘I mislike the looks of this.’

Isabel guided her mount a little closer to Sophy’s, who
responded with an encouraging smile. ‘All will be well,’ she said
to Isabel. ‘Sir Guntifer will permit no harm to come to us, I am
sure. Rarely have I encountered so impressive a gentleman in
Aylfenhame!’

Sir
Guntifer heard this, and Isabel judged by the softening of his
mighty frown that he was pleased. ‘Onward with us,’ he rumbled.
‘Keep a wary eye upon the trees, gentle ladies.

Isabel did so, shaken more than she cared to admit by the
trows’ unfriendly intentions and the oddity of their darkling
music. As they rode, she could not shake the sensation that
something — or someone — watched them still, even when they had
ridden far from the spot where the trows had appeared. She thrice
considered imparting her concerns to Sir Guntifer, and seeking his
opinion. But neither he, nor any of the rest of her party, appeared
to share her unease, and at last she put her unsettled feelings
down to the effects of lingering alarm, and said
nothing.

Chapter Ten

They
stayed the next night at another wayside inn like the rest, though
even this bore a changed character. The innkeepers — a pixie and a
hobgoblin — were plainly uneasy, and when questioned, spoke of a
lessening of such travellers as they were used to entertaining so
close to Mirramay, and an increase of the troublesome kind. They
stared in awe at Isabel and Sophy, and tended to their needs with
alacrity.

On
the following morning, the whole party set out for Mirramay. The
sky was overcast and dull, and the atmosphere heavy with relentless
heat. The conditions did nothing to raise Isabel’s spirits, which
were rather oppressed. She was feeling far out of her depth; not
merely because of the strangeness of her surroundings, nor the
unpromising character of the fae they were now encountering in this
part of the Outwoods. She was also suffering grave doubts as to her
part in this curious adventure. Tafferty’s display of some of her
witching powers had only increased her concerns, not assuaged them.
To think that she, Isabel Ellerby, could ever even consider cursing
a fellow being! She viewed the acquisition of such powers with
dismay, and wished heartily that she could somehow separate herself
from them.

But
she could not, and never would. She rode towards Mirramay with a
heavy heart, wishing fervently that she had never permitted her
aunt to send her on such a journey.

Sophy
sensed some of this, and in her typically kind way, she exerted
herself to cheer Isabel. Stories of her customers at Silverling and
the other people she had met in Grenlowe whiled away the hour’s
travel that lay between the inn and Mirramay, and went some little
way towards lightening Isabel’s heart — not least because Sophy’s
tales emphasised some of the other, less alarming powers that
witches were said to possess.

Halfway through
her third tale, Sophy fell suddenly silent. Following the direction
of her gaze, Isabel could clearly see why.

The
trees of the Outwoods finally ended some short distance ahead of
them, and the grandest city Isabel had ever seen rose in their
place. Mirramay was beautifully laid out and looked as though
someone had simply imagined it into being (which, perhaps, they
had: how was she to know?). The buildings were graceful and tall,
with many towering spires. They were all constructed from smooth
stone like marble, in pale colours; many white, others palest
golden, ice-blue or pearly. The windows were set with panes of
glass of a size Isabel had never seen, nor ever thought possible to
create. Ornate carvings, columns and statues decorated every one,
some of them gilded in gold — or something else, something that
glistened with magical iridescence.

The
sounds of running water reached Isabel’s ears as they drew closer,
suggesting the presence of several fountains not far away. Some
delicious aroma teased at her senses, also: a mixture of the fresh
scent of sea air, the perfume of summer flowers, exotic autumn
spices and other things she could not name.

Truly, if she had set herself to imagine the most beautiful,
magical city she was capable of dreaming, she would have fallen
short of the magnificence of this place. She and Sophy rode under
its vast main gate in utter silence, broken only by the ringing
sounds their mounts’ hooves made upon the wide, white-paved street
that led into the heart of Mirramay.

‘My
goodness,’ Isabel breathed at last.

‘I
had no idea,’ Sophy whispered. ‘Or I should have come here before
now!’

Isabel merely nodded her agreement, struck briefly dumb by
the sight of a breath-taking mosaic glimpsed through the gates of a
mansion which rose to her left. So absorbed were she and Sophy in
looking about themselves that they were falling behind; Sir
Guntifer’s long stride had carried him some way ahead. He had been
here often enough that he was unfazed by its beauty, which amazed
Isabel. She could not imagine ever growing tired of it.

Sir
Guntifer was, if anything, walking faster. His head began to turn
this way and that, as though he were searching for something in
particular. Isabel and Sophy hastened to catch up, urging their
mounts to walk a little faster in pursuit of the
tree-giant.

Gradually it dawned on Isabel that something was amiss with
the beauteous city. They had been riding for some minutes through
its wide main thoroughfare, and they had yet to see a single other
person. Nor were there sounds of activity elsewhere; the air was
still and she could hear little save for the sounds they themselves
made. Looking more closely at the houses, she realised something
else: as beautiful as they were, they were not well-kept. In fact,
many of them bore an air of decay. When they came upon a wall which
had partially tumbled down through neglect, she realised that
Mirramay was not only quiet but abandoned.

Sir
Guntifer had stopped, and was waiting for them. ‘Make haste, gentle
ladies,’ he said as they caught up with him. ‘Fair Mirramay! Never
did I think to see it thus!’ He looked distressed, and Isabel’s
heart swelled with pity for him.

‘Why
is it empty?’ she said, gently.

‘I do
not know,’ Sir Guntifer said, in a grim tone. ‘Balligumph warned me
that it was not as I remember, but this…’ He had taken off his
moss-velvet hat and now twisted it around in his hands, his great
emerald eyes sad as he stared at the abandoned buildings around
him. ‘The Royals are gone from Mirramay, and the city herself
mourns Their loss.’ He spoke of the monarchs with a reverence which
surprised Isabel, for it seemed to her that it far exceeded the
respect the people of England felt for theirs. Sir Guntifer shook
his head in despair. ‘Twas said of old that the King and the Queen
were the heart of Aylfenhame. Were they ever to fall, the realm
itself would fall into disrepair until They should be restored.
Never did I wholly believe it, until now.’

‘Do
you mean that this—’ Isabel indicated the silence and decay with a
sweep of her arm — ‘May happen to the rest of Aylfenhame as
well?’

‘Who
is to say that it shall not?’ replied Sir Guntifer. ‘Proud
Mirramay! Fairest city of all, and once the beating heart of the
realm. To see it thus, it breaks my heart.’

Isabel began to wonder whether it would have been wiser to
bring Lihyaen after all, but the same thought had apparently
occurred to Sophy. ‘She is not ready,’ Sophy said softly to Isabel
alone. ‘There is more afoot here than is apparent. It is not as
simple as a person’s sitting upon a throne. The land itself must
accept a Queen — or a King.’

That Isabel might
have guessed for herself, had she considered the matter. It could
not be the case that no other person in the whole of Aylfenhame
possessed sufficient Royal blood to assume the throne; so why had
no one done so?

‘Why
did I sleep so long!’ Sir Guntifer lamented. He was squeezing his
hat so hard that his hands shook. ‘The death of the Princess, and
the Queen! The King lost! Some part of this I — we — could have
prevented!’

Isabel gently disengaged Sir Guntifer’s hat from his hands,
and laid one of her own upon his arm. ‘You could not have known,’
she said softly. ‘It is not your doing.’

Sir
Guntifer took a huge, gusty breath and exhaled, expelling a cloud
of tiny green shoots from his mouth as he did so. He shook his
great head and sighed again, sending a flurry of fluffy white seeds
sailing after, and carefully restored his hat to his head. ‘We
defeated the Kostigern,’ he said sombrely. ‘Never did I dream that
a darker threat would follow, nor that another could carry out his
foul intent when he had failed.’ He shook himself, and looked
around, blinking. ‘Well, well. That is the past. ‘Tis to the future
we must look.’

It occurred to
Isabel belatedly that Pinch and Pinket were absent. Even as this
dawned upon her she spotted them approaching, both in wisp-shape,
their lights burning low. They reached Sir Guntifer and settled
upon him, one on each shoulder. Pinch resumed his pixie shape with
a strong shudder, and gasped something inaudible.

‘What
manner of news have ye brought?’ Sir Guntifer said with some
urgency.

‘Trows!’ announced Pinch, his face dark with disgust.
‘Goblins! Hobs! Redcaps and boggles, ogres, trolls — not the
friendly Balligumph-a-like, you understand. They’ve even got a
thrice-cursed wight down there.’

Pinket suddenly became a pixie, and said in a piping voice:
‘Imps, too.’

Pinch
growled. ‘And those wretched dogs. Hill-hounds. The white ones,
with the red eyes.’ He gave another violent shudder and wrapped his
arms around himself, hugging tightly as though to ward off these
combined perils.

Sir
Guntifer shook his head slowly. ‘Twas once the case that all were
welcome in Mirramay,’ he said. ‘Trows, goblins, ogres and all.
These folk are not unwelcome here, even now.’

Pinch
took off his hat and threw it down in disgust. ‘That is not what
I’m saying, Gunty! They are here in force. They’re all over the
city. There’s not a single one of the fair folk to be seen, either
— just the darkling things. And there are rats.’

‘Rats
everywhere,’ said Pinket.

‘And
you’ve seen what’s become of “fair Mirramay”,’ added Pinch darkly.
‘It might be more rightly called Darkling Town by this
time.’

Sir
Guntifer rumbled something low and inarticulate, a sound
reminiscent of crashing branches and fierce rain. ‘Where are these
foul folk?’ he demanded.

Pinch
waved a hand. ‘That way,’ he said vaguely.

‘What
are they doing, Pinch?’ Sophy interjected. Her tone and expression
implied that she found something amiss with Pinch’s
story.

‘Taking over the city!’ he said dramatically. ‘They’re
mustering, or something.’

‘All
by themselves?’ Sophy put her hands upon her hips and stared hard
at Pinch. ‘You know as well as I do that groups of darklings do not
collectively decide to do anything whatsoever. In fact, persuading
them to agree upon the smallest thing for more than five minutes
together is bordering upon impossible.’

Pinch was
silent.

‘Was
that not why the Kostigern was so fearsome?’ she persisted.
‘Because he alone could.’

‘Say
not that he hath returned!’ said Sir Guntifer, recoiling in alarm.
‘Pinch! It is not so?’

‘It’s
not him,’ said Pinch.

‘So
there is someone else involved,’ said Sophy triumphantly. ‘Tell us
at once! Is it Hidenory?’

Isabel judged that Sophy was expecting an assent to her
question — hoping for it, perhaps. But Pinch shook his head. ‘Tall
fellow,’ he said. ‘Looks like one of your types.’ He nodded at
Sophy and Isabel as he said so. ‘Red hair,’ he added as an
afterthought.

Sophy
blinked. ‘A human?’ she said. ‘A human has brought the darklings
here?’

Pinch
cackled madly. ‘Could be. Could be not.’

‘Let
us resolve this question once and for all,’ Sophy said firmly.
‘Take us to this human, Pinch.’

‘Are
you mad?’ Pinch gasped. ‘You cannot just walk into the middle of
that lot! They’ll eat you alive!’

‘Tall, with red hair?’ Sophy repeated. ‘Pale sort of fellow?
Bright green eyes?’

Pinch
stared at her in awe. ‘You are reading my mind,’ he
whispered.

Isabel caught on. ‘Wild hair?’ she suggested, gesturing with
her hands to indicate a riotous arrangement. ‘And he smokes a pipe
with a long, thin stem.’

Pinch
stared from Sophy to Isabel and back, and shook his head in wonder.
‘I never knew,’ he whispered. ‘Do all the ladies of England read
minds?’