Sire:
The former account of our adventures, entitled ‘Glimpses’, which I wrote at the behest of the late-lamented Melohtar son of Ostendil, was known at the time of writing to contain some puzzling gaps and obscurities. Having since had opportunity to acquire fuller knowledge, and having filled in the gaps by questioning those, such as Your Majesty’s own self, who were caught up in the recent war, I now offer this sequel to all the folk of the Northern Realm: still daring to hope that Your Majesty’s well-known principle may so far yield, one day, as to allow audience to some few of the following pages.
A. S.
Part One: The Fox
Chapter One: FALLMORROW WOOD
Some people, I gather, still visit Fallmorrow Wood and sit around a camp-fire at midnight, hoping to be visited by the Fox. It is not to be expected that he will return soon, but perhaps, one day – who knows?
*
‘Hundreds of years,’ said Aldred, leaning back into the roots of a great fir-tree, ‘but that’s not so long, after all. It’s not in Gorbadoc’s Antiquities. It begins some time after 1395.’
Tim struck the flint with the steel spike. A red spark glowed. He blew on it persuasively, and the tinder began to burn. ‘And it’s not always been called Fallmorrow Wood, has it, sir?’
‘No, not since Burrowes of Peathrop sold the land to my great-great-grandfather,’ said Fortinbras. He cut two thick slices of bread, buttered them, cut a slice of ham, laid it on the bread and cut the sandwich in half. He passed it to Aldred, who was carefully pouring out the wine with his good hand. ‘How do you know the tale, Tim?’ Fortinbras asked. ‘How do they tell it in Middleton?’
Small bright flames were beginning to rise up through the twigs that Tim was placing, and the light flickered on his face. ‘Well, ’tain’t hardly much of a tale,’ he answered. ‘There’s just this ghost of a fox that haunts the wood. A giant-size fox with eyes all glowing green. Like we saw in Mistress Berma’s magic sieve. He’s only seen at this time of the year, the last few days before Fallmorrow… And he’s a bit like Mistress Berma, ’cause you can’t usually never find him if you go a-looking for him. It’s travellers who aren’t expecting-like – they find themselves here when the leaves are starting to fall – and they get the fright of their lives…but it’s only a ghost. It’s never bit.’
‘You don’t seem very scared of it,’ said Aldred.
‘No, sir, I can’t say as I am. Thank you, sir,’ said Tim, accepting a sandwich and taking a large bite. ‘And the other thing, they do say, is that you’re very much likelier to meet the fox if you’re in a three. He’s appeared to couples, and to folks on their own, but that’s rarer.’
‘You know what I’m scared of?’ said Fortinbras gloomily. ‘It’s that he won’t turn up. I’ve got this constant fear running up and down my backbone. Time’s running out, it’s saying. Time’s running out for the Demesne.’
‘Oh, Mr. Dyer, still?’
‘Come on, Fortinbras, cheer up,’ said Aldred, siding with Tim. ‘You’re a success. You’re a hero.’
‘And so, what next?’
Fortinbras had been startled by the acclamations that his and Tim’s return had aroused. Following their journey through the strange disorienting mist – Fortinbras’s arrival at Bailiwick occurring simultaneously with Tim’s in Middleton and Waltrot’s in Tregg – he had met Tim two days later on the Middleton Road; they had then ridden together to the ‘Town Hole’, as it was traditionally called. Believing themselves to be the bearers of unmixed bad news – the failure of their errand, the King’s displeasure, the deaths of the three elder members of the Embassy – they had had to steel themselves to go in, and had been very surprised to be greeted with warm smiles and congratulations. A revised set of tribute demands had already been sent in by the King’s Reeve, and these were substantially lower. Fortinbras, supported by Tim, had narrated to a packed hall, making much of Mr. Proudfoot’s gallant leadership, and had been rewarded with cheers, loud applause and the official thanks of the Moot.
‘I remember,’ observed Aldred, ‘you were just like this when we were setting out from Tregg.’
‘So I was. So I am. What’s changed? They don’t want to know any of the difficult bits. They don’t care whether Vinyards is Emynos or Ruminas. It doesn’t bother them that that poisoned Road is left off the maps. The Councillors are all the same – my father, and Mr. Graveldrop, and the Steward, and even your father, Aldred, with respect – they’re all of them as trusting and deluded as poor old Clemo and Egwise.’
‘But what did you expect?’ asked Aldred gently.
Fortinbras made no answer. The night was silent. Tim began deliberately to break dry branches and to place them on the fire. Overhead, stars were twinkling brightly in the blue sky. ‘What about Waltrot?’ Fortinbras said at last. ‘How will he find us?’
‘Will you stop worrying…! Let me remind you that we agreed three would be the best number, for the reason Tim’s just mentioned. He’ll come here in the morning. He’s a capable chap. If we’re gone, he’ll be able to follow our trail.’
‘So now we just wait, Mr. Dyer,’ added Tim.
They finished their meal, then stretched themselves out on the dry earth and pine-needles, each with a drink at hand. The night became bluer, and darker, and yet more still. The fire itself grew quieter; the bright flames were like straight-backed sentinels, and the smoke plumed straight upward. No owl cried, no leaf rustled, not a fieldmouse stirred. The fire ceased to make any noise at all. And an aura was visible around each flame, a blade-edge of shining green.
The fox came.
It was not green; it was reddish-brown like any fox, though almost invisible as it stepped over the topes of the tall pines; but its two eyes reflected the green firelight like brilliant emeralds. The sharp-eared head bent downwards; the tall ears had a distinct outline of luminous grey. Then they faded. The three companions knew that the fox had seen them. They had the impression of the whisk of a vast brushy tail, and the faint tang of a scent that was gone almost before they noticed it…
The fire had burnt down, and the embers were tinkling and whitening, and a gust of wind sighed in the branches of the trees. Not far off, where a pair of tall dark trees stood together like the door-posts of an entry into the thickest part of the wood, two green points of light were seen in the black darkness. As the punchkins stared, the eyes flicked round and vanished. Fortinbras, Aldred and Tim stood up without a word. They slung on their packs, beat the fire out and walked down the starlit glade. They passed between the two trees and plunged into the forest.
The night that followed seemed very long, extraordinarily long, without being at all wearisome, filled with a flicker of green lights and dark shadows, a profusion of leaves and springy undergrowth, a sheen of starlight on beaded cobwebs, a smell of mint and a crunch of beech-mast, a continual stirring of excitement, a faint laughter that could hardly be heard, and a sense of ultimate reassurance, as of some profound mysterious recovery. The punchkins walked through dells of black midnight, past pools of dim-glittering water, down deep-rutted tracks and leaf-roofed tunnels until they had lost all their sense of direction; then emerged into meadows known but strange, dotted with luminous mushrooms: stealing like outlaws under the eaves of quiet farms, past the tiny pale crosses of the sweet night-stocks and the kennels of slumbering guard-dogs; then continuing through wide woods and more spacious copses, all filled with a dim green mist and the outpourings of nightingales: until each of the companions knew for certain that they were on the right track at last, that this journey was to be quite unlike the previous one, no wretched ill-advised political errand but a truly magical quest. A dozen times, perhaps, they came to a halt in the earthy darkness, like prisoners condemned to wander in a maze, and heard each other’s breathing, and reached out and clasped each other’s hands – and each time a sudden glint of the green eyes, or a glimpse of the outline of pricked ears, back and brushy tail, or maybe just a rustle of leaves would provide a clue to follow once again. At long long last, the three emerged to see the dawn in the sky, the morning star fading beyond a row of crab-apple trees, and a cabbage-field ranked with thick-stalked plants that flapped stiffly in the chilly morning wind. Suddenly the companions felt cold and tired. The fox had vanished. They crawled back into the thicket, got out their blankets, rolled themselves up and sank into dreamless sleep. And never did any dream or nightmare come to any of them until they reached the end of their quest.
They woke up in the early afternoon. Having no sense of any need for hurry, they washed in a stream that flowed nearby, ate a leisurely breakfast or lunch, picked some blackberries to go with it, then lit their pipes and smoked peacefully. They hoped that Waltrot would join them before the fox reappeared. ‘Where’ve we got to anyway, Mr. Sherling?’ asked Tim. Aldred pointed with his pipe. ‘We’re between Selly-stream and Bournbrook,’ he said. ‘See the village in the valley yonder, between the trees – that’s Selliwick. We came quite a way last night. A good fifteen miles.’ ‘It’s funny, my feet don’t feel tired,’ said Tim. ‘Nor mine,’ said Fortinbras. ‘Ah, there’s our friend.’ A figure had emerged from the trees and was now coming openly along the path that crossed the cabbages. ‘That’s not Walt,’ said Tim. ‘The farmer, maybe,’ said Aldred: ‘Do we want to avoid him?’ ‘It’s not a farmer,’ said Fortinbras, staring hard. ‘It’s somebody strange, but I think I know him. Goodness gracious me! It’s cousin Hrothgar!’
Just at that moment, the screen of yellowing hawthorn-leaves parted behind them and, to their confusion, Waltrot himself appeared. He began to speak, smiling, and was a little surprised to find his friends hushing him at once. Nobody could have said why, just then, but Aldred, Fortinbras and Tim all felt a need for vigilance and caution. The fifth punchkin came up the slope. He took off his slouch hat and waved a greeting to them in their place of concealment. On he came, quite self-possessed, his feet silent on the path, his dark shabby cloak drawn round him. He stepped into their midst, raised his hat again and bowed.
‘Mr. Dyer, Mr. Sherling, Mr. Bottlebanks, Mr. Hardedge: well met,’ said he. ‘Congratulations on the success of your mission.’ As he spoke the sun came out, and at the same time there came a gust of wind, so that the small yellow leaves danced over the tall dry grass, or tried to shake themselves off the moving twigs: the little clearing was filled with fragments of colour, like a cascade of bright coins.
‘Hodgekin Dyer. Good afternoon,’ said Fortinbras, stepping forward. His handshake was more restrained and more confident than before. The new arrival was none other than the mysterious punchkin-rover whom they had met six months previously at The King’s Head, and whose guidance they had then wished to have. ‘You certainly had more idea about it than we had.’
‘And Mr. Bavour and Mr. Proudfoot and Mr.Yarnal are all dead, so I heard,’ replied Hodgekin Dyer. ‘I am sorry. You must miss them.’
‘No thanks to you if we aren’t all dead ourselves,’ Tim broke in, somewhat fiercely.
‘Please, Tim,’ said Aldred. ‘Mr. Hodgekin Dyer gave us very fair advice. He had his own good reasons, I’m sure. And Walt, you’ve been standing here all this time and we haven’t welcomed you. How rude! Let’s make ourselves comfortable, and then we can understand what all this is about.’
‘I see you wasn’t expecting this, Mr. Dyer, er, Mr. Fortinbras,’ said Waltrot. ‘I should own that it’s all my fault, in a manner of speaking. We got talking in the inn one time, and Mr. Hodge here was very interested in all our adventures, and I guess I let it slip that we was planning to wait for the fox.’
‘Well, I don’t think anybody told Waltrot that he ought to keep mum,’ said Hodgekin smoothly, ‘and so I simply put two and two together. You are following the fox because you have been advised to. And the fox, as folk in the South Hundred well know, always returns southward, beyond the southern border, towards Neverglades. Which is a way punchkins never go, without some extremely good reason.’
‘Indeed,’ said Fortinbras. ‘Well, it was nice of you to come to bid us farewell.’
Hodgekin looked at him sharply and the others noticed, for the first time, the likeness between them, the Dyerish quality. The long scar on Fortinbras’s cheek now qualified his handsome face, adding a touch of astringency to its sweetness. And Hodgekin also was scarred. ‘I’d like to come with you this time,’ he said, ‘if you’ll have me.’
‘Why?’ asked Aldred gravely.
‘Why should you have me? …I know the land round here, and quite a long way down the far side of the Bleck. You’ll have your guide, a better one than me, I’m sure; but you might like to have someone who knows his way around, someone that you can actually talk to. I have heard a few things about the Witch of the South. As for my own desire, I too want the Demesne to be freed. I want a home to come back to. And I hate above all things the wicked works of Men and the dominion of the Worm that is coming upon us. I respect you more than I did: and I have a hunch that this new quest is terribly important, too important to be denied any possible assistance that even – that even an outcast such as I might be able to offer. Too important for personal differences. So please let me come.’
His voice shook with sincerity. None of his hearers doubted him – and here let it be said that he proved himself a steadfast companion to the end. The pause that followed was ended by Tim. ‘Mr. Hodgekin, sir, I’m sorry about what I just said, and there’s my hand on it.’ Waltrot and then Aldred shook hands with him in turn. But to Aldred the clasp of his hand felt cold.
‘What are your plans now?’ Hodgekin asked.
‘The fox doesn’t seem to show himself by daylight,’ said Fortinbras. ‘I thought we’d wait here until it gets dark, then light the fire again.’
‘We could,’ said Hodgekin, ‘but we might just as well push on to Selliwick and spend the night at The Cap and Feather. Then it’s three or four days’ walk to the Ford.’
‘Why the Ford?’ asked Fortinbras. ‘Why not Endbourne, for example?’
‘The Ford is where the fox crosses. Ask them at the inn, if you don’t believe me. On his way south. We can wait for him there.’
‘Suppose we miss him?’ asked Fortinbras with a touch of irritation. ‘We’ve taken trouble to get this right, and we’ve made a good start, and you’re proposing that we leave our guide at once? We just trust that he’ll pick us up again?’
‘But he will. As you said, you’ve done this right. Three punchkins sitting round the fire, at Fallmorrow, in Fallmorrow wood. It’s what was wanted.’
There was a moment of thoughtful silence. A small blue butterfly passed among them, and then disappeared.
‘Very well,’ said Fortinbras. ‘If we’re going to trust you as one of our company, we may as well start straightaway. What d’you say, lads?’
‘Go with him,’ said Waltrot. ‘Let’s not hang around.’
‘I’ve heard it’s good beer at The Cap and Feather,’ added Tim.
Aldred nodded. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘but no talk this time, not about anything! No going into the public bar! No dancing on the tables!’
They knocked out their pipes, shouldered their packs and moved off down the field. Waltrot and Hodgekin led the way, with Tim just behind them. They passed the gates of Selly Hill Farm, called out a greeting to the farmer and set off down a sunny lane, across which red-and-black butterflies often fluttered. Tim brought out his recorder and piped a merry tune while Waltrot and Hodgekin talked, laughed and sometimes sang.
Between Fortinbras and Aldred a constrained silence had fallen.
‘Well,’ said Fortinbras.
‘You’re anxious again, aren’t you? And this time so am I.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s him. We’ve gone wrong with him somehow. Or we’re going to go wrong.’
‘Bother it!’ agreed Fortinbras.
‘Yes. But what else could we have done? The thing is, I believe every word he says.’
‘So do I. And yet there’s something amiss… So what’s the point of it all?’ demanded Fortinbras suddenly. ‘What is this pattern? What’s the meaning of it?’
Aldred stopped and faced his friend, seeing his own rueful smile on Fortinbras’s face. ‘To change us, perhaps? To change us into questioners? Fancy punchkins asking such things!’
Fortinbras nodded. ‘Maybe we’ll discover the answers at the end,’ he said.
They picked up their pace. Tim came towards them. ‘Mr. Dyer’s and Mr. Hardedge’s compliments,’ he said, ‘and they request that Mr. Sherling favour the company with a song.’
The next two or three miles passed away pleasantly. At about four o’clock the company came into the village. The Cap and Feather proved to be an excellent inn. Mrs. Brownlock, the buxom landlady, gave them a high tea of bread, butter, cold beef, cold tongue, fruit scones, clotted cream, jam and honey: an ampler, rather more luxurious meal than they had enjoyed for quite some time. ‘The Reevers don’t come down our way so often,’ she explained, ‘and we’re able to put by a little. And I’d be sorry not to make you welcome, seeing as you’re friends of Mr. Hodgekin. And where may you be heading for next?’ Mindful of past indiscretions, they returned polite evasive answers, ordered an early breakfast and withdrew to their bedrooms. The pleasantness of the inn – the bees buzzing in the snapdragons outside the casement windows, the curved black beams of the low-ceiled rooms, the good beer and the comfortable chairs – added, nevertheless, to the carefree feeling of being on a holiday or an excursion.
In the morning the five companions were all ready to leave promptly. Fortinbras and Hodgekin disputed in a friendly manner over the bill, both wishing to pay it. Hodgekin evidently had plenty of money: in defiance of Fortinbras he plonked a full purse down on the Landlady’s counter and began to count coins into her hand. After a look and a nod from Aldred, Fortinbras yielded. It was a chance for Hodgekin to show his goodwill; besides that, they had not brought very much money with them. Their eyes fell on the purse itself. It was a bag of soft red leather, worked with tiny black beads in a band of repeated spirals, and closed at the mouth by a single thong. ‘Pretty little purse,’ said Tim. ‘Who made it for you?’
‘Oh, it wasn’t made for me,’ answered Hodgekin. He was in great good-humour this morning. ‘There we are, Mrs. Brownlock, and there’s for your good self. A lovely stay, as always. Goodbye!’
‘Goodbye, Mr. Dyer and gentle punchkins all! I hope I may see you again soon!’
‘Goodbye, Mrs. Brownlock!’
‘Goodbye!’
‘…It was your friend’s,’ said Hodgekin as they walked past the houses.
‘What was?’ asked Waltrot.
‘The money-purse.’
‘Which friend?’ asked Tim.
‘What’s-his-name, the red-haired chap you travelled with. He’s dead now, isn’t he, poor fellow? It was his.’
‘Swin gave you his purse?’ asked Tim, puzzled.
‘Oh, he didn’t give it to me. I stole it!’