Page 16

Mud, Magic, and Monsters

It was an hour or so from sunset when our faerie steeds slowed and brought us to our journey’s end.

Jack’s horse tipped him from her back with a snort, and he lay groaning on the ground.

Sir Oswain slid from his mount, looking ill as he staggered away to sit on a hillock and put his head in his hands.

I, too, felt strange and dizzy, for there was strong magic in the speed of the queen’s horses, though I fared better than my companions.

I opened my sack of provisions and took out food and water. “Sit up and eat this,” I said, breaking a piece of faerie bread and giving it to Jack. “You will feel better for it.”

I did the same for Sir Oswain, and after a little food and drink, they recovered their balance, though we all walked stiffly after the long ride.

“Strange place,” said Jack, looking about.

It was a quiet and lonely landscape after the vivid colours and opulent scents of the queen’s summer court.

We were on the border of meadowland that stretched as far as we could see.

I felt uncomfortably exposed beneath the wide-open sky, for I was used to the canopy of my woodland home with its green shadows and dappled shade.

The softly waving grass was tall, waist-high in parts, with a deep purple tinge to its stalks; its seed heads glowed golden in the light of the early evening sun.

“What is this?” wondered Sir Oswain, plucking a head of the purple grass, rubbing it between his fingers, and sniffing the milk that was released.

“Horses like it,” noted Jack.

The faerie mounts were cropping leisurely a little way off.

Sir Oswain wrinkled his nose. “Smells like hops, but stronger than anything that grows at home.”

He lifted his finger to taste the milky juice of the grass, and I said in alarm, “Don’t—!”

But I spoke a moment too late. Sir Oswain smacked his lips. “Tastes hoppy,” he informed us. “But sweeter. I daresay it would make an interesting ale. We make excellent ale on my father’s estate.”

“It’s not safe to eat strange things in Faerie,” I scolded.

I watched his face for any sign of harm, relieved to see none. I looked around, saying, “But where is the entrance to the tunnels? We must find them before nightfall.”

This was a new problem, for there appeared to be nothing but grassland all around us.

“Feels like I’m on a boat,” said Jack, watching the soft undulations of the grass and swaying slightly. “Like being in a yellow and purple sea, is it not?”

“I would not know,” I said. “I have never seen the sea.”

I listened carefully. The whispering grass was strange to my ears. I could not discern its language. But was that a note of mockery in its tone?

Sir Oswain also swayed. Then he gave a chuckle. Then he laughed. We looked at him in surprise. “Let’s play at sailboat!” he cried, making a pretence of scanning the landscape with an eyeglass.

“Play?” I said, and regarded him closely. “Oh no,” I groaned, noting the flush rising in his cheeks and the glassy look forming in his eyes.

Jack and I exchanged a look of alarm. Sir Oswain’s limbs began twitching as he hummed snatches of a jaunty shanty tune. “All aboard!” he cried, swaying more violently. “She’s setting sail!”

And his twitching legs broke into action. He leapt about, hoisting invisible sails and calling for Jack to take the rudder.

“He’s run mad!” Jack stared in astonishment.

“Weigh anchor!” cried Sir Oswain. “Batten the hatches! Storm’s coming! Jump to it, boy! Why are you standing about like a loon?”

“Beg pardon for saying so, sir,” said Jack, “but I think ’tis you that’s three sheets to the wind! We’ve no time for games, sir, not when the lady Rose is lost!”

But Sir Oswain was not listening. He had broken into a sailor’s hornpipe and was leaping through the grass like a stotting deer.

“What in the world’s amiss with him?” said Jack.

“I suspect it’s the juice in the grass,” I replied.

“Well I’ll be jiggered,” marvelled Jack. “If that’s what a drop does to a grown man, it must be powerful stuff!”

“Indeed,” I said, vexed. “But how long will his inebriation last?”

“He’ll be worn out if he keeps this up,” said Jack .

We watched as Sir Oswain danced away toward the setting sun.

“Who’d have thought he could jump so high and spin round like that,” wondered Jack. “He complained his legs were sore from riding, but he don’t seem to feel pain now.”

“He will when this is over.”

“Is he coming back?”

We had to shield our eyes against the reddening sun to follow the diminishing figure of Sir Oswain prancing through the grass. Lines from a bawdy sailor’s ditty floated back to us. I was sure I could hear a whispery laugh from the waving grass.

“Perhaps I should ride after him,” I said, glancing over at the grazing faerie mounts.

“Herd him back,” agreed Jack. “Though, don’t know how you’ll steer them horses. Seems they only go where they want. What’s he shouting about?”

“Something about gunwales,” I said. “He’s circling round.” I was relieved to see our dancing lord was coming back toward us.

“Ahoy there!” called Sir Oswain. “Coming about! Clear the harbour!”

He drew near, his face flushed and his breath coming hard and fast. I hoped fervently that the smidgeon of juice he’d imbibed would now wear off, for his body could not sustain such frenetic activity for long.

I considered how Jack and I could restrain him for his own safety. But, with great relief, I saw his pace was slowing. His breath came in gasps, and the unnatural brightness of his eyes began to dim.

“Come ashore now, sir!” I urged.

My vexation at his stupidity waned as I saw he was desperate to catch his breath. His hand clutched his side as though it pained him.

“You’re back on land, sir,” I said, reaching for his arm so that I might restrain him from dancing away again.

“Can’t…” he gasped. “Feel… my… land… legs…”

“Sit a minute,” I said, “and you’ll feel them soon enough. Hold him, Jack!”

I grasped an arm.

He tried to shake us off but had not the strength. The effects of the grass juice were leaving him.

“Did… you… not… hear… me… call?” he said breathlessly.

“About the gunwales, sir?” said Jack. “We heard, sir. All that’s done with now. You’re back ashore, sir.”

“Not… gunwales ,” gasped Sir Oswain. “ Tunnels .”

He gave a long groan and collapsed.

“Is he dead?” Jack peered anxiously over Sir Oswain’s prostrate body.

“He breathes,” I assured him.

Sir Oswain lay unconscious. Dusk was gathering quickly. The gold and purple grass began muting into a sea of ghostly grey.

“What we going to do?” said Jack, glancing at the darkening sky.

I rummaged in my sack, pulling out a small lantern I had seen lying there amid the parcels of faerie bread.

It was of a simple, elegant design: a clear dome, a wick inside, a flat-bottomed bowl beneath, and a long handle. I puzzled over it.

‘How do we light it?” said Jack.

“I don’t know. There must be some kind of faerie oil in the bowl, but I don’t know how to get at the wick. Nor do we have any means of lighting it.”

“Let me look,” said Jack .

I gave him the lamp and began pacing up and down, waiting impatiently for Sir Oswain to awaken. “I’ve a good mind to leave you here,” I said, kicking Sir Oswain’s boot as I passed him. “How could you be so stupid?”

“We can’t leave him,” said Jack. “But if we don’t make haste to the tunnel, it’ll be morning before we find it, and the poor lady Rose…”

He stared at the useless lamp in his hands.

“I wish Jory were here.”

“Why?” I said irritably. “I don’t need a third man causing trouble.”

“I haven’t caused trouble,” said Jack reproachfully. “And Jory has a tinderbox. Wish you would light,” he muttered to the lamp, tapping it several times in frustration. “Oh!” he cried. “Something’s happening! ’Tis getting warm!”

The lamp began to glow. A clear, golden light emanated from the wick inside the clear dome.

“How did you do that?”

“Don’t know!”

“You must have done something!” I took back the lamp. “Did you press something or tap somewhere?”

“Said I wished it would light, and—it did!”

But I was no longer looking at the lamp or at Jack, for just beyond Jack’s head, something most alarming was happening.

Jack, seeing my face, got up, turned round, and leapt back with a yell. “What is that ?”

There was a swirling shape in the air, as though a strange and unearthly wind circled round and round.

“It must be a faerie,” I said, my mind racing over all the types of fae beings Mother had talked of. Perhaps it was some air-borne faerie that travelled by wind—let it not be some dark and dangerous wight riding in on the wings of darkness after sunset!

Jack moved backwards, hastening away from the swirling phenomenon, until he tripped over Sir Oswain’s leg and fell.

The strange swirl swelled larger, as large as a full-grown man, and out of it fell something solid and man-sized, as though violently cast out. The swirl shrank—folding in on itself—then faded and was gone.

I raised the lamp to see what the shape on the ground was—it was something dark, and it smelled foul.

My heart sank. We were about to be attacked by some hideous faerie beast, and the only sword wielder among us was unconscious, while my other companion would trip over his own feet sooner than help fend off a monster.

I braced myself to throw the lamp in the monster’s face should it lunge at me.

The monster groaned and raised its head, black gore dripping from its face. It opened a pair of dark eyes and blinked at the lamplight I held aloft.

“Am I dead?” groaned the monster, shielding his eyes from the lamp as though he had come out of darkness and could not bear the light. “Is this the afterlife? Did they eat me?”

“Jory?” cried Jack, scrambling to his feet at the sound of the voice. “Is that you?”

“Jack?” moaned the monster. “Is that you? Where am I?”

“It is you!” I said in amazement.

“What happened?” cried Jack. He moved nearer, then recoiled. “ Ugh ! You stink!”