Page 76 of The Herlequin: Pitch & Sickle 6

At first he thought the ankou referred to the will-o’-the-wisp’s antics. The creature was whirling about in tight circles, doing so at a speed that marked its colours upon the air. It was pretty, but what lay beyond was far prettier.

The crowded nature of the forest peeled away, revealing the clearing at its heart, one dominated by a single great oak. It was the most astonishingly large tree Pitch had laid eyes on, and green as though it were the middle of spring, not dull December. The clearing was devoid of all other foliage save for a thick covering of moss, strewn with glowing toadstools that cast their glow up against the far-reaching branches of the oak, highlighting it like it were an actor upon the stage. He’d not begrudge Silas his reverence– the ankou was sighing with approval– for it truly was an awesome sight.

This tree was a beauty, dripping with age, as a lady at the ball dripped with jewels. A very rotund lady. Silas could have held hands with his twin, and the girth of the trunk would have hidden them both. The oak was gnarled and twisted in many of its limbs, with a rounded opening down low on the trunk, like a natural entranceway into the tree itself. Not unlike that upon the rowan tree Charlie’s bracelet had enabled to grow in the Fulbourn.

Pitch’s open-mouthed admiration was replaced by gnawing unhappiness at the thought of the lad. Of what had become of Charlie…and Edward and Sybilla.

‘The prodigal child returns at last.’ The voice moved like groaning timbers on a ship.

Silas set Pitch down, gently as he could in a rush, and reached for the bandalore. ‘Where is that coming from?’

Pitch eyed the bandalore with fresh dismay. ‘Gods, tell me it is not a teratism.’ He had assumed them all to screech and holler like Black Annis, but perhaps he’d jumped to conclusions.

‘No. It’s a leshy. But I don’t know anything of them. The bandalore is a precaution.’ Silas peered about. ‘Do you see where they are? I hear the tune, but I can’t fix on it.’

‘A leshy?’ Pitch said, rather dumbly. ‘No, I can’t see anyone.’

He knew what one was, of course: a spirit of the forest, of the same ilk as the stag in the Forest of Dean but more likely to be found on the continent in the easternmost forests of Europe. They could, like the stag, assume whatever form they wished so long as it was of the wilderness. From the direction of the voice, he suspected it lurked in the branches of the oak.

‘Well, you’re staring right at me, in an impolite way, can I add.’ The joins in the voice creaked and groaned. ‘Can’t make myself much larger, though I’m hoping for another foot or two come the next century.’

The will-o’-the-wisp looped around one of the oak’s lower branches, holding up Tilly’s earring to the thickset limb. There was a substantial burr halfway down the branch, the bulging deformity of wood growth that tainted many a tree, squatting like a giant cowpat upon the bough.

‘Yes, yes. I see, Will Scarlet. You’re practically sticking it up what would likely be my nose if I bothered to grow such a thing. You’ve been gone a long while, young one. Now you bring us quite the prize.’

Silas stepped in front of Pitch, a frown knitting his brows. ‘Who is there?’ His deep timbre was much more pleasant than the leshy’s, though Pitch was likely biased. ‘Show yourself.’

‘There, Silas.’ Pitch pointed to the burr where the will-o’-the-wisp fussed. If he squinted just so, he could make out two slashed lines of black: what might pass for eyes in the folds of the burr, which itself was the colour of a mouldy, though ripened, pear. A hint of the leshy’s aura surrounded the bulge, evident now that he peered so intently. So dull he’d nearly missed it. But not, Pitch realised with alarm, because of any sickness within the tree. It washewho was unwell.

‘Well spotted, boy,’ the leshy declared as the will-o’-the-wisp, Will Scarlet, took Tilly’s earring and darted down to the opening in the trunk, disappearing inside.

‘I’d like my earring back, if you don’t mind. That does not belong to it.’ Pitch took a hesitant step forward. It wouldn’t do to cower behind Silas all day. But his show of stamina was ironically brief. One rock forward and he was cursing at his fractured bones, clutching at his knee and, damn it, in need of assistance once more. ‘This is intolerable!’ he shouted, loud enough he’d probably bring the Herlequin back to the forest on the strength of his voice alone.

‘Careful.’ Silas was alarmed, too much so to hide it. ‘Don’t start bleeding again, Pitch, for god’s sake.’

‘Which god would that be then?’ He did not make it easy for Silas to steady him. ‘Because I’d say most of them are getting a right fucking laugh out of all this.’

‘Gracious heavens,’ the leshy tutted. ‘What a fuss. We’ve heard you were cantankerous, daemon, if that’s what you are, but no need for the private show.’

Pitch glared up at the burr. ‘What did you just say?’

‘That you are a cantankerous, impolite specimen?’

Silas let out a low groan. ‘Pitch, don’t let him upset–’

‘You said, “if that’s what you are.” Do I not seem daemonic to you?’

The oak’s branches swayed, despite there being no hint of the blustering winds that had followed them on much of the journey.

‘You are strangely hued. I’ll not deny it. And far less brilliant than I imagined, for all the tales.’

‘The tales?’ Silas interrupted before Pitch could ask about his lack of brilliance. ‘You know who we are?’

There was a pause. And when next there was a voice, it was certainly not the leshy’s groaning tones.

‘Saviours of the Forest of Dean.’ The sound brought to mind summer days, warmth, and open skies. It bore a feminine lilt, though Pitch knew more than one man capable of such a lovely whisper. ‘Deliverers of the Fulbourn.’

Pleasant or not, Silas swore and Pitch jumped, nerves on a knife edge.