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Dawn was breaking, a pale green wash of colour spreading across the eastern horizon when Tom woke. Although, he hadn’t really slept at all. He was cold and stiff, and was torn between going back to sleep—for days—and wanting to get moving, just to be warm. And he was very hungry. It had been hours since he’d eaten, and he had only a few biscuits left.
He rummaged in his pack as Brenna stirred, stretching tentatively. Woodsmoke was already awake, and he nudged Beansprout. She blinked slowly, her face ashen in the early morning light, and struggled to sit up.
“My arm is so sore,” she said groggily, wincing as she wiggled it. And then she saw Tom and Brenna, and her face lit up. “You’re back! Brilliant! What happened?”
Tom barked out a laugh. “We had an encounter with a mad Prince and blood-crazed wood sprites. You wouldn’t believe what that place is like inside!” He jerked his head to the green mound behind them.
“Tom was amazing,” Brenna told her. “He rescued both me and Prince Finnlugh!”
Beansprout’s mouth dropped open. “Wow. You have to tell me everything!”
“Not now, he doesn’t,” Woodsmoke said, rising to his feet to survey the landscape. “We have to get moving. We still have a long way to go.”
“I’ll have to do it on foot,” Brenna said. “I can’t fly with my damaged shoulder.”
Woodsmoke nodded. “We’ll walk to the river, see if there’s a boat we can get on. I know we’re all hungry, but we should press on first.”
They gathered their things and walked through the meadows, Tom telling the others about what had happened in the palace. It helped pass the time, and by midday they reached the tributary of the main river they had crossed the day before. It was wide and placid, and they followed the path that ran along its bank. After a short time, a boat appeared, heading downstream.
It pulled level with them and a man called out, “Is that you, Brenna? Haven’t seen you for a while.”
Brenna waved. “Fews! How are you? I don’t suppose you’re taking passengers?”
Fews was grey-haired with a wrinkled, brown face like an old apple. When he smiled, his eyes almost disappeared into his wrinkles, and Tom saw he’d lost most of his teeth. “Well, I don’t normally, but I can make an exception for you.”
His boat was long, like a barge, filled with sacks and barrels, and he steered it as close to the bank as he could. He shouted, “Sorry, you’re going to get wet. I’ll end up grounded if I come any closer.”
They pulled their boots and shoes off, waded across to him, and one by one he pulled them over the side.
“You must know Woodsmoke?” Brenna said, as she kissed his cheek in greeting.
“I reckon I know your face,” he answered, looking Woodsmoke up and down. “You’re Fahey’s grandchild?”
“I am,” said Woodsmoke, smiling.
“Who are these two? They don’t look like they’re from around here.”
“They’re humans, come to visit their grandfather, Jack,” Brenna answered.
“Oh, I see, we’re having some cross-cultural relations, are we? Well, welcome to my boat, and don’t squash anything!”
Tom and Beansprout said hello as they clambered into the centre of the boat and settled themselves in the gaps between the sacks, while Woodsmoke and Brenna sat up front with Fews.
He steered them back into the centre of the river. “What you done to your shoulder, Brenna?”
“Had a run-in with some wood sprites by the Starfall Under-Palace.”
Fews’s smile disappeared. “They’re getting closer, then. I hope you got rid of a few?”
“Of course. They came off worse.”
“Good. There are far too many around for my liking. Don’t know what’s bringing them out of the forest, really. Usually don’t like it out in the open.”
Their voices faded as Tom dozed in the warmth of the sun, the sacks comfortable beneath him, but images from the previous day still raced through his mind. He could see the Prince’s malevolent smile, and hear him describing what the palace could do. Once again he realised how far he was from home, and how strange this place was. His stomach rumbled, but eventually even hunger couldn’t keep him awake, and finally, he slept deeply.
––––––––
Tom woke up when the boat jolted. A murmur of voices prodded his consciousness, and his eyes flickered open. It was dusk and the birds called loudly, swooping over the water, black shapes against a pale-grey sky.
He sat up and found that they were surrounded by other boats, moored up and down the river around them, nudging each other in the current. The others were mostly deserted, with just the odd light shining from masts and bows. On either side, high banks blocked his view beyond the river, but overhead he could see bridges crisscrossing back and forth.
Brenna and Woodsmoke stood on the riverbank talking to a short, squat man who looked like a toad. He nodded a few times before hopping from view in one bound.
Tom nudged Beansprout. “Wake up, Madam. We’re here, wherever that is.”
She roused and stretched, stopping short when her injured arm hurt. “I’m so exhausted. I want a proper bed.”
“Well, we might get one tonight, and we might just find Granddad, too.”
She sat up quickly at that. “Of course, I forgot. He’s going to be surprised to see us. Have you any idea where we’re going now?”
“Nope, I’m just doing as I’m told.”
“Well, that makes a change.”
They made their way to the top of the bank where they could see their surroundings more clearly.
On either side of the river was a sprawling village, its lights twinkling in the dusk. There was a jumble of buildings and market stalls, and walkways and bridges linked the streets and spanned the water. Strange-looking people were milling around, and music and singing drifted through the air. Tom smelled food, and his mouth watered.
Woodsmoke called them over to where he stood at the fork of the road and a bridge. “I’m borrowing a horse and cart to take us home from here. We should be there by midnight.” He looked tired but pleased, and ran his hand through his long hair. He had unslung his bow, and it rested at his feet while he flexed his shoulders up and down. Brenna stood next to him, deep in thought as she gazed across the village and the surrounding countryside.
“Where are we?” Beansprout asked.
“Vanishing Village. And that,” Woodsmoke pointed across the river, “is Vanishing Wood, where we live.”
Beansprout’s eyes were bright with excitement. “Can we look around?”
He shook his head. “No time, I’m afraid.”
“Is there time for food?” Tom asked. “I’m starving.” As if to prove a point, his stomach grumbled loudly.
“That’s a good idea,” Brenna said, turning to Woodsmoke. “We’ve got a few minutes. I’ll wait here while you get something.”
“All right,” Woodsmoke agreed. “I’m pretty hungry myself.”
They strolled to the nearest stalls and gazed at the displays of food. There was a big roast pig turning on a spit, the fat hissing as it dripped onto the fire, plates full of pies and pastries, and dishes of fruit that looked sweet and juicy.
“I want it all,” Tom said, drooling.
“I’ll get us some pies,” Woodsmoke said, pulling some money out of his pocket. “Trust me, they’re good!”
He pointed out a selection to the stall owner, who bagged them up and passed them over. Woodsmoke handed some out and led them back to Brenna. Tom couldn’t wait, and he tucked in, groaning with pleasure. He was just starting on his second pie, and beginning to feel more alert than he had in hours, when a horse and cart pulled up next to them, driven by the short, toad-like man. He hopped down and threw the reins at Woodsmoke, saying in a gruff voice, “See you sometime tomorrow then, Woodsmoke. Safe journey.”
He took little interest in the rest of them and headed off over the bridge, the strange lollop in his walk making the curve of his upper spine more noticeable.
Woodsmoke jumped up onto the front of the cart and grabbed the reins, while the others climbed into the back, snuggling under blankets.
They trundled along the road next to the river for a short while before Woodsmoke turned onto a bridge, and they crossed to the other side. Brenna slept, but Tom and Beansprout were wide-awake, staring at everything around them. Small lanes tunnelled between the buildings, burrowing into the heart of the village. They were full of strange beings hurrying about their business. The people—or rather, faeries, Tom corrected himself—looked like something out of a storybook. Some were tall and stately, and glided along without appearing to walk. Many of them, men and women alike, had long hair, which the women wore elaborately braided and piled on top of their heads. But then there were those who were distinctly other. Little people that looked like pixies, olive-skinned and sharp featured, as well as creatures that were half-animal, half-human. A man with the enormous ears of a hare walked past, and Tom thought he saw a satyr down by the river.
Eventually they reached the village outskirts and entered into woodland, where the midges rose in clouds, and before long all they could hear was the jingling of the reins and the clomping of hooves. Darkness had fallen, and the starlight was blocked by the canopy of leaves, but Woodsmoke knew the way well, and he led them confidently along various turns in the road. Occasionally, Tom saw flickering lights in the distance, but they quickly disappeared before he could work out what they were. Then, at last, a mass of golden lights appeared through the trees.
They entered a clearing containing a well, and a grassy area on which several horses were grazing. Lanterns hung from the trees, illuminating a rambling building of wood and stone that spread in a semi-circle around them. Assorted towers sprouted out of it, some short and squat, others tall and spindly, piercing the canopy high overhead. Vast tree trunks lay at various angles to form part of the buildings, and rooms seemed suspended in the branches. It was the oddest collection of buildings Tom had ever seen, and they looked as if they could all topple down at any minute.
Woodsmoke directed the horse through an archway into a well-lit courtyard, pulled to a stop, and jumped down. Tom scrambled after him, leaving Brenna and Beansprout to follow. A door at the base of one of the corkscrew towers flew open, and a figure strode out, saying, “Who’s there? We’re not expecting guests.”
“We’re not guests! It’s me, Woodsmoke, with Brenna and a couple of friends.”
“Oh, by the Gods—you’re back! We were wondering what was taking you so long.”
The figure strode into view, and Tom saw an older faerie with feathered eyebrows and a shock of white hair shot through with red. He trailed sparks in his wake, and thick black smoke billowed out of the doorway behind him. His clothes were patched and ripped, and speckled with burns and singed edges, and his cheek was smeared with a grey, glittery substance. Tom noticed a wild distraction in his eyes; he looked as if he wasn’t quite all there.
“Are you burning the place down, Father?” Woodsmoke asked, with a note of barely concealed impatience.
“No, just experimenting. Have a little faith,” he answered. “My, my, my, so you’ve brought Jack’s grandchildren here? How very pleased I am to meet you.” He shook their hands and kissed Brenna on both cheeks. His hand was firm and dry, and he smelt of gunpowder. “Well, I’m glad you’re back. Your grandfather is somewhere in the main house,” he said to Woodsmoke, striding back towards the tower. “I’ll leave you to it!”
“Typical,” muttered Woodsmoke. “He’s more interested in his experiments than in what’s happening anywhere else. You go on ahead. I’ll sort the horse, and see you in a minute.”
They followed Brenna into the house and across a high-ceilinged kitchen lit only by a smouldering fire. They wound their way through room after room and up several stairways inside tree trunks, before coming out into a big, square room dimly lit by candles.
Tom saw two figures in front of the fire. One was standing as if performing to an audience, while the other, Tom’s granddad, sat watching and listening. They were both so absorbed that the three of them lingered at the door, hesitating to interrupt. Tom watched his granddad, hardly believing that he was really there. He hadn’t changed. He was still grey-haired and ruddy-cheeked, with the slightest stretch of his shirt over a small paunch. But if anything, he looked slightly younger and more vigorous.
The man he was watching was a spritely older fey wearing a soft white shirt with billowing sleeves and tailored black trousers. He had a noble face, and his silver hair, combed and shining, was tied back in a ponytail secured by a black ribbon. He threw his arm wide as he said, “And he flung his club so far and so high that he knocked a star from the sky. It skittered across the horizon, leaving a blazing trail of light behind it until, gathering speed, it fell to earth.”
Finally, they were spotted, and Tom’s granddad jumped to his feet and shouted, “Tom! Beansprout! What are you doing here?” He was already trotting across the room, arms outstretched and a big grin on his face. “I thought I’d never see you again!”
Tom and Beansprout ran across the room to meet him, and he crushed them each in bear hugs. Tom felt himself become shaky, and had an urge to sit down.
“Hello, Fahey,” Brenna said, greeting the other man with a half-hug, betraying the injury to her shoulder.
Tom’s grandfather turned to Fahey, his eyes bright and his voice slightly breathless. “My grandchildren, they’re here!”
Fahey smiled broadly. “I can see that, Jack. I’m not blind! What are we all standing for? Come on, sit down and tell us why you’re here. Longfoot!” he yelled. “Bring us drinks and snacks.”
After a bustle of moving chairs, they sat around the fire and looked at each other, a silence falling momentarily as they all wondered where to start. Jack spoke first. “So why—and how—are you here?”
“Perhaps we shouldn’t start there.” Beansprout winced slightly. “It’s sort of an accident. But how are you? And how did you get here?” He looked so well that she added, “You look great!”
“I am, I am! But you’ve grown since I last saw you, and it’s only been a few months.”
“Longer than that, Granddad,” she informed him. “It’s been over a year!”
Jack looked open-mouthed at Fahey who shrugged and said, “I told you so.”
Tom hadn’t wanted to criticise, but seeing his grandfather all warm and happy in front of the fire made him suddenly cross. “We’ve been really worried about you! How could you just leave us?”
Jack looked stricken. “I’m sorry, Tom. I realise it seems thoughtless, but at the time, it felt like the right thing to do.”
“But how? Why? Didn’t you think we’d be worried?”
“That’s why I left the note.” Panic crossed his face. “You did see the note, didn’t you?”
“Yes, we did, but it was still odd!”
Beansprout interrupted him with a glare. “Tom, maybe we should talk about this later?” She turned to Jack and smiled. “It’s so good to see you! I swear you look younger!”
Tom was still fuming, but he bit his tongue. He realised Beansprout was right—now was not the time to argue.
“It’s the air in this place, it does marvellous things to you. I’ve learned to ride a horse!”
“Have you? That’s so exciting! And you live here?” asked Beansprout.
“He certainly does,” said Fahey. “He helps me with my storytelling.”
Tom looked at Fahey with dislike. It was his fault his granddad had left them. He was about to say something to him when he saw Beansprout glaring again, so he continued to sit in silence.
Beansprout turned to Fahey and asked, “So, is that what you do, tell stories?”
“I do. I am a bard, and a very good one,” he said proudly.
“Oh, he is—and what stories!” Jack declared, edging forward in his seat. “Tom, you’d love them.” He smiled nervously, as if fearing another outburst.
Tom looked at him in stony silence.
While the others talked, Tom fumed. This wasn’t the reunion he’d hoped for. He’d expected his grandfather to be worn out and tired, desperate to return home, but he didn’t look desperate at all.
Longfoot arrived, a plump faerie in a long frock coat, with a face that was a little mouse-like. His nose twitched ever so slightly, and he had long, quivering whiskers arching over a small pink mouth. He carried a large tray, crowded with glasses of wine and pots of tea, along with a pile of toast and butter, which they all tucked into with relish—even Tom, who although grumpy, was still starving.
When Woodsmoke arrived, he pulled up a chair and sat next to them, and they told Jack and Fahey about their journey. It was a chaotic, much-interrupted story, but before they could tell them about the Lady of the Lake, Woodsmoke stopped them. “Enough. It’s late. Everyone’s tired, and two of us are injured, so we should go to bed. We can continue this tomorrow.” He said this with such finality and authority that no one argued.
Longfoot was summoned, and Tom and Beansprout were escorted to bedrooms, somewhere in the cavernous house.
