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The odd house was old and ramshackle, with warmth that seemed to ooze out of the walls. It creaked and moaned unexpectedly, and seemed to mutter to itself, which gave Tom a restless night full of vivid dreams that chased themselves around and around in his head.
When he woke, he was still grumpy. He brooded and scowled as Longfoot escorted them through the maze of corridors to the first-floor breakfast room, perched in the leafy branches of a large oak tree.
“Stop it, Tom,” hissed Beansprout. “You’re behaving like a child.”
“I am not!” He picked up a plate, and started loading it with a large breakfast from the selection laid out on the sideboard.
“Yes, you are. We haven’t seen Granddad for months, and here you are sulking!”
“We’ve missed him, and he hasn’t missed us at all!”
“Don’t be ridiculous! Of course he’s missed us!” Beansprout shot back.
“Well, it hardly looks like it. Look where he’s living!”
“This is a good thing! He’s safe and warm, and doing well. What kind of people would we be if we wanted him to be miserable?”
Tom sat down and started to eat, saying nothing.
“Seriously, Tom,” she said, sitting opposite him. “What did you think would happen?”
“I don’t know,” he grudgingly admitted, between bites of delicious honeyed bacon. “I was too busy wanting to find him.”
“And now we have,” she said, her voice softening. “And he has a whole new life. Isn’t that exciting? I think I’m a bit jealous.”
He finally met her gaze. “It is pretty cool.”
“And you did this! You knew that someone was in the woods, and you didn’t give up. And look where we are!”
He laughed. “Actually, you did this when you stuck your hand in the portal.”
She looked sheepish. “Joint effort, then. But, I don’t think he’ll be coming back with us. You know that, right?”
“The Lady of the Lake warned me of that. I thought she was mad at the time, but obviously not.”
Beansprout looked him right in the eye and it seemed as if she was about to say something significant, and then she just smiled. “Well, I’m glad you’re not so grumpy anymore.”
“I wasn’t grumpy!”
“Liar.”
Tom poked his tongue out at her and speared some more bacon, and it wasn’t long before Fahey and Jack arrived. Beansprout gave her grandfather a kiss on the cheek, but Tom gave him a chastened, “Good morning.”
Jack winked. “Morning, Tom!”
For a while they exchanged pleasantries, Jack asking lots of questions about his family, and Beansprout, ever chirpy, caught him up on their news. Tom watched his granddad, and felt his grumpiness recede even further. He really did look well and happy.
Beansprout turned to Fahey. “I love this house! Why is it so unusual, and why do you live in the middle of a wood?”
Fahey took his last bite of scrambled egg and buttery toast, sighed contentedly, and said, “There’s quite a story to that. Can I tell you The Tale of Vanishing Hall?”
Tom may have forgiven his granddad, but he wasn’t sure about Fahey yet, the architect of this whole thing, and his lips tightened, but Beansprout smiled. “Yes, please!”
Fahey smiled back and began his story. “Once upon a time, there lived a Count—Count Slipple—one of the fey who lived in the Under-Palace of the House of Evernight. The palace was a warren of vast halls, twisted corridors, and shadowy rooms, hidden under the earth in a great, grassy mound. Time moved differently in this place, slipping by quickly like ghosts through walls, and all of its inhabitants were as old as the earth that buried them, although by a quirk of their race, their skin looked as smooth and fresh as thick cream.
“One day, Count Slipple had a terrible argument with Prince Vastness, the head of the House of Evernight. Prince Vastness was powerful and vengeful, and his words carried great power, but Count Slipple was stronger than the Prince realised. Years of resentment rose between them, and their words spat back and forth like fireworks. The air steamed and hissed, and fiery barbs and stings snatched at their skin and scorched their hair, until their clothes hung from them in tatters. Grand faerie noblemen, ladies, and courtiers ran shrieking into dark hollows and hidden corners as the air crackled with harmful intent. Eventually, the evil in their words manifested into a great black tornado from which Count Slipple ran for his life.
“He fled to the stables deep below the Under-Palace and, flinging himself upon his horse, he whispered the magic words. The hillside rumbled and opened above him, starlight pouring through. He raced across the plains and into the tangled woods, pursued by black stallions carrying Prince Vastness and his royal guard. Branches whipped his face and grabbed at his clothes until, in the middle of the woods, he fell from his horse. Exhausted and injured, he lay facedown in the oil-dark earth, the slime of autumn leaves crushed beneath him, the scent of decay heavy in his nostrils. The ground thundered with the hooves of the pursuing horses, and he realised that if they found him, he would die.
“Inches from his eyes he saw an acorn resting on the forest floor, and he imagined how warm and safe he would feel in such a small, tidy space. As the wild screams of the stallions grew closer he reached for the acorn, and holding it in his hand, whispered, ‘I wish, I wish, I wish.’
“The next thing he knew, he was cushioned in a cocoon of velvety blackness. He could still feel the thudding of the black stallions and the ground shook beneath him, but he was warm and content. The thundering hooves fell silent, replaced by the taunts and threats of the riders, which carried menacingly across the still glade. He lay there for what seemed like hours, maybe even days, exhausted and weak, sometimes sleeping, other times thinking and regretting.
“Eventually, when he felt better, and when the percussion of hooves and voices had ceased, replaced by the murmur of wind and rain and the creep of roots beneath him, he decided it was time to leave his cocoon. He thought he would wish himself out of it as he had wished himself in, but however hard he tried, nothing happened. Frustrated, he shouted and cursed and uttered magical incantations, but his howls were swallowed by his prison.
“He tried another way, pushing against his boundaries with his fingers, toes, hands, feet, elbows, knees, shoulders and head. As he pushed, he grew and grew, and the acorn grew with him. It was exhausting work, but slowly a crack appeared in the shell of the acorn, and a gleam of gold in the velvety blackness dazzled the Count’s bewildered gaze.
“Eventually, there came a time when he stopped growing, but the acorn didn’t. It grew around him until it was the size of a room, and the crack in the acorn was the length of his arm. This time, a spear of silver pierced the gloom, cutting the floor in two.
“The Count rested and gathered his strength, admiring the rippled walls that looked like the surface of water. He thought that, as he had no place to live, it would make a fine house, and would hide him from those seeking to find him. But he was also hungry and needed food, so he made the crack wider and wider until he could step out, and found himself where he had fallen earlier.
“He stood under the glow of the moon. Seeing soft green foliage all around, he realised he had lain in the acorn for months. He heard an insistent splash and, walking a short distance, saw a spring bubbling up from the ground, and beyond it, deer were grazing. His horse had long since disappeared.
“Smiling, he looked back at the now giant acorn and saw that it was continuing to grow, the roots pushing beneath the ground with blind urgency. Its roof was arched and branches grew from its rounded sides, contorting and twisting into towers that shot vertically upwards, reaching to the stars. The walls were as shiny as a polished apple, and slivers of light slid across its curved walls like a smile.
“The Count slipped through the shadows of the tangled trees, his footfalls soft on the ground. He looked for signs that the Prince or his men might still be watching, wary too of traps in the undergrowth. But apart from the occasional hoots of owls, all was silent. He walked to the edge of the wood, and gazing across the plains saw the grassy mound in the distance. He sighed, knowing he could never return there.
“As the ground mist rose, he walked back across the forest, and the trees announced themselves in the pale dawn light. Beeches and oaks locked branches against intruders, but recognising him as their own, let him pass with an unravelling whisper before knotting themselves again thickly in his wake. Bird calls rose in a mass, and soon he walked through an ever-increasing crescendo of noise back to the acorn that had sheltered him.
“Count Slipple turned his back on the Under-Palace that night and became Lord Vanishing, and the acorn became Vanishing Hall. In time he took a wife and had many children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and it wasn’t until he was on his deathbed that he told them who he really was, and what lay beneath the great green mound in the distance.
“And all of his descendants lived to an uncanny old age. Their skin had a creamy whiteness, their eyes a vivid green that captured the fruitfulness of the forest, and their tempers were as vicious as the summer storms that lit the landscape with the flash and sizzle of lightning.”
By the time Fahey had finished his tale, Tom was convinced he could see the whole scene playing out in front of his eyes, and he shook his head, dazzled.
“So this house is from that acorn?” Beansprout asked, also looking as if she’d emerged from a vivid dream. “That’s so amazing! And does that mean you’re a descendent of Lord Vanishing?”
“Yes, I am. Our whole family is, in fact! But our line has been much diluted since then.” He beamed at Beansprout. “But, what a beginning!”
Even Tom had to admit that was interesting.
Woodsmoke, who had walked in unnoticed, so engrossed were they in the story, said, “Are you telling tall tales again, Grandfather?”
Fahey looked slightly put out. “It’s not a tall tale, and I shall show you the original room later.” He turned to Beansprout and Tom. “It’s slightly damp now so we don’t use it much anymore. Obviously it’s been built on over the years, bits added by different generations, but it’s essentially the same place, and every now and then a new tower will sprout or an old one will collapse. It’s a wonderful place to live. In fact, when I was away, the old spindle tower completely disappeared.” He sighed and a shadow briefly fell across his face. “I missed this place.”
Jack patted his shoulder. “Don’t think of that time, Fahey. You’re back now.”
Woodsmoke looked rested. His long, dark hair was clean, and he wore a fresh shirt and dark trousers tucked into his polished leather boots. He joined them at the table with a plate of bacon and eggs and a huge mug of tea. “Speaking of old tales, we have something to tell you. Tom met the Lady of the Lake, and she gave him a job to do.”
Fahey slapped the table and looked at Woodsmoke with ill-concealed hunger, and a touch of wariness. “Did she! What did she want?”
“He has to wake the King.”
Fahey turned slowly to look at Tom, his eyebrows rising above his quizzical gaze. “Well, now! That is interesting! And what did you say?”
Tom shrugged. “I didn’t have much choice. She didn’t really wait for an answer.”
He told them what had happened in the Greenwood, but had barely finished when Jack interrupted, his fist pounding the table. “No! You will not do it! I won’t have you put in danger.” He rounded on Woodsmoke. “He shouldn’t even be here! This is your fault.”
“It is not Woodsmoke’s fault at all!” Tom shot back, shocked at his granddad’s response. “It’s yours! She’s been visiting me in my dreams for months, ever since you left. You started this!”
His granddad looked surprised. “Well, I didn’t ask her to! And how can she visit your dreams? That’s ridiculous!”
Fahey intervened. “She’s a powerful woman; she can do lots of unexpected things. She put me in a tree!”
Woodsmoke refused to rise to Jack’s accusation, and instead spoke calmly. “It seems to me that she sent you, Fahey, someplace where she knew she would eventually find you, Tom. Or at least one of your bloodline.” He frowned as he thought through the possibilities. “I think that you, Jack, were unfortunately caught up in it, and that is why she’s become so annoyed at how long this has taken.”
“Well, she should have been a bit more direct, then,” Tom said, annoyed.
Woodsmoke shrugged. “It’s probably quite tricky to communicate with more clarity and speed when she has to cross worlds to do so. Tell them what happened.”
Tom described his encounter in the Greenwood and what the wood sprites were threatening to do with Brenna in the House of Evernight. He ended by saying, “So, I have to do this, really, whether I like it or not. And besides, Prince Finnlugh, Bringer of Starfall and Chaos, might be able to help.”
“Well, well, well.” There was a fire burning in Fahey’s eyes now. “You think the Prince might help? Maybe he will, but you can’t always rely on the old Royal Houses, Tom. They have their own interests. Show me the silver twig.”
Tom had put it in the large front pocket of his sweatshirt, so he pulled it out, and slid it across the table.
Fahey moved to the window to examine it in the shafts of sunlight, and then looked at Tom, grinning. “The Silver Bough. It seems you are very special.”
“I am?”
“This is a powerful charm that will give you some protection as you travel through this realm. But Tom, don’t underestimate how hard this will be, even with this to help.”
Tom nodded, remembering The Lady of the Lake’s words. “She said it would help me wake King Arthur. I can’t imagine how.”
Jack sighed. “I still don’t want you doing this. This isn’t your fight.”
“Actually,” Woodsmoke said, “it is now. You don’t refuse the Lady of the Lake. And besides, Tom hasn’t told you the most interesting part yet. Apparently he’s related.”
Fahey frowned. “To whom?”
“The King.”
Jack spluttered. “How can you possibly be related to King Arthur?”
“I don’t know!” Tom protested.
Fahey returned to his chair, and Jack warily picked the Silver Bough up, as if it might bite. Fahey’s smile, however, held the gleam of intrigue. “This is very exciting. You are a descendant of King Arthur and have been chosen to wake him. This smacks of old magic. Powerful magic! It will be my pleasure to help.”
“It will?” Tom asked, surprised. Fahey’s response was not what he expected. And apparently, Jack was surprised, too.
“You will? But, but—it’s dangerous!”
“All the best stories are.”
Jack looked across at Beansprout. “I suppose you’ll go, too? Even though I don’t want you to.”
“Sorry, Granddad, but yes.” She looked sheepish as she added, “You came here without asking anyone!”
Tom glared at him. “Yes, you did.”
Jack pushed away from the table and paced around the room, running his hands through his hair just as Tom did when he was thinking. He muttered to himself, “Well, it’s a fine example I gave, I suppose.”
“You did say you wanted adventure, Jack,” Fahey pointed out.
“I know I did. But you were spelled into a tree when you tried this!”
“Because it wasn’t my time,” Fahey said gently. “It’s Tom’s.”
Everyone turned to look at him, and Tom felt horribly self-conscious. And nervous.
“Well, in that case, I’m going, too,” Jack announced.
Woodsmoke groaned. “I would try to talk you both out of it, but I know it’s pointless. We need to make some plans. We’ll take the horses, and enough supplies to keep us going for a couple of weeks. We have plenty of stores and dried meats to choose from.”
“But I can’t ride a horse!” Tom said. “And neither can Beansprout.”
“That’s okay. You can ride behind Brenna and I. And we can teach you on the way.” Woodsmoke frowned as he continued to plan. “We’ll need to take a few more weapons too, and I can give you some lessons in sword-fighting. Maybe we should start with a few basic defence lessons before we leave. And you both need more clothes, and boots.”
Beansprout perked up. “Can we go back to the village to get them?”
“We’ll have to. You need cloaks, too.”
“We have no money,” Tom pointed out.
“I do,” Jack said. “I’ll pay. I can give you a tour. There’s a particularly nice pub we can try, with a very good selection of beers!”
Fahey nodded, looking excited. “You’re right there, Jack! I should come, too.”
“I should have known a pub would come into it,” Woodsmoke said, laughing. “We’ll leave in a few days to give Brenna time for her shoulder to recover, and your wound too, Beansprout.”
Sword-fighting! Tom sat watching vacantly as they talked. He couldn’t believe his ears. This was actually happening. He was going to wake King Arthur. He needed air, and space to think. He pushed his chair back from the table, and said, “I’m just going to take a walk.”
––––––––
Tom found his way to the ground floor, and exited through the kitchen and into the courtyard they had entered the night before.
It was a beautiful day; cool in the shade, but hot in the sun. The sky was blue and the trees were flush with bright green leaves. It was difficult to believe they were somewhere other than the land he was so familiar with, and yet as he looked at the Silver Bough in his hands, he felt the world tilt slightly.
This was not familiar. He was in a strange place, being asked to do things he didn’t quite understand. It was supposed to be simple—find Granddad and go home. But now he had a job to do, a potentially dangerous one.
He headed past the stables, hearing the snickering of the horses, and then beyond the twisted tower where Woodsmoke’s father lived, ending up in the woodland. He meandered until he eventually found a large, flat rock in a patch of sun, behind which was a tangled thicket of trees. This must be the boundary of Woodsmoke’s land. He lay on the rock, basking in the heat, and mulling over his future.
How long had the Lady of the Lake been planning this? All those dreams he’d been having for months. But then he remembered what Fahey had said the night before. Time passed differently here.
His thoughts were interrupted by a voice calling some way behind him. It was Beansprout, sounding worried.
“Tom, where are you? It’s me.”
“I’m here,” he yelled, not moving.
He heard a rustle and felt a thump, and opened his eyes to see Beansprout wriggling onto to the rock next to him. “I was worried. How are you?”
Tom put his hands behind his head and squinted at her. “I’m contemplating my future. What could be my short future.”
“It will be fine,” she told him, but her tone didn’t carry the conviction of her words. “Surely if she wants the King woken, it can’t be that hard. She doesn’t want you to fail.”
“You’d think not, but everyone seems to think it will be dangerous, and if I’m honest, the Lady of the Lake sounds a bit slippery to me.”
Beansprout regarded him solemnly. “True. I’d do it, use your twig thingy, but she didn’t ask me.”
Tom pulled the little silver twig out of his pocket and turned it slowly in his hands. “It’s weird, isn’t it? I feel a bit manipulated, really.”
“I think we all have been. But Tom, you’re descended from King Arthur! Has that sunk in? It’s amazing. He exists, and you’re going to wake him up. And look where we are.” She threw her hands wide, an expression of wonder on her face.
Tom sat up. “I know you’re right. But what if she’s wrong, and I’m not meant to do this? Or worse, what if I am and I fail?”
“Stop doubting yourself. You can do this, and we’ll all help.”
“Thanks,” he said, smiling weakly. “But then what? I have to wake King Arthur because she needs his help with some crazed Queen who’s murdering her subjects. Will we need to be involved with that? That really does sound dangerous.”
“Well, I guess we’ll soon found out. And I know you’re unsure about this, but I’m really glad we’re here. Anyway, I’m going to leave you in peace, unless you want to walk back with me?”
“Not just yet, but I won’t be long.”
She nodded and slipped off the rock. “Later, then.”
He watched her go, and then lay back down on the rock, feeling its warmth beneath him and the sun on his face, as he held the bough loosely in his hands. He could hear the wind in the treetops; it sounded like voices, a soft muttering of encouragement for the leaves to grow. He could hear the movement of small creatures in the earth below him, and something like a pulse, similar to hearing his own blood moving through his body. He could feel the bough, warm beneath his fingers.
A sudden image shot into his mind, of an island: fields of fruit trees, golden wheat, flowers and bees, and in the centre a large, dark, deep cave. He felt dread in the pit of his stomach, like a nightmare, and opened his eyes again quickly to chase away the image. He desperately hoped it wasn’t what he thought it was.
