29th December 1910—Cont’d #2
I made my way back down the hill. I expected to find Wendell enraptured by the bluebells and the forest—perhaps even the ghastly thing lurking at the shadowed edge of the clearing, one of the trees that gave Where the Trees Have Eyes its name.
But no—he had brushed his tears away, and now had his chin propped on his hand, gazing at me with one of those enigmatic expressions I’ve not yet learned to parse, if I ever will.
One of his faerie looks, as I think of them.
“What?” I said.
He rose, shaking the dew from his cloak. “You have that look.”
He had mirrored my own train of thought, which made me scowl at him irrationally. “Which?”
“The one you wear whenever you outsmart me in some area,” he said.
“Well,” I began with a shrug, then stopped. My magnanimity was wearing thin, I’m afraid. “Haven’t I?”
He laughed, a clear, bright sound, and then, before I knew what was happening, he had lifted me off my feet and spun me through the air, the greenery and shadow of the forest a whirl all around me.
“My beloved Emily,” he murmured in my ear.
“Yes, yes, all right,” I said, though I did not pull away. My smugness was back, together with a warm sort of satisfaction. It was pleasing to see him this happy.
The door swung open behind us, and suddenly the clearing was filled with noise.
The guardians emerged first in a flurry of wingbeats, Razkarden in the lead.
As they passed into the emerald light, they shed their glamours, transforming from pale owls to the most nightmarish creatures imaginable—still owls, at least in the main, but ragged and sinewy, eyes milky with cataracts.
In place of feet, six massive spiderish limbs erupted from their torsos.
Razkarden alighted on Wendell’s shoulder—or shoulders, for his legs would not fit on one—arranging his hideous limbs with surprising delicacy, and I was suddenly backing away from Wendell fast. Wendell, untroubled as usual, stroked Razkarden’s beak and spoke quietly to the faerie monster.
He took flight again, settling in the trees with the others.
Next came the trolls, by far the least unnerving of our motley army of common fae, their tools clanking in the packs on their backs.
They burst into pleased muttering upon first sight of Wendell’s kingdom, one marching up to a stump to rap on it, as if testing its suitability for building materials.
Others seemed to be exclaiming over a pile of stones.
The tree fauns did not linger long in the clearing, which was a relief, but slunk immediately into the forest shadows, their feral hounds close at their heels.
Now, the world holds enough Folk hideous to the eye, but in this respect I can think of none who surpass these fauns, with their scabbed and twisted horns and bulbous features.
Last came the fuchszwerge, streaming through the door in an auburn river, fox tails thrashing with excitement. Several dozen appeared to have volunteered to accompany us; the exact number is difficult to ascertain given how rarely the beasts stay still.
“ Finally, ” Snowbell crowed as he surged to the front of the pack.
“Now the quest will begin! And it will be far more exciting than the last one, for there is only one mortal oaf this time.” He settled himself at my feet in a proprietary sort of way and began to wash his face, pausing to snarl at any others who ventured near.
Telling the fox-faeries apart remains difficult, but Snowbell is easy to identify, for he is always bragging about his role in my last adventure.
Wendell looked back at the trees, his reverence replaced with merriment.
“Shall we retake our kingdom, Em?” he said.
A shiver went through me at that. He had switched to Faie, which I had, of course, heard him speak before, but there was something discomfiting about the way he did it, abandoning the mortal tongue like an unsuitable cloak at the change of seasons.
My hand strayed unconsciously to Shadow’s head, and the dog butted at my palm, which steadied me.
“I suppose we might as well get on with it,” I replied in the same language.
We found the path Ariadne and I had taken back in October at the bottom of the hill. I’d half expected it to be gone—why shouldn’t faerie paths be as wayward as their doors?—but there it was, though it seemed to veer more to the north than I remembered.
I looked to the right, uncertain. “This way?”
Wendell followed my gaze. “I think not. The old ways will take too long. It’s quite a distance to the castle, and I’d rather not tarry.”
And he marched off into the dense tangle of undergrowth, making a sort of shooing gesture with his hand. Then—
A path unfurled at his feet, keeping pace several steps ahead of him, trees and grasses and stones simply drifting aside, as easy as waves retreating from a shore.
“Wendell,” I said faintly.
He had already been turning to check on me, striding back up the path he’d made. I watched to see if it would dissolve again behind him, but it didn’t, or at least not as quickly as it had appeared; the edges seemed to evaporate a little, greenery creeping back over the hard-packed earth.
He clasped my hands between his, his gaze radiating warmth and not a small amount of mischief. “We haven’t much time for sightseeing, it’s true—but let me show you what I can. Would you like that?”
He was teasing me, of course—he knew the answer as well as I did. The dangers looming before us, the trepidation I felt at my decision to venture here, to stay at his side—it was all abruptly subsumed by something much more familiar, which sent my heart skittering with excitement.
Scientific curiosity.
“Lead on, then,” I said, taking the arm he offered me.
The path expanded to comfortably accommodate us.
Shadow kept pace beside me, while Orga slunk in and out of the forest, appearing sometimes before us and sometimes behind, occasionally with some small, wriggling creature clutched in her maw.
The others followed like a long and hideous train.
I did not see the guardians, but from Wendell’s unconcern, I assumed they were lurking in the canopy, watching us as they had during my first visit, though their intentions this time were less murderous—I hoped.
Snowbell kept back, which he generally does when Wendell is near me.
I believe he has the same terror of him that Poe does, though Snowbell expresses it in a rather more disturbing manner.
I have heard him speculating more than once with his fellows about the quantity of blood Wendell would shed in retaking his kingdom, whether there would be leavings for the fuchszwerge to enjoy, and if so, what these might taste like.
Wendell talked as we went, pausing every few moments to point something out—he has a great deal of botanical knowledge when it comes to his realm, which I can only assume he was born with; I cannot imagine him acquiring it any other way.
When I took out a notebook, he beamed at me—I had intended to spend our first day in Faerie observing rather than compiling facts, but he was so pleased whenever I lifted my pencil that I found myself recording a great deal.
My concentration was somewhat hampered by the looming peril, but in no way did I need to feign enthusiasm, and I asked many questions, though his answers were not always helpful and tended towards the nonsensical.
I will here record a select few insights.
On the geography of Where the Trees Have Eyes
This is composed primarily of a mixture of woodland and heath, with a scattering of boggy regions and a mountain range that bounds the realm to the east. These mountains are known as the Blue Hooks.
There are three lakes: Muckle, the largest; Silverlily, beside which sits the castle; and Lower Lake in the south, a dark place within the lands claimed by the hag-headed deer, where we would not be venturing.
Asking Wendell to help me sketch a map of the realm proved largely fruitless, which did not surprise me.
It is a widely acknowledged truth that Faerie has all the spatial integrity of a dream; a mountain may be in one place on a Tuesday and decide to spend Wednesday in a more favourable locale.
At different points during our conversation, Wendell informed me: that the lakes and the mountain range were fixed points; that the Blue Hooks had once encircled the realm entirely, and were known to stretch themselves on occasion; and that Lower Lake had a contrary streak and sometimes switched places with Silverlily.
On the faerie snails
After my unpleasant run-in with these uncanny denizens during my previous visit—I can still feel their shells breaking beneath my hands and knees, and hear their tiny screams of agony—I desired to know more about them.
Wendell, though, would only shudder and advise me against making enemies of them.
Apparently, they possess a crude intelligence and value their dignity above all things; as such, they spend most of their lives occupied with revenge quests.
While their vengeance may be slow in coming, they always have it in the end.
On the bloody trees
I do not wish to write about these. But what sort of scholar of the Folk would I be if I hid from every horror?
No. I cannot do it.
But I must. Lord, what a mess of blotches and crossings-out this entry has become. Let us get this over with as quickly as possible.