16th November
I expected Wendell to sleep late today, and he did not surprise me; by the time he stirred himself I had already breakfasted and returned from my visit with Poe, whose tree home required shovelling again. It snowed again in the night, a true snow this time. I myself had awoken to the sound of a very strange knock at the door, heavy and rhythmic, and I had a moment of terror, my mind going to tales of ancient winter kings come to demand unfavourable bargains, only to discover that it was Finn, kindly shovelling our steps. The snow was waist-deep in places, with drifts rolling higher like waves, deep enough to drown in and painfully bright beneath the cloudless sky.
After breakfast, Aud arrived on snowshoes with a lump of beeswax and a basket of candles. From the latter rose a powerful smell, a mixture of lemons and rot.
“For the windows,” she said. “Light them each night. It will keep the tall ones from your door.”
“I see,” I said, and proceeded to extract from her the recipe for our paper. The candles were made from fish oil, lemon juice, fermented seaweed, rose petals harvested on the full moon, and the crushed bones of ravens (quantities to be provided in the appendix). It sounded rather fanciful to me—there are human workings, metal for instance, that the Folk near universally disdain, but they rarely take the form of poetic recipes (not that this has prevented many charlatans from making a tidy profit from same).
But Aud assured me that the tall ones’ music would not pass into the cottage with the candles burning.
I showed the candles to Wendell, when he finally bestirred himself, and he turned his nose up at them. “Snake oil,” he said.
I nodded, relieved that he agreed with my assumption. The smell of them unlit made my stomach turn over; the fumes they would release whilst burning didn’t bear imagining.
He suggested that I set the candles in the window nevertheless, to keep us in Aud’s good graces. The beeswax, though, struck me as a handy precaution, given the auditory nature of the Hidden Ones’ enchantment.
“Will you come with me to interview Auður’s family?” I said.
“No,” he said. “I will offer myself up to Aud today, I think.”
I looked at him askance. Aud was organizing a snow-plowing, a scene in which I could not visualize Bambleby.
He frowned at me over his breakfast. “What? How hard can it be?”
I didn’t bother to reply that I doubted it would be very hard, but still more than his soft hands would care for. Indeed, when I next saw him, he was standing in a small knot with Krystjan, Aud, and several other village dignitaries, drinking mulled wine and having a natter while they kept an eye on Finn and the other youth engaged in the grunt work of clearing the road and landings.
My visit to Auður’s family was informative but not particularly helpful.
That is, her parents, Ketil and Hild—both hardy and kind-faced in equal measure, with that greyish touch of sadness—answered my every question, but it was a story with only a beginning and an end. When had their daughter been taken by the Hidden Ones? Two days after Christmas, while fetching mushrooms. How long had she been away? For as long as the moon rose above the mountains at night, which is to say, a little over one week. Where had she been recovered? A hunter found her wandering the mountainside, her basket full of a queer sort of mushroom that melted against his palm.
Through it all, the girl sat in her chair by the fire, empty-faced. Her gaze drifted around the room, occasionally settling on me; I could not help shivering during these moments, for it was like looking through the windows of an abandoned house. I asked questions regarding her condition,
of course. In addition to being incapable of speech, she is unable to attend to her own well-being. If ordered to stick her hand into the fire, she would do so; in fact, her left palm bears a scar from the time her mother ordered her to fetch a skillet, forgetting it was still hot from the stove. The only thing she does of her own initiative is wander outside during the longest nights, striding across the snowbound fields without even donning her cloak. She is now tied to her bed every night from the first snowfall to the thaw.
Ketil and Hild were even more interested in asking questions than I, though I could give them little comfort. Not only was I unaware of a remedy that might treat their daughter, I knew of no analogues of her affliction.
Beautiful Lilja arrived in the afternoon to chop our wood, which I’m grateful to say has become a regular favour. I watched through the window as Bambleby flirted, fixing her with many long green gazes whilst his golden hair fluttered in the breeze, even asking her to instruct him in the proper technique, which she did, patient despite his utter lack of improvement. Throughout, she remained cheerfully oblivious, alternately hacking away at the wood and responding perfunctorily to his comments while she wiped sweat from her pretty brow. At one point, I laughed so hard that Bambleby turned and scowled at me through the window. I had heard, through Thora, that Lilja was quite happily committed to a girl from a neighbouring village, but I saw no need to disclose this information to Wendell. It was his own fault, anyhow, for assuming that every woman who walked the earth would be enraptured by his charms.
I spent the day with my books and my notes. Bambleby flitted in and out, contributing absolutely nothing to scholarship, though he did shake out the rugs after exclaiming over their begrimed state and hang some useless woollen tapestry he had purchased from Groa. The effect of his simple ministrations upon the place has been almost alarming; it is virtually cosy. I have never lived somewhere warranting such an adjective, and I am not sure how to feel about it. And anyway, what is the point of decorating a place one is only temporarily inhabiting? When I posed the question to
Bambleby, he replied with characteristic solipsism that if I had to ask, I would never understand the answer.
“Come down to the tavern,” he said after dark had fallen.
“No, thank you,” I said, glancing up from the dryadology journal I was jotting notes from—I was working on the bibliography for my encyclopaedia. “I’d like an early night.”
“You don’t have to stay long. You’d rather sit here with your nose in a book?”
“Vastly,” I said, and he shook his head at me, not in disgust but utter bemusement.
“Very well, you strange creature,” he said, and to my astonishment he took off his cloak and settled himself in the other chair.
“You don’t have to stay. I’m perfectly content by myself.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed.”
I shrugged. I didn’t mind him staying; I am in fact used to having him around, not only here but at Cambridge, where he is always poking his nose into my office. He took up that blasted sewing kit of his and attended to his cloak, tucking one leg boyishly beneath him and leaning into the chair.
I am largely incapable of making conversation of a personal nature. I rarely have the inclination, fortunately, but I have had occasion to resent the lack of this particular human skill, as I did then. How many scholars have had the opportunity to question a ruler of the courtly fae? Not one, or none who lived to tell of it.
And yet I could not make myself ask. I suspect that, if I could have convinced myself that my interest was of a purely intellectual nature, I could have managed it. But it was not. This was Bambleby, after all—my only friend. (God.) “Em,” he said without looking up from his work, after I had snuck yet another glance in his direction, “either you are plotting how best to have me murdered and stuffed for one of your exhibits, or you are still concerned that I am bewitched. You are so contrary that I would not be surprised by both concurrently. Perhaps you could set my nerves at ease.”
“I am only wondering what in God’s name you are doing,” I said, taking refuge in the familiar banter.
“What does it look like? You and your hairy accomplice ravaged my cloak.” He added a few more stitches and ran his hands over the fabric, folding it this way and that—I could not make out precisely what he was doing. “There.”
He tried the cloak on, nodded. If anything, it looked even more magnificent than before, with an elegant billow in the hem, as if the weaver had cut the pattern from his shadow. He saw the expression on my face and raised his eyebrows.
“I can do yours if you like.” He grimaced slightly. “And that—that dress.”
I looked down at my woollen shift. “There’s nothing wrong with my
clothing.”
“It doesn’t fit you.”
“Of course it does.”
He lifted his eyes to the ceiling and muttered something that I couldn’t hear, apart from the distinct words paper bag. This offended me not at all, as I afford less than an ounce of importance to my appearance, and still less to his opinion of it.
“You said before that needlework ran in your family,” I said after he’d settled himself again.
“Ah,” he said, “yes.” To my surprise, he did not seem as eager to talk about himself as was generally the case. “Well. I suppose I must gird myself for mockery. I have a very little amount of brownie ancestry, you see. On my mother’s side.”
I stared. A slow smile crept across my face. “A very little,” he repeated severely.
“The oíche sidhe,” I said, naming the Irish house fairie who, like many of their ilk, operate as a sort of friendly housekeeper, stealing out at night to clean and tidy and make repairs. The well-known tale “The Golden Ravens” is of Irish origin and offers an example of typical oíche sidhe
disdain for mess and disorder. I include the most famous version of the story in my encyclopaedia—I shall append a copy to this journal.
“Is that usual?” I said. “For a prince to have common fae ancestry?”
He gave me a puzzled look. “How did— Ah, I see. Poe told you. If you are not careful, Em, that creature will come to love you so that he will not let you leave.” He went back to his sewing. “No, it is not.”
“And is that why you were forced into exile?”
He raised his eyebrows at me, looking amused. “Do you want the whole story?”
“Obviously,” I said, unable to keep the eagerness from my voice. “Every sordid detail, in fact.”
“Well, I am very sorry to tell you that there is little of that,” he said.
“Ten years ago, my father’s third wife—my mother was his second; the first was barren—decided that she would prefer the sight of her own flesh and blood on the throne. You know how it goes.”
I nodded. This sort of ruthlessness is a common occurrence with many of the courtly fae. “Have you siblings?”
“Five, in fact. All older. These she had executed. She sent me alone into
exile.”
I frowned. “Because you were a youth?”
“No,” he said. “It is simply what is done.”
I understood. In the tales of the Folk, regardless of origin, no victory or loss is ever certain. There is always a loophole, a door that you may find, if you are clever enough, to lead you out. To twist the story. Wendell’s wicked stepmother could not kill him because doing so would close the last door to her own defeat.
“Then you wish to kill your stepmother,” I said. “And take your rightful place on the throne. That’s why you are looking for a back door into your own world, one she will not be guarding.”
He gazed at me in astonishment, then gave a short laugh. “That little rat.
I should have guessed he would tell you all.”
“Don’t be angry with him,” I said, alarmed. But Bambleby only shrugged and dismissed Poe with a flick of his fingers.
“Yes, I wish to kill her,” he said. “The throne is irrelevant, except as a means to an end.”
He rubbed his eyes—they were wet, which alarmed me greatly, as I haven’t the slightest idea of what to do when confronted with tears. I nearly threw my handkerchief at him.
“I don’t entirely know if you will understand this, Em,” he said, wiping his nose. “My cold-blooded friend. But I confess that I miss my home very much. I cannot return while my stepmother lives, obviously. She won’t have it, nor will her allies at court. So my only way back is by taking the throne, by making myself so powerful that they cannot be rid of me again.”
I leaned back in my chair, mulling it over. My hair was once again coming out of its bun, so I gave up, taking it down and letting it fall over my shoulders. “And you have thus far been unsuccessful.”
“I’m well aware you mortals have various theories about how the faerie realms work,” he said. “In truth, most Folk don’t know much more than you do, because we don’t care. Why would we? The laws of nature are too easily altered by those with magic enough to do so. Nothing stays the same.
Worlds may drift apart or dissolve or become the same place, like overlapping shadows…But we know there are secret ways, forgotten ways, into our worlds. As you say, back doors. I have travelled the mortal realm looking for such a door. No, I haven’t found one yet.” He rested his head against his fist and gazed into the fire. “You see why it is so important for me to be impressive at ICODEF. I need money to continue my search. That little tempest in Germany has put a damper on investor interest in my expeditions. Our paper can repair my career and fill my pockets enough to search the rest of the continent.”
My mind whirred, the pages of my inner library flick-flicking again. I asked him question after question, had him recount every country and village and forest he had visited. I could not help taking notes as we spoke —old habits, etc.—until he exclaimed, “What on earth are you doing?”
“If I am to help you, I require notes,” I said.
He blinked at me. “If you are what?”
I gave him an irritated look. “Do you know anyone, mortal or otherwise, with a deeper understanding of the Folk than I?”
He didn’t need to think about it. “No.”
“There,” I said. “I think I can find your door. At the very least, I would like to try. I’m certain I can do a better job than you. Good grief! Ten years.” I couldn’t suppress a snort. There was something darkly amusing about a faerie lord—one of those same creatures who delight in leading hapless mortals astray in dark wildernesses—being unable to find his way home.
He watched me, his face unreadable again. I no longer think he means to be opaque when he does this; only sometimes what he is feeling is so alien that I cannot intuit it. “Why?”
I paused for the first time to think about the question. “I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “Intellectual curiosity. I am an explorer, Wendell. I might call myself a scientist, but that is the heart of it. I wish to know the unknowable. To see what no mortal has seen, to—how does Lebel put it?
To peel back the carpeting of the world and tumble into the stars.”
He smiled. “I suppose I should have guessed as much.”
He sounded sad. I suppose he was still imagining his green faerie world.
I focused on the scratching of my pen.
“For a time, I thought you must have faerie blood,” he said. “You understand us so well. That was only when I first met you. I soon realized you are just as oafish as any other mortal.”
I nodded. “My blood is as earthly as anyone’s. But you are wrong to say
that I understand the Folk.”
“Am I?”
“The Folk cannot be understood. They live in accordance to whims and fancies and are little more than a series of contradictions. They have traditions, jealously guarded, but they follow them erratically. We can catalogue them and document their doings, but most scholars agree that true understanding is impossible.”
“Mortals are not impossible. Mortals are easy.” He rested his head on the chair and regarded me aslant. “And yet you prefer our company to theirs.”
“If something is impossible, you cannot be terrible at it.” My hand tightened briefly on my pen.
He smiled again. “You are not so terrible, Em. You merely need friends who are dragons like you.”
I flipped to a clean page, glad the firelight concealed the warmth in my face. “Which of the Irish kingdoms is yours?”
“Oh—it’s the one you scholars call Silva Lupi,” he said. “In the southwest.”
“Wonderful,” I murmured. Faerie realms are named for their dominant feature—statistically, the largest category is silva, woodland, followed by montibus, mountains—and an adjective chosen by the first documenting scholar. Ireland has seven realms, including the better-known Silva Rosis.
But Silva Lupi—the forest of wolves—is a realm of shadow and monsters.
It is the only one of the Irish realms to exist solely in story—not for lack of interest, of course; a number of scholars have disappeared into its depths.
“Only you would say that,” he said. “Don’t worry. I am not as vicious as the rest of them—you may have noticed. I did not see my stepmother’s plot coming. I’m afraid I was not much used to doing things for myself back then, and that included thinking. My stepmother encouraged this—she ensured I was never without a host of servants to see to my every desire, nor without a party at which to amuse myself.” He slouched down in his seat in a long-limbed sprawl, scowling into the fire.
“Tell me about your world,” I said, leaning hungrily forward.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you will only write a paper about it, and I don’t wish to be an entry in the bibliography. Ask me something else.”
I huffed, tapping my pen against the paper. “Very well. If you turn your clothes inside out, do you disappear? I have always wondered.”
The dark mood vanished like smoke, and he gave me a youthful grin.
“Shall we try it?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, an unlikely giggle escaping me. I seized his cloak and reversed it, and he pulled it on.
“Oh,” he said, his face blank.
“What is it?” I gripped his arm. “Wendell? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t—I feel most unwell.”
He let me strip the cloak from him, and then he collapsed into the chair.
Only after I had made him another mug of chocolate and built the fire up for him again did he start to laugh at me.
“Bastard,” I said, which only made him laugh harder. I stomped off to my room, having had quite enough of him for one night.
