Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman

Chapter Eight-3

Sir Guntifer’s gaze settled upon Isabel, and she found herself surveyed with discomfiting keenness. ‘Has she,’ he said.

Isabel looked at her feet, colouring. Never had she felt so foolish as she felt now, speared by that intense, ancient gaze. She felt that every part of her folly was displayed to his discerning eye, without hope of respite. ‘I felt…’ she began, but her words died away.

‘Ye felt?’ prompted Balligumph. ‘Come now, lass. Ye’re among friends. Ye must tell us everythin’, the better we’ll be able to help ye.’

Isabel lifted her chin. ‘I felt sympathy for his plight,’ she said. ‘No one deserves such a fate, and I do not care what he has done.’

‘Some people do,’ muttered Aubranael, and Lihyaen nodded. If they were thinking of the one who had taken Lihyaen, then she could not disagree; but the possibility that the Ferryman was capable of such villainy seemed, to her, utterly impossible.

To her relief, Sir Guntifer smiled upon her, and even patted her upon the head — crushing her bonnet entirely, she feared. ‘A sweet maid,’ he said. ‘I hope for thy sake, little one, that he is worthy of thy belief in him.’

‘Me too,’ growled Balligumph.

Sir Guntifer stretched mightily, and shook himself. ‘If it were some two centuries ago at this moment,’ he said, ‘I would say that the Chronicler is the person who would know. But thou art late indeed.’

Balligumph’s eyes brightened. ‘The Chronicler! I heard word o’ him, once upon a time. Royal record-keeper, or some such, back in the golden days o’ the Royals?’

‘Aye,’ said the giant. ‘Every event of note went into his books, and he knew all. But he is gone. Gone since Kostigern.’

‘Gone?’ said Balligumph. ‘Or destroyed?’

‘That is not known.’

A wide smile split Balligumph’s face. ‘Ye were gone an awful long time,’ he said to Sir Guntifer.

The giant raised a shaggy eyebrow.

‘Come t’ think of it, the Ferryman was also scarce fer the odd decade or two.’

‘Aye,’ said Sir Guntifer. ‘Thou art thinking that, mayhap, the Chronicler has also returned.’

‘There’s a slim chance, do ye not think?’

‘Slender indeed.’

‘Thin an’ feeble an’ scarce worth the name o’ hope, but a chance! Now, I’m thinkin’.’ Balligumph tugged his hat from his head and began to turn it about in his hands, pulling at the brim and chewing upon his lips as he thought. ‘Last seen in Mirramay, most like?’ he said at last, looking at Sir Guntifer.

‘Aye.’

‘Then to Mirramay ye must go!’ Balligumph stuck his hat back onto his head and tapped upon it with a pleased smile. ‘Lots goin’ on in me noggin,’ he announced. ‘The Missie, now. She’s ‘ere fer witch-trainin’, ain’t that the truth? Well, so. Send ‘er to Mirramay wi’ the right sort o’ companions an’ she’ll get all the trainin’ she’ll need — an’ a mite of perspective, like. Maybe she’ll find the Chronicler there an’ maybe she won’t, but a great deal may happen on such a journey. A very great deal.’

Balligumph concluded this speech with a wise nod and a beaming smile at Isabel, who involuntarily stepped back a pace. ‘Mirramay!’ she said. ‘Gracious me, I really… that is, I have not the smallest notion where that may be. Or what manner of place it is.’

‘Not a worry!’ said Balligumph promptly. ‘Ye will have a guide. It is the largest an’ finest city in all of Aylfenhame, an’ the site o’ the Royal Court.’ His smile faded into a scowl, and he shrugged. ‘Or it was. ‘Tis all broken down, now, in the absence o’ the Royal family.’

Isabel glanced uncertainly around at her companions, seeking signs of enthusiasm for this plan. They looked as blank as she, though Lihyaen wore an expression of intent interest. ‘Is it very far away?’ Isabel asked.

‘Oh, a deal o’ distance,’ said Balligumph with unimpaired cheer.

‘Then surely I cannot. I am here without my Mama’s knowledge, and before long I must return to England.’ She blushed with shame at owning such a piece of misconduct and deceit, though it had been embarked upon at her aunt’s urging — and more than urging. But nobody looked shocked at such an admission. If anything, the sparkle in Sophy’s eyes denoted approval.

‘Yer Ma will manage without ye fer a week or two,’ said Balligumph. ‘An’ ye may trust yer aunt to take care o’ such matters as that.’

‘She cannot conceal my absence forever!’ Isabel protested. ‘Nor explain it, once it is discovered! I must not place her in such a difficult position.’

Balligumph grinned. ‘Seems to me yer aunt ‘as more put ye in a difficult position, an’ fer good reason. Don’t ye worry yer ‘ead about Eliza Grey. She is more than equal to the challenges, an’ it was ‘er own doin’ at that.’

Isabel’s mouth opened, but no further objections spilled forth. Not because she was disinclined to make any, but because she could think of no further reasons to refuse, besides her own deep reluctance to undertake any such journey. She ought to be paying morning calls with her aunt and attending York assemblies, not gadding about in Aylfenhame! Besides, how was she to manage such a journey? She was not so physically robust as Sophy, and it would surely be arduous.

‘I will go with you,’ Sophy said, her voice pitched low. It was typically considerate of her. Not for the world would she loudly push Isabel into any scheme she disliked, but she would always support her if her help was required. Isabel smiled gratefully at her.

‘I thank you,’ she said softly. ‘But I… cannot.’

‘You are afraid, I think?’ said Sophy.

Isabel bit her lip, and nodded. ‘I do not know how I am to manage,’ she confessed. ‘And it does not seem that we are likely to find this Chronicler in Mirramay.’

Sophy tucked her arm through Isabel’s. ‘It is remarkable what we can manage, when we are compelled to make the attempt,’ she said. ‘Or when we compel ourselves.’

Remembering Sophy’s accounts of her own adventures in Aylfenhame, Isabel blushed. Sophy had been beset by trials of one sort or another, but she had weathered them all, and done so with cheerful good-humour. For Isabel herself to object to a mere bit of travelling seemed hopelessly feeble.

‘Perhaps you will wish to take Lihyaen?’ Isabel suggested, mindful of the princess’s obvious interest in the plan.

Sophy shook her head. ‘In time, but not now. She is… that is, we are still keeping her close. It is by no means certain that she could return to the Court without endangering herself.’

‘Then may you safely leave her?’ Isabel said — aware as she spoke that she was reaching for excuses, but unable to help herself.

‘Yes,’ said Sophy firmly. ‘She will have Aubranael, and Mary, and Thundigle to keep her safe, and there are others set to watch over her. Balli makes sure of that.’

Isabel fell silent, her thoughts turned inwards. If she accepted her friends’ rationale, was there any true reason why she could not go? She was easily tired, it was true, and the journey would be demanding; but tiredness could not harm her. The errand might prove futile, but nothing could be gained if she did not go at all.

Her mother would be disappointed in her. Her father… angry. These considerations weighed rather more with Isabel than any other, and she hesitated.

‘Bah!’ said Tafferty in disgust. Isabel looked down, startled, to find the catterdandy sitting close by her feet. Her companion butted her head against Isabel’s legs, not ungently, and rubbed her thick-furred body against her gown. ‘A lily-liver, an’ a sorry one! Sit in thy fancy-fine chair all the days o’ thy life, wilt thou, an’ let thy Older Ones do all thy thinkin’ for thee! Whose life is it, I ask thee?’

My father’s, Isabel wanted to reply, for it often seemed as though his decisions ruled not only her own life but her mother’s as well. But she did not, for Tafferty was right. She saw at last why her aunt had been so eager to convey her into Aylfenhame: it represented a chance for her to change the course of her life, and make choices of her own.

The prospect terrified her, for she had rarely in her life been permitted to make the smallest decision for herself — not even as to the colour of her gowns. But a glance at Sophy’s serene, cheerful face calmed her nerves. Sophy had strayed far from the path of convention, and thrived upon it. Perhaps she would thrive, too.

‘I will go,’ she said, and managed to speak without a tell-tale tremor in her voice. ‘Who will go with me?’

‘I will!’ said Lihyaen at once.

Sophy exchanged a look with Aubranael, but before either of them could speak, Balligumph drew the princess aside and began to speak in a voice pitched so low that Isabel could hear nothing of his speech.

Aubranael approached Isabel and Sophy. ‘I will take care of her,’ he said to Sophy, who nodded. Isabel marvelled at the degree of openness and understanding between the two: they had not needed to discuss what they would do or how it would be managed, each seeming to know the other’s intentions and thoughts without asking. It was vastly different from the relationship between her mother and her father.

Sophy smiled and clasped her husband’s hand in thanks. ‘I think we will take Pinket,’ she mused. ‘And Pinch.’

‘Pinch!’ repeated Aubranael. ‘Anyone but! You will have not an instant’s peace.’

Sophy laughed. ‘True, but I want Pinket with us very much, and you cannot believe that Pinch would consent to remain behind alone.’

Aubranael rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘Take something soft with which to stuff up your ears,’ he recommended.

Isabel smiled. She was not very much acquainted with Pinket and Pinch, but she knew them a little. Pinket was a will-o-the-wyke, a wisp of fae-light with more of a mind and personality than she would ever have thought possible. Pinch was a particularly diminutive pixie fae who sometimes took the form of a wisp — usually when he wanted to perform some manner of mischief. The two were staunch friends, and inseparable.

Balligumph’s voice, raised above a murmur, reached Isabel’s ears. ‘Ye are a good lass,’ he said in a kindly tone to Lihyaen. ‘Yer time will come, mark my words, but ye’ve a deal o’ growin’ to be done yet. Aylfenhame cannot bear to lose ye a second time.’

Lihyaen sighed and drifted forlornly towards Sophy and Aubranael. ‘I wish I could go with you,’ she said to Isabel, with a hint of bitterness. ‘This waiting is intolerable.’

Isabel sympathised. It was hard on the girl, but she saw the sense of Balligumph’s words. Lihyaen was not yet ready to take the throne, and until she was, her survival and her location must remain a secret — for her own safety.

‘I have a request,’ said Lihyaen to Isabel. She hesitated, frowning. ‘It is Hidenory,’ she continued in a rush. ‘My old nurse. The witch? You remember her?’

Isabel nodded.

‘Mr. Balligumph says that she is gone from the tea-table,’ said Lihyaen. ‘But I can scarcely believe it to be true! I would like dearly to know, but I cannot bear to go near to the place…’

‘We will look,’ Isabel promised.

Lihyaen smiled with relief. ‘Will you indeed? It is so kind of you! I know you will not be able to approach very nearly, but you may perhaps be able to tell whether she is still… there.’ The last word was spoken doubtfully, and accompanied by a fierce frown. Hidenory had volunteered herself in Lihyaen’s place, and had duly taken over as the hostess of the strange Teapot Society party. And there she must stay until someone else took her place — or until the enchantment was broken by some other means. If Hidenory was free, then someone else must be occupying the host’s seat. Isabel did not welcome such a thought. If they arrived at the tea-table to find someone else doomed to such a fate, Isabel did not think she could again walk away and leave them there.

She could not but promise, and the promise was duly made.

‘But who shall be yer guide?’ said Balligumph with a twinkle. ‘Let me think, now. Who could possibly know enough about the wilds, an’ the Outwoods, an’ Mirramay itself, to take ye safely there an’ back?’ His eyes strayed towards Sir Guntifer as he spoke, who reacted by drawing himself up to his full height and staring down upon the troll with strong disapproval.

‘Methinks thou art insinuating something,’ he said.

Balligumph beamed at him. ‘Will ye, old friend? There’s none better’n ye.’

Sir Guntifer shook himself mightily, sending a cloud of leaves flying into the air from — apparently — nowhere. ‘Thou art a miscreant,’ he informed Balligumph. ‘There is naught of rest or slumber to be had with such friends as thee.’

‘Aye,’ agreed Balligumph. ‘That’s the idea.’

Sir Guntifer grumbled something inaudible. ‘Very well. I will guide the maid and her band of friends.’ He glared at Balligumph. ‘But I shall do it because she is a fair maid, and kindly! Not because of thy meddling.’

‘I don’t care why ye do it, so long as ye do,’ Balligumph said with a chuckle. ‘Aye, very good! A fine day’s work. Off wi’ ye, then. The sooner ye get goin’, the sooner ye may return.’