Bessie Bell and the Goblin King

Chapter Two-2

Bess was left to speculate as to the meaning, and probable owner, of the eyes in question. It did not sound especially promising, but then there was nothing in the phrase by itself that ought rightly to inspire the shiver of dread that ran over her skin at the idea. He might merely be looking for a cat, or some other such creature. She would blame her unsettled feelings upon the depth of the night, the thickness of the fog, the chill in the air, and her own lingering tension from the events of earlier in the evening.

This approach functioned perfectly to restore her calm — at least, until she saw the eyes.

They had been clattering up and down lowish hills for some time, by which she judged them to be adrift somewhere in the midst of the Lincolnshire Wolds. Having slowly ascended a hill somewhat taller than the rest, they reached the peak and began to descend; and as they bowled into the valley at its base at a ground-eating trot (a petrifying pace, considering that the fog still concealed virtually everything around them), Bess saw a flicker of bright, sharp light like blue flame, floating in the mist some way off to her left. She stared hard into the fog, and realised with a thrill of horror that the twin motes of light resembled eyes.

‘Mister?’ she said.

‘Green,’ he replied.

‘What?’

‘Mr. Green.’

‘I ain’t askin’ for yer name, though it’s right nice to know. I’m happenin’ to mention the fact that them eyes you was lookin’ for are right over yonder.’ She pointed.

He stared in the direction she indicated, and let out a low hiss. The sound shocked Bessie, for it was wholly at odds with the cultured speech and refined manner of a gentleman that he had hitherto displayed. ‘Hold on tightly,’ he said, and in spite of his apparent displeasure the languid tone had not left his voice. ‘We are going to pick up the pace a little.’

He flicked the reins, and his horses dashed into a canter — and then, to her disbelief, a gallop. They careened wildly through the fog at a terrifying speed — and then, to crown Bess’s horror, the curricle veered off the road and plunged into the woods. Their pace did not in the slightest degree slacken. Rank upon rank of shadowy black tree-branches loomed out of the blank whiteness and reached bare, twiggy fingers for Bess; she hunched in her seat, dipping her head low, and their grip missed. Branch after branch went sailing overhead and away, while the trunks of the trees and black, shadowy bushes loomed and faded on either side of the curricle. Derri shifted in Bess’s grip, squeaking with terror, but Bess could only clutch her tiny friend and pray.

All the while, those flickering eyes of cold flame danced ahead of them, always out of reach.

‘How is it that you can see where you’re goin’!’ shrieked Bess.

‘In fact, I cannot!’ said Mr. Green. ‘We are not guided by my eyes.’

This made no sense to Bessie. Was it better or worse if some unknowable power guided the curricle through the maze of the woodland? How was it possible? It began to be apparent to Bess — if the cold-burning eyes were not enough of a clue — that she had been taken up by no ordinary gentleman.

The eyes grew suddenly larger, and Bess stared in horror into the depths of blue, frozen fire burning with a malevolent glare. This she bore with fortitude, though her heart beat quicker than she had ever known in her life.

She was rather more startled when Mr. Green — hitherto civilised in his behaviour, if a trifle odd — suddenly let out a vast cry; a terrible, dark sound loaded with incomprehensible words. Then he dropped the reins and leapt from the curricle with another horrific shout. The curricle continued on without slackening its pace in the smallest degree, proving that Mr. Green really had not been guiding its progress at all.

Bess clutched the seat and hung on grimly, resisting the temptation to throw herself from the wildly racing vehicle before it could contrive to plough into something, and kill her outright.

It was not, she thought, the most relaxing night of her life.

Just as a scream bubbled its way up into her throat and threatened to tear loose, the curricle’s frantic pace finally slowed, and the vehicle came to a stop. This development did not please Bess as much as she would have preferred, for she had fetched up at the feet of the most frightening creature she had ever beheld in her life.

It was a horse, or something along those lines. Far larger than any horse had any right to be, it towered over the curricle — and therefore over her, in spite of her normally advantageous position atop the seat. Its hide was dense, roiling storm-cloud, or so it appeared to her (possibly fanciful) eye. Dark grey laced through with night-black and frozen-white, the horse blended into the fog as though it wore the inclement weather like a cloak.

Its eyes were those she had seen in the distance: enormous, winter-blue and crackling with impossible flame.

Bess’s breath stopped.

‘Tatterfoal,’ she breathed.

‘That he is,’ said Mr. Green, who stood at the beast’s head. ‘Have you ever seen a mightier steed?’

Bess could find no words with which to respond. Her fool of a preserver (if he could be called such) appeared to be trying to befriend the beast. Bess decided on the spot that he was cracked in the head.

Tatterfoal? All the county knew of the nightmare creature. Some tales named him a horse, others a donkey, but all agreed that he was a fell beast indeed, wicked as winter and twice as cold. He had walked the hills of the Wolds many long years ago, terrifying unwary travellers and leading them astray. He took over a person’s reason, so the tales said; hopelessly bewitched, they wandered blithely into the winter-struck woods and were never seen again.

These were tales of a long-lost menace; none had heard tell of Tatterfoal’s presence for generations. But mothers still used its legend to keep their children in order, and to discourage them from venturing too far from the fireside. It worked, because Tatterfoal was terrifying.

And Mr. Green was chatting with it.

‘There, foolish beast,’ he said conversationally. ‘I have not the faintest notion what you are doing partying abroad in England without your master’s leave. It had better be a good explanation, for he will be more than a little displeased with you otherwise. Hmm? You did not have his leave, my dear pony, for he would remember granting it. Would he not, now? That is the gravest falsehood, and you had better not tell any more of those.’

Bess listened to half of this speech in a state of powerful terror, expecting any moment to see the fell beast snap her foolish driver’s head off and then come after her. But before many words had passed his lips, it became apparent that no such calamity was imminent. She could find no explanation for Tatterfoal’s apparent docility; nor for the fact that Mr. Green had, by all appearances, deliberately set out into the fog with the intention of encountering precisely this monster.

It was enough, for the present, to feel that her own life was not in imminent danger. Bess sat in rapt contemplation of the scene as Mr. Green continued to talk nonsense to the nightmarish horse.

But in the midst of this one-sided conversation, Tatterfoal abruptly reared, kicked up its heels and galloped away. Roiling wisps of storm-grey cloud shot through with lightning trailed after it, and dissipated without trace into the fog. Mr. Green stared after the vanished horse in open-mouthed dismay, and then fell to calling and cursing with growing rage. He spoke words Bessie could not understand; they burst forth in a torrent of anger, dark and snarling, and she could not suppress a shiver at the menace they seemed to carry.

But Tatterfoal did not return.

Mr. Green fell silent at last, returned to his abandoned vehicle and climbed back into the driver’s seat. He gathered up the reins, but this time he made no pretence of employing them to set his horses in motion. He merely waved his hand and muttered, ‘Off we go, then,’ and the horses turned themselves and began plodding back in, presumably, the direction of the road they had left behind some time ago.

Bess waited in expectation of receiving some manner of explanation, but none was forthcoming. At last she said, ‘Tis not that I mean to pry, you understand. But that were… Tatterfoal.’

‘That it were.’ Mr. Green’s lips twisted in annoyance. ‘Was. That it was.’

‘And it seems to me that he were kind enough not to swallow you whole.’

‘He would not dare.’

‘By that I am to understand that you are more terrifyin’ than Tatterfoal.’

Mr. Green glanced sideways at her. ‘You are positively overflowing with questions.’

‘Ain’t that natural enough? Considerin’ what just happened in front of my eyes.’

‘I thought you might be frightened.’

‘Oh, I was,’ Bessie agreed comfortably. ‘Until I saw His Scariness actin’ like a placid pony on a jaunt through the park. And then I was curious instead.’

‘I am afraid your curiosity is destined to remain unsatisfied.’

Bess might have pressed him further, but that it occurred to her that the fog was dissipating. Nay, had dissipated; barely a wisp of it was left, for all that it had been as dense as a winter blanket only a few minutes before.

‘Now, that’s mighty strange,’ she said, twisting in her seat to look about herself. She could not see much more of the wood than before, as the sun had not yet risen. But she could see the wide trunks of aged trees rising all around her, bark black in the darkness.

‘Tatterfoal brings the fog,’ said Mr. Green. ‘Have you not heard that before?’

‘Nay, that’s no part of any legend I ever heard.’

Mr. Green grunted.

‘Come to think of it, Tatterfoal ain’t been seen in a hundred years. So they say.’

‘Oh, not nearly so long as that.’

Bessie sighed, and fell silent. Clearly, her probing would avail her nothing; Mr. Green would be neither tricked nor persuaded into explaining himself.

‘BessBess,’ came a faint whisper from within her cloak. Bessie peeked inside. ‘Be wary of him,’ said Derritharn.

Bess did not need to be told. Despite his kindness in taking her up with him, the rest of his behaviour clearly proclaimed that he was no ordinary English gentleman. She did wonder what else Derritharn had detected that prompted her to issue a special warning, but she could not question the brownie on that point without their being overheard.

‘You should know,’ said Mr. Green in a bland tone, ‘that I have very sharp ears.’

Oh. ‘Come on out, then, Derri,’ she said. ‘May as well, if your hidey-hole’s discovered.’

Derritharn poked out her nose, and shivered violently. ‘I’ll not, if it is all the same to you. That there is a cold wind.’

Mr. Green snapped his fingers, and a moment later a ball of faint light materialised in the air over Bess’s head. The light grew rapidly in strength, until she could see her surroundings clearly.

‘Course,’ said Bess, gazing at the mesmerising silvery glow. ‘There be will-o-the-wykes followin’ in yer wake as well. I might have expected as much.’

‘They are fond of me,’ said Mr. Green. He sat looking intently at Bess, and she returned his scrutiny while she had the opportunity, for she was mightily curious about the strange fellow whose assistance she had been forced to beg.

His figure remained a mystery inside the great black driving-coat he wore, and the rain hat still covered some part of his face. But she could see that he was unusually pale of complexion, with a firm mouth sardonically tilted at the edge. She caught a flash of bright eyes as he briefly met her gaze.

‘It is not every day one encounters a plague of a curiosity-ridden housemaid wandering the roads at all hours, and alone,’ he said. ‘When she turns out to be bearing a denizen of Aylfenhame secreted inside her shabby wool cloak, then I would say it is a unique event indeed.’

Aylfenhame. The word repeated inside Bess’s mind, growing larger with every echo. Aylfenhame was the fae realm, separate from England but sometimes accessible — at least, to the fortunate few. Or unfortunate. The tales of the realm of the Ayliri, as its human-like denizens were known, were myriad and varied. Some spoke of wonders and riches and magics marvellous beyond belief; others of black-hearted curses and nightmares, like Tatterfoal. Some few of its creatures chose to live in England, like Derritharn and her kin. Most, however, remained aloof from Bess’s world, and never came there.