That
person must be Alliathiune, Zephyr told himself. What inexcusable effrontery, her keeping this secret from the Unicorns!
“Of all creatures of the Seventy-Seven Hills, Dryads are most attuned to the ways of the Forest–as we Lurks
share an affinity with the waters and the swamps, so the Dryads with their precious trees. When noble Alliathiune began to dream of the Blight, we Lurks sought to aid her. But we failed. Therefore she sought the Unicorns’ help–and your help in particular, Zephyr. That is why I know your common name. As for the Human, I believe you have summoned not a warrior, but a wizard.”
“Ah–well and fine,” replied the Unicorn, with the peevish air of one who feels he is being lectured by his inferior. “Perhaps a wizard is required to rid us of the Blight.”
“I must give you fair warning,” Snatcher continued, tying the Human in place with a cord taken from a pouch secreted somewhere about his body. “This Blight is a foul and abominable affliction. If left unchecked, it will destroy the livelihood of all creatures in this great demesne.”
“The Forest is Mother to us all, our life and home.”
“Well said, noble one-horn! And so, you will understand what I mean, when I say that not all creatures in Driadorn feel as strongly about our Forest’s welfare as you or I. Some lust after power and influence. There’s an evil abroad in the Forest, good Unicorn, a malign purpose that threatens to crush all Driadorn. Armies gather in the north. A spirit of restlessness afflicts the Men. The Fauns mutter in hole and cavern. Trolls stir in their nests far beneath the lighttime skies, groaning for release from their exile.”
Zephyr pranced
anxiously at the Lurk’s grim words. “Surely these rumours are nothing new upon the Hills?”
“No, noble Unicorn, these are more than rumours.
We Lurks are deeply troubled. We seek a pattern in these events. Our Seers wail and hide themselves. But mark my words–I would trust no one in this venture! The Human is in grave danger even as we speak.”
“What venture?”
The nictitating membranes shimmered again over the Lurk’s eyes, giving him a reptilian appearance. “We see your fate embroiled in the great and terrible times to come, good Unicorn. Be not dismayed. Above all, you must protect the Human; see that no harm comes to him. He’s the key. You must protect him until we understand more, and rally the races to aid the Forest. This is no time for division, for bickering over trifles.”
“That is my intention, good Lurk,” said Zephyr, shuddering as if he were buried up to the flanks
in freezing water. “Let us pray–”
“There, all set now.” The Lurk backed away, then unexpectedly turned and made for the swamp, as if deliberately and abruptly washing his
paws of the Unicorn and his Human charge.
Zephyr stared after until it became apparent that Snatcher truly intended to depart without so much as a fare-thee-well. “Wait!” he called. The huge figure turned, already half-wreathed in the
grey vapours of Mistral Bog. “Why did you call me a pariah when first we met, good Lurk?”
“Why were you made responsible for your parents’ debt, noble Zephyr?”
He shifted his forehooves awkwardly, not understanding why the Lurk would ask such a question–nor indeed, how he had knowledge of it in the first instance. He said stiffly, “It is the way of the Unicorns.”
Although softly spoken, Snatcher’s
reply carried clearly over the still bog to Zephyr’s hearing. “In the past there was friendship between Lurk and Unicorn,” he said. “But then the Dark Wizard Ozark seduced many creatures–even those thought incorruptible–to his maleficent mastery. Your mother, one of the senior Mares of the Council, was ambitious for the leadership of the Unicorns, which at the time was disputed between her and Mylliandawn, following the assassination of your great leader Siyallana, called Lightstar by the tribe in honour of her wise and able guidance.”
Zephyr tossed his flowing mane. “I’ve no need of a history lesson–”
But the Lurk continued undeterred, “Bereaved by Siyallana’s untimely parting, the Unicorn tribes were unable to decide between the two mares. But when more and more voices began to speak in favour of your dam, Mylliandawn became desperate. Suddenly, tragedy struck. Out in the Wilderlands, above the Rhiallandran River, evil creatures fell upon the Unicorns and slaughtered some ten or twenty in number. Rumours began to circulate about certain disenchanted Unicorns who had betrayed their own. Soon, Mylliandawn accused your dam of plotting with the Lurks to overthrow the Unicorn Council and create a new order under her rule–and yes, we Lurks were partly responsible. We were beguiled and deceived by Mylliandawn. She made it seem that Lurks had killed those Unicorns; that your dam was responsible. Riding the ensuing wave of hysteria, Mylliandawn pressed for your parents to be dehorned.”
“No!” the Unicorn cried.
“You lie!”
The Lurk’s great shoulders bunched into a sad, apologetic shrug. “And so
, as Mylliandawn’s star rose to prominence, your parents lost their lives, sacrificed upon the altar of her greed. As you grew older and began to ask too many questions, the debt was laid upon your shoulders to keep you quiet. In your shame, you never questioned why. And so you serve Mylliandawn and the Unicorn Council, shackled to their cause. You take on the jobs other Unicorns consider too dirty or demeaning. You continue to pay the price. Thus, you are made a pariah amongst your kin.”
Zephyr trembled
from nose to hoof. “These are a pack of the vilest insinuations, you fiend!” he whinnied shrilly. “Mylliandawn has never been ought but good to me! I’m no one’s lackey–”
“Then consider my words
with care,” interrupted the Lurk, just another shadow now in the murk. “Seek the truth, noble Zephyr! Protect the Human! If ever again you seek to cross Mistral Bog, ask for Snatcher.”
The Unicorn nearly spat
in his direction, but desisted. What if the Lurk was right? Was there some grain of truth in his story? The consequences of his debt had galled and shamed him now for tens of seasons. The Unicorns treated him as if his presence were tainted. They shunned his company, and shrouded his paths in snickers and whispered conversation. Courting a mate had become unthinkable. Yes, he was an outsider. But he had always believed … Zephyr lifted his head to ask another question, but the colourless expanse of Mistral Bog had swallowed the Lurk as if he had never been.
Disconsolate, confused, and above all lonely, Zephyr turned his
horn toward Thaharria-brin-Tomal, home of the Unicorns. He reached out to enfold the Human’s thread of life with his power, even as the Lurk had cradled him.
He must keep the Human alive at all costs.
K
evin used to hide
in the Library. It was his favourite place for two reasons–reading was his lifeblood, and Father and Brian avoided it religiously. They advanced no reason for this behaviour, nor did he expect one. Skeletons aplenty rattled in the Jenkins family closet. As the runt of the litter–to borrow one of his brother Brian’s insults–Kevin knew any inquiry would be received in a dim light.
The Library at Pitterdown Manor had been
Victoria Jenkins’ pride and joy. Though he had only met his Great-Grandmother in person a handful of times, this impression stuck clearly in his mind. Great-Grandmother, who was always addressed by her title and
never
by first name, was an avid collector of books and manuscripts, and had amassed great rooms full over the years. She spoke fondly of the Library, as of a dear old friend.
Father disparaged the ‘eccentri
c old witch’ in private. Brian had once insinuated that the sole reason they visited was that as direct descendants of Victoria Jenkins, they stood to inherit a substantial estate, although the manor’s dilapidated condition did make one wonder. At the time, his snide remarks had earned Brian a sharp cuff, but Father had salivated over the inheritance often enough for everyone to appreciate the true picture. Avarice was his weakness. Avarice, coupled with a taste for the high life. Thus they were always on their best behaviour when visiting Great-Grandmother. Brian, as the elder and favoured son, always accompanied his parents to dinner, while Kevin was left with the nursemaids. During their visits, he took to secreting himself in the Library with some book or other, and thus whiled the hours away.
In those early years, the Jenkins family made an annual pilgrimage to Pitterdown Manor. Brian and
he would engage in the inevitable territorial squabble across the back seat of their battered old VW van as they thrummed ever northward from England’s lush green south to the borderland of Scotland, home of enigmatic dark tarns and buttery shortbread, where Kevin imagined the thin skirl of wailing bagpipes still sounded over the bones of brave Highlanders slain by the traitorous English. Last time, he had avidly devoured the story of William Wallace, which changed his perception of Scotland forever. Now, its austere majesty called to his heart in a whisper of desire.
They
usually took tea after Edinburgh, as the shadows lengthened into twilight, when Kevin’s tiredness peaked and Father began to cast anxious glances at his watch. He would doze the last stretch, stirring only when the wheels crunched onto the winding gravel drive leading up to the main house. Liveried servants greeted them, unloaded the luggage with miraculous efficiency, and conducted them to once-sumptuous rooms. Most of the servants had been replaced after Great-Grandmother’s death. These recollections brought a grim slash of a smile to Kevin’s lips. He suspected that they had been dismissed for causing Father some offence in the years before it all changed.
Today–he counted swiftly upon shaking fingers–yes, today was their twentieth anniversary as owners of Pitterdown Manor. This anniversary marked the Jenkins’ elevation to riches and lordly living–not instantly, for there was a protracted
legal battle Father had fought to gain control of the full estate, which had ended to his satisfaction. When the will was read, Father received what he regarded as his just reward–sole, undisputed ownership.
Twenty years had also passed since Mother had become ill
of a strange, wasting disease, never to rise again. She spent brief, dying days in a drug-induced delirium.
She and her son, so alike.
It was twenty years, too, since he had last ventured further than the main gates leading to the world beyond.
Yes, these walls encompassed his world, and the Library was his solace and his curse. “A solace,” he said in his characteristic whisper, letting the words expire amongst the towering racks of musty old books, “For
Kevin Albert Jenkins, named after his paternal grandfather Albert, has nothing of what it takes to be a
true
Jenkins.” His bony fingers smoothed the blanket upon his lap. The words were a thin parody of Father’s, an oft-repeated litany of self-debasement and mockery. “A solace to the poor invalid Kevin, for what use are you to anyone? Why, I had to provide you with private tutors because you could not attend a proper school. Twenty-four hour nursing! Do you have any idea what it cost me, boy?” ‘Nothing at all,’ Kevin shot back in his mind, ‘for you worked for not a penny of what you have today, Father!’ “What do you do all day, but sit there in that blasted library and
read?
”
“A curse,” he continued solemnly, “for your only friends are books,
Kevin, and though you can see the world beyond, you can never go out into it. You’re a bundle of allergies; an immune-deficient anomaly. Look out there, to the snowy fields and forests and hills of merry old Scotland, and rue the day you were born. Oh,” he turned to parody again, “you were a weak and sickly child, Kevin Jenkins. It’s a miracle you are alive today! What more could a dear father do than provide the very best care for his beloved son?”
“You could start
,” he added after a pause steeped in bitterness, “by not abusing me.”
He
flipped the page.
* * * *
The Library was a massive, rambling affair, spanning three levels and multiple rooms and chambers in the Pitterdown Manor’s West Wing. Where Kevin habitually sat in the massive, vaulting main chamber, a sturdy fireplace stood to his right hand and a huge bay window to his left, affording him both warmth and a fine view over the pond to the croquet lawn, the stables, and the heathery hills beyond. A cold snap in late April had dumped several inches of snow over fresh-budding blossoms.
To all sides and even above the fireplace, historic leather-bound tomes marched in orderly ranks upon oaken shelves and bookcases
, right up to the ceiling. The stuffy aisles were so narrow, one could barely squeeze between them, giving rise to the niggling intuition that the bookshelves were leaning across to engage their neighbours in fusty, obscure conversation. The combination of the threadbare green carpet, heavy drapes, and Kevin’s favourite, overstuffed armchair made the chamber look and smell hundreds of years old. The air inside never moved.
Huddled u
pon this broad armchair, so bundled up beneath a tartan throw that a casual glance might have passed right over him, was a spindly figure of carroty hair and cadaverous complexion–Kevin. Standing a mere five feet and four inches in his socks, he was more easily mistaken for fourteen than his twenty-seven years, and possessed a lamentable tendency towards spots. According to his old nurse Constance, who had died last year, he had inherited the stub nose and flame-red hair of his late Great-Grandmother. Frail limbs and a thin chest exaggerated an ill-favoured appearance. Buried like a mole beneath the thick blankets and an old-fashioned robe, he seemed diminished, almost pathetic–almost, but for the eyes. Of all his physical attributes, his eyes were remarkable. Kevin’s irises were the colour of ripe green apples. Golden streaks radiated like inner fire from around the pupils, lending his gaze the arresting power of a master conjurer or a television evangelist. Their intensity betrayed a rare intelligence, but were most often inclined to misery, loneliness, and inanition.
His
eyes were the only part of him that seemed alive, hopping across the pages like sparrows’ feet.
Kevin
sighed now and flipped the cover shut against the final page. “A fine tale,” he whispered to himself. “What shall I read next?”
This consideration was spun out for a leisurely half-hour as he contemplated and discarded the pursuit of various subjects currently of interest–lately European history and philosophy, but his pet subject was archaeology. Whoever had built up the collection of books had done a first-rate
job of cataloguing the Library. Most subjects were easily found, but there were a couple of storage rooms he knew of on the second level where the careful system had somehow broken down. Kevin had recently unearthed a book on magic there, which he took pains to hide from Father, who had always been sternly disapproving of Great-Grandmother’s alleged ‘witchery’ and ‘magic’. Father had never volunteered more on the subject–but the implications of any transgression were as clear as daylight. Kevin artfully concealed the offending tome right above the fireplace, in plain sight.
T
oday, he decided, was a day for the unexpected. Today he would blow a few cobwebs out of the corners of that last storage room.
He
yanked the throw aside and rose feebly to his feet. After a pause to worm his feet into well-worn, comfortable slippers, he shuffled further into the Library and took the steep wooden steps to the second level, pausing midway to rest. Soon, he was lost to sight amidst the overarching bookshelves.
Ten minutes’ work had a rusty lantern in his hand. Pitterdown Manor’s electricity supply was temperamental at best–which might have been exciting but for his terror of dark places and a
persistent clumsiness due to one too many ear infections in his sickly youth. He suspected he might need a hearing aid.
Kevin
considered himself something of an explorer. The manor had a haunted air about it, particularly at night. The servants had told him that there were some parts unopened in over fifty years. Having grown up on a diet of secret passageways and gothic horrors, Kevin had been sorely disappointed to learn that Pitterdown Manor had none. What it did have was an endless supply of rooms, and the Library. Perhaps it was the mystery of the Library that had drawn him here. It had a special atmosphere–a presence, almost. He chuckled to himself as the door creaked open. What a load of old cobblers!
The storage room
, which he had only recently discovered, was accessed via a gloomy space beyond an L-shaped corner and a massive bookcase containing medieval illuminated manuscripts, which he had left alone for fear of their value. He had to shift a couple of boxes before the door would open completely, which was exhausting work. Soon he waded into a haphazard collection of wooden crates set around an ancient desk. Tall stacks of books covered every inch of the desk’s surface. Paradise found! He raised the lantern and selected a book at random.
“
The Arabian Nights
,” he read. “How disappointingly modern!” His asthma was starting to act up. “Marvellous timing, old boy,” he muttered crossly, about to leave to retrieve his pump, when another volume caught his eye. He craned his neck to read the spine. “Ah, now …
Myths and Legends of the Lesser Worlds?
Queer.”
He tugged
at the book, but it was halfway up a stack and the whole tower leaned dangerously toward him. His smile curled his lips back from his teeth like an angry terrier about to bite. “Intrepid adventurer in mortal peril,” he intoned. “What uncertain fate shall befall him?” He paused to cough and wheeze. “Oh dear–best hurry along.”
But curiosity held him. He could not bear to wait.
“Oh, dash it all!”
Kevin
reached up with both hands and pulled with all of his puny might.
Books tumbled, the lantern went flying, and a great cloud of dust
avalanched out of the door. With it came Kevin, landing on his rump with the volume clutched to his chest. The door shuddered under the weight of the mountain he had dislodged and slammed shut right next to his foot, leaving him with the uncomfortable impression that the room had just ejected him by
force majeure
. Wheezing like a hissing kettle, Kevin rushed back to the armchair–as fast as his condition allowed him to rush–and took a relieving puff from his asthma pump.
When
he recovered, it was to announce, “Intrepid adventurer returns victorious!”
The Library swallowed this less-than-fearsome croak with fusty thoroughness,
earning a further squawk of irritation from its sole inhabitant.
Intending to settle down with this intriguing book, which had cost him a fright and a bruised rear
end, he grasped the sturdy volume by its spine and turned it about. A folded piece of paper fluttered to the floor, yellowed and brittle with age. Kevin clucked. The thin sheet of letter-paper was folded in half, and covered on the inside with compact but beautifully scripted handwriting. Handling the fragile scrap carefully, Kevin held it up to the light and felt his eyes widen.
It was addressed to him!
“My word,” he breathed. “There must be some mistake.”
Not so. T
he note was clearly and unmistakeably addressed to Kevin Albert Jenkins, from ‘V.N.K.J.’ That would be Victoria Nicolette Katherine Jenkins, the second name courtesy of an obscure French ancestor–Great-Grandmother’s initials!
“How
very queer,” he burbled, quite beside himself with curiosity and excitement. Using his fingernails, he pried apart the delicate sheets and began to read:
My dearest Kevin,
By the time you find this letter, I shall doubtless have been called to meet my Maker. Despite what your father may have told you, I am neither a wit
ch, nor an eccentric old duck. I am, plainly speaking, the Keeper of an ancient Tradition, which has engaged generations of our ancestors. I wished to personally bequeath this heritage to you, my great-grandson; but alas, to my frustration and despair, your Father has denied my aspirations all these years. I suspected his allegiance to the Evil One, but was mistaken. Harold refuses to admit anything other than that of which he is convinced by his own mind and senses. He thinks that the world is ruled by chance, that Fortune favours the ambitious. This is the Great Lie. Like most people, he is blind to the other worlds, which he has attempted to hide from you.