Chapter 107

Beware of Doors II

I collapse onto the dry sand. Flat on my back I stare up at the swirling night sky. Now that the Whisperer has gone, wind and rain and clouds rush in to fill the vacuum. The sudden return of noise is startling.

Lying unmoving, I watch as rain starts to fall from fat, grey clouds. The patter of the drops of my bones is strangely soothing. After a while I gather myself up, and wander back home through the gentle soak of the sodden woods.

My brain wanders likewise, processing the experience of the last hour and at last coming back to meet me in the present. I have survived. I have a task to accomplish, a shopping list, and ten days to do it.

The hearts of ten handsome men should be easy enough, and my own head on a platter of roses… also easy, although not exactly enjoyable. With this last request, I suspect the Whisperer is trying to make me suffer. Taunting me with my love of gardening, he expects me to agonise over my loss of power, but he does not understand. Perhaps I should be grateful for this fact. If he truly understood my nature, he would kill me immediately before I am able to manifest my murderous daydreams. But beheading myself? Pfft. I would behead myself a dozen times over if it would help Jenkins achieve immortality.

But it is not for me to know the mind of the god of death. He could have asked for a barrel of depressed virgins or a vat of children’s toenails. The only thing I am unsure of is the mysterious ‘dandelion from the fields of the Summer Queen’. I have never heard of such a person, which will make finding her meadows a little tricky.

Where should I begin?

I will start with the easiest: the hearts of ten handsome men. Assuming this is not some sort of ridiculous metaphor, it is nothing a sharp axe can’t accomplish in the space of the afternoon. Humming under my breath, I skip towards Downing Village where I’m sure there are plenty of men wandering about.

It is now early morning and the villagers are just beginning to go about their days. Puffs of smoke billow from the hearths of the living, while the draugr labour relentlessly through rain and shine. The place has an air of purpose to it that it never had when I was alive. I am quite proud that people actually want to live here. The village graveyard is much, much, too large for the size of the place, but that is the only clue that all is not what it seems. That, the roaming undead, and the impressive fortifications.

So far humans living side by side with the living has worked, more or less. There have been a few dissenters, most of whom have left for greener pastures. Nothing is keeping them here after all. Or at least the humans think they have left.

I cackle as I stride along the freshly sprouting verges.

The drizzle lets up as I enter the village proper. The stone altar is still there, in pride of place in the middle of the town square. The blood and bodies have long since cleared away. There are a few sparrow skulls, but mostly it is decked out with fresh spring foliage; wreaths of daffodils and hellebores with black ribbons fluttering in the breeze.

The villagers greet me as I pass. I eye the men. Some of them are arguably handsome. One or two are even red-haired, and the new blacksmith has a very fetching beard. He feels my gaze on him and lifts a timid hand in salutation. I wave back with a wide smile that seems not to reassure him in the slightest. Instinct perhaps. Hmm. What to do?

How upset would the community be if I sacrifice ten of them to the Whisperer? Probably quite upset. Not everyone understands the importance of cats. One or two I could maybe steal away without notice but not ten. No, I will have to hunt elsewhere.

Annoyed with my inconvenient ethics, and feeling more than a little fretful I wander back to my cottage. The forest spirit is waiting for me in the garden holding a boot with a delicate snowdrop planted inside it. The honey brown of his eyes brightens as I approach.

“Hello, dead woman,” he greets me cheerfully, holding out the boot. He has little violets sprouting in tufts from the willow crown on his head.

“Maud,” I remind him, taking the boot from him, absently.

“Hello, dead Maud,” he says.

My head is too full of worries to appreciate the flower properly but I thank him anyway. Adding the snowdrop to my growing collection of well-shod living pot plants, I walk to the front door, and turn the key in the lock.

The tree spirit’s face drops.

“Is the flower unsatisfactory?” he demands, leaves rustling.

“What?” I say, in surprise. I am trying to calculate how far away I need to go to murder these handsome men without upsetting anyone. “No! It is very lovely. I just have a lot on my mind.”

I shut the cottage door firmly behind me.

Perhaps I can find ten devilishly handsome criminals? That’s not a bad idea. What about this Queen of Summer? Hmm. The Summer Queen. Maybe it is the common name of a neighbouring monarch? A ruler from the Quellac Isles or something? For all I know it could be the nickname of a Donheath flower seller. Or prostitute. Although why would a prostitute have dandelions? Gah.

It occurs to me that I know very little about the political situation of Einheath’s neighbours, and that now I am queen I should educate myself. How tedious.

Summoning a little bird from the rafters, I write a note to Roland in Fairhaven, asking him to ask the council if they have heard of the Summer Queen. I attach the letter to the bird and watch it fly out of sight. It will be at least a couple of days before I can expect a reply. Resisting the urge to chew my own arm, I settle down to flick through my various grimoires and herbals. I hope to find a mention of this mysterious Summer Queen and her field of dandelions. I find nothing.

Curses.

Who else can I ask? The witch’s council in Greater Downing might be worth consulting? The grimoire? The bones? Would the spirits help me again so soon? I might as well try, since they are here. If nothing is forthcoming, I’ll make the trek to Dunbarra Keep, and then on to Greater Downing. That then, is my plan of action.

Absent-mindedly I throw the bones, without expecting much.

To my surprise, they respond, skittering happily across the mat. But once again they show me a picture of a cat’s eye, and then the skeletal cat, exactly the same as last time.

“Jenkins?” I call, one suspicious eye still on the bones. The good lad lifts his head from the depths of the wool basket. “Do you know how to find the Summer Queen?”

To my surprise he chirrups, and immediately leaps out of the basket.

Padding across the floor with his tail held high, Jenkins pauses at the doorway, and looks over his shoulder questioningly. Clearly I am meant to follow. Hurriedly, I thank the bones and sweep them away. What an interesting turn of events!

Jenkins lets out an impatient meow.

“Sorry!”

Pausing to grab my axe, I hurry after him, excitement gripping my innards. Hopefully he is not leading me to admire the remains of his latest hunt, as has happened once or twice before. Not that I mind looking at mouse entrails, but I am quite capable of collecting my own.

Jenkins leads me down the garden path, checking over his shoulder once or twice to make sure I am following. When he is satisfied that I am, he sets off into the twilight woods at a good pace. I jog after my little black cat, curiosity gnawing at me.

“Where are we going?” The tree spirit says close to my ear. I let out a small ‘yipp’ of surprise.

“I don’t know,” I say truthfully.

We appear to be heading east, away from the setting sun, and into the deep forest that grows wild between Dunbarra and Downing. The tree spirit drifts after us with lazy curiosity.

I follow Jenkins through rapidly purpling glades, over tumbling streams, up a small hill, and then down another.

“This is near my oak,” says the tree spirit approvingly, looking around. He seems quite content to follow along with mild interest.

“Do you have a name?” I ask. Since this seems to be turning into a family trip, I feel like I should know.

“A name?” The tree spirit looks confused for a second, and then smiles. A handful of ladybirds burst out of his beard. “Herne,” he says. “My name is Herne.”

“Herne,” I repeat, trying out the sound.

“That’s what I said,” Herne says a little impatiently.

We follow Jenkin’s black tail through a dense patch of ferns and lilies and arrive in a secluded forest glade dominated by an ancient, mammoth oak. Fresh green leaves are sprouting from its overarching canopy of branches. Its trunk is bulbous and nobbled. Too wide to encircle with my arms, it is almost wide enough to accommodate a small house. I wonder if it does. There is a small door at the base, near the roots. Jenkins is sitting next to it, cleaning his whiskers. The air around him is alight with tiny, golden fireflies.

Herne looks up at the tree with open mouthed admiration.

“Jenkins?” I call.

Jenkins looks at the door with great deliberation, flicking his tail imperiously.

“Yes, yes,” I mutter. “I see it. Thank you.”

I already know the answer, but just for confirmation, I pop the lynx eye out of my eye socket, and look back at the oak. The tree itself is exactly the same, large and merry, with the wind stirring the green leaves of its crown. The door, however, has vanished. So have the fireflies. It is the wrong season for them after all.

Pushing the eye back into place, I tread softly across the mossy carpet. I hesitate, and then push open the little door. It swings wide without any trouble, revealing a winding staircase, leading down through the roots. Jenkins pads through immediately, and I follow. The doorway is so tiny I have to bend double to fit through.

Walking awkwardly, I descend, Jenkins leading the way, and Herne bringing up the rear.

The stairs seem to have been formed out of the living roots, even and not a little treacherous. They wind down for a very long way. At last we arrive at the bottom, a dim room smelling of loam and dry leaves with a warm, earthen floor. The ceiling is too low, as if the proportions were made for very short people. Directly opposite the last step is another stout door, similar to the one above, except this one has no doorknob, no handle. It has an ornate silver knocker, and a little wooden peep hole that is covered over.

I push at it, but the door does not budge, so I lift the door knocker and rap smartly.

The sound rings through the room, clear and loud as a bell.

The peephole flies open. Through it I can see a pair of eyes, a pair of distinctly inhuman eyes. Yellow, and slit through like a cats, they stare at me accusingly.

“Yes?” comes a peevish voice. “What do you want?”

“Errr…” I panic. I have never been good at improvising. Unless it involves violence, of course. Inspiration strikes. “I’m looking for the summer queen!”

“And what is your business in her realm?” the doorkeeper asks. The tone is dull and businesslike, as if they have asked this question many times before. The yellow eyes stare bore into my skull.

“Err-”

“The market,” hisses Herne in my ear. “Say you are here for the market.”

“What? Oh! I’m here for the market!” I say, smiling inanely at the suspicious looking eyeball.

There is a long pause. I continue to beam.

“And what are you here to trade?”

I pat my sides desperately. All I have is my axe, a few soul crystals and my emergency sewing kit. I put out a skein of pink embroidery thread and hold it up inquiringly.

“Come back when you have something to trade,” says the voice.

The little box in the door slams shut.