Chapter 108

A Material Ghoul

I wait in front of the door for a little while but the peep hole stays firmly shut. I rap on the door knocker once more.

“Go away!” shouts an irate voice from the other side.

Awkward. I retrace my steps up the cramped stairwell of the winding oak, eventually exiting the little wooden door into full night. Jenkins and Herne spill out behind me. Jenkins seems very pleased with himself, and bounds off into the glade with a jaunty flick of his tail. Herne drifts away with a dreamy expression in his eyes.

“Wait!” I say. “You can’t just go!”

“Why not?” the tree spirit asks, clearly perplexed. He scratches in his ear and a pair of cream coloured moths fly out of it. “I want to go now.”

“At least tell me, before you do, how do you know about this market? Or this place? What is it? What is it called? Have you been there? What should I do to satisfy the doorkeeper?”

The tree spirit freezes, honey brown eyes panicked. Oh no. I think I have asked too many questions.

“Have you been to the market?” I ask.

We look at each other.

“I have,” he says.

“And what did you buy there?”

“I don’t need to buy things, dead woman,” he says, haughtily. “I am a tree.”

I consider this. This feels uncomfortably like socialising. There is a reason I lived alone in the woods.

“Did you see what other… er … people bought?”

“Of course. My eyes are very good.”

“Can you tell me, please?” I beg.

“Magical things,” he says. “Glowy things. Sparkly things.”

“Thank you,” I say, thoughtfully.

Looking relieved, Herne slinks away into the forest in the direction of his tree, and I am left alone beneath the spring stars.

A soft breeze skitters through the glade, rustling the branches of the enormous oak and sending the magical fireflies swirling in gentle eddies. Things are looking up! A magical market sounds delightful, and I can think of many things I could sell. Potions, enchanted broomsticks… no too precious. Ghost flowers? A definite maybe! Oooh, I can use up some of the draugr wool! I can knit and advance my agenda! Perfect, perfect, perfect!

Skipping home in a flurry of excitement, I grab the recently spun skeins of wool and my favourite needles. In a feverish ecstasy of creation, I knit through the remainder of the night, the following day, and the next night as well. I knit mounds of scarves, woolly jumpers, warm gloves, and not a few hats. Once the fires of creation leave me, I stand back to admire my handiwork.

Woolly knitting occupies every surface of my kitchen. How many do I need? I don’t want to overdo it. I must keep sight of my end goal: lich Jenkins, discover the Whisperer’s weaknesses. Thinking back to the mortal markets I attended when I was alive, I judge this should be enough. But is it magical enough? The wool has a slightly otherworldly quality to it, and is as strong as steel. Apart from that I don’t know if it actually does anything.

They do look nice though—the stitches are even, the patterns inspired (of course) and yet… the colour of the wool is terribly boring. Everything looks a bit washed out. Hmm.

Out of the cottage I dash, to examine my plants with a critical eye. Rose madder! Woad! Marigolds! All of those can be used to make dye. I gather large armfuls of the blossoms, and haul them into the kitchen. If this becomes a serious hobby I will have to expand the garden! Beetroot also makes a fine dye. What else could I do with undead vegetables? But I must focus.

Practically dancing, I light the hearth and brew up the colourants. A short while later the cottage is full of rich, earthy smells, and my bones are dyed purple to the elbows, and there are yellow and pink smears on my skull. My woollen offerings are likewise splendidly colourful, and I dip each in the steaming pots of dye in turn. Once satisfied I set them to flutter like a ghostly rainbow on the clothesline I rig up over the beehives. Much better!

A tapping at the window makes me jump.

Tora is outside, with an envelope in her beak. Several envelopes! I open the shutters and let her in. I take the papers from her with a word of thanks. She watches me through one beady eye, lightning crackles gently through her feathers. Through the window I see the beastie crackle in turn. It occurs to me that unlike my other draugr, Elding and Tora do not seem to need maintenance. Their bodies are as fine and glossy as the day their host crows died.

“How is Fairhaven?” I ask her, absently, folding open the letter.

“Ka! Busy!” she says, and I nod, my eyes on the paper.

The first one is from Roland. He details the ongoing reconstruction of my capital. All appears well. Hester, my puppet queen is having a fine time pretending to be me, and so far there have not been any mishaps. He does not know of the Summer Queen, and sends his apologies for the fact, Green Lady bless him. The only point of concern is the likely imminent arrival of a trade delegation from the Quellac Isles in three weeks' time. Roland thinks it would be wise if I was there in person. Ug. I suppose by then I will have everything under control here.

The other envelopes are invitations from neighbouring monarchs and diplomatic delegations. Hastily, I stuff those in a drawer. I’ll look at them later.

“Wait for me here,” I say to Tora. “I will send a reply when I get back from this errand.”

The wool is dry, it is time for me to travel to the realm of the Summer Queen.

Since I have no idea what the dress code is in strange underworlds at the bottom of magical oak trees I am forced to improvise: serviceable pauldrons, blouse, skirt, and axe. My skirt is green with little pink skulls around the hem, because I am feeling colourful. My knitting is bundled carefully into an old brown pack, with some extra soul crystals (just in case) and some sprigs of mint to keep it all sweet smelling. My emergency sewing kit is replenished, and I have some coins in case there is something I want to buy.

As an afterthought I cut bunches of ghost and draugr flowers, tying them with twine and ribbons to the outside of the pack. They can liven up my stall or I can sell them. A body can never have too many flowers.

Speaking of flowers…the knitting and dyeing has taken the better part of two and half days. In all that time Herne has not been to drop off any gifts. It does not matter. Not at all. Nosy tree spirits delivering flowers at all hours of the day and night is a distraction I don’t need when I have so much to do. It is better that I stay focused.

Something moves under the trees. Is it Herne? No, just the beastie perambulating about collecting eyeballs from the local wildlife. That’s fine. I’m not some wilting noble maiden who needs escorting to the local market. It is absolutely, objectively, positively fine.

I set off through the early morning mists. My brief grumpiness leaves me almost immediately so delightful is my forest. I arrive at the enormous oak just as the sun’s rays begin to stain the early morning golden, chasing away the wisps of the night.

Fireflies hum lazily through the damp air, leaving little trails of luminescence. The door is where I left it, and I pull it open and make my descent. Down through the tangles of roots I go, into the bowels of the earth, bent double with my pack slung awkwardly across my side. At the bottom is the same small earthen room, and the same knobless door with the silver knocker.

Excited, I rap on it and the peep hole shoots open.

“Yes?”

“I’ve come for the market!” I reply, holding up a handsome knitted sweater in translucent periwinkle blue. In my other hand I brandish a bunch of draugr amaryllis, the petals blood-red and dark. I grin hopefully and harmlessly at the doorkeeper.

“Hmmpf!”

The door opens, revealing a very grouchy old goblin in green corduroy. He seems to be wearing a colander on his head.

“You can’t take that,” the goblin says, pointing at my axe. “Or those.” He points at my pauldrons. “Leave them here. I will keep them safe for your return, or sell them after seven days if you die.”

“That is unlikely,” I murmur.

“That,” says the goblin, “is what they all say.”

I dislike removing my armour but I have other ways to protect myself after all.

“Take good care of those,” I warn, handing him my axe.

The goblin grunts and puts them somewhere I can’t see.

“By passing this door you are agreeing to the covenants,” he says on his return. He sounds like he is reading from a sheet, or from memory. Words he has said a thousand times. Probably he has, but who in Einheath uses this door?

“What are the covenants?”

The goblin sucks in a deep breath: “No iron under any circumstances. True names at your own risk. Eat at your own risk. Lying is ill advised, for your own health. All contracts are binding. Mimics must wear red hats, except on Moondays, and humans should stay in the demarcated areas unless they are invited by a member of the court, or are intended for ritual sacrifice. The Queen of the Summer Realms is not responsible for loss of life, limb, sanity or any accidental cannibalism. Got it?”

“Yes,” I say, my head spinning a little. “What day is it today?”

“Sunsday,” says the goblin.

“Right,” I say.

“You may enter,” says the goblin, formally.

Eagerly, I step through the door into another room, expecting… well I don’t know what, but the room beyond is underwhelming. Not even a room, it is a cave. It has the air of a mud room, or perhaps a country barracks entranceway. Pairs of boots line one wall, and shelves bear a motley assortment of metal armour and weaponry. It is dimly lit by what appear to be angry pixies in glass jars.

The only interesting feature is the hole in the centre. Cool air billows up through it in gusts. Leaning over, all I can see is a soup of clouds. There is no visible bottom. An insubstantial rope ladder dangles into the hole, the rest of it disappearing into silvery mist. The top end is looped around a jagged rock.

“Down there?” I demand.

The goblin plonks himself down on a rickety chair, and folds his arms over his chest, clearly preparing for a nap.

“Yes,” he says in surprise. “Where else?”

Grumbling under my breath, I hitch my skirts into my bloomers, and awkwardly grab the ladder. With a muttered curse I jump down, swinging out into nothing and catching the rungs with my feet. The ladder swings madly. It feels like it is attached to nothing.

My skirts flutter, and one of the ghost roses hits me in the face.

Gingerly, I feel for the next narrow rung. Down into the white clouds I go, soon losing sight of the cave. It is just me and the ladder which feels as flimsy as a daisy chain.

“How far down is it?” I shout, rather belatedly.

“A long way,” comes the muffled reply.

Great.

Down, down, down.

I am once more grateful for the monstrous strength in my undead arms and legs. There is still nothing to see. The rope ladders sways and bucks, giving me no indication of how high I am, or how far I have to fall before hitting… something? The wet, white fog encases me in a soggy embrace. Once or twice I feel the air stir, as if moved by mammoth wings but if there are monsters in the hole I do not see them.

Suddenly, as I reach from one swaying rung to the next, the cloud lifts.

I am bathed in radiant brilliance. Warm summer sunshine illuminates a vast land laid out like emerald patchwork below me. I cling to the ladder, trying to take it in. Looking up I can only see thick clouds, the thin, swaying rope ladder disappearing into them. I am climbing out of the sky, and if I fall, well, that would be an embarrassing way to die.

How can this place exist? Why have I never heard of it? Or maybe I have? In folklore, or in whispered tales as a child? I can see trees like blades of grass, toy houses, fields and a gleaming lake. Directly below are tiny, brightly coloured tents.

Excitement pooling in my belly I hasten to finish my descent.