Wolf Notes and Other Musical Mishaps (2 page)

The scream wasn’t as loud as the crash which had got Helen out of bed, but it lasted longer; a sustained note of panic.

The three of them rushed into the corridor. Through the window above the side door
leading
into the car park, they could see torchlight wavering. There were already people out there.

Helen led them to the other end of the hallway, to the door leading from Murray Wing into the old lodge. As she pushed it open, she heard worried voices echoing round the big dining room. It wasn’t safe to leave that way either.

They crept back to the side door. Yann leaned into the rehearsal room and clicked the light off, looking unreasonably pleased at his
understanding
of human technology. “If there isn’t any light behind us, perhaps no one will see us leave.”

Sylvie eased the door open. Yann whispered to Helen, “We’ll wait at the edge of the forest. Come to the pine tree shattered by lightning, to tell us what that scream means.”

As the fabled beasts stepped warily into the dark, Yann asked, “Do you want to ride or run, Sylvie?”

“Ride,” Helen ordered. “If you change too soon,
the bandage will come off and the wound will bleed again.”

Sylvie pulled herself up onto Yann’s back and he walked into the darkness on soft hooves.

Helen stood in the doorway. The screaming had stopped, but now she could hear running
footsteps
.

She didn’t move. She hadn’t come to Dorry Shee to save the world. She wasn’t here to fight a battle over land or queens or magic.

She was here to play music.

She shouldn’t get involved. She should go back to bed, then get up nice and early to tackle that tricky double-stopping in the first movement of Professor Greenhill’s masterpiece.

Then she noticed the weight hanging from her left shoulder. If she had come here just for the music, just for herself, why had she brought her first aid kit? She had packed bandages, swabs, splints and sutures, just as carefully as her bow and rosin. Had she hoped that she might meet her fabled friends again; that they might need her first aid kit and lead her into more adventures? If Yann’s fanged friend was right, she wouldn’t just be helping them, she’d be saving herself too.

So, reluctantly, she left Murray Wing, and walked past the barn, where she would soon be rehearsing, towards the gamekeeper’s cottage at the far end of the car park.

Threads of torchlight were tangling around the cottage. People were yelling, “James? James!”

Helen stepped closer. Someone caught her bare toes in a beam of light and shouted, “Here!”

Suddenly Helen was blinded by brightness, just like being on stage.

“That’s not James! He’s only five!”

“Go back to bed, lass, we don’t need more lost children!”

“Here! Here he is!”

Mrs McGregor, the lodge owner, ran round the side of the cottage, clutching a small boy. “He’s cold and sleepy, but he’s fine!”

Helen stood back, while the adults with torches congratulated themselves on dealing with the crisis and walked back to the lodge for a warming drink, then she watched Mrs McGregor carry the boy into the cottage.

Helen peered through the open door, straight into the cosy living room. Mrs McGregor was sitting on a couch, hugging the little person in her arms.

“Do you need anything? Blankets to warm him up?” Helen asked gently.

“No, thanks. He must have wandered off when I went across to the lodge to chat to the caterer. He’ll be fine. I’ll just cuddle him warm.”

Then Helen saw the other child, at the other end of the couch. A younger girl, not much older than her own little sister. The girl’s eyes were wide open, terrified.

“That’s not James,” the little girl said clearly.

“Of course this is James!” her mum answered.

“That’s not James. They took James. That’s just a doll.”

“Shush, Emma. This is James. He’ll play with you again when he wakes up at breakfast time.”

“That’s not James. They took James.”

Her mum was about to shush her again, but Helen took a step nearer and asked, “Who took him?”

“Shiny fast people,” said Emma. “They were trying to push a doll of James in the bed when they heard Mummy coming back. They jumped out the window with James and dropped the doll on the ground. That’s not James, that’s the doll.”

“This is James,” said Mrs McGregor firmly, “and he’ll be fine when he’s warmed up.”

She smiled at Helen, who tried very hard to smile back.

Helen ran back to Murray Wing, where she could hear the murmur and laughter of half-awake
teenagers
in the kitchen, and rushed up to her room before anyone realized she was out of bed too.

Helen changed into her jeans and fleece — even though it was nearly midsummer, it was cold in the Highlands in the middle of the night — pulled on her boots and grabbed the rucksack again.

On her way out, she glanced at the clipboard on the small table in the corridor. The students had to write where they were beside their name, so the teachers could find them if necessary. It was very informal, but the Professor had talked about musicians in orchestras trusting each other and how she could rely on everyone to be honest and sensible.

So Helen did wonder about writing:
1:30am. Gone to forest to see fabled beasts,
by her name, but thought that would be more honest than sensible. Instead she just left the words she’d written earlier:
11pm. Gone to bed,
as she was sure no one would bother checking at this time of night.

Helen walked briskly round the west side of the lodge, past the dark windows of Sinclair Wing, and onto the narrow track behind the lodge.

Under the clear black sky she was comforted by the stars she knew from home: the Pole Star and the Plough twinkling ahead of her as she walked north towards Dorry Shee Forest and the Summer Triangle hanging in the sky behind her.

When she reached the edge of the forest she couldn’t make out any individual trees, nor could she find a tree blackened by lightning: they were all blackened by night. What a daft suggestion of Yann’s!

The track turned west along the treeline; only a narrow footpath led east. So Helen followed the track, humming the tune she had played for Yann’s people last winter solstice, hoping he would hear her. After ten minutes with no sign of a lightning tree or her friend, she spun round and walked east again. She passed the point where the track turned to the lodge, and continued eastwards along the forest edge, stumbling occasionally on the rougher, narrower path.

She kept humming, though now she was adding fancy, slightly sarcastic, twiddles to the end of each verse.

Suddenly she saw Yann’s tree. Not blackened by lightning as she had assumed, but ripped open to reveal its white flesh, clear and bright against the night forest. Not such a bad idea after all. Helen strode to the scarred tree.

Yann stepped out, grasped her shoulder and pulled her into the trees. He guided her twenty paces into the forest, to a clearing dominated by a huge smooth-trunked beech tree. Sylvie was crouched beside a small fire, her silver hair glowing and her golden eyes sparkling. She smiled at Helen, showing only the tips of her teeth.

“I thought wolves were afraid of fire,” Helen said.

“They are, but I’m not. One advantage of being a wolf girl, rather than a true wolf!” Sylvie laughed, more relaxed in the forest than in the lodge.

Helen glanced at Sylvie’s arm. The bandage was still secure.

“Tell us about the scream,” ordered Yann impatiently.

Helen thought about the best way to describe the facts. “The lodge owner screamed because her five-year-old son was missing. Then she found a small boy asleep outside. The boy’s wee sister said some shiny fast people had taken her brother and left the sleeping boy, which she called a doll. His mother thinks the boy is just cold and needs a cuddle.”

“What do you think?” asked Yann.

Helen sighed. “I think there’s a chance the faeries took James and left a changeling in his place.”

“It’s not a changeling,” said Sylvie. “It’s not one of their own to replace the boy; just an image of him, to buy them time to carry the boy off. The cold, sleepy boy will sicken over the next few days … and be dead a day or two after midsummer.”

“Dead!” Helen shivered and moved nearer the fire.

“Don’t worry. What you call a doll is really a stock; a boy shape, carved from an ancient tree trunk. It’s not alive. But the real boy is alive and with the faeries. I wonder why they want him?”

“I don’t care why they want him,” snapped Helen, shocked at Sylvie’s lack of concern. “I just need to know how to get him back. He has a wee sister who wants to play with him and a mum who wants to cuddle him.”

She turned to her friend. “Yann, how do we get him back?”

“Children stolen by the faeries can’t come back, Helen. I’m sorry.”

“Nonsense. Tam Linn came back.”

“Hundreds of years later.”

“Thomas the Rhymer came back.”

“He was a grown man when they took him and he returned to the faeries in the end.”

“There must be others who came back!”

“No point getting him back,” murmured Sylvie. “He’ll just crumble to dust.”

“What?” Helen backed away from this girl who could tell her nothing but bad news.

“If he eats faery food, then the first time he puts human food in his mouth, he’ll crumble to dust. Whether you get him out in five minutes or fifty years, if he has eaten faery food, you can never save him.” She smiled up at Helen. “But you believe me about the faeries now, don’t you?”

“Yes.
No!
This isn’t proof. This is just guesswork from a wee girl’s nightmare. But
if
they have the boy and
if
he hasn’t eaten faery food and
if
we can find him in time … HOW DO WE GET HIM BACK?”

A new voice answered her. “You feed him human food, so he doesn’t hunger for faery food. Then you give the Faery Queen exactly what she wants in return for his freedom.”

Helen whirled round. A boy stepped into the clearing.

He was tall and slim and shining. His pale face was smooth, with high cheeks and a straight nose. His hair was thick gold, his eyes clear blue and his teeth shone whiter than Sylvie’s. When he smiled he lit the clearing more brightly than the fire.

He was dressed in green. Dark green silk, fitted and flowing, embroidered with animals and leaves which moved in the firelight even once he stood still. He wore a long sword on his left hip.

Helen couldn’t stop staring at him. She needed to see him clearly. She needed to get closer.

“HELEN!”
shouted Yann. “It’s not real! How he looks is not real. It’s glamour. He plays with light and colour and shape to enchant your eyes, the way you work with pitch and volume and rhythm to enchant my ears.”

Helen took a step back and looked harder at the boy.

Sylvie stood up. She spoke, bitingly polite. “Good evening, Faery. I hope you enjoy your short stay in my forest and have happy memories of these trees when you return home. Your own home, far from here.”

The beautiful boy in green bowed, replying in a light cheerful voice, “Thank you, Wolf. I hope you have enjoyed your holiday in our homeland. You will take our fondest wishes with you as your pack moves to new hunting grounds.”

Sylvie smiled with all her teeth. Helen could see her measuring the distance to the boy’s throat.

Yann said calmly, “Don’t provoke her, Faery, or we’ll all regret it. You’re not welcome in this forest. Just leave now.”

“I would certainly regret being somewhere I wasn’t wanted. I’ll go away then, shall I? I’ll go away and leave you to ponder your ignorance about faery diplomacy. I’ll go away and leave you to wonder how to return that defenceless child to his mother’s arms. Farewell. Good luck with the impossible.” He turned and walked out of the firelight.

“No!” yelled Helen desperately. “Please come back! Please stay!” Then she remembered why she wanted him to come back. “Please tell us how to save the boy.”

The faery turned and smiled at her. Helen felt herself drawn towards the glow of his skin, the shine of his clothes and the perfection of his smile. She twisted music from wood, metal and air. What was he twisting light and beauty from? She
half-closed
her eyes, looked carefully past the shimmer and, just for a moment, glimpsed a painful red spot by his left nostril.

She grinned. “I’m Helen Strang and I’ll be very grateful for any information you can give us.”

He laughed. “I’m Lee Vale and I’ll do my best to help you.”

Yann and Sylvie spoke together. “Why would you help us?” “Don’t trust him!”

Then Yann said loudly, “I don’t believe you are called Lee. That’s not a faery name. I certainly
won’t trust you if you won’t give us your true name.”

The boy blushed under his shine. “Lee
is
my name.”

“It can’t be. Faeries must be named for a plant that has its roots in the earth. What is your
true
name?”

“It’s kind of my name.” He kicked the toes of his long red boots in the leaf litter.

“It can’t be,” Yann insisted.

“It’s
short
for my name.”

“What’s your full name then?”

“If I tell you, will you still call me Lee?”

Yann snorted but Helen said, “Yes, I’ll call you what you like.”

“My name is …” his voice dropped so low Helen almost couldn’t hear it over the crackling flames. “Oh, I shouldn’t have to do this …”

Yann pointed at the faery. “Let me guess! Lee is short for … Lily! Lileee! Your name is Lily! Isn’t it?”

The boy lifted his chin and glared at the centaur laughing above him. “Yes! The lily is a plant to be proud of; not just a beautiful flower, but a powerful poison too.”

“But it’s like being called Daisy or Rosie or Poppy! Don’t most male faeries get tree names, like Oak or Rowan or Larch? But you got Lily! What kind of lily are you, anyway? A wet water lily?”

“A tiger lily?” growled Sylvie.

“A tiny little lily of the valley?” Yann suggested. Lee scowled. Helen remembered his last name was Vale.