“This is no trap,” Bambleby said, with such certainty in his green gaze that much of my dread melted away. “Only godforsaken cold, and miles and miles of uninhabitable wastes.”
He seemed unable to enjoy the stark beauty of it all, the wild terror of the mountains, the towering glaciers, the little ribbons of time that clung to the rock in the form of frozen cataracts. The aurora danced above us both nights, green and blue and white undulating together, a cold ocean up there in the sky, and even that he barely glanced at. On the second night, he used his magic to summon a thick green hedge of prickly holly and a trio of willow saplings that enfolded our tent in drapery like bed curtains to keep out the chill wind.
“Will you look at that!” I couldn’t help but exclaiming as I sat by the fire, gazing up at the riot of light. I will admit, I wished for him to share the sight with me and was disappointed when he only sighed.
“Give me hills round as apples and forests of such green you could bathe in it,” he said. “None of these hyperborean baubles.”
“Baubles!” I exclaimed, and would have snapped at him, but his face as he gazed into the fire was open and forlorn, and I realized that he wasn’t trying to be irksome—he missed his home. He had been longing for it all along, and this place, so alien and unfriendly, had sharpened the longing into a blade.
As usual, I had no idea what to do with this sort of insight—would questioning him lighten the sadness or make it worse? Should I （oh, God） attempt to hug him? In the end, I merely asked him to draw up additional fencing to keep off the worst of the wind, as I knew he enjoyed using his power thus, and he summoned a hedge so laden with bright berries that it put me in mind of a Christmas tree, as well as an entirely unnecessary carpet of snowdrops at my feet, which I suffered in silence.
I kept my hand carefully hidden in my glove—not that I wished to. I wanted to yank it off and wave in Bambleby’s face the band of shadow that swirled there on my third finger, distinct enough now that I knew it for what it was—a ring. It filled me with a terror the likes of which I’ve never felt before, but I couldn’t tell him about it, nor give him any sign that might arouse his suspicion. The enchantment, whatever it was, had me firmly in its grip. Even more worryingly, I sometimes forgot all about it myself. I could only hope that it would not interfere with our expedition.
I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he frowned at the fire, a crease between his beautiful dark eyebrows. Would that he would only grab me and—and—
A flush rose up my neck. What reason would he have to do that?
As usual, Wendell laughed at me when I announced my intention of visiting the restroom, but I didn’t care; in the wilderness, one should cling to what dignity one can, I’ve always thought. Leaving him and Shadow to enjoy the fire, I strode a distance from camp and found a tree large enough to crouch behind （we had left the forest, and all that remained of it were sad, mangy stands of birch here and there）。 I did my business quickly and hastened back over the snow.
Looking back now, I wonder if I was observant enough. Certainly I was alert—I always am, during fieldwork—but I suspect that the unfamiliarity of the landscape, the high, dark mountains swaddled in snow, lulled me into a belief that no living thing could accost me here, certainly nothing fae, creatures I have spent my career associating with greenery and water and life.
Fortunately, my reflexes are sharp. The instant the light flared through the trees, I halted and gripped my coin. It was a greyish light with no warmth in it, like a star. A wind moved through the trees, and there came a whisper of bells. Had I not been touching metal, I might have been bespelled, and as it was my head still spun a little, but I am used to brushing against faerie enchantments and stood my ground.
They were trooping faeries, and when I did not fall under the spell of their music and move towards them, they grew intrigued and surrounded me. I knew instantly that I was in danger, for they were faeries of the bogle variety, a disputed categorization given to all those common fae with a deathly appearance, low intellect, and malevolent disposition. Bogles are universally and perpetually ravenous, yet they delight in desolate places, leading to theories that they enjoy the sensation of hunger. When they do encounter living beings, they have every manner of unpleasant means to devour them, usually by roasting them part by part in the little cook fires they carry with them everywhere.
They were tall for common fae, though some are of human height, the tops of their heads nearing my shoulders. They were little more than bone with something resembling skin draped overtop, but everything about them was planed and angular like ice chipped into faerie shape. They did not let me see them clearly, melting in and out of the snowdrifts as easily as Poe did with his tree, but what I saw was pale and hoary with frost, with cloaks woven from moonlight, and they had Poe’s needle-fingers and matching teeth. Some carried bells, others carried their cook fires in little pots, grey-blue flames fed by the twigs they snapped from the trees as they passed. They circled me a few times, getting my measure as they whispered to one another. Their voices were like the wind stirring the snow, and I could make no sense of them. It is not known if bogles have speech in the human sense; they are very close to animals.
The scholar in me was already formulating questions in Faie; I wished to learn if they could understand me, and not only that, I wanted to draw out the encounter in order to study them. But then one of the bogles was suddenly at my shoulder, its frigid, sharp hand squeezing my neck as it leaned in to take a bite of my ear.
I caught only a whiff of its breath, which smelled of pine smoke and blood, before I jerked aside, spitting out one of the Words of Power.[*] I have learned two of them, extracted through bribery from ancient Folk who inhabit forlorn corners of wilderness.
One of the Words is utterly useless. I stumbled across it while pursuing tales of a hag-type faerie in the Shetland Islands—locals were uncertain if it was a banshee or some sort of disgraced runaway courtier of the courtly fae. I never did determine which was true. I came across her at twilight in a huddle of pale rags upon the beach, where she was nearly indistinguishable from a pile of driftwood. She asked me for shelter, which I gave her, of course, leading her back to the inn where I was staying and offering her my bed, whilst I slept on the floor. I even washed her feet when she asked me to—they were very small and curved, like seashells. She was so ensconced in her rags, several layers of gowns that may or may not have been fine once, and a hooded cloak and several shawls, that I never did get a good look at her. When she asked me what favour I would like in return, I said I was currently searching for Words of Power, particularly those that would be useful to me—not really expecting her to know any （few Folk do）。 To my astonishment, she gave me one without argument—though after she went away and I worked out what it did, I was disappointed. The Word has a single use, and that is retrieving lost buttons. Suffice it to say, I have rarely bothered with it, and I’m at a loss to explain why anybody would go to the trouble of devising such an enchantment. My conclusion: that is faeries for you.
There was little use in summoning buttons in my present predicament, but fortunately, the second Word I’d learnt lends the speaker a temporary invisibility—much more practical. Naturally, it had been far easier to track down than the one for buttons—a few judicious bribes led me to the tree of a wizened kobold, who gave me the Word in exchange for a yearling calf.