Tower of Thorns by Juliet Marillier

walnut shell, and was just big enough for one young woman to sit in and row herself to the island, had there been oars. Oh, but she wanted to go across. She wanted so much to climb that tower, climb to the very top where she could look out over the dark expanse of the forest and the long, silver winding of the river, and catch a glimpse of the mysterious lands that lay beyond. Although she knew it was foolish, she felt she might give almost anything to do that.
    Perhaps there was a stick she could use as a pole, or a piece of bark for a paddle . . . She cast around for something useful.
    â€œWhat will you give me if I take you over?” spoke up a wee little voice. And there on the sward was a wee little man not much higher than Lily’s knee, and clad all in green like the folk in the old tales. The diminutive fellow doffed his hat and gave Lily a bow. “You want to use the ferry, you pay the ferryman.”
    â€œFerry?” echoed Lily. “It’s rather small, isn’t it?”
    â€œI think I can count up to one,” said the little man, “and one of you is what I see. Room for you, room for me. What will you pay?”
    Now, Lily did not carry silver pieces or coppers or anything of the like when she went walking in the forest; why would she? Besides, she’d been taught not to trust the fey, and though all the fey folk she’d seen before had been tall and stately, who was to say they did not come in all shapes and sizes? Either way, she knew she should be careful. “What is the usual fee?” she asked, thinking of an old and disturbing story in which an unwary passenger found himself obliged to act as ferryman until he could convince someone to take his place. Nomatter how badly she wanted to explore the tower, she must not fall victim to a trick of that kind.
    â€œA coin, a kiss, a tale, a promise. A bag of magic beans, a feather from a singing bird, a hair from your head.”
    A hair. That should be simple enough. She was already plucking it when doubt came over her. “Why would you want a hair?”
    â€œPretty,” said the wee man. “Like gold.”
    â€œAnd that really is all you want? Will one hair get me over to the island and back again?”
    â€œIt will, and more besides.”
    She plucked the hair, coiled it into the shape of a ring, and gave it to the ferryman, who did not put it on his finger, but slipped it into the leather pouch at his belt. Yes, Lily was foolish. But she was sixteen years old, and the rising, capricious tides of Beltane were flooding through her body and spirit. Such things happen.
    She stepped into the little boat, and the ferryman got in after her, with a long pole in his hand, and took her on a bobbing, uneven course out onto the river. The ferry was not the most comfortable of boats, but the wee fellow knew what he was about. In next to no time they reached the island, and Lily disembarked onto another pebbly shore.
    â€œYou will wait for me, won’t you?” she asked. “I want to have a look at the tower. Climb up, if I can.”
    â€œWhen you want me, do this.” The wee man stuck his fingers in his mouth and delivered a piercing whistle.
    â€œWhen I want you, I’ll call ‘Ferryman!’” Lily said. “I have never learned to whistle like that.”
    â€œUseful skill,” observed the ferryman. “Off you go, then; take a look around. You never know what you might find in a spot like that.” He jerked his head toward the tower, but did not quite look at it.
    So, at last she was here. Such a lovely place, all grown over with a profusion of flowering plants, here and there a small tree—a hawthorn, an elder—and the air filled with a wonderful sweet scent. Patches of soft grass seemed to invite a traveler to lie down and dreamawhile; flat stones provided perfect spots to sit and listen to the singing of birds, the rippling of the river and the sighing