Merlin's Wood (Mythago Wood) (4 page)

I waited, fascinated, and soon a girl from the village came running and twirling along the path. I knew her by sight, though she had never entered the wood before. She was a slight thing, fourteen years old or so, her hair almost orange in the half light, her clothing a simple dress and a loose grey cardigan.

As she ran she seemed to dance, exactly as I have seen the children dance among the ghosts. She was murmuring as she moved. ‘I have it. I have it now.’

She approached the clearing where I waited, unaware of me. Then she stopped and crouched, snarling and shaking her head so that her hair was wild. Laughing, she suddenly launched herself at a tree and scratched and bit at the hard bark, tearing with her fingers, stripping away whole lengths of wood. Embracing the torn trunk she flung back her head and howled and bayed, then laughed and again exclaimed, ‘I have it!’

I felt terrified of this feral child and inadvertently drew back, drawing attention to myself. She raced across to me, coming very close, then folded her arms about her body – her fingers were bloody – cocking her head as she peered at me. Then she leered forward, lips hideously drawn back from pearl-white teeth to expose the death in her head. ‘I have it!’ she hissed, and proceeded to dance a little jig, arms still folded. ‘I have it,’ she murmured, almost singing, delighted with herself.

At that moment a boy laughed from the darkness of the wood. The girl turned quickly, crouching slightly, then took off like a hare towards the source of the
sound. The boy stepped into the half light and taunted her. ‘No you don’t! No you don’t!’

‘I
have
it,’ screamed the girl.

‘You have
nothing
. You took
nothing
!’

And at once his crowing ceased and his youthful face took on a look of great age, and great amusement, the amusement of an old man, listening to the pretensions of someone younger and still naive.

‘Fool …’ he added quietly.

It was the wrong thing to do, perhaps. The girl leapt at him and in a second had torn her nails across his grinning face. They struggled. He held her hair, but she was taller, stronger, and she hunched above him, bending him and crushing him, finally sinking her teeth into the back of his neck. She shook him, worried at him, like the wolf whose shape now seemed to envelop her. Girl-like, hair tossing, legs thrashing inside her simple skirt, the hunched form of a wolf was shadowed around her, an evil glamour.

The screaming boy was dragged away by this monstrous creature. I ran towards her, but she turned and looked at me, the struggling boy still held in those perfect teeth. I felt as if I’d been struck by falling sickness. I couldn’t move. I was on my knees. My arms fell heavily and I stayed there, watching the savage death, the boy dragged back towards the ponds, close to the village, close to the farm where the poor child lived.

Yes, Martin. I’m sorry. The child I saw murdered by the girl was your own brother. Sebastian.

I didn’t regain the use of my limbs until after dawn of the following day. By the time I reached the edge of the
forest I could hear the dogs, and the voices of searchers, and then the terrible cry of pain, your mother’s voice, followed by the splashing of men in the shallow pond, dragging the body from its grave.

Later I came close to your farm and listened to the grieving voices. It was clear that a wolf was being blamed – as if a wolf would have treated its prey in such a way! Even if there had been any wolves
left
in Broceliande!

The children were more courageous in their suspicions, and I heard one of you say, ‘The old woodsman. He’s got one of us at last.’ And someone answered, ‘Let’s get him. We’ll burn him on the hill.’

But these were just the fears of you, your friends, still reconciling yourselves in your childlike ways to the loss of your littlest friend, Sebastian.

I approached the farm, very apprehensive, my mind a mist of uncertainty as to how to describe the events that I had seen. Eveline was on the garden seat, you on one side of her, comforting her even as you planned revenge on me, your sister Rebecca on the other, her face wet with tears as she held Eveline’s arm.

Your father approached me quickly. He had two questions: had I seen or heard anything, and how should we organise a wolf hunt?

I was about to tell him what I’d seen the night before when Rebecca turned towards me. In an instant a
charm
fell away from my eyes, or perhaps away from her, it’s impossible to tell. All I know is that she was revealed instantly as the girl in the woods, even wearing the
same skirt and cardigan. I had simply not recognised her in the forest the night before.

I was speechless for a few seconds, then became terrified again as your tall sister ran towards me and hugged me, looking up through sorrowful eyes as she said, ‘Don’t listen to what the boys say. I’ll always come and visit you. I promise. I promise. I’ll not leave you alone for an instant!’

My head and heart had turned cold with fear. To this day I have no idea whether I was addressed by the true girl or by the wily sylvan monster. But I know she came and visited me often, before eventually she went away, to pursue new studies in Australia.

And I know that all thought of revealing my vision faded. How could I tell Eveline, mourning the death of her younger son, that it was her adored adopted daughter who had dragged him to the reed pond, and held him down?

Martin was being shaken gently. He surfaced out of a dream in which he floated at night through drifting mist, the water of the lake lapping gently below his small boat. He woke with a shiver to find that he was still in Conrad’s fishing lodge, the lake burnished with orange as the sun began to set. A swirling flight of dark birds crowded the sky above the heart of the wood.

‘We should go back,’ the old man said urgently. He looked very anxious. ‘You’ve been asleep all day.’

‘All day?’

‘I couldn’t wake you. We must get away from here.’

Martin was shocked by what he heard, and was still disturbed by Conrad’s tale, and the revelation of the cause of Sebastian’s death. He stood stiffly, groaning as he unlocked his knees. Conrad laughed sympathetically and held his arm, then offered one of his staves for support.

They returned to the iron-roofed shack and the bosker shed his overcoat and sheepskin jacket, stoked up the fire before uncorking a flagon of cider brandy. Martin sipped the potent drink with circumspection,
not knowing who might have brewed it. Conrad was less careful, shuddering as the spirit burned its way to his cold bones.

‘Will I make us supper?’ he asked, but Martin shook his head.

‘I should get back to Rebecca.’ He hesitated, realising that suddenly the thought frightened him. ‘Are you quite sure of what you’ve told me? About Rebecca?’

‘Quite sure. Perhaps the possession was just a brief encounter. She grieved for Sebastian like all the rest of you. I felt no evil in her when she visited. I’m sure she had come from the lake, that deadly night, but she was completely unaware of it. Perhaps, as I say, the possession was brief. I do know that later she danced through another ghost and heard song, ancient song, and became obsessed with it …’

‘Yes. That’s why she went away.’

‘And she must go away again. And you must too.’ Conrad drank heavily from the flask again, then replaced the cork. ‘Your mother sensed danger for you, just before she died.’

‘That’s what my Uncle Jacques said. But what danger?’

Conrad shrugged. ‘She began to see the people on the path. She lay in bed, looking down, and saw their outlines again, just as she’d been able to see them as a child. Something she saw made her determined that even if you came for the funeral, you shouldn’t stay.’

Martin rose from the floor by the crackling fire and turned to go. Then he asked, ‘Why did you take me to the lake? Wasn’t that a dangerous thing to do?’

‘Yes. But if you take no heed of Eveline’s wishes, then you may need to know it’s there.’

Lights were on in the farmhouse, and the warm smell of garlic, herbs and red wine was on the air, suggesting a casserole under preparation.

Rebecca was at the wood stove, shaking an iron pan which sizzled loudly. The table was set, a candle in the middle, a bottle of claret opened, one glass half full. She glanced round and smiled as Martin entered staring at her in some shock. ‘Won’t be long,’ she said.

There was a note from her, discarded on the sideboard. It read, ‘
Hi early riser! 9am. Gone to Vannes for clothes food hair a few special little things. No idea how long I’ll be. Hope you’re having fun
.’

‘I’m sorry. I should have left a note for you before I went out …’

‘Why?’ she said, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘If you’d wanted me to share in what you were doing you’d have woken me. I hope you’re hungry. I bought far too much beef.’

‘I’m starving. I appreciate it. I haven’t eaten all day. Beck, you look … wonderful.’

She removed her apron and stood across the table, grinning, her arms outstretched. ‘A transformation, eh?’

‘Very sexy. Not that you need clothes to be sexy, of course. I didn’t mean …’

She laughed as he contorted through the words,
saying, ‘Burble, squirm, burble. I know what you mean. Shut up and feast your eyes. It won’t last.’

She had dyed her hair jet black, cut the fringe in a straight line and made three thin ringlets on each temple, each strand decorated with golden amber beads. Her black silk blouse left her arms bare. It was cut low over her breasts. Her skirt flowed fully from below her tight waist, a green fabric patterned with lines of tiny red and purple squares. She’d rouged her lips and applied make-up to her face. The etching of her skin was hardly visible, now, and in this illusion she had shed ten years of age.

Amused by his scrutiny she laughed, ‘One small nod to vanity, one huge dent in the purse. Don’t worry, it’s just for fun.’

‘You look very … er … Romany?’

‘Earlier than that. A lot earlier than those travellers. You’ll see decorations like this on Bronze Age vases. But it’s how my mother looked, it’s how I remember her. A traditional look in the group of families. I wish you’d met her. I wanted to share a touch of her memory with you. May I please have a welcoming hug, now?’

She came round the table, oak-brown eyes flashing with pleasure, a hint of passion. Martin reacted apprehensively, his whole body stiffening slightly. She saw this and frowned, then put her arms round him and kissed him, holding the kiss for a few seconds then pulling away, turning away.

‘Some wine? I opened it an hour ago. It should have caught its breath by now.’

‘Mm.’

She passed him a glass, then raised her own. ‘To health.’

‘Health,’ he echoed and sipped the wine appreciatively. He raised the glass again. ‘To the traveller.’

‘Bright path, Eveline.’ She drained her glass and set it down, then leaned back on the table and folded her arms, looking at him curiously. ‘The question, then, is this: do you tell me now, or after we’ve eaten?’

‘Tell you what?’

Rebecca laughed, but there was little humour there. She shook her head, saying, ‘Anxiety is a song that sings from eyes.’

‘French proverb?’

‘Thunder people
spiritlook
. It’s part of a long chant teaching how to read the inner songs when the words are unclear. In other words, body language and heightened sensory perception. What’s made you apprehensive all of a sudden? You seem almost frightened of me. You’re not regretting last night, are you?’

‘Of course not.’

She came over to him quickly and put her arms round him, fixing him with her level gaze, dark eyes searching. ‘Where did you go today?’

‘Into the forest. With the old bosker. Conrad.’

Rebecca smiled, ‘I’m glad he’s still around. I want to see him. How is he?’

‘An old man, living rough. People round here look after him, clothes, barter, disgusting cider brandy. It’s hard to remember the ogre in him. In fifteen years I don’t think he’s changed a bit.’

After a moment Rebecca said, ‘Let’s eat. I’ve bought haslet. Your favourite, if I remember.’

Sitting across the table they ate the thick slices of brawn in silence. Rebecca was about to fetch the casserole when Martin said, ‘Where were you the night Seb died? Can you remember?’

She sat down, quizzical, then ran a finger and thumb down an amber-beaded ringlet. ‘I was with you and your friend Peter, chasing the woman and child on the path, the ones who were running …’

Martin felt his face go cold. Rebecca had not been with him that night. He had been with Peter, but the people on the path had been two men with staffs and unstrung longbows, one of them a heavy set man with bushy beard, the other aristocratic looking, dressed in half armour. Martin had watched Peter dancing inside them, but as usual simply ran in circles round the figures, studying them in great detail.

He told as much to Rebecca, who said angrily, ‘Nonsense. I was there. We went back home together, climbed through the window together, and the next morning woke up to the shouting. What the hell is this, Martin? What’s going on? You’re white as a sheet. What’s frightened you? What’s going on?’

His heart thumping, unexpectedly anxious, he said, ‘The bosker said he’d seen you by the lake in the forest the night Seb drowned.’

Rebecca frowned for a moment. ‘What lake? Do you mean the pond?’

‘No, the lake at the heart, the big lake.’

‘There’s no big lake in Broceliande. Not that I know of.’

‘He says he saw you there. The night Seb died. You were dancing in the forest, behaving like a wolf.’

‘Like a wolf?’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘Why didn’t he speak to me, then? Why didn’t he contact me? I wasn’t afraid of him, I was the only one of you who wasn’t.’

‘I don’t know,’ Martin said. ‘I don’t know why he didn’t speak to you about it.’ He regretted the lie as he spoke it and so transmitted the lie instantly.

Rebecca looked disgusted. She picked up a napkin and wiped the make-up from her face, an angry, pointed act. The years, the sunburn, the hard side of her came back. She was upset, clearly confused, aware that Martin was keeping something back from her but frightened by something deeper.

‘Have you seen this lake?’ she asked.

‘I saw it today for the first time.’

‘He took you there?’

‘For the first time. Yes. It’s a long way in, and it’s a difficult route, but I’m damned sure it wasn’t there when we were kids.’

Rebecca stared across the table, thinking carefully. ‘Everyone knows there are ghosts on the path. So why not a lake that magically appears? Maybe it’s an adult vision. Maybe as we age we can start to see things inside the wood. It’s just that we never look.’

‘That’s more or less what Conrad said. He thinks he’s a lake-finder.’

‘Nice talent. But I still don’t understand why thinking I might have been in the forest when Seb died should make you upset.’

She grasped the point suddenly, leaning forward on the table, beads rattling in her hair. Her eyes gleamed with a terrible, controlled fury. She spoke in a whisper. ‘Or maybe I do. You say Conrad saw a girl. He must have thought it was me – and he thinks I might have seen him … that’s right. Not a wolf at all, then … Not a wolf that killed Seb. The old bosker’s been guilty all these years, and he’s made you suspicious of me. He’s trying to implicate me.’

Her voice rose in pitch. ‘And you believe him. You believe him. You unbelievable shit!’

Martin said quietly, ‘Beck – I’m telling you plainly: you were not with Peter and me that night.’

‘Liar! You know I was.’

‘We were alone, Beck. The encounter you’re talking about was a week or more before. You weren’t with us that night. And your fingers were all torn at the ends, as if you’d been scratching at rough bark, which is what Conrad claims he saw.’

She was silent for a long time, looking at Martin, yet somehow through him, fiddling with her hair, then shaking her head. ‘I scraped them sliding down a trunk after watching the two of you on the path.’ She too was speaking quietly, almost sadly. And suddenly her eyes closed and her face grimaced with pain.

‘My God. Oh my God.’ She looked at him again. ‘You do think I killed Seb. You think it was me. Don’t you? Why don’t you speak? Don’t just stare at me. Oh Christ,
I feel sick. I’m going to be sick. How could you? How could you think such a thing? I loved Seb. I loved him. I wouldn’t have hurt him.’

She stood slowly and left the kitchen, closing the door slowly behind her.

Later, Martin heard her moving around upstairs. He thought she might be packing her things to leave, but eventually he heard the bed-springs, and then silence.

‘I’ve lost her,’ Martin said to the silence after she’d gone, experiencing an aching despair as this fear became a reality. But later he woke suddenly, cramped up on the small sofa, a blanket over his clothed body. Moonlight streamed into the sitting room, illuminating Rebecca, who sat on the sofa’s edge, her eyes sparkling as she watched the waking man.

‘Beck?’

‘After Seb died,’ she said softly, ‘I had a recurring dream. It was very strange, quite frightening, and I never told it to anybody. After what you said this evening, I can’t get it out of my mind; I think it came back again, I probably woke in the middle of it.’

Martin sat up and made more room for her, reaching out to touch her arm. She sat motionless, unresponsive. He said, ‘Beck – forgive me. I’m confused. It’s this place, the old fears. And the old man confused me …’

‘Be quiet – please – be quiet. Let me tell you the dream.’

She turned away from him, arms across her chest.

‘I’m in a clearing, a glade in an old forest. I’m running
round the glade with a torch, and everything is burning, the flames sweeping high, the smoke billowing, and cloth and skins and parchment are being consumed by the fire, burning brightly, shedding charred fragments into the air. There’s the tall, thick shaft of an old thorn lying on the ground. I’ve hacked its branches down to stubs, then decorated it with bracelets in bronze, and torques and brooches, and there are bones around it, and clay pots filled with stinking liquid and coloured powders. All of them are melting in the heat. And I’m dancing around a swirling column of earth that rises above me. A man is screaming. The more I dance the faster the rising tower of earth spins, the louder the cries, and the more I laugh!

‘Then I’m dancing with a man, spinning round among the flames, only it isn’t a man it’s a stone statue, a horrible effigy, the ears cut off, the eyes gouged out, the nose slit, the mouth gaping tongueless, no fingers on the hands, no toes on the feet, the sex has been broken from the groin. I twirl this gruesome statue across the glade, and around the rising earth, singing all the time, even kissing the cold stone lips. There is a feeling of terror. A cairn of stones holds the centre of the glade and I fling the dancing stone across it.

‘I run from the burning grove, swim hard through dragging, sucking waters, shaking myself dry on the shore, then running through the forest, swerving and ducking, but dancing all the time. Only I’m not a woman, now … I’m on all fours, my tongue lolling. I howl and scream at the sky as I run, I bay at the moon,
I bark at shadows, I scratch at bark. It is a run of great triumph, and great delight.

‘But suddenly a man is there, naked and blind, blocking my path. He is the man of the statue, stripped of senses, sex and touch; but his presence ahead of me – laughing! – fills me with fear and I plunge off the path and into the bushes. The land gives way into a pit and I fall, screaming, spinning in the air, endlessly falling, reaching for the branches and the stone outcrops that will save me, reaching for safety but always missing, falling and falling until I wake up terrified!’