And I'd spent a shaky night to prove it. I said, 'One
of the mythagos has come out of the wood ... a tall man with the most
unbelievably terrifying hound. He came into the yard and ate a leg of pork.'
Christian looked stunned. 'A mythago? Are you sure?'
'Well, no. I had no idea at all what he was until now. But he stank, was
filthy, had obviously lived in the woods for months, spoke a strange language,
carried a bow and arrows . . .'
'And ran with a hunting dog. Yes, of course. It's a late Bronze Age, early
Iron Age image, very widespread. The Irish have taken him to their own with
Cuchulainn, made a big hero out of him, but he's one of the most powerful of the
myth images, recognizable all across Europe.' Christian frowned, then. 'I don't
understand ... a year ago I saw him, and avoided him, but he was fading fast,
decaying ... it happens to them after a while. Something must have fed the
mythago, strengthened it. . .'
'Some one, Chris.'
'But who?' It dawned on him, then, and his eyes widened slightly. 'My God.
Me. From my own mind. It took the old man years, and I thought it would take me
a lot longer, many more months in the woodlands, much more isolation. But it's
started already, my own interaction with the vortex . . .'
He had gone quite pale, and he walked to where his staff was propped against
the wall, picked it up and weighed it in his hands. He stared at it, touched the
markings upon it.
'You know what this means,' he said quietly, and before I could answer went
on, 'She'll form. She'll come back; my Guiwenneth. She may be back already.'
'Don't go rushing off again, Chris. Wait a while; rest.'
He placed his staff against the wall again. 'I don't dare. If she has formed
by now, she's in danger. I have to go back.' He looked at me and smiled thinly,
apologetically. 'Sorry, brother. Not much of a homecoming for you.'
Five
As quickly as this, after the briefest of reunions, I had lost Christian
again. He was in no mood to talk, too distracted by the thought of Guiwenneth
alone and trapped in the forest to allow me much of an insight into his plans,
and into his hopes and fears for some resolution to their impossible love
affair.
I wandered through the kitchen and the rest of the house as he gathered his
provisions together. Again and again he assured me that he would be gone for no
more than a week, perhaps two. If she was in the wood he would have found her by
that time; if not, then he would return and wait a while before going back to
the deep zones and trying to form her mythago. In a year, he said, many of the
more hostile mythagos would have faded into non-existence, and she would be
safer. His thoughts were confused, his plan that he would strengthen her to
allow her the same freedom as the man and the hound did not seem supportable on
the evidence from our father's notes; but Christian was a determined man.
If one mythago could escape, then so could the one he loved.
One idea that appealed to him was that I should come with him as far as the
glade where we had made camp as children, and pitch a tent there. This could be
a regular rendezvous for us, he said, and it would keep his time sense on the
right track. And if I spent time in the forest I might encounter other mythagos,
and could report on their state. The glade he had in mind was at the edge of the
wood, and quite safe.
When I expressed concern that my own mind would begin
to produce mythagos, he assured me that it would take months for the first pre-mythago
activity to show up as a haunting presence at the edge of my vision. He was
equally blunt in saying that, if I stayed in the area for too long, I would
certainly start to relate to the woodland, whose aura - he thought - had spread
more towards the house in the last few years.
Late the following morning we set off along the south track. A pale yellow
sun hung high above the forest. It was a cool, bright day, the air full of the
scent of smoke, drifting from the distant farm
of the mythagos has come out of the wood ... a tall man with the most
unbelievably terrifying hound. He came into the yard and ate a leg of pork.'
Christian looked stunned. 'A mythago? Are you sure?'
'Well, no. I had no idea at all what he was until now. But he stank, was
filthy, had obviously lived in the woods for months, spoke a strange language,
carried a bow and arrows . . .'
'And ran with a hunting dog. Yes, of course. It's a late Bronze Age, early
Iron Age image, very widespread. The Irish have taken him to their own with
Cuchulainn, made a big hero out of him, but he's one of the most powerful of the
myth images, recognizable all across Europe.' Christian frowned, then. 'I don't
understand ... a year ago I saw him, and avoided him, but he was fading fast,
decaying ... it happens to them after a while. Something must have fed the
mythago, strengthened it. . .'
'Some one, Chris.'
'But who?' It dawned on him, then, and his eyes widened slightly. 'My God.
Me. From my own mind. It took the old man years, and I thought it would take me
a lot longer, many more months in the woodlands, much more isolation. But it's
started already, my own interaction with the vortex . . .'
He had gone quite pale, and he walked to where his staff was propped against
the wall, picked it up and weighed it in his hands. He stared at it, touched the
markings upon it.
'You know what this means,' he said quietly, and before I could answer went
on, 'She'll form. She'll come back; my Guiwenneth. She may be back already.'
'Don't go rushing off again, Chris. Wait a while; rest.'
He placed his staff against the wall again. 'I don't dare. If she has formed
by now, she's in danger. I have to go back.' He looked at me and smiled thinly,
apologetically. 'Sorry, brother. Not much of a homecoming for you.'
Five
As quickly as this, after the briefest of reunions, I had lost Christian
again. He was in no mood to talk, too distracted by the thought of Guiwenneth
alone and trapped in the forest to allow me much of an insight into his plans,
and into his hopes and fears for some resolution to their impossible love
affair.
I wandered through the kitchen and the rest of the house as he gathered his
provisions together. Again and again he assured me that he would be gone for no
more than a week, perhaps two. If she was in the wood he would have found her by
that time; if not, then he would return and wait a while before going back to
the deep zones and trying to form her mythago. In a year, he said, many of the
more hostile mythagos would have faded into non-existence, and she would be
safer. His thoughts were confused, his plan that he would strengthen her to
allow her the same freedom as the man and the hound did not seem supportable on
the evidence from our father's notes; but Christian was a determined man.
If one mythago could escape, then so could the one he loved.
One idea that appealed to him was that I should come with him as far as the
glade where we had made camp as children, and pitch a tent there. This could be
a regular rendezvous for us, he said, and it would keep his time sense on the
right track. And if I spent time in the forest I might encounter other mythagos,
and could report on their state. The glade he had in mind was at the edge of the
wood, and quite safe.
When I expressed concern that my own mind would begin
to produce mythagos, he assured me that it would take months for the first pre-mythago
activity to show up as a haunting presence at the edge of my vision. He was
equally blunt in saying that, if I stayed in the area for too long, I would
certainly start to relate to the woodland, whose aura - he thought - had spread
more towards the house in the last few years.
Late the following morning we set off along the south track. A pale yellow
sun hung high above the forest. It was a cool, bright day, the air full of the
scent of smoke, drifting from the distant farm
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