where the stubbly remains of the
summer harvest were being burned. We walked in silence until we came to the
mill-pond; I had assumed Christian would enter the oak woodland here, but wisely
he decided against it, not so much because of the strange movements we had seen
there as children, but because of the marshy conditions. Instead, we walked on
until the woodland bordering the track thinned. Here Christian turned off the
path.
I followed him inwards, seeking the easiest route between tangles of bracken
and nettles, enjoying the heavy stillness. The trees were small, here at the
edge, but within a hundred yards they began to show their real age, great
gnarled oak trunks, hollow and half-dead, twisting up from the ground, almost
groaning beneath the weight of their branches. The ground rose slightly, and the
tangled undergrowth was broken by weathered, lichen-covered stubs of grey
limestone. We passed over the crest and the earth dipped sharply down, and a
subtle change came over the woodland. It seemed darker, somehow, more alive, and
I noticed that the shrill September bird-sound of the forest edge was replaced,
here, by a more sporadic, mournful song.
Christian beat his way through bramble thickets, and I trudged wearily after,
and we soon came to the large glade where, years before, we had made our camp.
One particularly large oak tree dominated the surrounds, and we laughed as we
traced the faded initials we had once carved there. In its branches we had made
our lookout tower, but we had seen very little from that leafy vantage point.
'Do I look the part?' asked Christian, holding his arms out, and I grinned as
I surveyed his caped figure, the rune-inscribed staff looking less odd, now,
more functional.
'You look like something. Quite what I don't know.'
He glanced around the clearing. 'I'll do my best to get back here as often as
I can. If anything goes wrong, I'll try and leave a message if I can't find you,
some mark to let you know . . .'
'Nothing's going to go wrong,' I said with a smile. It was clear that he
didn't wish me to accompany him beyond this glade, and that suited me. I felt a
chill, an odd tingle, a sense of being watched. Christian noticed my discomfort
and admitted that he felt it too, the presence of the wood, the gentle breathing
of the trees.
We shook hands, then embraced awkwardly, and he turned on his heels and paced
off into the gloom. I watched him go, then listened, and only when all sound had
gone did I set about pitching the small tent.
For most of September the weather remained cool and dry, a dull sort of month
that enabled me to drift through the days in a very low-key state. I worked on
the house, read some more of father's notebook (but quickly tired of the
repetitive images and thoughts) and with decreasing frequency walked into the
woodlands and sat near, or in the tent, listening for Christian, cursing the
midges that haunted the place, and watching for any hint of movement.
With October came rain and the abrupt, almost startling realization that
Christian had been gone for nearly a month. The time had slipped by, and instead
of feeling concerned for him I had merely assumed that he knew what he was
doing, and would return when he was quite ready. But he had been absent for
weeks without even the slightest sign. He could surely have come back to the
glade once, and left some mark of his passing.
Now I began to feel more concern for his safety than perhaps was
warranted. As soon as the rain stopped I trudged back through the forest and
waited out the rest of the day in the miserable, leaking canvas shelter. I saw
hares, and a wood owl, and heard distant movements that did not respond to my
cries of 'Christian? Is that you?'
It got colder. I spent more time in the tent, creating a sleeping bag out of
blankets and some tattered oilskins I found in the cellar of Oak Lodge. I
repaired the splits in the tent, and stocked it with food and beer, and dry wood
for fires. By the middle
summer harvest were being burned. We walked in silence until we came to the
mill-pond; I had assumed Christian would enter the oak woodland here, but wisely
he decided against it, not so much because of the strange movements we had seen
there as children, but because of the marshy conditions. Instead, we walked on
until the woodland bordering the track thinned. Here Christian turned off the
path.
I followed him inwards, seeking the easiest route between tangles of bracken
and nettles, enjoying the heavy stillness. The trees were small, here at the
edge, but within a hundred yards they began to show their real age, great
gnarled oak trunks, hollow and half-dead, twisting up from the ground, almost
groaning beneath the weight of their branches. The ground rose slightly, and the
tangled undergrowth was broken by weathered, lichen-covered stubs of grey
limestone. We passed over the crest and the earth dipped sharply down, and a
subtle change came over the woodland. It seemed darker, somehow, more alive, and
I noticed that the shrill September bird-sound of the forest edge was replaced,
here, by a more sporadic, mournful song.
Christian beat his way through bramble thickets, and I trudged wearily after,
and we soon came to the large glade where, years before, we had made our camp.
One particularly large oak tree dominated the surrounds, and we laughed as we
traced the faded initials we had once carved there. In its branches we had made
our lookout tower, but we had seen very little from that leafy vantage point.
'Do I look the part?' asked Christian, holding his arms out, and I grinned as
I surveyed his caped figure, the rune-inscribed staff looking less odd, now,
more functional.
'You look like something. Quite what I don't know.'
He glanced around the clearing. 'I'll do my best to get back here as often as
I can. If anything goes wrong, I'll try and leave a message if I can't find you,
some mark to let you know . . .'
'Nothing's going to go wrong,' I said with a smile. It was clear that he
didn't wish me to accompany him beyond this glade, and that suited me. I felt a
chill, an odd tingle, a sense of being watched. Christian noticed my discomfort
and admitted that he felt it too, the presence of the wood, the gentle breathing
of the trees.
We shook hands, then embraced awkwardly, and he turned on his heels and paced
off into the gloom. I watched him go, then listened, and only when all sound had
gone did I set about pitching the small tent.
For most of September the weather remained cool and dry, a dull sort of month
that enabled me to drift through the days in a very low-key state. I worked on
the house, read some more of father's notebook (but quickly tired of the
repetitive images and thoughts) and with decreasing frequency walked into the
woodlands and sat near, or in the tent, listening for Christian, cursing the
midges that haunted the place, and watching for any hint of movement.
With October came rain and the abrupt, almost startling realization that
Christian had been gone for nearly a month. The time had slipped by, and instead
of feeling concerned for him I had merely assumed that he knew what he was
doing, and would return when he was quite ready. But he had been absent for
weeks without even the slightest sign. He could surely have come back to the
glade once, and left some mark of his passing.
Now I began to feel more concern for his safety than perhaps was
warranted. As soon as the rain stopped I trudged back through the forest and
waited out the rest of the day in the miserable, leaking canvas shelter. I saw
hares, and a wood owl, and heard distant movements that did not respond to my
cries of 'Christian? Is that you?'
It got colder. I spent more time in the tent, creating a sleeping bag out of
blankets and some tattered oilskins I found in the cellar of Oak Lodge. I
repaired the splits in the tent, and stocked it with food and beer, and dry wood
for fires. By the middle
Similar Books
