still. His good mood blew away in an instant, as if stolen like smoke by the wind.
At the bottom of the lane was Carmichael Road and, beyond it, the woods and their dark, countless trees.
Just turn around, he thought. But he didn’t move. The woods held his eye, a broad and gently rippling lure. From here, even on this low rise, he could sense their size. A huge lopsided square of silver green, emerald green, olive green, and chalcedony treetops, each side more than a kilometer, rising and falling back to the distant glimpses of brown river. Why were they still so disturbing? Gazing upon their inscrutable surface, Nicholas had the feeling that the trees were merely a veneer; a cloak over some dark creature, the shape of which remained hidden and the heart of which was as cold as deep earth.
I’m not going past them. Not today. He shifted to return home the way he’d come. But as he turned, movement caught his eye.
On the path through the grass strip that hemmed the woods, a boy was kneeling.
Nicholas’s blood seemed to slow to a syrupy stop. He felt as if twenty-five years of life had suddenly fallen away and he was ten again.
The boy was bending to peer at the spot where, so many years ago, young Nicholas had found the dead bird with the woven head.
Nicholas felt ill. It’s Tristram.
Then the boy looked up and around, and Nicholas could see it wasn’t his childhood friend. Yet he recognized the boy’s face. The huge policeman had held up a photo of him four nights ago. It was the dead Thomas boy.
The child leaned closer to touch something on the path.
Nicholas felt his stomach fill with cold. Turn around, he thought. Go home. Forget it. He’s dead. He’s a dream. Like Cate, he’s not really there, he can’t be there. He’s gone …
But he couldn’t turn. A wave of disgust rolled through him. He wanted to see what happened next.
The dead child rose on milkstraw legs, dropped with horror something offensive and spoiled, wiped his hands on his pants. Then he stiffened and turned his face to the woods. His mouth opened in a silent scream, and suddenly one arm jerked straight, as if grabbed by someone invisible and strong, and Dylan Thomas flew backward into the trees.
Nicholas’s heart suddenly remembered to pump. Without thinking, he ran down the hill, across Carmichael Road, through the tall, damp grass, and into the woods.
D ylan Thomas was being dragged by an impalpable force, his fair hair streaming over his pale face as he flew between tree trunks. Where the sun hit him, he glowed brighter, like a dust mote caught in a spotlight.
Nicholas strained to keep up. Already, the sharp brass pain of a stitch blared in his side and his breaths were raggedly insufficient. When was the last time he’d run like this? Years. He should stop, turn around, go home … but the sight of the dead boy flickering between the trees ahead kept him running.
The woods quickly grew thicker, the moist ground between the trunks of brush box and devil’s apple crowded with saplings and lantana, lush vines, fallen branches, and spiderwebs glistening coldly with droplets.
Ahead, the boy’s arm pointed straight as a compass, and his body whipped behind it, flailing hopelessly. Yet his dark eyes were resigned. They were locked on Nicholas.
Nicholas’s breaths came fast and hard. He was running as fast as he could. His heavy feet churned through an ankle-deep gruel of wet, rotting leaves. His shins fouled on moss-thick roots. Scrabbling branches scratched his face and slapped him with dark, prickling leaves. Parasitic vines, as thick as wrists and mottled with gray fungus, looped like fallen question marks, lurking and ready to strangle. The wide, striated trunks of native elms and ancient figs were only arm spans apart, and the canopy overhead grew closer and tighter until it was almost solid and only tiny sapphires of sky winked into the thick emerald gloom below. It was as dark as dusk. The damp air was cold
At the bottom of the lane was Carmichael Road and, beyond it, the woods and their dark, countless trees.
Just turn around, he thought. But he didn’t move. The woods held his eye, a broad and gently rippling lure. From here, even on this low rise, he could sense their size. A huge lopsided square of silver green, emerald green, olive green, and chalcedony treetops, each side more than a kilometer, rising and falling back to the distant glimpses of brown river. Why were they still so disturbing? Gazing upon their inscrutable surface, Nicholas had the feeling that the trees were merely a veneer; a cloak over some dark creature, the shape of which remained hidden and the heart of which was as cold as deep earth.
I’m not going past them. Not today. He shifted to return home the way he’d come. But as he turned, movement caught his eye.
On the path through the grass strip that hemmed the woods, a boy was kneeling.
Nicholas’s blood seemed to slow to a syrupy stop. He felt as if twenty-five years of life had suddenly fallen away and he was ten again.
The boy was bending to peer at the spot where, so many years ago, young Nicholas had found the dead bird with the woven head.
Nicholas felt ill. It’s Tristram.
Then the boy looked up and around, and Nicholas could see it wasn’t his childhood friend. Yet he recognized the boy’s face. The huge policeman had held up a photo of him four nights ago. It was the dead Thomas boy.
The child leaned closer to touch something on the path.
Nicholas felt his stomach fill with cold. Turn around, he thought. Go home. Forget it. He’s dead. He’s a dream. Like Cate, he’s not really there, he can’t be there. He’s gone …
But he couldn’t turn. A wave of disgust rolled through him. He wanted to see what happened next.
The dead child rose on milkstraw legs, dropped with horror something offensive and spoiled, wiped his hands on his pants. Then he stiffened and turned his face to the woods. His mouth opened in a silent scream, and suddenly one arm jerked straight, as if grabbed by someone invisible and strong, and Dylan Thomas flew backward into the trees.
Nicholas’s heart suddenly remembered to pump. Without thinking, he ran down the hill, across Carmichael Road, through the tall, damp grass, and into the woods.
D ylan Thomas was being dragged by an impalpable force, his fair hair streaming over his pale face as he flew between tree trunks. Where the sun hit him, he glowed brighter, like a dust mote caught in a spotlight.
Nicholas strained to keep up. Already, the sharp brass pain of a stitch blared in his side and his breaths were raggedly insufficient. When was the last time he’d run like this? Years. He should stop, turn around, go home … but the sight of the dead boy flickering between the trees ahead kept him running.
The woods quickly grew thicker, the moist ground between the trunks of brush box and devil’s apple crowded with saplings and lantana, lush vines, fallen branches, and spiderwebs glistening coldly with droplets.
Ahead, the boy’s arm pointed straight as a compass, and his body whipped behind it, flailing hopelessly. Yet his dark eyes were resigned. They were locked on Nicholas.
Nicholas’s breaths came fast and hard. He was running as fast as he could. His heavy feet churned through an ankle-deep gruel of wet, rotting leaves. His shins fouled on moss-thick roots. Scrabbling branches scratched his face and slapped him with dark, prickling leaves. Parasitic vines, as thick as wrists and mottled with gray fungus, looped like fallen question marks, lurking and ready to strangle. The wide, striated trunks of native elms and ancient figs were only arm spans apart, and the canopy overhead grew closer and tighter until it was almost solid and only tiny sapphires of sky winked into the thick emerald gloom below. It was as dark as dusk. The damp air was cold