Enchanted Forests (8 page)

the last instant.

"Are you all right?" she called once she'd caught her breath.

"Aye," he said.

Jenny grimaced. Only in rural Britain would anyone who

spoke English say "aye" instead of "yeah."

"I'm sorry I didn't see you sooner," she said. "Do you need a

lift somewhere?" The rental car company wouldn't like it if she

got their upholstery all muddy, but she was paying enough that

they could afford to clean it, and she had almost run the fellow

down—a lift seemed like the least she could do.

"How do you say, lady?" the man replied—or at least, that

was her best guess at his words. It might almost have been "lad"

instead of "lady," but she gave him the benefit of the doubt.

His accent was one she'd never heard before—British, cer-

tainly, but an unfamiliar variant; she couldn't even be sure it was

English. For all she knew, it was Welsh, or Scottish, or even

Australian or South African.

And apparently her American accent was giving him a little

trouble, too.

"Do you want a ride?" she said, speaking slowly and loudly

and, she hoped, clearly.

The man eyed the rental car, then looked Jenny over. "Aye,"

he said at last. "And my thanks to you, lady."

This time it was definitely "lady."

"Get in, then," she said. She climbed in on the driver's side—

the right, that is, a fact she still wasn't entirely used to.

The man approached the passenger side hesitantly and stood,

looking down at the door. Impatiently, Jenny leaned over and

opened it for him. He made an odd little noise that she took for

a sign of relief, then carefully climbed into the car and settled on

the seat.

Jenny looked at him, puzzled; she hadn't really noticed when

she first saw him in the road, or standing in the ditch covered

with mud, but he was dressed oddly—his pants were more like

baggy tights, with crude garters just above the knees, and he

wore a sort of tunic instead of a shirt. His hair was unfashionably

OUT OF THE WOODS          51

long, but he was clean-shaven—or rather, he had no beard; he

was a few days past clean-shaven.

The overall effect was vaguely medieval.

"Are you an actor?" she asked. "Is there some local festival or

something?"

"Nay," he said, "I'm no player, but an honest workman."

She started the engine, and he started at the sound.

"Where are you headed?" she asked.

"Eh?"

"Where should I drop you?"

He simply looked baffled, and she gave up. She would just

drop him at the first pub she came to and let the locals deal with

him. She put the car in gear.

He grabbed at his seat—he hadn't put on his seatbelt, she saw.

She drove slowly and carefully. The fog still lingered, and

night was falling, and one scare on these roads was quite enough-

Besides, she wanted to be able to stop quickly and jump out

if the man started to act even weirder. Now that she was over her

initial concern about sending him into the ditch, she was having

second thoughts about giving him a ride at all. Back home in the

States she wouldn't have picked up a stranger, so why should she

here? Sure, England had less violent crime, but there were still

nuts here and there.

Maybe if she talked to him, he'd reassure her—or maybe

she'd know he was a dangerous loonie.

"So what were you doing in the woods?" she asked.

He hesitated, then said, "Feasting with Queen Mab."

Jenny had trouble at first understanding what he said, but the

words did eventually register.

He was a loonie, she realized, though not necessarily a danger-

ous one. She wished she hadn't offered him a ride.

"Oh?" she said-

"Aye. I'd followed a fairy light, and found myself at the

Queen's table, whereupon I was bid join the feast, which I did

with a will. I passed many a long year there in pleasant company,

and but today did I at last depart,"

"Oh," Jenny said.

For a moment they drove on in silence; then Jenny asked, just

to break that silence, "You said years ?'

"Aye, I'd say so," the man said. "Surely, years it must have

been, for the world to have changed as it has—your garb, your

speech, and this carriage are all strange to me."

Jenny blinked, trying to decide whether this was as completely

52 Lawrence ^%tt Kvans

nonsensical as it sounded. "Just when did you follow the fairy

into the forest?" she asked, and immediately wished she

hadn't—it sounded so stupid.

" 'Twas May Eve, in the Year of Our Lord fifteen hundred and

ninety-five."

For a moment Jenny didn't respond.

"That was four hundred years ago," she said eventually.

"Four hundred, you say?" The man's eyes widened in wonder.

"Zounds, so long as that?"

"Yeah," Jenny said.

They were nearing a village—not much of one, but she

thought it would do to get rid of her passenger. She slowed still

further and began looking for a sign that would indicate a pub or

inn.

"You doubt me," the man said. "Perchance you think me mad.

No wonder on it, I'd think the same were I you."

That was the most reassuring thing he'd said yet; she threw

him a quick glance.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"William Tinker."

"I'm Jenny Gifford. Look, is there anywhere in particular I

can drop you? Anyone who'd know what to do with you? Do

you have any money or anything?"

"I've no coin, nay. As for one who'd know to aid me—a

priest, perhaps, who knows the ways of fairies?"

"I don't think modem priests know much about fairies," Jenny

said, though she admitted to herself that British priests might

well know more than the American ones she'd met.

William Tinker hesitated, then ventured, very cautiously, "A

witch, perhaps? I'm a good Christian, and would not consort

with such, but ..."

"A witch." Jenny grimaced. A psychiatrist would probably be

better.

But then she spotted the pub on the corner and pulled over to

the curb.

"Here," she said. "Go in there and ask if they know of a

witch. Tell them you've been visiting faines in the wood for four

hundred years."

That was perhaps a bit cruel. They'd mock him, most likely,

But then they'd probably send him to the National Health, and

get him taken care of.

Tinker looked at the signboard, then pushed at the car door; it

didn't open, and he looked helplessly for a handle or latch.

OUT OF THE WOODS          53

Jenny leaned over and opened the door for him.

He got out carefully, then bobbed to her in something that was

almost, but not quite, a bow. "My thanks to you, good lady."

She felt guilty about dumping the poor loonie like this, and

she was momentarily tempted to park the car and go into the pub

with him, to make sure things didn't get rough—but it wasn't her

problem, and she wasn't a native here.

He'd be all right. This was a peaceful English village, not a

bar in Detroit or L.A.—or even London.

And it just wasn't her problem.

She took her foot off the brake and pulled away.

Three days later, in her hotel room in Bayswater, she had the

TV news on as background while she wrote a letter to her par-

ents back in Cleveland. Something startled her, made her look

up, though it took a second to realize what she had heard.

William Tinker, that was it—someone on the TV had said the

name William Tinker.

And there he was, the same man she had picked up on that

lonely road, with a woman on either side—an overweight matron

on his left, a thinner, younger woman on his right, both in long

dresses and wearing necklaces.

Tinker himself was dressed in modem clothing now—a simple

shirt and slacks—but it was unmistakably the same man. His hair

was still long, but looked considerably cleaner now.

"... naturally, so-called modem scientists are dismissing his

story without even bothering to investigate," the older woman

was saying, "but some of us recognize the possibility of won-

ders."

The camera cut to a blond host in a tweed jacket. "Then you

believe that Mr. Tinker really has spent the last four hundred

years at a faerie feast?"

Back to the woman.

"No, not literally—but we believe something extraordinary has

happened in that forest. It may be that Mr. Tinker was affected

by forces in the wood that reverted him to a past life, and that

he was really only in there for hours and simply swapped iden-

tities, or it may be that he really did enter in 1595 and was some-

j,   how transported to our own time—my compatriots and I favor

^    this latter explanation, since it would account for his clothing,

and the fact that no one fitting his description has been reported

missing."

'{      "And you consider this more likely than an attempt at fraud,

^    or a simple delusion?"

54 Lawrence ^ffatt. Evans

"Oh, very much so," the woman said. "What would be the

point of such a fraud? And we have medical reports that will at-

test that Mr. Tinker appears quite sane, other than his belief that

he spent four centuries in that forest. Furthermore, his teeth show

no sign of modem dentistry, and the doctors say he's never been

immunized against anything, or received any of the other lasting

benefits of the National Health. He doesn't appear to have ever

seen a doctor before. We've asked linguists from Balliol College

at Oxford to tell us whether his speech is authentically Elizabe-

than, and so far, while we haven't heard their final opinion, none

have found any specific inaccuracies."

"And have any historians questioned Mr. Tinker?"

"Not yet," the woman conceded. "After all, he only emerged

from the wood three days ago."

"So you believe that in fact, Mr. Tinker is from the sixteenth

century?"

"Yes, I do."

"Mr. Tinker, do you have anything to add to that?"

Jenny stared as Tinker said, in that strange accent of his, "I do

truly believe that I am William Tinker, born in the Year of Our

Lord fifteen hundred and sixty-seven, and that I came upon

Queen Mab's table in the forest on the last day of April in fifteen

hundred and ninety-five—but if you say I am mad, I'll not de-

bate. I think I am not, and yet to pass four centuries with the

Good Folk and not age a day is surely a great wonder; were it

proven me that 'twas all a dream, that would be no greater mar-

vel. In truth, I wonder whether all I see about me, this world of

a twentieth century, is not but a dream."

"Mr. Tinker, you seem to be in remarkably good health for a

man more than four hundred years old," the host said, with just

a slight sardonic edge to his voice.

"Aye," Tinker said. " 'Tis the magic of the wood, beyond

question."

Jenny sat and watched as Tinker and his two companions—

presumably the village witches from that town where she'd aban-

doned him—held their own against the host's growing sarcasm-

The younger witch hardly said anything, but the older argued

at length for the existence of powers beyond modem under-

standing—not fairies, but spirits or powers that gave rise to tales

of fairies, or if even that seemed too mystical, she was willing to

consider them as energy fields created by the living things of the

earth.

OUT OF THE WOODS          55

Was it so utterly impossible that someone could become

caught in such an energy field?

"And these fields," the host asked, "preserved our Mr. Tinker

for some four centimes? Would this sort of thing be responsible

for the legends of the Fountain of Youth, then?"

"It very well might," the elder witch declared.

Meanwhile, Tinker himself seemed to be growing ever more

uncomfortable, caught in the middle of this debate, and when at

last the host announced that time had run out, poor Tinker was

visibly relieved.

Jenny turned off the set and sat on the hotel bed, staring at the

blank screen for several minutes.

Maybe, she thought, he wasn't a loonie.

After that she began to watch the news regularly- She saw the

reports from the experts, proclaiming Tinker to be either genuine

or the best fake ever—neither linguist nor historian nor physician

could find anything to contradict his claimed origin.

The real bombshell was when his clothes were carbon-dated

and proclaimed authentic late-sixteenth-century.

It was after that that reports of would-be explorers getting out

of hand at me forest began. Curiosity seekers had gone poking

about there ever since Tinker's first television appearance, but

now entire mobs were sweeping through the woods, searching

for "Queen Mab's table." The authorities were dismayed, to say

the least.

It was a relief to Jenny when the forest was closed to the pub-

lic; she hated the thought of all those people trampling through

the underbrush, scattering candy wrappers and beer cans on the

moss.

She watched the televised reports with a sort of dreadful fas-

cination- Picketers were protesting the government's decision to

restrict access. There was talk of secret conspiracies to keep the

"fountain of youth" energy for the government elite.

And there were a few reports coming in, not very reliable

ones, of people disappearing into the forest and not coming back

out—presumably, they'd found the fairies.

She spent hours on end in her hotel, watching—she knew it

was stupid, a waste of her remaining vacation time, that she

should be out enjoying London—-but she couldn't tear herself

away.

She was staring unhappily at yet another interview when

someone knocked on the door of her room.

Startled, she opened the door.

56 Lawrence Writ Evans

There were three men standing there. One of them held a mi-

crophone, another a video camera.

The third, somewhat disguised by a woolen cap and sun-

glasses, was William Tinker.

"Ms. Gifford?" the man with the microphone asked.

"Yes," she said, puzzled. "What's going on?"

"We understand that it was you who first found Bill Tinker

after he emerged from the enchanted forest," the man with the

microphone said. Jenny recognized him now; he was a newsman,

but she couldn't think of his name.

She glanced at Tinker, who looked apologetic.

"I wished to speak with you," he said, "and I knew not

how you might be found. I agreed that I would give your name,

that you might be interviewed, if I might accompany them and

speak to you in private."

His accent wasn't quite so distinctive any more—he was be-

ginning to adjust to his new surroundings, she supposed.

"I don't want to be interviewed," she said. "I'm not part of

this."

'Then you weren't the one who found him?" the newscaster

asked.

"Oh, sure I was," she admitted. "I almost ran him down, so I

gave him a lift into town, that's all."

"And did he tell you he was four hundred years old?"

She glanced at Tinker uncomfortably. "He said he'd been in

the forest since 1595," she said.

"And did you believe him?"

"No. I thought he was nuts. But he seemed harmless."

"But didn't you tell him, when you dropped him at the Plow,

to ask where he could find a witch?*'

"I said something like that," Jenny admitted, embarrassed. "I

didn't think he'd want to see a doctor. Listen, I haven't agreed to

an interview, and I'm not going to—not until I've talked to Mr.

Tinker in private.**

It took some further argument, but eventually Jenny was able

to close the door of her hotel room with Tinker and herself on

the inside, the newscaster and cameraman outside.

"Now, why did you want to find me?" she demanded.

"Softly, pray," Tinker said, holding up a hand. "Your pardon,

I pray you. Mistress Gifford.

She glowered at him.

"Prithee, lady, I come to you most humbly to ask a service—

OUT OF THE WOODS           57

will you even hear me, or have I angered you by bringing with

me these relentless hounds with their cameras?"

He pronounced "camera" in very nearly the modern fashion,

she noticed—it was presumably a new word for him.

"What kind of a service?" she asked quietly.

"Lady, I beg you," he said, "though I be an Englishman bom

and bred, and loyal to my Queen, whiche'er Elizabeth it may

be—can you take me with you to America? I must escape my

own land!"

She stared at him.

"Why?" she asked.

"Need you ask?" he said, gesturing at the closed door. "In

mine own land I shall have no peace, 'tis plain."

"Can't you just hide somewhere?"

"Where? This land is so changed I know naught of it."

"You know that forest," she said, a trifle bitterly. "Can't you

go back there, to Queen Mab's table, if you can't take the mod-

em world?"

His hands flew up in an odd gesture, then he hushed her and

glanced at the door again.

"They'd have that of me," he said. "They'd have me lead

them thither, with their cameras and mikers and all."

"Well, why not?" Jenny demanded-

He stared at her, chewing his lower lip, and she stared angrily

back.

"You'd have the truth?" he asked.

"Of course!"

"All the truth, then?"

She blinked. "Yes," she said, a bit less certainly.

"In truth, then—there is no Queen Mab in the forest, no Little

Folk."

"What is there, then? What about the people disappearing in

there? Is this all a hoax?" Jenny tried not to let her fury

show—he was a fake!

"Nay, nay! I am all I say, trapped four centuries in the wood,

and 1 swear it in God's name. But 'twas no fairies that held me,

but a demon, a spirit sprung from the wood itself."

"Go on," she said.

" 'Tis plain enough. I was held there 'gainst my will," he said.

"I'd followed a fairy light, as I thought it, though now I know

'twas but a lure, and then was I caught and held by the spirit

within the wood."

58 Lawrence Watk Evaae

"Why?" she demanded. "What did it want you for?" A

thought struck her. "And is it still there?"

"Oh, 'tis yet there, verily. And it hungers, I doubt me not."

"Hungers?" she almost screamed. "What about all those peo-

ple going in there looking for your fairy queen?"

"I fear mat some of them will ne'er emerge," he said, shame-

faced. "Oh, 'tis sinful of me, and a disgrace I do not bear

easily—but if you only knew...."

"So tell me."

He sighed. "I was not alone when it lured me in," he said.

"Else I'd not have been such a fool as to follow. I was with a

dozen of my townsmen, gathering wood for a May Day blaze,

when we saw the light before us. Kit saw it erst, and called out,

and old Stephen warned him to let it go, but Kit laughed. 'What

have we to fear, then,' he asked, 'when we are twelve stout En-

glishmen?* And in our folly we gave chase, into the forest

depths—and mere our paths turned back upon us so that we trav-

eled ever in circles, trapped therein. And a voice spoke to us that

bade us calm ourselves, calm and rest, and at last we did—we