Mythago Wood - 1 (18 page)

I read the short legend to Guiwenneth, emphasizing each word, each
expression. She listened intently, her dark eyes searching, enticing. She was
less interested in what I was trying to say to her, I felt, than in me. She
liked the way I spoke, my smile: features about me, perhaps, that were as
exciting to her as her own beauty and that childish, terrifying sexuality were
to me.

After a while she reached out and pinched my fingers with hers, silencing me.

I watched her.

No birth, no genesis by whatever strange forest beast, could possibly compare
with the generation of a girl by my own mind, and its interaction with the
silent forests of Ryhope. She was a creature of a world as divorced from reality
as the Moon itself. But what, I wondered, was I to her?

It was the first time the question had arisen. What was I in
her
eyes?
Something equally strange, equally alien? Perhaps fascination with me played as
large a part in the interest as was the reverse case.

And yet the power that existed between us, that unspoken rapport, that
meeting of minds . . .! I could not believe that I was not in love with
Guiwenneth. The passion, the tightness in my chest, the distraction and desire
for her, all of these surely added up to love! And I could see that she felt the
same for me. I was sure this had to be more than the 'function' of the girl of
legend, more than the simple obsession of all males for this forest princess.

Christian had experienced that obsession, and in his frustration - for how
could she have responded in kind? She was not
his
mythago - he had driven
her back to the woodland, where she had been brutally shot, probably by one of
the Jack-in-the-Greens. But the signals between
this
Guiwenneth and
myself were far more real, far more true.

How convincing my arguments were to myself! How easily caution could be lost.

That afternoon I forayed again into the woodland, as far as the glade, where
the remains of the tent had been totally absorbed into the earth. With my
father's map held tightly and protectively in my grasp, I worked out the route
inwards, and led the way. Guiwenneth followed quietly behind, eyes alert, body
tensed, ready for fight or flight.

The pathway was that along which I had run with Christian, the winter before.
To call it a path was overly to dignify the barely perceptible routeway between
the towering oak trunks, winding up and down the ragged contours of the land.
Dog's mercury and fern stroked my legs; ageing bramble snagged my trousers;
birds gave frantic flight above, in the darkening summer canopy. It was here
that I had walked before, only to find myself approaching the glade again within
a few hundred paces. By following the peculiarly convoluted path that my father
had remarked upon, however, I seemed to arrive deeper in the edgewoods, and felt
mildly triumphant.

Guiwenneth knew well enough where she was. She called to me and crossed her
hands in that negative way that was peculiar to her. 'You don't want me to go
on?' I said, and returned through the slick undergrowth towards her. She was
slightly cold, I could see, and her luxurious hair was peppered with bits of
bramble and splinters of dead bark.

She was waiting still. I couldn't understand for what. As evening gathered,
and showers threatened, she stood again at the fence, staring towards the
mythago wood, her body tense, looking so very fragile. I went to bed at ten. I
was weary after so brief an interlude of sleep the night before. Guiwenneth
followed me to my room, watched me undress, then ran giggling away as I
approached her. She said something in a warning tone and added a few more words
sounding very regretful.

It was to be another interrupted night.

At just after midnight she was by my bed, shaking me awake, excited, glowing.
I turned on the bedside lamp. She was almost hysterical in her efforts to get me
to follow her, her eyes wide and wild, her lips glistening.

'Magidion!'
she shouted. 'Steven,
Magidion!
Come! Follow!'

I dressed quickly, and she kept urging me to hurry as I tugged on shoes and
socks. Every few seconds she glanced to the woodland, then back at me. And when
she looked at me she smiled.

At last I was ready, and she led the way downstairs and to the edgewoods,
running like a hare, almost lost to me before I had reached the back door.

Guiwenneth betrayed the hardness of the warrior in her by almost shrieking
with delight; excitedly she grabbed my hand and practically tugged me in the
direction of the glade. After a few paces she stopped, turned to me, and reached
out to grasp me by the shoulders. She was several inches shorter than me, and
she stretched slightly and kissed me gently on the lips. It was a moment whose
magic, whose wonder, caused the world around me to fade into a summer's day. It
took long seconds before the cool, woody night was back, and Guiwenneth was just
a flickering grey shape ahead of me, urgently calling me to follow.

Again the cry, sustained and loud; a horn, I was sure now. The calling
woodland horn, the cry of the hunter. It was nearer. The sound of Guiwenneth's
noisy progress stopped just briefly; the wood seemed to hold its breath as the
cry continued, and only when the mournful note had faded away did the whispering
night life move again.

I ran into the crouching girl just outside the glade. She tugged me down,
gestured to me to be quiet, and together, on our haunches, we surveyed the dark
space ahead of us.

There was a distant movement. Light flickered briefly to the left, and again
straight ahead. I could hear Guiwenneth's breathing, a strained, excited sound.
My own heart was pounding. I had no idea whether it was friend or foe who
approached. The horn sounded for the third and last time, so close now that its
blast was almost frightening. Around me the wood reacted with terror, small
creatures fleeing from one place to another, every square yard of undergrowth
moving and murmuring as the woodland fauna fled for safety.

Lights everywhere ahead! They flickered and burned, and soon I could hear the
dull crackle of the torches.

Torches in woodland! Flames licked high, crackling loud. The restless lights
moved side to side, approaching.

Guiwenneth rose to her feet, motioned me to stay where I was, and stepped out
into the clearing. Against the brighter torches she was a small silhouette,
walking confidently to the middle of the glade, her spear held across her body,
ready to be used if necessary.

It seemed, then, that the trunks of the trees moved forward into the
clearing, dark shapes detaching themselves from the obscurity of night. My heart
missed a beat and I cried out a warning, stifling the final sound as I realized
I was behaving foolishly. Guiwenneth stood her ground. The huge black forms
closed in upon her, moving slowly, cautiously.

Four of them held the torches and took up positions around the glade. The
other three loomed over the doll-like form of the girl. Immense curved antlers
grew from their heads; their faces were the hideous skulls of deer, through
whose blind sockets very human eyes gleamed in the torchlight. A rank smell, the
smell of hides, of skins, of parasite-eaten animals, drifted on the night air,
mingling with the sharp smell of pitch, or whatever burned in the lights. Their
clothing was ragged, their bodies swathed, with the furs tied by creeper about
their lower legs. Metal and stone glinted brightly around necks, arms, waists.

The tallest figure embraced Guiwenneth then, hugging her so hard that her
feet lifted from the ground. She laughed, then wriggled out of the stifling
embrace, and went to each man in turn touching hands. The noise of chatter grew
in the glade, happiness, greeting, delight at renewing an acquaintance.

The talk was incomprehensible. It seemed even less like the Brythonic that
Guiwenneth spoke, more of a combination of vaguely recognizable words, and
woodland, animal sounds, much clicking, whistling, yapping, a cacophony to which
Guiwenneth responded totally in kind. After a few minutes, one of them began to
play a bone pipe. The tune was simple, haunting. It reminded me of a folk tune I
had heard at a fair once, where Morris dancers had performed their strange
routines . . . where had it been? Where had it
been?

An image of night, of a town in Staffordshire . . . an image of holding tight
to my mother's hand, pushed on all sides by crowds. The memory came back . . . a
visit to Abbots Bromley, eating roast ox and drinking gallons of lemonade. The
streets had milled with people and folk dancers, and Chris and I had followed
glumly about, hungry, thirsty, bored.

Here, now, was that same tune. It made the flesh on my arms and neck tingle.
Guiwenneth and the horned leader danced joyously to the melody, holding hands,
twirling and circling about each other, while the other men edged closer,
bringing the light nearer.

Abruptly, with a moment's shared laughter, the awkward dance ceased.
Guiwenneth turned to me and beckoned, and I stepped from the cover of the trees,
into the clearing. Guiwenneth said something to the leader of the night hunt,
and he grinned broadly. He walked slowly over to me, and around me, inspecting
me as if I was a piece of sculpture. His smell was overwhelming, his breath
stale and fetid. He. towered over me by a good twelve inches, and when he
reached out to pinch the flesh of my right shoulder the fingers were huge, and
that simple gesture, I thought, would break my bones. But he smiled through the
heavy layers of black paint, and said, 'Masgoiryth k'k' thas'k hurath. Aur'th.
Uh?'

'I agree entirely,' I murmured, and smiled, and gave him a friendly punch on
the arm. The muscles below his furs were like steel. He roared with laughter,
shook his head, then returned to Guiwenneth. They spoke quickly for a few
seconds, then he took her hands in his, raised them to his breast and pressed
them there. Guiwenneth seemed delighted, and when this brief ritual was done he
knelt before her again, and she leaned down and kissed the top of his head. She
came over to me then, and walked more slowly, less excitedly, although in the
light of the torches her face was aglow with anticipation, and with affection, I
thought. Perhaps love. She took my hands and kissed me on the cheek. Her brutish
friend followed her. 'Magidion!' she said, by way of introducing him, and said
to him, 'Steven.'

The others came forward then, torches held high, faces dark, yet without
threat. Guiwenneth pointed at each in turn and said their names: 'Am'rioch,
Cyredich, Dunan, Orien, Cunus, Oswry . . .'

She frowned and glanced at me, her bright face suddenly clouded with sad
awareness. Looking at Magidion, she said something, and repeated a word that was
clearly a name. 'Rhydderch?'

Magidion drew a breath, shrugged his broad shoulders. He spoke briefly and
softly, and Guiwenneth's grip on mine tightened.

When she looked at me there were tears in her eyes. 'Guillauc. Rhydderch.
Gone.'

'Gone where?' I asked quietly, and Guiwenneth said, 'Called.'

I understood. First Guillauc, then Rhydderch, had been called by the entity,
the Jagad. The Jaguth belonged to her, the price of Guiwenneth's freedom. They
quested, now, in other places, other times, in pursuit of whatever the Jagad
required of them. Their tales were for another age; their journeys would become
the legends of another race.

Magidion drew a short, dull-bladed sword from within the confines of his
furs, and detached the scabbard after. These two items he presented to me,
speaking softly, his voice an animal growl. Guiwenneth watched delightedly, and
I took the gift, sheathed the blade and bowed. His huge hand came down on my
shoulder again, squeezing painfully as he leaned closer, still whispering to me.
Then he smiled broadly, nudged me closer to the girl, made a whooping
night sound, which was echoed by his acquaintances, and drew back from us.

With our arms around each other, Guiwenneth and I watched as the night hunt
withdrew deeper into the edgewoods, the torches extinguished by night and
distance. A final sounding of the horn drifted towards us, and then the wood was
silent.

She slipped into my bed, a nude, cool shape, and reached for me in the
darkness. We lay, hugging each other, shivering slightly, even though these dead
hours of the morning were by no means cold. All sleep fled from me, my senses
heightened, my body tingled. Guiwenneth whispered my name, and I whispered hers,
and each time we kissed the embrace grew more passionate, more intimate. In the
darkness her breathing was the sweetest sound in the world. With the first stray
light of dawn I saw her face again, so pale, so perfect. We lay, close, quiet
now, staring at each other, occasionally laughing. She took my hand, pressed it
to her small breast. She gripped my hair, then my shoulders, then my hips. She
wriggled then lay calm, cried then smiled, kissed me, touched me, showed me how
to touch her, finally moved easily beneath me. After that first minute of love
we could hardly stop staring at each other, and smiling, giggling, rubbing
noses, as if we couldn't quite believe that what was happening was
really
happening.

From that moment on, Guiwenneth made Oak Lodge her home, placing her spear
against the gate, her way of indicating that she was finished with the
wildwoods.