Mythago Wood - 1 (22 page)

He leaned back on the knife, so close to me that I could easily have touched
his face with my lips, but not looking at me. 'I could no longer do that,' he
said. 'For a while, when I journeyed inwards, yes, I might have come back. But I
wanted her. I knew she would be somewhere there, somewhere deep. I followed
stories of her, ventured to mountains, and valleys, where stories told of her.
Always I seemed to be a few days late. The beast stalked me. Twice I battled
with it, but the battle was not resolved. I have stood, my brother, upon the
hill, the tallest hill, where the stone folly was built, and seen into the
heart-woods of the forest, the place where I shall be safe. And now that I have
found my Guiwenneth, that is where I shall go. Once there, I have a life to
finish, a love to find; but I shall be safe. Safe from the beast. The old man.'

'Go there alone, Chris,' I said. 'Guiwenneth loves me, and nothing will
change that.'

'Nothing?' he repeated, and smiled wearily. 'Time can change anything. With
no-one else to love, she will come to love me . . .'

'Look at her, Chris,' I said angrily. 'A captive. Dejected. You care no more
for her than you do for your hawks.'

'I care about the having of her,' he said quietly, menacingly. 'I have hunted
too far, too long to worry about the finer aspects of love. I shall make her
love me before dying; I shall enjoy her until then . . .'

'She is not yours, Chris. She is
my
mythago -'

He reacted with sudden violence, smashing his fist into the side of my face
so hard that two of my teeth were buckled inward. Through the pain, blood
flooding my mouth, I heard him say, 'Your mythago is dead! This one is mine.
Yours I killed years ago. She is
mine!
If not for that I wouldn't take
her.'

I spat the blood from my mouth. 'Perhaps she belongs to neither of us. She
has her own life, Chris.'

He shook his head. 'I claim her. There is nothing more to be said.' As I
began to speak, he raised a hand and roughly pinched my lips together, silencing
me. The spear shaft beneath my arms was so painful that I felt sure my bones
would soon break. The noose ate deeper into my skin.

'Shall I let you live?' he said, almost musingly. I made sounds in my throat,
and he pinched my lips tighter. He wrenched the knife from the shed and held it
before me, touching my nose with its cold point, then lowering the blade and
tapping it gently against my lower belly. 'I might allow the life to remain in
your body . . . but the cost -' he tapped me again - 'the cost would be very
high. I couldn't let you live ... as a man. . . not having known the woman I
claim . . .'

The idea froze me with the horror of it. I could hardly see him for the
sudden pulsing of blood through my head, the sudden shock.

He let go of my lips, but held his hand over my mouth. Through fear, through
pure terror, I had started to cry, and my body shuddered with the sobs that came
from deep within me. Christian came close, his eyes narrow, but frowning,
unhappy about many things.

'Oh Steve . . .' he said, and repeated the tired, sad statement. 'It could
have been . . . what could it have been? Good? I don't suppose it could have
been good. But I would have liked to have known you during the last fifteen
years. There were times when I yearned for your company, to talk to you, to be .
. .'He smiled and used his forefinger to wipe the tears from my cheeks. 'Just to
be a normal man among normal company.'

'It could be that way again,' I whispered, but he shook his head, still sad.

'Alas no.' And added, after a thoughtful pause, regarding me, 'And I regret
that.'

Before either of us could speak further, a terrifying sound came from beyond
the burning trees. Christian turned from me, and looked towards the woodland. He
seemed shocked; almost furious with shock. 'Not so close ... he can't be so
close . . .'

The sound had been the roar of a wild beast. Tempered by distance, and the
noise of the warrior band about me, I had not recognized the cry of the boar
creature, the Urscumug. Now the sound became familiar, for it came a second
time, and with it the distant groan and crack of trees and branches being
snapped and pushed aside. In the garden, the hawks, the warriors, the strange
men from cultures unrecognizable, began to move swiftly into action, gathering
equipment, slinging the harnesses on to the five horses, calling orders,
preparing to leave.

Christian made a motion to two of his hawks, who tugged Guiwenneth to her
feet, removed the spear-shaft from beneath her arms, and slung her over the
broad back of a horse, tying her securely below its belly.

'Steven!' she screamed, struggling to see me.

'Guiwenneth! Oh my God, no!'

'Quickly!' shouted Christian, repeating the order in another language. The
sound of the Urscumug grew closer. I struggled against the restraining rope, but
it was too tight, too secure.

The company of mercenaries were moving swiftly towards the woodland to the
south side of the garden, where two of them hacked the fencing down, before
beginning the process of leaping through the flames of the burning orchard, to
escape the garden glade.

Soon, most of them had gone, only Christian, the Fenlander and one of the
strange, white-painted Neoliths remaining behind. This ancient warrior held the
horse over which Guiwenneth was tied. The Fenlander went behind the shed and I
felt his tug on the rope around my neck.

Christian walked close to me, and shook his head again. The fire around us
burned brightly, but the sound of the approaching beast was loud. My eyes filled
with tears, and Christian became a dark blur against the bright flame.

Without a word he reached his hands to my face, and leaned close to me,
pressing his lips to mine, holding the kiss for two or three seconds.

'I have missed you,' he said quietly. 'I shall continue to do so.'

Then he stepped away from me, glanced at the Fenlan-der and said, without
pause, without concern, 'Hang him.'

And turned his back, calling a command to the man by the horse, who led the
beast towards the burning orchard.

'Chris
!' I screamed, but he ignored me.

A moment later I felt myself wrenched from the ground, and the noose bit
deeply, strangling me swiftly. And yet awareness remained, and though my feet
dangled above the ground, I managed to keep breathing. Water blurred my vision.
And the last I saw of Guiwenneth was her long, beautiful hair, flowing down the
side of the beast which carried her. It snagged on the broken fencing, and I
thought a strand or two of the auburn hair had remained there, caught in the
wood.

Then darkness began to close about me. There was the sound of a sea, pounding
against rocks, and the deafening screech of a bird of prey, or some similar
carrion creature. The bright fire became a bright blur. My lips moved but I
could utter no sound . . .

A clawed fist closed about my waist, squeezing hard, lifting me towards the
glistening jaws. I heard laughter, human laughter, or so it seemed, and then I
was shaken so violently - as a dog worries at a bird - that at last
unconsciousness claimed me, and that terrifying moment passed into the realm of
dreams.

There was a sound like a swarm of wasps, which gradually faded. I could hear
bird-song. My eyes were open. Patterns and shadows swirled and shifted, slowly
resolving into a night vision of stars, clouds, and a human face.

My body was numb, everywhere except my neck, which began to feel as if
needles were being pressed into the bone. The hanging-rope was still tied in
place, but its cut end lay beside me, on the cold ground.

Slowly I sat up. The cooking fire still burned brightly. The air smelled
powerfully of ash, blood, and animal. I turned and saw Harry Keeton.

I tried to speak, but nothing moved, no sound came. My eyes watered and
Keeton reached out and patted my arm. He was sprawled on his side, propped up by
one elbow. The broken arrow shaft stuck obscenely from his shoulder, rising and
falling with each of his laboured breaths.

'They took her,' he said, shaking his head, sharing my grief. I nodded as
best I could. Keeton said, 'I couldn't do anything . . .'

I reached for the cut rope, made a hoarse sound, querying what had happened.

I tried to say thank you, but still no sound came.

'They left this, though,' Keeton said, and held up the silver oak leaf.
Christian must have dropped it. I reached for it and closed my fingers around
the cold metal.

We lay there in the darkening garden, watching the bright streams of sparks
rise skywards from the smouldering trees. Keeton's face was ghastly pale in the
glow of the fire. Somehow we had both survived, and towards dawn we helped each
other into the house, and collapsed again, two woe-begone, wounded creatures,
shivering and shaken.

I cried for an hour at least, for Guiwenneth, with anger, for the loss of all
I had loved. Keeton remained silent, his jaw set firm, his right hand pressed
against the arrow wound, as if staunching the flow of blood.

We were a desperate pair of warriors.

But we survived the day, and when I had the strength, I walked to the manor
house, and summoned help for the wounded airman.

The Heartwoods

From my father's diary, December 1941:

Wrote to Wynne-Jones, urging him to return to the Lodge. I have been more
than five weeks in the deep woodland, but only a fortnight or so has passed at
home. For me, there has been no
sense
of the time shift, the winter being
as mild and as persistent in the woods as at home. There was a little snow, no
more than a flurry. No doubt the effect - which I am led to believe is an effect
of 'relativity' - is more pronounced the closer to the heartwoods one journeys.

I have discovered a fourth pathway into the woods, a way of travelling
beyond
the outer defensive zones, although the feeling of disorientation is strong.
This route is almost too obvious: the stream that passes through the wood, which
C & S call 'stickleb-rook'. Since this tiny rivulet expands to full flood
within two days' journey inwards, I cannot imagine how the water balance is
worked! Does it become a full torrent at some point? A river like the Thames?

The track reaches beyond the Horse Shrine, beyond the Stone Falls, even
beyond the place of ruins. I encountered the
sha-miga.
They are from the
early Bronze Age in Europe, perhaps two thousand years b.c. Their storytelling
ability is prolific. The so-called 'life-speaker' is a young girl - painted
green - with clear 'psychic' talents. They are a legendary people themselves,
the eternal guardians of river fords. From them I have learned of the nature of
the inner realm, of the way to the heartwoods that will take one beyond the zone
of ruins, and the 'great rift'. I have heard of a great fire that holds back the
primal woodland at the very heart of the realm itself.

My difficulty is still exhaustion. I need to return to Oak Lodge because the
journey is too daunting, too demanding. A younger man, perhaps . . . who knows?
I must organize an expedition. The wood continues to obstruct me, defending
itself with the same vigour that originally made travelling through even its
periphery a frightening experience. The
shamiga,
however, hold many keys.
They are the traveller's friend, and I shall attempt to rediscover them before
the coming summer is out.