The Hollowing (42 page)

Lacan hurled his spear. The scarag didn’t flinch. At the last moment it snatched at the weapon, allowing the blade to make a shallow nick in its breast. It howled again and its tusks clattered. It tossed the spear across the cathedral, toward the altar where Richard watched in horror. As the haft clattered on the stone, Richard reached for it.

The scarag moved away from the vault. At once a second head appeared in the hole, this one broader, flatter, one tusk broken. The lame thing that hauled itself from the crypt was grey and bony also, taller than the first, but stooped. It watched Lacan curiously, then growled and turned to forage in the chapel wood.

A third and fourth winter-wolf emerged from the hole in the floor, each looking around as it rose, hesitating, watching first Lacan, then Richard, before stalking through the trees. The fifth scarag, a smaller version but no less menacing, remained at a crouch by the gap in the marble floor, emitting a sound like a low growl. Without moving its head, its eyes shifted restlessly, sharing its scrutiny between the huge Frenchman and the crouching trio by the golden cross on the altar. It seemed to be guarding the hole to the underworld.

The first scarag soon found the body of the hollyjack. It gathered the dry, dead evergreen into its arms and lifted it to its chest. One of the others picked up the straw bird and placed it in the open body. The wood filled with the sounds of mourning and the winter beasts moved stealthily toward the cathedral’s main doors and entered the decaying nest.

Last to go was the Guardian, the shaman of the group. It pointed three times with its carved staff to the passage through to the crypt, its feral eyes fixed on Richard. Then it rose and backed steadily through the snow to the maw of the nest. Here, with a series of cries that were almost human, it turned and crawled inside.

*   *   *

Three days later, at the height of the day, as Richard returned from a fruitless search for Helen, the nest by the tall doors began to exude bird-cries and chattering. At once, Alex ran to the ramshackle structure and stood in the wash of green light that began to flood from the circular mouth. There was a great deal of movement inside the nest and the same sun that had transformed the winter world into one of spring flashed blindingly through the crystal window above the doors.

Alex started to move towards that light but Sarin put restraining hands upon his shoulders and looked around for Arnauld, signalling to Richard as she saw the man drop over the access sill.

“Something’s happening,” she called urgently.

Alex shrugged her off, then turned, eyes wide, lank hair flowing about his grinning face. “They’re back. They’ve come!”

Before Richard could do anything to stop his son, Alex had jumped at the hole in the mass of wood and grass and bundled himself inside. The eerie light flickered. There was movement and a sudden breeze, like a breath.

The entrance to the nest closed! It seemed to snap shut, and Richard flung himself across the cathedral to stand by Sarin. She backed away, horrified and appalled, her hands to her mouth.

“It’s eaten him,” she whispered. Richard held her, shaking and afraid.

“No. No, I don’t think so. I think this is the end of it.”

Dear God, please let it be so.

The nest shrank. The wood and bramble melted down, became hair, became eyes, became a nose and a grinning mouth that opened and emitted a low chuckle. The eyes watched stonily, the hair waved like rushes in a high wind. Richard panicked.

“Arnauld! Quickly!”

The Frenchman came running. Richard tried to thrust his spear into one of the Jack’s eyes, but was blown back by the stench from its mouth, and the hollow laugh.
Don’t hurt it
 … his son seemed to say. A moment later the face seemed to calm down. It dissolved into a kinder head, a sad-featured visage that Richard remembered from the
Argo.

Vast, grotesque in its way, Orpheus fleetingly watched the trembling man below him, and sang words in a whisper.

“One bloody nick … side of his head … all for the lady … the love of the lady…”

Then Orpheus too dissolved, the wood and bracken crumbling into dust, the whole nest collapsing down, dissolving, dispersing into the feeding green shoots of new growth that reached from the tall doors, and from between the cold stone flooring. Soon there was just a curled human shape covered with ivy and ground elder, which writhed over the boy’s naked form, then drew back, taking the black rot, the orange fungal growth, the shards and fragments of decay, taking it all back down to the root-web.

Curled on the floor, Alex opened his eyes. He unfurled like a leaf at dawn, his arms stretching, his legs flexing, his back arching. He greeted the high sun, the grey-green shadows, and smiled. He passed water and sat up, watching the steam from between his legs, slightly embarrassed. Then he looked at Richard, who was standing shocked and in tears. He stood up, brushing self-consciously at his wet thighs, trying to hide himself from his father’s gaze. There was a strange fire in his eyes. Green light seemed to touch his skin.

“I need clothes.”

At once, as if kicked into action, Richard ran to the boy and placed his cloak around Alex’s shoulders. He could hardly speak, managing a tear-choked, “Dear God, you give me some frights!”

The nest had sucked all dead things away, including the ends of hair and strips of his nails. But there was something
whole
about the boy, now: trickster and conscience had come back. The two faces of the Green Knight had returned.

Alex stared at Richard with a searching curiosity. “Your hair’s gone grey. You’ve got lots of grey.”

Richard kissed the boy’s forehead, then with his arm tightly around him led him back to the altar. “I’m getting old. Too many adventures.”

“I’ve been dreaming, haven’t I? It was such a funny dream. Can we go home?”

“Of course we can go home,” Richard whispered. He glanced down. “You’ll find things a bit changed, Alex. You’ve been in a long sleep. It’s been a long dream.”

“I saw Mr. Keeton. He was very sad. Is Tallis all right?”

Shaking his head, Richard said, “Tallis went away. Mr. Keeton was very sick, and he died.” He couldn’t help his tears. He hugged his son to his chest. Alex struggled for breath, pushed at his father’s embrace.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m grown-up enough to know that Mr. Keeton was very ill.”

“Mummy’s gone away too. But you’ll be able to visit her. It will be very important for you both.”

Alex looked grim. “You were always arguing. I could hear you from my room.”

“We were always arguing,” Richard agreed gently. “We weren’t happy.”

“Are you going to argue with the new one? The Red Indian?”

“
American
Indian! We don’t say ‘red’ any more. And no, I’m not going to argue with her. I know what songs to sing these days…”

“Is she a real Indian?”

Richard laughed. “Of course! Helen Silverlock is an almost pure blood Lakota. Or did she say Dakota? Minnesota? Anyway, she’s Sioux. I think. Maybe Cherokee.”
Damn! He couldn’t remember.

Alex was looking puzzled. “What does ‘pure blood’ mean?”

“She had a tough grandfather. She’s got a lot of courage.”

“What’s Lakota and Dakota?”

Richard sighed. “I don’t know. Signs and signals of my ignorance of any history that isn’t our own. But what does it matter? I love the ‘new one’ as you call her because she’s making history with
me.
Silver hair on each side of her head, feathers up her nose, Rolling Stones and all.”

Alex looked blank, and Richard reflected ruefully that the boy had ridden away with the Green Knight before the Rolling Stones had given their “Mummy” her “little helpers,” before the Beatles had “please, pleased” themselves. If they could ever get out of this wood again, it would be 1967 … maybe 1968, eight years since Alex’s healing had begun. And there was a climate of healing in the world beyond Ryhope now, a mood of peace, societies angry at the war in Indo-China; and the Seventies were looming, and things were going to be so much more interesting! Alex would enter that new world, that brightly blossoming world, like a young leaf unfurling to make his mark on the tree, to suck in the sun, to add his voice and his dreams to the dreams and voices that were striving so hard to make their courage and their vision known.

Richard was startled by Alex touching his eyes. “You’re crying,” the boy said.

“Am I? So I am. I was just thinking how much you had to look forward to. I was just thinking of being home.”

“Me too. I think the Green Knight just showed us the way.” Alex wriggled away, and drew the cloak around his tall, thin body. He used a piece of creeper to tie the baggy garment at his waist, and hauled the extra length up and tucked it in the belt.

He went back through the trees to the broken floor and peered down into the crypt. Arnauld Lacan crouched beside him, spear held firmly between his knees. Alex said, “When I was dreaming, I moved through strange corridors, through the roots under the world. I could dream of you. I saw you.” He glanced at Lacan. “I could also dream of the hollyjacks. Sometimes I dreamed of the world outside, and I think this is the way home. It’s down through the dead, but I think the dead only frightened me because they were coming back. They’re all back now. There’s nothing to be frightened of.” He looked up at Richard. “I’d like to go home.”

“I know you would,” Richard whispered, looking desperately at the falcon window. Helen was still out there! He couldn’t leave until she came back. But he couldn’t leave Alex again, not now, not having found him. He was too precious a treasure ever to leave again.

He could hardly think straight. He wanted Alex home, and safe—he wanted Helen safe, and coming home.

Before he could speak a word, Alex looked up sharply, quite alarmed.

“What about your friend? She might be in trouble! Are you going to help her?”

“Yes,” Richard said quietly. “I’m going to try and find her. I won’t have to wait long. I can hunt for game. There’s plenty of water in the well…”

“Is she hunting down a wolf?”

“Coyote.”

“Sounds like a wolf to me. I’ve heard him crying. He’s there now, out in the woods. Can you hear?”

And indeed, as Richard fell silent and raised his head, as he listened hard through the trees and stone, he could hear an odd baying, a triumphant and frightening wolf-cry. A battle was being fought. He reached for his bow, but Sarin stepped forward and held him. Her dark eyes glistened.

“Let her be. Let her
be.
If you lose her, it will be because she’s dead. But if you find her, it will be because she’s won. Just let her come back in the way that will give her release from her nightmare. She knows the way out of the wood. And you’ve already proved enough. I will never forget how you defeated Jason! Now sit between the worlds and wait, and pray, wait for what happens. Now take care of Alex. Take him home…”

Lacan loomed behind the Tall Grass Speaker. “I’ve just been down among the bones. There’s certainly a hollowing below us. It has that feel. But if this giggler thing has gone, we might do better to go the land route.” He sensed the awkward silence. “What’s happening?”

Sarin said grimly, “I think Richard is staying. To help Helen.”

Lacan smiled broadly. “Of course he is! And we’re staying too. Four are better than one! Besides, what’s the alternative?”

Richard said, “You could take Alex back to my house in Shadoxhurst—wait for us there…”

“Your house?” Lacan said, horrified. “Where no doubt there is nothing to drink but tea and medicines?”

“You might find some red wine in the sitting-room.”

“In the sitting-room,” Lacan breathed with a despairing shake of his head. “In the light, no doubt. By the fire. In the warm. To keep it happy. A very fine vinegar, I’m sure, but if I want to drink vinegar I’ll go to a British fish-and-chip shop. There
is
no hope for you. Please immediately return to the
bosk.
I shall save your son from the humiliation of you being his father. Come on, Alex.” He squeezed the boy’s ear gently, teasingly. “Come on. We have a long journey. We have to hunt before we leave the wood. To
eat,
you understand! We have to prepare for your home—and for all the horrors it no doubt contains.”

Alex watched his father all the time. “I’m staying,” he said, and Lacan laughed quietly.

“Of course you are.”

The boy came over and took Richard’s hand. Richard smiled at his son, tightened the boy’s cloak across his chest, noticed what brightness of spirit, what sudden awareness and maturity had etched the edges of the smooth face that stared at him.

“Perhaps you
should
go home. Arnauld is only joking when he says the things he says.”

“I know!” Alex said in frustration. “I’m not stupid. But Sarin told me that she can’t live outside the wood for very long, and Arno’ wants to stay with her, so they wouldn’t be with me for long. So we should stay.”

Outside the cathedral a wolf whined, a long, plaintive, and sinister sound that made Richard’s skin crawl.

“I’m frightened for you!” he said, standing.

“Don’t be.”

*   *   *

Later, Richard went up to the window, to sit and watch and wait, listening to the whining call and the mocking laughter of the creature that Helen, perhaps, was hunting.

The night deepened. A fire was burning in the distance, a single beacon which Richard watched with an almost hypnotic fascination. It was hard to tell at this distance, but occasionally it seemed that a figure passed in front of the flames.

The wolf bayed in the wildwood, then chuckled and chattered. No wolf, then.

A flight of rooks swirled noisily through the cold night, stags coughed and barked, wide-winged water birds flapped noisily, moonlight grey as they circled their high roosts. The wood was a restless yet motionless expanse of dark and at its farther end the fire burned, the figure moved, the sky glowed, Coyote prowled. Above its nearer edge, at the threshold that separated two worlds, Richard Bradley lay on his side, curled up like a child asleep, thinking of the son he’d found and the woman he loved.