Merlin's Wood (Mythago Wood) (22 page)

Through the trees he saw the fire. Anuth took his hand and pulled him, not to the bright glade, but towards the stream. As he walked he stared at the flames. Dark, human shapes passed before the fire. They seemed to be dancing. The heavy rhythm was like the striking of one bone against another. The voices were singing. The language was familiar to him, but incomprehensible.

Anuth dragged him past the firelit glade. He came to
the river, and she slipped away. Surprised, he turned, hissing her name; but she had vanished. He looked back at the water, where starlight, and the light of a quarter moon, made the surface seem alive. There was a thick-trunked thorn tree growing from the water’s edge. The thorn tree trembled and shifted in the evening wind.

The thorn tree grew before the startled figure of Thomas Wyatt. It rose, it straightened, it stretched. Arms, legs, the gleam of moonlight on eyes and teeth.

‘Welcome, Thomas,’ said the thorn tree.

He took a step backwards, frightened by the apparition.

‘Welcome where?’

In front of him, Thorn laughed. The man’s voice rasped, like a child with consumption. ‘Look around you, Thomas. Tell me what you see.’

‘Darkness. Woodland. A river, stars. Night. Cold night.’

‘Take a breath, Thomas. What do you smell?’

‘That same night. The river. Leaves and dew. The fire, I can smell the fire. And autumn. All the smells of autumn.’

‘When did you last see and smell these things?’

Thomas, confused by the strange midnight encounter, shivered in his clothing. ‘Last night. I’ve always seen and smelled them.’

‘Then welcome to a place you know well. Welcome to the always place. Welcome to an autumn night, something that this land has always known, and will always enjoy.’

‘But who are you?’

‘I have been known by many names.’ He came close to the trembling man. His hawthorn crown, with its strange horns, was like a broken tree against the clouds. His beard of leaves and long grass rustled as he spoke. His body quivered where the night breeze touched the clothing of nature that wound around his torso. ‘Do you believe in God, Thomas?’

‘He died for us. His son. On the Cross. He is the Almighty …’

Thorn raised his arms. He held them sideways. He was a great cross in the cold night, and his crown of thorns was a beast’s antlers. Old fears, forgotten shudders, plagued the villager, Thomas Wyatt. Ancestral cries mocked him. Memories of fire whispered words in the hidden language, confused his mind.

‘I am the Cross of God,’ said Thorn. ‘Touch the wood, touch the sharp thorns …’

Thomas reached out. His actions were not his own. His fingers touched the cold flesh of the man’s stomach. He felt the ridged muscle in the crossbeam, the bloody points of the thorns that rose from the man’s head. He nervously brushed the gnarled wood of the thighs, and the proud branch that rose between them, hot to his fingers, nature’s passion, never dying.

‘What do you want of me?’ Thomas asked quietly.

The cross became a man again. ‘To make my image in the new shrine. To make that shrine my own. To make it as mine forever, no matter what manner of worship is performed within its walls …’

Thomas stared at the Lord of Wood.

‘Tell me what I must do …’

*

Everybody knew, Simon had said. Everybody in the village. It was spoken in whispers. Thomas was a hero. Everybody knew. Everybody but Thomas Wyatt.

‘Why have they kept it from me?’ he murmured to the night. He had huddled up inside his jacket, and folded his body into the tight shelter of a wall bastion. The encounter with Simon had shaken him badly.

From here he could see north to Biddenden across the gloomy shapelessness of the forest. The Castle, and the clustered villages of its demesne, were behind him. He saw only stars, pale clouds, and the flicker of fire, where strange worship occurred.

Why did the fire, in this midnight forest, call to him so much? Why was there such comfort in the thought of the warm glow from the piled branches, and the noisy prattle, and laughter, of those who clustered in its shadowy light? He had danced about a fire often enough: on May eve, at the passing of the day of All Hallows. But those fires were in the village bounds. His soul fluttered, a delighted bird, at the thought of the woodland fire. The smell of autumn, the touch of night’s dew, the closeness to the souls of tree and plant; timeless eyes would watch the dancers. They were a shared life with the forest.

Why had he been kept in isolation?
Everybody knew
. The villagers who carried the bleeding, dying Christ through the streets on Resurrection Sunday – were they now carrying images of boar and stag and hare about the fire? He – Thomas – was a hero. They spoke of him in whispers. Everybody knew of his work. When had
they
been taken back to the beliefs of old? Had Thorn appeared to each of them as well?

Why didn’t he
share
the new belief with them? It was the same belief. He used his craft; they danced for the gods.

As if he were of the same cold stone-stuff upon which he worked, the others kept him distant, watched him from afar. Did Beth know? Thomas shivered. The hours passed. He could feel the gibbet rope around his neck. Only one word out of place, one voice overheard – one whisper to the wrong man, and Thomas Wyatt would be a grey thing, slung by its neck, prey for dark birds. Eyes, nose, the flesh of the face. Every feature that he pecked for Thorn with hammer and chisel would be pecked from him by hard, wet beaks.

From the position of the moon, Thomas realised he had been sitting by the church for several hours. John the Watchman had not walked past. Now that he thought of it, Thomas could hear the man’s snoring, coming as if from a far place.

Thomas eased himself to his feet. He lifted his bag gently to his shoulder, over-cautious about the ring and strike of iron tools within the leather. But as he walked towards the path he heard movement in the church. The Watchman snored distantly.

It must be Simon, the miller’s son, Thomas thought, back for another look at the face of the woodland god.

Irritated, and still confused, Thomas stepped into the church again, and looked towards the gallery. The ladder was against the balcony. He could hear the stone being moved. There was a time of silence, then the stone was
put back. A figure moved to the ladder and began to descend.

Thomas watched in astonishment. He stepped into greater darkness as the priest looked round, then hauled the ladder back to its storage place. All Thomas heard was the sound of the priest’s laughter. The man passed through the gloom, long robe swirling through the dust and debris.

Even the priest knew! And that made no sense at all. Thomas slept restlessly, listening to the soft breathing of his wife. Several times the urge to wake her, to speak to her, made him whisper her name and shake her shoulders. But she slumbered on. At sunrise they were up together, but he was so tired he could hardly speak. They ate hard bread, moistened with cold, thin gruel. Thomas tipped the last of their ale into a clay mug. The drink was more meaty than the gruel, but he swallowed the sour liquid and felt its warming tingle.

‘The last of the ale,’ he said ruefully, tapping the barrel.

‘You’ve been too busy to brew,’ Beth said from the table. ‘And I’m not skilled.’ She was wrapped in a heavy wool cloak. The fire was a dead place in the middle of the small room. Grey ash drifted in the light from the roof hole.

‘But no
ale
!’ He banged his cup on the barrel in frustration. Beth looked up at him, surprised by his anger.

‘We can get ale from the miller. We’ve done it before
and repaid him from our own brewing. It’s not the end of the world.’

‘I’ve had no time to brew,’ Thomas said, watching Beth through hooded, rimmed eyes. ‘I’ve been working on something of importance. I expect you know what.’

She shrugged. ‘Why would I know? You never talk about it.’ Her pale face was sweet. She was as pretty now as when he had married her; fuller in body, yes, and wider in the ways of life. That they were childless had not affected her spirit. She had allowed the wise women to dose her with herbs and bitter spices, to take her to strange stones, and stranger foreigners; she had been seen by apothecaries and doctors, and Thomas had worked in their fields to pay them. And of course, they had prayed. Now Thomas felt too old to care about children. Life was good with Beth, and their sadness had drawn them closer than most couples he knew.

‘Everybody knows what I’m working on,’ he said bitterly.

‘Well, I don’t,’ she replied. ‘But I’d like to …’

Perhaps he had been unfair to her. Perhaps she too was kept apart from the village’s shared knowledge. He lied to her. ‘You must not say a word to anyone. But I’m working on the face of Jesus.’

Beth was delighted. ‘Oh Thomas! That’s wonderful. I’m so proud of you.’ She came round to him and hugged him. Outside, Master mason Tobias Craven called out his name, among others, and he trudged up to the church on Dancing Hill.

*

His work was uneven and lazy that day. The chisel slipped, the stone splintered, the hammer caught his thumb twice. He was distracted and deeply concerned by what he had seen the night before. When the priest came to the church, to walk among the bustle of activity and inspect the day’s progress, Thomas watched him carefully, hoping for some sign of recognition. But the man just smiled, and nodded, then carried the small light of Christ to the altar, and said silent prayers for an hour or more.

At sundown, Thomas felt his body shaking. When the priest called the craftsmen – Thomas included – into the vestry for wine, Thomas stood by the door, staring at the dark features of the Man of God. The priest, handing him his cup, merely said, ‘God be with you, Thomas.’ It was what he always said.

Tobias Craven came over to him. His face was grey with dust, his clothing heavy with dirt. His dialect was difficult for Thomas to understand, and Thomas was suspicious of the gesture anyway. Would he now discover that the foreigners, too, knew of the face of the woodland deity, half completed behind its door of stone?

‘Your work is good, Thomas. Not today, perhaps, but usually. I’ve watched you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘At first I was reluctant to allow you to work as a mason among us. It was at the priest’s insistence: one local man to work in every craft. It seemed a superstitious idea to me. But now I’m glad. I approve. It’s an enlightened gesture, I realise, to allow local men, not
of Guilds, to display their skills. And your skill is remarkable.’

Thomas swallowed hard. ‘To be a Guildsman would be a great honour.’

Master Tobias looked crestfallen. ‘Aye, but alas. I wish I had seen your work when you were twenty, not thirty. But I can write a note for you, to get you better work in the area.’

‘Thank you,’ Thomas said again.

‘Have you travelled, Thomas?’

‘Only to Glastonbury. I made a pilgrimage in the third year of my marriage.’

‘Glastonbury,’ Master Tobias repeated, smiling. ‘Now that is a fine Abbey. I’ve seen it just once. Myself, I worked at York, and at Carlisle, on the Minsters. I was not a Master, of course. But that was cherished work. Now I’m a Guild Master, building tiny churches in remote places. But it gives fulfilment to the soul, and one day I shall die and be buried in the shadow of a place I have built myself. There is satisfaction in the thought.’

‘May that not be for many years.’

‘Thank you, Thomas.’ Tobias drained his cup. ‘And now, from God’s work to nature’s work—’

Thomas paled. Did he mean woodland worship? The Master mason winked at him.

‘A good night’s sleep!’

When the others had gone, Thomas slipped out of the sheltering woodland and made his way back to the church. The Watchman was fussing with his fire.
There was less cloud this evening and the land, though murky, was quite visible for many miles around.

Inside the church, Thomas looked up at the gallery. Uncertainty made him hesitate, then he shook his head. ‘Until I understand better …’ he murmured, and made to turn for home.

‘Thomas!’ Thorn called. ‘Hurry, Thomas.’

Strange green light played off the stone of the church. It darted around him, like will-o’-the-wisp. Fingers prodded him forward, but when he turned there was nothing but shadow.

Again, Thorn called to him.

With a sigh, Thomas placed the ladder against the gallery and climbed up to the half-finished face. Thorn smiled at him. The narrow eyes sparkled with moisture. The leaves and twigs that formed his hair and beard seemed to rustle. The stone strained to move.

‘Hurry, Thomas. Open my eyes better.’

‘I’m frightened,’ the man said. ‘Too many people know what I’m doing.’

‘Carve me. Shape my face. I must be here before the others.
Hurry!
’

The lips of the forest god twitched with the ghostly figure’s anguish. Thomas reached out to the cold stone and felt its stillness. It was just a carving. It had no life. He imagined the voice. It was just a man who told him to make the carving, a man dressed in woodland disguise. Until he knew he was safe, he would not risk discovery. He climbed back down the ladder. Thorn called to him, but Thomas ignored the cry.

At his house a warm fire burned in the middle of the
room, and an iron pot of thick vegetable broth steamed above it. There was fresh ale from the miller, and Beth was pleased to see him home so early. She stitched old clothes, seated on a low stool, close to the wood fire. Thomas ate, then drank ale, leaning on the table, his mason’s tools spread out before him. The ale was strong and soon went to his head. He felt dizzy, sublimely detached from his body. The warmth, the sensation of drunkenness, his full stomach, all of these things made him drowsy, and slowly his head sank to his arms …

A cold blast of air on his neck half roused him. His name was being called. At first he thought it was Beth, but soon, as he surfaced from pleasant oblivion, he recognised the rasping voice of Thorn.

The fire burned high, fanned by the draught from the open door. Beth still sat on her stool, but was motionless and silent, staring at the flames. He spoke her name, but she didn’t respond. Thorn called to him again and he looked out at the dark night. He felt a sudden chill of fear. He gathered his tools into his bag and stepped from the house.