L - Echoes Chapter Twelve

Shieldsley woke in the morning to hear the forest around him
whispering with rain. He opened the cabin door to see the sky frowning
down at him, spewing out its waste in protest at his presence in such a
hallowed spot. He stared up through the mists to where the sun
struggled to penetrate the thick cloud, and instead gave up and
concentrated its efforts in other regions. The wood was left in dusky
gloom, a half-night that never really gave way to day. He liked it this
way. Night in this forest was something special, a time when his mind
could go wandering through the trees and encounter what he could only
describe as magic.

So she wanted him to paint today. Why? She could conjure flowers from
the palm of her hand and then blow them away in tiny showers of
starlight. He could paint, but only badly. How could his work attract
the eyes of something which only existed in the highest echelons of
art? He felt a sudden pang of hunger and realised he would have to
search through the rain for food, but he stopped short of plunging into
the trees when he saw a large grey rabbit eyeing him intently from a
grassy hillock on the edge of his clearing. He thought of the creature
skewered, roasting over flickering flames, and he felt saliva build up
in his mouth. God, how he envied the skilful hunters of a time when
Britain was covered in primeval woodland, sneaking up behind their prey
and lancing them with a deft spear-throw. His only skill was in laying
traps. He got no pleasure from seeing wild animals being mauled in
their rusty iron grips. The thrill of the real hunt would be quite
something else.

He walked slowly towards the rabbit, expecting it to suddenly scamper
away to the safety of its burrow. Instead, it merely sat on its green
seat until he was only a few feet away, the rain gently falling in its
deep brown eyes. He lunged forward and felt warm furry flesh in his
grasp. The rabbit was his! It made no attempt to escape, but remained
limp in his hands. Only the slight rise and fall of its breathing gave
any indication that it was still alive. He twisted the neck sharply,
wincing when he felt and heard brittle bones snap, and then turned his
attention to skinning and gutting his prey.

He crouched near to the flames and smiled as the delicious aroma of
cooking meat drifted past his nose and filled the tiny clearing. He
remembered the twinkling light guiding his path through the darkness,
and understood. His mind still attempted to deny the woman's existence.
Once again, he had dreamed. His imagination, unfettered by thoughts of
money or politics, or indeed by the presence of another human being,
was allowed to wander without bounds. He had to be careful not to allow
fact and fiction to become intermingled or he might well go mad in the
heart of this lonely wood.

A gust of wind blew the drizzle into his face, forcing him to blink.
In the split second that his eyes were closed, he saw her pale face
forming out of the thousands of blood cells that spiralled in his
eyelids. Her lips opened, her eyes shone.
"You want to see a hunter? Watch me hunt today. You are in danger of
discovery."

He opened his eyes and the wind had completely subsided, The woods
seemed tense, expectant. Discovery? He tore the rabbit meat from the
flames and ran into the thicker undergrowth, gulping down a mouthful as
he did so. He whispered into a growth of nettles. "Who? Who else is
here? Shall I hide?"

A voice spoke from the trees above. "You always hide. Watch me. No one
will find you. Follow me."

"I can't even..." He stopped as a magpie broke away from the branches
and fluttered inches above his head before flying back towards his
cabin. He hurried after it, aware that his heart was pounding away hard
enough to burst his ribcage. He placed a hand on his chest and ran
on.

Robert turned a corner and saw the wood clinging to the slope of a
hill and plunging down the far side out of sight.

He shouted over his shoulder. "Here it is! I knew it weren't far. I
used ta come 'ere all the time when I was a lad."

A female voice struggled around the corner of the path behind him. "I
don't think I want ta know what ya used to do 'ere, Robert Baker. Up to
no good, I'll wager."

"There you'd be right, Anne. My first kiss was under those very trees.
Just think, my last could be, also."

"Don't talk like that. You'll be back in a few months. The Germans
won't stand a chance with you fightin' against 'em."

"Germans are a bunch o' daft buggers for separatin' us. I'll give 'em
what's comin'."

He swept the girl into his arms and buried his face in her dark hair.
Its smell reminded him of the forest they were about to enter,
especially now that a soft rain was falling. He hugged her and realised
he would never really be able to let her go. Her final embrace would
always surround him, even amidst the screams and mayhem of battle, and
in that thought he took great comfort. Her head tilted towards him and
he pressed his lips against hers, shutting everything else out of his
mind apart from the pummelling of his heart and the body that pressed
tightly and tenderly against his.

"Not here, Anne. The forest. Then, whenever we march through a forest
over in France, I'll think of you."

"Jesus, Robert Baker. Who the 'eck 'ave you been listenin' to? William
Shakespeare? Anyway, me mam says there ain't no forests in France. Just
vineyards. And strong wine. An' bloody loose women."

"Come on." He separated himself and led her by the hand up the hill
towards the forest. There was only a field of tall, damp grass to
cross, and then the sudden dark line of trees awaited them. In the
valley far behind and below them their village nestled, silent and
small through the blurred distance. He led her into the wood.

The magpie had settled on an ancient rotted stump that stank of moist
earth and slow decay. Its black, dead eyes winked at him and its wings
fluttered like old parchment. Its beak moved, but the voice that
Shieldsley heard came from somewhere above him.

"Tomorrow he goes off to your hated war. Today he takes the woman here
for one final act of pleasure. In my own wood! Now, dear Henry, do you
think we should let them enjoy themselves first, or shall we do it
now?"

He addressed the magpie, fully aware of how ridiculous he must look.
"I'm safe here. They won't find me. They're just kids, more interested
in themselves than anyone else. Just let them go."

"Oh dear. I had thought you were made of sterner stuff. I just can't
do that. This is our wood now, Henry. Mine and yours. They are
trespassing, staining my mud with their blood. Oh dear, rhyming again.
The next time I do that, give me a nudge."

The magpie continued wittering away, but Shieldsley interrupted. "Then
I'll warn them. One of the reasons I refused to go to fight is a
certain belief in the sanctity of human life. You can't just..."

"I can and you will help me." The magpie shattered in a burst of white
light, and a cowled figure now stood on the stump, its body completely
invisible beneath a pitch-black robe. No hands protruded from the
tattered sleeves.

"I now adopt the costume of death. It is for a good reason."

Shieldsley slumped against a tree in despair, caring little for the
wet softness of the earth beneath him. The black figure that towered
over him lost its shape against the darkness of the forest behind it
and grew up from the crumbling stump like the ghost of this long-dead
tree, sprouting out from the grave of its earthly body to flutter off
howling into the night.

"What must I do for them to live?" He sounded resigned and defeated,
finally giving in to the indefatigable waves of madness which washed
against the shores of his mind. The forest had become a kind of
grotesque funhouse, and the brilliant magic of the previous night had
been replaced by a dreary horror that was only exacerbated by the
falling rain. Whatever happened, he must not allow this madness to
affect innocent others, even to kill them if the apparition before him
could be believed.

"You must do nothing."

It was as if the whole forest spoke, for the voice hissed with the
rain and sighed with the suffering leaves. The cowled shape had
entirely disappeared, and only the disembodied voice remained.

He sprang to his feet and dashed away, not caring where his feet led
him. Even to the boundary of this haunted wood, where he could emerge
into the daylight and find something that could rope him to reality.
His sight jarred as his strides became irregular and uncertain over the
slippery ground, and on several occasions he fell, a foot suddenly
bound by a writhing vine or imbedded in the sucking mud. Light appeared
through the trees ahead, occasional cracks of brilliance through the
darkness that seemed to dance gleefully before him, but the vicious
clumps of bramble and nettle which sprouted all around him now seemed
to slow him down, snaring his clothing and running razor-sharp nails
over his hands. He fell straight into a bramble-bush, the thorns
gauging his cheeks before he could use his bleeding hands to drag
himself up and struggle on. The undergrowth now reached his waist, and
he raised his arms above his head to prevent further damage. He felt as
though he was wading through water, each step an enormous effort as
powerful undercurrents pushed him backwards. Tiny fish swam against his
legs, their teeth biting into him and gripping on until his next step
sent them whirling off in the flow. Finally he stopped; he was held
securely by the branches below him and he tried to convince himself
that it was his movement which caused them to wave up at him, their
spike-like thorns threatening greater pain if he attempted to go
on.

"Now watch," said the invisible voice, and he saw through the trees a
young couple entwined on the ground, ripping at each other's clothes
and tumbling over onto a tiny lawn where it seemed the trees had
allowed the sunlight to penetrate.

Robert felt the smooth skin of Anne's back and moved his hands below
her waist, sliding off her remaining clothes and holding her body
tightly against his. She groaned once and then suddenly screamed as
hands grabbed her ankles and tugged her away from his grasp. He reached
out blindly for her but felt something grip his neck and pull him in
the opposite direction. His head crashed back against a solid object
and the world momentarily blurred and spun. He shook his head and
twisted his neck round to try to see who had attacked him, but the grip
suddenly loosened and he tumbled to the ground, his face briefly
enveloped by warm, clinging mud.

He tasted bitter earth in his mouth. "Anne? Anne? Are you alright?"
His only answer was a high-pitched scream which was suddenly cut short.
Then, there was only the silence of the forest.

He felt panic begin to rub its icy fingers over his brain. He had
caught a fleeting glimpse of the thing which had captured Anne, little
but a dark shadow against the greenish light of the trees, but two red
pinpricks of light had fixed their gaze on him from within that shadow,
and his courage had been burned away. He felt his neck gingerly and the
skin was grazed and bruised, but also covered in a thin layer of some
greenish, powdery substance which smelt of damp wood. He spun round
when he felt eyes probing his back.

Shieldsley turned away from the woman's naked body. Her eyes had been
staring sightlessly at the dark canopy of leaves above, and her skin
was smudged with leaves and mud. In an insane parody of politeness, the
monster had spread them over her after dashing her head several times
against the trunk of a large oak tree. "Even in death, a woman must
maintain her modesty." The shadow had chuckled after uttering those
words before fading away in search of its second prey, and Shieldsley
was left shivering with shock.

He heard the man first, shouting his lover's name and then saw him
standing about twenty feet away, standing still until he sensed
Shieldsley and spun round to look straight into his eyes. The man
plunged forwards, shouting. "Where is she? Where..."

He stopped dead when he saw her body spread-eagled on the ground, and
the dark patch of wet blood which stained the oak tree.

Shieldsley began slowly backing away, but before he could make two
steps the man was on him, knocking him to the ground and then smashing
blow after blow into his unprotected face. He realised that the man
would continue until he was dead, and he felt the forest floor for
anything he could use as a weapon. His vision was becoming obscured by
blood and he started to feel a curious numbing feeling which was not
altogether unpleasant spread over his body. Easier perhaps to let the
man finish the job. It would be one way to get out of this wood. But a
sudden resolution seized him as his hand unbelievably gripped the
handle of what felt like a knife (from skinning the rabbit this
morning? Here?). In a final burst of strength he plunged the blade up
into the man's chest, and watched as his face, set in a grimace of pure
hate, relaxed into one of stunned surprise. A tiny trickle of blood
appeared from the side of his mouth and he fell away.

Shieldsley lay there for several minutes feeling sharp needles of pain
pricking his lungs as he struggled for breath. His face was now
completely numb, and he could see nothing out of his left eye.

"You did well, Henry Shieldsley. You shared in the hunt. Tonight, we
will celebrate."

The green ceiling above his head became suddenly darker and he felt
his conscious world slipping away. These days, however, it scarcely
mattered whether he was asleep or awake. His experiences could relate
to both states.