Avilion (Mythago Wood 7) Read Free Page B

has probably been looted, stripped. But if not, I’d like to have it.’
    He struggled to remember the title for a moment, and then found it. The Time Machine, by H. G. Wells.
    ‘And something of my brother Chris’s. Some small thing. I’ll leave it to you. Nothing too heavy. You’ll need to take care. You will take care . . .’
    ‘I’ll take care.’
    Jack went to the room marked on Steven’s sketch map as ‘Chris’s room’ and after a look around found a small box of light, shiny chess pieces. Intrigued by the material from which they had been fashioned, he tucked the box into his belt. His father had carved chess pieces from wood, back in the villa, and had made a board, and it was a game that Christian had loved and at which he had excelled.
    Tired now, and hungry, Jack decided that the study was the best place to make his camp for the night, and after eating a small amount of his meagre supplies he curled up gratefully in the corner where the room seemed warmest.

Beyond the Edge
    With first light came the sound of his name being called. Jack had been more tired than he’d realised. Those last days on the river had been a test of strength as well as of nerve as he had approached the edge but found himself fighting against the elements; as if the wood were reluctant to allow him home.
    His name again. He sat up, rose and went to the shuddering tap, with its hesitant flow of water, and washed his face.
    Leaving the house, he made his way to the field, and as he emerged from the wood again so he saw the older boy, Eddie, standing at a distance. He smiled when he saw Jack and held up a bag, then approached, less apprehensive than the day before, but still cautious.
    ‘What brings you here?’
    ‘I told my mum about you. She asked a lot of questions. She thought you might want some food and milk.’
    Jack was pleased. He accepted the bag. ‘Thank you. Thank your mother.’
    ‘Just milk and some bread and eggs.’
    ‘That’s very kind.’
    The boy hesitated. He was more smartly dressed than the day before, and when Jack commented on this, Eddie said, ‘You know what today is?’
    Jack said that he didn’t.
    ‘It’s Easter. We always go to church on Easter Sunday. I go early so I can get away and do other things. There’ll be a big party on the green this afternoon. Do you like beer?’
    Jack laughed. ‘I’ve heard of it.’
    ‘There’ll be beer and a hog roast later. But you’ll need money.’
    ‘Money, alas,’ said Jack, with a smile. ‘Money and I are strangers.’
    ‘Well.’ The boy was thoughtful. ‘Maybe you could tell some stories. About what it’s like in there?’
    ‘Maybe.’
    ‘My mum wrote a small book about the wood. Maybe she’ll interview you. I know she’s interested in you.’
    Eddie must have been talkative indeed. ‘I’d like to meet her.’
    ‘I’ll tell her.’
    Distantly, a bell sounded, a single strike followed by several others, and then a cascade of notes that had Jack entranced.
    ‘Eight o’clock,’ the boy said, glancing at something on his wrist. ‘Fifteen minutes to go. In at eight, out by eight-thirty. No sermon. It’s the only way to do it.’
    He grinned, turned, and half ran, half walked towards the distant town, but suddenly glanced back. ‘You look strange. Jack.’ He had hesitated before calling the stranger by his name, as if he felt it impolite. ‘You don’t look right. You need different clothes.’
    And then he was gone.
     
    How should I look? This is my look. These are my clothes. This is my skin, decorated in the way we decorate our skins in the villa, in the inner home, by the fires, facing the hunt, facing the hunter. This is the way I look. How else should I look?
    Jack brooded for a while, seated at the desk in the study, drinking milk and cracking the raw eggs. They were bland compared to what he was used to, but he was glad of them.
    There was an apple in the bag as well, a russet, rough-skinned fruit that had a flavour like