Mythago Wood - 1 Read Free Page A

a little more sinister?'
    'Sinister isn't the word I'd use,' said Christian, but added nothing more for
a moment; he reached up to pluck a leaf from a small, immature oak, and rubbed
it between thumb and forefinger before crushing it in his palm. All the time he
stared into the deep woods. 'This is primary oak woodland, Steve, untouched
forest from a time when all of the country was covered with deciduous forests of
oak and ash and elder and rowan and hawthorn . . .'
    'And all the rest,' I said with a smile. 'I remember the old man listing them
for us.'
    'That's right, he did. And there's more than three square miles of such
forest stretching from here to well beyond Grimley. Three square miles of
original, post-Ice Age forestland. Untouched, uninvaded for thousands of years.'
He broke off and looked at me hard, before adding, 'Resistant to change.'
    I said, 'He always thought there were boars alive in there. I remember
hearing something one night, and he convinced me that it was a great big old
bull boar, skirting the edge of the woods, looking for a mate.'
    Christian led the way back towards the boathouse. 'He was probably right. If
boars had survived from mediaeval times, this is just the sort of
woodland they'd be found in.'
    With my mind opened to those events of years ago, memory inched back, images
of childhood - the burning touch of sun on bramble-grazed skin; fishing trips to
the mill-pond; tree camps, games, explorations . . . and instantly I recalled
the Twigling.
    As we walked back to the beaten pathway that led up to the Lodge, we
discussed the sighting. I had been about nine or ten years old. On our way to
the sticklebrook to fish we had decided to test out our stick and string rods on
the mill-pond, in the vain hope of snaring one of the predatory fish that lived
there. As we crouched by the water (we only ever dared to go out in the boat
with Alphonse) we saw movement in the trees, across on the other bank. It was a
bewildering vision that held us enthralled for the next few moments, and not a
little terrified: standing watching us was a man in brown, leathery clothes,
with a wide, gleaming belt around his waist, and a spiky, orange beard that
reached to his chest: on his head he wore twigs, held to his crown by a leather
band. He watched us for a moment only, before slipping back into the darkness.
We heard nothing in all this time, no sound of approach,
no sound of departure.
    Running back to the house we had soon calmed down. Christian decided,
eventually, that it must have been old Alphonse, playing tricks on us. But when
I mentioned what we'd seen to my father he reacted almost angrily (although
Christian recalls him as having been excited, and bellowing for that reason, and
not because he was angry with our having been near the forbidden pool). It was
father who referred to the vision as 'the Twigling', and soon after we had
spoken to him he vanished into the woodland for nearly two weeks.
    'That was when he came back hurt, remember?' We had reached the grounds of
Oak Lodge, and Christian held the gate open for me as he spoke.
    'The arrow wound. The gypsy arrow. My God, that was a bad day.'
    'The first of many.'
    I noticed that most of the ivy had been cleared from the walls of the house;
it was a grey place now, small, curtainless windows set in the dark brick. The
slate roof, with its three tall chimney stacks, was partially hidden behind the
branches of a big old beech tree. The yard and gardens were untidy and unkempt,
the empty chicken coops and animal shelters ramshackle and decaying. Christian
had really let the place slip. But when I stepped across the threshold, it was
as if I had never been away. The house smelled of stale food and chlorine, and I
could almost see the thin figure of my mother, working away at the immense
pinewood table in the kitchen, cats stretched out around her on the red-tiled
floor.
    Christian had grown tense again, staring at me in that fidgety way that
marked his unease.