Merlin's Wood

by Robert Holdstock

  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.

  Thorn stood in
the dark street, a tall figure, his horns of wood black against the sky. There was a strong smell of earth about him. He moved towards Thomas, leaf-clothes rustling.

  ‘The work is unfinished, Thomas.’

  ‘I’m afraid for my life. Too many people know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Only the finishing of the face matters. Your fear is of no consequence. You agreed to work for me. You must go to the church. Now.’

  ‘But if I’m caught!’

  ‘Then another will be found. Go back to the work, Thomas. Open my eyes properly. It must be done.’

  He turned from Thorn and sighed. There was something wrong with Beth and it worried him, but the persuasive power of the night figure was too strong to counter, and he began to walk wearily towards the church. Soon the village was invisible behind him. Soon the church was a sharp relief against the night sky. The Watchman’s fire burned high, and the autumn night was sweet with the smell of woodsmoke. The Watchman himself seemed to be dancing, or so Thomas thought at first. He strained to see better and soon realised that John had fallen asleep and set light to his clothing. He was brushing and beating at his leggings, his grunts of alarm like the evening call of a boar.

  The moment’s humour passed and a sudden anger took Thomas. Thorn’s words were like sharp stab wounds to his pride: his fear was of no consequence. Only the work of carving mattered. He would be caught and it would be of no consequence. He would swing, slowly strangling, from the castle gallows and it would be of no consequence. Another would be found!

  ‘No!’ he said aloud. ‘No. I will not work for Thorn tonight. Tonight is my night. Damn Thorn. Damn the face. Tomorrow I will open its eyes, but not now.’

  And with a last glance at the Watchman, who had extinguished the fire and settled down again, he turned back to the village.

  *

  But as he approached his house, aware of the glow of the fire through the small window, his anger changed to a sudden dread. He began to feel sick. He wanted to cry out, to alert the village. A voice in his head urged him to turn and go back to the night wood. His house, once so welcoming, threatened him deeply. It seemed surrounded by an aura, detached from the real world.

  He walked slowly to the small window. He could hear the crackle and spit of the flames. Wood smoke was sweet in the air. Somewhere, at the village bounds, two dogs barked.

  The feeling of apprehension in him grew, a strangling weed that made him dizzy. But he looked through the window. And he did not faint, nor cry out, at what he saw within, though a part of his spirit, part of his life, flew away from him then, abandoning him, making him wither and age; making him die a little.

  Thorn stood with his back to the fire. His mask of autumn leaves and spiky wood was bright and eerie – dark hair curled from beneath the mask. His arms were wound around with creeper and twine, and twigs of oak, elm and lime were laced upon this binding. Save for these few fragments of nature’s clothing he was naked. The black hair on his body gave him the appearance of a burned oak stump, gnarled and weathered by the years. His manhood was a smooth, dark branch, cut to the length of firewood.

  Beth was on her knees before him, her weight taken on her elbows. Her skirts were on the floor beside her. The yellow flames cast a flickering glow upon her plump, pale flesh, and Thomas half closed his eyes in despair. He managed to stifle his scream of anguish, but he could not stop himself from watching.

  And he uttered no sound, despite the pain, as Thorn dropped down upon the waiting woman.

  As he ran to the church the Watchman woke, then stood up, picking up his heavy staff. Thomas Wyatt knocked him down, then drew a flaming wood brand from the brazier. Tool-bag on his shoulder he entered the church, and held the fire high. The ladder was against the balcony. Pale features peered down at him and the ladder began to move. But Simon, the miller’s son, was not quite quick enough. Casting the burning wood aside, Thomas leapt for the scaffold and began to ascend.

  ‘I was just looking, Thomas,’ Simon cried, then tried to fling the ladder back. Thomas clutched at the balcony, then hauled himself to safety. He said no word to Simon, who backed against the wall where the loose stone was fitted.

  ‘You mustn’t touch him, Thomas!’

  In the darkness, Simon’s eyes were gleaming orbs of fear. Thomas took him by the shoulders and flung him to the balcony, then used a stone to strike him.

  ‘No, Thomas! No!’

  The younger man had toppled over the balcony. He held on for dear life, fingers straining to hold his weight.

  ‘Tricked!’ screamed Thomas. ‘All a trick! Duped! Cuckolded! All of you knew. All of you knew!’

  ‘No, Thomas. In the Name of God, it wasn’t like that!’

  His hammer was heavy. He swung it high. Simon’s left hand vanished and the man’s scream of pain was deafening. ‘She had no other way!’ he cried hysterically. ‘No, Thomas! No! She chose it! She chose it! Thorn’s gift to you both.’

  The hammer swung. Crushed fingers left bloody marks upon the balcony. Simon crashed to the floor below and was still.

  ‘All of you knew!’ Thomas Wyatt cried. He wrenched the loose stone away. Thorn watched him from the blackness through his half-opened eyes. Thomas could see every feature, every line. The mouth stretched in a mocking grin. The eyes narrowed, the nostrils flared.

  ‘Fool. Fool!’ whispered the stone man. ‘But you cannot stop me now.’

  Thomas slapped his hand against the face. The blow stung his flesh. He reached for his chisel, placed the sharp tool against one of the narrow eyes.

  ‘NO!’ screeched Thorn. His face twisted and turned. The stone of the church shuddered and groaned. Thomas hesitated. A green glow came from the features of the deity. The eyes were wide with fear, the lips drawn back below the mask. Thomas raised his hammer.

  ‘NO!’ screamed the head again. Arms reached from the wall. The light expanded. Thomas backed off, terrified by the spectre which had appeared there, a ghastly green version of Thorn himself, a creature half ghost, half stone, tied to the wall of the church, but reaching out from the cold rock, reaching for Thomas Wyatt, reaching to kill him.

  Thomas raised the chisel, raised the hammer. He ran back to the face of Thorn and with a single, vicious blow, drove a gouging furrow through the right eye.

  The church shuddered. A block of stone fell from the high wall, striking Thomas on the shoulder. The whole balcony vibrated with Thorn’s pain and anger.

  Again he struck. The left eye cracked, a great split in the stone. Dampness oozed from the wound. The scream from the wall was deafening. Below the balcony, yellow light glimmered. The Watchman, staring up to where Thomas performed his deed of vengeance.

  Then a crack appeared down the whole side of the church. The entire gallery where Thomas had worked dropped by a man’s height, and Thomas was flung to the balcony. He struggled to keep his balance, then went over the wall, scrabbling at the air. Thorn’s stone-scream was a nightmare sound. Air was cool on the mason’s skin. A stone pedestal broke his fall. Broke his back.

  The village woke to the sound of the priest’s terrible scream. He stumbled from the mason’s house, hands clutching at his eyes, trying to staunch the flow of blood. He scrabbled at the wood mask, stripping away the thorn, the oak, the crisp brown leaves, exposing dark hair, a thin dark beard.

  The priest – Thorn’s priest – turned blind eyes to the church. Naked, he began to stagger and stumble towards the hill. Behind him, the villagers followed, torches burning in the night.

  Thomas lay across the marble pillar, a few feet from the ground. There was no sensation in his body, though his lungs expanded to draw air into his chest. He lay like a sacrificial victim, arms above his head, legs limp. The Watchman circled him in silence. The church was still.

  Soon the priest approached him, hands stretched out before him. The pierced orbs of his eyes glistened as he leaned close to Thomas Wyatt.

  ‘Are you dying, then?’

  ‘I died a few minutes ago,’ Thom
as whispered. The priest’s hands on his face were gentle. Blood dripped from the savaged eyes.

  ‘Another will come,’ Thorn said. ‘There are many of us. The work will be completed. No church will stand that is not a shrine to the true faith. The spirit of Christ will find few havens in England.’

  ‘Beth …’ Thomas whispered. He could feel the bird of life struggling to escape him. The Watchman’s torch was already dimming.

  Thorn raised Thomas’s head, a finger across the dry lips. ‘You should not have seen,’ said the priest. ‘It was a gift for a gift. Our skills, the way of ritual, of fertility, for your skill with stone. Another will come to replace me. Another will be found to finish your work. But there will be no child for you, now. No child for Beth.’

  ‘What have I done?’ Thomas whispered. ‘By all that’s holy, what have I done?’

  From above him, from a thousand miles away, came the ring of chisel on stone.

  ‘Hurry,’ he heard Thorn call into the night. ‘Hurry!’

  Earth and Stone

  The sunshine is a glorious birth;

  But yet I know, where’er I go,

  That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.

  Wordsworth, Intimations of Immortality

  Carrying loudly across the rolling grasslands the crack of transmission was almost indistinguishable from that crack which follows the splitting of the great boulders, the megaliths of the tomb-builders who had lived in this land for seven hundred years. The man, riding on a stocky, black horse, appeared as if out of nowhere. He was well wrapped in skins and fur leggings, and wore his hair in tight, shoulder-length plaits. His beard and moustaches were curled and stiff with some reddish paste. His saddlebags were anachronistic in this third millennium before Christ, but were at least fashioned crudely out of leather; their geometrical bulkiness was unavoidable since the equipment they contained was essential for the man’s ultimate return to his own age. Like the horse, the leather bags and what they contained would be destroyed as soon as they had served their purpose. Of that there was no doubt in the man’s mind at all; but his conviction was for the wrong reason. He had no intention of ever returning to his own time. He was going to remain here, among the people of the Boyne valley with whom he had become so involved – in an academic sense – during the short span of his life.