The Hollowing

by Robert Holdstock

  Helen had zipped up her coat and was running along the bridleway towards Hunter’s Brook. Richard recognised the gait, and his confusion was compounded.

  Helen Silverlock had been here before, despite what she’d said.

  Oak Lodge

  At dawn, a grim grey mist hung over the land, a subdued and flowing sea in which the dark features were the taller trees of the fields and woods.

  Richard stood in his bedroom, fully dressed, hands in his pockets, and stared at the wreathed land, thinking moodily of the woman, her message, her enthusiasm, her strangeness. Crows circled close to the house, flapping and vanishing through the wraithed branches. One detached itself and swooped towards the garden, gliding low over the gate and rising towards the bedroom window with the merest flap of its wings. Richard could hear the scrabbling of nestlings in the disused chimney and waited for the great bird to continue its curve, up to the roof, but the creature came straight on and smashed startlingly against the window. The whole pane shook. The crack of beak on glass seemed deafening. When Richard opened the window and stared down, he could see no sign of the bird, but its dreamlike and dramatic action had disturbed him and he went downstairs.

  At nine o’clock he rang Alice in London. She had just arrived at work and was tetchy and tired. She became almost hysterical when he told her, as simply as he could, what Helen Silverlock had implied to him, but when she heard that the boy was thirteen years old she laughed scornfully, then began to get angry. She wanted to know why he had really called her.

  “For just that reason,” he said. “I thought I should keep you informed.”

  “You have something on your mind. What is it, Richard? Why don’t you be honest about it?”

  “I rang to tell you what I’ve told you,” he said wearily. “Goodbye, Alice.”

  He put the phone down, wondered if she would call back, and when the phone stayed silent went back upstairs and sorted out his weatherproof clothing.

  By midday the grey gloom had been replaced by a bright and overcast sky, a fresh wind bringing the land alive. Richard trudged in heavy boots along the bridleway towards Hunter’s Brook. He had not brought a rucksack. He intended only to look a little more closely at the wood where Helen had said she and her team were stationed.

  The stream was in wild flood, and along its edge he could see the spoor of deer, probably from the Manor park. A high wall bounded the Estate on most sides, but a right of way passed over several fields, and here the boundary was marked by fences and a stile. Ryhope Wood was a dense and solid wall of trees to his right as he crossed the field towards the old road. He followed this to the wood itself, and was mildly surprised to find that it ended abruptly, overgrown by dense bushes and scrub elder. A “Keep Out” notice had been recently fixed on barbed wire.

  He walked on round the wood, conscious that he was now on private grounds. The Manor House was hidden by trees, half a mile away; the only sign of life was a gallop, five riders exercising the horses from the Manor’s stables. They crossed open land, then turned and came back, thudding past Richard without taking any notice and passing away toward the ridge where an earthworks had been built, long in the past.

  Was this where Alex had come to play with his friends, Tallis and the rest? Tallis had always been so quiet, a mysterious girl existing in a rich fantasy world of story and invention. Alex had always wanted to play rougher games, when outside, exploring woodland being one of them. But he had never talked in detail about Ryhope, only referred to it darkly as a place where “Tallis talks to statues.”

  What had he meant?

  Years after the boy’s death, Richard began to miss him again, and to miss the lost opportunity of knowing his son, of sharing his mind-games. Alex had always liked comics, and they had read together in peace, or watched TV, but had so rarely spoken or explored ideas. Alice had always been too busy doing things, arranging for trips, for picnics, for journeys to London, for schoolbooks and clothes. She had known Alex’s strengths and weaknesses and had been nurturing him towards areas of intellect and interest where he might do well at school, such as playwriting and biology. Even so, she could not have known the inner boy, the adventurer.

  He felt sorry for himself, sat for a while head bowed and thought back over the years. He allowed himself tears, and the wind, freshening and gusting, made the enclosed scene all the more mournful.

  Alex had been in his grave too long. The pain had passed away too many years ago. The tears, the melancholy, were short-lived, and Helen Silverlock was standing before him again, mysterious and inviting.

  An intense curiosity now began to push away the sorrow. The edge of the wood was thorny and grassy, too solid, too dark. It was as if it had never been broken by the passage of people or animals. Sunlight caught the sign across the road, and Richard’s interest piqued.

  He eased himself through the barbed wire and entered the gloom of the undergrowth, brushing at branches and ivy as he felt his way carefully along the hard surface underfoot that told of the crumbling road. When the wall of a house suddenly loomed before him he was startled. He touched the brick and pushed through the stifling tangle of creeper and briar, following the wall until he reached the back of the house. Sunlight dappled above him now, and by its flickering light he could see the blackened, rotting shape of a tall wooden idol. It was leaning heavily against the house. If there had ever been carved features they were long since obliterated by rain and time, but he thought he could faintly discern a gaping mouth and the outline of a wide, blind eye.

  Crouching, he crawled below the statue, still feeling along the brick wall, and after a moment stepped into a cleared space, now grassy and filled with flowers and nettles, extending from what had once been french windows. He saw, too, that people had been here recently.

  He stepped into the house. The vegetation in the room had been scythed down and the smell of fresh sap was still strong. Through the covering of nettles and ivy he could see the fragmentary remains of furniture. A tree, a substantial oak, grew in the middle of the room, and Richard was puzzled: this was old; had the owners built their house around the oak?

  He was startled as birds moved noisily above him, where the ceiling had collapsed and branches entwined, and stepped outside again. A small beaten path led from this glade to what had once been a backyard, and here a wider space had been cleared, bounded by thick saplings, but quite light. A ramshackle shed still stood here, and he could see the remains of a fence and gate forty yards away, where the trees grew thick and dark again. The garden area spread away from the creeper-covered hole of the back door, through which he now passed.

  Inside he found the kitchen, a heavy marble work-surface, and the remains of fires and food on the floor. He saw, too, the gleam of light on a tracery of wires, and investigated more closely.

  There were five wires in all, each the thickness of fuse wire. They had been run to and from various points, out around the perimeter of the garden clearing. There was no electric charge in them. They were just higher than Richard’s head and did not seem designed to trap anything. Where they joined the house they were attached to tiny terminals, and around each terminal a gold spiral had been impressed upon the brick.

  A sudden wind gusted and the wood swayed restlessly, then was still again. In the sudden silence Richard heard the sound of electricity deeper in the house, and he followed the murmur to its source. In a box in the middle of what might have been a parlour—he could still see the wallpaper and a sodden, fungus-covered armchair below the ivy—he found a small machine, like a miniature radio. It had two needle dials, one of which was flickering. Gold and copper wires led from four sockets into the ground around it, and from a fifth vertically to the exposed laths of the ceiling where the plaster had fallen. The machine emitted the faintest smell of ozone.

  As he stepped away from it, the needle on the active dial registered something strongly, then faded. As he approached again the needle quivered but remained essentially inert, only to react su
ddenly with great swings to the extreme, even though Richard had neither moved nor breathed. It was not responding to him, then.

  At this same moment the birds outside fled through the foliage and something crashed away from the house, making a sound that might have been a cry, or perhaps laughter.

  Unnerved, suddenly claustrophobic, Richard kicked his way through the tangled undergrowth and out of the overwhelming gloom of Ryhope Wood, back to the field. His head ached and his vision was askew. He rubbed his eyes but they kept watering, the edges of his vision blurred. He was getting a migraine, he imagined, something from which he suffered when he was very stressed.

  Oddly, he felt quite relaxed at the moment, merely a little spooked.

  He lay back on the damp ground and watched the swirl of grim, grey clouds above. Slowly his vision returned to normal. The breeze made the moisture in his eyes sting with cold.

  * * *

  The gallop was returning. He could hear the drum of hooves, the shouts of delight and encouragement as the five riders stretched their charges to the limit, galloping up the slope, a hundred yards or so from where he lay.

  As they passed, Richard still stared up into the sky, but he was aware that one horse had reined-in and was now trotting towards him. He sat up and stared at the young, grey-faced man who rode around him, watching him with the pallor and arrogance of the Manor’s new owners. This was the eldest son, a man of thirty or so. In his green parka and flat cap he might have ridden straight from Windsor.

  “These are private estates. What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”

  “I’m walking,” Richard said. “Or rather was. At the moment I’m resting. Good morning.”

  He had meant it to sound dismissive, but the rider kicked his horse forward and came threateningly close. The horse watched Richard through big, tired eyes. Steam was coming off its coat. It was a magnificent animal, seventeen hands at least, gleaming black, its mane tight and trimmed. It watched the man on the ground as if sorry for him.

  “The right-of-way is half a mile to your left. Return to it at once.”

  “The road into the wood … that was once a right-of-way too, I imagine. Where did it go exactly? There’s a ruined house in the wood…”

  The horseman came closer and leaned down, waving his crop menacingly in Richard’s face. As Richard started to stand up in alarm, the young man thrust the short whip towards the bridleway. “Over there! The right-of-way is over there! If I catch you trespassing again I shall have you arrested.”

  And he turned and galloped towards the Manor.

  Exasperated and angry, Richard walked slowly back to his house, kicked the kitchen table, and poured himself a large glass of red wine.

  It was an hour later that he finally noticed the message pinned to his kitchen noticeboard:

  A cricket bat? You danced around the fire with a cricket bat?

  * * *

  That evening he wrote a brief letter to his parents, and an almost identical note to his place of work.

  If you don’t hear from me for a while, please don’t be anxious. I’m teaming up with some people for an expedition into what I’m told is a pretty remote place, and it’s hard to know if I’ll get back in time for autumn. I can’t talk about the trip in detail, except to say that I’ve just realised it’s something I need to do: full story when I get back. Just one thing: if anybody from a place called Old Stone Hollow should call you, take what they say very seriously, even if you think it sounds a bit bizarre.

  He took the letter to the Red Lion to be posted, had a glass of light ale, then returned home and slept well for a few hours, the result of the nocturnal distraction and alertness that had kept him awake the previous night. Nevertheless, he was up at three in the morning. He dressed quickly, then packed his rucksack with brandy, apples, sandwiches, a compass, an adventure novel, and changes of clothing; an hour later he was walking through the same heavy mist that had encompassed the land the morning before. Now, though, he walked with purpose, and at first light, when he arrived at Hunter’s Brook and found the signpost, he spread a tarpaulin on the ground, sat down, then curled up to keep himself warm.

  He felt strangely relaxed. The chill on his cheeks reminded him of his school days, and camping on the moors, or along the Wye Valley.

  He knew without knowing that someone would come for him.

  The Wildwood

  He was being shaken gently. He opened damp eyes, glimpsed the huge, dark shape above him, and for a second thought that he was being attacked by a wild animal. He yelled with fright and twisted away, looking for a rock or piece of wood with which to defend himself. When no pursuit immediately occurred, he turned back to observe the new arrival.

  The man was wearing a heavy bearskin robe, dark brown and black fur splattered with mud. His hair was long and jet black, as was his beard. A red and green feather hung, tied with twine, from a single ringlet on his right temple. Intense brown eyes sparkled with humour from below heavy brows. His boots were dun leather and filthy, their tops fringed with circlets of yellowed animal teeth, which rattled as he moved, crouched on his haunches. From his mouth came a powerful odour of cheese and wild onion.

  He was watching Richard, grinning.

  “You sent for me, sir?” this behemoth roared with a throaty chuckle, like a smoker’s laugh, Richard thought as he wiped dew from his face. The man’s accent was French. He extended his hand, quite slim-fingered and cool, not the brawny paw that might have been expected, and Richard shook it. “You are Richard Bradley?”

  “What’s left of him. You’ve just scared the living daylights out of me.”

  “I’m Arnauld Lacan, and I’m quite harmless. Good morning! I’m watching the edgewoods for a while and I noticed your summons on the way-marker. Good man! Helen will be glad you’ve come.”

  Glancing at his watch, Richard realised that he had fallen asleep for three hours. It was seven in the morning.

  “Where is Helen?”

  “Beyond Hergest Ridge, looking for a trickster. It’s a long way from the Station. She went off yesterday, so she might be away for some time. But we think everything should be all right.”

  Richard reached for his pack, conscious both of the powerful smell of animal sweat coming from the friendly man before him, and of his words. “Why shouldn’t everything be all right?”

  “It’s too deep to be sure,” Lacan said with a concerned frown. “It always makes us nervous to go there. But she’s been beyond Hergest Ridge before and come back OK. She knows what to watch for. Are you stiff?”

  Richard reached out a hand and the other man hauled him upright. As he stood he realised how tall the Frenchman was, probably six feet four. Without being asked, Lacan twisted Richard round and ferociously massaged his shoulders, powerful fingers stretching and bending the joints of his shoulders and back. “Better?”

  “Ça va mieux,” Richard muttered as the pressure-shock faded.

  Lacan laughed loudly. “A man who speaks my language!” he said. “I think I’m going to like you!”

  He probed around in his own pack, a bulky affair of stitched hides, and finally proffered a long, dark piece of bone and meat, which reminded Richard of a charred turkey drumstick. “How about some breakfast before we journey?”

  “What is it?” Richard asked queasily.

  “Bear. Very rich, quite dry, very good.”

  Richard stared at the tatters of flesh and sinew being waved below his nose. “May I ask from what part of the bear?”

  With a grunt, Lacan sniffed the offered gift. “That’s a good question. Hard to tell, after all this time. Does it matter?”

  “I think I’ll stick to apples and cheese,” Richard said quickly.

  Lacan shrugged. His smile was ambiguous. He returned the dry joint of bear to his pack, then indicated Richard’s own rucksack, “Customs inspection. Do you mind? It’s what you English would call ‘a formality.’”

  Hesitating for only a moment, Richard passed the
pack across to Lacan, who undid the buckles and reached inside. “Aha!” he said, withdrawing the brandy bottle. But his smile vanished as he stared in disbelief at the label. Without looking at Richard he muttered, “And this, I suppose, is what you English would call ‘medicinal.’”

  “Best I could find. Sorry.”

  Lacan sighed sadly. “So am I.”

  The bottle was replaced, the pack returned. Then more seriously, “Come on. We have to get you into the wood. It’s a slow process, learning to go deep. Lytton is very keen to talk to you as soon as you are acclimatised. That will take a few days, perhaps, and you must be ready. First, I have to check some instruments at the old Lodge. But I’ll have you comfortable by nightfall. Don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried—just intrigued. Who found out about the cricket bat?”

  “The cricket bat? Is that some sort of ridiculous English animal? Sounds preposterous.”

  “Helen thinks my son—Alex—is still alive.”

  “We all think Alex is alive. One of us has talked to him. But not me. Come on, now. Save your questions.”

  Richard hefted his rucksack onto his back and followed the enormous man along the bridleway. Lacan walked fast, hair and pack bouncing with each stride. He constantly paused to smell the air, and used his hands like an insect’s antennae, waving his slender fingers as if sensing for a change in the breeze.

  They crossed into the private estates of Ryhope Manor and left the path, ascending the fallow field to Ryhope Wood. As Richard had begun to suspect, Lacan led the way through the tangle of wire to the ruins of the house in the wood, following a narrow path that Richard had previously missed and which led directly to the small garden. In the parlour, Lacan broke open the back of the small radio-like machine, pulling out a roll of white paper covered with ink marks. The Frenchman unfurled a few feet to scan the recording.

  “Looks like one of those hospital traces,” Richard said. “An ECG?”

  “Very like,” said Lacan distractedly. He seemed puzzled. “Something has been generated. Someone has been here. There has been activity.”