Avilion (Mythago Wood 7)

by Robert Holdstock

  ‘Who was it! His name is Caylen Reeve; he’s been with the Shadoxhurst church for generations.’

  For a moment, Steven was speechless. ‘Good Lord. The Reverend Reeve. He used to conduct the harvest festival every year. That’s the only time I ever really met him. How in the name of . . . how do you know he was from the wood?’

  ‘He told me. He recognised me for what I am.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  When Jack had finished filling his father in on the details of his journey and his edge-world experiences, he presented Steven with the two items he’d requested.

  Steven looked at the copy of The Time Machine and shook his head fondly. ‘This was my favourite story when I was a child. I must have read it fifty times. Maybe more. It makes me shiver just to think about it now.’ He opened the book, read a paragraph or two to himself, then closed it and kissed it. ‘You must read it before you go again, Jack. And I know you’re going to go again.’

  Jack passed his father the chess set. ‘Ah,’ said Steven. ‘He was a good player, your brother. Better than me, though not as good as George. When our father deigned to leave his study and come and spend time with us, that is. The pieces are made of something called bakelite. It was quite new.’

  ‘They feel strange to the touch. I would have expected ivory.’

  ‘Ivory or wood. Yes. This was a birthday gift from a friend of my father’s, his great companion and fellow scientist. A man called Wynne-Jones. Heaven alone knows where he is now. In our different ways, we all became lost.’ He placed book and game to one side. ‘Thank you, Jack. These are precious souvenirs.’

  It was warm in this room, in the villa. It was as Jack remembered it. When his mother and Yssobel had shouted at each other, the room could seem cold. But when the family were quiet, eating and laughing together, this place of simple furniture, decoration and open hearth had been comforting and enclosing. Or was this nostalgia at work, the constant draw to home? Life in the villa had been hard, and his and Yssobel’s growing frustration at their confinement had been harshly expressed.

  Perhaps it was just that he was pleased to be away from the journey, feet up, sipping Hurthig’s strange brew, appetite satisfied with Rianna’s meat stew; and seeing his father with a glow upon his face.

  He stayed for seven days, helping Hurthig at the forge, Rianna with the running of the smallholding, and with her cooking. Several visitors came and went, all entertained, none particularly entertaining.

  But Jack was getting restless. Something Haunter had heard whispered as they had followed the Iaelven through the under-passages of the wood kept coming back to him: that the Iaelven could traverse all boundaries.

  Each evening he went up onto the slope between the villa and the wooded hill and wondered if they would appear. He called out at times. Only once did he hear anything from that mysterious, invisible entrance below the ridge, and it was not the whistle-speak of the Amurngoth but the angry and frustrated shouting of the boy, the human boy.

  And only once did he see anything. The silvery glow of the young-old woman who was the eternal prisoner of the Amurngoth.

  At the end of seven days Jack realised that he was now ready to go; it was not a feeling he perceived in himself, but only by looking at the signs of anxiety and sadness in his father’s gaze. Steven Huxley could tell what was in the wind, and his heart was breaking again.

  ‘Why don’t you stay? Yssobel will come home when she’s achieved what she needs. She has no reason to stay in that part of Lavondyss once she has found Gwin.’

  Jack thought about that. ‘If she finds Gwin, she will probably find Christian. From what you’ve told me, that might not be for the best.’

  Steven sighed, looked away. He couldn’t disagree. In the garden of Oak Lodge, where he had met Guiwenneth for the first time, his brother had emerged from the wildwood with fierce and mindless men, brutalising him before taking Guiwenneth; there was a part of Christian that was deeply twisted. His obsession for Guiwenneth, when the brothers had been young men, had been overpowering. Charming, unpredictable, besieged by thoughts of her, and capable of murder: yes, the encounter would be dangerous.

  But Yssobel had been convinced that her uncle was a gentle man, and that he was calling to her more out of need than anything to do with desire. Yes, this might have been the way she rationalised her own obsession with Avilion, her passion to see the very heart of the wood. But whatever had happened to her, just like Jack she had been unable to suppress vision and a dream with common sense.

  For several nights more Jack walked across the field and called for the Iaelven. Only the occasional screaming of the boy from Shadoxhurst could be heard. It was not the sound of punishment but of defiance.

  He was half asleep, watching the stars through his window. It was a warm night; the cooking fires were now just embers, though the drifting smell of woodsmoke was soft and pleasant.

  Jack became half aware of the glow of silver, as if the Moon had just surfaced into the night sky. And then his name was whispered. He lay quite still.

  A hand touched his shoulder and he reacted with a startled cry, rolling off the padded bench and staring at the apparition that watched him. ‘You! You frightened me.’

  Silver stood there, looking down at him. She put a finger to her lips, then smiled. The room was in strange light, but he had met this many times on his way back from Oak Lodge: sometimes golden, sometimes silver, it was light that emanated rather than shone.

  ‘They wish to speak to you,’ the woman said.

  ‘The Amurngoth?’

  ‘They wish you to come to them. Will you follow?’

  ‘I’ve been calling to them for days,’ Jack said, with a frown. ‘Is it because of my calling?’

  ‘It is because of the boy. And your calling. Will you follow? You will be safe, I promise you.’

  Ethereal but very tangible, she walked from the room. As Jack dressed quickly he saw her pass through the gate in the rear wall and walk up the hill. He followed at a run, but she moved fast, and she had long disappeared from sight by the time he arrived, breathless, at the ridge.

  Then Haunter whispered, We have company. Stay very still.

  The Iaelven, two of them, had walked out of the darkness behind him. They towered over him, their breathing wheezy, their eyes a glitter of unwelcome in those ragged-hair faces. But they were not armed. Without any sound, none of the whistle-speak, they turned and walked towards the tree line. Jack followed, aware that this pair stank in a way he had never experienced before. Haunter said, That’s anger and fear. But why?

  Silver suddenly greeted him. He had moved back into the Amurngoth hill without even noticing the transition.

  He was in a wide fern-lined chamber. Four Amurngoth crouched there, watching him. The boy was sitting between them and he frowned when he saw Jack. Silver was seated on a low wooden stool to the side. Jack was invited to crouch. He did so, but kept his gaze on the boy’s.

  There was whistling and whispering, a mouth flutter. Silver said, ‘The boy will not tell them his name. He is very obstinate.’

  Jack tried to remain expressionless, but he narrowed his eyes and gave an almost imperceptible nod to the lad: Keep it that way.

  And the Hawkings’ boy, as Jack knew him, with the merest twitch of his mouth, the merest hint of a smile of recognition, signalled that he understood.

  The Iaelven were agitated. The conversation was heated. ‘What are they saying?’ Jack finally asked.

  The silver woman thought for a moment. Then, with a deep breath, she said, ‘They do not wish to keep this boy. He is too difficult. They took him to trade him, but they cannot trade him. He is violent and aggressive; he does not cooperate. His anger screams through the minds of the Iaelven, causing pain. He is a mistake.’

  Jack glanced back at the Hawkings’ boy, remembering his assertion: ‘Won’t tell you my name!’ He smiled as he remembered the defiance when they had first met.

  ‘Do you understand what�
��s being said?’ he asked. The boy shook his head.

  ‘She speaks really strange. You’ve got a funny accent, but I can get most of it.’

  Jack glanced at Silver as if speaking to her as he warned the boy, ‘Keep your name to yourself.’

  The lad laughed. ‘Won’t tell! Never will.’

  Jack looked around at the dark, straggling creatures, listening to their subdued whistling. ‘What is it they want?’ he asked softly.

  Silver replied, ‘They want you to take him. They want you to accept him. Return him home. They cannot tolerate him.’

  Torn between concern for the child and his own selfishness, Jack was silent and confused. There was opportunity here, but at what price? Then Haunter spoke: Refuse the request.

  To the woman. Jack said, ‘No. I can’t do it. Where would I take him? How? I have a journey to make. The boy is to live in the villa? With my frail father? That’s not possible.’

  Silver was speaking Iaelven, translating as Jack spoke, and his words were not well received. Jack persisted: ‘If they are unhappy with the boy, then kill him. Dispose of him. Or let them take him back themselves.’

  Silver said, ‘They can’t kill him. That is not in their nature. Human adults, yes. But not a child. They wish to dispose of him to you, to place him with you. Then they will take back the Change they left behind.’

  Jack stared at the floor of the cave, wondering what to say to that, if anything at all. He had no idea how the Iaelven would react if they knew their hideous Change was in a shallow grave.

  ‘Leave him with me? No. At least . . . not yet.’

  The Iaelven asked through Silver what he meant by that, and Jack said, with Haunter’s prompting, ‘I will take him home if the Amurngoth will take me to Avilion. I need to go there, but I don’t know how to get there. I need to pass by Peredur’s Stone, at the bottom of the valley. Ask them if they can help me.’

  There was a long exchange. The boy stared at Jack, calm now, but suddenly slightly frightened. The anger and resistance in him was subdued as he struggled, from the look on his face, to understand what was happening. The first answer, conveyed by the woman, was that they knew about the stone, but that the stone was a crossing place. A myriad of paths led away from the monolith.

  ‘But can they get me to Avilion?’

  Yes. But they would have to know the direction.

  ‘If I can find the direction, will they get me there in exchange for me keeping the boy and taking him home?’

  Silver listened to the chatter and birdsong for a long while. When it fell silent, she looked at Jack; she seemed sad, but was smiling. ‘They say yes.’

  From the gloom of the cavern behind the Amurngoth, an Iaelven appeared, carrying a wide wooden bowl. This was placed in the middle of the circle. The bowl contained a thick grey mass, studded with the reds and purples of small fruit. The odour was unmistakably that of fungus.

  Silver said, ‘This is a rare privilege. They are inviting you to share their food. They must be very desperate for your help.’

  Jack looked at her. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Their staple meal. They have very little variety.’

  ‘It looks disgusting. Don’t tell them I said so.’

  ‘It is very nourishing.’

  And probably poisonous, Jack thought. Then Haunter nudged him. Would they want to poison us when we’ve offered to help them? That doesn’t make sense.

  They may not intentionally want to poison us, Jack said to his green side. But what is tolerable to the Iaelven might cause madness in a human.

  Let go, and let me eat. If I detect poison I shall spit it out discreetly.

  Silver had already reached into the bowl and moulded a small ball of the mash, eating it slowly. Jack did the same, and then the group who had greeted him all spooned handfuls of the slimy cake.

  To his astonishment, the food was very palatable. Pungent, unusual, with the sweetness and bitterness of the different fruits contrasting with the earthy taste of the mould. Haunter was reassuring. They have picked carefully. You can expect a wild dream, but no damage. You’ve eaten enough. Indicate pleasure and thanks.

  Jack did as his alter ego suggested.

  To Silver, he addressed a quiet question. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

  She touched a delicate finger to her lip, brushing a small morsel of food away. ‘I told you, I have nowhere to go. I am now a part of the underworld. I serve a simple purpose: to communicate between the Amurngoth and other forms, including human. There is nothing you can do for me, Jack. But the boy? He can be taken home.’

  In fact, Jack had been having very difficult second thoughts about the Hawkings’ boy. To play with the lad’s life was wrong; to use him as a bargaining counter was deeply wrong. The boy would be perfectly safe in the villa. Steven and Rianna could take care of him; he would be well fed - indeed, he would be nurtured. And he might even find a trade, under the expert eye and hand of Hurthig, at least until the young Saxon decided it was time to move on, to find his true destiny, the founding of a new kingdom.

  The lad belonged with a family, living within human company.

  The meal was finished. The Iaelven rose to their willowy heights and disappeared into the cavern. The boy whispered, ‘Don’t leave me.’

  Leaning forward, thinking hard, Jack said, ‘I want you to stay with my father. You’ll be well cared for. I have a journey to make, and I have no idea how hard it will be, no more than I know where I’m going! Will you stay with my father? You’ll be warm and well fed.’

  There was a long silence. The boy’s face twisted between confusion and anger, sadness and determination.

  Finally he said, in a voice that was almost a growl of despair, ‘No! I’m staying with you. I want to stay with you.’

  Surprised at the ferocious certainty shown by Won’t Tell, Jack urged him to reconsider. ‘A warm villa, good food; and I will be back. You’d be better off here.’

  Again, an angry ‘No!’ There was panic in the boy’s eyes.

  ‘The reason?’

  ‘I trust you,’ Won’t Tell said. ‘You came out of the wood once, you can come out again. If I stay here, and you die, where do I go? No, I’ll take my chance with you. And make life very, very difficult for these monsters.’

  ‘Are you frightened of them?’

  ‘I was. But not now.’ He frowned, looked down. ‘This is just a dream. A horrible dream. But I’m not afraid, not really. Just a little. I want to stay with you!’

  ‘Then stay you will. But for the moment, you stay here.’

  Jack left the hill. Despite Haunter’s reassurance, he was feeling distinctly strange. The villa glowed with torchlight. His feet embraced the hard earth, but he was moving with speed. He was running, and breathless. He flung himself against the perimeter wall, turned and sunk down into a sitting position.

  He began to extend. He felt engaged with something deeper, something below him, a network. Haunter whispered, ‘I may have misjudged.’

  ‘I think you did. I feel very strange.’

  ‘It isn’t poison. I can detect poison. It’s no more than an influence. Jack is a little more Haunter than he’s used to being. Follow where it takes you. I’ll follow too.’

  Where it took Jack at that moment was over onto his side, retching violently. When the spasm of sickness passed, he breathed deeply.

  His limbs were drawn towards imarn uklyss. He felt himself to be a spread of roots, surging in their growth towards the bottom of the valley. There they embraced the tall stone he had never seen, only heard about, witnessed only in the furiously sketched drawings of his sister. Peredur’s monument.

  This is madness. This is poison. Does it mean anything?

  He was still sitting by the wall as dawn began to strike the sky with gentle light.

  ‘No more than you already knew,’ Haunter said. ‘Yssobel passed beyond the stone. How she did it isn’t clear, but we agree: that way is not open to you. The Amurngoth will take us. A
nd a little of the grey cake they’ve fed you might occasionally show us the way.’

  ‘Show us the way? To Yssobel?’

  ‘We are connected. We should do everything we can to maintain that link between us.’

  Slowly Jack’s senses revived; his focus became clear again. He felt hollow and hungry, vaguely alert yet weary in his body.

  A while later, in the villa, his father found him. ‘Good God, you look dead. You’re yellow, Jack. Good God, good God. You’ve done something to your liver.’

  Steven was suddenly anxious, but Jack waved him quiet. ‘Mushrooms. The wrong kind. I promise you, I’m a survivor.’

  ‘But you’re yellow!’

  ‘I’m also strong. It will pass.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  Rianna was suddenly beside him, tipping his head back and making him sip a thin foul-tasting liquid, warm to the tongue. Quite soon his body had recovered. He felt cold, but clear-headed. The sharpness of his senses had come back, not all at once but in stages. Only the Haunter side of him had escaped the chemical effect. Haunter was laughing, but there was certainly a lesson to be learned if Jack was to travel with the Iaelven. ‘I’ll be more careful,’ Haunter promised.

  During the brief time of disorientation, Jack had revisited Oak Lodge in full sensory detail. Walking with Steven round and round the villa, he described again the strangeness of the place.

  ‘It was covered by woodland. There is no question of that. But in the time I was there, the woodland pulled back, exposing the front walls, then the whole house. I didn’t see it happen, though I felt it. A very unreal experience.’

  Steven listened, intrigued and agreeing. ‘When I returned there, after the war, something similar happened. It was after Chris had disappeared, though he would shortly come back with his brutal troop of mercenaries and take Guiwenneth.

  ‘But in the time I was there alone, a whole orchard grew overnight, taking over the garden. It was amazing to watch. Some trees even grew into the house. Did you see signs of tree damage inside?’