The Beginning Woods

by Malcolm McNeill

  “Which one’s which?” they screamed. “Which one’s which?”

  “Good morning, Mummy,” the Witch growled from under her blankets, where she was sucking her fingers with delight. “We’re sorry for making a noise and waking you.”

  “Good morning, Mummy,” they recited obediently. “We’re sorry for making a noise and waking you.” Then: “Which one’s which? Which one’s which?”

  “Who loves you more than anything?”

  “Mother does!”

  “With a perfect love?”

  “With the most perfect love!”

  “Can a perfect love get by without sleep? Can it get by without rest?”

  A perfect love could not. Nor could it get by without scrambled eggs, two slices of hot, buttered toast, a cup of coffee, a spotless parlour, freshly washed linen and a weeded garden. Only when the perfect love was installed in a deckchair with a glass of chilled Madeira and a bowl of violet creams were its needs satisfied. By this time the twins were beside themselves, charging back and forth in a frenzy.

  “You’re Kaspar, aren’t you?”

  “Are you sure? I thought you were!”

  “Oh no, ha-ha, that’s right, I am, ha-ha! Or am I?”

  “Ha-ha! Oh Mummy… ARRGH!”

  “ARRGH!”

  “WHICH ONE’S WHICH?”

  “WHICH ONE’S WHICH?”

  To which the Witch returned: “What did I tell you yesterday?”

  “We don’t know!”

  “We can’t remember!”

  “What do you feel? What do you feel deep down inside your own hearts?”

  “When I woke up I was sure I was Kaspar,” said Kaspar.

  “When I woke up I was sure I was Hauser,” said Hauser.

  “W-R-O-N-G!” mocked the Witch, roaring with laughter. “You’ve got it all topsy-turvy. Just as well I’m here to sort you out, eh? What would you do without your old Mum?”

  In this way she removed their power of deciding anything for themselves. Every morning she switched their names. And woe betide the twins if they contradicted her authority. If they did: Thunderbolts, Hand Grenades and Crocodiles.

  The twins, of course, did doubt their Mother’s opinion. They doubted her horribly. Which was awful, awful; she was their Mother, after all, and the psychological ramifications of Not Trusting One’s Own Mother, of Criticizing A Perfect Love—well, they were rather troublesome. So they tried to ignore their nasty, disgusting, ungrateful little doubts, they pushed them downwards, but the harder they pushed the stronger the doubts became. One day the doubts became so strong their heads began to spin. They joined hands to keep themselves steady, but only found themselves spinning faster. The faster they span the more they doubted, the more they doubted the faster they span, and when they fell apart they found they had doubted their own identities so much they had changed into two little girls.

  The Witch was delighted with this new ability, and put it down to her own bio-mechanical engineering skills. As for the twins, they got into the habit of changing shape all the time, searching for forms that felt like home. The little girls weren’t right, so what about old men with crooked teeth? Or maidens in green dresses? Or lanky seafaring gentlemen? No, no and triple no. To make matters worse, the more they changed, the harder it became to find their way back. Eventually they forgot their original appearances altogether and simply hopped from one disguise to another.

  In that unhappy state they relied on their Mother more than ever.

  How did this tragedy end?

  How did the Witch receive her comeuppance?

  Greed.

  The one colour the Witch longed for more than any other was blue. She had a weakness for it, perhaps because it was rare in nature and she could never get enough to satisfy her. Bluebells and forget-me-nots, of course, were beautifully blue, but they were so slight it was hardly worth bothering; even a meadow of bluebells hardly constituted a square meal. The one real source of blue in nature was the sky, and it was torture, torture to the Witch to have this infinity of her only desire sliding about over her head every day. She had tried everything in her power to get at it. She had constructed towers, she had hauled herself up mountains, she had built enormously long wooden spoons, she had flung herself from elasticated contraptions—all to no avail and sometimes even with humiliating consequences.

  Then she discovered a curious and most interesting piece of information relating to Gertrude Farby-Himmel, the Wizard* responsible for inventing the particular shade of blue used to paint the heavens.

  This Wizard was a woman of great foresight. She had understood that the friction of soggy clouds against the sky would eventually cause blank patches, so she had created a reserve stock of paint, which she had stored in a creature called the Bluebird. When the sky needed a second coat, all she needed to do was take the Bluebird, crush it in a pestle and mortar, and dissolve it in a tub of ethyl acetate. Then she could get out her mops and rollers and paint the sky all over again.

  The existence of this Bluebird came as a great surprise to the Wasp Witch, and of course she became eager to locate it. She sent out her spies, and they discovered almost at once that Ms Farby-Himmel had left it in the keeping of a Woodcutter.

  This was a disappointment and a setback.

  It meant there was an axe to think of.

  Axes were the only thing in the Woods that really scared the Wasp Witch. You couldn’t do much to an axe, but it could do things to you! For every dream she had about the Bluebird, she had a nightmare about the axe. If she even came near the Woodcutter, she knew he would swing his axe and that would be it—because there’s nothing a Woodcutter hates more than a Witch.

  As luck would have it, the twins solved the problem themselves. They wanted to pay their Mother back for all her many kindnesses, so they waited until one of her birthdays, then transformed themselves into two little girls and went skipping off to the Woodcutter’s cottage. They charmed him with their lively chatter and gay laughter, and ooh-ed and aah-ed over the Bluebird, and sobbed so much when they had to leave that the kind old dunderhead decided it would do the little creature no harm to have a change of scene for a day or two.

  In short, the twins succeeded and returned to their Mother in triumph, with the Bluebird in shackles. What scenes there were then! Domestic bliss! She almost fainted with delight, and after “ladling” them each a few times for doing something independently of her orders, she turned to the matter in hand and sent out her tongue. With a wet splat it fastened onto the Bluebird, and with slow pulsing movements began to draw out the colour.

  But how the bird was twittering! Would the Woodcutter hear? He would! He’d put on his Seven League Boots and come running! Quick, quick, get the colour out, every last drop!

  But the colour kept coming. No matter how she sucked, the Bluebird did not fade even the tiniest bit, and carried on tweeting just as loudly as ever. There was enough blue to cover the entire sky, after all, and a sky of blue was simply too much, even for the Witch. And now the Woodcutter was striding with fantastic leaps and then: BANG! There he was! Right in front of her!

  Run? From a pair of Seven League Boots? Just you try it! The Witch tried to skedaddle, but managed only two ungainly steps before she tripped and fell, rather conveniently, to her knees.

  So much the easier, thought the Woodcutter, rolling up his sleeves.

  SWISH!

  Off went her head, bouncing into the juniper bushes.

  Rather dismayed by this turn of events, the Witch stood up and began running in circles. But the valiant Woodcutter didn’t stop there. Knowing Witches to be resilient creatures, he spat on his palms, lifted his axe and chopped her into little bits. Then he tossed the bits into a barrel and spun it round so fast that all the colours she had ever stolen leaked out of the side and found their way back to their original owners.

  And that was the end of the Wasp Witch, and the end of her story.

  As for Kaspar and Hauser—did they ever find their
true forms, let alone their parents?

  Max read his way through Storybook after Storybook, eager to discover the fate of the unfortunate boy(s), but no further mention came of him/them.

  This disappointed him, because it was on account of the boy split in two that he had loved those stories so much. Sometimes he had even found himself whispering angrily at the pages, over and over again:

  “She can’t make you do that!”

  “SHE’S NOT YOUR REAL MOTHER!”

  * Just as Witches are responsible for inventing sources of misery and evil, Wizards spend their days discovering ways to improve creation.

  5

  SLAM!

  “Forbes?”

  “Yup?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Where are we going? Where do you think we’re going?”

  “Are we going to school?”

  “Where else would we be going?”

  “Why are we walking though?”

  “What’s wrong with walking?”

  “Why isn’t Alice taking me in the car?”

  “Do you want the adult answer or the kiddie answer?”

  “Can I have the adult one?”

  “Do you want to press the button?”

  “No thanks.”

  “OK. Hold hands while we cross. It’s like this. The trucking company that delivers livestock to Chumley’s has changed its schedules, which means they’re coming in the evening instead of the morning, which means I’m working nights, which means I have to sleep during the day, which means the only time we’ve got to see each other is in the mornings for these twenty minutes. And a bit before bedtime. Which isn’t much.”

  “What about the weekend?”

  “I don’t know. What about the weekend?”

  “Aren’t you going to be around?”

  “Not on Sunday. That’s double pay. I’ll be around on Saturday, but you spend the whole day at the Book House. So…”

  “So we’re going to do this every morning?”

  “Rain or shine.”

  “The car’s better.”

  “Who wants to sit in the car? We’ve got the sun, the sky, the life of the town. What more do you want?”

  “I get to read in the car.”

  “So I hear.”

  “And I can’t read at school. Only at break and lunch.”

  “You read at lunch?”

  “There’s nothing else to do.”

  “You never play football?”

  “Football’s stupid.”

  “You’ve got to do something to join in.”

  “Why?”

  “People don’t like people who don’t join in. Look—invite some of your classmates round on Saturday and we can have a barbecue up in Newton Fields. We don’t have to play football. There’s British Bulldogs, or Kick the Can. Together stuff.”

  “We don’t have a barbecue.”

  “We can improvise! Alice can make anything from anything—you watch. She’ll get that grill out of the oven and put it over some bricks. I can pinch some chops from Chumley’s.”

  “I don’t want to. Saturdays are for the Book House.”

  “You spend the whole day at that place! What’s so great about it?”

  But Max couldn’t tell Forbes what went on in the Book House. The Storybooks, the Beginning Woods, his Forever Parents—all that was a different world, a million miles away from Bickerstaffes Road and the Mulgans.

  They stopped at another crossing. Forbes was still holding his hand, but it felt odd: Forbes was holding onto him, but he wasn’t holding onto Forbes. With his free hand he reached round Forbes to jab the button, hoping the awkward movement would make him let go. It didn’t, and they crossed the road in silence. Forbes soon began talking again, about Joining In, Getting Pals, and When He Was A Lad. Max didn’t want to listen to any of that, so he went deep inside himself until Forbes became a distant thing with no meaning. The next time they stopped they were at the school gates.

  “How many have you got on you? Three? Four?” Forbes was asking, and Max stared up at him, not understanding. After a moment he realized Forbes was talking about books.

  “Just the usual.” He had three in his bag and two in the pockets of his duffel coat.

  A car pulled up next to them and a girl bounced out. She stopped on the pavement to adjust her bag on her shoulders, waved at the driver, then ran off through the gates, her pigtails twirling, while her Mother drove away, throwing a curious glance at Forbes and Max, who were still holding hands and saying nothing, it seemed.

  But a lot was being said—maybe everything.

  Max knew that if he pulled his hand free it would all come out, it would be obvious, he may as well tell Forbes there and then about his Forever Parents and the Beginning Woods. He tried, as a secret experiment, to pull the tiniest amount, just a little, to see if he could work his hand free. Forbes held on, and tightened his grip by the same tiny amount—so Max gave up, looked at the pavement and let his arm go limp: if Forbes wanted his hand, he could have it. It was stupid of Forbes to think holding his hand meant anything.

  The school bell rang among the buildings. But Forbes didn’t even react. He didn’t even seem to hear.

  It was five to nine.

  Now Mr Chandra would be reaching for the register.

  Now he’d be saying “Max Mulgan,” and there wouldn’t be any answer, because he was stuck out here. And when school finished he’d still be here, glued to Forbes, who showed no sign of moving.

  What was he thinking?

  Was he about to say something?

  Why didn’t he just let go and go home?

  He pictured Forbes wandering up the road on his own and felt sorry for him. But this moment of pity transformed at once into sizzling anger. He wished Forbes wasn’t there. He wished him away.

  Go on.

  Go!

  Why don’t you just Vanish!

  Forbes spoke then, quietly and hopelessly: “You’ve got to start living in the real world, Max. With us. With me and Alice. Or it’s not going to work. It’s just not going to.”

  Max couldn’t bear it—he tore his hand free and screamed at Forbes like he was flinging rocks—Once! Twice! Then he ran off through the school gate, throwing it shut behind him just to be sure Forbes wouldn’t follow.

  It was only later, shaking and shuddering in a cubicle in the toilets, that he realized what he’d done—the rocks he’d flung—the words he’d yelled.

  “You can’t make me!”

  “YOU’RE NOT MY REAL DAD!”

  From that day on, Max kept his hands in his pockets when they went into school. He walked like that wherever he went, without realizing why.

  Forbes, though, understood perfectly.

  When Max flung those rocks at him he hadn’t even blinked. They hurt, they hurt… but children say mean things all the time. They hate their parents and say so. They storm off. They slam the door.

  A door would have been OK.

  But this was a gate, and when it swung shut it gave a metallic clang. Then Forbes not only flinched—he was felled by a killing blow.

  It was the clang of the grinder.

  It had got hold of his last dream after all.

  From that day on, whenever he saw Max with his hands in his pockets he remembered those words, “You’re not my real Dad!” and heard again the SLAM of steel jaws. Whenever he was at the grinder and the jaws went SLAM SLAM SLAM, he remembered how Max had torn his hand away and shouted,

  “You’re not my real Dad!” And that from then on was the life of Forbes: no dreams left, “You’re not my real Dad!” and SLAM SLAM SLAM.

  BONFIRE NIGHT

  During this time a darkness spread through the house, a mould came down from a corner, a shadow expanded. It was invisible but it was there.

  The meetings at bedtime ended. Forbes was away at work and Alice stayed up late, so those stories about the Wind, the stars, the snow, the sky, the Giants and Dragons, and those quiet rituals
of Tucking In and Turning Off The Lights, were all reduced to a single word. Max would call “Goodnight!” down the stairs, and Alice would reply “G’night!” Even that single word was difficult to say. Sometimes he stood for whole minutes in the darkness on the landing, his throat working, unable to get it out.

  The walks into school ended too. Forbes was too tired. He would come back from the abattoir night shift and crash straight into bed.

  Max didn’t mind. It meant he could walk to school alone. Alice offered to drive him again—no thanks!

  You don’t want to read in the car?

  No thanks!

  He began to get up early, make his own breakfast and leave before Forbes got back and Alice woke up. When he got to school, more than an hour before class, he would sit alone in the library and read while the cleaner polished the tables around him. Sometimes he read books from the Book House, sometimes the library’s own books. His favourite was an old geography textbook. In it, he’d found a series of maps entitled CONTINTENTAL DRIFT.

  The first showed Pangaea, the huge land mass that existed before the tectonic plates slid apart to form the continents. The series of illustrations showed the great territory splitting up into Australia, Antarctica, the Americas, Eurasia. Max thought it looked like a photograph torn into pieces.

  The Beginning Woods, he decided, was like Pangaea—the world as it ought to be, perfect and together, before something went wrong and it all broke apart, making the world as it was.

  Circling Pangaea was a single ocean, its name written out in swirling script:

  The name of this ocean captivated him.

  What a name it was, a beckoning, magical name!