The Beginning Woods

by Malcolm McNeill

  It was the candles and lanterns, though, that made the bookshop truly bizarre. They marked the principal eccentricity of the proprietor—her avowed antipathy to electric light. Electrically generated light, began a manifesto in the shop window, is damaging not only to books but to the principle of reading itself. This text was long and in exceptionally small print, so few had actually read it. The gist was that the omnipresence of artificial light in modern life was a nuisance. A society had been formed. Subscriptions were welcome. Enquire within.

  Nobody ever did.

  Why light was damaging was not explained. But the result was a dimly lit interior that had customers huddling around the lanterns, which hung on long chains from the ceiling or from brackets on the wall, their stubby funnels emitting a foul smell of burning oil. The cantankerous old woman was fond of explaining that the engineering innovation involved in the invention of this individual lantern, the Argand burner, had been “the biggest leap forwards in Natural Light Production Technology in thousands if not MILLIONS of years!” For proof she would point to a poster delineating the history of the world’s greatest inventions. The year of the Argand burner’s creation (1784, by the Swiss scientist François Pierre Ami Argand) was listed next to the great strides in aviation technology that had first allowed a sheep, a rooster and a duck aloft in a Hot Air Balloon—followed, on the safe return of the pioneering beasts, by Jean-François Pilâtre de Rozier and François Laurent, Marquis d’Arlandes, who were the first human beings in history to see Paris from the perspective of a not-very-high-up God—though they had in fact been beaten to it by the sheep, who had chewed a peephole in the bottom of the wicker basket (and then refused to budge to allow the duck and the rooster a peek).

  This ancient misanthrope spent her days sitting ramrod-straight on a tall stool in a corner of the bookshop. The only event in the cosmos that could force her from her perch was when a book was asked for that was tucked away in an obscure corner and could not be pointed at. Most of the time it was in plain sight, and she could simply roll her eyes, tut, and jab her finger in its direction. But because of the layout of the bookshop, certain corners were round other corners and thus out of finger-shot. If books lived in these provincial areas, there was nothing for it: she had to move.

  On that showery day in April when the Vanishings were set in motion, she was asked for a book that happened to dwell in such an un-pointable-at region. Some young fellow was after it, some twerp of a student; she’d been watching him inch closer and closer for a good twenty minutes, obviously convinced he had a real poser of a title for her, one the bookshop could not possibly stock, and that the jackpot was certainly his, that come evening he would be thousands of pounds richer, drinking champagne and gobbling caviar. Everyone in the bookshop knew what was about to happen and was watching furtively. She too knew exactly what all these rascals were up to, and glared at the presumptuous wretch as he opened his mouth, noticing with distaste the congealed, lardy remains of a chocolate muffin embedded in his molars: “I was wondering,” he brayed, tossing his head back so the whole bookshop could hear, “if you might have a copy of Der abenteuerliche Simplicissimus Teutsch: Das ist, Die Beschreibung deß Lebens eines seltzamen Vaganten, genant Melchior Sternfels von Fuchshaim, wo und welcher gestalt er nemlich in diese Welt kommen, was er darinn gesehen, gelernet, erfahren und außgestanden, auch warumb er solche wieder freywillig quittirt—Überauß lustig, und männiglich nutzlich zu lesen, by Hans Jakob Christoffel von Grimmelshausen.” He drew breath, then plunged on. “An English translation would suffice, in which case the title would be—”

  “Simplicissimus the Vagabond,” the old woman said breezily. “That is, the life of a strange adventurer named Melchior Sternfels von Fuchshaim: Namely where and in what manner he came into this world, what he saw, learnt, experienced, and endured therein: Also why he again left it of his own free will: Exceedingly droll and very advantageous to read. Or, if you’d like it in Arabic—”

  “Er… no,” the student said, crushed beneath the bookshop’s remarkable inventory. “The English or German would do.”

  “We’ve both,” the old woman announced, shrivelling him up with a look which, despite her antipathy to light of that kind, could only be likened to the blasts of laser cannons.

  Compensation came, however, when it transpired she had to move to fetch the tome in question. Unfolding her limbs, she shuffled towards Seventeenth-Century Europe, a dusky, primeval region of literature where ever fewer ventured to go. Once there, she reached up to find the thick volume… felt for it with her fingertips… felt for its rough, basilisk-skin spine…

  Now.

  Little did the unfortunate student know that he had uttered, with that long and obscure title, a summoning spell that called out to a certain potential waiting to happen. The effect was like opening an umbrella in a thunderstorm. In the churning vault of heaven, electricity has gathered in the clouds, gathered and built, until all that is needed is a suitable moment—a hint, a word of encouragement, a suggestion, a weathervane, a clock tower, the title of a book—for the electricity to be unleashed. As the tall old woman stood with her arm stretched up, her eyes came level with a certain gap on the shelves. This space existed because a mould had infected the shelf—she herself had detected the smell several days ago and removed the books in order to dry out the wood. The mould had not shifted, she noticed, and if anything had spread itself. Resolving to tackle it again that afternoon, she tugged Simplicissimus the Vagabond free from his mooring and was about to turn away from the shelves when, without any sign or warning to prepare her for the shock, the potential was unleashed, the lightning struck, and a naked baby winked into existence right before her eyes, right there in the mouldy space and not inches from her nose.

  The baby was not large but exceedingly long, as some babies are. It immediately began to cry, either because it had kicked out and stubbed its toe in its rather confined space between books, or because this was its first moment in life—traditionally an occasion for sorrow among infants, who are unable to see the attractions of this world in the first moments of entering it, on account of their perverse and cynical natures.

  In her shock, the old woman dropped Simplicissimus. At precisely the same moment the baby rolled onto its side, and in doing so tumbled clean off the shelf. In short, it too began to fall, meeting Simplicissimus on its way down and giving it an appreciative glance, no doubt recognizing a fellow traveller, a kindred spirit, a brother-in-arms.

  It is in moments of surprise, precisely because surprise prohibits thought, that acts of extraordinary dexterity become possible. With a professional ordering of priorities, the old woman rescued the book first, grabbing it neatly with one hand, and allowed the baby to drop a little further before breaking its fall by catching it in the crook of her foot.

  A few moments later she was surrounded by customers, who were first attracted by the baby’s screams, then repelled by its dark eyes, its spidery limbs, and its SNAP SNAP SNAPPING teeth.

  Snap snap snap! they went.

  EISTEDDFOD

  Max dragged his sleeve across the laminated plastic, wiping away the dirt that had built up over the years:

  NOTICE OF LIQUIDATION

  Under Section 1.1 of International Law, The Vanishings Act, para. 59; notice is given of closure and termination of all properties containing or relating to the dispersal of printed or recorded matter deemed inappropriate by the ISPCV Council and its Ministers. This property: Argand Books, 3 St Martin’s Lane, London WC1H 7TT is to cease trading until such time when it can be secured in the interests of public safety.

  WESTMINSTER COUNCIL

  He took a step back and looked up at the weather-beaten façade and boarded windows.

  Was this really where he’d come from?

  After all those dreams about far-off lands, it was a ruined bookshop in central London? Only a few miles away from Bickerstaffes Road? In a No Zone he’d passed a hundred times?

  “Mind out.”


  Mrs Jeffers shuffled past, unlocked the door and gave it a shove. He’d learnt a lot more about her in the long conversation before the fire.

  Name?

  Suffrenia Jeffers.

  Age?

  Lost track.

  Occupation?

  Wizard. Responsible for the invention of, and later modifications to, Old Light.

  “As you go in, bear left,” she said. “Look for Russian and German literature. You Appeared on the ninth shelf up.”

  The Dark Man handed him a lantern. “If you remember anything,” he said, “even just a feeling or a sensation, take note of it.”

  Max nodded, throwing his old companion a confused look. He’d learnt a lot about the Dark Man too. He was an actual person, a scientist called Boris Peshkov who had worked for the Symposium. So he wasn’t a ghost at all. He was solid and real.

  It was like he’d gone through a Vanishing in reverse.

  Like I did, Max wondered, as he made his way into the building, his trainers crunching on grit and broken glass. Like I did when I started all this off.

  He found himself in a room filled with tall bookcases. He made his way between them, the light casting deep shadows between their empty ribs, until he found the notice, smeared with dust and mould:

  RUSSIAN & GERMAN LITERATURE

  Lifting his lantern, he entered the niche and counted up to the ninth shelf. He placed the lantern on the floor, then scrambled up and managed a quick look to the left and to the right: nothing but crumbs of plaster, dust and cobwebs.

  He jumped down.

  For a long time he stood still, allowing the distant memories of the place to tug at his imagination, just as the Dark Man had suggested. There was nothing. Not the tiniest reminder or hint of his Forever Parents.

  He hunkered down beside the glow of the lantern.

  How could he remember?

  He’d only been a baby.

  The Dark Man had discovered something strange about his memories. From the stories he’d written. It had been the Dark Man’s idea, that the scribblings of a small boy might reveal a clue about the Vanishings. But he’d got something else instead, something unexpected.

  Nothing about the Vanishings.

  And everything about the Woods.

  Accurate descriptions, one after another.

  This had been their first big breakthrough. It was like Max remembered the Woods, without ever having been to the Woods. They wanted to expose him to the Woods more directly. They couldn’t take him there, so they did the next best thing: they brought the Woods to him, in the Storybooks.

  But before the experiment yielded results, the Censorship came along.

  Since then, they had struggled to find a way forward. They had scoured the Woods. They had gone through every lead and every record the World had to offer. They had come up with nothing. Now, with no more clues, there was only one option. One way to reveal the truth about the Appearance. One last experiment.

  He shuddered at the thought of what they were asking him to do.

  It sounded impossibly dangerous, this plan of theirs. But it didn’t seem like he had any choice. He had nowhere else to go. And there didn’t seem to be any other way to find out where he came from.

  Or maybe there was.

  His dreams about the Woods had been true, they’d told him. Surely that meant his other dreams, about his Forever Parents, were also true. He didn’t believe the Dark Man’s theory that he had no parents. He didn’t believe that for a second. He just needed to find them. They would be able to explain the Appearance.

  And then he wouldn’t have to do it. This idea of theirs. This crazy, certain-death idea.

  But he still had to get to the Woods.

  He would learn nothing here.

  Not in the World.

  Not in this empty bookshop.

  He got to his feet and picked up the lantern, swinging it round for one last look at the place. The light fell across a corner he’d missed. He saw shoes and trousers. Someone was lying there on the floor, asleep.

  He edged closer.

  No.

  The shadows had tricked him.

  It was just a pile of clothes.

  The shirt inside the jumper.

  The jumper inside the jacket.

  The tie neatly knotted.

  The shoes laced.

  The socks tucked inside.

  The lantern jangled as his hand began to shake.

  These clothes hadn’t been taken off.

  They’d been emptied.

  Above them, carved into the plaster of the wall in tiny letters, were three simple words:

  I

  was

  here

  And it was as if he hadn’t understood the Vanishings, until now.

  3

  INTO THE WOODS

  When he emerged from the bookshop Boris and Mrs Jeffers were sitting round the fire, talking quietly.

  “Well?” asked the Dark Man, breaking off and standing up. “Anything?”

  Max came over and stood behind the empty armchair. He shook his head, and they glanced at each other.

  “You weren’t really expecting him to remember, were you?” Mrs Jeffers asked a little snappily.

  “It was worth a try,” the Dark Man muttered, sighing and rubbing his hair. “Considering the alternative, it was worth a try.” He glanced at Max apprehensively. “Are you sure you want to go ahead with this? If you want to change your mind, you must say so now.”

  “No, it’s OK,” said Max. “I’ll come to the Woods.” He was about to go on, to tell them about his Forever Parents, but before he could Boris was already placing a hand on his shoulder, and staring deep into his eyes.

  “I knew you would,” he said quietly. “I always knew you would. But we must go quickly. We do not have much time.”

  He turned away, and began rapidly shovelling handfuls of snow into the brazier. Mrs Jeffers lit the lanterns.

  “This one is for you,” she said. “Take it. Whatever you do, don’t let it go out.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ll need it to find your way to the Woods. Boris will explain.”

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “I’ll be making the crossing here. You’re inexperienced. We’ve arranged for you to do it somewhere quieter.”

  “Where?”

  “Look,” she said. “There are only two questions you need to worry about. Who are you? Where did you come from? If we get those answers, this friend of ours might even be able to stop the Vanishings. Now, do you want to get on with that or not?”

  “I guess.”

  “Then take this and clear off. See you in London!”

  With that the old woman turned and disappeared into the trees.

  He left the No Zone with the Dark Man.

  When they reached the barrier, they ducked into an abandoned restaurant and threaded through the tables to the kitchen.

  “We’ll be passing back into the streets,” Boris said, stopping at a service entrance. He glanced at Max. “Empty your schoolbag.”

  “Why? My clothes are in here.”

  “We’ll get you replacements.”

  Max pulled out all his clothes and left them on the floor. The Dark Man extinguished the lanterns, wrapped them in two of Max’s jumpers, and stowed them carefully.

  “Now come.” He set his shoulder against a delivery door, and thrust it open with a short burst of strength. Then they were out of the No Zone and back among the late-night crowds of Oxford Street.

  They went silently, side by side for the first time. Now and again Max glanced at the grim-faced figure, who seemed just by the force of his presence to move people out of his way. It was hard to believe Boris was a normal person like everyone else.

  “Are you really a scientist?” he asked. “You’re not a Wizard like Mrs Jeffers?”

  Boris gave his shoulders an easy shrug. “You know, in a way the Wizards are scientists. The scientists of the Woods, if you like.
”

  “Do all scientists know about the Woods? Or just you?”

  “A good many people know in one way or another. To some the Woods are an idea, or a feeling, and will never be more than that. To others they are home.”

  “How long have you known about them?”

  “Since I was a boy.” His eyes darkened. “But I do not wish to speak about that. This way!”

  A bus roared past, its engines gusting heat. They darted out behind it, crossed Oxford Street and cut up towards Marylebone. They were suddenly alone in a darkened street, their footfalls echoing against the silent buildings.

  “We’re going into another No Zone, aren’t we?” Max asked.

  The Dark Man nodded. “We need to go a little more north. I want to get as close as possible to the actual destination. Mrs Jeffers is right—the first time you cross can be tricky.”

  They came to another barrier, but instead of approaching it Boris went straight to the door of a derelict basement flat, the closest to the barrier. He took a key from his pocket, opened the door, and stepped inside.