The Beginning Woods

by Malcolm McNeill

  “OK,” he said. “Lanterns. Dump your bag—you won’t need it.”

  Boris seemed to know exactly where he was going. Lanterns lit once more, he led Max through the empty home, into the kitchen, then the living room, and then hammered on the back of a boarded-over window. The wooden panel fell outwards with a booming sound, and they clambered out onto the pavement.

  They were on the No Zone side of the barrier, in a deserted square of unoccupied townhouses. Here too the trees were taking over. There was a small private garden in the centre of the square—that was where they’d started off, Max reckoned. And now they were on the rampage.

  Boris secured the panel back on the window, then turned to face the square.

  “You need three things to get to the Woods,” he said. “First, it needs to be night-time. Crossing during the day, I believe, is impossible. Second, you need some form of Old Light—a flame, a candle, a lantern. The third thing you need,” he said, pointing towards the centre of the square, “is trees.”

  Max followed him towards the park. The Dark Man stopped at the gate, and peered into the trees. They had taken over the place—the lawns, the flowerbeds, none of it remained.

  “It’s hardly there any more,” Boris muttered. “I hadn’t expected that.”

  “What’s not there?” Max asked.

  “The path,” said Boris.

  He pointed down, and moved his finger forwards. Only the barest trace remained. It snaked away and disappeared into the darkness.

  “The Beginning Woods is in here?” Max asked doubtfully.

  “The Beginning Woods is never exactly anywhere. It drifts. Sometimes it’s close, and other times it’s far. In a No Zone at night, we’re halfway there already.”

  “Why does night make a difference?”

  “Because to get to the Woods you have to make the World”—Boris gestured round at the buildings—“disappear.”

  “How are we going to do that?”

  “That’s what the lanterns are for. Keep your eyes on the flame. The Old Light will do the rest. And whatever you do, don’t leave the path.”

  “How can I watch the path if I have to watch the flame?”

  “I never said it was easy,” muttered Boris. “Now come on. Just try to feel it with your feet.”

  He set off through the gates, Max keeping close behind. It was hard to believe the Beginning Woods was anywhere near, not with the silhouettes of chimneys and rooftops looming through the branches and an entire city beyond, with its cars, buses, shops and hotels, its cement and plastic and metal.

  The Dark Man’s voice drifted back. “The flame. Keep your eyes on the flame.”

  “I won’t be able to see anything!”

  “That’s the idea…”

  He held the lantern more in front of him, and stared into the glow. It expanded into his eyeballs, destroying his night vision, sweeping away the rooftops, the chimneys and the No Zone. Soon all he could see was a burning globe, and trees flickering darkly round its edge. He began to feel the trembling, uncertain presence of a forest, one that extended a thousand miles in every direction. And then he began to imagine it, to see it in his mind’s eye—a primitive place of absolute stillness, of boulders dissolving under mossy shrouds, and clearings where nothing had stirred for hundreds of years. He tried to hold onto this fragile image and found himself murmuring over again, as a kind of incantation:

  Bigger than the best of dreamers could ever imagine.

  Darker than they could ever fear.

  Full of more wonder than they could ever imagine.

  The more his mind worked on it, the more sure he became that the forest was there around him—and then it was the city which was trembling and uncertain, and impossible to imagine.

  His eyes slipped away from the light.

  His lantern came up with a jangle of brass.

  The Dark Man had been only a few steps in front.

  Now, not a trace of him remained.

  Gone! Boris had crossed over without him. Leaving him behind. Could you be left behind?

  He had to catch up.

  He broke into a run. “Wait for me!” he shouted. “I’m coming!”

  Light swung from side to side. The trees grew and shrank, grew and shrank. He tried to keep his eyes on the lantern, but it was impossible. And… where was the end of the park? It had been so small. He should have come to the fence. Or the houses.

  He slowed down and stopped. Took a few steps forwards. Stopped again. Looked up through the treetops.

  The buildings. They’d gone. All of them. All he could see through the branches was the moon and the stars.

  This wasn’t London.

  This was the Woods.

  He slowly lowered his lantern. The trees around him quivered, seeming to waken as a tremor of fear pulsed through his body.

  Night-time.

  And he was alone.

  Whatever you do, don’t leave the path. He looked down quickly. He’d edged off it. He edged back, slowly, one step at a time, trying not to disturb the trees.

  Then.

  A slight noise.

  Crackled above him.

  Moving his head very slowly, he looked up. And… what was that? Was it… could it be… that the trees… were spelling it out…

  m a x

  He fled.

  The path pitched and dived under his feet. But now there was something devious about it, something malevolent and treacherous—and sure enough suddenly it melted away with a snicker and a wink: Good luck!

  He kept going. Branches swung down out of the darkness, blocking his way. He forced his way through them.

  Stopped.

  Stood still, catching his breath, fighting back panic.

  He needed to get on the path again. He tried to retrace his steps, but the trees had closed in behind him. Soon he was squeezing his way sideways between their trunks.

  Darkness grew around him.

  The shadows thickened.

  It was the lantern. Running out of fuel, the flame inside dwindling down. Soon it was little more than a candle, a faint glow behind glass. He held it up to his face. Don’t go out! Stay with me! Just a bit longer!

  tap tap tap taptap taptap

  He jerked round.

  What was that?

  He strained his ears. It was a light, rhythmical tapping. Something like metal on stone. Coming from far off to his left.

  taptaptap

  Only one thing was capable of making that noise.

  People!

  He ran towards it. The Woods threw obstacles in his way—brambles, roots and boulders. He staggered through them, over them, round them.

  tap tap tap taptap taptap

  It grew louder. But quickly it divided in the air, splitting into separate sounds that came at him from all sides.

  tap tap tap

  tap taptaptaptap

  taptaptap

  If it was people, they were everywhere. He just couldn’t see them. Where were they?

  CRACK!

  He fell forwards, pain lancing up his shins. He squeezed his eyes shut and curled into a ball. He’d tripped on something hard sticking out of the ground.

  taptaptaptaptap

  Right beside him! In a flash he was up and scrabbling for the lantern. It had fallen against a low, curved headstone. Its light flickered gently against the inscription:

  ONE DAY

  YOU CAUGHT

  A FISH

  AND LET ME

  PRETEND

  I HAD

  What?

  He looked behind.

  There was another. That’s what he’d tripped on. A headstone, just like the first, low and carved with strange words:

  WHEN

  I WAS

  HOT IN THE

  FIELDS YOU

  BROUGHT

  WATER

  A man was kneeling beside the headstone. He was totally grey from head to toe, even his clothes. In his hands he held a hammer and a chisel. He peered at
Max with an amused expression, then stood, bowed, doffed his cap… then sank out of sight, vanishing, the hammer and chisel thudding onto the ground behind him.

  But already Max had seen the others.

  They were all looking right at him.

  Very carefully and slowly, he stood up.

  People?

  No.

  Ghosts!

  Ghosts in a graveyard!

  They had to be ghosts. They were all that same peculiar drained grey colour. There were dozens of them—men, women and children of all ages. Each was kneeling before their own headstone. The nearest, a grandfather with his beard tucked into his belt, nodded at him solemnly, then bent close to his stone and delivered one final blow with his hammer and chisel.

  tap

  He blew the dust from the stone, wiped it carefully with his cap—and melted into the ground with a sigh, his tools dropping behind him. The others returned to their work. The strange tapping rang out once more.

  Max edged closer to read the grandfather’s words:

  I

  PUSHED

  YOU IN

  THE NETTLES

  BROTHER

  FURGIVE ME

  “You shouldn’t be here yet,” said a voice.

  He jerked round, his fright coming out in a startled yelp.

  A light, grey girl was watching him. She was perched on one of the stones, her skinny knees almost up round her ears. She had a strand of her long hair curled round a finger, and was nibbling at the springy tuft as she watched him curiously.

  “You’re one of the Warm Ones,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’re not supposed to read the messages until morning.”

  Even though she was a ghost like the others, it was impossible to be scared of someone his own age. So for a moment he watched her back, with a curiosity of his own.

  It wasn’t that she was pretty… he wouldn’t have said that, or, at least, he wouldn’t have admitted it. But grey was… definitely… the wrong colour for her. And looking at her, right then, he very much wanted to know what her real colours were.

  The thought of them, the thought of what those colours were… that was pretty.

  “What messages?” he asked. “Wh-what are you talking about?”

  She took the hair out of her mouth and peered at him, her pinched face amused and curious. “Don’t you know?”

  He came a little nearer. “I’m not from here. I’m from London.”

  Her arm, thin as a candlestick, pointed into the trees. “London’s that way.” She hopped off the gravestone and walked up to him boldly. She was barefoot and only wore a thin woollen dress. The cold didn’t seem to bother her.

  “You’re a World One, aren’t you?” she said, looking him up and down.

  “A what?”

  “You’re from the World. You must be here for the Eisteddfod Competition. Are you?”

  “Yes,” Max said. “Well, sort of.”

  “That’s nice. Can I have your shoes before you get killed?”

  “Before I… what?”

  “I know,” she said. “Everyone thinks they’re going to be the one that survives. Which is strange, because about two hundred World Ones enter it every year, and there’s only ever the one survivor.”

  “Only ever… one?”

  “Sometimes two. I think once, ages ago, there were three. But that didn’t count because they found out after, the third one, he was a big fat cheat. The Dragon Hunters didn’t like that at all. It’s pretty stupid trying to fool the Dragon Hunters.”

  “You’re just trying to scare me.”

  “You should be scared. I don’t know why anyone would want to enter that stupid competition. Who’d want to become a Dragon Hunter? They’re so surly and mean. All they ever do is stride about in the Deep Woods digging up Dragons.”

  “I’m not trying to become a Dragon Hunter,” Max said. “I’m doing it for… never mind what.”

  She seemed surprised at that. “Why else would you enter Eisteddfod? It’s so dangerous. You shouldn’t ever even go near a Dragon, let alone—”

  “I’m sorry,” Max interrupted her. He didn’t want to talk about Dragons any more. It just reminded him of the Dark Man’s plan. “But… are you… are you a ghost?”

  “A ghost! No!” She reached forward and pinched him, hard. “Can ghosts do that? Of course not! Anyway, ghosts are make-believe. Who believes in ghosts?”

  “I just saw an old man. He sank into the ground. He was here. Right here. How did he—?”

  “When we’re back, we’re back. When we go, we go. That’s all. Are you going to give me your shoes or not?”

  Max looked down at his ratty old trainers. “Why do you keep going on about my shoes?”

  “They’re for my brother. He’ll be your size soon. They’re here tonight on a visit—my Father, my Mother, my brother. My whole family!”

  “To see you?”

  “Yes!” she said. “Well, they don’t get to see me. They get to read the message. But I know they’re here, and they know I’m here. It’s nice.” She followed his gaze to the stone she’d been sitting on, which was still blank. It was older than the other stones, too—covered in moss and white lichen, while all the others were new. “I just haven’t done mine yet,” she added, her eyes flicking towards him. “I’m still thinking what to say.”

  Max was about to ask how long she’d been in the graveyard when a thin voice rang out in the night air. An old man in a dressing gown was coming through the trees, holding a lantern high.

  “That’s it! Time for bed! How are your visitors supposed to sleep with all this taptaptapping going on? You should’ve finished by now. You’ve had all year to think about it! Hammers down! Chop-chop!”

  He seemed to possess authority over the spirits. As he passed they melted into the ground, their hammers and chisels thudding onto the grass. He soon spotted Max’s lantern and came hobbling up to them, his bright eyes gleaming.

  “There you are!” He prodded Max in the chest with a bony finger. “We’ve been looking for you, young man, and here you are right where you’re supposed to be! Appearing out of nowhere all over again. You like that sort of game, eh?”

  He winked knowingly, and was about to say something more when the girl bounded towards him.

  “He’s NOT supposed to be here, Father Furthingale. It’s too early to read the messages. Kill him and take his shoes! He’ll be dead soon anyway!”

  “Dead?” the old man exclaimed. “Why will he be dead, child?”

  “He’s entering Eisteddfod! He’s going to get burnt to a crisp like all the others.”

  “Oh you silly girl, haha!” The old man laughed nervously and glanced at Max. “He won’t get… burnt to a… no. No no no. We’re quite sure of that. Quite sure.”

  “How are you sure?” asked the girl.

  “Never you mind,” the old man said. “You know the rules. Time to sleep for another year.”

  She pouted and wormed her way under his arm. “Why should I care about rules?” she asked unhappily. “Nobody else does.”

  He sighed and gave her a comforting squeeze. “I know, my dear. Today of all days they should be here. It’s a long way from your home and the Paths aren’t as safe as they used to be. I’m sure they’ll make it next year.”

  The girl darted a guilty look at Max, then buried her face in the old man’s chest. “I don’t care if they come or not! I don’t!”

  “You don’t mean that,” the Father said. “Now come along, it’s time to sleep.”

  Her face appeared, streaked with tears. “No, Father! I’m staying up to count the stars, remember?”

  “What in the Woods gave you that idea?”

  “Every year they haven’t come you let me. That means it’s a rule!”

  The old man sighed. “Well, yes, I suppose it does. But only the stars to the left of the spire. Don’t start in on the ones to the right.”

  He kissed the top of her head fondly. She span away, suddenly gleeful, and l
eapt back onto her gravestone.

  “One,” she said, pointing up at the sky. Then, after careful selection and a long pause: “Two.”

  The old man shook his head, smiling, then beckoned to Max.

  “That goes for you too, young sir. Bedtime! Our friend Doctor Peshkov is out on the Paths looking for you. When he returns, I want you nicely tucked up safe and sound!”

  Max followed the old man through the trees. As they went, he looked back at the grey girl, perched once again on her gravestone.

  She wasn’t counting the stars at all.

  She wasn’t even looking at the moon.

  She was nibbling her hair, watching him.

  THE MARYLEBONE DORMITORY

  “You crossed over almost at once,” the Father said as they made their way through the graves. “Doctor Peshkov wasn’t expecting that. Normally it takes longer for the Woods to materialize, especially for first-timers. You got here well ahead of him.”

  Max kept breaking into a trot to keep up with the old man, who seemed keen to escape the wintery chill.

  “Where is here?” he asked.

  “Why, Marylebone village of course. Same as where you crossed over.”

  “Marylebone? In north London?”

  “North of London.”

  “But… Marylebone is in London.”

  “Not here it isn’t,” the old man said. “You’ll see.”

  They soon emerged from the graveyard. The white stone walls of a church rose up ahead, gleaming in the bright moon. It stood on a small country lane that cut its way into the distance between open fields. There were no other buildings in sight.

  “London lies a few miles south,” said the Father, pointing as they scrunched across the courtyard. “North leads to Marylebone village. Beyond that and you’re in the Woods, so it’s stick to the Path or face the consequences! Go further still, and you’ll be in the Deep Woods. Dragon territory,” he added. “Only the Dragon Hunters go there.”

  “I read lots of stories about the Beginning Woods,” Max said as they went up the steps of the building. “I didn’t read anything about churches.”

  The Father smiled. “How many books would I have to read before I knew everything about the World?”

  “Lots I guess.”

  “And in this particular case, you didn’t know there were churches in the Woods because there aren’t. You’re probably supposing I’m a priest as well. But I’m not!”