The Beginning Woods

by Malcolm McNeill

  “So who are you?”

  “I’m… a person of welcome, shall we say.”

  “But this really looks like a church.”

  “Well, it’s like many things in the Woods,” the Father replied. “It’s different on the inside.”

  He set his shoulder against the oaken door and gave it a shove. They moved through a shadowy hallway.

  “This doesn’t look so different,” Max said. But then the Father pushed open another door, and they passed into the main building.“Welcome to the Marylebone Dormitory,” the Father whispered. “The best night’s sleep in the Woods.”

  The “church” was full of beds. Bunk beds, double beds, king-size beds, cots and hammocks, roll-up mattresses and mounds of cushions, even simple piles of straw in the corners. All the beds were occupied, sometimes with a solitary sleeper, sometimes with three or four. In one bed an entire family was lined up like soldiers—Mother, Father and four little children tucked between them. Lanterns glowing on walls and bedside lockers filled the Dormitory with a soft light.

  The Father bent close to Max’s ear. “Every year before Eisteddfod the Forest Folk gather in Dormitories all over the Woods to read messages left by the Cold Ones. They bring new gravestones, and take the old ones away as keepsakes.”

  Max was about to ask the old man about the girl in the graveyard when something blurred across his vision, a misty splodge of purple, there and gone in a second. Frowning, he rubbed his eyes—but almost at once another one appeared, suspended in the light of his lantern. It was a blotchy mix of purples and reds. Its octopus-like body pulsated slowly, and wispy tentacles undulated in the air, reaching out towards him.

  “Not him, not him!” the Father muttered, flapping his hands. “He’s awake you silly creature! Shoo! Shoo!”

  The blob changed colour slightly, then floated off, disappearing from sight.

  “Don’t be alarmed, it’s just the Dream Harvesters,” the old man said. “An invention of the Wizards. You can only see them in Old Light. Look! There’s one!”

  He held his lantern over a sleeping figure. One of the Harvesters had just enveloped the man’s head. Its tentacles were sliding into his ears, and small suckers had been placed over his eyes. For a time it simply lay there, pulsing against his face. Then it detached itself and lifted up into the air, melting away again as it left the Old Light.

  “They’re quite harmless,” the Father said. “Once they’ve collected enough dreams they go out through the chimney. See?”

  At the far end of the building a fireplace held the dying embers of a collapsed log. A slow stream of Dream Harvesters was drifting up the flue, illuminated by a row of candles on the mantelpiece.

  “Where are they going?” Max asked in a hushed voice.

  “Some go to another Dormitory to collect more dreams. Those that are full rise into the atmosphere and dissolve in the clouds. The rain falls and the dreams are absorbed into the soil. They become the nutrients that feed the Briarbacks.”

  “The trees the Dragons eat…”

  “Precisely! But come now, let’s get you to your bed. You’re lucky to have one at such short notice. It’s our busiest night of the year.”

  He led Max to a corner farthest from the entrance, where a small cot was pushed against the wall. He took Max’s lantern, which had now died out, and hung it from a hook on the wall.

  “There’s a nightshirt under the pillow,” he said, gesturing absently. “In the morning, wrap those World clothes up in your blanket, leave them under the bed, and put on the clothes you find there. Doctor Peshkov will meet you in the morning, but if you want something to eat or drink before then, just go through that door. There’s a kitchen to the left, a toilet and washroom to the right. Now goodnight! And don’t worry about the Harvesters. You won’t feel a thing, I promise.”

  With that the old man turned away and disappeared through a curtain.

  Max sat on the bed and looked around.

  Now that he had a moment to stop and think, it was actually sinking in.

  He was in the Beginning Woods.

  So much of it was already strange and startling. Warm Ones and Cold Ones. The Dormitories and Dream Harvesters. The girl on the gravestone. He’d expected it to be familiar, like snuggling under the stairs in the Book House and opening another Storybook.

  But being here was different.

  There were so many things he didn’t know.

  A boy was sleeping nearby. Obviously, being in the Woods was normal for him. Maybe he was dreaming about going to the World, with its trains and hamburgers and spaceships. Hardly breathing, he watched a Dream Harvester attach itself to the boy’s head with undulating movements of its slow tentacles. Its colours darkened, becoming inky with dreams. Eventually it floated off, pulsing with blues and greens, until it left the nimbus of light and faded into invisibility.

  What dream of mine would the Harvester collect? he wondered.

  Whatever it was, that dream would dissolve in the clouds, then fall on the Woods as rain. It would be absorbed into the soil so the Briarback trees could grow—the food of the Dragons, the fuel for their fire. Then one day a Dragon Hunter would feel that fire on his skin, and hear the mingled dreams of the Forest Folk. And the Dragon Hunter would take this treasure… where?

  What happened then?

  What did the Dragon Hunters do with all these stories?

  He changed into his nightshirt and hopped into bed. It was freezing cold. He cocooned himself under the blankets, until it all warmed up. When he was ready, he stuck his head out onto the pillow.

  Above him, the Dream Harvesters were already gathering.

  OK, he thought, with a shiver of pleasure.

  Come and get it.

  THE FINGERNAIL ESCAPE

  The dream was about a Dragon.

  It wasn’t buried under the soil in the forest like it was meant to be. Somehow it had got lost and ended up in a multi-storey car park. It was there right in front of him—a foresty Dragon with a tail as green and rich as a jungle river, a mossy giant covered in lichen and tufts of grass like a shipwreck was covered in seaweed and barnacles. If it had been lying crocodile-still in a forest, its body would have been mistaken for a hillock, its knobbly joints for boulders and its long snout for the rotting trunk of a fallen tree.

  Because of the low, concrete ceiling, its head was pressed down and its neck was stretched out, so close to Max that he could almost touch it. It was sleeping, which made sense, because that was what Dragons did mostly. The lidded eyes were shut. The claws with their thick, crusted nails rested motionless on the concrete. The tail was so long it stretched under a row of cars and snaked all the way down the exit ramp.

  As for the mouth, it was closed, safely closed… or almost closed. It was possible to make out the gleam of teeth behind the Dragon’s lips. Nevertheless, the mouth was closed.

  Or was it?

  Had that gleam of white been there before? Or had it appeared in the last second or two?

  And was it getting bigger?

  It was. Now he could clearly see the triangular fangs, and behind them the flat, fleshy tongue heaving about.

  Little by little, in secret so he wouldn’t notice, the Dragon was opening its mouth.

  The moment he realized this he became rooted to the spot and couldn’t move. The Dragon rose up, and from the murky cavern of its throat redness rushed forth, a gorgeous lava exploding from the molten core of the earth, flooding over him, burning him away—

  He woke with a start and a shudder.

  A mist was before his eyes—he rubbed them and something fuzzy and slightly warm pulsed against his hand.

  “Get off,” he mumbled, shaking his head. A Dream Harvester slid past his bedside lantern. Then he jerked back against his pillow.

  The girl from the graveyard was sitting cross-legged at the end of his bed.

  “You were having a nightmare,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I didn’t wake you, but the Harvesters like nightma
res. And it was funny. You were going all—” She screwed up her face into a twisted mash of eyes and nose and mouth. “What was it about? You kept saying I won’t I won’t I won’t.”

  Max sat up, rubbing his ears. They tingled slightly from the Harvester’s tendrils.

  “There’s something I have to do here…” he said, still foggy with sleep.

  “You mean confront a Dragon and stand in its fire? I know all that. I’d be having nightmares about it too if I were you.”

  He’d forgotten she’d guessed about Eisteddfod.

  “But you don’t want to become an Apprentice Dragon Hunter,” she went on. “So why are you doing it?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Why are you here? What time is it?”

  “Shh! We have to be quiet. Quieter than everything, or the Father will hear and send me back.”

  “Send you back?”

  She waved her hand towards the graveyard.

  “Oh.” Max nodded. “Right.”

  “Only, if I go back this time, it might be for good. It might be for ever.”

  Max squinted at her. Even in the lantern light she remained that strange grey colour.

  “What happened to you? How did you… I mean… end up there?”

  “I drowned in the millpond,” she said. “It wasn’t my fault. It’s all because of those stupid weeds. They wouldn’t let go. They did it on purpose, I know they did. I never knew weeds could be so mean.”

  Max pulled the blankets round him to keep in the warmth of the bed. He knew what weeds could be like, he’d swum in a river once and felt them touching his belly.

  “Are you still after my shoes? You can have them if you like, I’m supposed to get rid of them anyway.”

  “Your shoes? No… I don’t want them.”

  “What about your brother?”

  “Why should he get them? He doesn’t come to visit me. Nobody’s ever come to visit me! I don’t know why. All the others get visitors.”

  “The other dead people?”

  “We’re not dead!” she said, sitting up straight. “We’re just Cold. We’re the Cold Ones. Being dead doesn’t happen till later, till we’re forgotten.”

  “Where I come from it’s different.”

  “Well obviously we don’t die like World Ones. We go slowly. If nobody remembers us, or visits our graves, we fade away. Then we die.”

  “We just go straight to that last part.”

  “When you die, that’s it, there’s just a big Nothing,” the girl said, her eyes wide. “And guess what? An old woman in my village said there’s not even a Nothing, because it’s not possible for a Nothing to exist. So I wonder what there is? If there’s not even a big Nothing?”

  “There’s probably everything as usual,” Max said. “You just can’t see it because you’re dead.”

  They sat and thought about that. It was good to sit in the candlelight, trying to imagine what it was like to be dead.

  “We have the Vanishings as well now, on top of death,” Max said after a while. Then he was about to tell her about the Appearance, and why Boris wanted him to enter Eisteddfod, but instead he asked: “Do people Vanish in the Woods?”

  She shook her head. “No, never.”

  “How do you know about them then?”

  “We hear things. People cross over all the time, though not so many as before. Sometimes accidentally. Sometimes on business. Then there are the ones who enter Eisteddfod. Some of these Forest Folk right here could have been from the World originally. You never know.”

  “There’s lots of them.”

  “It’s because Eisteddfod is coming up. All the Dormitories all over the Woods will be full tonight. You can come to the graves whenever you want, but today is the special day when you’re REALLY supposed to come without any excuses, because WE come out and carve messages, and if they don’t bring the hammers and chisels and the fresh gravestones, what are we going to carve with? And nobody has EVER come for me, and I’ve NEVER had my hammer and chisel, and my gravestone is the same old one I’ve had from the start and it’s just BLANK and there’s so much I want to say to them!” Her fists bunched on the blankets, screwing it up. She leant forward, her eyes intent. “But that’s not the worst thing. The worst thing is when nobody comes to visit it means you’re being Forgotten, and when you’re Forgotten you don’t bother coming back! Why would you? So you just GO and that’s it for ever and you’re DEAD and it’s OVER. And I can tell it’s coming soon! SOON! It’s not supposed to come SOON! You’re supposed to get YEARS!” She gathered up the hem of her dress and pressed her face into it—she was crying. “Why don’t I get any years? I hardly had any at all when I was Warm. Now I hardly get any again!”

  Max didn’t know what to do or say. He reached out and touched the bed in front of her.

  “What’s that supposed to be?” she said, looking down at his hand. “You’re supposed to hug me now.”

  “OK,” Max said, and he hugged her. Her body was freezing cold, but he didn’t mind that.

  After a bit she sat back. “Thank you,” she said. “That was nice.”

  “Next year I’ll come,” he promised. “I’ll bring you a hammer and chisel if you tell me where to get them.”

  She sniffed and shook her head. “Next year will be too late.”

  “I’ll bring them tomorrow. There must be some lying around somewhere.”

  “What do I care about you?” she said, suddenly angry. “I want my parents! THEY’RE the ones who are supposed to remember me! Not YOU!”

  Max nodded. He understood that for sure.

  “So what’s it like?” he asked after a moment. “When you’re dead—Cold I mean.”

  She looked up at the moon that shone through a high window. It gleamed on her throat, and Max swallowed nervously.

  “It’s strange,” she said. “There’s a thing like a Merry-Go-Round. But it’s not a normal Merry-Go-Round. It’s so big I can’t see all of it at once. And I’m not allowed to ride on it, I can only watch it turn. It has all these beautiful Lions and Unicorns and Elephants. But there are horrible things too, monsters with block-shaped heads. Scorpions and Minotaurs and other things. When they come round I cover my eyes like this. Yuck!” She laughed, but her eyes were darker than before. “I know where they come from, that’s the worst thing. They may look like Scorpions and Minotaurs, but really they’re—” She stopped and looked at him. “You won’t hate me if I tell you?”

  “No, I promise.”

  “Promises mean nothing! Do you swear?”

  “I swear.”

  “What do you swear on? It has to be something proper.”

  “OK.” He tried to think of something proper. “I swear on my Forever Parents.”

  “Who are they?”

  “They’re… my parents.”

  “So why’ve you got a funny name for them?”

  “Look, I swear! What are the Minotaurs and Scorpions?”

  “They’re the Bad Things You Do In Life!” she whispered. “Like when I locked my brother in the cellar because he was scared of the dark and I wanted to make him get used to it and I held the trapdoor shut and ENJOYED IT. He was crying and everything and deep down inside I enjoyed it! And now it’s a Scorpion on the Merry-Go-Round. Oh, I can hardly look! But it’s not all bad,” she added quickly. “There’s this Unicorn, and I love whenever it comes round because it’s when my brother had a nightmare and was crying, and I crept down into his bed and cuddled him until he fell asleep. It’s so nice to look at because I remember… I remember just what it felt like when it happened. It felt like something special… like neither of us would ever forget it. And now maybe he has. Maybe he has! Maybe he only remembers the Scorpions and that’s why he doesn’t come!”

  Max flinched and stopped breathing—she had reached out and taken his hand. Now she was watching him enquiringly.

  “Nobody’s ever held your hand before, have they?” she whispered.

  “Not like this,” he whispered back. It was im
possible to believe the hand he held belonged to a ghost. It felt so alive, even more alive than the sparrow he’d picked up in the school playground after it had flown into the windows.

  She nodded, as if this confession was just what she’d wanted.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Max. What’s yours?”

  “Martha.”

  She relaxed her hand a little, as a test, inviting him to let go: he didn’t. And then it became something else—he was holding her hand. And she was letting him.

  His breath quickened.

  “Do you want to play a game?” she asked then. “It’s not the kind you can play with just anyone. But I’ve decided right now I want to play it with you.”

  “What kind of game?”

  “In the game I’m a Queen and you’re my Knight. You have to do anything for me. Even if it means you have to die for me, then you do it. But when the game finishes, I’m yours for ever.”

  Max shivered at the thought of such a game. “What do I have to do?”

  “The man in the bed over there has a knife in his bag. It’s got a bone handle. You can feel it in the side-pocket. I want you to steal it.”

  “What for?”

  She sternly withdrew her hand. “You’re not allowed to ask questions. Just do it!”

  Max slipped out of bed, his heart pounding. The knife was easy to find. He was back in a few moments.

  “What next?”

  “Kneel so you’re facing me. So you’re close. Like this.” She pulled him towards her so their knees were touching.

  “I don’t want to die yet,” she said. “I don’t want to be Forgotten. I know it happens to everyone someday, but I’ve only had three years. It’s like I never mattered! I want to find out why my parents haven’t come. And I can’t leave the graveyard without your help.”

  “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

  “You need to make a hole under your fingernail. I can get into that hole and hide there. Father Furthingale won’t be able to find me, no matter how hard he looks.”