by Неизвестный
The walls continued along the other side of the street. Tom wondered what they enclosed. The voices could still be heard from the other side of the hill, beyond the wall. He realized that they were singing the song that Mina had started. Life was full of such coincidences, though.
“Odd that there are separate parks. They were probably one big park, once upon a time.”
“Three parks are thrice as nice. The rainbow’s end must be in the park above this one.”
Hand in hand they crossed over. At the alley’s mouth a sign – another quaintly old-fashioned hand-and-finger – pointed to a gate. The close way was barely wide enough for the couple to walk abreast along its short length. Ivy clung to the stone walls, and the metal gate, though unlocked, was covered by nets of spiderweb. This gave the entrance a neglected feel, as though it had only recently been opened after a long period of closure.
By the gate was another hand sign, but this one pointed straight down, as though it were broken, and two fingers were open in an inverted “V”. It bore the legend MIDDLE PARK.
“Someone’s idea of a joke,” hazarded Tom.
“There should be a main entrance to them all … somewhere.”
“On the other side, probably. Is this Middle or Upper Park? The sign’s confusing.”
“We shall find out. The gate’s been unlocked for us, Tom!”
Curiosity aroused, they pushed open the gate and walked through. They found themselves on a prominence, surprisingly higher than the garden below and facing the city’s southern purlieus. They stood and admired the prospect.
“What will be the view from the third park?” wondered Mina. “We’ve seen north, south, east, and west. So it must be a fifth direction.”
Like the lower park, this one had bright flowerbeds and a keepers’ brown hut. A path meandered down a hill that was much steeper on this side than on its northern aspect. A wooden, green-painted pagoda crowned the rise. On this exotic structure they found a notice board that gave details of various flora and fauna. Tom remarked on the unusual lack of graffiti on the building. In the grass before them mushrooms, thriving in an unusually wet summer, grew in a speckled troop.
“Do you think they might be edible?” asked Mina as, letting go of Tom’s hand, she bent down to examine the fungi. “They’re like Chinese ones, with the different shapes.”
“They must come with the pagoda. We could have them for tea,” Tom joked as he studied the crop. “Best not to, though, not with coloured ones. Unless we’re sure.”
“What’s there to be sure of? We are in the Orient, with the pagoda and the mushwumps. There ought to be a Chinese garden here.” Mina spoke lightly as, ignoring Tom’s warning, she reached out her hand to pluck a mushroom. At her touch the red and yellow dappled fungi unexpectedly exploded in a cloud and she jumped, sneezing and waving her hand in front of her face. Motes hung the air for a moment before drifting away on the balmy afternoon breeze.
“I don’t think they were actual mushrooms.” As Tom spoke some lingering spores caused him to sneeze as well. It was so violent a sneeze that his vision blurred.
“My eyes are watering. Are they red?” asked Mina, dabbing at her face with a tissue. “I hope they’re not toxic. You hear scary things about fungi.”
She presented her face to Tom, looking up at him. His vision clearing, he examined her blue eyes. As his own eyes adjusted something appeared just at the edge of his field of vision, vanished when he glanced after it. He turned his gaze back to Mina’s eyes.
“No, they’re okay,” he reassured her. “Don’t worry. The park keepers wouldn’t let anything poisonous grow here. Health and safety.”
He took the opportunity to kiss her and stroke her blonde hair. She responded with a hug. But that floater was back at the corner of his eye …
“Oh look! The rainbow is going. We’ve sneezed it away.”
Even as they embraced, the arch of colour began to fade.
The mushrooms, too, now seemed drained of colour. Their hues, as if borrowed from the rainbow, became a uniform, shrivelled grey.
“You have to be careful with sneezes,” said Mina, disengaging from Tom and blowing her nose again. “They can let the devil in.”
“The velocity of a sneeze is incredible,” added Tom. His nose still tickled as he studied the mushrooms. He looked down the hill, then, his eyes following the serpentine path to where it entered a grove of trees at the foot of the slope. Black things were on the grass. Crows! Still and watchful rags of old night on the greensward. Few buildings could be seen, and he thought of how verdant London really was when one took the time to notice. Some steeples rose amid the greenery, along with the metal pylon at Crystal Palace and the tower of the Horniman Museum. Other wooded hills dotted the skyline. The ancient forest reclaiming its own? Perhaps. It had never been too far away, really. A hidden world, lain dormant for a while within a landscape we had thought to know …
As though she had read his thoughts, Mina said: “The Great North Wood.”
Tom nodded. He had the feeling that here, in this place, they could glimpse the ancient arboreal world, despite their immediate surroundings bearing the stamp of Man – the path, the pagoda, the neatly cut grass and bedded flowers, the parkie’s brown hut. There was something other, something to which he could not give a name.
Mina spoke again. “This was the very edge of the Great North Wood. It ran from the Weald right up to London. It was not all that long ago, really, that it was cut down. Most of it, anyway. A hundred and fifty years.” As she spoke she stared into the distance, like one entranced. “They still remain, bits of the wood, between the streets and houses, overlooked. I think that people don’t want to see what’s there, at the edge-land, if you know what I mean?”
Then she added: “Gypsies lived in the Great North Wood. It was famous for them.”
“I know what you mean,” Tom said, although he was not quite sure.
Apart from Tom and Mina and the still, dark birds the park appeared deserted. Not a soul was visible on its high green slope and empty benches. (Did the keeper take Sunday off?) Tom slid an opportunistic hand down her waist to squeeze a buttock through tight jeans and whisper (as though someone nearby might hear?): “We could go into the bushes.”
“Don’t even think about it,” she told him. But, smiling, she didn’t remove his hand.
At the margins of the park, its wild edges, bushes and trees grew in lush abundance – enough to conceal any goings-on from prying eyes. The park covered only a few acres but, perhaps thanks to the twisting path, gave an Escher-like impression of a much larger territory. The effect of the enclosing wall of verdure was to camouflage the actual dimensions of a landscape that rejected the tyranny of fixed perspective. And if the separate parks were united, without roads and houses and walls to divide them, a considerable domain would be encompassed.
Where, in relation to its sisters, lay the Upper Park? Tom thought of them as female, it seemed right. In this district there was Mabbs Hill and Annis Hill – one named for the queen of the fairies, the other bearing an old, out-of-fashion English name.
“Shall we go down the path, to see what’s there?”
“I’d rather try the bushes,” Tom grinned, giving her another squeeze.
“The last time we tried that it was me who got their bum stung by nettles! I want to find the other park, explore a bit. There’s another funny signpost with the fingers.”
Indeed there was, just where the path down the hill began. Tom hadn’t noticed it before. He studied it dubiously. It bore three hands with fingers pointing in various directions, but there were no words to name routes or places. One indicated the way they had just come, another pointed down the hill along the path. And the third – again with two open fingers – pointed at the ground where Tom and Mina stood. It had probably come loose.
Tom became convinced that the signpost hadn’t been there before. Which was silly. You just didn’t notice it. Then the hands began to revolve on th
e post as the singing came again.
It came from nearby – not exactly in the park, but just outside, disturbing the still afternoon. There was no sound of traffic, Tom suddenly realized, and no birdsong. The latter was strange, given the abundance of foliage. The singing grew louder, voices rising and falling. It was a choir, almost chanting the old song about somewhere over the hill and far away, repeating the words. As in a religious rite, he thought. There were a number of old churches in the area. Some offered an exotic, exuberant form of worship. Was it from them that this song came? Or perhaps from another, more local tradition?
The hands stopped turning, their fingers now pointing at them as Mina slipped from Tom’s grasp. Seeming to forget him, she walked away down the path.
“Wait for me!” he called. He looked over his shoulder, seeking another exit from the park, but couldn’t find one. If his geography was correct going down the hill would take them well away from home. And home was a place he had the sudden inclination to return to. He could be alone with Mina, for one thing, but there was also a niggling uncertainty at the back of his mind. He was beginning to feel disorientated, perplexed by the park’s capricious bounds. Even the signposts couldn’t agree on location or direction.
As he followed Mina down the path he saw she was looking attentively to one side, as if listening to a companion speak. She stopped suddenly, seeming confused. In a moment Tom had caught up and took her hand again. Staring at him she shook her head, then laughed.
“That was funny! I thought you were walking beside me.”
“I was left behind. You walked off.”
“I could have sworn …”
She shook her head again and they continued down the winding path. She took another look at Tom, as though (he thought) she were not quite sure of who he was, or why he was there with her.
Then he realized that they were not alone in the park. A man was walking ahead of them, well down the hill. Tom had not seen him before. Perhaps he’d been in the bushes with the woman? Because there was a woman, or at least a blonde feminine figure, walking some way ahead of the man. At first the man seemed to be following her, but then he hurried past, the two seemingly oblivious of one another.
“I want to find the other park. If this is the middle one, then the upper will be much higher. On another plane.” She pointed to the two figures further down the hill. “We can follow those two up there. That must be where they are going.”
“They are down,” said Tom. “We are up. Let’s go home. We can find it another day.”
Surprisingly she responded in a sing-song voice, like a child reciting doggerel.
“Given is the time and given the place, when the upper and lower come to embrace.” Then she spoke normally. “We don’t want to miss that, do we? I don’t, anyway. It’s so rare that it happens.”
“What on earth are you on about, Mina?”
“I’m not sure myself! The words of songs just keep coming into my head. But I would like to see the place, find it. Not many do. We’re privileged, actually.”
On occasion, Mina would go into what might be called a fey mood. Tom had always indulged them, and he decided to humour her now.
“We’ll have a look for it then. It can’t be too far away.”
“You know what, Tom?” She paused and pointed down the hill. “I think that the rainbow has something to do with it. See! It’s come back, to show us where it lies.”
Indeed, the shining arc had returned, further down the slope, beyond the stand of trees at the end of the path. It bathed the spot in a peculiar greenish-gold haze. It was somehow logical that the other park, either middle or upper, should be there.
Below them the man entered the grove, to be followed a few moments later by the blonde woman. Tom and Mina followed. She began to sing, not very well, but with some commitment:
“Somewhere, over the rainbow, bluebirds fly, there’s a land that I heard of once in a lullaby …”
Forgetting the rest of the words, she repeated the verse before stopping.
Tom turned to look at the bow of light and saw that behind them two new figures were descending the path – a man and a woman. The latter seemed familiar. Did the park attract blondes? But, before Tom could get a proper look, Mina had let go of his hand and was forging ahead. He increased his pace and caught her hand again. And again she looked at him with some surprise before pulling him along in sudden haste.
“Come on, we don’t want to miss it.”
“It can’t be far,” he replied. “No rush.”
But again she let go of his hand and began to run down the path, never looking back.
“Mina!” he cried after her, “Why so urgent?”
She called something in response which Tom couldn’t make out. Then, with a shrug, he followed after.
Mina had slowed to a brisk walking pace but somehow Tom couldn’t quite catch up with her. He didn’t care to run, but a fast walk should have him overtaking her. Perhaps it was down to the gradient of the hill, which seemed steeper than it had looked from the crest of the hill. Then there was the meandering path, so sinuous that if a walker kept to it they could not but turn left or right after every few steps.
“This is hardly the old straight track!” he called to Mina.
“This is the right road to the …”
Mina had again spoken without looking back at him, and Tom didn’t catch her last word. They were quite close, now, and he tried to grab her by the arm, but grasped only air. His vision must be at fault, because now she was some yards ahead, striding determinedly on.
Tom stopped for a moment in perplexity. Why was the path so much longer and steeper than it had first appeared? It was, he realized, more than a question of perspective. He looked back up the hill to see that the path apparently formed a circle. The lie of the land. The land was indeed lying to him, and Tom was shocked at the deceit. If he walked straight up the hill, leaving the path, it would take only a couple of minutes to reach the green pagoda. There were others standing by it now, quite a crowd looking down at him. Where had they come from? Had they been there all the time, and he had somehow not noticed them?
That must be it, for they were the singers, though calling or chanting might better describe the sound. Were they a congregation, participants in some outdoor religious service?
Tom turned, intending to call Mina. She was now at the very bottom of the hill, and not alone. The man who had been on the path now had her hand in his, as though leading her into the stand of trees.
“Mina!” he called, and ran down the hill as fast as he could. He left the pathway, thinking to follow a direct route. But somehow the earth gently tilted, forcing him back onto the winding way. He tried again to run across the grass, but to no avail. More insistently this time, he was pushed back onto the path. And another signpost had appeared, this one bearing a familiar notice:
KEEP OFF THE GRASS
The post was topped by three fingers again. One pointed uphill, the second level with his head, the third straight down. The middle finger span around then and stopped, pointing directly at him. Tom watched it for a moment, then began to feel a distinct sensation of dizziness, vertigo even. Closing his eyes, he rested a hand on the post to steady himself. When he opened his eyes again all three digits had turned to point to the foot of the hill where Mina stood, deep in animated conversation with her new companion.
The man looked vaguely familiar, but at this distance Tom couldn’t be sure if it was someone they knew. But that was beside the point. The man was taking a liberty with his girlfriend. He would see to that.
As Tom hastened down the path, keeping well clear of the grass on either side, he had the feeling he was being followed. One of the crowd on the hill, perhaps? He turned to look, but as he did so the follower passed him on the other side. Tom did what’s often called a double take, for the person who’d just passed him was Mina. Or her double. Doublers! It was said everyone had them. Even he possessed one, he realized, in the form
of the fellow at the foot of the hill with … whoever it was.
The Mina who walked just ahead of him took his hand, which was reassuring. The pair below were gesturing for them to follow, into the trees.
“Amazing!” he cried. “They are … they might be us. Even their clothes.”
Mina said nothing, just smiled and pointed to where the rainbow painted the land below in a kaleidoscopic glitter. They walked quickly downhill and passed through the trees, coming to a small bridge over a stream. There was another signpost with pointing digit, indicating the crossing. It read MIDDLE PARK. They had found it at last. The other couple had disappeared but, given the uncertainty of the landscape, were surely somewhere about.
By the near-end of the bridge there stood a board with a notice attached, which they stopped to read. Instead of the expected by-laws, there was a hand-written message in bold capitals. Mina read aloud:
“See what is there, not what you are told is there.” Her voice was breathless with excitement. “I know that I have been here before. Seen it. Dreamt …”
Then she ran across the bridge, into the enchanting at the rainbow’s end. Mina, Tom realized, was to be the treasure there. He paused, uncertain, and called her name, which was not enough, for the girl had already been translated.
And in the blink of an eye all had changed again, and he stood alone by the gate of the park, where the road ran. Not the yellowbrick one, either. He looked up to see brightness fade in the air. It might have been his name that was called from it, just once. But it might not, and by then it was too late to follow, anyway.
SIMON KURT UNSWORTH
Into the Water
SIMON KURT UNSWORTH lives in an old farmhouse miles from anywhere in the Lake District, where his neighbours are mostly sheep and his office is an old cheese store in which he writes horror fiction (for which pursuit he was nominated for a 2008 World Fantasy Award for Best Short Story).