by Power, Max
Holly tried calling for Charlie, but the only sound was a soft rustle of leaves along the floor of the wood. It was calm and strangely quiet. There was no birdsong here and she picked up on the silence. As her heart calmed from the shock of waking and realising her predicament, Holly gathered up her backpack and reached inside to find a small carton of forgotten juice. She tore it open and drank it greedily.
Much like her grandmother, Holly Coppertop had a quality many wish for, but seldom discover is a true part of their nature. Holly was courageous. She most certainly was not fearless for that would be foolish, but being alone in the wood meant she had to rely on herself for salvation and Holly Coppertop was not about to surrender to the fear that she began to feel sneak back in again. Charlie was not answering. The more she thought of it the more convinced she was that he was dead. Maybe the thing in the night had come back when she was asleep and had taken his body. Had she slept while some vile creature crept up in the night and stole him away? She shivered. It didn’t bear thinking about and she had to be strong.
She gathered her things and picked a direction. It was pointless trying to figure out which way was out, Holly had no forest skills but she knew that Darkly Wood was not limitless, so common sense told her to pick a line and stick to it. She would eventually walk free to the edge of the wood and it didn’t matter which side she exited. Her quick decision making gave her confidence and eased her fear, although Charlies’ absence worried her deeply. It was something she simply had to put aside if she was to get out of Darkly Wood. There was no sense in what had happened. There were no animals large enough in the area to drag him off and the only logical conclusion to Holly was that someone had stalked them and taken Charlie. But the questions still remained, who and why?
Holly walked for about an hour and stopped when she discovered that she was back at the same tree she had started from. She knew it was the same tree because she had forgotten to pick up her empty drink carton.
“Impossible?”
She looked around in search of an alternative track to take. Holly tried to find where the sun was, she didn’t know much about the workings of a compass or using the sun to navigate, but she reckoned if she kept the sun to one side of her then she couldn’t walk in a circle again. But there was no sun, only a steady dull dreary half-light so she chose another direction and this time, tried hard to remember landmarks but really, that proved impossible.
When she returned to the tree for the third time, Holly let out a frustrated “Rrrrrrrrgh!” She sat on a large stone and cupped her face in her hands. This was ridiculous. But then something moved in the trees nearby. Holly heard it and froze. She didn’t move her face from her hands but peeked through her fingers at the ground beneath her feet. She tried to listen for directionality. There it was again, off to her right.
Slowly, she twisted her head to the right and scanned the tree line. There was nothing at first, but then something definitely moved. It was low and small and it disturbed the fallen tree litter then stopped. Whatever it was, the thing that moved in the wood, the only thing that seemed to move in the wood, was about thirty metres away.
It moved again as though burrowing through a mountain of leaves and detritus. Holly felt as though her heart might explode as it rapidly crossed the open space between them. When it was no more than ten feet away the invisible creature sprung to the left and Holly felt the fear rise again. It raised its head above the deep leaf matter and looked directly at her. It was a grey squirrel. Holly felt the relief wash over her and she smiled. But then something much larger slammed down from high in the canopy above, landing on the squirrel and snapping its neck.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR – HENRY HEALY’S DILEMMA
Although he had dreams of being a great man of medicine, Henry Healy never quite made the grade. He was an average man and an average doctor. He was quite capable but medicine was hard. It was a time of such great uncertainty and a time of great innovation in the medical world. It always seemed thus and one day’s remedy was the next day’s quackery. Henry would have liked to be a researcher but again it was not for him.
He was likeable and he had enough basic skill to help people, so setting up his own practice with the help of some funding from his father, was ultimately the perfect choice for Dr. Healy.
He had helped with births, seen off a fair few patients at the end of their lives and in between he was a patcher of wounds, a straightener of bones and a dispenser of medicine. He had seen most things but he had never seen anything like what was happening in the Flincher household. Henry was stumped. That is until he had a strange visitor, an odd man with a persistent cough. He called in the dark of night and normally Henry would not have allowed easy access to such a peculiar stranger but there was something unstoppable about this man. When he opened the door, the stranger simply said,
“I have come to help you with your Flincher problem,” and pushed past him to stand by the fire.
“I…I…beg your… look here… you can’t simply… I say you will…” Poor Henry Healy was afraid and confused. He was afraid, confused and incapable of stringing a challenge together so the bescarved stranger helped him.
“My name is Wormhold. I have heard you have a problem with a family in your town, one of catatonia. I can help.”
The boldness of the assertion and his knowledge of Caroline, Finius and Petunia’s condition calmed Henry a little. But he was still a little flustered. Wormhold was not finished.
“They have a condition of the mind, an illness if you will of unknown origin. I have seen it before and I have cured it before. If you will permit, I can help you help this poor unfortunate family?”
Henry studied the stranger now that he had calmed a little. He looked dirty as though he had lived rough for some time. His clothes were undoubtedly once the clothes of an affluent gent, but they were old now and tatty and there was that smell.
“Are you a doctor sir?” Henry tried to take control but Wormhold held all the cards.
“This will spread if you do not let me help you treat these poor unfortunates. This time next week, half the town will succumb to the condition and in a month you will be lucky if there is anyone left. But the Flinchers do not have days sir, they have hours.”
He moved from the fire and Henry noticed a deep scar across both dirt caked eyebrows. His mouth was covered by a scarf and rudely he never removed the scarf or his worn old top hat.
“I will call to the Flinchers tomorrow at noon. Be there and bring your surgical knives.”
He brushed past Henry and before he could reply the door slammed behind the most peculiar stranger, leaving Henry alone to decide what to do. He had looked up every medical book and journal he had, but there was nothing to help inside their covers. The strange affliction that overpowered the Flincher family was beyond him for sure.
He had no idea who the strange man was, but he clearly had some knowledge at least of the problem and why else would he have called if not to help? It made no sense otherwise. Henry Healy was in a bit of a dither. What if what he said was true and the whole town was in danger. Henry would call to Cathecus in the morning and tell him of the stranger’s late night visit. He would seek his council; after all it was his family who were in danger. Henry didn’t like uncertainty. It was time to be forceful and to take charge of the situation.
He poured himself a brandy and drank it straight back. He would sleep on it tonight and make his decision in the morning. Yes, indeed that is what he would do.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE – DEBBIE
Debbie Delicate was mocked for her name. They called her delicate Debbie or worse. It was hard enough being born with a name that is in itself an affliction, without being born with an actual one. It seemed that God and the world were mocking her too as she was born with Polio.
When she was fourteen, Debbie had eventually hardened to some extent to the bullying and unkindness that she experienced. She loved music and spent hours in her room listening to the latest recor
ds on her record player. Although she had few advantages in life, one she had was that her parents spoiled her, so Debbie had a wonderful collection of records. It was one way of gaining acceptance as music allowed others into her world, if only to use her to listen to Debbie’s enviable record collection.
Finally through her music, she began to feel as though she had been released into the world as an individual, free from her name that she so wished she could change. Debbie developed her own style much to her mother’s annoyance. Rock and roll was taking over the world and Debbie was finally starting to feel as though she might someday feel on top of it.
Her illness was debilitating and she wore callipers which she hated, but rock and roll somehow freed her spirit and with her new and growing collection of friends, her confidence also grew. They stopped calling her names and it seemed every day she gained a new music friend. They came to borrow her records or just listen to her collection. Not everyone had a record player. Sometimes, the records wouldn’t make their way back, but Debbie didn’t mind, her father would get her new ones. He was happy that she was happy and if that meant a constant stream of greasy-haired oiks and floaty-skirted, pop-socked, loud girl-friends streaming in and out of their house, then that and a few records each week was a small price to pay.
When Debbie wasn’t listening to her music, she dreamed of walking, running really, through the beautiful tree lined tracks of Darkly Wood. It could never happen of course but maybe, she thought she could walk there some day. Such a dream. The gently sloping meadow that led up to the wood was far too long and for her at least and far too steep to make that dream a reality. She would have to be carried there and that was not an attractive proposition.
Instead, Debbie often crossed the small wooden footbridge that forded the stream running the length of Cranby. It was like a mini-moat. As she often did on warm summer days, Debbie made her way to the other side of the bridge and leaned against the rail to admire the view. Darkly Wood was truly magnificent. It just sat there like a majestic ancient forest watching over her town. Everyone knew the stories, but they were nonsense, just folklore and fairy tales, but it only added to the attraction of the wood.
On her last trip across the bridge Debbie hesitated. For a moment she thought she might turn back, for there was a strange man sitting in the grass just about ten feet ahead of her with his back to her. Debbie hesitated, but for some reason her apprehension faded and she was unafraid.
“Isn’t it a place of true beauty?”
Debbie knew exactly what he meant. He was talking about Darkly Wood of course and he never turned to face her. Debbie looked past him at the Wood on the hill and smiled in answer as though he could hear her expression. It seemed he could and he spoke again.
“Makes me smile too.”
Wormhold stood up and turned around. What a sight he was. The day was so hot and there he stood, top coat and hat with a thick scarf wrapped around his face. All she could see was his crooked nose and his startling, smiling eyes.
“You wish you could go there am I right?” As he spoke, Wormhold slowly approached her and held out his left hand which she took with her right. Peculiar and unfamiliar as he was, it still seemed like the most natural thing in the world to do. She stepped forward and he turned so they stood side by side. He held her hand aloft and slowly began to walk in the direction of Darkly Wood. Debbie took her first tentative steps with him, somewhat oblivious to the difficulty her leg braces were causing as she moved.
“Who are you?” Debbie never looked to her right at Wormhold; instead her eyes were drawn to the wood.
“My name is Wormhold my dear.”
“That is a strange name.” It was and he didn’t dispute the fact.
“Do you know the stories of Darkly Wood young lady? Have you heard tales of creatures most foul and how sometimes those who dare venture into its heart are never seen again?”
“I’ve heard the stories Mr. Wormhold,” she replied, “but they are just stories. My dad told me the story of Little Red Riding Hood when I was a child. He told me of Hansel and Gretel, Snow White, they are all scary tales of scary things in scary woods. None of them are real. None of them are true, just like this place.”
Debbie spoke with absolute confidence. She knew she was right. Wormhold picked at a thread.
“Your father was a wise man to tell you these stories. Once upon a time, children heard more in the tales than just fantasy. There was a time when such stories were as close to true as you could imagine. Wolves roamed places like this; Little Red Riding Hood must surely have been an amalgamation of true tales turned into a warning. Much like Hansel and Gretel who seem to have no relevance now, but there was a time when witches were more real and present in people’s lives and their practices did not exclude the use of children in rituals.”
Debbie never flinched nor questioned Wormhold. They had been walking all the time as he spoke and she was unaware of the magnitude of her accomplishment. The walk in normal circumstances would have been impossible for Debbie, but she was oblivious to it and as Wormhold spoke, it felt as though she was under his spell. Debbie felt as though something was controlling her, mesmerising her. It was the wood she thought. It was drawing her, pulling her and Wormhold simply held her hand aloft and spoke softly to her as she closed in ever closer on the place that she dreamed of in her sleep.
When they finally reached the edge of the wood, she stopped and turned to Wormhold.
“Who are you?” It was the second time she had asked the question but this time she was looking for more than just a name.
Wormhold smiled, but she only saw it in his eyes. He liked this girl. Something moved in the trees off to her left, but Debbie wasn’t distracted. She looked straight at the strange man and the smile faded from his eyes. He let her hand go and turned to wave his hand in a grand gesture back from whence they came.
“Look my dear.”
She turned and looked back and realised immediately that she had somehow walked the whole way up across the meadow. They were standing at the edge of Darkly Wood and it was impossible.
“I am the thing we all fear.”
Debbie looked at him once more, but she was unafraid and what he said made no sense. She wore a puzzled look on her innocent face. Wormhold reached out and touched her cheek ever so gently. His hand was freezing cold and it was rough to the feel. She could smell him for the first time and the odour was unpleasant. Debbie wondered how she hadn’t smelled it before.
“What are you afraid of my darling girl? What frightens you the most?”
Again there was movement in the wood. This time it was closer, still in the shadows, moving faster. There was urgency in the movement. It was the movement of a creature, a beast, a thing of the forest, something primeval that was becoming impatient and Debbie felt it for the first time.
She looked at Wormhold and then back along the flattened trail in the grass behind them. He took her hand and led her past the first small saplings growing near the wood’s edge. He led her in just a little deeper and all the while their eyes never left each other. She felt the air change as the sunlight was smothered by the thickening canopy. They walked in just a little further and came to a small clearing. All around there was long grass and thickets of gorse and it felt very claustrophobic. Wormhold turned to face her again and then he took a step back. His voice lowered a notch. He asked her once more.
“What are you afraid of child?”
The thing that moved in the undergrowth, scuttled closer just behind her. It was something vile, that much she knew now in her heart. She was startled by the noise and movement and she tried to turn to see what was stalking her. But she couldn’t turn. Instead her legs gave way and she collapsed in a heap on the forest floor. It seemed to be crawling with creatures. There were all things slimy that crawled, worms, centipedes, beetles and they were moving in vast numbers, all clambering, competing with each other to crawl and scuttle their way to Debbie. Wormhold towered above her and his co
at fell open.
When she looked up she could see his high waist trousers, the thick leather belt with an enormous brass buckle and his once elaborate blue velvet waistcoat, now mottled and filthy. The scarf still covered his mouth and neck but his eyes were different now. They had become small, piercing and dark. There was no smile in those eyes. The thing behind her stopped just a couple of feet away. It was breathing a hungry, anxious breath but she couldn’t turn to face it. Instead she looked at Wormhold and he hunkered down before her. She felt beads of sweat roll down her face. Her soft safe trance was gone, replaced with cold, vile-smelling fear and he asked her again.
“What are you afraid of?”
Behind her Woody shuffled on his bony knees, knuckles pressing into the forest floor, sniffing the air. He softly cried,
“Washeeeeesh.” It was a terrifying, sound, an ancient unrecognisable sound and Debbie felt weak. One final time, this time impatiently, Wormhold asked the question that seemed to matter most to him.
“What… are you really afraid of?”
Debbie looked at him and answered the only true answer in that moment.
“You.”
She saw his eyes smile again; the creature behind her, now breathing down her neck seemed to chuckle and Wormhold began to unravel the scarf from around his neck.
The despair of her loss was made worse by the nature of what the villagers discovered when they eventually came across the scene. All they found was a pair of leg braces. They were covered in blood, patches of skin caught in the folds and joints, where they had torn off in the walk to the wood, patches of shin that Debbie never felt rip from her joints as Wormhold held her hand and led her to Darkly Wood. It was the only evidence that she had ever been in Darkly Wood. There was much speculation and investigation. Not for the first time in its history, Darkly Wood was searched from end to end and nothing was uncovered. Debbie was never found. She was just another story, another tale to add to the folklore another victim of Darkly Wood. But she was much more than that.