In Fallen Woods

by R N Merle

  John did not rest well. He kept imagining Darklin in some dark room, her face stricken, and wet with tears. When he did sleep, he dreamed he was looking into her eyes. She smiled, and shattered like breaking glass. Pieces of her lay in tiny fragments, but before he could do anything, they were washed away in a stream of water. He woke with a start. He watched the sky until it lightened, then bolted out the door.

  Armed with his sickle, and Willow at his heels, he started off into the woods, at the spot where Darklin usually departed. His eyes fell upon a faint trail shallowly covered by leaves, and he began to follow it.

  He did not have any idea where the witch’s house was. He remembered Darklin saying it was a place where daylight could hardly reach. It seemed too easy that he would be able to follow the trail straight there.

  He was right. A distance from the forgotten orchard, the trail came to an end near a woodland pool. John crouched by the water, and took a long drink. Kicking aside fallen leaves, he searched for footprints, but the summer had hardened the ground, and there were none to be found. He circled the trees around the pool, looking for obvious gaps in the foliage and broken twigs.

  John located a spot which looked as though it might conceal a pathway, and began cutting a trail through the thick undergrowth. Willow followed sombrely, with his tail between his legs, sensing his master’s desperation. Bracken and branches scratched John’s hands and face as he struggled to make inroads. Finding it impossible, he tried again in another place.

  Throughout the morning, John trampled down half-imagined paths, pushing through barriers of trees that looked like they might conceal something, but only hid more bushes and branches. Startled blackbirds shrieked warning calls and fled as they heard his approach. His frustration grew more and more. Leaves and twigs were stuck in his hair, moss and cobwebs coated his skin and clothes. He struck angrily at the bracken and creepers. No matter where he searched, he could not find any trace or sign.

  John made his way back to the pool, and dropped to his knees, exhausted. He tried to remember anything from their conversations that would lead him to her, but it was no good. He searched around the pool again, this time having the advantage of the midday sun, and at last caught sight of a footprint, dried hard into the mud. He followed its direction, hope giving his weary body strength. He battered down branches, twisted his body through close-growing trunks.

  When at last he stumbled out into a clearing, his heart sank as he took in a place he recognised; the forgotten orchard. He was about to turn back to the pool when he had an idea. He raced uphill to Rosamund’s tower, with Willow bounding after him. He leapt up the stairs until he reached the top. He went first to the west, scouring the trees for any sign of a house or clearing. The woods lay unbroken before him. He tried the east, the south, there was nothing. His heart was heavy when he went lastly to the north. He swept aside the growing vines of ivy, and knelt on the stone window seat. More uninterrupted green and gold. Beyond the trees, he could see the castle in Fallenoak, but there was no sign of a house in the woods. He trod slowly back down the stairs.

  Instead of returning immediately to the pool and starting again, he made a detour. He walked and half ran to Mrs Day’s cottage, hoping she might have an idea of how to find Darklin. Willow trotted straight into the cottage garden, joyously greeting Greylady, who slowly and dignifiedly wagged her tail in response. Mrs Day was watching from the cottage door. John saw her face was etched with worry.

  ‘She has not come back.’ Mrs Day said anxiously.

  ‘No.’

  Mrs Day looked him over. ‘You’ve been looking for her?’

  John nodded.

  ‘Well, come inside and have a bit to eat, get your strength back.’

  John followed her inside and flopped down at the kitchen table, while Mrs Day brewed him some tea, and ladled out a large bowl of stew.

  ‘Do you have any idea how I can find her?’

  ‘I don’t, my love, or I’d go and look for her myself. That witch will keep herself well hidden, you can be sure of that.’

  ‘May I ask what it was that you wanted to speak to Darklin about?’

  ‘Did Darklin tell you what happened the day of the party?’

  John was not sure what she might be referring to. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Did she tell you about the dreams she’s been having? asked Mrs Day.

  ‘About the family by the sea?’

  ‘She realised who they are. Her real family.’

  ‘Her family? But I thought the witch was her mother?’

  ‘That woman stole Darklin from them, and blocked all of Darklin’s memories with her magic. Darklin has only just begun to remember them.’

  John thought of how far away and preoccupied Darklin had looked at the party, as she sat beside Mrs Day in the barn. Now he knew why.

  ‘I am worried that she’ll do something rash.’ said Mrs Day

  ‘The witch will do something to her.’ John interrupted, feeling anger and fear growing inside him.

  ‘No, the witch is weak. It’s Darklin I’m worried about.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘When Darklin became a witch, she took inside her a dreadful kind of dark magic. Each times she uses it, it changes her, eats away at the goodness inside. So far she has not used it enough to harm her, but I am worried. She was so angry and determined to find out about her family. I am worried that she will use the magic with all that ill feeling inside her, and it will go too far.’

  ‘What would it do to her?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. It might change her in a way that she couldn’t recover from. It might blacken her heart in the same way it has that woman’s. She might become a person that you would not want to bring into your family.’

  ‘No, I cannot believe that.’

  ‘It’s dangerous, that magic. Do not doubt it.’

  ‘Does Darklin know?’

  ‘She knows. But if it’s the only way she can learn who she really is, her only means of finding her family, she must be tempted.’

  John nodded solemnly.

  ‘I must get to her,’ he said, rising from his seat, draining the tea down his throat, ‘Before anything happens.’

  ‘I will pray that all will be well.’

  When John got back to the pool, it was late afternoon, and the sky had already begun to darken. He tried again to find a path, hacking into the dense woodland, determined that it would reveal something. He tore at the undergrowth, using his anguish as energy. He kept going until it was almost dark. If he stayed out much later, there was a chance he would get lost. Defeated, he returned along the trail that led towards Shadows End. Bess would be worried, he thought. The one hope in John’s heart was that when he got home, Darklin would be there waiting for him.

  He trudged through the woods with Willow pressed close against his legs. When he saw Bess waiting outside the house, he knew then that Darklin was not there.

  ‘Did you find her?’ she asked.

  John shook his head.

  ‘John, you are covered in scratches.’ Bess said as he got near enough for her to see them. ‘Go and wash up, I’ll find one of Mrs Day’s remedies.’

  John slumped into a chair at the kitchen table. Bess daubed at the wounds with some balm. ‘We will find her. Even if we have to search every inch of the woods, we will find her.’

  John rested his head in his hands.

  ‘I can’t help feeling there is something badly wrong.’ he muttered.

  ‘Don’t speak like that. We have no reason to think the worst, and it may well be that everything will turn out fine.’

  John’s face was unchanged, as if he had not heard her.

  John sat silently in front of the fire all evening, his body still and tense. Bess kept the children occupied, playing games with them.

  ‘Where is Darklin, why hasn’t she come?’ Tom asked. ‘She said she was going to teach us how to write our names.’

  ‘Be quiet, or bed early.’ Bes
s said in a tone her brother knew not to argue with.

  John did not go to bed that night. He stayed by the fire, wanting to be out of the house, before first light. His body was stiff and exhausted, and he fought to keep his eyelids open. He must not miss a minute of the light. He rested his eyes, just for a moment…

  When he woke, he judged that the sun had been up for a while. He cursed. Willow got up and stretched, and slowly wagged his tail. John knew he couldn’t neglect his responsibilities two days in a row, so as quickly as he could, he started a fire in the range, went outside to see to the animals, then hurried down to the river to collect water.

  The morning sky was white, and mist was curling over the water. The trees and grass were laced with spider's webs, beaded with dew. Nearby, a robin sang brightly, and John stood listening for a few moments, absorbed in prayer.

  He wished his father was with him, so that he could feel the comfort of his strength and wisdom, even for a moment. He felt so helpless. If he lost her….

  ‘I will find her today.’ he said to the river. He knelt by its bank and splashed his burning eyes with the cold water. Just then he noticed a ripple speeding down the river towards him. It passed him by, followed quickly by another. They began to occur in quick succession, picking up speed with each new wavelet. Finally, a large surge sped towards him, slapping against the riverbank, splashing over the sides, carrying along with it branches, reeds and dead leaves.

  The wave passed, but the river maintained an abnormally rapid flow. John frowned and shook his head, unable to account for the river’s strange behaviour. As he turned to leave, he noticed something drifting in the current; gleaming white in the murky water. As the shape grew nearer, John’s heart stopped.

  Darklin’s body floated towards him, her arms outstretched, unmoving; her white face tilted to the white sky.

  19

  The Shadows

  John plunged into the cold river, racing against the flow to catch her. The deep water moulded around him, needful and possessive. His boots fought to hold their place in the thick silt, as the urgent pull of the current endeavoured to unbalance him. Soon the water was up to his chest, and he was very nearly out of his depth, but still he waded further until he reached mid-stream. The murky water rushed over his chin, and splashed into his nose and mouth.

  As she floated toward him, he positioned himself, anticipating where the current would take her. In an instant she was within arm’s reach. He snatched at her, and made vital contact, but his hold was not firm. He had grasped only the tips of her cold fingers. His right hand held on to her, aching to generate the strength he needed. He would not let go. He tugged her toward him, and with his other hand, he grasped her wrist, then her arm until he had her torso clasped in his arms.

  He leaned into the water, taking enormous strides toward the bank. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tree trunk speeding towards them. John halted abruptly, and changed direction. His footing slipped, and the current knocked him sideways, tugging them both downstream. As the water carried them, John could only think of keeping Darklin’s head above water. He kicked downwards, and somehow managed to anchor his foot in the riverbed, and stand up again.

  As he neared the bank, the water became shallower, the current slower. John shifted Darklin against his body, and waded to safety. As he lifted Darklin clear of the water, he saw that she wasn’t wearing shoes, and her ankles were harshly tied with a long rope. He laid her sodden body on the bank, frantically untied the knot, and threw the end of the rope back into the water.

  He hauled himself out of the river, and caught her up in his arms again. Her face was white, bloodless, and her eyes were lightly shut. Long strands of bright green river weeds were twisted into her hair, which lay stuck against her skin in black tendrils, and curled around her throat. She looked dead.

  John’s only thought was that he couldn’t let her go, and clung to her. He sat, embracing her preciously against him, binding them together with the shaky strength of his arms. The dead weight of her head rested on his shoulder, and he gently rocked her, as if she were a child, drifting off to sleep.

  A gurgling noise emanated from Darklin’s body. John stilled. A gush of water trickled down his chest. He felt Darklin’s body jerk with a violent shudder, and she heaved, as more water was expelled. She coughed and spluttered, and took a gasping breath.

  ‘John,’ she rasped.

  John let out a sound made up of anguish and hope. He slowly lowered her, so that her face was before his eyes. He was almost afraid to look.

  Darklin’s eyes flickered open then closed.

  John’s voice trembled with fervent emotion, with unspeakable dread.

  ‘Darklin? Darklin, my love. Look at me.’

  ‘John.’ she whispered, her eyelids trembled as if she were trying to open them, but didn’t have sufficient strength.

  ‘Hold on, Darklin. I love you.’

  John rushed to his feet with Darklin in his arms, and ran toward the house, carrying her as gently as he could. The small distance to the house suddenly seemed like miles, and he could not get there soon enough. Finally, he pushed open the kitchen door. He could hear the drips from their water logged clothes patter on the stone floor, as he stopped by the range. ‘Bess! Bess!’

  Tom came rushing down the stairs, his eyes widening with fear when he saw them.

  ‘You must fetch Mrs Day. Run.’ John told him. Tom sprinted out the kitchen, for once he did not stop to ask questions.

  Bess hurried into the kitchen, and froze with shock as she saw Darklin pale and limp in John’s arms.

  ‘Is she…?’ Bess whispered hoarsely.

  ‘We need to get her warm.’ John said, as he brushed past her. Bess followed him upstairs into their parent’s room. John laid Darklin carefully on the bed, then quickly lit a fire in the grate.

  ‘For goodness sake, go and put some dry clothes on, and watch Grace and James while I see to Darklin. They’re in my room.’ said Bess. John reluctantly left. Bess stripped off Darklin’s wet clothes, dried her body, and pulled her into clean, dry ones, the warmest she could find.

  Bess covered Darklin in blankets, then sat on the bed beside her, gently drying strands of her sopping hair. John rushed back into the room, and stared down at Darklin. Tears streaked Bess’ face, and her hands shook.

  ‘What is it?’ John urged, picking up the cloth and continuing to towel Darklin’s hair.

  Bess looked up at John. ‘She’s covered in marks and bruises.’

  Bess pulled back one of Darklin’s sleeves, exposing black and purple finger marks of a large hand. A man’s hand. John did not say anything, but his eyes flashed with fury.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Bess.

  ‘I don’t know. I just found her floating in the river.’ John murmured, his jaw clenched tightly. ‘Does she feel warmer to you yet?’ He touched Darklin’s cheek. Her skin was cold, but so were his hands; he couldn’t judge her temperature.

  ‘I think she is a bit warmer. I will fetch some of Father’s brandy. It might help.’

  Bess hurried off, while John studied Darklin for signs of improvement. Her face had no colour, and her breathing was very shallow. Bess returned with the brandy, and John lifted Darklin’s head whilst Bess moistened her lips with it.

  John watched Darklin intently, fearing that the moment he took his eyes off her, she would slip away. He gripped hold of her hand, trying to pass his strength and energy to her, as if his own will for her to survive would see her through. He thought of the lambs he had kept alive through the cold early spring nights; he had been able to revive them with heat and care. He had not given up hope then, and he would not now. As he held her hand he could feel her pulse; each tiny movement a communication of life. He silently prayed that as the hour passed it would grow stronger.

  ‘Mrs Day will be here soon, if anyone can help, she can.’ Bess said encouragingly.

  Their desperate vigil was interrupted by a pounding at the door. John did not
stop to wonder why Mrs Day had bothered to knock, but bolted down the stairs to let them in. He flung the door wide. His eyes widened in shock. A man stood before him.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. May I speak to your father?’

  ‘I am the master of the house.’ John replied curtly.

  ‘Very well. I am the jailor from Fallenoak. A young woman suspected of some dreadful crimes escaped early this morning along the river. Have you seen her, or noticed anything out of the ordinary?’

  John’s entire body stiffened. He was sure that the man was speaking about Darklin. They were trying to track her down. John’s first instinct was to deny having seen anything out of the ordinary, or to send the man on a wild goose chase, but before he could decide what to say, he saw the man’s eyes fixed on the stone floor behind him. John glanced backward. Wet footprints marked the path John had trodden. They were undeniably, inexcusably obvious. The jailor looked questioningly at John.

  John cleared his throat. ‘This morning as I went to fetch the water, I was standing on the riverbank, and a surge of water swept by me. I saw the body of a young woman with long dark hair, drifting face down in the water. I waded out to catch hold of her, I almost caught her too, but the current pulled her out of my reach. Would’ve done no good anyway, the lass was dead.’

  ‘You are sure?’ asked the jailor.

  ‘I have no doubt.’ replied John impassively. ‘What was she suspected of?’

  The jailor visibly relaxed, then leaned toward him. ‘Witchcraft.’ he said quietly.

  John’s skin prickled. ‘A witch, that is strange indeed. What happened? How came she to be caught, and allowed to escape?’

  The jailor related how Darklin had been captured, and the events of that morning. ‘It was a sight to behold, though few could see what truly happened, the mist was that thick. In the chaos, the Squire got tossed from his horse and was killed instantly, though few are sad about that. We had two men drown, including the Parson, and the witch hunter himself is missing. He took off after the girl. We found his horse, but no sign of him. We think the river must have taken him too. I have never seen anything like it.’ finished the jailor.