Mythago Wood

by Robert Holdstock

  It seemed that the boat was dragged by a current, faster and faster. It shot over rapids, with Sorthalan working the rudder expertly, and Keeton and myself hanging on to the rowlocks for dear life. Once we came perilously close to the chasm’s sides, and only frantic tacking of the sail avoided disaster.

  Sorthalan seemed unbothered. His elementals were now a dark and brooding swarm of shape behind and above us, although occasionally a streak of sinuous light would dart ahead, winding up through the autumnal forest which lined the gorge.

  Where were we going? Attempts to get an answer to that question were met with a single finger prodded upwards, towards the plateau on the inward side of the river.

  We came into the sun, the river a blinding, brilliant gold. The elementals crowded ahead of us, forming a gloomy veil through which the sun was dimly filtered. In shadow again, we gasped as we saw an immense stone fortress, rising from the water’s edge and built up the whole of the cliff to our right. It was an astonishing sight, a series of towers, turrets, and crenellated walls, seemingly crawling up the rock itself. Sorthalan urged the boat to the far side of the river and beckoned us to lower our heads. I soon saw why. A hail of bolts struck the boat and the water around us.

  When we were beyond firing range I was instructed to wrench the short wooden shafts from the outer hull, a job more difficult than it sounds.

  We saw other things on the walls of the ravine, most notably a huge, rusting metal shape, in the form of a man.

  ‘Talos!’ Keeton breathed as we sailed rapidly past, the wind tugging noisily at the sail. The giant metal machine, a hundred feet high or more, was crushed against the rocks, partly consumed by trees. One arm was outstretched across the river and we sailed through the shadow of the huge hand, half expecting it to suddenly fall and grasp us. But this Talos was dead, and we passed on from its sad, blind face.

  A strong surge of anxiety made me demand repeatedly in English, ‘Where the hell are we going, Sorthalan?’

  Christian, by now, was miles away, days away.

  The river could be seen to be curving as if around the plateau. We had covered many many miles ourselves, and the day was nearly done. Indeed, abruptly Sorthalan pulled the boat to the shore, moored it and made camp. It was a cold evening, very wintry. We huddled by the fire, and spent several hours in silence before curling up to sleep.

  There followed another day of the same, a terrifying journey across rocky shallows, down endless rapids, around great swirling pools, where silver-backed fish of incredible size darted at us.

  Another day’s sailing, another day of watching ruins, shapes and the signs of primitive activity on the enclosing cliffs. At one point we passed below a cave community. The scrubby trees had been cleared, exposing the cliff face, and there were nearly twenty caverns carved, or fashioned, in that vertiginous wall. Faces peered down at us as we sailed past, but I could see no more detail than that.

  It was on the third day that Sorthalan cried out cheerfully, and pointed ahead. I peered over the side, squinting against the bright sun, and saw that the river was spanned by a high, crumbling bridge, which extended from cliff top to cliff top.

  Sorthalan guided the boat to the inward shore, furled the sail, and let the little vessel coast on the current until it was below the huge stone edifice. A great shadow passed over us. The immensity of that bridge was breathtaking. Bizarre faces and animal forms had been carved on the span. The supporting pillars were shaped from the cliff itself. The whole bridge was falling into decay, and even as we were clambering ashore a huge stone, twice my height, detached itself noisily from the arch above us and curled silently and terrifyingly down to the water, where its splash nearly swamped the three of us.

  We began to climb almost at once. What was a daunting prospect proved to be far easier than I had expected, since there were ample hand and footholds in the crudely-carved supporting pillars. The tenuous shapes of Sorthalan’s entourage were clearly visible around us, and I realized they were actually helping us, for my pack and spear seemed lighter than I’d expected.

  Abruptly the full weight of my pack returned. Keeton gasped too. He was poised precariously on the sheer pillar, three hundred yards or more above the river, and suddenly unaided for the first time. Sorthalan scrambled on, calling to us in his ancient tongue.

  I risked only one glance down. The boat was so tiny, and the river so distant, that my stomach gave way and I groaned aloud.

  ‘Hang on,’ called Keeton, and I looked up, and took reassurance from his grin.

  ‘They were helping us,’ I said as I hauled myself after him.

  ‘Tied to the boat,’ he said. ‘Limited distance they can move, no doubt. Never mind. Nearly there. Only about half a mile to go …’

  For the last hundred yards we climbed up the vertical face of the bridge itself. The wind tugged and teased at me, as if hands were pulling at my pack, trying to dislodge me from the great structure. We climbed over one of the grinning gargoyle faces, using its nostrils, eyes and lips as handholds. Eventually I felt Sorthalan’s strong hands clutching at my arms, dragging me to safety.

  We walked briskly to the plateau, over the crumbling bridge gate and through the trees beyond. The land sloped up, and then down, and we emerged on to a rocky knoll from where we could see across the wide, winter landscape of the inner realm.

  This, clearly, was as far as Sorthalan would accompany us. His legend, his purpose, bound him to the river. In our time of need he had come to our aid, and now he had shown me the way to Guiwenneth, the shortest way.

  He found a bare patch of rock, and used a sharp stone to scratch out the map that I would memorize. Distantly, mere vague outlines on the far horizon, I could see twin peaks, snow-capped mountains. He indicated them on the rock, and drew the valley between them, and the standing stone. He showed how the valley led to forest that bordered a part of the great wall of flame. I could see no smoke from here; the distance was too great. He marked, then, the way we had sailed. We were closer to the valley than at the place where Christian had crossed the river. If Guiwenneth did escape from my brother, and made her way, by whim or instinct to the valley of her father’s grave, then Christian would have several more days’ journey.

  We were closer to the stone than he was.

  Sorthalan’s last gesture was an interesting one. He drew my flint-bladed spear from where I had secured it in my pack and made the mark of an eye upon the shaft, about two feet from the stone blade. Through the eye he scratched a rune like an inverted ‘V’, with a squiggle on one tail. Then he stood between the two of us, a hand on each of our shoulders, and propelled us gently towards the winter land.

  The last I saw of him, he was crouched on the bare rock, staring into the far distance. As I waved so he waved back, then rose and vanished into the trees behind him, making his way back to the bridge.

  I have lost track of time, so this is DAY X. The cold is growing more severe. Both of us concerned that we may not be equipped for an intensely cold environment. Twice during the last four days, snow has fallen. On each occasion only flurries, which drifted through the bare branches of the winter wood and hardly settled. But an ominous portent of what is to come. From higher ground, where the forest thins, the mountains look uninviting and sinister. We are getting closer to them, certainly, but the days go past and we seem to make no real ground.

  Steven is becoming more on edge. Sometimes he is sullenly silent, at others he shouts angrily, blaming Sorthalan for what he sees as an interminable delay. He is growing so strange. He looks more like his brother. I had a fleeting glimpse of C in the garden, and while S is younger, his hair is wild, his beard thick, now. He walks in the same swaggering manner. He is increasingly adept with sword and spear, while my own facility with a spear or knives is non-existent. I have seven rounds left for the pistol.

  For my part I find it continually fascinating to think that Steven has become a myth character himself! He is the mythago realm’s mythago. When he kills C the de
cay of the landscape will reverse. And since I am with him, I suppose I am part of the myth myself. Will there be stories told one day of the Kinsman and his companion, the stigmatized Kee, or Kitten, or however the names get changed? Kitten, who had once been able to fly above the land, now accompanying the Kinsman through strange landscapes, ascending a giant bridge, adventuring against strange beasts. If we do become legends to the various historical peoples scattered throughout this realm … what would that mean? Will we somehow have become a real part of history? Will the real world have distorted tales of Steven and myself, and our quest to avenge the Outsider’s abduction? I cannot remember my folklore well enough, but it intrigues me to think that tales – of Arthur and his Knights, perhaps (Sir Kay?) – are elaborate versions of what we are undertaking now!

  Names change with time and culture. Peregu, Peredur, Percival? And the Urscumug – also called Urshucum. I have been thinking a lot about the fragmentary legend associated with the Urscumug. Sent into exile in a very far-off land, but that land was England, and an England at the very end of the Ice Age. So who sent them? And from where? I keep thinking of the Lord of Power, who could change the weather, whose voice echoed around the stars. Sion. Lord Sion. I think of names, words, half remembered. Ursh. Sion. Earth, perhaps. Science, perhaps. Earth watchers exiled by Science?

  Do the earliest of folk-heroes, or legendary characters, come not from the past but from …

  Whimsy! Simple whimsy. And there is the rational man in me again. I am hundreds of miles into a realm outside the normal laws of space and time, but I have come to accept the strangeness as normal. That said, I still cannot accept what I believe to be abnormal.

  What happened, I wonder, to the Kinsman’s friend? What has legend told of faithful Kitten? What will happen to me if I do not find the Avatar?

  We began to starve. The woodland was a desolate and seemingly uninhabited place. I saw certain fowl birds, but had no means of catching them. We crossed brooks and skirted small lakes, but if there were fish in them then they chose to hide well from our sight. The one time we saw a small hind I called for Keeton’s pistol, but he refused to give it, and in my momentary confusion I let the beast escape, even though I charged between the sparse thickets in pursuit and flung my spear with all my might.

  Keeton was becoming superstitious. At some point in the last few days he had managed to lose all but seven bullets. These he guarded with his life. I found him examining them. He had marked one with his initials. ‘This is mine,’ he said. ‘But one of the others …’

  ‘One of the others what?’

  He looked at me, hollow-eyed and haunted. ‘We can’t take from the realm without sacrifice,’ he said. He looked down at the other six bullets in his hand. ‘One of these belongs to the Huntsman. One is his, and he’ll destroy something precious if I should use it by mistake.’

  Perhaps he was thinking of the legend of the Jagad. I don’t know. But he would no longer use the pistol. We had taken too much from the realm. There had to be a time of repaying favour.

  ‘So you’ll force us to starve,’ I said angrily, ‘through a silly whim!’

  His breath frosted, moisture forming on the sparse hair of his moustache. The burned skin of his chin and jaw was quite pale. ‘We won’t starve,’ he said quietly. ‘There are villages along the way. Sorthalan showed us that.’

  We stood, tense and angry in the frozen forest, watching as a fall of light snow drifted from the grey heavens.

  ‘I smelled wood smoke a few minutes ago,’ he said suddenly. ‘We can’t be far.’

  ‘Let’s see, shall we?’ I replied, and pushed past him, walking briskly on the hard forest floor.

  My face was suffering badly from the cold, despite my growth of beard. Keeton’s enclosing leathers kept him warm. But my oilskin cape, though a good waterproof, was not good thermal wear. I needed an animal skin, and a thick fur hat.

  Within minutes of that brief and hostile confrontation, I too smelled a wood-burning fire. It was a charcoal maker, in fact, in a cleared woodland glade, an earth mound over a deep fire pit, untended. We followed the beaten track to the stockade of the village, just visible ahead, then hailed the occupants in as friendly a tone as possible.

  They were an early Scandinavian community – I can’t say ‘Viking’, although their original legend must surely have included some elements of warriorhood. Three long houses, warmed by large open fires, peered out into a yard overrun with animals and children. But the signs of past destruction were evident, for a fourth house was burned to a ruin, and outside the village was an earth mound of a different sort from the charcoal maker – a tumulus in which, we were told, eighty kinsfolk lay, slaughtered some years before by…

  Well, of course.

  The Outsider.

  They fed us well, although eating food from human crania was unnerving. They sat around us, tall, fair-haired men in great furs; tall, angular women in patterned cloaks; tall, bright-eyed children, their hair, boy and girl alike, braided over the crown. They supplied us with dried meat and vegetables, and a flagon of sour ale that we would jettison as soon as we were beyond the stockade. They offered us weapons, which was astonishing, since a sword to any early culture represented not just wealth, but possession of an implement that was normally very difficult to obtain. We refused. We did accept, though, their gifts of heavy reindeer-hide cloaks, which I substituted for my own cape. The cloak was hooded. Warm at last!

  Swathed in these new clothes, we took our leave on a mist-shrouded, icy dawn. We followed tracks back through the woodland, but during the day the fog became denser, slowing us down. It was a frustrating experience, which did not help my humour. Always at the back of my mind was a picture of Christian, getting closer to the fire, approaching the realm of Lavondyss where the spirits of men were not tied to the seasons. I could also clearly see Guiwenneth, trussed and despondent behind him. Even the thought of her riding like the wind towards her father’s valley was becoming hopelessly anguished. This trek was taking so long. Surely they would be there before us!

  The fog lifted later in the day, though the temperature dropped still further. The wood was a bleak, grey place, stretching endlessly around us; the sky was overcast and sombre. I frequently shinned up the taller trees to look for the twin peaks ahead of us, for reassurance.

  The wood, too, was increasingly primitive, thick stands of hazel and elm, and an increasing preponderance of birch on the higher ground, but the comforting oak seemed almost gone, except that occasionally there would be a brooding stand of the trees, around a clear, cold glade. Rather than being afraid of these clearings, Keeton and I found them to be sanctuaries, heart-easing and welcoming. Towards each dusk, the moment of finding such a dell was the moment of camping.

  For a week we trekked across the icy land. Lakes were frozen. Icicles hung from the exposed branches of trees at the edge of clearings, or open land. When it rained we huddled, miserable and depressed. The rain froze, and the landscape glittered.

  Soon the mountains were a lot closer. There was a smell of snow on the air. The woodland thinned, and we peered along ridges where old tracks would once have passed. And from this high land we saw the smoke of fires in the distance, a village haven. Keeton became very quiet, but also very agitated. When I asked him what was wrong he couldn’t say, except that he felt very lonely, that the time of parting was coming.

  The thought of not having Keeton’s company was not pleasant to contemplate. But he had changed over the days, becoming increasingly superstitious, more and more aware of his own mythological role. His diary, essentially a mundane account of journey and pain (his shoulder was still hurting him) repeatedly asked the question: what is the future for me? What has legend told of Brave K.?

  For my part I had ceased to worry about how the legend of the Outsider ended. Sorthalan had said that the story was unfinished. I took that to mean that there was no preordination of events, that time and situation were mutable. My concern was only for Guiwenn
eth, whose face both haunted and inspired me. She seemed always to be with me. Sometimes, when the wind was mournful, I thought I could hear her cry. I longed for pre-mythago activity: I might have glimpsed a doppelgänger, then, and taken comfort from that illusory closeness. But since passing the zone of abandoned places all that activity had gone – for Keeton too, although in his case, the loss of the shifting peripheral shapes was a mercy.

  We came within sight of the village and realized that we had come back, now, to something almost alien in its primitiveness. There was a wooden palisade on a raised earth bank. Outside the bank were a few yards of chipped and razor sharp rocks, rammed into the ground like crude spikes, a simple defence, simply overcome. Beyond the wall the huts were of stone, built around sunken floors. Crossed wooden beams formed the support for roofs of turf and occasionally a primitive sort of thatch. The whole community had the feel of being more subterranean than earthbound, and as we entered the gateway through the earth wall we were conscious only of the dull stone, and the heavy smell of turf, both fresh and burning.

  An old man, supported by two younger bloods, came towards us; they all wielded long, curved staffs. Their clothing was the ragged and stitched hides of animals, formed into tunics with trousers below, tied at the calves with leather. They wore bright headbands, from which dangled feathers and bones. The younger men were clean-shaven; the old man had a ragged white growth of beard that grew to his chest.

  He reached towards us as we approached, and held out a clay pot. In the pot was a dark red cream. I accepted the gift, but more was obviously required. Behind them a few huddled figures had appeared, men and women, wrapped against the cold, watching us. I noticed bones lying on raised platforms beyond the squat huts.