by Andy Remic
“——.”
Big, powerful hands, claws, turned him over. He was blind for a moment. A walrider sat astride him, its weight crushing. It was grinning, leering down at him.
“Your time has come, Robert Jones,” it said, and pulled out a pistol. The black barrel stared at Jones like a dark final eye.
He started to struggle, thrashing, his fists slamming blows against the beast astride him. The others chuckled, their drool falling to the mud.
“We’ll count to three,” said a beast.
“And shoot you in the face,” said another, its face leering out of the smoke-filled gloom.
“One.”
“Two.”
“Three!”
A bayonet point erupted from the throat of the walrider astride Jones, then twisted viciously. It sawed for a moment, revealing a raw, bobbing Adam’s apple, then cut sideways in a vicious slice and jerk of power. The head toppled sideways from the body, revealing the blood-drenched figure of Bainbridge, rifle in both hands, swaying, blood pumping from the wounds in his throat, chest and shoulder.
“Is that all you’ve ——ing got?” he bubbled, blood pouring down his chin, and then fell sideways in the mud.
Jones rolled to his knees, grabbed Bainbridge’s rifle, pulled free his knife, and attacked. A bullet took the first beast through the mouth on an upwards trajectory and exploded the top of its head in a shower of skull shards and pulped brain. It stared at Jones for a few moments, jaws working spasmodically, then its eyes seemed to fill with humour as it looked past Jones to the final beast . . . and then it collapsed.
Jones whirled about, saw the rifle lift, heard the discharge. A bullet whined past his ear. As if in slow motion, he watched the creature operate the bolt, its eyes locked on him. You’re mine now, said those eyes. Worm food.
Webb reared behind it and with a scream plunged his bayonet in the walrider’s back. It grunted, blood spraying from its mouth, and tried to turn. Then claws slashed out, a backward punch, connecting with Webb’s face, breaking his cheekbone, sending him flailing to the ground . . .
Jones ran and leapt, his knife punching into the walrider’s throat. But still it fought, and a fist crashed against his head like a hammer blow. He hit the mud, and looked up as the wounded walrider reared above him, claws flexing, murder in its glittering eyes.
And then something . . . miraculous happened.
Jones felt the power of the earth surge through him. It felt like tree roots, winding around his feet, then up, entwining his legs, entering him through his very flesh, winding tightly around his bones and tendons and strengthening him and he felt the power of the Skogsgrå inside his very flesh and body and soul.
Jones stood, and the walrider charged. It punched, claws hissing, and he blocked, then twisted his arm, breaking the walrider’s. It screamed, and Jones punched out, his fist entering the beast’s face, and punching through to exit in a shower of blood. In his fist, he held its brain.
Jones let go.
And then he blinked.
The walrider fell to the earth, its muzzle gone, its face a platter of bloody pulp.
Jones breathed. Felt the Skogsgrå leave him . . .
And it was over.
Voices. Alien, grinding, guttural, as if the very trees had decided to talk.
“Be careful . . . slowly, now!”
“Shit. Look at that . . . I’m surprised he’s still ——ing breathing!”
“Just get him on the stretcher and keep your thoughts to yourself. And for God’s sake, be careful of the shrapnel. Slowly, now . . . careful does it . . .”
“What about the other one?”
“Put him on a stretcher.”
“But he’s dead.”
“Put him on a ——ing stretcher!”
“He’s ——ing dead!”
“Do you want to join him? Well, do as I say, and stop your ——ing whining. Both of these men are going back to the trenches with me, and I’ll kill any bastard who stands in my way.”
The pain came, filled Webb up as if he were a jug, and left him screaming on the canvas stretcher, writhing like a scorched worm. The stretcher-bearers backed away as if stung, but not Jones. Jones was there, kneeling in the mud, his rifle in one hand, eyes scanning the field then looking down into the face of George Webb, with his blood-filled eyes and savagely torn face.
“How . . . how is Bainbridge?”
“He’s dead,” said Jones. His cheeks were wet.
“Yes. I forgot. He died like a hero. Brave to the end! A warrior!”
“Both of you,” smiled Jones. “Both heroes.”
The stretcher bearers exchanged glances.
There was silence, then Webb coughed, blood frothing at his chin.
“I can feel the metal in my body. It hurts so much . . . I can see her! She’s calling to me . . . she’s calling for me to join her!”
“Go to her,” whispered Jones.
“She looks so beautiful. Can you see her?”
“I can see her,” said Jones.
“Isn’t she beautiful?”
“Yes. She’s beautiful.”
“Don’t leave me here, Rob. Don’t leave me in all this mud. Don’t leave me in this . . . in this wasteland.”
“I won’t. One day, Webb, we’ll go back to glorious Wales! You remember the mountains, don’t you? The sunlight glinting from rock and slate? The towering, watchful eyes? You remember the forests, and the valleys, don’t you Webb? Wales, the most beautiful country in the world.”
Webb closed his eyes and coughed, and Jones wiped the blood from his friend’s chin with his handkerchief. Tears ran down his own face, and Webb started to heave as if to vomit, but he settled back, fingers twitching, working feverishly.
Jones looked up, looked around at the stretcher-bearers, who stared with faces of grave desolation. Jones used his Lee-Enfield to lever himself to his feet, then gazed down at Webb struggling at the border of life and death.
So much pain, he thought. So much pain.
He had to put an end to it.
Webb started to moan, blood bubbling in his lungs, and Jones lifted his rifle and the shot split the silence in two, split the world in half on its axis.
Jones glanced at the body snatchers, eyes challenging, waiting for words . . . but they did not come.
A soft glow seemed to surround Webb, and Jones stood, rifle in trembling blood-stained hands, his mouth dropping open. Suddenly, a tiny shoot appeared in the mud and was quickly joined by a hundred others. Swiftly they grew, winding, wavering stalks, and then petals opened into the beautiful bright bloom of a red poppy; into hundreds of red poppies.
Jones watched, turning, and this sudden surge of flowers spread across the mud like a swift-growing carpet of red, until they surrounded Bainbridge and filled the air with a glorious scent.
In the distance, the guns stopped.
A deathly silence fell like ash.
Jones moved to Bainbridge and knelt by his dead friend. He placed his hand on the big Tommy’s breast and said a silent prayer, inhaling the poppies, his face showing rapture and awe.
“What about . . . these?” said a stretcher bearer, eventually, his words trembling, as he gestured to the dead walriders. Jones met their stares and gave a nasty grin.
“Do you think anybody would believe you?”
One man shook his head.
“And the poppies? Would they believe what you’d tell them?”
“No.”
“My advice? Keep your mouth shut. Now back to the trenches,” he said, voice hoarse with grief.
In silence, they gathered the bodies of Jones’s friends and moved across No Man’s Land, careful, watchful, with Jones taking the rear, unable to look at the corpses they carried.
He could feel a dull ache in his heart, which nagged him and made him feel cold and alone, and he shivered, and he was sweating at the same time and the pain inside him radiated outwards, ate at him like gnashing metal teeth; like roaring machine
gun bullets; ate his body, and ate his soul.
But at least you killed them, he thought.
At least you killed the Hunters.
Diary of Robert Jones.
3rd. Battalion Royal Welsh Fusiliers.
6th. August 1917.
I have lost all hope. I am alone. I am alone in this darkest of Hell. I sit here and know not what to write; my pen scratches slow on the page, I am confused, I am wracked with grief. My friends are gone, dead, my best friends lying under sacking waiting to be buried in a mass grave. I must write to Marie soon, tell her about George, tell her how he died a heroic death—lie about how he fell in glorious battle, eyes shining with pride and honour, and how he died without pain. He died with very much pain, I saw the wounds, the blind eyes, the shrapnel lodged in his back. But I must lie. I must lie to protect the innocent, so as to bring just a little comfort out of the trenches. The trenches—furrows in the devil’s spine, in which we crouch, awaiting his loving touch.
I miss Sarah. Miss her with all my heart and soul.
Bainbridge. What did I really know about him? I know little of his childhood. Nothing of his dreams, his desires, his longings. So I find myself with the difficult task of penning thoughts which flow disjointedly in my head, thoughts of war and guns and our time together in France. Perhaps not, though. Perhaps I will just leave their shadows as a memory. And when I die, then we will all be silent heroes together, beyond the grave.
I am haunted. Haunted by the bullet that killed Webb. I have started to tell myself maybe he would have lived, survived, if we’d just brought him back to the trench. By shooting him—no matter my reasons for ending his pain—by shooting him I simply extinguished a life that could have flared bright and pure.
God is to blame. God, and Man.
It’s all gone wrong. An insane game. The biggest that’s played, right? And what was it for? What was it all ——ing for? Nothing. Nothing at all.
Ypres Salient (3rd. Battle of).
“The Trenches.”
11th. August 1917.
JONES STOOD ALONE on a hilltop, a cold wind caressing him, howling softly, like a funeral song. He felt strange, alive for the first time in years. Nothing else mattered. He stood there, looking down on civilisation below, on the lights of a culture which no longer belonged, a world which had cast him into the breach and pumped him like a shell into the dark razors of war.
Lights glittered, shimmering. Distant sounds flowed on the breeze. Shouts. Laughter. Life.
He turned, and looked down the opposite side of the hill, two different sides of the same coin: below, the silence was shattered by mortar shells and gunfire. Flares lit up the sky. Men screamed in the mud as they were sliced down by a scything blade of hot bullets.
The smile faded from Jones’s face. He felt utterly alone, in body, mind, and soul.
“Come and warm yourself by my fire.”
Jones turned and glanced at the nearby trees, a vibrant gathering of silver birch and sycamore. A small clearing stood close by, and a fire burned, the flames more colourful than anything Jones had ever seen.
A figure sat by the fire, features cast in shadow, watching.
Jones walked across the hilltop, treading through a field of poppies which danced, bright red, in the breeze.
He ducked under the low canopy and moved towards the fire, where the figure gestured to a fire-warmed rock. Jones sat, stone hard beneath his flesh, real and uncompromising.
“Welcome.”
“This is a dream,” said Jones, eyes locking to the eyes of Bainbridge. “You are a dream, my friend.”
Bainbridge smiled. “We are all dreams, Jones. The whole world is a dream. I am in your thoughts, which is all that matters. It is proof that you have not forgotten me. Proof you have not gone insane.”
“How could I forget you? You were my friend!”
Bainbridge nodded.
“This is insane,” said Jones, frowning, “you are in my fevered imagination, dead, so how the —— can I be holding this conversation?”
“The soul is a strange creature, lad. It has many facets, like a diamond. Some are smooth, some rough. Some have many floors, many different layers. And some of those layers are invisible to the naked eye. Think about it, Robert. Think about it.”
“What do you mean?”
Fear.
Bainbridge smiled, harsh face becoming kind. “Why did you shoot Webb, lad? Answer me that.”
Jones awoke suddenly, shivering, his blankets on the floor. Leaning from his bunk, he snatched at the covers, pulled the rough, itchy fabric over his body, huddling beneath their poor protection willing warmth back into his limbs.
“Damn.”
He reached out, found the flask Bainbridge used to hide under his bunk, and twisted off the cap. There was only a single mouthful of whisky inside, but it was enough. Jones drank it down and lay back, shaking, and wondering how much his shivers were attributed to cold.
“You’re dead, Bainbridge,” he said. “You’re ——ing dead.”
The wooden walls answered him with silence. He pictured Webb, again, writhing in the mud, blood bubbling at his lips.
“Why? I did it for mercy. I did it because he’d suffered enough. He might have lived another hour, maybe a day. But Webb would have died, Bainbridge. And I know you understand that, wherever you are.”
Gradually, Jones fell asleep, only this time he was calm, now his breathing was regular, and No Man’s Land could not haunt him, death could not haunt him, and he slept.
In his dreams, he dreamt about endless fields of poppies.
The next day, whistles sang, a haunting song of desolation.
And Jones went over the bags.
Went over the bags alone.
The Sanatorium.
“A Canopy of Silver Dreams.”
January 1904.
THE LANTERNS CAST a gentle, ethereal glow around the stark white room. The boy sat, nervous, huddled in the space of a large hardwood chair, eyes frightened as they darted about the room.
A figure entered. A man. A doctor.
He stood motionless in the doorframe for perhaps a minute, then, lighting a cigarette, he locked the door and pocketed the key in his expensive grey suit. Strolling to the desk, he sat down, leaned back, put his heels up on the wooden desk, and orientated on the boy huddled in the chair, eyes red-rimmed from crying.
“Tell me about it.”
The boy did not answer.
“You mentioned names. Hunter’s Hill. Sharpwood. Clearwood. What are the names for? Where did they come from?” The man frowned when no response was forthcoming, and slamming his fist on the table-top, making a lantern rattle, he hissed, “Come on, now, boy . . .” He paused, thinking, and with forcible effort, calmed his tone. “You want to go home, don’t you?”
The boy looked up. Ah, that had an effect!
“It was in the woods. It was the woods,” said the boy, words a murmur, eyes staring at the floor.
“Explain.”
The man drew on his cigarette, blew blue smoke into the air, allowed the smoke to curl outwards. The boy searched inside his own head for the words to tell the man, words to explain this demon of his fears made real. The struggle. The hunting. The huge carvings, speaking to him with long-dead mouths . . .
You will come to us, they said.
One day, you will fight with us.
One day, you will save us.
“I can’t,” he whispered, finally.
“Try. You did well last week.”
“I can’t. Not now.”
Lantern light danced against the walls, demonic pagan figures whirling and laughing, illuminated in red.
The man finished his cigarette and moved to the boy, touching his cheek where it was flushed red from crying.
“I want my mother,” whimpered the child.
“Well, we all want things in life,” said the doctor, face hard, and, closing his eyes, lifted his face to the ceiling. “But in this world, boy, you
are expected to cooperate to get what you want. Understand? Start talking, and maybe your life will improve in this place. Perhaps.”
There came a knock at the door.
“Yes?” he snapped, exasperated.
“There is someone to see you, Doctor.”
The man smiled, a smile without humour—a smile which belonged on a devil’s face, a devil’s sick of sin. He patted the boy’s shoulder and removed the key from his pocket. “I’ll be back later,” he said, and his smile was devoid of friendship or warmth. He left the room, locking the door behind him.
The boy lay on his bunk in the depths of the sanatorium ward. It was dark, and cold, and smelled of strong disinfectant and puke. He could hear strange sounds: pipes rattling; the stealthy footfalls of the night sister, padding; people breathing; children sleeping; the occasional cough; the occasional clatter; the occasional whimper of fear.
He lay with eyes closed, face lifted to the ceiling. The pillows were damp from his tears. The blankets were coarse and itchy. His bladder was full, but he did not dare get out to use the bedpan. The nurse would be angry. And she was a demon when she was angry. More alien than alien.
A cool breeze soothed over him, like silk.
He dreamed of running through the trees, through the rain, through Clearwood, over the terrible obstacles of Sharpwood, and towards Hunter’s Hill. There, he would be free again. There, he would be whole again, despite the creatures which hunted him. He understood them now. They were a barrier. A protection, grown by the ancient woodland . . . to keep out . . . intruders.
And he was not an intruder.
He understood that now.
He was . . . a part of the woods. A part of the story. A part of the fabric.
“Wake.”
“Mm?”
“Awake,” came the breath, colder than the grave.
The boy’s eyes flickered open. He had been asleep after all. He jumped, for at the foot of his bed, perched on the brass rail with clenched claws, was the Skogsgrå. She was big, bigger than any man he had ever seen. Her eyes were large grey discs, staring at him. Her limbs were sinewy, like cords of torn, twisted timber. Her flesh was silver bark. Her long hair was a flowing carpet of moss. Her eyes were knots, her nose holes in the gently grained wood of her face. Her fingers were like branches, her toes thorn claws which gripped the brass bedrail, crushing it.