by David Towsey
‘What happened?’
‘You were bitten by a husht.’ He showed her the marks on her ankle. She had big black bags under her eyes. She needed a proper night’s sleep and soon. He hoped Black Mountain had some beds, but he couldn’t think why they would. He had no idea how far away the community at Black Mountain was. He asked her if she was able to walk a little. She nodded and handed him back his shirt. He helped her up. They made their way slowly, Mary using his arm as a support. The trees appeared to grow taller with each stride.
They had to rest regularly. She needed food after her fever to get back her strength. But they had none. He didn’t mention her lies. When she pretended to eat from the waxy parcel, he turned away. Mary had new blisters on her heels. She wanted to pop the little bubbles, but he told her that would make it worse. She was quick to accept the advice of her elders; she got that from him – definitely not from her mother. Barkley shoes were not made for hiking through the Redlands or mountains.
‘All these trees,’ she said, when they stopped again, and she rubbed her toes. ‘Think of what you could build.’ She was out of breath and took great gulps of air between each word.
‘I like them as trees.’
‘I bet the Walkin’ live in a huge city. Big buildings made of wood.’ She put her shoes back on. She paused, one shoe half on, as if listening. But the forest was so still, so quiet. A forest was not supposed to be like this. Animals, insects, all sorts of life should be making noise and moving and growing. ‘I feel like I’m playing catch-my-neighbour, but I don’t know who with,’ she said.
‘It’s been there since we came into the forest. It could be the trees or the quiet or …’
Mary nodded. The ground began to rise. He had no idea how much more Mary could take and he didn’t want to ask. The sun was getting weak. The light would disappear soon. Thomas watched her drink, ready to scold her if she spilt any. But she didn’t.
‘Dad, look,’ she said. Thomas shielded his eyes. He couldn’t see anything but trees. Were his eyes that bad?
‘What is it?’
‘Two people. They’re coming towards us.’
Thomas squinted up the slope. He could just about make out two little lines. ‘What are they wearing?’
‘They look red.’
‘Both of them?’
‘Yes.’
He saw them now. They were running, but a run that swung only one arm; the other clutched a rifle.
‘We have to go,’ he said.
‘What? Why?’
He pulled Mary to her feet. ‘They’re soldiers. Not Walkin’.’
‘But their uniform is red, like yours.’
‘And they tried to burn me once, remember?’
Mary didn’t need any more persuading. She shuffled along the hillside as fast as she could. Thomas didn’t look back to see if the soldiers followed. He hoped they would be too lazy or busy to chase them. Or too frightened of the thick trees in the fading light.
Mary was already slowing down. He wasn’t surprised. She had walked farther in nine days than she had in her entire life, leaving aside the husht bite. When she stopped, she almost toppled over. He picked her up. He dashed behind a tree, his daughter cradled in his arms. He had carried her away from danger before and he would do it again. He heard men’s voices. They were arguing.
‘We’re supposed to report back if we see anyone.’
‘Did you see blue uniforms?’
‘And who knows what’s in here? I’m being bitten, I swear it!’
‘Shut up, will you?’
They were coming closer. He could make a run for it. With all the trees and the surprise the soldiers would barely get a shot off. But if they did and hit Mary—
Slowly, he let his daughter down.
‘Stay here, tight against this tree,’ he whispered. She nodded. She was trying to breathe quietly. He smiled at her. ‘It will be okay.’
Thomas peered around the trunk of the tree. He saw one of the soldiers clearly: the one who was complaining. He was overweight and carried his rifle badly. He was red in the face from the run. He wouldn’t hit a barn door. The other man he saw skulking from tree to tree. Thomas waited. The fat one was close now. He had lost sight of the other. One more step.
Thomas rushed him. The man was so scared he dropped his gun. Thomas shouldered into him, knocking him down. The warm air of his breath poured out against Thomas’s neck. Carrying on, Thomas dived behind a tree. The crack of gunfire followed him. Bark exploded. The fat soldier was wheezing – struggling to suck air into his lungs. The other man had to reload. Thomas went for the fallen rifle. He was almost there. He could feel the wooden stock in his hand. The heavy trigger.
The second soldier came at him, swinging his rifle like a club. Reloading wasn’t the idea. The rifle caught him in the ribs. Bones cracked. He clamped his arm down over the gun. The soldier struggled to pull it clear. Panic started to set in; Thomas saw it on the man’s face. That blow could have felled a tree.
‘Simmons, get up!’ the man yelled. Simmons continued to wheeze.
From beneath Thomas’s shirt, a small ball of lead shot rolled out and hit the ground. Sarah’s shot. It thumped loudly against the soil. Both of them watched it happen. Then the man grew more frantic. He realised fully what Thomas was. Part of him must have known, when Thomas barely budged when he was hit, but didn’t want to admit it. Didn’t want to lose all hope of leaving this forest alive. Thomas kept hold of the rifle. He wouldn’t tire or grow weak.
A scream stopped them both. It was Mary. A figure in a pale robe ran out from behind a tree. It was carrying Mary. His daughter was fighting: flailing her arms and kicking her legs. But it made no difference.
4 : 5
Thomas pushed where he had been pulling. The soldier fell backwards. Thomas ran after Mary. The pale robe flashed between the trees. It was like chasing under-mutton through long grass.
He heard whistles. Ten, maybe twenty different high-pitched blasts. They chorused, a disjointed and harsh birdsong. He kept running. Below him on the hill, near the edge of the forest, men streamed through the trees. Men wearing a deep blue made darker by the shade of the pines. Shadows standing upright. They seemed to move slowly, at a steady rhythm. Every one of them held a rifle at the ready.
The robed figure was still in front of him. He was being led across a battle line. He tried to put as many tree trunks as possible between him and the rifles. Soon they would be in range. How many balls of lead would they waste on him? One lucky shot was all that was needed. But they didn’t shoot.
Above him came more whistles and more men. The bright colour of the Protectorate seeped between the trees like spilt blood. They were eager. They ran down the slope. The air became full of lead shot and smoke and splintered bark. Rifles sounded like cannons beneath the branches. Behind their roar was the faint noise of men dying. There was little more than a hundred paces of rough ground between them. Thomas ran that ground. He ducked as low as he could. He tried to ignore the skirmish around him and hoped it would do the same.
He tore through the trees. He used his hands as much as his legs: to steady himself on the rough bark and then to propel him forward. There were fewer soldiers on either side of him now. He hesitated and searched for a flash of white. Bark exploded inches above his ruined hand. He jumped behind the trunk. He remembered doing the same in Barkley – dodging gunfire. Except this time there was no shaggie to hide behind. He peered around the tree. There was nothing.
A yell made him turn back. It was a battle cry. A man in red was charging him, rifle lowered. The bayonet was dull in the tree’s shadow. He had always known them as shiny and in such great numbers that they were the tips of waves. There was no time to move. The blade went straight through him and into the tree. The soldier was little more than a boy – eighteen at most. He had light blond hair and soft cheeks. His face was pulled into a snarl that seemed rehearsed, like a red-wink cub at play. Both of them looked down to Thomas’s chest. The b
oy’s face dropped as he saw the lack of blood. Thomas punched the soldier on his shallow chin. He hit the ground hard. Thomas wrenched clear the rifle. He now had two bayonet holes, almost symmetrical on his stomach. He thought about taking the gun. He might be able to stop whoever had stolen Mary. But he couldn’t bring himself to unman the boy-soldier.
Thomas had lost ground, but he spotted the pale cloth once more, like moonlight on the Col River before clouds took it away. He kept the glimpses of the robe right in front of him. He wasn’t gaining. But he wouldn’t tire. This was something Thomas could do indefinitely. He would chase his daughter until the end of days. Could whoever had taken her say the same? If it was a Walkin’ then yes. He hoped Mary wasn’t caught in a cold, dead embrace.
He was almost beyond the battle now. Its noise was faint, like a hymn sung behind closed doors. The landscape changed. The ground began to undulate. He skidded down slopes, fallen pine needles slippery as ice. The bottoms of these gullies were muddy; his feet made squelching noises. When the ground rose, he tried as hard as he could to run faster, but there was no change in his pace. This was the speed Thomas ran at. As he struggled with the rise he lost sight of them.
‘Mary!’ he cried from the top.
‘Dad?’
Thomas followed the sound. He had stopped for only a moment. But it was a moment he might not get back. He ran on. He felt like crying when he saw the robe again, now a little further on, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t cry for as long as he still lived.
‘Dad, help!’
‘I’m coming.’
How could he have been this stupid? He took his daughter, his only child, away from her home and led her into the wilderness. He risked the Redlands, with its waterless bluffs and spiteful sun, and as if that weren’t enough, he sought out a Walkin’ town. A home for the dead. A battlefield would have been just as safe; and now she had seen that.
He pushed off another tree. Old bark crumbled in his hand. He had made the selfish choice. Again. Was he always this selfish? He tried to remember a lifetime ago. But what was sharing food or a plough when compared to the future of his child? He wanted Mary to know he cared. That he did not abandon her. And he wanted to know Mary. But seeing her snatched away … He had been selfish. If he could, he would ask the Good Lord for forgiveness. He came close to praying as he ran, but the Good Lord’s ears would not hear him. He was a creature of the devil. And Thomas didn’t know how to pray to the devil.
He was closer now. Maybe it wasn’t a Walkin’. Maybe they were getting tired.
‘I’m coming,’ he said, over and over. He would make it right. Fix his mistakes. He would never put his family in danger again.
The ground rose once more. He saw the robed figure in full at the top of the hill. Mary had stopped fighting. Then he lost them.
‘Mary!’ he screamed. There was no answer. He cast around. He saw no robe, only trees. The bottom of the gully was a mire. Then he spotted the footprints. He followed through the boggy mud, crusted with decaying needles.
‘Dad.’ Mary was faint, but he was going in the right direction. The trees began to thin. The ground became firmer. He was worried he would lose the trail.
He stopped. He was standing on the edge of a clearing. In the middle, Mary was lying on the ground, seemingly asleep. A naked woman stood over her.
‘Hello, Thomas.’
4 : 6
He stepped into the clearing. He felt again the heavy sensation of being watched by many eyes; it weighed on his shoulders.
‘What have you done to my daughter?’
‘Nothing. She is exhausted from your journey. And the husht bite,’ the Walkin’ said. ‘We have time to talk before she wakes.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Mary didn’t recognise me either. But I knew her right away. She has changed; not as much as you, though.’ The woman smiled. Her skin was a watery silver. Blue veins criss-crossed her arms. Her stomach was bloated in a slack and withered way. Her hair was long and black, tumbling in ringlets, but dull. He suddenly felt conscious of his burnt and withered face.
‘Lydia Courie,’ he said. ‘I saw you burn on a pyre.’
‘You saw what you expected. What the gravekeeper showed you.’ Her robe was under Mary. ‘I haven’t seen a young girl in decades. Even in her fever she looks beautiful. You should not have brought her here.’
‘I was told this was a sanctuary.’
‘For you,’ she said.
‘She had to leave Barkley; they would have killed her. I had to keep her safe!’
‘What is “safe”? It sounds as if you’re chasing a dream, Thomas. Your daughter was not safe in Barkley. Or the Redlands. Where would she be safe?’ She sat next to Mary and stroked her hair.
‘Stop touching her.’
Lydia looked up at him. ‘Be careful, Thomas. This forest looks after its own; it’s dangerous for outsiders. Even Walkin’.’
‘Is this Black Mountain?’ He looked around – his own question seemed foolish with no obvious buildings or streets. The trees made an odd rustling sound, like long-tails scratching in the attic, though there wasn’t a breeze.
‘No. Black Mountain is a long way from where you are.’
‘What do you mean?’ He decided to sit; it didn’t feel right to stand above a naked woman. It was somehow threatening.
‘Both armies come into these hills looking for a Walkin’ town. They expect it to be like Barkley or wherever they’re from. They never find a thing.’ Lydia went back to stroking Mary’s hair, despite what he’d said. His daughter stirred, but didn’t wake. ‘Mary couldn’t find Black Mountain, even if she looked her whole life. You wouldn’t either, as long as she’s with you.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘We know.’
Thomas cast around, trying to find who Lydia meant by ‘we’. Seeing no one he asked her.
‘Black Mountain is more than a place. It is a commune in every sense.’
‘Are we being watched?’ he said, still feeling those eyes on him.
‘Always.’ She closed her eyes. ‘There are others from Barkley in the forest. Nathaniel, Bellis, Luke, and Samuel. They have stopped. They are feeding their shaggies and arguing about which direction to take. Two of them have rifles – though they are old and worn.’ She looked at him. ‘It is good to see old friends.’
‘Impossible.’
‘The Walkin’ here are very close and very old,’ she said, as if that were explanation enough.
‘You’re trying to trick me.’
‘Why would I do that?’ she said.
He couldn’t think of a reason. But he wasn’t thinking right at all – from the moment he stepped into the clearing.
‘Don’t you miss Nathaniel? Barkley?’ he said.
‘I could never go back. What would I do? See the man I loved grow old and die. All those men and women I once called friends. None of them would Walk with me and, given the choice, none of them would want to.’
Nathaniel had never been the same since Lydia’s death. Now Thomas knew why. It wasn’t just the normal grief, though that would be enough. Nathaniel knew she was still somewhere in the world.
‘If we’re not supposed to be here, why did you take Mary?’ he said.
‘We saw the battle coming. You were in the middle. It was decided she was worth saving.’
‘But I wasn’t.’
‘You saved yourself,’ she said. ‘As we knew you would.’
Mary stirred. Thomas helped her to sit up a little. She drank from the water-skin and fell back onto the robe.
‘I will find her some food,’ Lydia said. ‘But, Thomas, do not leave the clearing.’ She stood and wandered off naked between the trees.
He brushed the hair from Mary’s forehead. ‘What are we going to do, my darlin’?’ he said. Black Mountain, wherever it was, whatever it was, might be a home for him, but apparently not for his daughter.
Lydia returned carrying roots and a handful of berries. They wai
ted in silence for Mary to wake fully. Thomas had much to think on and much he didn’t understand. Lydia seemed happy enough to watch Mary.
Mary ate the berries first. They looked sour, but she made quick work of them. The roots she had to chew and chew, her jaw working hard until it started making sounds like footsteps on a wooden floor. She didn’t say a word while she ate; didn’t question where she was or what had happened. Food was her world. When she finished, Lydia stood up. She went over to the edge of the clearing. Thomas followed.
‘You see these flowers?’ she said, kneeling down. ‘They only grow in this part of the forest. It’s difficult to find them in daylight; they like the moon.
‘One story says they are ghosts-in-waiting. That when a soul begins the Walk, a flower grows. When the soul rests finally, the flower drops its petals.’ She gazed at the patches of flowers that pooled like milk. ‘I say sorry when I pick them. There’s a flower somewhere for you. But not for Mary.’
‘What now?’ Thomas said.
‘There is only one way out of this forest for you and Mary. It has been decided. I will take you.’
4 : 7
‘When an event changes the world, it is fair to say the world is the first to know about it. Before the event is given a name, before it has been recorded and talked about and then lost in the archives of history, the world has already moved on.
‘Imagine a child throwing a stone into a still pond. On point of impact the world has changed. But the child is unaware the act has had any effect until it sees the ripples of water. Where the stone fell, the world has moved on.
‘Imagine, then, that the world is actually the life of a single man or woman. An ancient poet once said: “No man is an island.” I happen to agree. One man is every island. They are a world. An event changes them, and in that instant they feel the effects and move on. Each other human feels the ripple.
‘One begins the Walk. An event. A change. He or she accepts what has happened. Across their world loved ones, friends, enemies, all register those ripples to varying degrees.