Wild Wood

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  But she doesn’t say that.

  She says, “What’s the time, please?”

  “Twelve forty-seven.” He taps the clock.

  “Oh. Right.” The dashboard clock. “Right time to talk, then.” She plunges in. “About Mack. And me.”

  A muscle’s twitching in Rory’s jaw. “You’re both grown-ups.”

  “Yes. But he is your brother.”

  “Half brother.” It’s said with no emphasis.

  What does that mean? “I—we—that is, we didn’t mean it to happen. Just that, sometimes . . .”

  “Jesse, I did study psychology. You’re vulnerable, and you see him as some kind of knight in shining armor. Completely understandable.” The doctor voice. But the car’s slowing down.

  Maybe he does want to talk. “No, it’s not that.” Is it? “I’d just been talking to your mother, and, well, it was a pretty difficult conversation. I was upset. More than that, really.”

  That gets Rory’s attention. “What do you mean?”

  “She knew. Helen knew what happened when I was born. And she didn’t tell me. Deliberately. She met Eva too. My mother. Helen said she was a drifter.” Jesse’s voice catches. No! No more crying. She sniffs hard.

  “Tissues in the glove box.” An automatic response.

  “What, you travel with them?” Jesse sneaks a glance as she blows her nose. Maybe he’s defrosting, maybe he isn’t. Maybe she just doesn’t care. In a stronger voice she says, “I don’t know what it is with your mum, but—”

  “Everyone has a shadow side.”

  “And thank you, Mr. Jung. I’m sure we’re all grateful for that insight.” A pause. “I think it’s you two. She can’t let you go.”

  “She’s protective. Mothers are.”

  “Bit of layman’s advice, Rory. Cut the apron strings.”

  This time, when he looks at her, she sees the truth. He’s furious. But she meets his glance. She’s pissed off too.

  Abruptly, Rory pulls to the side of the road. Hauls on the hand brake. “None of this is easy, Jesse. It does not have to become personal, however.”

  She yells at him, “Personal? What your mother did to me today is way past personal. It’s outrageous! So are you!” In that small space the noise is deafening.

  Rory goes to start the car again. And doesn’t. “But you did come back to Hundredfield.”

  “Yes!” Jesse’s still shouting. She turns away. “Oh, bugger it.” She thumps the dashboard. “Bugger, bugger, bugger!” Again. Harder.

  Rory stares out through the windscreen. “Mum’s always been very close to Mack. You need to know that.” He starts the car, steers it back onto the road. They’re almost in sight of the gates of the estate.

  And isn’t that good news. Jesse takes a breath. Controls herself. “And you. What about you?”

  “What do you mean?” His voice is flat.

  “A girl. Alicia, for instance?” She cringes. So subtle.

  “Alicia?”

  She sees him shift uncomfortably. “Well, what I mean is, she’s very fond of you. You could be good together.” Stop. Stop now.

  “Friends is what we are.” Rory shifts down as the car takes the corner into Hundredfield’s drive. “Alicia’s always just been family.”

  “But you want her to be happy.”

  Rory takes time to answer. The bridge is in sight. “I want everyone to be happy. Even Mack.” He doesn’t look at Jesse. “Here we are. Back home.”

  Another few minutes and the car stops at the front door.

  Jesse gets out. Whose home? Not yours, certainly not mine. But she still walks through that door.

  Alicia calls out, “Good to see you looking better.”

  Jesse closes the gate that leads to the kitchen garden. “Thanks.” The last thing she feels, in any way, is better.

  At the center of the radiating beds of fruits and vegetables is a roundel of bricks and a weathered bench. Alicia’s sitting there. She gestures at the bucket of apricots overflowing at her feet. “The tomatoes are bad enough, but all this fruit!”

  Jesse sits beside the other girl. “I could stew some for dinner if you like. Or make apricot crumble?”

  They watch as dragonflies flit and hover above the surface of a small pond.

  “It’s so peaceful here. A green bower.”

  “ ‘Bower.’ ” Alicia shades her eyes against the light. She throws a stick into the pond, watches the ripples spread. “Sounds peaceful, but it’s not like that here, not really.”

  “Define peaceful.”

  “Well, the opposite of unquiet. That’s what Hundredfield is—unquiet. Like it’s got a mind of its own suddenly.” Another stick.

  Jesse goes to say something. And doesn’t.

  “I’ve always liked the view from here.” Alicia gestures to a gap in the wall around the garden. “That fell down when I was little, and Mummy stopped Daddy from having it repaired. She used to sit here on warm afternoons and I’d be at her feet; she’d tell me stories while we podded peas together.” Alicia turns to Jesse in surprise. “I’ve just remembered. Mummy called this her ‘bower’ as well.” She picks up an apricot. “Would you like one? Fruit grows well in a walled garden.”

  Jesse says semiseriously, “So what about fruit and veggies as a business? You’d be a sensation.”

  “Hey!” Alicia gets up. She shoos a blackbird away from some fallen apricots and bends to pick one up. “The trust people came today.”

  Jesse says cautiously, “How was that?”

  “They seem interested.” Alicia adds the apricot to the bucket. “But I change my mind every three minutes.” She drops back onto the seat. “Maybe if the trust falls through, I’ll take up your suggestion—get my hands dirty like a real farmer. What d’you reckon?” She laughs.

  Jesse mutters, “I’ve seen stranger things.” She pauses. “You said Hundredfield has a mind of its own now. What did you mean?”

  Alicia bites into an apricot. “The past bleeds into the present. It won’t let go. Damn!” Apricot juice has dribbled onto her T-shirt.

  Jesse fishes Rory’s tissues out of a pocket. “Have these. I don’t need them.”

  Alicia mops the juice and licks her fingers. “Your drawings, that’s what made me think of it. But there’s more, there’s always been more, and it’s why leaving here, if I have to go, is agony.” She’s massaging her temples. “Unfinished business that started a thousand years ago.”

  Jesse takes a breath. “You’re right about unfinished business. Before we went to Newton Prior this morning, Rory and I . . .”

  “Don’t upset yourself, Jesse. You must still be feeling so strange and—”

  “This is not about what happened at the river. Did you know Rory’s using hypnosis? As a tool.”

  “Go on.” Alicia’s staring at her curiously.

  “He talks about my unconscious finding a voice. But it’s not my voice on those tapes, not all the time. Today, well, when Rory played the tape back, I heard her. She said I must ‘return the mother.’ ” Jesse swallows.

  “What does that mean?” Alicia’s expression is skeptical.

  Jesse pauses. “I don’t know. And this is going to sound very, very odd—I was wearing the mask on my face. I, or she, spoke through it. Rory heard her, I heard her. ‘Return the mother’ were the actual words she used.” She stands restlessly. “ ‘The past bleeds into the present.’ Your words, Alicia. And at the river”—a deep, trembling breath—“she was there. She was in the water with me. She’s not just a drawing, Alicia. She’s not just someone in a dream. She’s real. And she’s connected to this place.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The background shrill of insects drills into Jesse’s head as she watches Alicia’s expression change. “What are you thinking?”

  “Because she’s linked to you, is this your way of saying you have a claim on Hundredfield?” The cool tone, the cool eyes.

  “No. But I think she does.”

  47r />
  FIRE THE keep.” Maugris took the stairs to the inner ward without haste. In crisis, my brother was calm. That is why men followed him. “Come to the postern when it is done.”

  Margaretta!

  I ran for the tower.

  If a man could fly upward, I took the stairs as if I had wings, and locked or not, I kicked the door of Godefroi’s chamber open.

  I had not warned them.

  As I rushed through, there came a crack, a sound I heard but from somewhere far away, and then—I fell into night.

  “Wake!” Pain. It came as I lay in a black and queasy bog. My eyes jangled open just as Margaretta poured water over my face again. Pushing her away, I tried to stand. And could not.

  Aviss began to whimper.

  I held out my hand as comfort, but the child screamed, and I saw that blood covered my whole arm.

  Had I been injured and not known it? I touched my head. One side of my scalp ran red. The wound from Alois’s camp had opened. “I was wrong to bring you here.”

  Margaretta said nothing. A heave, and she pulled me to my feet. Aviss in my arms, the baby in hers, we stumbled down the stairs to the chapel.

  I pulled the covering of the alcove aside. Margaretta gasped. The Madonna’s plinth was empty.

  I fumbled the panel open. “Go, but block the way.”

  She nodded. “Do not fear for us.” She knew it was likely I would die. I saw it in her eyes.

  Consecrated or not, I ripped coverings from the altar and pulled the Madonna’s hangings down. “Block the tunnel against smoke. Do not come out.” I pushed the material into her arms.

  She knelt inside the opening with the children. “Bayard.”

  And I knelt also, my arms around all three.

  She whispered, “Come back to us.”

  Between love and desire, I kissed her.

  And pushed her inside. “Go.” The door was pulled closed.

  I forced myself to run from the chapel.

  Upstairs, in the hall, I laid fire through the rushes and, as they burned, snatched some up and held them against my mother’s tapestries until they bloomed a terrible rose.

  Fire is an animal. It has a voice. As smoke began to drift, I heard it. A monster that grew in size and power as it leapt to eat the ancient rafters of the hall.

  Blood in my eyes, I ran outside and counted the gates. One, beside the keep. Two, as the path turned to the pleasance. Three, at the garden itself, and—

  “À moi, à moi!”

  Maugris!

  Deep in the melee at the postern gate, Hundredfield tunics were few, but my brother fought on with three men at his side.

  I became the fourth.

  Now three faced those who came from the river side, and we two, at their backs, took those who fought in the garden. Forward, slice, back, feint; practiced rhythm, well mastered, as the blades clashed and sang. We were armored and well trained. They were not.

  A man went down before Maugris, screaming. His head was gone in a swoop. “Is it done?”

  Another fighter tried for my eyes. I blocked his knife and took him through the guts. Blood sprayed from his mouth. Red rain. “It is done.”

  A crack and I looked up. The cap-house was burning as, around us, the pile of bodies grew.

  “Close it.” Maugris meant the postern gate.

  I jumped forward with Tamas. Three to fight, two to build the rampart from still warm bones.

  Under the swords as they wheeled and bit, we dragged dead men as if they were logs. Some we swung at those coming up. Some we built in a wall.

  Maugris called out, “Back, fall back.”

  One of our fighters pitched on his face. An ax in his back.

  Four of us now. Tamas and me to push, Maugris and one more to fight.

  As I had pulled it open for Godefroi, now I began to close the postern gate—my shoulder like a bullock to the door as men howled and died in the narrowing gap.

  The postern was heavy and thick, three layers of oak, studded and bound with iron. I felt the weight on the other side more and more, as the gate began to push against us.

  Smoke was our savior. On that windless day it rolled from the top of the keep down to the river, an evil coverlet choking those on the path, while we in our mother’s garden breathed clean air.

  So we pushed back. And closed the gate. And dropped the lock bar down.

  Maugris wheeled. “Now.” He sprinted away. And we followed. Down to the inner ward.

  48

  AS ALICIA and Jesse walk into the hall, the phone’s ringing.

  Jesse’s closer. “Hundredfield, Jesse Marley speaking.”

  A gasp. “Is that you? Is it really you?”

  Jesse doesn’t know how to answer. She buckles slowly to a chair.

  “Oh, talk to me. Please, say something.”

  Jesse’s face works. “Hello, Mum.”

  There’s silence. Then words spill out of the receiver. “We didn’t know where you were, and I—I just so wanted to talk and, oh, I know you were angry, but—” The voice fractures.

  Jesse hunches forward. It feels as if she’s chewing concrete when she tries to speak. “Mum, look, I . . .” I what? “I wish none of this had happened, but it has.” She draws a breath. “Where are you?”

  “In Newcastle.”

  Jesse takes that in. “Australia?”

  “No. England. Jesse. Are you still there?”

  “Yes. How did you know how to find me?”

  “I didn’t, but . . .” There’s a pause. “What’s happened to you? Are you okay?”

  How does she answer that? “Yes, Mum.” Jesse closes her eyes.

  “Oh, thank you, God. Your father and I were so worried. And when we heard nothing for weeks, we thought . . .” Another swallow. “We thought—oh, such dreadful, terrible things. In the end, I got on the plane in Sydney and flew to London. I didn’t know where to start to look—it’s been days of searching.” The sob is stifled. “But last night, your father sent a telegram to the hotel. Your postcard arrived at home. So this morning I took the bus north.”

  This is too painful. Jesse interrupts, “Did you know she died? Her name was Eva Green, Mum. She was sixteen, and no one’s named as my father.” Jesse’s throat closes over.

  The response has a forlorn dignity. “I should have told you the truth years and years ago, but I thought I’d lose you, and . . .” The words crumble into gasps.

  Jesse’s shaking, vibrating, her jaw won’t let her speak, and she’s breathing so deeply, the world is a light-headed blur.

  “Jesse?” Her mother’s panicking. “Speak to me. Oh, please. Anything. Just talk to me.”

  Alicia puts a quiet hand on Jesse’s shoulder.

  Jesse grips the phone; she’s curled herself around it. “A pen. Have you got a pen?”

  There’s a scrabble on the end of the line. “Yes.”

  “There’s a pub called the Hunt in Newton Prior. English side of the border. Write that down. I’ll meet you there. There’ll be a room in your name.”

  “Yes. Oh, Jesse, I . . .” The line goes silent.

  “Mum?” Jesse stares at the receiver. “Mum, are you there?”

  She hears the disconnected-call sound.

  Gently, Alicia takes the phone and puts it back in its cradle.

  Jesse’s face is dazed. “Her money ran out.”

  “Right.” It seems the only thing to say. “Why did she ring you here?”

  “I don’t know. She sounded shocked when I answered.” Jesse shakes her head. “The thing is”—she swallows—“Mum’s here. In Newcastle.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Alicia looks confused. “She’s welcome to stay and—”

  “No!” The response is instinctive. Jesse jerks back a little. “It’s too close, having her here. It would be . . .” She can’t frame the thought.

  “It’s not an imposition, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Jesse shakes her head. “There’s so much to just . . . process. Too much
stuff.” She pauses. “She’s taking the bus to Newtown Prior. I’ll try to book her into the Hunt. Would you mind if I rang Mack?” Just to talk to him. Just to hear his voice.

  “Of course not.”

  Jesse starts to dial with fingers the size and weight of hammers. Let him be there, please, please, just let it be him. . . .

  “Yes, got that. Mrs. Janet Marley. Breakfast included, special deal for our friends.” Mack’s scribbling the name in the booking register that’s kept on the front desk of the Hunt. “The Newcastle bus gets here midafternoon. We’ll look after her like she’s our own.” He pauses. “Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know. Yes. No.”

  He speaks softly, “Wish I was there.”

  “Wish you were too.” Jesse closes her eyes. “Oh, Mack, it’s so good to talk. It feels like I’ve got nothing to hold on to anymore.”

  “Yes, you have. You’ve got me.”

  “Is that really true?”

  “Try me. Anytime.” He looks up. Helen’s standing a pace or two away. Mack pivots, speaks more quietly. “So, we’ll look forward to seeing her, and you, when she arrives. I’ll let you know.” He puts the receiver down. “Is there something you want, Mum?”

  Helen strides over and turns the register around to read it. Her face changes but she says, “We’re full, Mack. You shouldn’t have taken the booking.”

  He stares at her. “No, we’re not. We’ve got five rooms vacant.”

  Helen meets him head-on. “You’ll have to ring the caller back and say you made a mistake.”

  For a moment Mack measures Helen’s expression, then says gently, “What’s the problem, Mum? You’re upset.”

  “No. Listen to me. Ring whoever it was and do as I say.”

  Mack turns the phone around. “You ring. She’s at Hundredfield. You know the number. Ask for Jesse Marley.”

  Helen hesitates. “Perhaps I put that badly.”

  He nods.

  “But don’t, just don’t, talk to those people—any of them. Please. Just cancel the booking.”

  “Do you want to tell me why?”

  She flares. “I don’t want to do anything where they’re concerned.”