The Tangled Forest

by Marion Grace Woolley

  We chased each other through the trees, leapt to pluck pinecones, and lay silently on our bellies to watch the fox cubs play.

  It did not matter to me that my friend never spoke.

  We had a language of our own.

  Each day we ventured further into the woods, and each day returned. Mother would pick the moss from my hair, brush down my scuffed knees and kiss my cuts. Every third evening she would fill the tin tub with water and bathe us by the fire, scrubbing stubborn dirt from beneath our nails.

  I remember our final day as though it were a silk painting, the colours translucent. If I reach out to touch, the memory moves away from me, yet if I pretend not to care, it returns.

  We went deep into the woods that day, far beyond the foxhole and the bubbling spring. We were searching for the fabled fire flower. It was said to grow at midnight on Midsummer’s Eve, its petals so bright they would blind any who looked directly at it. We would need to draw a circle about it and cut its stem with a silver knife. If we could find the flower, it would bestow the ability to read thoughts, to find the little people’s gold, and protect us from all harm until the end of our days.

  We searched the entire night, but could not find our flower.

  Distracted by the spectral owl, whose heart-shaped face appeared like a geist, and by the soft glowing light of a thousand fireflies, we wove our way home between the trees.

  Before the candles came into view, the Soul Singers spoke; a gentle pattering of rain against fresh growth. The smell filled us entirely. We paused to climb the tangled crabapple, the sky melting down our faces as we laughed at the broken clouds. No longer a gentle shower, sheets of water washed over us, swaying our cradle bough.

  When we were so cold I was afraid I could not climb, my friend helped me back to earth and we ran the last of the way home. Mother was long asleep. We stripped off our clothes and placed a log atop the faded embers, coaxing flames from the ash. Its heat drew coils of steam from our skin, and we rubbed our hands together until our teeth ceased to chatter.

  As the embers warmed us through, they made us drowsy. The boy stretched out before the hearth and I nestled against him. Skin against skin. He put one arm around me and we slid softly into dreams of wild woods and singing brooks.

  *

  I was torn from sleep by a firm hand. At first I thought I was falling, as though I had walked to the cliff beyond our house and taken one step too many.

  I cried out as I fell, and my mother’s voice rang sharp in my ear.

  She had found us there, beside the ash. Our sleeping bodies entwined like climbing vines.

  The boy woke as terrified as me, not quick enough to escape the back of her hand.

  “Mischief and ruin,” she cried, as he scrambled to hide behind the chair. “He has his bed and you have yours.”

  I did not understand her anger and she would not explain.

  *

  Once the sun had risen, she placed porridge on the table with such force I thought the bowls might crack. We ate in silence until our bellies filled, and then my mother told us to dress.

  “We are going to Grandmother’s house, all of us.”

  As we set off, I felt sure my friend would stay behind, yet he followed. Now and then, I took a fallen twig and tried to tap him with it, or he would clutch a handful of leaves and throw them above me, but each time I laughed, my mother’s backward glance cut me short.

  We walked all morning until we reached town.

  As we approached the end of the trees, the boy drew back. He seemed unwilling to leave the forest he had once been so afraid to enter.

  “Come along,” my mother urged. “We have still a little way to go.”

  I took my friend’s hand and led him past the baker, the farrier, the chandler, the seamstress and the skinner. He kept close by my side, and I could not understand why we drew such stares. The baker paused, his doughy hands deep in his bowl, the farrier broke his steady rhythm, the chandler dropped a candle, extinguished on the cobblestones, the seamstress pricked her finger, and the skinner lifted a cloth to wipe his brow.

  My mother’s pace quickened through the town, until we were beyond their curiosity and safely up the path to Grandmother’s house.

  The door was open and my grandmother sat inside, tying rags to make a mat.

  “My daughter,” she said, looking up with a smile.

  Then her eyes found mine, and that smile set.

  “Well now, who is this?” she asked, those knots falling still in her lap.

  The boy stepped back as my mother moved aside.

  My grandmother and the boy looked at one another. She beckoned him, running her chapped hands across his cheek, then through his hair. I thought perhaps she was searching for lice.

  “He came to us from the woods, in the middle of a storm,” my mother explained.

  “Does he have a name?”

  “He does not speak.”

  My mother left us that night, to run errands in town. We sat beside Grandmother’s fire whilst she told stories of all that had happened since last I visited. She spoke of the farrier’s horse, which broke free and was found eating apples outside the grocer’s store, of the little girl who had played too close to the stream and fallen in, and of the cat who kept stealing her cream.

  Her voice rose and fell like the blacksmith’s bellows, hushing and wheezing and holding our attention. I watched the boy to see whether he understood, but no signs of knowing crossed his face.

  Between stories, my grandmother offered up treats: strips of dried meat and smoked fish, apples and nuts, a slice of pie with a little of the cream the cat had left. She put down blankets for the boy beside the hearth, whilst I slept on her bed, falling asleep to the gentle rhythm of her rocking chair.

  Soon after the moon set, I felt my mother’s arms about me. I woke briefly to see that it was her, for she smelled salty from her errands. Pressing against her, I soon fell back to sleep.

  We stayed at Grandmother’s house for two days. My mother and her mother passed the time embroidering pillows and talking in whispers, whilst my friend and I made puppets of the snapdragons, opening and closing their colourful mouths in conversation. We found a beetle beneath the chestnut tree and put it in the mouth of one of the dragons. A moment later its petal lips parted and the beetle crawled out, dusty gold.

  Each night my mother left and returned late, leaving my grandmother to entertain us. On the second night, she took a length of twine and twisted it between her fingers. She taught me how to place my own fingers between hers, shaping the string in strange formations. When the boy tried to copy, his fingers were clumsy, and the delicate arrangements fell apart. I laughed at him and my grandmother chided me.

  “It takes some of us longer than others to learn,” she said. “Be patient and help him.”

  On the last night, I drifted off with my friend curled about me. My grandmother waited until I was fast asleep before carrying me to my own bed. I was so tired that I did not even wake when my mother returned.

  “We are leaving today,” she announced, as we sucked bacon dripping from our fingers.

  I was gladdened by the thought. As much as I loved Grandmother’s house, I was eager to return to the woods, to play with my friend out of sight of adults. I yearned for the freedom of the forest, where we could build our castles and ride our cockhorses through imaginary fiefdoms.

  As I picked up my basket, I realised something was wrong.

  “The boy will stay here, with Grandmother.”

  I shook my head.

  “We need to find out who your friend is,” Grandmother said. “We need to seek out his family and find him a proper home.”

  “No,” I replied. “He has a proper home, here with us.”

  “Oh, sweet child,” she said, touching my cheek. I turned my face away. “This boy has a mother, too. A mother who worries where he is. Imagine you had been taken from your mother and placed with strangers. It would not matter how well they cared for yo
u, how kind they were, you would cry at night for the ones you loved.”

  I swallowed hard, for I did not understand why we could not search for his family from our house.

  “Let him stay here, so that I can better make enquiries,” Grandmother said. “I will be able to tell by his face whether he truly knows those who claim to know him.”

  “It will only be for a short time,” Mother said. “Once he finds his family, you will be able to visit, I am sure.”

  She may have been sure, but I was not. As a child, the world is one long uncertainty. Things you love one day, you lose the next.

  I did not know how to say goodbye to him. With all my heart, I wanted to hug him tight, leaving an imprint of myself on his skin so that he would not forget. Instead, I simply kissed his cheek and stepped back. He looked at me blankly.

  At the end of the path, I looked back and felt angered.

  All it took to prevent him from following was my grandmother’s hand on his shoulder. The two of them stood in the doorway, watching, with no regard for the pain I felt. Why was he not clawing at her? Why did they not have to tie him down to prevent him chasing after me? How could he stand so calm, when my whole mind was a tempest?

  3

  We did not visit my grandmother again for a long time.

  I walked home with my mother in silence. We spoke little for many weeks, and I would spend every hour of daylight by myself in the woods. Secretly, I hoped that the boy might escape and come searching for me.

  I gazed at the surface of the stream, hoping to see his face over my shoulder. I climbed to the top of the tangled crabapple in the hope I might catch him walking towards me along the forest path. I covered myself in fallen leaves and lay in wait, in case he was hiding behind the trees.

  Each day I returned disappointed.

  After two moons of solitude, I softened towards my mother. She offered no news of the boy, and I did not ask. His memory weighed in the air between us, as though part of him were still there. I sensed that my mother was sorry for what she had done, offering solace in the form of fresh plum crumble and wildflowers for my hair.

  I was sitting, fresh from the bath, the night she suggested we take Grandmother a cake. My skin was flush from soapsuds, and my hair was still wet. I had tried to play my game, but the red bead was missing. Without it, nothing worked.

  “Use a cherrystone,” Mother suggested.

  She did not understand that you could not simply replace the thing you wanted with something else and expect it to be as good.

  I suspect she suggested the cake to distract me.

  The next morning, we were up to our elbows in batter: eggs and raisins, flour and nutmeg. Mother added a dash of brandy and we beat the ingredients together until the spoon stood up by itself. I hovered beside the oven, sniffing the air to tell whether it was baked. I wanted this to be the most perfect cake ever made. Mother said it was for Grandmother, but it was a present for my friend, too. I wanted it to rise just right, so that it melted on his tongue like a sugar drop.

  We wrapped the cake in calico and tucked it neatly into my basket before setting out. The smell accompanied us through the woods, greedy finches gazing longingly as we passed beneath.

  We hummed as we walked, the tunes to old cradle songs: Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly, lavender’s green; The moon doth shine as bright as day; Silver bells, and cockle shells, And pretty maids all in a row.

  We passed the baker, and the farrier, the chandler, the seamstress and the skinner. I doffed my imaginary bonnet to each of them in turn, and they returned with a smile and a wave.

  Grandmother was in the garden when we arrived, her bent frame bent further as she plucked ragwort from between the begonias. I liked those flowers. They reminded me of the ruffled skirts of beautiful ladies, like the ball gowns the seamstress sewed.

  “Hello, my daughter,” she said, straightening. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

  I went into the house to place my basket on the bed, all the while looking about for my friend. The blankets were still by the fire, so I told myself he slept there. Two cups were in the bucket, so I told myself he drank there. Four smoked fish hung up beside the hearth, so I told myself he ate well.

  Yet in my stomach, I knew that he was gone.

  My grandmother told me a joyful tale. The boy’s parents had been out of their minds with worry. They had searched the forest and the farmland. They had travelled from town to town looking for him. They had even put up a reward, which Grandmother had refused to accept.

  When I asked where he went, and when I could see him, she replied that his family came from a hamlet many hills away. Too far to travel on foot, and many days by horse. She told me she would take me when I was older.

  When I asked how much older, she smiled and poured a cup of tea.

  That night, I lay on my grandmother’s bed. My mother and my grandmother sat outside, shelling peas. They thought that I was asleep.

  “You have no idea the trouble you’ve caused,” my grandmother said, her voice barely a whisper. “You’d have been better leaving him beneath that tree.”

  “Whose was he?”

  “You know whose he was.”

  “I don’t understand why he was out in the woods. Why would she do that?”

  “Just be grateful it wasn’t you.”

  “Do you think she—”

  I could not hear for the clink of peas in the bowl.

  “It is possible,” my grandmother replied. “You must end it now, my child. Before the town turns against you.”

  “What did you do with him?”

  “I took him to the Woman in the Woods.”

  “Mother!”

  “Where else could he go? The boy was mute as a mole. Who would take in a child without a tongue? Not I, said the fly. Besides, how long would it take people to guess? How long would he have lived? Even half-deaf I’ve heard the rumours, head in a bucket like an unwanted kitten.”

  “It’s a rumour, nothing more.”

  “Aye, and you would say so.”

  “I know so, in my heart.”

  “My daughter, I love you. But your heart knows nothing.”

  They plucked in silence for a long while, but all that echoed through my mind was the Woman in the Woods.

  *

  My mother praised me for being so calm. She told me that I had taken the news of the boy’s departure like a grown woman, not a girl. She told me that I had made her proud, holding my tears and my tantrums.

  Yet my mother did not know what I knew.

  I would find my friend again.

  The full moon after our return, I took a lace tablecloth and two hair grips. I went to the tangled crabapple in the woods and pinned the cloth to my crown like a veil. I stood beneath its wide arms, laden with blossom. As pink confetti fell about me, I swore a solemn vow.

  “I will not rest until I find you. I will search the forest. There shall be no peace in my soul until I see your face again. We will play between the pine trees, we will climb to the clouds, and we will sleep side by side beside the fire, where none shall ever part us. I will never forget you. I will always remember. Wherever you are, I shall be.”

  When I raised my face to the twisted crabapple, silk petals touched my cheeks as though reassuring me that the Soul Singers heard.

  I curled up there amidst the gnarled roots, my head resting on a pillow of moss, and slept.

  *

  Moons waxed and waned, and the next time my mother went to visit Grandmother, I told her my tummy felt heavy. She pressed the back of her hand against my forehead and asked whether I wanted her to stay.

  I shook my head and urged her to go.

  Once I was sure she was gone, I wrapped bread and cheese and tied it to my skirt. I took a flask of milk and a bone-handled knife, and made my way into the woods.

  The air was humid with rainfall, the leaves wrapping about my feet as though they were gifts to be delivered. I had walked these paths all my life, yet never
recalled passing a dwelling. That is why I walked halfway to town before turning left. There was one path I knew of that ran further than the rest. I had once walked for an entire day along that path and never found my way out of the trees. If there was a woman who lived in the woods, that is where she must be.

  As I began my journey, the birds above sang sweetly. A vole popped its head from its hole and looked up at me, a wildcat slunk across the trail ahead, pausing wide-eyed to welcome me. The shy capercaillie croaked his hearty tune and seemed embarrassed when I spotted him between the trunks. He buried his head beneath his wing and turned away.

  I smiled at all of the small creatures, breathing in the scent of bluebells. My heart felt light at the thought of seeing my friend again. I would seek him out and we would rough-and-tumble through the heather, laughing as we landed in a patch of purple campion. It would be all right if he lived in the woods with the woman, provided she cared for him. He would be my secret, and instead of climbing the tangled crabapple or playing alone by the brook, I would slip away to the other side of the forest and spend my time like money.

  When I reached the furthest part of the path, beyond which I had never ventured, I rested on a fallen tree to eat my bread and cheese. A willow beetle fell upon my lap and sat for a moment as though in shock.

  “Hello beetle,” I said. “I suppose you didn’t expect to find me here?”

  Thank you, the beetle replied. Your lap is much softer than this fallen stump.

  “You’re welcome.”

  I finished my meal, drank from my skin, and set off once more along the path.

  The sun began to fade from the sky and I grew sore from walking. As the shadows of the trees drew long and fat, I made a game of hopping between them until all the light was gone. There was no need to fear the woods at night, they were so alive with beauty; with fireflies and softly glowing honey fungus, which formed parasols for the toads and the lacewings. Crickets called to one another and the bog-eyed tree frog hopped from leaf to leaf, blinking and gulping.