The Tangled Forest

by Marion Grace Woolley

  “A little more burnet would have been nice,” she said, “but not bad for your first time.”

  Again, she told me that I had worked hard, and I replied that it was not work, but pleasure.

  “I enjoy walking in the woods,” I said. “You never know who you might find.”

  She raised an eyebrow and turned to brew tea.

  There were so many things I wanted to ask my friend, but we were both exhausted from the cold, and in that moment, I simply wanted to enjoy the silence. We had a lifetime to learn of one another again.

  7

  Once a month I walked to Grandmother’s house, and once a week I went to the witch’s cottage to help her gather herbs. Wherever I walked in the woods from that day on, I would listen out for my friend. More often than not, he would join me and we walked the path together.

  I asked him all my many questions, but his replies were always short. The Woman in the Woods had taught him the words, yet he seemed reluctant to use them.

  Most of my questions were simple: what did he like to eat, where did he like to wander, which of the birds in the forest could he mimic?

  Once, I asked him why he had not tried to follow me home that day, and his answer broke my heart.

  “I did not think you wanted me,” came his reply.

  I kissed his cheek and told him that was far from the truth.

  Once or twice I tried to ask about his parents, about what he remembered before the storm. He said he remembered nothing, and would say no more.

  “He must have a mother and a father,” I said to the witch one night. My friend had left for the woods and I was not ready to go home, so she brewed chamomile tea and I sipped whilst she washed her shawl in a bucket. “By the laws of nature, it must be so.”

  The witch lathered soap against her fist. I repeated my question until she could no longer pretend not to have heard me.

  “I’m sure that is so,” she replied.

  “Where do you think they came from?” I pressed. “What sort of parents would leave their child in the woods?”

  “Many a poor parent leaves their child in the woods for the fay folk to collect.”

  “Do you believe the faeries were trying to steal him and he ran away?”

  “Likely enough.”

  “Perhaps he is of the fay folk,” I said, almost dropping my cup with excitement. “I never thought of that, but what if he isn’t of our world at all?”

  “He is of our world,” she replied.

  “How do you know, though? No one in town knows of him. Only the lightning saw him arrive—”

  “His parents were flesh and blood like you and me.”

  “You know who they were?”

  The witch wiped the back of her hand across her brow and thrust the shawl under the suds. She told me that she knew not who they were, but it was too late. Something in the way she washed her clothes, in the concentration on her brow, spoke otherwise.

  I wondered for days at who they might be. Perhaps he was a prince, wandered too far from the castle? Perhaps the King was blind with worry, sending out riders on white horses to find him. Perhaps he belonged to the travelling fair, and his family had forgotten to take him with them when they left. Perhaps he was the son of a washerwoman, whose basket had floated down stream whilst she wasn’t looking. I could while away entire days contemplating his history.

  One day I was walking to Grandmother’s house when the woodcutter’s son came walking the other way. He carried a bunch of posies in his hand. They were not the usual wildflowers of the forest, but expensive buds bought from the florist.

  “I was walking to find you,” he said, stopping a little distance away.

  I had not seen him since the day he cut down the twisted crabapple. I was still angry at him for doing that, yet I also felt a little ashamed of the way I had slapped his face.

  “You look well,” he offered.

  “I am. And you?”

  He nodded and came closer, offering the flowers.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have listened to you that day in the woods. I should not have chopped down your tree.”

  I knew I was supposed to say I forgave him, but I wasn’t sure I did, not entirely. Instead, I held the flowers to my nose and breathed in their beautiful scent.

  “Are you going to visit your grandmother?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “May I walk with you a little way?”

  As we walked, I found myself studying his features. He was as light as my forest friend was dark; his eyes as blue as his were brown. The woodcutter’s son wore fine fabrics, whilst my forest friend wore rags. The woodcutter’s son was slim, whilst my forest friend was broad. The woodcutter’s son could make me laugh with his stories and his jokes. My forest friend could hardly string together a sentence, yet he made me screech with delight when we chased between the trees.

  I had told my grandmother about the twisted crabapple. Not about the promise I had made beneath it, but about the woodcutter’s son cutting it down.

  “I told you,” she said. “Careless people these cutters, felling trees, and dreams, and goodness knows what else.”

  The last time I was in town, I’d seen the woodcutter again, tall and strong, with his long moustache and golden hair. I’d bought a bun from the baker and sat by the fountain. I watched as he walked between the apple cart and the ironmonger. He seemed to be waiting for somebody, and when she arrived I saw that it was his wife, that pinch-faced, pouty woman from the festival. She took him by the arm and marched him away.

  “You don’t look like your mother,” I said, as we walked.

  “She is not my mother,” he replied. “She is my stepmother.”

  “Oh. She never looks very happy. Is she kind?”

  “Kind enough.” We walked for a while in silence before he told me more. “She loved my father all her life, ever since they were children. After my mother died, she moved in to take care of him. They were married soon after, but my father is not the man she hoped for.”

  “In what way?”

  “She wanted a husband who would come home and stay home. My father is not that man. He likes to drink, he likes to game, he likes to wander.”

  I thought of his father wandering drunk in the woods, and it seemed a dangerous thing to do.

  When we reached the edge of the forest, I turned for Grandmother’s house and he took the other path. Before we parted, he reached into his tunic and pulled out a carved wooden flute.

  “Here,” he said. “I know it isn’t as tall as it used to be, but this is your tree and I hope that it will make your heart sing.”

  I was so surprised that I didn’t know what to say. He kissed me quickly on the cheek and left me there, staring after him. When I reached Grandmother’s house she had gone into town, so I sat playing the flute on her bed whilst I waited for her to return. Each note was soft yet clear, and tunes came tumbling over one another to be heard.

  I stayed with Grandmother for two days, weaving reed mats and making cheese. On the third morning, I packed my basket and slipped my flute into the band of my skirt before setting out. I stopped at the chandler’s to buy candles, and the baker’s to buy bread. I bought a sweet apple and sat once again by the fountain to eat it.

  As the sun rose, I saw the farrier lead two fine horses to the forge. The seamstress’s sisters had come to visit. They held up those delightful gowns and spun around and around outside the shop. The farmer delivered milk and eggs to the market, and the scent of fresh jam filled my head with sugary thoughts. Over by the inn, the tall, familiar figure of the woodcutter emerged, blinking at the sky. He stumbled to the bakery and bought a fat chicken pie, crumbs catching in his moustache as he chewed it down.

  I was surprised at the sight of him. The woodcutter had always seemed so well dressed, polished as a carving. It seemed strange to see him stumbling about the street as though he had forgotten his way home. I thought to greet him, but closed my mouth as he turned to reliev
e himself against a wall.

  On the way home, I played my flute.

  Soon enough, my song was accompanied by a drum.

  Thunk, thunk, thunk.

  I paused for a moment at the memory of the twisted crabapple, afraid to find out which tree he was cutting down now, but when I followed the sound I found that it was a simple pine. I felt bad that I cared more for some trees than others. I disliked the idea of any tree being cut down, but I also disliked the idea of my grandmother going cold, or eating raw vegetables, or washing in freezing water.

  “Hello,” I said to the woodcutter’s son.

  “Hello,” he replied. “I heard you playing along the path. You’re very good.”

  “Thank you. It’s a wonderful flute.”

  He smiled and rested his axe against the tree.

  “How was your grandmother?” he asked.

  “She is well, though the cold makes her sleepy.”

  “I will deliver extra wood to her tonight.” I reached into my pocket for a farthing, and he frowned. “Put your money away. It is a gift.”

  “Thank you. That is very kind.”

  He came close, lifting my chin with his finger.

  “So, you have forgiven me, then?”

  “I have forgiven you.”

  This time, as he kissed me, his hand rested at my buttock, gathering my skirt into his fist. I raised my leg against his hip, leaning into him. His lips blew warm breath against my ear before closing about the base of my neck.

  For the first time, I felt his desire press against me. It was hard and hungry, touching the soft flesh of my belly. I felt my own want, wet between my thighs, and drew back.

  “Don’t go,” he said, holding my hand to pull me back. “We’re alone in the woods, and no one is watching.”

  As he said those words, I knew that he was wrong.

  We were not alone in the woods, and somebody had been watching.

  *

  I ran through the forest as fast as my feet would carry me. The woodcutter’s son called out, but could not follow whilst the blood was up between his legs. I bounded over fallen branches and ducked beneath low-hanging vines. I was out of breath by the time I reached the witch’s cottage.

  The door was open, but nobody was home.

  “I’m sorry,” I shouted, though no one was listening.

  Had my friend been watching, or had I imagined the sound of a twig cracking? If he had seen, how much had he seen? And why did it matter?

  I was at a loss to explain those feelings, even to myself.

  Pacing back and forth, I stopped when the witch appeared before me. In her arms she carried a bundle of firewood, fallen leaves caught in her hair.

  “For heaven’s sake, child. What is the matter?”

  “I have done something terrible,” I replied.

  “What have you done?”

  She moved to the far side of the cottage, placing the logs in a pile beside a large wooden chest. Proudfoot went to inspect, patting his paw at a beetle crawling for safety.

  “I kissed the woodcutter’s son.”

  The witch straightened and went to fill her tin kettle from a bucket.

  “And one simple kiss has you in such a thither?”

  “I think we were seen.”

  “By whom?”

  She came to the table where I had slumped, bringing a plate of jam tarts.

  “Him.”

  “Who?”

  “You know.” She bit into a tart and looked at me. I knew that she knew, but she wanted me to say it. “My friend.”

  “So, he saw you. He walks through the woods, that’s what he does. I’m sure he sees many things.”

  “But where is he?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  I was becoming vexed. She pushed the plate towards me and I pushed it back.

  “I want to know that he is all right.”

  “Why wouldn’t he be?”

  “Because—” I ran out of words.

  “You want to know that what you have done hasn’t hurt him?” I shut my mouth and nodded. “Why should it hurt him?”

  That feeling I couldn’t explain filled me entirely. It pressed down, a heavy weight on my heart. Groping for the right words, they eventually came.

  “Because he isn’t an animal.”

  “No, that he is not, but you’re a fool to think he feels like you and me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That boy was changed at birth. He’s lived in these woods most of his life. He knows more about how stags rut and bees collect their pollen than he does about the way men court. You go with your woodcutter’s son if he’s the one who makes you quiver. Best leave your friend alone.”

  I thought it, and she saw it: I did not want to leave my friend alone.

  “I think it’s time you were on your way,” she told me, rising from her seat to place the tarts on a shelf.

  “Fine. What day do you need me next?”

  “Winter’s drawing deep, child. There’s nothing much to gather until spring comes.”

  Her dismissal cut me deep. I thought to protest, to say that I could clean and wash clothes, even learn to skin hides, but the look in her eye was a warning. Slowly, I rose to my feet and walked home.

  My mother was looking out of the window as I arrived. When she saw me, her face lit up like a lantern and she came to the door. Only, when she saw me up close, her smile faded. It was still there, but not as bright as before.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said, opening her arms to draw me near. “Wherever have you been?”

  “Just walking,” I told her, too tired to say more.

  *

  For the rest of winter, I walked in the woods, played my flute and followed deer tracks in the snow to see where they went. Once or twice a week I would meet the woodcutter’s son. We would kiss, but I was afraid to go further.

  When the first snowdrops surfaced and the primrose showed its sunny face, he told me we should tell my mother.

  “We are courting, are we not?” he said one day, sitting on a fallen spruce.

  “I suppose we are.”

  “Then it is time that people knew. I’m tired of hiding in the woods. I want to parade you through the town in your beautiful white cloak.”

  “We often walk together through town.”

  “Never hand in hand.”

  I was flattered by his ardour, yet fearful of what my mother might say. She had spent the winter indoors, watching grey clouds pass by her window. I had run out of golden powder a few weeks ago and the smile slowly passed from her lips until a permanent frown replaced it. I was her only child, and to tell her I had met a man worried me. Would she start to plan my marriage? Would she begin to consider the day when I might leave her?

  “Perhaps we should wait,” I told him. “At least until summer.”

  Patience were not to be. On the Eve of Candles, when the town decorated its windows with light, and the chandler had never been busier, we gathered in the square to welcome the end of winter. The occasion was not as jolly as the May Festival or the Feast of Midsummer, the musicians muted their strings and muffled their brass. Couples slow-waltzed in white dresses about the fountain, crowns of candles on the women’s heads.

  The woodcutter’s son took my hand. Mellowed by spiced wine, I did not resist as we floated over the cobbles. My mother watched from the cake stand, and the baker, with his new baby, smiled approvingly.

  As the tune came to an end, my friend’s stepmother was beside us.

  “What is your name?” she asked, curt and cold, as though asking the price of fish.

  I told her.

  “My son has mentioned you. Thursday next, you must dine with us.”

  I thanked the back of her dress as she walked away.

  “She likes you,” the woodcutter’s son whispered, squeezing my hand.

  “She has a funny way of showing it.”

  As I walked home through the woods with my mother, thick silence hung betw
een us.

  “Are you seeing much of that boy?” my mother eventually asked.

  “Who?” I replied, wanting to make light of it.

  “The woodcutter’s son.”

  “Only now and then.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “In the forest. He’d cut down all of his own trees, so came to find ours.”

  “Did he cut down the twisted crabapple?” she asked. I had not thought she had even noticed. “Your father and I first kissed beneath that tree.”

  She began to tell me the story again. My grandmother had once been handmaiden to a duchess, only she had been a very strange duchess. Unlike other pretty girls at court, she had no interest in fine dresses and fancy food. All the little duchess wanted to do was write stories. Every free hour she would escape to the woods, collecting branches and buckets of mud to build a dwelling at the edge of the cliff. A little place all of her own, where she could sit and put her tales to parchment.

  Eventually, a couple of townspeople came to see, and the woodcutter and the brickmaker turned her little hut into a house. She brought my grandmother to that house to keep it in her absence. At first, my grandmother had been horrified, cut off from the castle with all of its comforts, but soon she came to love the forest. Its mysterious ways and the privacy it afforded suited her well.

  One day, the King tried to make the duchess marry a courtier. When she refused, he banished her and she came to live in the woods forever. She wrote many stories there. Stories of the animals and the wild folk, stories of witches and wood sprites. Eventually, she grew old and was forgotten by those at the castle. When she died, my grandmother said her fingers were stained with ink. She was buried beneath a cedar tree. After the funeral, which only my grandmother and a handful of townsfolk attended, my grandmother returned to the house, collected up all of her mistress’s papers, and threw them over the ledge. Stories rained down for days on the dwellings below, and many of them remain to this day in the memories of the townsfolk. They still tell those stories around their fires. A little of the duchess lives on in all who hear her words.

  Eventually, my grandmother grew old too, and needed to return to the town to be cared for by her neighbours. She gifted the house to my mother, who has lived there all her life.