The Tangled Forest

by Marion Grace Woolley

  “Oh, you’re home,” she said, sweeping towards me with a feather duster in her hand. “Now spring is here, I have an uncontrollable urge to clean. Help me open the windows and blow out the cobwebs.”

  I did as she asked, all the while looking sideways to check that her smile was still there.

  “Are you all right, Mother? Has something happened?”

  “The seasons have changed, my darling daughter. How full of colour the world is when not buried beneath white.”

  I agreed and picked up a pot of wax to make the furniture shine. Had I been a child, my mother’s sunny mood would simply have seemed normal, yet something had changed over the past year. I was not sure what it was, or why my mother’s mouth had been downturned throughout the snow. I was glad that she had found herself once again, yet I couldn’t help wondering what had caused the change. It seemed strange that she had not even asked me where I’d been.

  9

  For the next few weeks, I spent all of my time at home. I was afraid to walk into town lest I see the woodcutter’s son and his crabby stepmother. I didn’t know how to tell him what she’d said. I didn’t even know whether I should. It seemed easier to stay away. When I thought of his kisses in the woods, my knees turned weak. Yet when I thought of his family, and how many nights I might have to spend beneath their roof if we continued our courtship, my desire began to wane.

  On the days when I did leave, I went to the witch’s house. I helped her gather herbs, wash clothes and prepare medicines whilst my woodland friend split logs for the fire and skinned the game he caught.

  “He’s round here more and more since he got sick,” she said, as I helped her fold sheets.

  “After getting bitten by a viper, perhaps he’s afraid to wander so far. I couldn’t blame him. He wants to stay close to the person who saved him.”

  “Aye, perhaps,” she said, in that tone which meant she didn’t agree. “Or perhaps he’s got his eye on other things.”

  I glanced up in time to catch her green-eyed gaze, then looked away, pretending I hadn’t understood.

  “What happened to your woodcutter’s son?” she asked.

  “I don’t think we are well suited. He lives in the town, I was born in the forest. I love the trees—”

  “And he cuts them down,” she finished, with a knowing smile.

  “I don’t know. When we are alone, I like him well enough.”

  “Marriage is never about being alone. You think you are alone, and then comes the mother-in-law, the father-in-law, the grandparents, cousins, nieces, nephews, their pets, their servants and their horses.”

  “Yes. It rather does feel that way.”

  “Maybe you are best to stay in the woods,” she concluded.

  We stretched out a sheet, flapped it and folded.

  *

  Almost a fortnight had passed when I returned through the woods to find my woodcutter sitting on a log not far from my house. I spoke his name in surprise and asked what he was doing there. He repeated my question back to me.

  “It has been a fortnight since you ate at my table and I have not seen you since. I began to think you had taken ill. I was about to knock on your mother’s door when I saw you coming along the path. Where have you been?”

  “Just walking.”

  “Oh, and I bet I can guess where. Tell me, what do you do all day at the witch’s house?”

  “I help her with her chores.”

  “Why does she need your help? Doesn’t she have an army of elves to do her bidding?”

  “No,” I replied, missing the smile on his lips, for I wasn’t sure there was one.

  “You know, the townsfolk say she keeps a wolf as a pet. Is that true?”

  I hesitated, then shook my head again.

  “That is a pity. I would have liked to see a wolf up close.”

  “She is just an ordinary woman who knows how to heal.”

  “Whatever she might be, she’s bad news. Heal she may well, but she does other things too, everybody knows it. I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again, you must avoid your paths crossing. If my mother and father knew you spent your days with the Woman in the Woods, that would be the end for us.”

  He took my hand in his and began leading me back down the path towards the brook.

  “Don’t you wish to greet my mother?” I was relieved when he said no.

  “I’ll come another day, on a formal visit, when I come to ask your hand. For now, it is better we stay out of sight and spend our time as we would.”

  He pressed me up against a tree and brought his lips to mine. There was a heat in him, which could not be contained by his skin. It bled between us, warming the very core of me. Before long, I felt my breath quicken as I breathed him in, my leg lolling to one side as he ran his hand down my inner thigh.

  For the first time, his fingers came back up, beneath my skirt, pushing aside my undergarments, seeking out that slick wet spot between my legs.

  Reaching my arms around his shoulders, I drew him closer, feeling his teasing touch. Another’s hand in place of my own. With my own hand, I always knew where my fingers would move. I could call them back or send them deeper. With his caress I had no idea what to expect. I did not know how hard he would rub, how gentle, how fast or how long. Every moment I held my breath.

  He brought his mouth so close to mine, yet would not kiss me. The cruelty of it caused me to soar, until I was afraid my legs might give way beneath me. It was then he reached down, releasing himself from his breeches.

  I looked upon his penis.

  I had never seen a man’s rod so close. I had seen a boy’s, when my friend and I curled up naked beside the fire, but it hadn’t looked like this. It looked too big to possibly take inside of me. Angry and red and swollen, with a sticky shield of moisture across the top.

  Without thinking, I lowered my fingers to rest against it, and it bobbed like a courtier bobs his head. I laughed because it was funny, and then the woodcutter’s son placed his hand across my mouth.

  When I stared at him, I saw that he was no longer there. It was as though my friend had taken leave of his body, eyes vacant with desire.

  I pushed at him, but he held me tight, lowering his free hand to pull my skirt aside.

  “Stop it,” I said, my voice a muffle against his palm. “Stop it!” I said, louder, before biting down.

  “Ow!” He shook his hand and stepped back. “What did you do that for?”

  I brushed my skirts back into place.

  “I do not want this,” I said.

  “You want it all right. You’re just afraid.”

  He was right. I did want to feel what it would be like. His kisses were hot coals, and the thought of that warmth inside of me seemed delicious, as though my entire stomach would turn to a burning furnace. Yet, unlike him, I thought a little further.

  “What if there were a child?” I asked.

  “What if there were? We are going to be married, you and I.”

  “Going to be, but aren’t yet.”

  He tucked his Tom Thumb back into his breeches.

  “That’s it? You do not trust me?”

  “I don’t think your family would approve.”

  “How do you know what my family would think? You don’t spend a moment with them.” He knocked his hand against the side of his head as though slow to realise something. “That’s it, isn’t it? You won’t have me because I’m a simple woodcutter. You’re waiting here in the woods for your Prince Charming to ride by. I’m fine for a kiss and a fondle, but you won’t let me further.”

  Words escaped me like the rainbow’s end. I had never once thought that someone from the castle would ride past and ask for my hand. What interest had I for strangers I would never meet?

  “You’re speaking nonsense,” I told him.

  “Am I really?” He came close again, leaning in and pulling at my skirt. “Then let me inside you. Show me that you truly care. Prove to me that you are willing to be my wife.�
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  My eyes half closed as he touched that sensitive spot, but I took a deep breath and pushed him back.

  “If this is what it takes to be your wife, then I am not ready.”

  His fist met the trunk of the tree and I flinched.

  “Of course you’re not,” he hissed. “You are a little girl, and I need a woman.”

  He stormed off, leaving me alone.

  For a long time I stood listening to the birds in the trees and the buzzing of bees between freshly opened flowers. The air still carried the bite of winter, softened by the strengthening sun. The wind whispered promises of long, hot days to follow.

  Lambs and calves, fox cubs and kittens. That’s what spring would bring with it. That was the way of nature. The stallion mounted the mare, the bull the cow, and the boar the sow. An act to be celebrated year on year. Yet we two-legged fowl removed ourselves from nature. In its place we set customs and rules, ink dried on paper, which stated that the surging desire to mate must be subdued until the holy bells ring. If I had known there would be no baby, or that, if there were, I would not have to walk with my head bowed through the streets, I would have gladly parted my legs for the woodcutter’s son.

  Perhaps he was partly right. I wanted him for a day or a month, but not for a lifetime. Not because he was a woodcutter like his father, but because we had little in common. I knew that our bodies would amuse one another, provide pleasure, but eventually our words would run dry. What then? Would I be expected to sit at table with his drunk father and his sharp-tongued stepmother, smiling dutifully whilst they scowled back?

  He was thinking of the moment and I was thinking of the future. When weighed on the spice merchant’s scales, I would rather forego a moment’s passion in favour of retaining my freedom. I loved these woods. I loved the song of the brook and the sound of the birds and the way the colours changed with each season. Over a lifetime, it would provide more satisfaction than my woodcutter’s fumbling thumb.

  Still, I felt uncertain of myself.

  In the last of the light I walked to Grandmother’s house.

  Her cottage always seemed more alive at night, with candles burning in the window and the scent of applewood. My grandmother dozed throughout the day, but come the evening dew she would take a bottle of gin into the garden and watch the stars.

  “Granddaughter,” she said, as I came up the path. “What brings you to my door at this hour?”

  “I missed you,” I said, handing her a bunch of wild posies I’d found on my walk.

  I brought a cushion from the cottage and sat down beside her, resting my head on her lap.

  “So, why are you really here?” she asked.

  “I turned down the woodcutter’s son.”

  “He made you an offer?”

  “Of sorts.”

  “An offer of sorts is an offer worth refusing,” she said, taking the bottle to her lips.

  “I know, but I did enjoy his company.”

  “That family is not suitable for you.”

  “That’s what they said of me.”

  “Who said that of you?”

  “The woodcutter’s wife.”

  “Don’t you listen to a word that woman says. She’s a sour old puss with a poisonous mind.”

  We fell silent for a while, counting falling stars.

  “How many falling stars did you see on your wedding night?” I asked.

  “Two.”

  “Two for joy.”

  “Aye, and it was joyful until he died.”

  “How did Grandfather die?”

  “He fell from his horse whilst hunting with the King. Three days it took for the life to bleed from him. Sometimes at night I still hear his moans.”

  “Do you miss him?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “How many falling stars did mother see?”

  “Three.”

  “Dreams and wishes.”

  “Which all came true the day she gave birth to you.” I squeezed my grandmother’s bony knee and kissed her there. “So, you have jilted the woodcutter’s son. Who is next for a dance?” I shrugged, picking at the frayed hem of her skirt. “There is no one who catches your eye?”

  “No,” I replied. After a moment, I asked her the question I hadn’t asked in years. “Grandmother, what happened to the boy we found in the woods?”

  She took a slower sip of her gin and looked down. “What makes you ask such a thing?”

  “I don’t know. I just remember him sometimes. You told me he went away and that I could visit when I was older. Well, I am older now. Old enough, I think?”

  “My darling, that was long ago and he moved far away. I could not recall the name of the village if my life depended on it. He would no longer be there anyhow. Young men, they roam far and wide, tending the fields and searching for work.”

  I nodded, wondering why, at this late hour of life, she still felt the need to lie to me. In the dozen or more times I had asked since I was a child, she never once mentioned the Woman in the Woods. I wondered what she would think if she knew my secret. I wondered, over almost a century, how many more secrets she had kept.

  *

  Life without the woodcutter’s son was pleasantly simple. I missed him far less than I thought I might, and spent my spare time at the witch’s cottage, learning to preserve herbs and blend salves. As spring progressed towards summer, more and more plants became available, and I would regularly walk out with two empty baskets and return them full.

  My friend often accompanied me. He rarely walked beside me, disappearing into the undergrowth and emerging further down the path. Once he brought me a baby bird which had fallen from its nest. He scooped it up with moss to disguise his own scent. We found the place it had fallen and he lifted me up, so that I could put the bird back where it belonged.

  He knew words, but not many. He could say a sentence or two, but chose mostly to remain silent. Though I had the impression he understood everything that I said. Instead of speaking, I would sing to him.

  His ankle soon returned to its normal size. Apart from light bruising, which became less every day, you would never have known how close he had come to death.

  Once the baskets were laden, we’d climb trees and throw strands of sticky goosegrass. He could climb faster than me, but not further, for I was much lighter. When the chill of winter finally melted into the earth, I rested beneath a tree to remove my white cloak.

  “It is time to put this in the cupboard,” I told him. “The weather is too warm for such wear.”

  As I bent to fold the cloak in my basket, I felt something brush against my neck. When I straightened, I realised I stood beneath a crabapple. Its blossom fell like confetti about me. My friend stood by my side, and with sharp clarity I remembered the vow I had made.

  Why had I covered my head in lace when I said those words? What thoughts had filled my childhood wants?

  To my surprise, he leaned down and placed a soft kiss against my cheek.

  Before I could find the words, he had walked away, leaving me to gather petals in my hair.

  *

  Come the May Feast, I planned to stay home, but my mother had bought me a beautiful green gown and picked lilies to crown my head. Her sunny mood had not broken and she was overcome with the desire to dance.

  We could hear the drums as we walked through the woods. Long before the lights of town were revealed, we heard the jigs and reels, tugging at our feet until we skipped the last few yards.

  The town square was heaving with people. Most from the village, but many from afar. There were dukes and duchesses from the castle, and a few men in armour whose breasts shone blue with the flames of the fire.

  I made myself at home with the baker, farrier, chandler, seamstress and skinner. They had a long wooden bench outside the forge, and welcomed my mother and me. We drank from wooden pitchers of cider and laughed loudly at the funny stories the farrier told. From time to time, my mother, the seamstress and I would accept a dance, spinn
ing across the square. When I danced with the skinner, I saw that he did indeed have a boil on the side of his nose, just as the woodcutter once said. Yet it was small, and his smile was large, and he always wanted to please everybody he met. I thought how hurt he would be if he heard the woodcutter’s words, and vowed to dance longest with him that night, that he might know how we all loved him.

  In the centre of the square, towering above the fountain, was a Green Man built of straw and sticks. He was decorated with holly and ivy, the full moon peering over his shoulder. As a duke came to light the figure, all of the men lined up against one side of the square, and all the women against the other. The women who were married tied ribbons to their wrists, so that only their husbands might chase them. The rest of us would have to run faster.

  A hand bell rang and the men chased the women into the woods.

  I knew the woods better than anyone else, and ran furthest and fastest. I soon lost sight of the other women, and slowed to catch my breath.

  “I saw you dancing with the miller’s brother,” came a voice.

  “It was only one dance,” I replied, straightening to see the woodcutter’s son.

  “It doesn’t matter how long you danced, but how close. Is he your new love of the hour?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “The only silly thing I ever did was fall for you. I was fool enough to think you loved me once.”

  “I like you. Is that not close enough to love?”

  He took a few steps towards me and I stood my ground.

  “Tell me why I shouldn’t just take you here?” he asked. “No one would hear us this far from town. I forced from you your first kiss, I’m sure I could force a little more.”

  I felt fear for the first time, trying to decide how long it would take to pull my knife from my sock. Did he also have a knife?

  “They wouldn’t hear us, but I would tell everybody. You are too good a man to shut my mouth forever.”

  He twisted one thumb through his belt, watching me, but I could already tell he had made his decision. As he turned to walk away, I called out.