The Tangled Forest

by Marion Grace Woolley

  She saw the shadow cross my face.

  “It is forgotten,” she said.

  That evening, just as the stars shimmered in the heavens, the witch came home. She carried a large bundle of sticks in her arms and closed the door with her backside.

  “There is someone wishes to see you,” she said. “Would you let him come in?” I knew who she spoke of and shook my head. “Very well. I will turn him away.”

  She placed the firewood beneath the shelves and left once more, but only for a moment.

  My friend had once felt too ashamed to greet me, and now shame flowed through the very core of me. I had not even seen the face of my attacker. I had been thrown to the floor like a bale of hay, unable to fend him off.

  I stayed two more days at the witch’s cottage before she told me I must return to the world.

  “Your mother will be worried, child.”

  “I can’t go back. What would I tell her?”

  “You tell her what you like. Tell her you were attacked, or don’t. That secret’s yours to say. Whatever makes the burden easier to bear. If you care to forget it as a bad dream, who is to tell you otherwise?”

  “I cannot walk those woods alone,” I said.

  “Then I shall walk with you.”

  “No, you do not understand. I can never walk those woods alone. Not today. Not any day. How can you be constantly by my side?”

  She saw the fear on my face as I stared at the trees.

  “My child, those trees do not wish you harm.”

  “Yet they hide the beast who does.”

  She took my hand and kissed it.

  “Let me show you something,” she said, leading me to the garden behind the cottage.

  There, strung up on a skinning rack, was my cloak.

  No longer white, but stained dark red.

  “What have you done?” I asked.

  “It was not me. It was your friend.” I went to the cloak and reached out my hand, stopping before it touched. “He washed it clean of shame and coloured it with the blood of the beast. If you choose to wear it, you will be protected.”

  My fingers reached out a second time, and did not stop.

  It felt as soft as before, yet there was an energy to it. A crackle like cloud-covered lightning. It felt as though the cloak called to me, as though it wished me to fold it over my shoulders.

  The witch came forward and cut it down, holding it out to me.

  As I tied the ribbon beneath my chin, it felt as though I had been given back myself.

  “I will walk you home—”

  “I will walk alone.”

  *

  As I entered the forest, the trees drew back. The birds fell silent and then began to sing louder than I had ever heard. Flowers bloomed by the side of the path. Summer flowers that had no right to live in winter.

  When I reached my home, I found it empty.

  I set about building the fire and baking bread, kneading soft dough until my arms ached. I skinned a rabbit and set a stew to simmer on the flames, then took to my bed, exhausted.

  As soon as I closed my eyes, I dreamed.

  I dreamed that I was no longer me. My body was lean and strong. My skin was a gloss of silver hair and my teeth were crescent moons, sharp as scythes. I felt myself carried through the forest on all fours, my hind legs pushing forward, faster and faster. I could smell the earth and the life within it, waiting for spring to come. I could taste the bark of the trees and the flesh of the small creatures hidden beneath the moss.

  I chased a stoat down to the brook and lowered my great lolling tongue to take my fill of water. As I retraced my prints, I found myself beneath the tangled crabapple. It looked just as it had before the woodcutter’s son chopped it down, its branches laden with blossom. The scent was so strong to my sensitive nose that I was about to turn and run.

  Then I saw him. There, between the knotted roots.

  My forest friend was also a wolf. Matted black to my smooth silver. I loped towards him, ignoring the throaty growl that came from his bared fangs. The closer I got, the softer that growl became, until he sat with his head hung low.

  I nuzzled his neck and we curled up together as pink petals buried us.

  I woke with the scent of those flowers still with me.

  In the kitchen, I found my mother ladling my stew into a bowl. She looked downcast as she walked back and forth, searching for a spoon that was right in front of her.

  “Where have you been?” she asked.

  “Walking in the woods.”

  “I went down to Grandmother’s house to find you, but she told me you had not long left.”

  “I am here now.”

  Standing in the doorway, I waited for her to comment on the colour of my cloak, but it was as though she did not see me at all.

  “There’s strange news in town. They say the woodcutter is missing.”

  “Which, the boy or the man?”

  I held my breath, waiting for the answer.

  “The man,” she replied.

  “Here, mother,” I said, picking up the spoon from the table and handing it to her.

  “I can’t understand why he would be missing,” she said, resting the spoon in the bowl of cooling stew. “He knows those woods better than any.”

  “Perhaps he has gone to another town to buy supplies.”

  “Without telling his wife or his child? Besides, what supplies does a woodcutter need?”

  In that moment I felt as though I stepped between two worlds. I felt no sorrow at the death of the woodcutter. There was nothing in me to grieve or to pity him. Yet my mother had loved him, as she had loved my father, and both had walked out into the snow never to return.

  For the next three days I watched my mother slouch further down in her chair by the fire. The witch’s words wound round my mind: tell her you were attacked, or don’t. If she knew, perhaps she would grieve a little less for his loss. Or perhaps it would break her heart entirely.

  I could not take that risk.

  My body was once again strong, but my soul felt bruised. I needed to speak to someone of what had happened, but it could not be my mother. My cloak lay in a heap by the fire. Since changing colour it seemed as though it possessed a spirit of its own. As the flames of the hearth flickered across it, I swore I saw it breathe.

  Pulling it over my shoulders, I decided to walk to Grandmother’s.

  On the road to town, more than halfway there, I paused. In the centre of the path, half buried by fresh snow, was a dark stain. I trembled as I knelt to touch it, thinking for a moment that perhaps it was my blood. Yet, as I brushed back the white, I realised there was far too much red. I started to scrape the earth with my boot and the stain spread. It spread, and then it splashed. Dots and dashes scattered the path, scarlet faded to burnished brown.

  “What happened here?” I asked aloud.

  A robin chittered his answer nearby.

  So much blood.

  Enough to dye a cloak.

  I shut my eyes tight, took a deep breath and walked over the mess.

  When I reached town it was growing dark and I was surprised to see a bonfire in the central square. Two dozen men gathered there, some carrying pitchforks, others sickles. They were stood about listening to the woodcutter’s wife, balanced precariously on the wall of the fountain.

  “You know and I know, that woman ain’t natural!” she was shouting. “She lives right out in the woods, as though we weren’t good enough for her. She lets that beast of hers run wild. We all knew some day it would come to this.”

  “What is she talking about?” I asked the skinner, standing close to him for warmth.

  “It’s a dark business,” he replied, arms tucked beneath his armpits. “Her husband disappeared in the woods last week. There’s blood on the path. Looks like he was got by a wild beast. That woman over yon has got it into her head that it belonged to the Woman in the Woods. Says she’s got an animal what lives with her. Says he takes the form of a wolf
and hunts after dark. Says it must have been him.”

  “No, that can’t be right,” I said.

  “Right or not, that woman’s too mad to reason with, and as for these men, they’re drunk and bored.”

  I took off through the square, the sound of the stepmother’s voice rattling the night air.

  “Grandmother!” I called as I ran up her path.

  “What is it, child? You look distraught.”

  “Grandmother, please. They’re going to kill him.”

  “Kill who?”

  The time for pretence was at an end. I looked my grandmother straight in the eyes and told her that I knew where she had taken the boy.

  “I know,” I repeated. “I’ve known all along. I’ve been to see him many times over the years. You can’t let them kill him.”

  “They say he savaged the woodcutter,” she said. “If that be the truth, the boy deserves to die.”

  “It is the truth,” I replied, “but you must know why.”

  I sat by the fire staring into the flames whilst I told my grandmother the whole of the story. I told her how I had never forgotten my friend, how I had overheard her telling my mother where she had taken him, how I had spent half a lifetime trying to find my way there to the Woman in the Woods. I told her about the woodcutter’s son, who showed me the way in return for a kiss. I told her about the snake bite and how my friend had almost died. I told her about the woodcutter’s wife and how she had come to the witch asking for a ridding potion for her husband’s mistress, and how she had asked to place a curse on me and the witch had refused. Finally, I told her of my walk through the woods. How the snow had muted the sound of footsteps as the woodcutter followed me home. How I had called out, thinking it was my friend. How the Woman in the Woods had taken me to her bed and saved my life.

  “You see,” I told her. “The blood on the path was indeed the woodcutter’s, but if it hadn’t been his, it would have been mine.”

  Grandmother’s eyes travelled to my red cloak.

  “My child, you must leave this place. Run back through the woods to your mother’s house and lock the doors tight.”

  “What are you going to do, Grandmother?”

  “I’m going to tell the truth. I’m going to speak of what has been done to you—”

  “No! You cannot tell anyone. Their eyes, Grandmother. Their eyes are glassy with drink. They won’t hear that the woodcutter attacked me. They will only hear that my friend attacked the woodcutter. The reason won’t matter. She is a witch, and he is a boy without a mother. They’ll march into those woods and they won’t return until they’ve burnt them down.”

  My grandmother held up her hand to silence me.

  “That is not what I am going to tell them.”

  “Then what?”

  “Never you mind, my lovely. You just get yourself home with all haste. You hear me? Don’t you go stopping to pick wild posies on your way.”

  She made me promise that I would run straight home.

  As she took my hand in hers, I felt as though there were a thunderstorm playing out beneath my cloak. I looked into her eyes and for the first time I saw they were watery grey. I had never truly seen the colour of my grandmother’s eyes before, yet now I saw them as though they were the last thing I would ever see.

  12

  I ran and I ran and I ran, all the way home.

  When I reached there, I closed the door and locked it fast. I found my mother asleep in her chair by the fire.

  “Whatever is it?” she asked, as I shook her awake.

  “There’s trouble in the town. Grandmother told me to come home and lock the doors.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “It’s the woodcutter’s wife. She riled up the men in the square. They believe the woodcutter has been murdered and they intend to search the forest.”

  I watched my mother’s face pale, and I knew that she was more afraid of the woodcutter’s wife than the men with their weapons.

  “We will sleep in here tonight,” she said, reaching for the iron poker. “When trouble is coming, the only thing to do is wait.”

  In truth, we did not sleep at all. We stayed up, distracting ourselves with my glass-beaded game until I could take it no longer.

  “Mother, let me go down the path. I will wait in the trees and see whether they come.”

  “No, my child. Stay here with me in the warmth. Our doors are strong. Let them huff and puff, they will never blow this house down.”

  “I will only be gone a little while,” I replied. “I cannot simply sit here without knowing.”

  She tried to protest, but I kissed her cheek and left.

  Slinking between the trees, I listened hard. When I reached the turnoff for the Western Woods, I took it. Far down the track to town, I imagined the men coming. In my mind I could see the orange light of their torches held aloft. If I did not warn the Woman in the Woods, I would never forgive myself.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked as I opened the gate to her cottage.

  Despite the late hour, she was sitting outside, plucking a chicken by the light of an oil lamp.

  “Men from the town are coming. They’re coming for my friend. For what he did to the woodcutter.”

  “Why does this worry you?” she asked.

  “Because they intend to kill him, and you, should you get in their way. You can’t stay here, you must run.” The witch smiled and returned to plucking the fowl. Downy feathers coated her boots and the bird’s head flopped back and forth like a pendulum, counting the minutes until they arrived. “Don’t you understand?” I asked. “They are coming here to harm you.”

  “Don’t you remember?” she replied. “I suppose it has been a long time.”

  “Remember what?”

  “It is only you who can walk here whenever you please.”

  I touched my fingers to my lips, tasting gingerbread.

  “They will fall asleep,” I whispered.

  “Of course they will, and when they wake they will find themselves walking the path back to town.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “What if they have starflowers?” I asked.

  “Starflowers taste bitter and sweet for a reason. You think you are tasting them, but they are tasting you. If you taste bitter, they will not let you pass.”

  “You are wonderful!” I said, spinning around on the spot. “Such a clever spell.” Then a thought crossed my mind. “What of my friend? Where is he?”

  “He wanders where he pleases.”

  “But it is him they are coming to find. If he is outside your protection, they will kill him.”

  “If he wants my protection, he knows where I live.”

  “We can’t just sit here and wait for him. We need to find him.”

  The witch continued plucking until the sound drove me mad.

  “Please, we have to find him,” I repeated.

  “I am here,” my friend replied, appearing beside the cottage.

  It was the first time I had seen him since those hurtful words I had uttered. I knew that he had rescued me, because the witch told me so, but I recalled nothing of that night. He was as I remembered him, shabby trousers and worn boots, bare chested against the cold.

  “You have to go,” the witch said.

  Finally, she understood that he had to get out of here. Go deep into the Western Woods, as far as he could go, and remain there until the trouble passed. Then she raised her head and I realised she was talking to me.

  “Go where?”

  “To your mother’s house,” the witch replied. “We are safe here, hidden by enchantment, but your mother is by herself and she knows no such magic. What do you think will happen when the men cannot reach my door? Do you think they will find themselves back in town and stay there? No. They will go hunting for easier prey.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Bring her here if you like.”

  I was so grateful that I knelt in the pile of
feathers and kissed the witch’s cheek.

  “Thank you,” I whispered. “I will not forget your kindness.”

  As I turned for the path, I felt my friend’s hand in mine.

  “Come,” he said. “I will go with you.”

  “No, it is too dangerous.”

  Yet before I could pull away, he had started off through the trees, dragging me behind faster than I could have run by myself. I tried to let go of his hand, but he held it tight.

  “Your mother, she saved my life once,” he called as we ran. “I will pull her from beneath any tree that falls.”

  I was so afraid for him, yet selfishly I welcomed his company. He made me feel strong, like the mighty oak. Danger felt like make believe with him by my side. As though we were children again, playing pirates with wooden swords, vanquishing our enemies with twig arrows.

  As we crashed through the undergrowth towards my garden, he pulled up short. We crouched down and watched from our hiding place as the woodcutter’s wife approached my mother’s door, a flaming branch held aloft.

  “Come out. Come out of there you two-faced harlot. You think I don’t know? You think I don’t know what you did with my husband?”

  My heart sank as my mother unlocked her door.

  “Come in and we will talk.”

  I rose to my feet as the woodcutter’s wife struck my mother across the cheek, yet before I could go to her, my friend pulled me back down.

  “Wait,” he told me. “Wait until she has her back fully turned.”

  “I know what I did was wrong—” my mother began.

  “Wrong? You don’t know the meaning of the word. None of you do. You, your daughter and that cunning woman you call a mother. Well, I’ll teach the lot of you.”

  Taking a fistful of my mother’s hair in her hand, the woodcutter’s wife began dragging her towards the edge of the cliff.

  “Please, I’m sorry!” my mother called. “It was wrong and I’m sorry.”

  “It’s too late for that.”

  “I should never have done it.”

  “Slept with my husband or set that beast upon him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My husband was savaged out there in the snow. His blood stains the path into town. You have always been jealous of us. I bet you asked him to leave me on many occasions. He told you no, because he is my husband,” she said, grabbing the centre of her parted legs through her skirt. “Mine, you hear me?”