Avilion

by Robert Holdstock

  ‘I told him he looked strange,’ a boy’s voice said.

  ‘He didn’t know any better. Go and get a shirt and some soap. And here . . .’ She was fumbling in a polished leather bag, ‘Get a good thick pork roll, and a pint. Tell them Julie sent you.’

  ‘Yes, mum.’

  Now a different pair of hands lifted him, strong hands, helping him stand, leading him away from the music, beyond the water trough and to a wall, where he sat. And gradually the world came back into focus. And with it the pain of his bruises.

  ‘Why was I hit?’ Jack asked quietly.

  ‘Because of what you are,’ the woman said. ‘I’m so sorry. Not everyone behaves that way.’

  A man’s voice: ‘You’ve come a long way, I think.’

  Jack nodded. ‘A long journey.’

  ‘From Europe?’

  The words signified something, but not enough for Jack to respond. The woman said, ‘Not from Europe, I think. From somewhere older. More distant.’

  Jack sighed, trying to take in the face that regarded him so earnestly. She was trying to smile, but there was a frown on her, indicating a curiosity and an anxiety that made him uncomfortable.

  ‘It has, yes . . . it has been a long journey. I’ve dreamed of being here. I was warned that I wouldn’t be allowed to leave. But I’ll try again. I’ll keep trying.’

  The man’s hand was heavy and reassuring on his shoulder. ‘Don’t judge us by the teenagers. They have nothing better to do. What they called you: forget it. Just words. Just names.’

  What they called me? I don’t remember.

  Eddie came back. He was a blur of speed, a whirlpool of activity, arriving and skidding to his knees, holding out a fragrant piece of meat in a soft dough. Jack took the food and placed it in his bag. The proffered drink smelled sour and unpleasant. The offered shirt was accepted.

  ‘It will cover those tattoos,’ Julie said, with a smile. ‘And here. You rather need this.’

  It was a piece of wax that smelled like pine. Jack knew what it was, and how to use it.

  ‘I’m going back.’

  ‘Be careful.’

  He stood shakily, his legs only finding their strength again as he reached the tracks. He didn’t look back, aware that the bells in the grey tower had started to ring again. Aware of anger; and kindness. And that he had found the limit of his adventure.

  He had hoped to go so far. He was devastated now to realise that his father had been right. There was too much of the mythago in him to allow him into the world of his human origin.

  He reached the Lodge and sat down in the corner of the study, touching the bruise and the cut on his face, staring at the cooked meat, cold now, and feeling like a corpse.

  Jack cried for a while, tears of anger and confusion. Then he left the house and went to the same enclosed place where he had called for his grandfather the night before. And staring into the darkness, thinking of Huxley, he called again. It was a moment when he at last broke from his own turmoil, from his own self-doubt.

  He went back to the house, ate the meat and drank the milk that Eddie had brought for him that morning and later that afternoon. And he began to rethink his situation.

  Huxley’s Shadow

  Jack spent a disturbed and restless night. The shock of the day played on his mind, in particular the terrible feeling of being dragged back to the house, a wrenching sensation that seemed to have bruised him more deeply than the physical attack upon him.

  When he tried to think about it, huddled in the darkness, he could only explain it by the sense that something was coming alive in him, something that he had always known was there: his mother’s side of him, which afforded him insights and sensations in the deep forest but which had always been suppressed beneath the human part of his existence.

  The wind was strong, and the house was noisy. The hanging clothes shifted spectrally; floorboards creaked and doors swung on their rusting hinges. The house seemed unhappy. The moon vanished, and the small light that Jack had enjoyed for the early part of the night faded into a thin starlight.

  He tried to sleep, and perhaps had drifted off just briefly when he woke to the sound of voices. They were a distant murmur, a man’s voice and the chatter of a child who was being told to ‘huuish’.

  Rising quickly, Jack went to the window that looked out across the garden to where he knew a gate had once marked the exit from the property. A tall hooded shape stood there, featureless but staring at the Lodge. He held two staffs, one in each hand, each as tall as the man himself. Beside him, the pale face of a boy - perhaps a girl - also stared at the building, and suddenly this smaller figure pointed excitedly and directly at Jack and began to babble in a language that Jack didn’t recognise.

  The man took both staffs in his right hand and used the left to pull the child to his side, silencing him. Then they turned and walked away, neither into the wood nor away from it.

  For the rest of the night, Jack sat by the window, watching the gloom and the waving of branches against the dark and glittering sky, waiting for another visitation; but none came.

  He did sleep at last, but woke to the sound of his name again. The call was not the boy’s; it was the woman’s, Julie’s, or so he thought, and when he picked his way to the field he was proved right. It was a brisk day, and the field was damp with dew.

  She smiled at him. He recognised the same kind face from yesterday. She was wearing a loose white jumper and tight blue trousers, and had clothes over one arm and a bag in her hand.

  ‘Good morning,’ she called. ‘How are your bruises?’

  ‘Sore.’

  ‘I’ve brought some antiseptic . . .’

  Jack didn’t recognise the word.

  ‘For the cut,’ Julie went on. ‘And breakfast. And two old shirts and some trousers that might fit.’

  She was frowning as she approached, then she smiled brightly and held out the gifts. ‘I’m sure we can find something for you to trade. If only your story. Your history. If that would be all right with you . . .’

  Again the uncertainty, and when Jack didn’t respond she looked crestfallen for a moment, slightly embarrassed.

  ‘Well, something, anyway,’ she said. ‘I hope the clothes fit.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She brushed a hand through her hair and looked over her shoulder into the distance. ‘Well . . . I’d better get to work. First day of the week.’

  On impulse, slightly dazed from the night’s restlessness, and perhaps from the kick he’d received the day before, Jack said, ‘Would you like to come and see the ruins?’

  Julie bit her lip, glancing beyond him, thinking hard.

  ‘I’ve heard there is a house there, but no one goes there. Most people think it burned down. This is a very strange woodland; it feels dangerous. I don’t like my son playing near here, but he fishes in the stream.’

  Jack nodded. ‘It’s where I met him. And his friend who wouldn’t tell me his name.’

  Julie pulled a face. ‘A nasty piece of work, if it’s who I think it is. Eddie shouldn’t mix with him. He’s the boy who kicked you. Did you understand what he was calling you? The word? The name?’

  Jack shook his head, hardly able to remember anything. ‘Just as well,’ Julie went on. ‘Not to be repeated.’

  ‘Someone said that to me yesterday, but I was too dazed. Come and see the house. It’s not far to walk . . .’

  She hesitated for a moment. ‘All right. I am interested,’ she added more brightly. ‘I’ve written a small pamphlet on Ryhope. About some of the figures that have been seen here. Haunted Wood.’ She folded her arms, again looking beyond Jack and frowning. ‘All right. But I mustn’t be long.’

  He led the way through the scrub and over the low bank that seemed to mark the edge. Following the narrow track through the trees, it was a matter of moments before the wall of the house could be seen. But already Julie was shaking, her arms held tightly across her chest, her breathing oddly laboured.


  Jack hesitated, watching her. Perspiration was beading her face. ‘Can you see the house?’

  She looked at it and nodded. As Jack walked on, she followed nervously, then suddenly cried out. ‘Where am I going?’

  ‘To the house.’

  She shook her head violently. ‘No, this isn’t right. It doesn’t want me. I’m going to be sick.’ She started to turn and twist, looking frantically about her. ‘This isn’t right.’

  She stumbled away from him, bumping into trunks, tripping over roots, and Jack chased after her and led her out to the field. She was shaking.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered in a small voice. ‘That was very unpleasant. I’m sorry. I hope the clothes fit . . .’

  And with that Julie started to run back towards the old railway line, and the road that wound through the farms to the town, only slowing to a walk when she was about to disappear from view. She didn’t look back. Jack watched her go with some sadness.

  It doesn’t want me.

  What had she meant by that? What had she been feeling? The house was just a ruin; a very intact ruin, certainly. It gave no signs of having been burned or ransacked, used by wayfarers. The wood had grown around it, embracing the bricks and mortar. Jack had the uncanny feeling that the house was being protected. But from what? Against what?

  Ransacking, perhaps. Or curiosity?

  He returned, that morning, to the ‘sticklebrook’, and though the shallow water was cold, he stripped and washed, feeling invigorated by the action. The clothes felt strange on him. He was not used to buttons, but understood them instinctively. He tucked the blue-fabric trousers into his boots. The garment felt loose around the waist but he managed to tighten it through the belt loops with some twisted ivy. He had rope in his small boat, but that was a good stretch inwards and along the dangerous riverland where the Muurngoth had their enclosures. He wanted only one visit back there, and that was to find the inwards river and return to the old villa that was his home.

  Jack walked along the edge of the woodland for most of the afternoon, watching machines at work on the land, fighting the urge to run down one of the absurdly woolly sheep he saw in a flock (for its meat), standing for a long time by a field, admiring the fine, lean horses grazing the pasture, beasts that would have towered above the ponies that his family had accumulated as pack animals. They were creatures from a vision-dream, drawn out, extended, long-necked and long-legged, and when they ran they were so graceful they might have been birds in flight.

  With the coming of late afternoon he returned to Oak Lodge. He had not hunted but he would open one of the metal containers in the cupboard, an experiment, anything to keep the hunger pangs controlled. He had long since learned not to acknowledge hunger, only to satisfy the craving when the opportunity arose.

  He was in the kitchen, staring at the shiny cans, knife in hand ready to jab one of them open, when he heard a sigh from deep in the house, and the sound of a chair scraping on a wooden floor. His heart raced for a moment, then calmed.

  Jack put the knife down. Intrigued, but not alarmed, he walked quietly along the corridor towards the study where Huxley had worked so intensely in the past. He heard another sigh, almost a grumble. Then the sound of a hand being slapped several times on the desk - a sound of frustration, he was sure.

  At the entrance to the study, Jack stopped. The old man sat with his back to him. The late-afternoon light cast a beam across the wide desk and the scatter of papers and books that were piled there. They had not been there yesterday. The man was writing and sighing, writing and sighing, shaking his head, looking up and drumming his fingers on the mahogany surface as he paused to consider his words. Jack knew at once who it was.

  Seen from behind, this shade of George Huxley looked hunched and old. He wore a faded green jacket. His hair was mostly grey, long, curled over the jacket’s collar. There were bits of leaf in his hair; his skin was browned and desiccated, and small strands of briar were caught in the jacket and in his trousers.

  There was a pause and Jack heard the whispered words: ‘Familiar. All very familiar, but not right. Not right. The vortices have shifted; the places of power are not there now. The tracks are not the same. Everything has shifted . . .’

  The scribbling began again, the head bowed to the task.

  Jack whispered, ‘I know who you are. Let me see your face.’

  Had Huxley heard that murmur? He stopped writing, sat up a little, cocked his head; puzzled. After a moment’s listening he turned in his chair, arm resting on the back, and peered down the corridor past his watching grandson. Jack was leaning against the frame of the door, hands in pockets, motionless.

  ‘Steven?’ Huxley called. He listened again, then repeated, ‘Steven? Christian? That you? Steven?’

  ‘It’s Jack. Steven’s son. His brother, Christian, is a long time lost in the heartwood.’

  ‘Steven?’ the old man murmured again, his voice fading as he leaned to peer further along the corridor, seeing nothing. Then, with a twitch of his eyebrows and a shake of his head, he turned back to his work.

  Jack walked carefully into the room and stood on the other side of the desk. Huxley was heavily and scruffily bearded. A streak of white marked his chin. His eyes were red-rimmed and watery. The hands that rested on the desk, one holding a pencil, the other holding down the page of a battered journal, were skeletal, almost woody. There was tremor in the fingers, and the handwritten words were shaky.

  ‘You can’t see me,’ Jack said softly. ‘I wonder why?’

  Huxley responded to the sound, but again looked over his shoulder, frowning deeply before continuing his scrawl.

  Jack stood there for a few minutes, then came round to stand behind his grandfather and read what was being written.

  It is strange to feel belonging. Yet not belonging. It is curious to feel summoned, but to not know the summoning entity; neither its nature, nor its purpose. I believe I have been ill and in a state of dreaming. Certainly, I am abundant with experiences from my explorations of the wildwood and its strange landscapes, though many of them are hazy. Perhaps an effect of my sudden awakening.

  The house is not right. It is familiar, but overgrown, and there is a ghost here. I sense its presence. Perhaps the ghost is that of my own existence, returned in frail form. And summoned.

  All is familiar and yet not right. The study is not as I remember it, though it contains memories that I can relate to. It is as if clever hands have put the pieces of a jigsaw back together; the jigsaw is wrong, but the pieces, for some reason, fit together.

  There are books here. But all randomly placed. I do not know if my earliest journals are still intact. I cannot remember where I hid them. I write in the notebook of a schoolboy, found among Steven’s effects in his room. The room has been disturbed recently. Again: I cannot fathom why or how I know this.

  What shall I make of the ghost in the lodge? Is it a mythago?

  The oak vortex, once accessible only after an hour’s walk inwards, has perhaps shifted out to encompass this rotting building. I had always believed that the points of power, the fluxes of time and space that are scattered around the edge of Ryhope, were flexible in their position, their movements as unpredictable as a storm.

  I remember a different season, cold and harsh, heavy snow and mindless savagery, a huddle and a hiding for survival as I journeyed. That was not long ago, but I remember nothing in between. Yes, I believe I am surfacing from a state of dreams, and must accordingly make a record of my experiences with all accuracy and concentration, especially if whatever, or whoever, has summoned me has a purpose in mind.

  Jack gently touched the old man’s shoulder, noticing the flinch. But it was a flinch ignored. The pencil was hovering over the page, caught between thought and the haunting presence.

  Jack said, ‘I’m Jack. Steven’s son. I summoned you.’

  No response from the strange figure at the desk.

  ‘The why and the wherefore of that summoning is not import
ant at this moment. But the name Yssobel is a name I want to whisper to you, and ask you to imagine. Yssobel. She is your granddaughter, and she is lost; she is searching for a life that will take her into danger. That is what your son Steven believes. And of all her family, you have gone furthest and deepest into the sorts of places that Yssobel might have travelled. There is so much to explain to you, George. Though not yet. But hold Yssobel in that ghostly mind.’

  Huxley was staring straight ahead. His flesh had gone cold and pale and his hands were shaking more than before. He didn’t even look at the page of the notebook as he wrote - as if in the dream state to which he had previously referred - the letter Y.

  Thinking that his visitor was here for a while yet, Jack went to the kitchen and quickly opened a tin of what turned out to be soup of indeterminate nature. When he returned to the study, he found it empty. The window was open and a breeze was making the primitive clothing on their hangers twist and turn. The simple notebook was still open, the pages fluttering, held down by a stone. It was as if they were inviting inspection, and Jack peered at the entry for the last time that day.

  All Huxley had added was a question mark after the letter Y.

  Between Worlds

  During the night, Huxley returned to Oak Lodge. Jack lay quietly in the darkness, watching the figure as it stumbled about the study, touching here, staring there, breathing hard, whispering from time to time; and occasionally making a forlorn sound, a sound of loss.

  This very solid ‘shade’ of his grandfather roamed the house. Jack listened to it as it climbed unsteadily up the stairs and visited each room in turn. Furniture was shifted, objects were dropped.

  Finally, Huxley came downstairs and looked out of the study window that faced towards the open land, and the world in which he had been born.

  Again, he seemed to be silently crying; and then, without showing any awareness of his grandson, now crouched close by, he turned and crossed to the French windows to the garden, opened them and was gone.