Avilion

by Robert Holdstock

  He stepped back to the desk and put down the book, stroking the cover almost regretfully, his hair obscuring his face and his expression. ‘Yssobel,’ he repeated, as if relishing the name. ‘The image of her mother.’

  She followed the shadow of the king’s stone . . .

  An odd change was happening in Huxley. He sat down in the desk chair and stared at his hands. The skin was dry and cracked, the knuckles showing hard and swollen like the knots on the branches of trees. The aura around him was of mould. Tears glistened in the corners of his eyes, though he showed no signs of being sad.

  Looking up at Jack, he searched the young man’s face, then smiled affectionately. ‘You are! Yes. The image of my son. But then - how do I remember?’

  He went into a huddle of thought, staring at nothing. Then in an authoritative and firm tone of voice he suddenly said, ‘There are parts of the wood where the generative powers are very strong. I call them vortices. They are associated with springs, or trees, usually oak and elm. Sometimes with clearings, especially those with shrines at their centre. Sometimes with very ancient tracks. They are the birthing places of the images, though I was never privileged to witness such a moment of generation.

  ‘But I have come from deeper. Far deeper. Someone drew me here.’ Huxley looked sharply up at Jack again. ‘You? Would that explain Yssobel? Your need; me; your needed mythago. My regenerated mind, my experience of wandering, the tales I’ve heard . . . somewhere in me there is a memory of the girl I never knew, a memory from stories I had heard about her. Your father was right. Huxley, when he was pure flesh and blood, would have been delighted to know that he could be brought back with a fragment of his intellect and memory, as well as his tweed clothing and ragged boots.’

  Suddenly the old man shrank into himself again. The moment of resurrection was gone. Whatever sustained him, whatever sentience, whether inside him or acting from around him, was maintaining this mythago form of the scientist; it was not powerful enough to hold him in full life.

  He was speaking words that Jack could hardly hear.

  ‘Mythagos . . . weaken at the edge. Whatever draws them there . . . once they are there, they are trapped. Insects in a web. The world sucks them dry. They become brittle. Fragile. They dissolve back into earth. True power for this form of creature lies at the heart of the wood. Lies where it begins. The place I have heard called Lavon d’yss.’

  Jack sat down on the floor, as close to his grandfather as he felt he could. Huxley peered down at him through watery eyes. ‘I think I’ll sleep for a while. Where do you sleep?’

  ‘Over there,’ Jack indicated his bedroll and furs. ‘Sleep there if you want. It’s not as comfortable as the bed upstairs, but far less damp and rank.’

  Huxley shuffled out of his chair and walked to the corner, kneeling down, then lying down, curling up on his left side, knees drawn up. A bony hand reached for a fur and tugged it over his legs.

  He became very quiet.

  Jack watched him for a while, and then must have dozed off. He was awoken abruptly by the pressure of a spear-point in his chest, and in the darkness was aware that Huxley was standing over him, weapon in hand, growling, ‘Where is he? Where is he?’

  Acting by instinct, Jack slapped the shaft aside, struggled to his feet, only to be pushed down by his grandfather whose strength seemed to have returned tenfold.

  ‘Where is he?’ the frail, rank spectre insisted, holding Jack’s neck, face so close to Jack’s again that he could smell the forest.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Christian! Christian! Where is he? Tell me now!’

  ‘My father’s brother?’

  ‘The killer. The killer. He took her from me. He took the beauty from the wildwood. He took my dream. He killed her. He killed her. Where is he? Where is he?’

  ‘George . . . let go. Go softly. I’m Jack. Steven’s son. I don’t know where Christian is. My father thinks he’s dead.’

  A lie! But it seemed appropriate.

  ‘Go gently, grandfather. Grandad. George. Gently. I’m half mythago. As fragile as you.’

  Though his grandfather didn’t feel so fragile at that moment.

  Gradually Huxley quietened down, kneeling back, staring at the spear from the cabinet, then casting it aside.

  ‘I was dreaming. A rage dream.’

  ‘We all have them.’ Jack sat up and embraced the old man. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’

  ‘It’s the middle of nothing,’ was the bleak reply.

  ‘A friend of mine called Julie has given me a herb called tea, which tastes sharp and bitter when boiled in water, but is what another friend of mine, from where I was born, would call “the welcome taste of strangeness”. Would you like to try some?’

  ‘No!’

  Huxley began to ramble, suddenly wild-eyed again, em phasising certain words and phrases as if rehearsing them. ‘When the pre-mythago begins to form it is first glimpsed at the edge of vision: a flitting shadow, a shape, a flash of colour. As for the other senses, a fleeting odour, of sweat or sex, or a swift breath, a whispered nothing, an elemental touch to the cheek, or hand, a brush stroke of contact. This indicates that the sentience that abides within this primordial stand of wildwood is beginning to engage with the manifested forms of the archetypes accumulated in the human mind over many hundreds of thousands of years! Whatever governs this primary mythago-genesis—’

  ‘Huxley!’

  Jack stopped the old man in his incoherent flow, and George Huxley glanced up sharply, almost angry in the dim light. ‘Go gently,’ his grandson urged. ‘You’ll break a twig.’

  ‘Too many broken already,’ was Huxley’s rather gloomy reply, and Jack laughed quietly, though at something he remembered from home, from his growing up, not at the old man’s grim demeanour.

  ‘Yes. Yes indeed.’

  It was dawn. A thin light began to illuminate the study and Huxley’s hunched, sad shape. Jack lay on his side, head in hand, watching the man who had haunted his childhood, and who had been one of the reasons for his longing to find Oak Lodge, and the world of science.

  Distantly, there was the sound of two sharp ‘cracks’, short pulses in the air that made the Haunter side of Jack start with shock. Huxley sat bolt upright, then glanced to the window.

  ‘What was that?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Gunshots.’

  For a moment Jack was too confused to think. Then he scrambled to his feet, pulled on his boots and raced to the outside world.

  ‘Stay there!’ he called back. ‘Don’t go away. Please!’

  The dawn air was fresh. The dew lay heavy on the fields, glistening as the light began to strengthen.

  Which way? Which way?

  Instinctively he ran towards the brook, brushing the tiredness from his eyes as he skidded on the wet grass. When he came in sight of the stream he saw the solitary figure of a man standing there, legs braced apart, shotgun hanging limply in one hand, wide-brimmed hat drawn down over his face.

  When Caylen Reeve looked up, his eyes were bright with tears, his mouth set thin. ‘I failed,’ he said as Jack walked up to him. ‘I failed in my task.’

  Jack looked down at what was sprawled on the bank of the stream.

  Blasted twice through the chest was a creature of hideous shape and appearance, its mouth stretched open in agony, its eyes sunken, its tongue protruding, its long bony fingers clawing at the wounds in its shallow frame. There was no blood in evidence, just gaping holes where the shot had ripped it open.

  ‘A changeling?’

  ‘Mature form,’ Caylen said, agreeing. ‘I hadn’t expected that. Infants are their normal prey.’ He looked grim. ‘They leave wood dolls behind and if they’re allowed to the dolls grow and take on a human feel. I was warning against infants. I chased this one all the way from the village. But I’m afraid the Iaelven have got what they came for. I can’t sense them now. They’ve run deep, looking for the way back to their hill.’

  The dying changeling beg
an to ooze glistening sap from its mouth. It shuddered and keened.

  Caylen Reeve drew a machete from behind his back and with a single brutal stroke he cut off the eerie sound.

  The not-reverend regarded the corpse with sadness, then glanced at Jack. ‘I don’t know what you expected to find when you found the open world, but I don’t imagine it was this.’

  Jack sighed and shook his head. ‘I expected something magical. Something peaceful. Castles, cathedrals, seashores. A child’s dream, I suppose. But I don’t regret the journey.’

  ‘Good luck,’ said the churchman. ‘I hope your dream gets you home. As for me, I’d better go and see if anything is lost . . .’

  He dropped his gun, reached down and picked up the creature by hair and heel, dragging its remains into the trees.

  As Jack walked back to Oak Lodge, Caylen made his way back to Shadoxhurst. At the top of the ridge the man turned and waved. Jack had been watching him, and he raised his hand. The change-hunter disappeared over the horizon.

  ‘George? Grandfather?’

  Jack walked into the study, only to find it deserted. He searched the house quickly. The man had gone. The exercise book was on the desk, however, and Jack flipped it open. Huxley had left a last entry, its writing testifying to his sudden decay.

  Many paths lead into Lavon d’yss, but they twist and turn with time. Yssobel followed shadow of the stone where her mother died. She found the Crossing Over place by a bold act. Treacherous act.

  J is image of my son. More of the man than wild. Sentience of the man and sentience of the old wood.

  what power in combination to bring me alive, ghost from ghost.

  and with half remembered life. Knowledge of work on first discovery of mystery of old wood, and same passion to understand secrets of this strange place.

  are there other Huxleys? Do they think same thoughts? Regeneration beyond understanding. But incomplete. Life force not strong fading

  rotting faster than usual degrading of myth form if only could see Isabel image of mother—

  It was here that the scrawl finished. Jack had great difficulty reading it, though Haunter helped intuitively. The last few words were almost childlike, exaggerated in shape, as if Huxley had been summoning every last ounce of strength to force through the thoughts.

  He knew, perhaps, that he was being drawn by a much greater force than he could control, back into the shadow of Ryhope Wood, to be absorbed and finished.

  Jack went to the rear garden. He called a couple of times, but was not surprised when he received no answer. He felt oddly forlorn. The encounter, for him, had been intense: he had touched the past; and perhaps he had learned a little about what had happened to his sister.

  Returning to the study, he read again everything that his grandfather had written, then carefully folded the notebook into his leather sack, packing it along with the copy of The Time Machine and the little chess set.

  Suddenly his name was called. It was Julie’s voice. He went to the front of the house. She and Caylen were running towards him. He waited for them to come to the wall. Julie was looking frightened and desperate. ‘You have to go,’ she said, as she caught her breath.

  ‘I’d advise it,’ Caylen added, looking at the house. ‘They’ll strip this place. And if they take you too, you’ll die for reasons you know too well.’

  Jack was confused, shaking his head. Caylen went on, ‘There’s a boy missing from the town.’

  His expression, a direct look at Jack, indicated that the reason should not be revealed to the townswoman.

  Julie said, ‘It’s the Hawkings’ boy. Eddie’s friend. The police are in the town, asking questions, and they’ll come here as soon as they hear about you. And everybody is talking about you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

  With a last sad glance, Julie turned and half ran, half walked back towards the road.

  Jack watched her go, then caught the look in the churchman’s forlorn gaze. ‘I haven’t taken the boy. Why should they suspect me?’

  ‘Welcome to the edge of the world,’ Caylen said grimly. ‘You must go, Jack.’

  ‘That was my intention. I have half of what I came for. There is nothing left for me here now. But I had nothing to do with the boy’s taking.’

  ‘I know that. They don’t. Come on!’

  They walked swiftly along the edge of Ryhope Wood to the stream. Caylen followed Jack beyond the edge, and responded as did Jack to the sudden pull and tug of the interior. At once Jack’s human side felt disorientated, but the Haunter side emerged and focused through the distortion of space. The first thing they encountered was the gruesomely slaughtered carcass of a horse, no doubt stolen from a nearby field.

  The Amurngoth had slaughtered the beast and stripped away most of the flesh. They had taken the head, no doubt as a trophy or to hang in the Iaelven caves. The kill was too recent to be rotting. Jack drew his knife and cut strips of flesh for himself, finding a thin branch, sharpening it and threading the strips so they would dry.

  There was a murmur of human noise some way away, but he was safe here.

  Then Caylen said, ‘If you hurry you can travel behind them. They know the short cuts through the earth, the openings, the under-realm, and they close some distance behind the band.’

  ‘It depends on where they’re going.’

  ‘With their new Change? They’ll be going close to the heart, to one of their hills. And if they had followed you here, as you think they did - then the hill must be close to your home.’

  Jack stared at the other man, the full Haunter, and shook his head. ‘You amaze me. What it must be like to live your life I can’t imagine.’

  Caylen Reeve smiled thinly. ‘Strange. And strangely wonderful. I live in a kind of hinterland. There are times that I want to go back into the wood and just quietly die. But where do I die? Where do I belong? And sometimes I dream of pushing further from the edge. But if I become unstable, then I’ll die in a different way. That I know! So I stay here, comfortable and happy. Except for today. Today I failed.’

  ‘For the first time.’

  Caylen shook his head. ‘For the first time? No. But for the first time in a long time.’

  They made their farewells again. Whatever the fate of Oak Lodge, Jack would never know about it. He walked along the bank of the stream, slipping down into the water, crossing the natural stone bridge where the stream suddenly became a river and the greenwood began to swallow the light for a while.

  Haunter whispered: I sense them. Sit back. Don’t try so hard. I’ll take us on their trail. Concentrate on Yssobel and what Huxley said about her.

  And the entity that was Jack relaxed into its wildwood side, thinking:

  She followed the shadow of the king’s stone . . .

  Under-Realm

  The Amurngoth were slow travellers. But Caylen Reeve had been right to urge Jack to follow as soon as possible. As they moved, the forest widened slowly ahead of them. When they approached a sheer cliff it became the ghost of a cliff. Along a river, the very air itself seemed to open like a cat’s eye.

  Their traces were obvious, those of their ‘stolen’ more so, since Iaelven left a different spoor to humans’. Jack followed them fast. They left a stink behind them that was unmistakable, so he was confident of being on the right trail. They had taken the stream to where it became the river, walked along one side, crossed over, then settled for a while. This was the place where he had hidden his boat. They had found it, inspected it, and clearly rejected it as useless.

  They didn’t need the river. They had the Iaelven trails.

  But that pause in their passage inwards allowed Haunter to catch up, running Jack like cloud shadow, weaving through the wood, through the rocks, through the tangled masses of briar that seemed to flourish towards the edge, almost as a defence.

  They had entered a stone gorge, leading inwards though not downwards. He could see the sides beginning to contract, shaping back to normal form. As he ran, stumbling on
the rocks and clutching at his two leather packs, he was almost sucked in as the space closed behind him.

  This was a very different channel, darker, colder, and it echoed: he could hear the whistling, clicking language of the Iaelven ahead of him, and the muffled but angry objection of a boy.

  In this dank defile Jack’s breathing became laboured. Twice he stumbled and the sound of displaced stones seemed to echo for ever. Ahead of him, the movement of the Iaelven was uninterrupted.

  Stop trying so hard, Haunter urged him. Look straight ahead. What do you see?

  Jack stared into the gloom. Then, at the edge of vision, shapes began to form, some human, some animal, some seeming to peer at him, others running past. He had experienced this before.

  That world is always there. Remember what your father told you? That at the edge of vision we can glimpse the early forms of mythagos.

  I’ve seen them before, but never so clearly.

  That’s because I am seeing them for you. This is one of those places where the generation of the mythago is strong. Your mind is in a turmoil of generation. Let it do its business in the wood, and let your body relax. Let me take us on the trail, silently.

  I need to be aware.

  You ARE aware. I am you. I just know the trails better.

  I reached the edge. I managed to see the Lodge.

  With a lot of help from me. If you had tried the journey without me, it would have taken you years. I knew the way.

  I know you did.

  Persuading you to give way to the haunter is very hard.

  I’ll give way now.

  Good. And now we have the chance of a very swift return. This Iaelven band smells familiar. They will lead us home. Let go, let Haunter have the limbs. Sleep, dream, create. I’ll feed you as we travel.

  He passed through trees, through hills, the world twisted around him, and he turned giddily as the whole landscape stretched and warped.