Nat was angry. He’d been so close to home and now it was going to take hours to get a truck to pull him out of this — if one could be found this late on Christmas Eve. He doubted it. His parents would be anxious when he didn’t arrive when he’d said he would from the phone in The Bear. There was nothing for it but to trudge on and find a lift. Bugger! He took a still needed leak against the tree. Serves you right he thought, splashing the bloody tree, the warm urine melting the snow yellow.
The floor of the forest was a web of tangles and rotting logs and he stumbled about through it. Straining his ears, he couldn’t hear any sort of engine in the night. Well why would he? It was Christmas Eve, treacherous weather and anyone with any sense at all was indoors already. The flurry of snowfall was relentless and there was the occasional solid thrump of it falling from the branches of the over-burdened trees, but very little else and now he was very, very cold. He wondered whether he was going into shock and realised that this was serious and that he had to make plans to stay warm until someone came down this road to rescue him; it was an actual survival situation. Nat still felt very dizzy so that the idea of heading down the road seemed unappealing. Retrieving his thick trench coat from the backseat, he rummaged in his bag for extra socks to use on his feet, his hands, and to stretch onto his head! Thank God for Mum’s terrible knitting skills! She’d laugh when she saw how he’d used the thick woollen socks and he’d never complain about them being too big again.
Stepping back, in this arctic weather kit, he could now see what had stopped him so abruptly and it was the trunk of an enormous tree — a vast trunk – an oak he thought, huge and swollen with growths distending its girth. He knew it as the Fat Bellied Oak, standing at the very edge of the forest on the road verge. Its girth was strapped in by a thick iron band, holding its belly together.
He was still only a few feet from the road itself, near enough to hear anything that was heading down it to flag down. He trudged around the tree’s bloated belly, quite amazed by its circumference. The cold was seeping into his shoes which were intended for a car journey and not a hike, and his nose was nipped sharply by the night temperature. He tried to open the boot to take out his boots but it was jammed shut and a wooden stick wouldn’t prise it open. When he looked more carefully, he saw a large indentation and guessed that the deer had bounced on it.
When he looked up and down the road, there wasn’t even a hint of car lights and he knew that he was at least thirteen miles from home. Flapping his arms up and down and around him to try and generate some warmth, he had to stop because of the pain it caused in his head and his ribs. He guessed that he’d bruised them on the steering wheel. He scanned the distance as far as he could see in the still falling snow and he knew that he was in trouble. The car was no place to shelter. Without its electric heater, it was just a steel can — and anyway he couldn’t see the road from there. The icy water sloshing around in the useless shoes made his toes hurt and his head throbbed so severely, that his vision was beginning to blur with the pain. He could well have a concussion.
Nat needed to act and so he was delighted to discover, as he rounded the tree’s trunk, that it had an opening in its girth, large enough for him to climb in. Actually, it looked quite cosy, almost like two little rooms carved into the interior, and he thought that it was a better bet than the cold metal of the car and it was near enough to the road for him to be able to spot any rescue that might come along. Grabbing even more clothes from his pack and wrapping as many of them around him as he could, he smiled to think that he was looking rather like the bloated tree itself as he waddled and squeezed into the dry leafy shelter of Savernake Forest’s Big Belly Oak.
Around mid-morning of the next day, the brilliance of the sun bouncing off the crisp blue-white snow, a police officer investigated a crash by the Savernake Oak, having been called out to the scene by the driver of the first snowplough to open up the road. No problems in identifying what had caused the crash. The guts of the splattered deer had been dragged about by foxes, and were smeared across the pristine landscape. PC Timpson thought that even through the icy cold, he could just detect the unmistakable tang which was the beginning of decay and which was so very hard to get out of the nostrils. Thank God he wasn’t smelling any rot from the smashed car; he’d not had his breakfast yet.
Nat told Florence everything, ‘I remember struggling my way into the hollow of the tree and feeling how snug it was in all of the layers I’d put on - much better than outside and the space began to warm up surprisingly quickly. Wood. Great insulator. God but I was glad. I’d started to shake. You know, I’ve thought about it over and over and I think that I was vaguely conscious of a low vibration, like a deep machine in the basement of a building but the vibrations seemed to build until they were in my teeth. And the heat wasn’t just my layers of clothes.
At first, I thought that it was something to do with the headache and then I perked up when I thought that it might be a snowplough coming down the road — it wasn’t of course. I got to my feet so that I could turn and crawl out of the trunk and I remember laughing at how difficult it was in all of those layers. I managed to stand up but the vibrations increased and then they were all around me. The clothes got tighter and I began to panic because I couldn’t turn, and then — nothing. I don’t remember anything else until I came to and it was light and I was terrified. Two unconscious episodes in one day. Lucky, eh!
I know this is crazy, well, not to you, but at first, I thought that I was in a coffin. I couldn’t think of another explanation! I thought that I’d been found, they’d thought I was dead and they’d buried me — or that thing where you’re locked in your own mind and can’t move? Mad! But I knew that I wasn’t lying down. I was held upright by sappy wood on all sides, completely trapped. I had very little movement and my body seemed to be contoured to the wood and my feet weren’t touching the floor. I remember that I shouted out in sheer bloody terror and kept on shouting until I was hoarse but, of course, no one answered and all I could hear was the birds and the sucking of the water into the tree. Never knew that it made a sound before. You’ve no idea what it was like… Nothing made sense about where I was or how I’d got there and I was incarcerated in this upright living coffin, wrapped in ridiculous layers of clothes.’
After a while of not being able to move at all, and after the screaming stopped — because it hadn’t made any difference and his throat was raw - he began to notice small details through the darkness of his terror. There was a draft of air coming up from the floor and light was seeping in from the vertical crack in the wood. It felt much warmer but he thought that could be the layers of clothes. He twisted in a twenty-point turn until, by forcing his chin down uncomfortably, he could see the bottom of the hollow and the crack which seemed to broaden into an arched aperture in the base of what was now undeniably a tree trunk. But he was jammed fast with his make-shift survival clothes, dry and snagging against the creaking wood.
He wriggled furiously to free himself from the restricting jumper on top of his coat, wishing that he’d not donned those extra layers and then he used his teeth to tear off one of the sleeves — a very slow and sweat inducing process. He chewed through the layer after layer, ripping the seams where he could. Furiously, he worked it downwards, pinching it between the tips of his fingers and grabbing it in his fist to pull it towards his feet. Now he had just a little more space so Nat swivelled himself around until he could start to force his body downwards. It was like some strange parody of pot-holing! The effort was intense and he had to work at it for hours. Any bony protuberance was grazed and bloodied which perversely, became a lubricant. Each inch he moved was a triumph. He even began to have hope that he could get to the bottom where there was daylight. At some stage his bursting bladder emptied and the wetness and his sweat helped him slither further down. When he finally found himself released and dumped on the floor, he laughed with relief. The gap was still way too small for him to worm out of but it was quite rotte
n in places and he kicked and hit at it until he had blasted enough of a space to escape from. No danger of him freezing to death now! He was sweating like a pig.
‘Thinking about it, I’m probably responsible for the huge hole in the tree in our own time! Is that possible? Did I cause it? And there I was: bloodied, soiled, exhausted and still with this hell of a headache! Seems that when you time travel, you take your injuries with you.’
Florence had listened carefully to every word. ‘Vandal,’ she chuckled gently, stroking his cheek. She didn’t like to think of him in pain.
‘I was so pleased with myself. I thought that I’d escaped … but I’d really no idea.’
‘I know,’ Florence agreed softly. And they both remembered a time before when England was not a place where they feared for their lives. Their sadness was in not having appreciated it.
Nat wondered if Florence ever made those promises to herself that began with: ‘If I ever get home…’ Finally, he stood beside the damaged tree and took stock, triumphal in his breakout, breathing heavily and dripping with sweat and other liquids. The faint tang of beery urine rose from his damp trousers, and elbows and knees and face were all scraped and oozing beads of blood. Peeling the layers off, he took off his shirt and wiped himself down as best he could, rolling his eyes when he thought what a sight he must be and of the looks he’d get as he trudged home along the roadside. Astonishingly, the snow had all melted overnight and, although it was still cool, he wasn’t freezing any more. The thin sun was welcome even though it hurt his eyes and made the headache worse.
As he began to look about him for the direction of the road, he realised how thirsty he was and he began to fancy a full English. He heard a noise to his left, as a man emerged from the thick woodland. Nat was surprised. He’d expected help to come from the road — when he found it. The man who emerged from the thicket was… interesting and seemed alarmed to see Nat standing there. Springing back, he reached to his side, seemed annoyed by what he didn’t find and then slipped his hand into some very long riding books, withdrawing a long blade which he tossed between his hands menacingly and skilfully.
‘Whoa, mate! No need for that is there?’ Nat yelled in alarm.
‘Come on then knave! Let’s see your worth without that filthy rabble at your back!’ and he squared up to Nat in an unmistakably aggressive stance, the dagger glinting in the weak sunlight.
Nat’s day was just getting better and better but now he understood. ‘Sorry, mate. Not part of your scene. After the morning I’ve had, you’d better just piss off back to the costume department!’ he spat. ‘Just point me in the direction of Marlborough.’
‘That nest of vipers is it! Vile youth! I shall breakfast on your tongue!’ slurred the man as he then seemed to lurch in Nat’s direction with clear intent.
Bit over-dramatic thought Nat but if the guy was an actor, he was good. ‘Brilliant! I believe you,’ said Nat hurriedly with a forced laugh, raising both hands in mock submission but damaged and exhausted as Nat was, his wits were suddenly sharpened and he jumped back as the man’s blade made a very real swipe at his torso and, only just missing, struck a log. The knife was far too solid to be a stage prop. His attacker staggered past him and Nat could smell the alcohol on him.
‘What the…!’ his face registered incredulity as he tried to make sense of the attack. This man was some sort of weirdo — that much was obvious from his outfit. He wore breeches which met long leather boots, encrusted with muck. His jacket was leather over a leather jerkin which was ripped and filthy, torn at the arm and soaking wet. He looked like he’d been sleeping rough for a while because his lank hair curled onto his shoulders and his beard was thin and unkempt.
The drunk tried to move towards him again and this time, Nat was ready and stepped aside easily as the lunge came, leaving the man to fall heavily on the floor with a painful grunt. It wasn’t difficult to out manoeuvre a wino. Nat could only stare at being attacked so unexpectedly and unfairly, given his day so far, and, never one to miss a good opportunity, delivered a swift kick to the stranger’s backside. The man didn’t even grunt. Actually, he made no noise and he didn’t move. Had Nat gone too far? He searched for the knife, prodding the very still man with his foot, turning him over unceremoniously. As he flopped onto his back, there was a gush of blood from his guts, a stain spreading, soaking through everything that he was wearing. Nat felt sick. What had happened here? He hadn’t wounded him? He squatted down beside him, unsure what to do and lifted the man’s arm away from his body. There was a knife sticking out of his bottom rib! He wasn’t drunk; he was wounded! Where the hell was the nearest phone? This bloke needed help — urgently. He couldn’t just leave him here, drunk or not. If he’d thought that he was having a bad day, this chap was in real trouble.
‘It’s OK mate. I’ll get help. You’ll be all right. Just press here. It’ll help the bleeding.’ Should he pull the knife out? Leave it there? He had no idea what he was saying really. What was an armed wino doing out here in the middle of the forest! Who’d done this to him and, more to the point, were they still around? The dying stranger didn’t press the wound but with surprising strength suddenly clutched Nat’s T-shirt and pulled him towards his filthy face.
‘God will punish you, bastard! Rot in he…’ and as his grasp loosened, he relaxed himself and his bowels into the arms of death. Disentangling himself from his hold, Nat fell backwards onto his rump in complete shock. He ran his hand through his hair, feeling faint and sick. He’d seen men die before but had promised himself never ever to become used to it.
‘Shit. Oh my God.’ He was cold and clammy, the shock of this adding to the potential concussion. He might have continued like that but for the noises heading towards him somewhere in the forest. Either these were friends of this dead crazy or the people who’d stabbed him and either way, Nat didn’t feel inclined to introduce himself. He needed to find the police. Not knowing why, and taking the surprisingly heavy dagger with him, he started away through the forest in the opposite direction to the noise. He had blood on his hands. And where the hell had the snow gone!
He was panicking now but forced himself to remember that he’d crashed just off the main road, so that all he had to do was find the road again and flag down a car. Even on Christmas Day, there’d be traffic going in to Marlborough.
He staggered back to the road; it was close to the tree. Nat stopped and looked around. Was it possible to be more confused? He could see the tree and he knew where the road should have been and it simply wasn’t. Well, it was but it was a muddy, narrow track with no sign of the tarmacked surface that should have been there. Obviously, he’d become disorientated. With the sounds of men coming ever nearer, Nat ran and stumbled and tripped and jogged, the low winter sun in his eyes strobing between the branches, making him even more bewildered. The only point of reference that he had was the tree itself. He went around it knowing already that it was too slim to be the tree he’d crashed in to and even if someone had moved the car, there was no sign of any damage to the tree’s trunk. None of this was making any sense. In the distance, the unfriendly sound of men grew closer, so he ran on and didn’t halt until he ran out of breath and energy.
Eventually, he had to stop and resting on the stump of a fallen tree, he waited for his lungs to fill again and his heart to stop bursting. Gradually, he began to string together what had happened to him. He remembered the crash and the snow. He remembered being trapped in the tree (utterly inexplicable) and the panic of escaping from it and, when he looked at the dried blood on his hands, he was horrified by the memory of a dying man. He didn’t understand what this was but survival was now all that mattered and that meant that he had to find civilised people. He didn’t want another night out in the forest. Someone would be able to make sense of this. The police would be his first port of call. Yes. He was calm now. Panic over. What on earth had gotten into him? Everything here could be explained; it could be unpicked and resolved.
Florence
was holding his hand and that helped. She squeezed it as a small encouragement.
‘Yeah, he sighed. ‘I started to think that I needed to get out of this — whatever it was! When I looked around, I could see that this track through the forest was well used — there were wheel ruts in in. Sitting down and resting had been a mistake because now, everything hurt. My cuts and bruises were swollen and sore and I was incredibly thirsty. I began to think about really heroic survivors and how pathetic my predicament was. This was hardly the arctic! I managed to embarrass myself into putting one foot in front of another for a very long time. You know, I had a sense that the forest shouldn’t be that big and that sooner or later, I’d hit a road or even a house! But the light was fading when I got to the end of it. I just stopped in my tracks and stared at what was before me. I was on the outskirts of a town, on the wrong side of the dark river. I’d made it because this was definitely Marlborough. You know, my first thought was how pretty it was with the lights twinkling and the smoke from the chimneys. I could smell the wood smoke and it was really good because it meant help and water. Nat’s head lowered. ‘I thought that it was over.’
The High Street. He knew it well. There was that lovely old bridge leading on to it causing traffic congestion nearly every day of the week. He took a moment to line up the buildings of his childhood and youth. Thank God! There was the tower of St. George’s, there was the Merchant’s House and there…Where was the Red Lion? That knock on the head was causing him real problems! No cars. Ah, yes. It was Christmas Day. Of course, it would be deserted. He’d been drawn closer by thoughts of home and comfort, as he peered at the town, picking out the landmarks and trying to reconcile it with his memory and discovered that he was standing on the hump at the centre of the bridge. He looked further into the twilight and began to see the good people of Marlborough about their business, travelling back to their houses from Christmas visits as the afternoon light faded and the cold night set in. Who wouldn’t want to be indoors.
Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles Page 8