The Forest (14 page)

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Good.’ She paused a moment. ‘Now there’s a root growing down from your spine, right through the chair and down into the ground. Deep into the ground.’

‘Yes. I can feel it.’

The witch nodded slowly. It seemed to Adela that she was indeed rooted like a tree, in that space. At first it felt strange, then immensely relaxing. Only then did the witch get up and slowly begin to move about.

First she picked up the little dagger and, pointing it, she
made a circle in the air that seemed to contain them both and all the articles on the ground. The cat remained outside the circle.

Then she touched the water in the bowl with the tip of the dagger, murmuring something; next she did the same to the salt. After this she transferred three tips of salt on the dagger point into the bowl of water and stirred, still murmuring softly.

Next she took the bowl of water and performed sprinklings, three times each, in four places round the imaginary circle, which Adela realized must be the four points of the compass. She took a tiny glowing shard from the fire, whispered something and snuffed it out, watching wisps of smoke drift upwards. Then once again she went round the four points, making curious signs at each.

‘Do you always move round the same way, from north to east to south?’ Adela ventured to ask.

‘Yes,’ came the reply. ‘If you go the other way we call it moving widdershins. Don’t talk.’

Now, a third time, she was going to the compass points around the circle, holding the dagger, and at each one she made a curious casting in the air. At the first Adela thought it was a random sign, but she realized that the second was identical. At the third she understood: the witch was drawing a pentagram, the five-pointed star whose structural lines have no break or ending, in the air. And though the fourth casting took place behind her head, she had no doubt it was the same. Finally the witch made a pentagram at the centre of the circle. ‘Air, Fire, Water, Earth,’ she said quietly. ‘The circle is made.’

Picking up the wand, she went round once more, repeating the pentagrams. Then, satisfied, she stood in the centre of the circle, not looking at Adela but apparently at the points on the circle’s edge, speaking softly to each before at last sitting down on the stool and quietly waiting, like a householder expecting visitors.

Adela, too, sat quietly waiting – she was not sure for how long. Not long, she thought.

At first, when Puckle’s wife had told her to imagine herself a tree, she had experienced a vague downward pressure on her body. After a little, to her surprise, she found she could not only imagine herself in this transformed state, she could actually feel the roots extending out of the soles of her feet and then from her spine, seeking their way down into the dark earth. She could feel the earth, as though she had acquired several new sets of hands and fingers: it was cool and damp, musty but nourishing. This downward sense continued. If she wanted to move, she realized, the roots would hold her down, keeping her in this single place. At first this seemed a little irksome. I’m not a free animal any more, she thought, I’m a tree, I’m trapped, a prisoner of the earth.

But gradually she began to get used to it. Although her body might be rooted in the earth, her mind seemed to have gained a new freedom. It was a peaceful, pleasant feeling. She felt as if she were floating.

Some time passed. She was aware of the shadowy room, the gentle glow of the fire, the witch’s quietness. But then one or two strange things happened. The grey cat began to grow. It roughly doubled its size and then started to change into a pig. Adela thought this rather funny and laughed. Then the pig floated out of the window, which seemed sensible enough, since a pig obviously belonged outside.

A little later she realized something else. It had grown dark outside, but she could see the sky and the stars through the cabin roof. This was remarkable. The branches, the twigs and moss were still there, but she found she could see straight through them. Better yet, it seemed that she herself, being a tree, was growing up through the roof now, opening out her canopy of leaves to the night.

And now she was flying. It was so simple. She was flying in the night sky under the crescent moon. Her clothes were
no longer on her, nor did she want them. She could feel the cool air with a hint of dew on her skin. She was high over the Forest and the stars in the sky were clustering round her, tapping on her skin like diamonds. For a short, wonderful time she flew around over the woodlands, which rippled gently like waves. Finally, seeing an oak, larger than the others, she flew towards it and reached its branches, vaguely realizing as she did so that this tree was herself.

She floated down, comfortably, to the mossy ground. Once there, she could see numerous pathways leading away under the arching oak trees; but one in particular caught her attention because it was like a long, almost endless tunnel that glowed with a greenish light. In the distance down this tunnel she also became aware of something, some swift creature, coming in her direction. It seemed very far away, but in no time at all it drew much closer. Indeed, it was bounding towards her.

It was a stag, a magnificent red stag with branching antlers. Closer and closer it came. It was coming for her. She was frightened. She was glad.

Silence. Blankness. Maybe she had dozed for a short while. She was in the little room again. The grey cat was in the corner. Puckle’s wife was making the sign of the pentagram, although her hand was moving in the opposite direction from the way she had done it before. After finishing, the older woman looked at her and remarked quietly: ‘It’s completed.’

Adela remained still for a moment or two, then moved her hands and feet. She felt rather light. ‘Did something happen?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘What?’

Puckle’s wife did not answer. The faint glow of the turf fire threw a soft light around the room.

Glancing at the window, Adela saw that there was now
only a faint hint of light outside. She wondered vaguely how long she had been there. An hour or more if it was already dusk. She had planned spending the night with the Prides at their cottage; she supposed Pride could still take her back there after dusk. ‘I must go. It will be night soon,’ she said.

‘Night?’ Puckle’s wife smiled. ‘You’ve been here all night. That’s dawn you see out there.’

‘Oh.’ How extraordinary. Adela tried to collect her thoughts. ‘You said something happened. Can you tell me? Will the Lady Maud …?’

‘I saw a little of your future.’

‘And?’

‘I saw a death, which will bring you peace. Happiness too.’

‘So. It is going to happen, then.’

‘Don’t you be sure. It may not be what you think.’

‘But a death …’ Adela looked at her but the other woman would not say more. Instead, she went to the door and summoned Pride.

Adela rose. Obviously Puckle’s wife expected her to leave now. She went to the doorway. She wasn’t sure if she should give her money or just thank her for the visit. She felt in a pouch in her belt and brought out two pennies. Puckle’s wife took them with a quiet nod. Evidently she felt this was her due. The figure of Pride, leading her horse, came looming out of the pale darkness.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we shall meet again.’

‘Perhaps.’ Puckle’s wife looked at her thoughtfully, not unkindly. ‘Remember,’ she admonished, ‘things are not always what they seem in the Forest.’ Then she went back inside.

Dawn was breaking as they rode out onto the huge lawn below Burley Rocks. The moon had departed. The stars were fading gently in the clear sky and a golden light shimmered along the eastern horizon.

A skylark started singing, high above – a starburst of
sound against the withdrawing night. Did he, also, know she was going to marry Martell?

Adela felt pleased with herself as she rode into Winchester that afternoon. She and Pride had travelled at a leisurely pace across the Forest, passing north of Lyndhurst, and he had refused to leave her until, just short of Romsey, they had encountered a respectable merchant who was going her way.

She had wondered whether, upon her return, she should tell her friend the widow where she had really been and concluded that she should not. Instead, she had concocted a story about a Forest friend being in trouble and asking for help, and even persuaded a reluctant Pride to back it up if necessary. Altogether she thought she had handled things quite well.

So she was surprised, upon her return, as she began her tale, when the widow raised her hand to stop her. ‘I’m sorry, Adela, but I don’t want to hear.’ Her face was calm, but cold. ‘I am only relieved that you are not harmed. I would have sent people out to look for you but you gave me no idea which way you had gone.’

‘There was no need. I said I’d be back.’

‘I am responsible for you, Adela. Your going off like that was unforgivable. Anyway,’ she continued, ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to go. I can’t have you here any more. I’m sorry, because it’s nearly Easter.’ At Easter the king and his court would be there. The perfect opportunity to find a husband. ‘But I won’t take responsibility for you. You’ll have to go back to your cousin Walter.’

‘But he’s in Normandy.’

‘The keeper of the treasury has a messenger crossing to Normandy in a few days. He will accompany you. It’s all arranged.’

‘But I can’t go to Normandy,’ Adela cried. ‘Not now.’

‘Oh?’ The widow looked at her sharply, then shrugged.
‘Who will take you in? Have you other arrangements in mind?’

Adela was silent, thinking furiously. ‘Perhaps,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I may have.’

Edgar would often ride out past Burley, where the forester was a friend of his. He had ridden over to the dark dell where the village lay, that spring morning, and finding him out had continued eastwards across the great lawn and into the woods when he caught sight of his friend standing in a clearing, talking to Puckle. Seeing Edgar, the forester waved and signalled him to dismount. Edgar did so and walked over.

‘What is it?’

The forester looked excited. It was evident that Puckle must have brought him some piece of news as the two men were obviously about to go off together. In answer, his friend just put his finger to his lips and motioned Edgar to accompany them. ‘You’ll see.’

Together the three men went quietly through the trees, saying nothing and taking care not to step on any twigs that might crack. Once the forester licked his finger and held it up to check the direction of the breeze. They went on in this manner for nearly half a mile. Then, Puckle and the forester began to move slowly, crouching and using the bushes for cover. Edgar did the same. They edged forward another hundred yards or so. Then Puckle nodded and pointed to a place not far ahead in the trees.

It was a small clearing, only twenty paces across, with an ancient tree stump and a small holly bush in the middle. If it had not been for a dark ring of tracks in the fallen leaves, not even Puckle would have given the place a second glance. But today it was occupied.

There were five of them, all bucks, ready to rut the next season, if they had not the last. They all still had their antlers. They looked very handsome. And they were dancing in a ring.

There really was no other way to describe it. Round they processed, kicking their heels in the air. Every so often one, then another, would stand up on their hind legs, turn and spar with each other just like boxers. It was not in earnest, though, but in play. This was one of the rarest and most lovely of the Forest’s many ceremonies. Edgar smiled with pleasure. It was ten years since he had seen a dancing of the deer in a play ring.

And why should the bucks dance in a circle? Why did humans do the same? The three men watched for a long time, experiencing the joy and reverence that is special to the Forest people, before creeping silently away.

Edgar’s heart was singing as he rode down into the Avon valley. He was looking forward to telling his father all about it.

On his arrival home, however, he found his father had other things on his mind. The old man looked grim. ‘We’ve received a messenger,’ Cola told his son as he led him into the hall. Edgar noticed a young fellow waiting with his horse by the barn. ‘From Winchester.’

‘Oh?’ This meant nothing to Edgar, although he realized that his father was watching him carefully.

‘That girl. Tyrrell’s kinswoman. She wants to come here. Some problem in Winchester. She doesn’t say what.’

‘I see.’

‘You know nothing about this?’

‘No, Father.’ He didn’t. But his mind was working fast.

‘I don’t like it.’ Cola paused, glanced at Edgar again.

‘She has powerful kin.’

‘Hmm … I’m not sure they care about her. But you’re right. I wouldn’t want to offend Tyrrell. And the Clares …’ He became silent, thoughtful. As so often happened, Edgar had the feeling that his father knew more than he was saying. ‘I think this girl’s trouble,’ he said finally. ‘I’m sure that’s why she’s leaving Winchester. She’s got into mischief
of some sort. And I don’t need that here. Also …’ He looked glumly at Edgar.

‘Also?’

‘I seem to remember you took an interest in her.’

‘I remember.’

‘Could that happen again?’

‘Perhaps.’