The Hollowing (8 page)

He was startled as birds moved noisily above him, where the ceiling had collapsed and branches entwined, and stepped outside again. A small beaten path led from this glade to what had once been a backyard, and here a wider space had been cleared, bounded by thick saplings, but quite light. A ramshackle shed still stood here, and he could see the remains of a fence and gate forty yards away, where the trees grew thick and dark again. The garden area spread away from the creeper-covered hole of the back door, through which he now passed.

Inside he found the kitchen, a heavy marble work-surface, and the remains of fires and food on the floor. He saw, too, the gleam of light on a tracery of wires, and investigated more closely.

There were five wires in all, each the thickness of fuse wire. They had been run to and from various points, out around the perimeter of the garden clearing. There was no electric charge in them. They were just higher than Richard’s head and did not seem designed to trap anything. Where they joined the house they were attached to tiny terminals, and around each terminal a gold spiral had been impressed upon the brick.

A sudden wind gusted and the wood swayed restlessly, then was still again. In the sudden silence Richard heard the sound of electricity deeper in the house, and he followed the murmur to its source. In a box in the middle of what might have been a parlour—he could still see the wallpaper and a sodden, fungus-covered armchair below the ivy—he found a small machine, like a miniature radio. It had two needle dials, one of which was flickering. Gold and copper wires led from four sockets into the ground around it, and from a fifth vertically to the exposed laths of the ceiling where the plaster had fallen. The machine emitted the faintest smell of ozone.

As he stepped away from it, the needle on the active dial registered something strongly, then faded. As he approached again the needle quivered but remained essentially inert, only to react suddenly with great swings to the extreme, even though Richard had neither moved nor breathed. It was not responding to him, then.

At this same moment the birds outside fled through the foliage and something crashed away from the house, making a sound that might have been a cry, or perhaps laughter.

Unnerved, suddenly claustrophobic, Richard kicked his way through the tangled undergrowth and out of the overwhelming gloom of Ryhope Wood, back to the field. His head ached and his vision was askew. He rubbed his eyes but they kept watering, the edges of his vision blurred. He was getting a migraine, he imagined, something from which he suffered when he was very stressed.

Oddly, he felt quite relaxed at the moment, merely a little spooked.

He lay back on the damp ground and watched the swirl of grim, grey clouds above. Slowly his vision returned to normal. The breeze made the moisture in his eyes sting with cold.

*   *   *

The gallop was returning. He could hear the drum of hooves, the shouts of delight and encouragement as the five riders stretched their charges to the limit, galloping up the slope, a hundred yards or so from where he lay.

As they passed, Richard still stared up into the sky, but he was aware that one horse had reined-in and was now trotting towards him. He sat up and stared at the young, grey-faced man who rode around him, watching him with the pallor and arrogance of the Manor’s new owners. This was the eldest son, a man of thirty or so. In his green parka and flat cap he might have ridden straight from Windsor.

“These are private estates. What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”

“I’m walking,” Richard said. “Or rather was. At the moment I’m resting. Good morning.”

He had meant it to sound dismissive, but the rider kicked his horse forward and came threateningly close. The horse watched Richard through big, tired eyes. Steam was coming off its coat. It was a magnificent animal, seventeen hands at least, gleaming black, its mane tight and trimmed. It watched the man on the ground as if sorry for him.

“The right-of-way is half a mile to your left. Return to it at once.”

“The road into the wood … that was once a right-of-way too, I imagine. Where did it go exactly? There’s a ruined house in the wood…”

The horseman came closer and leaned down, waving his crop menacingly in Richard’s face. As Richard started to stand up in alarm, the young man thrust the short whip towards the bridleway. “Over there! The right-of-way is over there! If I catch you trespassing again I shall have you arrested.”

And he turned and galloped towards the Manor.

Exasperated and angry, Richard walked slowly back to his house, kicked the kitchen table, and poured himself a large glass of red wine.

It was an hour later that he finally noticed the message pinned to his kitchen noticeboard:

A cricket bat? You danced around the fire with a cricket bat?

*   *   *

That evening he wrote a brief letter to his parents, and an almost identical note to his place of work.

If you don’t hear from me for a while, please don’t be anxious. I’m teaming up with some people for an expedition into what I’m told is a pretty remote place, and it’s hard to know if I’ll get back in time for autumn. I can’t talk about the trip in detail, except to say that I’ve just realised it’s something I need to do: full story when I get back. Just one thing: if anybody from a place called Old Stone Hollow should call you, take what they say very seriously, even if you think it sounds a bit bizarre.

He took the letter to the Red Lion to be posted, had a glass of light ale, then returned home and slept well for a few hours, the result of the nocturnal distraction and alertness that had kept him awake the previous night. Nevertheless, he was up at three in the morning. He dressed quickly, then packed his rucksack with brandy, apples, sandwiches, a compass, an adventure novel, and changes of clothing; an hour later he was walking through the same heavy mist that had encompassed the land the morning before. Now, though, he walked with purpose, and at first light, when he arrived at Hunter’s Brook and found the signpost, he spread a tarpaulin on the ground, sat down, then curled up to keep himself warm.

He felt strangely relaxed. The chill on his cheeks reminded him of his school days, and camping on the moors, or along the Wye Valley.

He knew without knowing that someone would come for him.

The Wildwood

He was being shaken gently. He opened damp eyes, glimpsed the huge, dark shape above him, and for a second thought that he was being attacked by a wild animal. He yelled with fright and twisted away, looking for a rock or piece of wood with which to defend himself. When no pursuit immediately occurred, he turned back to observe the new arrival.

The man was wearing a heavy bearskin robe, dark brown and black fur splattered with mud. His hair was long and jet black, as was his beard. A red and green feather hung, tied with twine, from a single ringlet on his right temple. Intense brown eyes sparkled with humour from below heavy brows. His boots were dun leather and filthy, their tops fringed with circlets of yellowed animal teeth, which rattled as he moved, crouched on his haunches. From his mouth came a powerful odour of cheese and wild onion.

He was watching Richard, grinning.

“You sent for me, sir?” this behemoth roared with a throaty chuckle, like a smoker’s laugh, Richard thought as he wiped dew from his face. The man’s accent was French. He extended his hand, quite slim-fingered and cool, not the brawny paw that might have been expected, and Richard shook it. “You
are
Richard Bradley?”

“What’s left of him. You’ve just scared the living daylights out of me.”

“I’m Arnauld Lacan, and I’m quite harmless. Good morning! I’m watching the edgewoods for a while and I noticed your summons on the way-marker. Good man! Helen will be glad you’ve come.”

Glancing at his watch, Richard realised that he had fallen asleep for three hours. It was seven in the morning.

“Where is Helen?”

“Beyond Hergest Ridge, looking for a
trickster.
It’s a long way from the Station. She went off yesterday, so she might be away for some time. But we think everything should be all right.”

Richard reached for his pack, conscious both of the powerful smell of animal sweat coming from the friendly man before him, and of his words. “Why shouldn’t everything be all right?”

“It’s too deep to be sure,” Lacan said with a concerned frown. “It always makes us nervous to go there. But she’s been beyond Hergest Ridge before and come back OK. She knows what to watch for. Are you stiff?”

Richard reached out a hand and the other man hauled him upright. As he stood he realised how tall the Frenchman was, probably six feet four. Without being asked, Lacan twisted Richard round and ferociously massaged his shoulders, powerful fingers stretching and bending the joints of his shoulders and back. “Better?”

“Ça va mieux,” Richard muttered as the pressure-shock faded.

Lacan laughed loudly. “A man who speaks my language!” he said. “I think I’m going to like you!”

He probed around in his own pack, a bulky affair of stitched hides, and finally proffered a long, dark piece of bone and meat, which reminded Richard of a charred turkey drumstick. “How about some breakfast before we journey?”

“What is it?” Richard asked queasily.

“Bear. Very rich, quite dry, very good.”

Richard stared at the tatters of flesh and sinew being waved below his nose. “May I ask from what part of the bear?”

With a grunt, Lacan sniffed the offered gift. “That’s a good question. Hard to tell, after all this time. Does it matter?”

“I think I’ll stick to apples and cheese,” Richard said quickly.

Lacan shrugged. His smile was ambiguous. He returned the dry joint of bear to his pack, then indicated Richard’s own rucksack, “Customs inspection. Do you mind? It’s what you English would call ‘a formality.’”

Hesitating for only a moment, Richard passed the pack across to Lacan, who undid the buckles and reached inside. “Aha!” he said, withdrawing the brandy bottle. But his smile vanished as he stared in disbelief at the label. Without looking at Richard he muttered, “And this, I suppose, is what you English would call ‘medicinal.’”

“Best I could find. Sorry.”

Lacan sighed sadly. “So am I.”

The bottle was replaced, the pack returned. Then more seriously, “Come on. We have to get you into the wood. It’s a slow process, learning to go deep. Lytton is very keen to talk to you as soon as you are acclimatised. That will take a few days, perhaps, and you must be ready. First, I have to check some instruments at the old Lodge. But I’ll have you comfortable by nightfall. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried—just intrigued. Who found out about the cricket bat?”

“The
cricket bat?
Is that some sort of ridiculous English animal? Sounds preposterous.”

“Helen thinks my son—Alex—is still alive.”

“We all think Alex is alive. One of us has talked to him. But not me. Come on, now. Save your questions.”

Richard hefted his rucksack onto his back and followed the enormous man along the bridleway. Lacan walked fast, hair and pack bouncing with each stride. He constantly paused to smell the air, and used his hands like an insect’s antennae, waving his slender fingers as if sensing for a change in the breeze.

They crossed into the private estates of Ryhope Manor and left the path, ascending the fallow field to Ryhope Wood. As Richard had begun to suspect, Lacan led the way through the tangle of wire to the ruins of the house in the wood, following a narrow path that Richard had previously missed and which led directly to the small garden. In the parlour, Lacan broke open the back of the small radio-like machine, pulling out a roll of white paper covered with ink marks. The Frenchman unfurled a few feet to scan the recording.

“Looks like one of those hospital traces,” Richard said. “An ECG?”

“Very like,” said Lacan distractedly. He seemed puzzled. “Something has been generated. Someone has been here. There has been activity.”

After a moment Richard said, “I was here yesterday morning. I came exploring. I noticed the needle on one of the dials started to dance around. It didn’t seem to be in response to my own movements…”

Lacan scratched curiously at his long beard, staring at Richard and thinking hard, then shook his head and furled up the roll of white paper. “You came here? Then maybe it
was
you. You’ve had an effect already. Quite remarkable!”

“What is this place?”

Tucking the record into his pocket, Lacan looked around at the ruined room. “This place? It’s where it began. Where it began in this century, at least. A man called Huxley lived here, with his family, a wife and two boys. They didn’t own the house, they rented it. Huxley’s father had been a good friend of the then Lord Ryhope. But something which had been quiet for four hundred years woke up again when George Huxley began to study here, not in this room, but in another part of the building. We’re trying to find what that thing was. The house is called Oak Lodge. The wood around us is very old, very old indeed. This crude piece of equipment,” as he spoke he loaded a second roll into the back of the machine, “this little item is my own adaptation of Huxley’s ‘flux drain.’ It’s a monitor. Very simple, really. It monitors life, new life, spontaneous life, the life of heroes, ghostly heroes which we call
mythagos.
”

The odd word was vaguely familiar to Richard. Of course: Helen had used it, just a day or so before. He repeated the word aloud, questioning it.

“There are some things you should know,” Lacan said, leading the way outside again. “You have to start understanding soon, if you are to help get Alex out of the wood, and it will take some time. Sit down. Perhaps a little of that brandy would help…”

*   *   *

George Huxley and his family had occupied Oak Lodge for twenty-five years, until his death in 1946. He had died leaving two sons, Steven and Christian, but they had both disappeared from the area in 1948, and had not been heard of since. Huxley’s wife, Jennifer, had died tragically some years before.