The Tangled Forest Read online

  A fat black cat lay beside the fire pit. It didn’t bother to look up as I entered.

  She gestured for me to sit at a wonky table, one leg a third shorter than the others and propped up with books. I searched the shadows as I sat, desperate to meet the eyes of my friend, but he was not there.

  The woman brought a chipped teapot to the table and poured two bowls. Stirring in a spoonful of honey, she pushed one towards me. She sat opposite, lifting the steaming liquid to her lips without even blowing. When I tried to do the same, I burnt my tongue.

  “I have tried to come here many times,” I said.

  “Who showed you the way?”

  “The woodcutter’s son.” She studied me as I sipped again, those deep green eyes drawing out my innermost thoughts. “Where is my friend?”

  “He is not here.”

  My eyes glistened. I had walked so far, and hoped so hard. The disappointment was too much to bear.

  “Where has he gone?”

  “He is his own master. He wanders by day. Where, I could not say.”

  “Yet he returns?”

  “He returns.”

  I placed my bowl down, frustrated. This woman seemed to enjoy my discomfort, and I hated her for it. I was about to tell her how unfair this was, when her hand reached across. She stroked her palm across the top of mine, and my flesh prickled. Then she slipped her hand beneath, holding my own to the flames.

  “You are a strange candle,” she told me. “You burn both dark and light.” She leaned in a little closer to study my lines, tracing one long fingernail between two at the top of my palm. “Oh, child. There is trouble ahead.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  She folded my fingers in on themselves and released me slowly.

  “The sort of trouble you should survive.”

  I had wanted so much to befriend the Woman in the Woods. I had imagined her face a thousand times: black hair, blonde hair, blue. In my mind she had been a mother to me and a guardian. She had agreed to keep my secret, baking cookies whilst I played with my friend. Yet this person before me was nothing like my imaginings. She was distant and uncaring. She spoke in riddles without reason.

  “I must go,” I told her.

  “You do not wish to see your friend?”

  “Of course I wish to see my friend!” My voice rose with each word. “That is all I have wanted each day since he left. Yet he is not here, and you will not tell me where he went.”

  I could no longer hold back my sadness as it spilled down my face.

  The woman stood and went to a cupboard on the other side of the room. When she returned, she carried a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. Spots of grease darkened its caramel surface.

  “Take this,” she said. “From now until this time tomorrow, you must fast. Let only water pass your lips, and only that in small amounts. Let this be the first meal to sate your hunger, and you shall always be able to find your way back here, day or night. Offer not one crumb of it to any living soul. I swear, should you do so, their eyes will burst in their sockets and their throat will swell until they cannot breathe. This food is only for you.”

  With trembling hands, I took the package.

  “When should I return?” I asked.

  “When you see a dove and a crow on the same day.”

  “There are no doves in these woods.”

  “Then perhaps you should never return,” she said with a shrug, turning away. “Now leave me. I have work to do.”

  *

  By the time I returned home, it was morning.

  I was tired and hungry. Mother was frying bacon over the fire and had already laid out a plate for me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “My stomach has turned. I think I need rest.”

  I took a sip of water and went to bed. My belly cried out for bacon fat and bread, so I pressed my face into the pillow to try to escape the smell.

  Eventually I slept, but when I awoke, my mother had scrambled goose eggs and left them on the nightstand. She always scrambled eggs when I was ill, for they were gentle on the stomach. I pushed the plate under the bed, then pulled it out again. I lifted a forkful to my lips, parted them and allowed the fluffy yellow clouds to hover for a moment just inside, before pulling them out.

  No, I would not disobey.

  I took another sip of water and listened to the cries of my tummy.

  When I tried to read, or to play my game with the glass beads and the cherrystone, my eyes began to blur and I could not concentrate. I found a measure of comfort in cat’s cradle, but the shapes I could make were only simple by myself.

  The grandfather clock in the hall tick-tocked its way towards midnight. Each swing of the pendulum reminded me of the woodcutter’s son, the thunk, thunk, thunk of felled trees and time passing.

  The hour finally came.

  I took the paper parcel on my lap and unfolded it reverently.

  A gingerbread house. Tiles and windows of white icing, a chocolate drop door handle. I was so hungry that I paused for only a moment to admire it. Warm spice heated me through and I laughed as sugar tickled my throat.

  I didn’t feel any different, so I pulled the eggs from beneath my bed and gobbled them down, then made for the pantry for cheese and bread, milk and coltsfoot candy.

  Stuffed, I soon fell fast asleep.

  *

  Four days passed and I began to lose hope.

  I thought of walking to the woman’s house again, but I knew that she would not be pleased to see me, so I waited. There was no doubt in my mind that this was a game. Of crows, we had plenty, but beautiful white doves? Those only lived at the Castle Keep, messengers for the King.

  On the fifth day, I found the woodcutter’s son washing in the brook. He had stripped to his britches, his bare feet sinking in the mud. I saw him before he saw me, watching from between the trees. His body was willowy, yet the muscles of his arms bulged as he scrubbed at his skin. When I thought of that kiss I felt as though I would burn away to ash, and was about to slip unseen when he shouted:

  “Did you find your friend?”

  Annoyed, I stepped forward.

  “No. He was not there.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, straightening. He threw his clump of moss into the water. “Will you go again?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So my kiss was not worth it?”

  “Your kiss was worth it,” I replied, staring hard at the ground so that I would not see him smile.

  “I am going into town to buy bread. Would you like to come?”

  We walked through the woods and he talked of the trees. He told me which were best for tables and chairs, and which were best for burning.

  “You should never burn the elder, for those are ancient spirits,” he told me. “Mulberry is bad for burning as it pops and sparks. Old Mrs Winter set fire to her stack that way.”

  I knew most of what he told me, but I enjoyed listening to his voice.

  Halfway, he picked up a stick and whittled it into a whistle. I danced along the path as he played. By the time we reached the town I was hungry. He bought a loaf of bread and two buns, and we sat by the river to eat them. His hand rested close to mine on the rock, barely touching, yet I was so aware of its warmth.

  “That’s my grandmother’s house,” I said, pointing to it across the water. “Will you come with me to visit her?”

  He agreed, and instead of walking to the bridge, we called the ferryman to row us across.

  My grandmother was asleep on her bed by the fire when we arrived.

  “Old people,” the woodcutter’s son said, “they feel cold even when there is none.”

  He ran his hand across the pile of wood by the door.

  “Thank you for keeping my grandmother warm,” I told him.

  I left the whistle by her pillow. We were about to leave when she woke.

  “Granddaughter, is that you?” her cracked voice came.

  “Yes, Grandmother. I have brought you a v
isitor.”

  “Give me a moment to wake, child.”

  We sat in her garden as she splashed water over her face and came to greet us.

  “This is my friend, the woodcutter’s son,” I introduced them.

  “We have met before,” my friend said.

  I noticed that neither of them held out their hand. There was a stony weight to my grandmother’s gaze and a moment later the woodcutter made his excuse to leave.

  “My father is expecting me. We have a large tree to fell before sundown.”

  “Chop chop, then,” my grandmother said. “Go well on your way.”

  He bobbed his head and left.

  “How did you meet him?” I asked, uncertain what had happened.

  “It was a long time ago,” she said. “When he was but a boy.”

  “You do not like him?”

  “Woodcutters are rough people, child. You’d do well to seek out softer company.”

  “But he’s not,” I protested. “He’s been very sweet to me.”

  “The axe is sweet to the tree until it buries itself inside.”

  I did not understand her reply, so I went into the house to make tea.

  *

  Two days after that, I was hanging out washing in the garden when I heard the rough caw, caw, caw of a crow. It was a huge bird, bigger than I had seen in some time. Bobbing its head up and down by the edge of the wood, it looked as though it wanted to come inside.

  “Have you come to steal our food?” I asked, laughing. “One more morsel and you’ll be too fat to fly.”

  Caw, caw, caw, it replied.

  I pegged the last sock on the line and turned to caw, caw, caw back.

  As I turned, a bright white dove sped overhead, and the crow took off in pursuit.

  I was so shocked at what I had seen, that I remained there, staring at the sky until the clothes were almost dry.

  The dove must have been a message from the castle, making its way across the kingdom.

  As the sun began to set, I hastily packed provisions and tied them to my skirt. I hoped the gingerbread would work, for I had no more starflowers.

  When I approached the old oak, the insects continued to chirp and the honey fungus glow. I did not feel in the least bit drowsy, and my tongue tasted spicy. Pressing through the woods, the way seemed easier. No spiders or wildcats awaited me. The trees seemed to draw back instead of closer. The distance seemed somehow shorter.

  When I reached the cottage, it was lit by a bright moon, even though it should have been waning. Smoke curled from the stack, and all about was silent and still.

  I walked to the door and knocked.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  No one answered, so I knocked again.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  I waited and wondered, and eventually pushed upon the door.

  No one was inside, but a fresh pot of tea sat steeping on the table, two clay bowls on saucers. I did not know what to do. It looked as though I was expected, but it did not feel right to enter without the Woman in the Woods present.

  “Hello?” I whispered to the dark.

  The fat black cat appeared by my ankles. It sat for a moment before stepping over the threshold. It looked back once, put its nose in the air, and curled up beside the low-burning embers.

  “I am no Goldilocks,” I said. “I will not steal your porridge.”

  In compromise, I took one bowl of tea from the table and sat on the cottage step. When the bowl was empty, I rested my head against the doorway and watched the moon make its journey upwards.

  The next morning, the Woman in the Woods found me, curled up on her step.

  “Come in, child. You must be hungry.”

  Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I stretched my cold bones and did as she suggested. She placed a dish of milky stirabout before me, with a crude wooden spoon. I sprinkled salt and began to eat.

  “I sat all night,” I said between mouthfuls. “I watched the woods and waited, but he did not come.”

  “He came,” she replied.

  “No, there was no one.”

  “I know my home. I know who comes and goes. You were watching the woods whilst he was watching you.”

  “Then why did he not come forward?”

  “Because he did not wish to see you.”

  The oats stuck in my throat, warm milk gluing my tongue to the roof of my mouth.

  “Why wouldn’t he wish to see me?” I asked.

  She brought her own bowl to the table and stirred in a strange, red powder that I could not tell you the name of.

  “Look at you,” she said. “Is it any wonder?”

  It felt as though she had cut me.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Look at that fine cloak of yours. Look at your dainty blue shoes. All of that pretty lace about the collar of your dress. He felt ashamed.”

  “Ashamed?”

  Her eyebrows raised in confirmation as she took a spoonful of meal to her mouth.

  I had lost my own appetite, stirring my spoon about the bowl.

  “I don’t understand. Why would he be ashamed of me?”

  “He is not ashamed of you, he is ashamed of himself.” She sighed and put down her spoon. “You were children together, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when you were children, did you have that snowy white cloak, or those coils in your hair?”

  “No.”

  “You have changed, girl. He has not.”

  “I never wanted him to change.”

  “Stop thinking of yourself for a moment and try to feel his thoughts. Seeing you like this,” she swept her hand to encompass me, “has made him wish for things he does not have.”

  “What things?”

  “Elegance, grace, fine clothes, good manners.”

  “I didn’t come here to be a princess,” I replied, the food heavy on my stomach. “I came here to climb trees and poke ant nests with sticks. I came here to be as we were.”

  “Oh, my dear. You haven’t learned that lesson yet? Then I am sorry to be the one to teach it, but Time only takes us in one direction. That life which you long for, it can only live inside of you now, in your memories and your daydreams. You cannot be as you were, because neither of you are what you were.”

  As she resumed eating, I stood from the table and left.

  Each footfall felt as though the earth shook beneath me. When I reached the mighty oak, I rested for a moment, leaning against its solid form, hoping a little of its strength might seep into me.

  I had waited so very, very long for a glimpse of him. He had entered my dreams many times. In them, we had run through the woods and rolled in the leaves. Some nights I dreamed of the storm which had brought him to us. I saw his pale face at the window, my own image reflected back between lightning strikes. Each time I heard the thunder roll, I thought I heard his heart calling to mine. I remembered that day he had been taken away, how silently he stood beside my grandmother. How he did not try to run after me as I followed my mother up the path to home.

  That is when I realised that it had all been in my head. My attachment to him was of my own making. Perhaps he had never really cared for me. Perhaps he had played with me because I was his only distraction. Perhaps he had been glad to leave, and that is why he had not followed.

  My feet led the way and I walked with them blindly. When I finally looked around, I found myself beneath the tangled crabapple. I remembered when its branches were full with blossom. I remembered standing beneath it, making my vow.

  “I hate you!” I cried, kicking its trunk with my shoe.

  I kicked until my toe bled.

  “I hate you!” I cried again, pummelling it with my closed palms.

  Tears spilled down my cheeks until I fell to the ground, exhausted.

  5

  I did not leave my bed for three days.

  My mother scrambled eggs which I did not eat. She thought I had taken ill, but it was grief. My friend had lived in my heart
, and died along with it. I had thought on him so long, I no longer knew what to replace him with. There was naught but a hollow where his memory should be.

  Finally, I rose and washed. I walked out into the woods and tried to find beauty in the golden leaves which fell, the flame red of the acer and the blue of the conifer. I listened to the brook, but it no longer sang.

  When I returned home and stood before the mirror, I ran my fingers across the lace of my collar and picked at the edges until they began to unravel. The cloak of white, which had once delighted me, now weighed heavy about my shoulders. Until then, I had thought myself pretty in those clothes. Now, I could hardly stand my own reflection.

  I searched through the chest in my room until I found the clothes I had worn as a child. I tried to put them on, but they were far too small. Holding them against me, I saw what the Woman in the Woods meant. When I had been a child, things had been simpler. There was no decoration on the faded brown flowers of my dress, there was no lace on the strip of cloth I had used to tie back my hair. I thought about tearing those clothes apart and sewing them back together as a skirt, but time only moves in one direction.

  I breathed the scent of my childhood and folded them into their box.

  *

  At the Welcoming of Winter, my mother and I went to town. There were fires all about the market square. People selling hot bowls of chocolate, toffee apples and marshmallow sticks which melted over the flames.

  I had not wanted to wear my white cloak again, but it was the only garment I owned which could keep out the cold. My mother trussed up my tresses with hoar-frost poppies and snow roses. She rouged my lips and pinched my cheeks, and I let her to see the pleasure she took.

  She wore a pale blue dress with a shawl the colour of my cloak, and for the first time we sang as we made our way to town. The baker, farrier, chandler, seamstress and skinner were already there. In the year that had passed, the seamstress had agreed to marry the baker, and now had a bun in the oven.

  In the centre of the square, musicians played their reels and jigs. The sharp-stringed fiddle led the way for flute and drums to follow. Those in the mood for dancing crossed their hands and spun around until they were too dizzy to stand.