The Tangled Forest Read online

  Proudfoot rubbed my leg with delight as I offered him a strip of dried fish. Sweat was seeping down my brow, and I was starving hungry. I had forgotten to ask the witch whether I could eat, and was worried that if I took a strip of fish for myself, she’d add it to my debt and make me work it off. Instead, I drank water until my stomach felt full.

  When I finally folded the wet cloths over the wall, the sun was an hour from setting. Every inch of me ached and I longed for my bed. I was just about to leave, when the witch returned. As I saw her walking down the path, my heart sank. I wasn’t in the mood to have my labour inspected, or to make conversation.

  “A very fine job you have done,” she said, glancing inside and running her hand over the severed ends of the honeysuckle. “You have worked hard.” As I stood waiting for her to release me, my stomach let out an almighty rumble. “Have you eaten?”

  “No,” I replied, shaking my head. “I did not think to bring food.”

  “There is fish in the pantry.”

  “I did not know whether that was allowed.”

  “I’m a witch, not a wicked stepmother. For goodness sake, come in.”

  She went to the fire and cracked two eggs into a pan, serving them up with bread and the mushrooms she had picked on her walk. I inhaled the meal, barely pausing long enough to chew.

  “How does your mother fare?” she asked.

  “Much better, thank you. Your salve worked wonders.”

  “Only?” she asked, seeing my smile falter.

  “Only, she seems so sad. She always used to sing to herself in the morning, and brush out my hair in the evening. Now, she sits in her chair and watches the wind blow through the trees. It is as though she is waiting for something, but will not say what.”

  The witch considered this for a moment and then went to her cupboard. She returned with another coin, only this time it was made from red tin. When I unscrewed the top, there was a fine golden powder inside.

  “Would you like this?” she asked. “It will solve your problems.”

  “How?”

  “It is pollen from the tristitia tree.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It grows very deep in the forest, and very low to the ground. It’s easy to miss.”

  “I thought trees were tall?”

  “Not this one.”

  “What is it for?” I asked, poking at the powder and discovering it had no scent.

  “A little of it around your gums will make you forget all your problems. It can heal a broken heart, swallow sorrow, even coax a smile from a cowering wreck.”

  “You are saying that if I give this to my mother, she will be happy again?” The woman nodded, absently braiding a strand of her hair. “And how much will it cost me?”

  “Another day’s work.”

  “There is nothing left to clean.”

  “Never you fret, I will find something for you to do.”

  I limped home that evening, for sitting had turned me stiff. The little tin coin turned over and over in my pocket.

  *

  The next morning, I sprinkled a pinch of powder into my mother’s tea, and by midday she was humming to herself whilst she hung out the washing. Her cut was completely healed and her heart was gay. It was as though nothing had happened at the festival.

  My own bones creaked in their fleshy cage. I was not accustomed to working long hours of hard labour, but at least now I felt that the price had been fair. In some small way, I almost looked forward to my next visit to the witch’s house.

  I decided to journey to the brook to loosen my muscles. It was a fine winter’s day, the air crisp and the sky bright blue above. As I walked, I hummed the same tune as my mother, trying to remember where I had heard it before.

  Drawing near to the brook, the beat of my tune was replaced by another.

  Thunk, thunk, thunk.

  At first, my heart soared at the sound. My woodcutter was somewhere close by.

  Then I saw him, and my joy melted to horror.

  “No,” I whispered, then “No!” I shouted.

  The metal of his axe drew back and embedded itself in the tangled crabapple.

  “No!” I screamed again, racing forward.

  He lowered his blade, turning to smile, that smile turning to concern. I must have looked like a wildcat, rushing him from the trees, wrestling with his axe, pulling at his sleeve.

  “What is it?” he asked. “Let go, you’ll hurt yourself.”

  “No, no, no!” I repeated. “You can’t cut it down!”

  “It’s only a tree.”

  “It’s not a tree, it’s my friend.”

  He laughed at this and I slapped his face.

  “Get a hold of yourself,” he said, rubbing his cheek. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “You don’t understand. This tree is important to me. I’ve known it all my life.”

  “All of these trees have been here all of your life.”

  “Yes, but this one is special. Please, it’s important to me.”

  “It’s tangled and twisted and ugly.”

  “It’s beautiful when it blossoms.”

  He looked up, studying the moss-covered branches, black lightning against blue. All he saw was a tree, but I saw the promise I had made beneath it. If the tangled crabapple were to go, who would be left to remind me? Who would remember my friend and the night we had climbed to the clouds to watch them rain?

  “It’s too late,” the woodcutter’s son said. “I’ve cut it too deeply. Even if I wanted to save it, I couldn’t.”

  I saw that he told the truth. The trunk of the tree was split like a gaping mouth which would never be able to shut again. The tree would starve and the wind would topple it over.

  I fell to the floor, weeping.

  “I’m sorry,” the woodcutter’s son said, crouching to rest an arm over my shoulder. “I did not know.”

  “Because you did not ask. You came here, to my part of the woods, and you took time to tell me all about these trees, but you never asked me what I knew. You never listened to the stories I could tell.”

  “They are only trees,” he protested.

  “To you they are only trees, because you are looking for things to cut down.”

  I wanted to throw my arms around the splintered trunk, to feel its rough bark beneath my fingers one last time, but the thought of goodbye was too much. I did not wish to look upon the damage. I wanted to remember my tree as it had always been, so that next time I walked there, I would be able to see it, just as before.

  He called out my name as I ran away, but he did not chase after me.

  When I reached home, my mother was planting winter bulbs in the window boxes. She looked up with a wide smile and waved. I stood for a moment, my lip trembling, my eyes raw with tears, but she simply looked back to her trough and planted another bulb.

  My mother had gone from being too sad to too happy.

  I went to my room and cried into my pillow until I choked.

  As my fingers slipped beneath my pillow, they folded around the little tin coin.

  Wiping my cheeks, I unscrewed the coin and looked at the glittering gold within. I had only put the slightest sprinkle in my mother’s tea, uncertain what it might do. Less than a thimbleful had lit her up like the sun. She seemed to have forgotten all her woes. Why shouldn’t I?

  I dabbed one finger in the tin and raised it to my mouth. As I sucked the flavourless dust from its tip, I was thinking on all of the awfulness: the day my friend was taken, the day the Woman in the Woods told me he was too ashamed to see me, the blood on my mother’s temple, the thunk, thunk, thunk of my tree being cut down.

  Lowering my finger from my mouth, it was as though a heavy blanket had been lifted from about my shoulders. I had once had a best friend, and I remembered the times we ran through the woods and built leaf boats on the brook. He had been such a lovely boy. I did not remember where he had gone, but it did not matter. The memories were so vivid, the joy st
rong enough to taste. There was a tree in the woods, and I could smell the scent of its blossom. It sang to me a story of life, death and rebirth. I realised that in the space it left, new trees would eventually grow, and I was excited to meet them. My mother’s cut healed over and over behind my eyes, and I knew the resilience of the human form. You may strike a woman down, but she will rise.

  For all the dark in the world, I saw only light. I joined my mother in the garden and we planted bulbs as we hummed that simple tune. I finally remembered where I had heard it before. It had been the tune the musicians played whilst my mother danced with the woodcutter. I took my mother’s hands and we danced round and round, floating over the frozen earth and laughing at who knows what.

  After we finished planting, mother made hot chocolate and cookies, and we huddled beside the fire to warm ourselves through. I couldn’t remember a day as easy and free since I was a child.

  That night, the first snow came.

  I awoke at midnight. The soft rosy glow of the moon made the flakes look pink as crabapple blossom.

  Rushing outside, I spun on my heels with my mouth wide open, catching melting crystals on my tongue. It was so cold it felt warm, winter’s breath burning my skin.

  At daybreak, I pulled on my thick lambskin boots and threw my cloak over a simple brown dress. The snow was as high as my ankles, forcing me to wade across to the trees. I loved looking back and seeing where I had come from, then looking ahead with no sign of where I might go.

  Drifts dripped from the branches above, one landing in the hollow of my hood. The robin’s red breast shone against the snow like blood. The puff-chested chaffinch flitted his wings, washing himself down in winterdew, whilst the proud blackbird looked faintly annoyed that the entire world had turned the opposite colour to him. As I walked, I crumpled a hunk of bread, leaving crumbs for my friends to feast upon.

  “You are heartier than you look,” the witch said from the door. I smiled at her until she frowned. “I see my powder worked.”

  “Where would you like me to start today?” I asked.

  She beckoned for me to come inside. I noticed that she had placed most of the scattered books on shelves, that the logs were now stacked beside the fire pit, and everything looked more orderly than before.

  On the table she had lain a handful of herbs.

  “Here, pay attention. This is sage,” she said, holding its silvery leaves to my nose and bruising them to release its scent.

  “I know,” I replied, pushing her away.

  “Good. This is winter savoury, and this is small burnet,” she said, holding up two green-leafed twigs that were hard to tell apart at first glance. “This is the turkey tail fungus.” It was paper thin and grey with black ripples, like the fan of the bird’s backside. “And this is the velvet foot mushroom. Not, under any circumstances, to be confused with galerina. See here, the ring on the stem?” She held up a second mushroom with the hem of her skirt. There was a small, feathery circle around its base, which was missing from the first mushroom. “If you see a ring, ride away. I’m not brewing poisons today. Now, do you think you’ve got all that?”

  “Sage, winter savoury, small burnet, turkey tail and velvet foot,” I recited, pointing to each in turn.

  “Good girl.” She thrust a basket and a black bone knife into my hands. “Leave through the back garden. When the path forks, turn right. It will take you into the Western Woods. Come back when your basket is brimming.”

  I left with an empty basket and a full heart, for I had never been so far into the Western Woods before. It was burnet I came upon first. A small clump beneath the branches of a bare tree. I had to use my hands to scrape back the snow. Because it was only a little plant, I took but one or two stems.

  Next, I found velvet foot on a fallen elm. There was a large flush of twenty or thirty fruits, and I cut half a basket’s worth. Not too far away, I also found turkey tail and placed it on top of the velvet foot so that its fragile feathers wouldn’t be crushed.

  Further into the woods I went, looking for winter savoury and more burnet. I dearly wished to see this part of the woods in summer for, covered in snow, it looked much the same as my part of the woods.

  I hummed to myself softly as I walked, that same tune my mother remembered, until my footfalls started to slow. That strange feeling came over me again, that I was being watched.

  Putting down my basket, I turned. If there were someone between the trees, they should be easier to spot against all this white.

  “Hello?” I called out. “Hello?”

  Eventually, I bent to pick up my basket again, and that is when I heard a twig crack. It was hard to tell exactly where the sound came from. Sound echoes against all of those trunks, confusing the ear, yet I had lived in the woods my entire life, and was wise to its tricks. I set off in the direction I believed the twig to have cracked, stepping over hidden badger holes and springy bracken. My breath came in heavy clouds, blinding my way. I was about to turn back, when I saw them.

  Footprints.

  They were much larger than my own. The boots sunk deep where the person had stood still, the heat of their body melting the snow before slinking away.

  I began to follow those steps, my own falling in their centre as though crossing stepping stones. A strange excitement built. That sense you get when someone hands you a present, and although it is beautifully wrapped, you already know it is what you most desire.

  Even though the quarry I stalked was ahead, I was able to move faster in their footsteps. I did not have to worry about twisting my ankle or tripping over unseen roots. I raced through the wilderness until the footprints stopped.

  It made no sense.

  Those even strides came to an end beside a simple silver birch. Up ahead lay a perfect blanket of white. It was as though the person had taken flight.

  I smiled to myself.

  It was as though a little girl had walked to the edge of a ledge, then retraced her own steps to make it look as though she had grown wings.

  Placing one foot behind the other, I walked backwards in my boot tracks.

  It was his breath I saw first. Bright ashy blue, curling up towards the sky. He stood beside the thick trunk of an oak, his hair as dark as his eyes, and both darker than I remembered. He wore tattered, loose trousers and worn leather boots, but nothing to cover his torso. He had grown from a waif into a man. His nipples rode high on his chest, spiralled in clay like the shields of the Old Ones.

  As I took a step towards him, he drew back, so I stopped.

  “Do you not remember me?” I asked.

  That is when I saw the bead. A simple chip of red glass, no larger than my fingernail. He had tied it about his neck on a shoelace.

  I pointed to where the bead would have rested against my own neck, and smiled.

  “You do remember me.”

  “I remember,” he replied.

  I stood, open-mouthed, for I had never heard his voice before. I had not thought he possessed one. It was low, of the earth, yet he had only spoken two words and I desperately wanted to hear more.

  “You can speak,” I said, then realised that required no reply. “Who taught you?”

  “The Woman in the Woods.”

  “She has been kind to you?”

  He placed his hand against the tree, then stepped behind it.

  When I reached there, he was gone.

  I looked up and all around, but he was nowhere to be seen, and left no footprints for me to follow. If it were not for those already in the snow, I would have thought it a dream.

  The magic of the tristitia tree began to wear off, and a slow, creeping sadness took hold. I had found him and lost him all in the space of a few heartbeats.

  I no longer cared about filling my basket, and began to make my way home. With each step, my load felt heavier. He remembered me, yet that memory meant nothing.

  Something cold caught the back of my neck and I screamed.

  A second snowball caught my shou
lder and I turned towards the trees.

  I caught the third in my hand and it shattered into a thousand pieces.

  Placing my basket down, I gathered a fistful of flakes and packed them hard. When the next snowball came, I ducked and returned.

  I saw him race between two trees, and was just fast enough to catch him. Then another came towards me, scalding my cheek.

  A child once more, I swiftly gathered ammunition, tucking snowballs into the hood of my cloak like an archer’s quiver. We wove through the woods, one moment I was in pursuit, the next I was chased. I lost count of how many snowballs were thrown, or whose aim held truest. The game took over until I hardly had enough breath left to stand.

  Resting against an ash, I did not hear him come up behind. He gathered a wide armful of snow and released it over me like a wave. As I wiped white from my eyes, his arms encircled me, rolling me over and over in the snow until he rested on top of me, my arms pinned above my head.

  I laughed, and struggled, then stopped.

  He looked at me with such intensity that all of those years of loss returned. We were adults now, yet I could see in him the child. That same scent of evergreen, his soft breath against my face, the warmth beneath his frozen skin. I remembered how softly I had slept, curled up against him by the fire, when our thoughts were filled with thunder and rain.

  “I have missed you,” I said.

  He pressed his forehead against mine and closed his eyes.

  When he rolled away, I saw that he was shivering. I removed my cloak and placed it over his shoulders. It fell short on him, stopping midway down his calf. As I pulled up the hood, my fingers paused for a moment at the bead about his neck.

  We returned to the place I had left my basket. He carried it for me as I walked, bending to collect winter savoury and to fill the last of the space with more mushrooms.

  When we reached the cottage, the witch was in her garden, scraping weasel skin. She glanced up as we approached.

  “I see you are overflowing,” she said.

  I simply smiled as I entered the house. My friend placed the basket on the table and I began separating out the different plants whilst he knelt by the fire to warm himself. When the witch eventually joined us, she looked approvingly at my cache.