Fiction
Fantasy
Young buds sleep in the root’s white core.
-John Keats
The afternoon light sifted through the birch leaves and tumbled upon my Lys’s upturned face. Standing in the sun, she looked like Jenny, though her skin and hair were pale while Jenny was brown as an acorn. She had Jenny’s petal-tipped nose and chin, her mouth a bright splash of color like a blossoming wild rose. Her lips were turned down as she cast sulky glances at the path that snaked like an unwound thread into the woods. “Let’s go home, Papa. You’re tired.”
I hardened my heart against the pleading in her voice. “Help me into the woods.” She slowed her quick tread into a mimicry of my hobbled steps and took my arm. Mossy faces smiled from trunk and fern, and voices whispered to me in the wind. Glimpses of the woodland world, Jenny’s world, hitherto closed to me, were frequent now. I wondered if Lys saw and heard them too, and if she ran last spring to the big town where concrete and stone were mute, to escape them. Her hair was a curtain over her cheek, hiding her expression.
I halted at a fallen tree trunk. Before us, two great oaks loomed jagged and black against the daffodil sky. “Sit and talk with your Papa awhile. I’ve missed you, with you so far away in the big town. But there’s no place like these woods here anywhere you’ll look, I’ll warrant.”
“I hate the woods,” she muttered from behind the fall of hair. “They mock me, with their accursed faces and voices. They come to me in dreams, disturbing my sleep. Even now, I feel them watching me.”
I gazed at the dark woods pressed close around us. Leaf veins formed into wrinkled faces and rustling whispers ascended into a crescendo. If I took a step sideways, I would enter their world and find Jenny waiting for me, half-laughing and half-weeping in welcome. But there were things I needed to do before I went. “So has Matt asked you to wed him? He’s had eyes for none but you since you two were out of the cradle. He vowed he’d ask you soon as you returned from the city.”
“Oh, he has. I told him nay.”
“And why’s that? You love him, do you not? That is, if my eyes and my heart tell me rightly.”
“Of course I do!” Tears sparkled in her eyes, raindrop-bright. “That’s why I can’t wed him, not ever! Because of the woodwife! The woodwife’s blood! I’ve got her blood in my veins!” She glanced at me and bit her lip. “I’m sorry, Papa.”
Once when Lys was little, she came home from school and asked about the woodwife. I heard the ugly word from her bud-shaped lips and saw the harsh look of the villagers in her blue eyes. For the first and last time I raised my voice at her. Then my heart broke as her face clamped shut and her eyes grew flat. But now I only sighed and corrected her gently. “Jenny. Her name was Jenny.”
“They call her the woodwife, down in the village,” she persisted, her words skipping over one another like an undammed brook, “and they say things. Bad things. And what about Dan Holbrook—ah, poor Dan! Look at what she did to him!”
“That is so.” I closed my eyes and the memories swirled around me in a flurry of autumn leaves. I remained lost in the swirl of crimson, gold and sepia until Lys tugged at my arm, thinking I had fallen asleep. “Would you like me to tell you about Jenny, Lys? So that you can see her as she really was?”
“Now, Papa? Here?”
“Yes. There is no better place than here, in the woods.” I lit my pipe and inhaled deeply. The smoke drifted a sad trail in the crystal air.
“The first snowflakes, perfect as new buds, remind me of Jenny,” I began. “The first sprinkle of sun upon the river and the soft squelch of earth under the boot make me think of her, for they made her smile. I see a field of corn in summer and I remember her lying rosy and laughing in a Jenny-shaped hollow. But then, you see, everything reminds me of Jenny.
“I first saw Jenny in deepest midwinter, a day approaching the darkest time of year. After school was out, Dan Holbrook emptied my pockets, rubbed my face in the dust and thrust me against the fence, ordering me to stay there. When at last I turned around, the shadows were long in the last light. I flung my schoolbag over my shoulder and hurtled across the sere fields trying to reach home before the last bar disappeared from the sky.
“Darkness fell when I was halfway across the bridge leading to the shortcut through the woods. It blotted out the path and turned the trees into monsters with grasping arms and sharp talons. I spun, lost my bearings and cowered against the railing. I thought I might die of the fright and cold and be found stiff and blue with a film of snow over me in the morning. But then I saw Jenny as I will always remember her, outlined in a silver nimbus against the shadows of the wood.
“My heart shuddered and stood still. I imagined it was my time to die and an angel had come to take me to Heaven. Then I thought with a wild heart-leap that she was one of the wood people for whom the villagers in fear and trembling left bowls of milk upon their doorstep. Tramps who entered the woods looking for a place to sleep often never came out. Those who did spoke gape-mouthed of a beautiful and shining woman who took them by the hand and led them into her wood-world. Perhaps this girl, too, would lead me into this strange wood-behind-the-wood, where I would be a slave to its denizens and never again step into the human world. But then she smiled and my fears melted. I saw that it was only a girl, prettier than most, standing in the moonlight reflected on frost. I was terrified of girls at that time, for to me they seemed strange, lofty creatures with a mocking knowledge in their eyes. But when Jenny held out her hand I came to her, friendly as a puppy. ‘Hello,’ she said, in that kind, confiding way that I later realized was part of her, ‘are ye lost, then? Ah, ye poor thing! Ne’er mind. I’ll take ye ‘ome.’
“As I grasped her hand, the face of the wood changed before my eyes. All around us a thousand myriad-colored fairy lights sparkled upon the trees and the ground. I gasped and Jenny laughed at me. ‘It’s beautiful, int it?’
“‘You did it,’ I said in awe, ‘You changed the winter woods.’
“She shook her head, tiny snow crystals darting from her hair like fireflies in the crisp air. ‘I di’nt. Ye just saw the woods as they really are, is all.’
“She squeezed my hand to take away the shame I might feel at her words. ‘So ye needn’t ne’er be afeard o’ the winter woods agin.’
“The path opened onto the quay sooner than I remembered. I thought that Jenny lived in one of the quayside houses or up in the village and was surprised when she pulled her hand away. ‘God be wi’ ye,’ she dimpled and skipped back the way we had come.
“‘Wait!’ I shouted after her, suddenly desperate. ‘Can—can I see you again?’
“She whirled round. ‘Course you can,’ she called back, cupping her hands round her mouth. ‘I’ll be waitin fer ye in the woods!’
“I blinked and she was gone. I shuffled past the wharf into the village. Mam met me at the door with her hair standing on end and a cuff on the ear for returning home so late. ‘The Old Woman of the River’ll get you one day and then you’ll know!’ she scolded, wild-eyed. ‘She’ll take you down to the bottom of the river and eat you alive.’
“But I wasn’t thinking of the Old Woman, fearsome though she might be. ‘Mam, there’s a girl in the woods…’
“She gave me another cuff on the head for good measure. ‘Stuff an’ nonsense. There is no girl in the woods.’
“So I told myself that it had all been my imagination, a wood-mirage born from my terror that night. So all that winter I never took the shortcut through the woods, choosing the main road that skirted the fields instead. Sometimes I thought the forest glimmered with fairy lights, but when I turned round to look they were gone and the trees were bare.
“It was only when the blackthorn unfurled upon the hedge that the first pale sun put courage into my heart. I ventured upon the path, stopping where the bridge met the deeper woods. I cupped my hands round my mouth and called out. ‘Jenny! You there?’
“At first there was nothing but the call of a thrush filtering through the boughs. I felt like a fool and turned to slink my way back through the fields. Then the birches rustled, a leaf-curtain parted and Jenny sprang out like a fish from a green sea.
“‘You’re here!’ I exclaimed, my heart leaping with a strange joy.
“‘Course! Said I’d be, dinna?’ She gave me a reproachful pinch on the arm. ‘Where’ve ye been? I’ve been waitin’ for ye fer ever so long!’
“How to explain that I had half-believed she wasn’t real, but just a dream? But Jenny, as I discovered later, was never angry for long and soon she dimpled again.
“‘Come on,’ she said, lacing her fingers through mine. The blood rushed to my cheeks. ‘Let’s go.’
“‘Where? Into the—the woods?’ I lingered on the path, the threshold of all I found familiar.
“‘Aye. Dint worry. I’ll look after ye.’
“And so we stepped off the path, through the chink in the birches where no path ran and into the deep heart of the woods. It was a place where the sun poured glistening down the leaves and branches into a golden pool in the bracken. The scent of wild rose mingled with the tang of brine and mud, the chirp of the cricket with the sullen mutter of the river. At times pale eyes peered from behind the oaks, the leaves quivered though no wind blew and long orange glints shone upon the bog in the distance. But most of all, it was a place where Jenny in her ragged skirts and reedy voice reigned as queen.
“Sometimes Jenny’s mam came to sit with us in the dewy twilight. She would appear on the riverbank, her hair tangling to her waist and enmeshed with twigs and leaves, her long skirts damp and smelling of river water. At first I was wary of her, remembering Mam’s tales of the Old Woman and her watery embrace. But she brewed for us hot drinks that tasted pungent and peaty and yet not unpleasant and told us wondrous stories of the mirror-world beneath the river and beyond the bog. Soon I, too, like Jenny, whooped and ran to meet her whenever I saw her, while she laughed her rollicking guffaw and embraced us.
“I never saw the woods alit with fairy lights again. But that spring Jenny showed me the first almond blossom and where the scilla bloomed like patches of upside-down sky. In the summer she found birds with broken wings and on occasion a wounded fox cub or badger. She placed her childish hands on them, and just as the woods had lit up for me at her touch, the pain and fear faded from the creatures’ eyes. We climbed the oaks and looked out over the villages, the fields and the big town beyond, with me pretending I was the captain of a ship and she my living figurehead. In the autumn, with the cold scent of winter hovering in the air, she climbed into the oak trees and gathered acorns, which she buried in the ground. ‘Watcha doing, Jenny?’ I asked her once.
“‘Keepin’ ‘em safe so they can grow in ‘e spring.’
“‘Aren’t you daft now.’
“‘An’ why’s that?’
“Truth was I didn’t know why, but was at a phase when anger and restlessness brimmed within me but my skin was too tight to hold it. I didn’t know what to do with my feelings so I just lashed out at anyone who was there, and Jenny always was. ‘Trees don’t grow just like that, see? Just because you’ve put some acorns in the ground. Stuff and nonsense.’
“Her eyes blurred over, and I bit my lip and cursed myself. But then she smiled and took my arm. ‘Ah, Peter,’ she murmured. ‘Ye’ll see one day. Ye’ll see and ye’ll believe.’
“My raging discontent evaporated with the dew in summer. I looked at Jenny and saw how rich was the brown of her hair, her cheeks bright like rosehips, her step like light dancing on the water. She looked back at me and I saw the answering smile in her eyes. That summer we took to lying by the river as a kaleidoscope of pearl and daffodil sky filtered through a filigree of Queen Anne’s Lace. Sometimes, the villagers glimpsed us when they took a shortcut through the woods. They said naught to me, but I saw their knowing and disapproval in their sly glances and hushed voices. One day Dan Holbrook confronted me as I stepped from the woodland path into the village. ‘I seen you,’ he sneered, his face contorted into an ugly leer. ‘Yer goin’ with that girl from the woods. Slag, they call her, down in the village. Just like her ma, waitin’ to open her legs for any tramp that comes along. I seen you and ‘er. Doin’ this.’ He raised his hands and made a gesture with his thumb and two forefingers. ‘She’s really ugly, too. Face the color of mud. But then, you just took what you could, didn’t you?’
“‘Shut your trap!’ I yelled, stepping up to his chest and holding up my fist.
“But he stood there big as a wall, throwing back his head in laughter. I faltered, dropped my fists and ran off, his jeers echoing in my ears.
“But I never thought of Jenny like how he said, and when I was sixteen I asked her to marry me.
“She lay embedded in wheat, squinting her eyes against the afternoon sun. Gold quivered in the air, on the ears of wheat and upon Jenny’s hair and eyelashes. I looked down at her and tears pricked my eyes, though they were not from the sun’s glare. I wiped them away with my sleeve, but Jenny, sharp-eyed, noticed.
“‘What’s wrong?’
“‘It’s nothing.’ The words poured out of me in a gush. ‘It’s just that—you look so beautiful and I wish we could always stay like this.’
“‘Ah, dunt be daft now.’ She sat up, her cheeks deepening in color. ‘Ye’ll forget me, by an’ by. Ye’ll get yerself a good trade an’ ye’ll wed a gel from ’e village, one who’s purtier an’ better-dressed than me.’
“‘Never. There’s no girl prettier than you in the village, and in all the world too. And there’s none sweeter or kinder. I’ll marry you and none else.’
“‘Ah, my dear.’ She cupped my face with her hands. ‘Remember this. No one, but no one, “as ever said such a kindly thing to me afore.’
“And because she always tried to spare my feelings, she burst into tears and cried with me.
“But it was five years before I, the village carpenter, led Jenny out of the woods and into the village church to be my wife. The light was that intense chiaroscuro that heralds a torrential shower. It danced on Jenny’s veil and turned her circlet of daisies into a crown. In that light we walked out of the church into the stares of the crowd, who had gathered beneath the yew to have a glimpse of the woodwife. In that split second I saw Mam’s grim stare, the envious gapes of the adolescent girls and the barely concealed leers on the men’s faces.
“Then there was a scuffle and a yellow-haired girl stumbled out of the crowd, clearly pushed by her neighbors, and almost fell at Jenny’s feet. ‘Welcome, woodwife,’ she gasped. ‘Welcome to our village.’
“Jenny smiled as she steadied the girl. ‘I’m glad to be ‘ere.’ The crowd began to clap, sporadically at first, then louder till a flock of wild geese circled into the sky in fright. ‘So very, very glad.’
“And so Jenny stepped out of her woodland realm and became queen of my heart and home. Our days were golden-green, a sunlit clearing hemmed in by the forest. Our home was filled with the odors of strange herbs stewing with meat, snatches of song that sounded like leaves in the wind and soon, children who had skinned their knees or sprained their ankles, came to the woodwife to make them better. Occasionally, mothers would slink in carrying their sick babies so that she could place her hands on them. After that they would thrust a loaf of bread or a cake of cheese into her hands and, placing their hoods over their heads, scurry off into the night.
“One morning, as the thrushes sang furiously in the golden-green thickets, Jenny, her cheeks sleep-rosy, bent her lips to my ear and whispered. I shouted and banged my spoon on my plate for joy, took her in my arms and whirled her round and round the room, while she laughed and bade me stop.
“If I thought I had been happy before, now it seemed that happiness poured from the sun and the sun shone in my own heart. Jenny herself was luminescent with new life. Sometimes she gleamed so bright it hurt my eyes to look at her, and I had to turn away. At these times, I just sat at her feet and worshipped her, imagining that was no lady nor queen nor goddess as beautiful and glittering as she. A vague sense of foreboding rose in me even then, whispering that the gods are angered by such thoughts. I pushed it back into the darkness from whence it came, for nothing could touch the bubble of happiness in which Jenny and I lived.
“I returned home humming on a white-sheep cloud afternoon, carrying sprigs of the first almond blossom as a gift for Jenny. The door of our home gaped wide open. It seemed out-of place, a bad omen on that perfect white and yellow day. I broke into a run and burst inside, all the while repeating to myself that it was nothing, that Jenny had just been careless. Then I glimpsed the poor, broken body on the floor beneath the table.
“‘Jenny!’ I sobbed, ‘Jenny dearest, what happened? Who did this to you?’
“A puffy, reddened eyelid squeezed open and Jenny gasped. ‘Dan—nay—no more—ah, Peter.’ She reached for me. ‘I knew ye’d come. I waited and waited for ye, and ye came.’ She struggled to sit up. ‘Take me to yer ‘eart. Nay, dint go fer the doctor—it dint ’urt—ah—not much, anyhow. It dint matter, not a bit. Just ’old me afore I go.’
“I don’t know all of what happened that morning. Jenny refused to tell me everything, and at certain parts, she closed her eyes and shuddered in my arms, so that I hushed her. I do know that Dan Holbrook came by with a job for me. I know that, finding her alone and defenseless, he had tried to force himself on her. I don’t know what he did to her or the torment she must have felt, for this part Jenny refused to tell and convulsed like a dying animal. But I guessed that he, enraged by her resistance, beat her with his fists and later with a wooden chair, for I saw it in her bloodied face and body, her swollen eyes and mouth and the chair lying broken at her feet.
“‘Bastard.’ I slammed my fist on the coffee table and sprang to my feet. ‘I’ll beat him up, I’ll make him suffer ten times what he did to you.’
“‘Nay!’ She scrabbled at my foot. ‘Nay, stay wi’ me, dear—I just need ye, is all.’
“And so I stayed and held her till her breath stilled and her head drooped. I closed her eyelids over her staring eyes and heard a high, long howl, a sound so replete with torment and horror that I pressed my hands over my ears to shut it out. I wondered wildly if Jenny was doomed to endure this pain even in the hereafter before I realized that the scream was coming from my own throat.
“I howled till my throat ran dry. Then I sped to the Silver Bell where Dan gathered with his mates at evenings. I saw him through a red haze, sitting in the midst of a circle of admiring friends, face mottled with ale and triumph. I rammed my fist into his face sending glass shattering on the floor and ale falling in a golden shower over him. I grabbed a stool and battered his chest, and would have continued until he was dead if the men hadn’t pulled me back.
“‘Murder!’ Dan yelled. ‘’E’s murderin’ me, ’e is.’
“‘You killed Jenny,’ I hissed. ‘She wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole, dirty sod that you are, and so you forced her and killed her and you not worthy to touch the hem of her dress.’
“Dan chortled and a grin cracked across his face, wet and bloody as it was. ‘The woodwife? No one forces the woodwife. Just any bloke sez to her, ‘Hello there, pretty gel,’ and she falls down on her back and opens her legs. Force the woodwife? That’s rich. Makes a cat laugh, it does.’
“‘Take that back!’ It took four men to restrain me.
“‘He killed Jenny.’ I pleaded, looking at each of them in turn. ‘He killed my wife.’ In their eyes I saw pity, shame, but most of all, alliance, not with me, but with Dan, as they stood shoulder to shoulder to protect one of their own. I knew then that they would never condemn Dan and that there was no help for Jenny and me. I shook off their grasp and stumbled towards the door. The men parted to let me go.
“We buried Jenny beneath the yew tree in a far corner of the churchyard. There was just the priest and I, for no one else turned up. The sky was slate-colored the day we put the cold stone over Jenny’s body and I knew that would be the color of my world from then on.
“I returned home, closed the curtains against the light and sat in my armchair. I no longer knew what time of day it was, what season, for that was part of life and I would have none of it. Occasionally I fancied I was dead and that this twilit world was eternity, but then a knock would sound at the door. When I dragged myself to answer it there would be a gasp, sometimes a sob and a covered dish would be thrust into my hand with a mumbled ‘I’m sorry.’ Or there would be no one there, but a steaming pot roast or pudding would be left upon my doorstep. At times I would swallow a few mouthfuls. Then the darkness would descend upon me again and I would lurch back to my armchair to resume my unblinking vigil.
“Jenny came back in the apricot light of summer’s end. I closed my eyes for a moment against the unaccustomed blaze from the doorway and when I opened them she was there in front of me. ‘Ah Peter,’ she breathed, ‘ah my dear, what ’ave ye done to yerself?’
“‘Are you a ghost?’ I asked, without fear. ‘Have you come to take me away at last?’
“She knelt down and took both of my hands in her own warm, living ones. ‘I’m no ghost, nor spirit neither! I’m ’ere to be wi’ ye agin, so ye dunt need to be afeard o’ the winter woods no more.’
“I looked into her eyes, the color of the earth in summer and I saw myself as she saw me, rank, unshaven, my eyes purple-shadowed and burning with despair. Seeing with her heart, I felt such compassion well up in me that tears overflowed my eyes and for the first time since I had discovered Jenny lying there, I wept. Jenny held me and soothed me till my sobs subsided. ‘How did you come back? I saw you lying there in the coffin… Was it all just a mistake then? You’re not really dead?’
“She placed a swift finger against my lips. ‘We’ll not talk ’bout that, shall we? I’m ‘ere with ye now an’ it’s fine an’ that’s all that matters.’ She gave me a push. ‘Ah, you great oaf! Go wash an’ change, an’ I’ll open the curtains an’ cook us a meal!’
“We picked up the rhythm of our life together, though my unanswered questions hung suspended between us, a shaft of shadow through which neither of us could cross. If I had loved her before, I loved her so much now that just looking at her was a wring to my heart. But though she smiled for me, at times I caught her weeping when she thought I was not looking. ‘Jenny!’ I would exclaim. ‘Jenny, dearest, what’s wrong?’
“But she would wipe her tears away, scrubbing her cheeks until they grew red and swollen. ‘Nothin’. Just my nonsense. I’m too happy to be with ye agin, is all!’ And that was all I ever got out of her.
“I returned to work and the villagers shyly welcomed me back. ‘It’s because of Jenny,’ I said, aglow with happiness, ‘Jenny’s home.’
“They moved away from me at that. ‘Aye. That’s right nice, that is.’
“No wonder, I thought, they believed Jenny to be lying beneath the yew tree in the churchyard. Jenny, on her part kept away from the village. She’s afraid, I thought, and small blame to her.
“However, as her belly swelled, I pressed her to have a village midwife come and live with us in preparation for the birth. Jenny refused. ‘I can take care of me own,’ she retorted as though I had insulted her. ‘We from the woods know.’
“One day I returned home in the receding frost to find the front door open wide. Images of Jenny lying torn and wounded raced before my eyes. When the world steadied and I realized that the house was empty, I turned and sped down the path through the woods. I skidded sideways at the place where Jenny had appeared to me long ago, and crashed into the unmarked way. Brambles clung to me and branches tore at my clothes and skin as I ran. I fell into the heart of the forest scratched and delirious, and I beheld the woods as I had never done before.
“Jenny lay spread-eagled on the ground, knees bent, thighs exposed and wet. Her hands clung round a slender hazel sapling, which trembled with her great shuddering jolts. I gasped to see her, skin slick with perspiration, mad grunts emitting from her clenched teeth and wildness in her eyes. Jenny’s mam, the fearsome Old Woman of the River, knelt before her, one hand stroking her thighs and the other rubbing Jenny’s belly, her voice rising and falling like the tumultuous river. In the leaf-strained light, her face was the sickly-green of stagnant water, of creatures that crept from tree and bog. Then Jenny’s cries distilled into a keen climax as her limbs quivered and tensed. I woke from my stupor and rushed at her, determined to save her this time from the pain that tore her apart, but the trees and brambles stood together against me, their faces ferocious, their mouths gaping. I fought until my hands were bloodied and I half-mad. Then Jenny uttered an earth-deep bellow and the small green-slimed creature slipped out of her, guided by the Old Woman’s deft hands.
“The ice-bright sun shone upon the babe in Jenny’s arms, turning the fine hair and downy skin to gold. Jenny’s mam waddled to the river and slunk beneath the water as the trees and bushes rustled in the breeze. I was left alone with Jenny and our baby. ‘Jenny,’ I began, ‘Jenny, dearest…’
“Then she smiled, the sun shining out of her eyes, and I hushed. ‘’Ere. Aye, hold ’er. Ye’ll bring ’er to the woods one day, won’t ye, an’ show ’er what the woods are really like? And both of ye’ll be all in all to each other an’ look after each other, so’s you’ll never need to be afraid of the winter woods agin?’
“‘Jenny!’ I exclaimed, the tears blurring my eyes and my joy in the child I held, perfect as a new-unfurled flower, ‘Jenny, you don’t mean…’
“She nodded rapidly. ‘Hush! Ye did know, didn’t ye, that I couldn’t be with ye for long this time? But I’ll never leave ye, dear, not really. I’ll come and see you, by and by, when you’re sleepin’, and the little precious too. And when you’re lonely fer me, just come into the woods and ye’ll know I’ll be there, lookin’ an’ smilin’ at ye behind the trees.’
“She rose in a fluid movement. Her hair was disheveled and her dress stained, but I thought she was more beautiful than she had ever been. She brushed a quick hand over her eyes. ‘I wunt tell ye, farewell. Cause I dunt need to, see? We’ll be seein’ each other agin, an’ the time’ll pass as quick as night into day. But there be somethin’ I must do afore I go.’
“‘Wait!’ I called after her in desperation. ‘Where can I find you again?’
“She had half-disappeared into the dark of the thicket, but she swung round and cupped her hands to answer me. ‘In the woods! I’ll be waitin’ fer ye in the woods.’
“I waited till there was neither rustle nor darting light and shadow in the thicket and then I walked home with you in my arms. Since then we have been all in all to each other.
“That night Dan Holbrook never returned home. They searched for him with lanterns and found him gibbering on the woodland path. When they asked him what had happened he could only utter the words, ‘The woodwife.’ Now whenever anyone meets him wandering aimlessly about the village and speaks to him out of kindness, those are the only words he will offer in return.
“Many people have told you bad things about your mother. They say she was a witch who rose from her coffin and waited in the woods for Dan so that she could drive him to madness. They say she puts a blight upon the corn when it does not grow and a spell upon the weather when the winter lasts too long. They tell their children never to take the shortcut through the woods because the woodwife will steal them away. And whenever a child is found drowned in the river, it is the woodwife’s revenge for her babe that was lost to her.”
I stopped and gazed at Lys, who sat with her tears turned amber by the setting sun. “But you are Jenny’s daughter and you have her blood in her veins. Do you know why she waited in the woods for Dan that day?”
Lys closed her eyes and I felt her run away deep inside herself, where Jenny’s blood flowed. When she opened them again, she blinked and looked around her, as though startled by the darkness. “She wanted to forgive him.”
Then a great weight was gone from me, to be replaced by a wave of sadness. I clutched my applewood stick and struggled to my feet. Gritting my teeth, I hobbled towards the great oaks.
“Papa!” Lys cried out behind me, “must you leave?”
And though I knew my heart would break I turned to her for the last time. “Yes, Lys, light of my eyes, you do know, do you not, that it is time? I am ill and of late, my sight and mind fail. But I see Jenny all the more clearly. From behind the trees she holds out her hands and calls my name, but I tell her wait, wait till Lys is safe and happy, and I may go with my mind at peace.”
I reached out my hand to her and she pressed it between her own. “You are ready to stand on your own now, are you not? You have Jenny’s blood in your veins and you can see through the woods’ eyes. And you’ll tell Matt you’ll wed him and have small dear ones of your own. And you’ll tell them about Jenny and the woods that she came from, will you not? And when you’re sad or troubled, come and sit awhile beneath the trees. We’ll be there, Jenny and I, watching and loving you as we always have.”
“How your hand feels like a tree’s root, Papa. So thin and gnarled in mine.” She slipped it through her arm and stepped beside me. “I’ll walk with you to the oaks.”
We stopped where the line of oaks demarcated the velvet shades of the deeper woods. “A long time ago, Jenny planted acorns in autumn. She wanted to keep them safe in the winter so that they would grow into trees in the spring. She was right, Lys. She was right.”
Lys loosened her grip on my hand. Despite the sadness in her eyes, I could see, sprouting like the first blades of grass pushing through the hard earth, the stirrings of anticipation and an impatience to return to the world of the living. “God be wi’ ye, Papa.”
I took a long last look at Lys standing there, a shining figure in the shadows. Then I stepped past the oaks into the woods beyond. For a moment I stood still, petrified by the darkness and the strangeness. As I watched, the glow illumined the trees and the ground until the woods were spangled with fairy lights.
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Copyright 2009, Hazel Marcus Ong. All rights reserved. Hazel Marcus Ong hails from Singapore. She loves art history, mythology, storytelling and words such as 'numinous', 'liminal' and 'Xanadu'. She has previously been published in Sybil's Garage, Murky Depths and Reflection's Edge.
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