Jack laughed and called out, ‘Why, thank you again. I’m glad someone’s looking after me!’
The cap was strange. He pulled it down as far as he could. The sky was becoming dark and, glancing up, he saw rain clouds. The smell of rain was strong, sweeping over the hills that lay towards the setting sun.
And now he noticed something else: the edge of the wood was not where it had been two days before. It was further towards the ruined lodge. The ground was rough, scarred, though coarse grass and stubby thistles covered the marks. But now, when he turned to stare back into Ryhope, the human part of him could see the traces of the old house, even though just faintly: a touch of dark red and grey within the shadows.
Why, he wondered, was Oak Lodge being returned to the open world? Who or what was guiding this passage back to the light?
The rain started to fall, at first just a shifting shower, a freshening of the air and the pasture, then a heavier downfall below gloomy, sweeping clouds that seemed to coil above him, watching for a while, before fleeing on, away into the distance; and behind them the sky brightened and the rain eased.
By then Jack was soaked. This was nothing new, but the fabric of the clothing he now wore was so thin that it turned cold against his skin, and the cloak came out, and he buckled it at the shoulder, and felt happier at once.
Shadoxhurst was quieter today than on the day of the festival. He reached the water trough and looked along the road to the green, with its central stand of oaks, where the musicians had played, the hog had been roasted, and the brutal little boys had come for him. There were a few people walking dogs, a group of children standing outside the church, listening restlessly to someone talking to them. The shops were quiet. A few cars, mostly coloured silver or dull green, murmured their way along the streets. Jack watched them with fascination. He had always longed to see such a vehicle, but these were like nothing his father had painted for him. His father’s drawings had shown black, squat machines. The vehicles he watched now were more like iridescent beetles.
He was also disturbed by how quiet it was. This was a strange thought, when he addressed it, because he had lived all his life in a quiet place, a villa with a farm, close to a deserted fortress; the sudden eruption of noise and life, of visitations or people passing by were always exciting (sometimes frightening). He had sometimes experienced the sort of vibrancy that he had witnessed during the festival, but it was a rare thing. The festival, however, had seemed to him to have a true life, to be how things should always be. Until his collapse and the attack upon him, he had felt the first suggestions of having ‘come home’. Of having made the transition between worlds.
A few minutes of pleasure that had been disrupted by aggression.
Nevertheless, this quiescent and subdued town brought out feelings of sadness in Jack. He longed for noise! He longed for a swirl of life.
How long he stood by the water trough staring into the distance he didn’t know. He was aware that he was hoping to see Julie. She would recognise him and come and greet him. Perhaps she would turn out to be the guide between the worlds, just as he - for her - could be the guide inwards. Both she and her son had suggested that she was intrigued by Ryhope, and that she had an insight into its inner realm. Jack had had little experience of women during his later formative years in the villa and the wild lands around it, but he had enough instinct to recognise interest in him.
The encounters with Julie had been shy, yet revealingly intimate. When he allowed these thoughts to wander aimlessly as he scanned the town, so what he saw was the look in her eyes, the way she had looked at him rather than the way she herself looked.
Jack took a deep breath, unbuckled the cloak and packed it away, glanced down at his saturated shirt, shivered with the cold, then took the next step. Literally, the next step. He walked past the trough towards the church. He waited for the clutch at his bowels and head, the wood-scream that would turn him round and draw him back. He kept walking.
The scream didn’t come. He reached the centre of the green, and leaned against one of the oaks there.
It had started to rain heavily again; the group of children dispersed quickly, and the streets emptied suddenly. Jack was startled by the sound of a car starting up and driving off, its tyres screeching. Voices shouted, followed by laughter. Doors slammed and three people, hidden below wide rain-shades, ran quickly to a building where a sign showing the crude image of a Green Jack was hung. A moment later Julie appeared from the same building, running in the same direction. He started to call to her, but found he couldn’t speak the name. Even so, she glanced back, quickly, querulously, before entering the same building, which Jack knew was where food was served and where the sour drink that had been offered to him two days before was sold.
I can walk there. I can make it there. I can join her, talk to her. I can extend the edge of my world . . .
He repeated this thought many times, but all the time he stayed where he was, in the half-shelter of the oaks, almost as rooted as the old trees themselves. He was brought back to consciousness by a quiet voice, a man’s voice, saying, ‘You look very wet and very lost. Can I help you at all?’
For a moment as he looked around, Jack saw nothing but the green, the oaks, the distant hills, the hints of forest. He had looked through the man several times before the figure came into focus. He was standing very close, wearing a long coat and a black leather hat, from which rain was dripping. His face was grey with a stubbly beard, his eyes dark-rimmed, narrowed, possibly curious, certainly tired; but not old.
‘Can you see me?’ the apparition asked.
‘Yes. Yes, I can.’
‘It took you a while, though. Quite a while.’
‘I didn’t see you at first. That’s true.’
‘I know what you are,’ the grey man said. ‘I know your nature. They rarely come here. I usually find them in the fields, or out by the railway tracks. Sometimes in the river. You are the first that has tried to come into the town. There must be something special about you.’
‘The first? The first what?’
‘You know exactly what I mean. Eddie hasn’t exactly been discreet about you. You remember Eddie?’
‘The fair-haired boy. Yes, I met him. He was good to me, brought me some food. His mother brought me clothes.’
The other man glanced up and down at Jack and smiled. ‘The rain makes them fit, at least. They don’t really suit you. It wasn’t so much the clothes you wore, you know - the other day, when the vermin in this place treated you so badly; it wasn’t the clothes. It was the smell. But the rain has helped with that.’
‘And soap,’ Jack added. ‘You said: “the first”. I asked, “The first what?” ’
‘Wood haunter. You’re a wood haunter.’
‘That’s what Eddie called me.’
‘It’s what you’re all known as. Generally.’
All of us?
‘My father has a different name for it,’ Jack said. ‘But how much of that name I am, I don’t know. I just know that I have a “haunter” side, and that he sees the wildwood differently.’
‘I understand. And your father’s name for it,’ the man asked carefully, ‘myth imago? Would that be right?’
‘Mythago,’ Jack whispered.
The black-coated man thought about that, then nodded his head and took off his hat to reveal a long length of grey hair, tied back in a plait. ‘I’m something of the wild myself,’ he said quietly, ‘though not as wild as you. A wild life ended in humility, tucked up inside grey stone. Vows taken, counsel accepted, especially among the middle-aged. Services unattended, and an odd witness from one temple of new practices, to older practices on the green, an even older temple. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Not a word,’ Jack said.
‘I’m what is called “the vicar” here. I came to it late. It’s a long story. A very long story. But that’s my church now, built of good local stone by long-dead craftsmen from all over the land. And a bit of local labour. Nearly a thousand years ago. I’d like you to come into my church, dry off, and have something to drink and something to eat. What do you say?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘You’ll try to eat?’
‘I’ll try to get to your church.’
Greybeard frowned for a moment, then seemed to understand. ‘Haunted. Haunting. The ghost is never far away from the grave. Ryhope is your home and your grave. I think I understand. There are chains on you. Chains made of vines and briar.’
Jack stared at this strange man and all cold in his body had gone. This was his second encounter during which he had suddenly felt a sense of being known, understood and welcomed. Perhaps the bridge between worlds was not in the steps taken, but in the encounters made. Julie had touched his heart. This man had inspired courage.
‘I think I can make it.’
‘Good. It’s Jack, isn’t it? Jack of Ryhope? Jack of Leather? Jack the Haunter?’
‘Huxley. Jack Huxley. And you?’
‘Caylen Reeve. Some call me “The Reverend” Caylen Reeve but, as I said, there’s a story behind that. For another time. If you can make it into my grey-stone mausoleum, please regard the tomb as your home. All wooden pews available for sleeping. Sacrifice what you like upon the altar. I deal only in church wine and Indian takeaways. Only one rule: don’t ring the bells. It’s a job I love and guard jealously. And if the stone walls start to sweat and swell, leave fast and go back to Ryhope. I mean that very seriously. But for the moment - if you make it - a mere three hundred paces! - shall we have some Indian cuisine?’
‘I have no idea what that is.’
‘No. I don’t suppose you do.’
Jack remembered his father talking to him about the Indian Nations. ‘Buffalo?’
Caylen laughed. ‘Buffalo? Ah, I see what you mean. Well, I can ask. But it will come in a spicy sauce.’
Courage!
Caylen walked ahead of him, a confident stride, the wide-brimmed hat now settled upon his head again, catching the light rain. Jack followed, focusing on the door to the grey building, aware that he could hear a whisper of urgency, the moaning song of return.
I’ve come this far. I’ll go that small step further!
He fought the sudden urge to turn and run. He reached the steps, five of them, that led to the open doors of the church. Hard-eyed now, and solemn, Caylen watched him as he hauled his feet up those five simple slabs of stone. His stomach was hurting, his head contained a sound like the raging of a river, the rushing of water over rocks, the crash of waves against the steep cliffs where the river turned. He was shaking.
‘You’re doing well. You’re doing very well indeed. It’s important to stretch the chain.’
Calm words from the expressionless man, his grey eyes seeming unblinking as Jack reached the door. ‘Stretch the chain and you can find the dream. You will never break the chain. But stretch it, stretch it: that is in your own power. Ten more paces, Jack. Stretch for ten more paces. Come on.’
Ten more paces!
He felt as if stones were dragging at his feet. His head was hammering against a wall. Branches whipped him, water sucked him down. The screech of elementals was unbearable - almost There would be peace in running back. There would be silence and relief in returning to the lodge.
‘Five more paces, Jack.’
He flung himself forward, then screamed in pain, embracing a cold marbled floor, feeling strong hands on his shoulders.
‘Far enough. This is far enough.’
The hands pinned him down, but this was not aggression: the hands were holding, supporting, fingers pushed into his muscles to relax them. He had twisted round and faced the spill of light from the open doors of the church, and a woman was standing there. She hesitated only for a moment before running to him, crouching down and whispering words he couldn’t take in. Two gentle fingers on his face; soft breath on his lips. The flow of words between the woman and the priest were murmurings of urgency, then calm.
‘You’ve done well, Jack. You’ve extended the edge of your world.’
‘Julie ...’
‘Yes.’ She leaned down towards him, bright and smiling. ‘The little brats are in school. And the clothes suit you. The hat doesn’t. And what in the name of all that isn’t holy have you done to your hair?’
‘Cut it. Your suggestion.’
Laughter. Julie said, ‘I’ll find a way to rescue it. Just stay calm, Jack. Altar wine for the boy!’
This last was addressed to the vicar.
‘I’ll see if I’ve got any left.’
More laughter.
Courage!
He was cold now, and the space he was sitting in was high and wide, and cold and grey, and the light that struck his face came through shaped windows, and some of it was coloured and confusing. A gentle hand was entwined with his, and still there was the soft breath, sweet breath. The grey-haired man was bustling about, but mostly writing in a book while almost simultaneously spooning a stew into his mouth. The food was fragrant and unusual, the texture of the meat so soft it might have been a flavoured bark fungus. Jack had eaten a little, but the pungent spices and the burning sensation of one of the meats had made him retch. A cooling drink, not unlike a weak goat’s milk, had helped his stomach calm down.
Earlier, Julie had fussed at his hair, using scissors and a very fine comb to cut away the tangle that he had left, leaving nothing on his neck and scalp that he could touch with any confidence. But she had kept every length of hair in a paper bag - he remembered crying out that she should do so - and he clutched the bag as if it were a container of life itself.
‘I need to go home.’
‘Yes,’ Julie said. ‘You’ve come further than before. That took some doing, I imagine.’
‘It was . . . easier at first. Then hard. My head is a rage of noise.’