Read Online Mythago Wood - 1 by Robert Holdstock - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Holdstock
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meeting was with the Twigling, whose shape I followed
stealthily as he walked to the mill-pond and stood in the trees, staring across
at the boathouse. I felt no real fear of these manifestations, merely a slight
apprehension. But it was only after the second meeting that I began to realize
how alien the wood was to the mythagos, and how alien the mythagos were to the
wood. These creatures, created far away from their natural age, echoes of a past
given substance, were equipped with a life, a language and a certain ferocity
that was quite inappropriate to the war-scarred world of 1947. No wonder the
aura of the woodland was so charged with a sense of solitude, an infectious
loneliness that had come to inhabit the body of my father, and then Christian,
and which was even now crawling through my own tissues, and would trap me if I
allowed it.
It was at this time, too, that I began to hallucinate. Notably at dusk, as I
stared into the woodlands, I saw movement at the edge of my vision. At first I
put this down to tiredness, or imagination, but I remembered clearly the passage
from my father's notebook in which he described how the pre-mythagos, the
initial images, always appeared at his peripheral vision. I was frightened at
first, unwilling to acknowledge that such creatures could be resident in my own
mind, and that my own interaction with the woodland had begun far earlier than
Christian had thought; but after a while I sat and tried to see details of them.
I failed to do so. I could sense movement, and the occasional manlike shape, but
whatever field was inducing their appearance was not yet strong enough to pull
them into full view; either that, or my mind could not yet control their
emergence.
On the 24th of November I went back to the house and spent a few hours
resting and listening to the wireless. A thunderstorm passed overhead and I
watched the rain and the darkness, feeling wretched and cold. But as soon as the
air cleared, and the clouds brightened, I draped my oilskin about my shoulders
and headed back to the glade. I had not expected to find anything different, and
so what should have been a surprise was more of a shock.
The tent had been demolished, its contents strewn and trampled into the
sodden turf of the clearing. Part of the guy rope dangled from the higher
branches of the large oak, and the ground hereabouts was churned as if there had
been a fight. As I walked into the space I noticed that the ground was pitted by
strange footprints, round and cleft, like hooves, I thought. Whatever the beast
had been it had quite effectively torn the canvas shelter to tatters.
I noticed then how silent the forest was, as if holding its breath and
watching. Every hair on my body stood on end, and my heartbeat was so powerful
that I thought my chest would burst. I stood by the ruined tent for just a
second or two and the panic hit me, making my head spin and the forest seem to
lean towards me. I fled from the glade, crashing into the sopping undergrowth
between two thick oak trunks. I ran through the gloom for several yards before
realizing I was running away from the woodland edge. I think I cried out,
and turned and began to run back.
A spear thudded heavily into the tree beside me and I had run into the black
wood shaft before I could stop; a hand gripped my shoulder and flung me against
the tree. I shouted out in fear, staring into the mud-smeared, gnarled face of
my attacker. He shouted back at me.
'Shut up, Steve! For God's sake, shut up!'
My panic quietened, my voice dropped to a whimper and I peered hard at the
angry man who held me. I was Christian, I realized, and my relief was so intense
that I laughed, and for long moments failed to notice what a total change had
come about him.
He was looking back towards the glade. 'You've got to get out of here,' he
said, and before I could respond he had wrenched me into a run, and was
practically dragging me back to the tent.
In the clearing he hesitated and looked
stealthily as he walked to the mill-pond and stood in the trees, staring across
at the boathouse. I felt no real fear of these manifestations, merely a slight
apprehension. But it was only after the second meeting that I began to realize
how alien the wood was to the mythagos, and how alien the mythagos were to the
wood. These creatures, created far away from their natural age, echoes of a past
given substance, were equipped with a life, a language and a certain ferocity
that was quite inappropriate to the war-scarred world of 1947. No wonder the
aura of the woodland was so charged with a sense of solitude, an infectious
loneliness that had come to inhabit the body of my father, and then Christian,
and which was even now crawling through my own tissues, and would trap me if I
allowed it.
It was at this time, too, that I began to hallucinate. Notably at dusk, as I
stared into the woodlands, I saw movement at the edge of my vision. At first I
put this down to tiredness, or imagination, but I remembered clearly the passage
from my father's notebook in which he described how the pre-mythagos, the
initial images, always appeared at his peripheral vision. I was frightened at
first, unwilling to acknowledge that such creatures could be resident in my own
mind, and that my own interaction with the woodland had begun far earlier than
Christian had thought; but after a while I sat and tried to see details of them.
I failed to do so. I could sense movement, and the occasional manlike shape, but
whatever field was inducing their appearance was not yet strong enough to pull
them into full view; either that, or my mind could not yet control their
emergence.
On the 24th of November I went back to the house and spent a few hours
resting and listening to the wireless. A thunderstorm passed overhead and I
watched the rain and the darkness, feeling wretched and cold. But as soon as the
air cleared, and the clouds brightened, I draped my oilskin about my shoulders
and headed back to the glade. I had not expected to find anything different, and
so what should have been a surprise was more of a shock.
The tent had been demolished, its contents strewn and trampled into the
sodden turf of the clearing. Part of the guy rope dangled from the higher
branches of the large oak, and the ground hereabouts was churned as if there had
been a fight. As I walked into the space I noticed that the ground was pitted by
strange footprints, round and cleft, like hooves, I thought. Whatever the beast
had been it had quite effectively torn the canvas shelter to tatters.
I noticed then how silent the forest was, as if holding its breath and
watching. Every hair on my body stood on end, and my heartbeat was so powerful
that I thought my chest would burst. I stood by the ruined tent for just a
second or two and the panic hit me, making my head spin and the forest seem to
lean towards me. I fled from the glade, crashing into the sopping undergrowth
between two thick oak trunks. I ran through the gloom for several yards before
realizing I was running away from the woodland edge. I think I cried out,
and turned and began to run back.
A spear thudded heavily into the tree beside me and I had run into the black
wood shaft before I could stop; a hand gripped my shoulder and flung me against
the tree. I shouted out in fear, staring into the mud-smeared, gnarled face of
my attacker. He shouted back at me.
'Shut up, Steve! For God's sake, shut up!'
My panic quietened, my voice dropped to a whimper and I peered hard at the
angry man who held me. I was Christian, I realized, and my relief was so intense
that I laughed, and for long moments failed to notice what a total change had
come about him.
He was looking back towards the glade. 'You've got to get out of here,' he
said, and before I could respond he had wrenched me into a run, and was
practically dragging me back to the tent.
In the clearing he hesitated and looked
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