Read Online The Bone Forest by Robert Holdstock - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Holdstock
Tags: Fantasy
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the bestial spirit that you are.
I should prefer to return you to the body from which you have gone missing:
my
body, albeit in another location, another time, some other space and time that has somehow become confused with my own world.
Yes, other things give away the fact that we are living parallel lives, closely linked, yet subtly different. I refer to the "Urscumug," not "Urscumaga." You know more about Ash than I do. Wynne-Jones, in your world, has raced ahead of my own, pipe-reeking friend. The talisman most definitely was hung with leather, not horse hair. Clearly
I
am the hooded man over whom you ran, in your mad canter from the forest glade. My oilskin hood was torn, quite beyond repair!
And so you must propose a way for us to meet, to engage, to communicate.
But I repeat, you are not to enter my house beyond this desk.
If you doubt that I have the skill to destroy you, then look into your own bestial heart: remember what I/you have achieved in the past. Remember what happened to you/I in the Wolf Glen, when we discovered a certain magic of our own, destructive to mythagos!
And below this entry, Gray-green man had scrawled
then how do I get back
?
Huxley closed and concealed the journal. He walked out into the garden, and stepped carefully across the lawn to the bushes. The ground was wet with dew, the air scented with raw, rich night perfume of soil and leaf. Everything was very still.
Huxley stepped among the moist bushes of rhododendron and fuchsia. He pressed the wet leaves and flowers against his torso, and found, to his mild surprise, that he was excited by the touch of nature upon his dry, cool body. He rubbed leaves between his fingers, crushed fuchsia flowers, reached down and rubbed his hands over the dewy soil. He drew breath in through his nostrils, filling his lungs, and as he stood so he smeared his hands over his shoulders and belly…
A blur of night-lit movement, the earth vibrating, the undergrowth shaking, and Gray-green man was there, shimmering and shadowy, watching him.
They stood in silence, man and ghost, and then Huxley laughed. "You frightened me once, but no longer. And yet, I feel sympathy for you, and will try to send you back. By doing that I believe I can release Wynne-Jones."
Gray-green man took a slow step forward, reaching to Huxley.
Huxley stepped forward too, but ripped up a branch of bush, and swept it at the ghost.
"Go to the Horse Shrine! I'll meet you there tomorrow."
Gray-green man didn't cower, but there was something about it, something less triumphant than before. It hovered, then withdrew, then turned (or so Huxley thought) to stare again at its alter ego. It seemed to be questioning.
Huxley squeezed sap from the torn branch and rubbed it on his face.
"She liked the smell," he said, and laughed as he tossed the branch aside, before turning and entering the house.
Locking the french windows behind him.
Jennifer was sitting up in bed, the covers round her knees. -She stared at Huxley by lamplight, her face puzzled, anguished.
"I want you to tell me what's going on," she said quietly, firmly. She was looking at him, staring at him, taking in his nakedness. He imagined he knew what she was thinking: he did not look like the body she had so recently felt against her. He was broader, chubbier, less fit.
"It will take some time."
"Then take time."
He climbed into bed beside her and on a new and strong impulse turned toward her, putting his arm across her to turn out the lamp.
"I would like to kiss you first," he said. "And then I'll tell you everything."
"One kiss, then. But I'm angry, George. And I want to know what's happening…"
FOURTEEN
The boys were at school. Huxley entered their room and stood, for a moment, surveying the truly appalling mess that the lads had left after a weekend of playing, pillow fighting, and reading. They had been making a model boat, and against their father's instructions had brought the model up to their bedroom. The
I should prefer to return you to the body from which you have gone missing:
my
body, albeit in another location, another time, some other space and time that has somehow become confused with my own world.
Yes, other things give away the fact that we are living parallel lives, closely linked, yet subtly different. I refer to the "Urscumug," not "Urscumaga." You know more about Ash than I do. Wynne-Jones, in your world, has raced ahead of my own, pipe-reeking friend. The talisman most definitely was hung with leather, not horse hair. Clearly
I
am the hooded man over whom you ran, in your mad canter from the forest glade. My oilskin hood was torn, quite beyond repair!
And so you must propose a way for us to meet, to engage, to communicate.
But I repeat, you are not to enter my house beyond this desk.
If you doubt that I have the skill to destroy you, then look into your own bestial heart: remember what I/you have achieved in the past. Remember what happened to you/I in the Wolf Glen, when we discovered a certain magic of our own, destructive to mythagos!
And below this entry, Gray-green man had scrawled
then how do I get back
?
Huxley closed and concealed the journal. He walked out into the garden, and stepped carefully across the lawn to the bushes. The ground was wet with dew, the air scented with raw, rich night perfume of soil and leaf. Everything was very still.
Huxley stepped among the moist bushes of rhododendron and fuchsia. He pressed the wet leaves and flowers against his torso, and found, to his mild surprise, that he was excited by the touch of nature upon his dry, cool body. He rubbed leaves between his fingers, crushed fuchsia flowers, reached down and rubbed his hands over the dewy soil. He drew breath in through his nostrils, filling his lungs, and as he stood so he smeared his hands over his shoulders and belly…
A blur of night-lit movement, the earth vibrating, the undergrowth shaking, and Gray-green man was there, shimmering and shadowy, watching him.
They stood in silence, man and ghost, and then Huxley laughed. "You frightened me once, but no longer. And yet, I feel sympathy for you, and will try to send you back. By doing that I believe I can release Wynne-Jones."
Gray-green man took a slow step forward, reaching to Huxley.
Huxley stepped forward too, but ripped up a branch of bush, and swept it at the ghost.
"Go to the Horse Shrine! I'll meet you there tomorrow."
Gray-green man didn't cower, but there was something about it, something less triumphant than before. It hovered, then withdrew, then turned (or so Huxley thought) to stare again at its alter ego. It seemed to be questioning.
Huxley squeezed sap from the torn branch and rubbed it on his face.
"She liked the smell," he said, and laughed as he tossed the branch aside, before turning and entering the house.
Locking the french windows behind him.
Jennifer was sitting up in bed, the covers round her knees. -She stared at Huxley by lamplight, her face puzzled, anguished.
"I want you to tell me what's going on," she said quietly, firmly. She was looking at him, staring at him, taking in his nakedness. He imagined he knew what she was thinking: he did not look like the body she had so recently felt against her. He was broader, chubbier, less fit.
"It will take some time."
"Then take time."
He climbed into bed beside her and on a new and strong impulse turned toward her, putting his arm across her to turn out the lamp.
"I would like to kiss you first," he said. "And then I'll tell you everything."
"One kiss, then. But I'm angry, George. And I want to know what's happening…"
FOURTEEN
The boys were at school. Huxley entered their room and stood, for a moment, surveying the truly appalling mess that the lads had left after a weekend of playing, pillow fighting, and reading. They had been making a model boat, and against their father's instructions had brought the model up to their bedroom. The
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