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Authors: Robert Holdstock
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informed.”
“You have something on your mind. What is it, Richard? Why don’t you be honest about it?”
“I rang to tell you what I’ve told you,” he said wearily. “Goodbye, Alice.”
He put the phone down, wondered if she would call back, and when the phone stayed silent went back upstairs and sorted out his weatherproof clothing.
By midday the grey gloom had been replaced by a bright and overcast sky, a fresh wind bringing the land alive. Richard trudged in heavy boots along the bridleway towards Hunter’s Brook. He had not brought a rucksack. He intended only to look a little more closely at the wood where Helen had said she and her team were stationed.
The stream was in wild flood, and along its edge he could see the spoor of deer, probably from the Manor park. A high wall bounded the Estate on most sides, but a right of way passed over several fields, and here the boundary was marked by fences and a stile. Ryhope Wood was a dense and solid wall of trees to his right as he crossed the field towards the old road. He followed this to the wood itself, and was mildly surprised to find that it ended abruptly, overgrown by dense bushes and scrub elder. A “Keep Out” notice had been recently fixed on barbed wire.
He walked on round the wood, conscious that he was now on private grounds. The Manor House was hidden by trees, half a mile away; the only sign of life was a gallop, five riders exercising the horses from the Manor’s stables. They crossed open land, then turned and came back, thudding past Richard without taking any notice and passing away toward the ridge where an earthworks had been built, long in the past.
Was this where Alex had come to play with his friends, Tallis and the rest? Tallis had always been so quiet, a mysterious girl existing in a rich fantasy world of story and invention. Alex had always wanted to play rougher games, when outside, exploring woodland being one of them. But he had never talked in detail about Ryhope, only referred to it darkly as a place where “Tallis talks to statues.”
What had he meant?
Years after the boy’s death, Richard began to miss him again, and to miss the lost opportunity of knowing his son, of sharing his mind-games. Alex had always liked comics, and they had read together in peace, or watched TV, but had so rarely spoken or explored ideas. Alice had always been too busy doing things, arranging for trips, for picnics, for journeys to London, for schoolbooks and clothes. She had known Alex’s strengths and weaknesses and had been nurturing him towards areas of intellect and interest where he might do well at school, such as playwriting and biology. Even so, she could not have known the inner boy, the adventurer.
He felt sorry for himself, sat for a while head bowed and thought back over the years. He allowed himself tears, and the wind, freshening and gusting, made the enclosed scene all the more mournful.
Alex had been in his grave too long. The pain had passed away too many years ago. The tears, the melancholy, were short-lived, and Helen Silverlock was standing before him again, mysterious and inviting.
An intense curiosity now began to push away the sorrow. The edge of the wood was thorny and grassy, too solid, too dark. It was as if it had never been broken by the passage of people or animals. Sunlight caught the sign across the road, and Richard’s interest piqued.
He eased himself through the barbed wire and entered the gloom of the undergrowth, brushing at branches and ivy as he felt his way carefully along the hard surface underfoot that told of the crumbling road. When the wall of a house suddenly loomed before him he was startled. He touched the brick and pushed through the stifling tangle of creeper and briar, following the wall until he reached the back of the house. Sunlight dappled above him now, and by its flickering light he could see the blackened, rotting shape of a tall wooden idol. It was leaning heavily against the
“You have something on your mind. What is it, Richard? Why don’t you be honest about it?”
“I rang to tell you what I’ve told you,” he said wearily. “Goodbye, Alice.”
He put the phone down, wondered if she would call back, and when the phone stayed silent went back upstairs and sorted out his weatherproof clothing.
By midday the grey gloom had been replaced by a bright and overcast sky, a fresh wind bringing the land alive. Richard trudged in heavy boots along the bridleway towards Hunter’s Brook. He had not brought a rucksack. He intended only to look a little more closely at the wood where Helen had said she and her team were stationed.
The stream was in wild flood, and along its edge he could see the spoor of deer, probably from the Manor park. A high wall bounded the Estate on most sides, but a right of way passed over several fields, and here the boundary was marked by fences and a stile. Ryhope Wood was a dense and solid wall of trees to his right as he crossed the field towards the old road. He followed this to the wood itself, and was mildly surprised to find that it ended abruptly, overgrown by dense bushes and scrub elder. A “Keep Out” notice had been recently fixed on barbed wire.
He walked on round the wood, conscious that he was now on private grounds. The Manor House was hidden by trees, half a mile away; the only sign of life was a gallop, five riders exercising the horses from the Manor’s stables. They crossed open land, then turned and came back, thudding past Richard without taking any notice and passing away toward the ridge where an earthworks had been built, long in the past.
Was this where Alex had come to play with his friends, Tallis and the rest? Tallis had always been so quiet, a mysterious girl existing in a rich fantasy world of story and invention. Alex had always wanted to play rougher games, when outside, exploring woodland being one of them. But he had never talked in detail about Ryhope, only referred to it darkly as a place where “Tallis talks to statues.”
What had he meant?
Years after the boy’s death, Richard began to miss him again, and to miss the lost opportunity of knowing his son, of sharing his mind-games. Alex had always liked comics, and they had read together in peace, or watched TV, but had so rarely spoken or explored ideas. Alice had always been too busy doing things, arranging for trips, for picnics, for journeys to London, for schoolbooks and clothes. She had known Alex’s strengths and weaknesses and had been nurturing him towards areas of intellect and interest where he might do well at school, such as playwriting and biology. Even so, she could not have known the inner boy, the adventurer.
He felt sorry for himself, sat for a while head bowed and thought back over the years. He allowed himself tears, and the wind, freshening and gusting, made the enclosed scene all the more mournful.
Alex had been in his grave too long. The pain had passed away too many years ago. The tears, the melancholy, were short-lived, and Helen Silverlock was standing before him again, mysterious and inviting.
An intense curiosity now began to push away the sorrow. The edge of the wood was thorny and grassy, too solid, too dark. It was as if it had never been broken by the passage of people or animals. Sunlight caught the sign across the road, and Richard’s interest piqued.
He eased himself through the barbed wire and entered the gloom of the undergrowth, brushing at branches and ivy as he felt his way carefully along the hard surface underfoot that told of the crumbling road. When the wall of a house suddenly loomed before him he was startled. He touched the brick and pushed through the stifling tangle of creeper and briar, following the wall until he reached the back of the house. Sunlight dappled above him now, and by its flickering light he could see the blackened, rotting shape of a tall wooden idol. It was leaning heavily against the
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