the wood.’
‘Or something,’ he agreed.
I refused to use the word lurking at the tip of my tongue. ‘You’ve seen them?’ I demanded. My head was whirling. I couldn’t even make up my mind if I had imagined those … animals, whatever they were.
‘There are lots of things in the woods. Some of them are there to keep people like Deverick – and you – out.’ There was no mistaking the hostility now.
‘You put the Christmas decorations up, did you? Are you trying to scare people off?’
He squinted, half-contemptuous, half-irritated.
‘What have got in there? Your squat? Your caravan? This isn’t your land, you know.’
He laughed out loud, but it didn’t sound like he thought it funny. ‘You think it’s Deverick’s? People like you make me sick.’
‘I’m damn sure it’s Mr Deverick’s land. And all I’m doing is my job.’
‘I can see that. Kill trees, do you, to make more room for little boxy houses and executive golf courses? Congratulations. You should be proud.’
That was so unfair. Nine times out of ten I was on the side of people like him – ignorant, impractical, self-righteous pricks as they were. ‘It’s not exactly that simple, is it?’
‘You work for Deverick. Sounds simple enough to me.’
‘You have no idea what he’s planning,’ I protested. ‘He’s very positive about enviro–’
‘
I
have no idea?’ He’d gone really pale; it was a strange reaction. ‘Who do you think you’re kidding? I know exactly what he’s up to! And you can tell him from me that he’s not getting his hands on these woods. So go on, you can piss off now.’
Well, that certainly brought the conversation to an end. He folded his arms, waiting for my next move. I gritted my teeth, looked around me, and finally admitted, ‘I don’t know which way’s out.’
He didn’t laugh at me. Good God, a man who didn’t laugh. He just nodded, very slightly. He had hazel eyes, I noticed, fractured green and brown. ‘The track behind you will get you to the bank at the wood boundary. Don’t worry, the bridle path is safe, even for you. Go through the gap in the hedge, down the farm track and you’ll be on the road to the village.’
I blinked. ‘You’re sure? That doesn’t sound like the right direction at all.’
‘You got yourself turned round. It happens here a lot. It’s the witch balls.’
‘The what?’
He sighed. ‘The glass balls.’
I shook my head. ‘What do they do?’
‘They deflect witches,’ he said, as if it were obvious. ‘And similar sorts.’
‘Hey,’ I said, trying to make light. ‘My sister reads the tarot, but I’m not a witch.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re not.’ And reaching out, he plucked something from my jacket pocket before I realised he was touching me. I saw the object in his hands: a hooded purple flower. Then he dropped it to the floor and crushed it underfoot.
The monkshood. And then I remembered its other common name:
wolfsbane
. I nodded dizzily and turned away, confused into acquiescence. Only after I’d started walking down the track did I think to ask my eco-freak acquaintance about the flower’s significance. I span round, but he had already gone, vanished from the public right of way into the forbidden depths of the wood.
3: Ill Met by Moonlight
THAT NIGHT THERE was a full moon. I switched off the TV, grabbed my climbing harness and headed out across the rough grassland behind my cottage.
I love the night, out in the country. Taking away my vision seems to bring all my other senses to life – my skin prickles, my ears pick up the faintest sounds, even my sense of smell seems more acute. Stick me in an urban alley after midnight and I’m as jumpy as the next woman, but not out here where the furtive noises that can sound so ominous to city-dwellers are familiar to me: the scream of a fox, the clatter of a pigeon in the treetops as it settles itself, the creak of branches. There’s no harm in the English night, so
‘Or something,’ he agreed.
I refused to use the word lurking at the tip of my tongue. ‘You’ve seen them?’ I demanded. My head was whirling. I couldn’t even make up my mind if I had imagined those … animals, whatever they were.
‘There are lots of things in the woods. Some of them are there to keep people like Deverick – and you – out.’ There was no mistaking the hostility now.
‘You put the Christmas decorations up, did you? Are you trying to scare people off?’
He squinted, half-contemptuous, half-irritated.
‘What have got in there? Your squat? Your caravan? This isn’t your land, you know.’
He laughed out loud, but it didn’t sound like he thought it funny. ‘You think it’s Deverick’s? People like you make me sick.’
‘I’m damn sure it’s Mr Deverick’s land. And all I’m doing is my job.’
‘I can see that. Kill trees, do you, to make more room for little boxy houses and executive golf courses? Congratulations. You should be proud.’
That was so unfair. Nine times out of ten I was on the side of people like him – ignorant, impractical, self-righteous pricks as they were. ‘It’s not exactly that simple, is it?’
‘You work for Deverick. Sounds simple enough to me.’
‘You have no idea what he’s planning,’ I protested. ‘He’s very positive about enviro–’
‘
I
have no idea?’ He’d gone really pale; it was a strange reaction. ‘Who do you think you’re kidding? I know exactly what he’s up to! And you can tell him from me that he’s not getting his hands on these woods. So go on, you can piss off now.’
Well, that certainly brought the conversation to an end. He folded his arms, waiting for my next move. I gritted my teeth, looked around me, and finally admitted, ‘I don’t know which way’s out.’
He didn’t laugh at me. Good God, a man who didn’t laugh. He just nodded, very slightly. He had hazel eyes, I noticed, fractured green and brown. ‘The track behind you will get you to the bank at the wood boundary. Don’t worry, the bridle path is safe, even for you. Go through the gap in the hedge, down the farm track and you’ll be on the road to the village.’
I blinked. ‘You’re sure? That doesn’t sound like the right direction at all.’
‘You got yourself turned round. It happens here a lot. It’s the witch balls.’
‘The what?’
He sighed. ‘The glass balls.’
I shook my head. ‘What do they do?’
‘They deflect witches,’ he said, as if it were obvious. ‘And similar sorts.’
‘Hey,’ I said, trying to make light. ‘My sister reads the tarot, but I’m not a witch.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re not.’ And reaching out, he plucked something from my jacket pocket before I realised he was touching me. I saw the object in his hands: a hooded purple flower. Then he dropped it to the floor and crushed it underfoot.
The monkshood. And then I remembered its other common name:
wolfsbane
. I nodded dizzily and turned away, confused into acquiescence. Only after I’d started walking down the track did I think to ask my eco-freak acquaintance about the flower’s significance. I span round, but he had already gone, vanished from the public right of way into the forbidden depths of the wood.
3: Ill Met by Moonlight
THAT NIGHT THERE was a full moon. I switched off the TV, grabbed my climbing harness and headed out across the rough grassland behind my cottage.
I love the night, out in the country. Taking away my vision seems to bring all my other senses to life – my skin prickles, my ears pick up the faintest sounds, even my sense of smell seems more acute. Stick me in an urban alley after midnight and I’m as jumpy as the next woman, but not out here where the furtive noises that can sound so ominous to city-dwellers are familiar to me: the scream of a fox, the clatter of a pigeon in the treetops as it settles itself, the creak of branches. There’s no harm in the English night, so
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