The One Who Is Two (Book 1 of White Rabbit)

A sudden burst of brilliance snatched his attention. It was a plant with flowers that opened and closed rhythmically, flashing beacons of violet and yellow. He stopped to peer through the undergrowth, but it crouched shyly behind a briar, keeping out of full view.

  It was no more than a few yards off the path and he decided to get a closer look. As he stepped into the greenery, the vegetation again parted, revealing another path. This he followed, though with the beginnings of a tiny tickle of worry. The plant seemed to have moved and was now behind a fallen birch trunk some feet away from the new path. He could see it better in its new position; the flowers seemed to be human hands with violet palms and sun-bright yellow fingers that closed quickly into tight green bud-fists. He wasn't certain, but he thought the hands were signalling to him, beckoning him closer. And so again he stepped towards it and yet another path opened up in front of him. And again the plant was still further away, crouching in a clump of ferns.

  The tickle of worry became an itch; he could so easily get lost in this network of new paths. The plant was now beckoning with all its might, urging him forward into the undergrowth. This time, however, he ignored it and went to retrace his steps. It was then that he saw there was no path behind him – and when he turned back, the path he had been following had also disappeared. Once again he was standing in a swirling sea of unbroken undergrowth.

  He was lost now and he knew it. The itch became a slithery worm of fear, gnawing at his bowels. The paths had all disappeared and he would be stuck in the wood forever like a doomed Amazonian explorer. The trees, crooked and bent like crones, eyed him darkly and edged closer. Bat wings of panic flapped in his skull and he shrunk into his coat, lost and alone. Something pulled at his leg; a bramble was coiling around his calf, gripping his jeans with fish hook thorns. He wrenched it off, lacerating his hands, and twisted away into a birch branch that clawed at his face, going for his eyes. He beat wildly at the dry twig talons and an embryo scream formed in his throat.

  But the scream was never born. For, materialising from nowhere, a tiny flame flared in the darkness of his fear. He swept the birch branch aside and stood taller, pushing out his chest. The briars quivered uncertainly, then pulled back. His courage grew. Something touched his shoulder and he spun round: a tree branch, caught in act of grabbing at him, was snatched away.

  He kicked at a clump of ferns and turned slowly about, glaring ominously at the wood. It cringed and grinned obsequiously, once again all innocent prettiness. These plants were like bullies everywhere, he thought with a smile, cowards to a man. Then, throwing back his shoulders and setting his jaw, he stepped boldly forward.

  He walked purposefully, as if he knew where he was going, paths opening up in front of him, sycophantically leading wherever he wanted to go. The colours flashed and blazed, the branches twisted and coiled, and the birdsong echoed, all much as before. Now, however, he was less enthralled by the experience, for he knew that the wood was not to be trusted.