The Bone Forest

  “But who are you?”

  “I have been known by many names.” He came close to the trembling man. His hawthorn crown, with its strange horns, was like a broken tree against the clouds. His beard of leaves and long grass rustled as he spoke. His body quivered where the night breeze touched the clothing of nature that wound around his torso. “Do you believe in God, Thomas?”

  “He died for us. His son. On the cross. He is the Almighty …”

  Thorn raised his arms. He held them sideways. He was a great cross in the cold night, and his crown of thorns was a beast’s antlers. Old fears, forgotten shudders, plagued the villager, Thomas Wyatt. Ancestral cries mocked him. Memories of fire whispered words in the hidden language, confused his mind.

  “I am the Cross of God,” said Thorn. “Touch the wood, touch the sharp thorns …”

  Thomas reached out. His actions were not his own. His fingers touched the cold flesh of the man’s stomach. He felt the ridged muscle in the crossbeam, the bloody points of the thorns that rose from the man’s head. He nervously brushed the gnarled wood of the thighs, and the proud branch that rose between them, hot to his fingers, nature’s passion, never dying.

  “What do you want of me?” Thomas asked quietly.

  The cross became a man again. “To make my image in the new shrine. To make that shrine my own. To make it as mine forever, no matter what manner of worship is performed within its walls …”

  Thomas stared at the Lord of Wood.

  “Tell me what I must do …”

  * * *

  Everybody knew, Simon had said. Everybody in the village. It was spoken in whispers. Thomas was a hero. Everybody knew. Everybody but Thomas Wyatt.

  “Why have they kept it from me?” he murmured to the night. He had huddled up inside his jacket, and folded his body into the tight shelter of a wall bastion. The encounter with Simon had shaken him badly.

  From here he could see north to Biddenden across the gloomy shapelessness of the forest. The castle, and the clustered villages of its demesne, were behind him. He saw only stars, pale clouds, and the flicker of fire, where strange worship occurred.

  Why did the fire, in this midnight forest, call to him so much? Why was there such comfort in the thought of the warm glow from the piled branches, and the noisy prattle, and laughter, of those who clustered in its shadowy light? He had danced about a fire often enough: on May eve, at the passing of the day of All Hallows. But those fires were in the village bounds. His soul fluttered, a delighted bird, at the thought of the woodland fire. The smell of autumn, the touch of night’s dew, the closeness to the souls of tree and plant; timeless eyes would watch the dancers. They were a shared life with the forest.

  Why had he been kept in isolation? Everybody knew. The villagers who carried the bleeding, dying Christ through the streets on Resurrection Sunday … were they now carrying images of boar and stag and hare about the fire? He—Thomas—was a hero. They spoke of him in whispers. Everybody knew of his work. When had they been taken back to the beliefs of old? Had Thorn appeared to each of them as well?

  Why didn’t he share the new belief with them? It was the same belief. He used his craft; they danced for the gods.

  As if he were of the same cold stone-stuff upon which he worked, the others kept him distant, watched him from afar. Did Beth know? Thomas shivered. The hours passed. He could feel the gibbet rope around his neck. Only one word out of place, one voice overheard—one whisper to the wrong man, and Thomas Wyatt would be a grey thing, slung by its neck, prey for dark birds. Eyes, nose, the flesh of the face. Every feature that he pecked for Thorn with hammer and chisel would be pecked from him by hard, wet beaks.

  From the position of the moon, Thomas realised he had been sitting by the church for several hours. John the Watchman had not walked past. Now that he thought of it, Thomas could hear the man’s snoring, coming as if from a far place.

  Thomas eased himself to his feet. He lifted his bag gently to his shoulder, over-cautious about the ring and strike of iron tools within the leather. But as he walked towards the path he heard movement in the church. The Watchman snored distantly.

  It must be Simon, the miller’s son, Thomas thought, back for another look at the face of the woodland god.

  Irritated, and still confused, Thomas stepped into the church again, and looked towards the gallery. The ladder was against the balcony. He could hear the stone being moved. There was a time of silence, then the stone was put back. A figure moved to the ladder and began to descend.

  Thomas watched in astonishment. He stepped into greater darkness as the priest looked around, then hauled the ladder back to its storage place. All Thomas heard was the sound of the priest’s laughter. The man passed through the gloom, long robe swirling through the dust and debris.

  Even the priest knew! And that made no sense at all. Thomas slept restlessly, listening to the soft breathing of his wife. Several times the urge to wake her, to speak to her, made him whisper her name and shake her shoulders. But she slumbered on. At sunrise they were up together, but he was so tired he could hardly speak. They ate hard bread, moistened with cold, thin gruel. Thomas tipped the last of their ale into a clay mug. The drink was more meaty than the gruel, but he swallowed the sour liquid and felt its warming tingle.

  “The last of the ale,” he said ruefully, tapping the barrel.

  “You’ve been too busy to brew,” Beth said from the table. “And I’m not skilled.” She was wrapped in a heavy wool cloak. The fire was a dead place in the middle of the small room. Grey ash drifted in the light from the roof hole.

  “But no ale!” He banged his cup on the barrel in frustration. Beth looked up at him, surprised by his anger.

  “We can get ale from the miller. We’ve done it before and repaid him from our own brewing. It’s not the end of the world.”

  “I’ve had no time to brew,” Thomas said, watching Beth through hooded, rimmed eyes. “I’ve been working on something of importance. I expect you know what.”

  She shrugged. “Why would I know? You never talk about it.” Her pale face was sweet. She was as pretty now as when he had married her; fuller in body, yes, and wiser in the ways of life. That they were childless had not affected her spirit. She had allowed the wise women to dose her with herbs and bitter spices, to take her to strange stones, and stranger foreigners; she had been seen by apothecaries and doctors, and Thomas had worked in their fields to pay them. And of course, they had prayed. Now Thomas felt too old to care about children. Life was good with Beth, and their sadness had drawn them closer than most couples he knew.

  “Everybody knows what I’m working on,” he said bitterly.

  “Well, I don’t,” she replied. “But I’d like to …”

  Perhaps he had been unfair to her. Perhaps she too was kept apart from the village’s shared knowledge. He lied to her. “You must not say a word to anyone. But I’m working on the face of Jesus.”

  Beth was delighted. “Oh Thomas! That’s wonderful. I’m so proud of you.” She came around to him and hugged him. Outside, Master mason Tobias Craven called out his name, among others, and he trudged up to the church on Dancing Hill.

  His work was uneven and lazy that day. The chisel slipped, the stone splintered, the hammer caught his thumb twice. He was distracted and deeply concerned by what he had seen the night before. When the priest came to the church, to walk among the bustle of activity and inspect the day’s progress, Thomas watched him carefully, hoping for some sign of recognition. But the man just smiled, and nodded, then carried the small light of Christ to the altar, and said silent prayers for an hour or more.

  At sundown, Thomas felt his body shaking. When the priest called the craftsmen—Thomas included—into the vestry for wine, Thomas stood by the door, staring at the dark features of the Man of God. The priest, handing him his cup, merely said, “God be with you, Thomas.” It was what he always said.

  Tobias Craven came over to him. His face was grey with dust, his cl
othing heavy with dirt. His dialect was difficult for Thomas to understand, and Thomas was suspicious of the gesture anyway. Would he now discover that the foreigners, too, knew of the face of the woodland deity, half completed behind its door of stone?

  “Your work is good, Thomas. Not today, perhaps, but usually. I’ve watched you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “At first I was reluctant to allow you to work as a mason among us. It was at the priest’s insistence: one local man to work in every craft. It seemed a superstitious idea to me. But now I’m glad. I approve. It’s an enlightened gesture, I realise, to allow local men, not of Guilds, to display their skills. And your skill is remarkable.”

  Thomas swallowed hard. “To be a Guildsman would be a great honour.”

  Master Tobias looked crestfallen. “Aye, but alas. I wish I had seen your work when you were twenty, not thirty. But I can write a note for you, to get you better work in the area.”

  “Thank you,” Thomas said again.

  “Have you travelled, Thomas?”

  “Only to Glastonbury. I made a pilgrimage in the third year of my marriage.”

  “Glastonbury,” Master Tobias repeated, smiling. “Now that is a fine Abbey. I’ve seen it just once. Myself, I worked at York, and at Carlisle, on the Minsters. I was not a Master, of course. But that was cherished work. Now I’m a Guild Master, building tiny churches in remote places. But it gives fulfilment to the soul, and one day I shall die and be buried in the shadow of a place I have built myself. There is satisfaction in the thought.”

  “May that not be for many years.”

  “Thank you, Thomas.” Tobias drained his cup. “And now, from God’s work to nature’s work—”

  Thomas paled. Did he mean woodland worship? The Master mason winked at him.

  “A good night’s sleep!”

  When the others had gone, Thomas slipped out of the sheltering woodland and made his way back to the church. The Watchman was fussing with his fire. There was less cloud this evening and the land, though murky, was quite visible for many miles around.

  Inside the church, Thomas looked up at the gallery. Uncertainty made him hesitate, then he shook his head. “Until I understand better …” he murmured, and made to turn for home.

  “Thomas!” Thorn called. “Hurry, Thomas.”

  Strange green light played off the stone of the church. It darted around him, like will-o’-the-wisp. Fingers prodded him forward, but when he turned there was nothing but shadow.

  Again, Thorn called to him.

  With a sigh, Thomas placed the ladder against the gallery and climbed up to the half-finished face. Thorn smiled at him. The narrow eyes sparkled with moisture. The leaves and twigs that formed his hair and beard seemed to rustle. The stone strained to move.

  “Hurry, Thomas. Open my eyes better.”

  “I’m frightened,” the man said. “Too many people know what I’m doing.”

  “Carve me. Shape my face. I must be here before the others. Hurry!”

  The lips of the forest god twitched with the ghostly figure’s anguish. Thomas reached out to the cold stone and felt its stillness. It was just a carving. It had no life. He imagined the voice. It was just a man who told him to make the carving, a man dressed in woodland disguise. Until he knew he was safe, he would not risk discovery. He climbed back down the ladder. Thorn called to him, but Thomas ignored the cry.

  At his house a warm fire burned in the middle of the room, and an iron pot of thick vegetable broth steamed above it. There was fresh ale from the miller, and Beth was pleased to see him home so early. She stitched old clothes, seated on a low stool, close to the wood fire. Thomas ate, then drank ale, leaning on the table, his mason’s tools spread out before him. The ale was strong and soon went to his head. He felt dizzy, sublimely detached from his body. The warmth, the sensation of drunkenness, his full stomach, all of these things made him drowsy, and slowly his head sank to his arms …

  A cold blast of air on his neck half roused him. His name was being called. At first he thought it was Beth, but soon, as he surfaced from pleasant oblivion, he recognised the rasping voice of Thorn.

  The fire burned high, fanned by the draft from the open door. Beth still sat on her stool, but was motionless and silent, staring at the flames. He spoke her name, but she didn’t respond. Thorn called to him again and he looked out at the dark night. He felt a sudden chill of fear. He gathered his tools into his bag and stepped from the house.

  Thorn stood in the dark street, a tall figure, his horns of wood black against the sky. There was a strong smell of earth about him. He moved towards Thomas, leaf-clothes rustling.

  “The work is unfinished, Thomas.”

  “I’m afraid for my life. Too many people know what I’m doing.”

  “Only the finishing of the face matters. Your fear is of no consequence. You agreed to work for me. You must go to the church. Now.”

  “But if I’m caught!”

  “Then another will be found. Go back to the work, Thomas. Open my eyes properly. It must be done.”

  He turned from Thorn and sighed. There was something wrong with Beth and it worried him, but the persuasive power of the night figure was too strong to counter, and he began to walk wearily towards the church. Soon the village was invisible behind him. Soon the church was a sharp relief against the night sky. The Watchman’s fire burned high, and the autumn night was sweet with the smell of woodsmoke. The Watchman himself seemed to be dancing, or so Thomas thought at first. He strained to see better and soon realised that John had fallen asleep and set light to his clothing. He was brushing and beating at his leggings, his grunts of alarm like the evening call of a boar.

  The moment’s humour passed and a sudden anger took Thomas. Thorn’s words were like sharp stab wounds to his pride: his fear was of no consequence. Only the work of carving mattered. He would be caught and it would be of no consequence. He would swing, slowly strangling, from the castle gallows and it would be of no consequence. Another would be found!

  “No!” he said aloud. “No. I will not work for Thorn tonight. Tonight is my night. Damn Thorn. Damn the face. Tomorrow I will open its eyes, but not now.”

  And with a last glance at the Watchman, who had extinguished the fire and settled down again, he turned back to the village.

  But as he approached his house, aware of the glow of the fire through the small window, his anger changed to a sudden dread. He began to feel sick. He wanted to cry out, to alert the village. A voice in his head urged him to turn and go back to the night wood. His house, once so welcoming, threatened him deeply. It seemed surrounded by an aura, detached from the real world.

  He walked slowly to the small window. He could hear the crackle and spit of the flames. Wood smoke was sweet in the air. Somewhere, at the village bounds, two dogs barked.

  The feeling of apprehension in him grew, a strangling weed that made him dizzy. But he looked through the window. And he did not faint, nor cry out, at what he saw within, though a part of his spirit, part of his life, flew away from him then, abandoning him, making him wither and age; making him die a little.

  Thorn stood with his back to the fire. His mask of autumn leaves and spiky wood was bright and eerie—dark hair curled from beneath the mask. His arms were wound around with creeper and twine, and twigs of oak, elm and lime were laced upon this binding. Save for these few fragments of nature’s clothing he was naked. The black hair on his body gave him the appearance of a burned oak stump, gnarled and weathered by the years. His manhood was a smooth, dark branch, cut to the length of firewood.

  Beth was on her knees before him, her weight taken on her elbows. Her skirts were on the floor beside her. The yellow flames cast a flickering glow upon her plump, pale flesh, and Thomas half closed his eyes in despair. He managed to stifle his scream of anguish, but he could not stop himself from watching.

  And he uttered no sound, despite the pain, as Thorn dropped down upon the waiting woman.

  As
he ran to the church the Watchman woke, then stood up, picking up his heavy staff. Thomas Wyatt knocked him down, then drew a flaming wood brand from the brazier. Tool-bag on his shoulder he entered the church, and held the fire high. The ladder was against the balcony. Pale features peered down at him and the ladder began to move. But Simon, the miller’s son, was not quite quick enough. Casting the burning wood aside, Thomas leapt for the scaffold and began to ascend.

  “I was just looking, Thomas,” Simon cried, then tried to fling the ladder back. Thomas clutched at the balcony, then hauled himself to safety. He said no word to Simon, who backed against the wall where the loose stone was fitted.

  “You mustn’t touch him, Thomas!”

  In the darkness, Simon’s eyes were gleaming orbs of fear. Thomas took him by the shoulders and flung him to the balcony, then used a stone to strike him.

  “No, Thomas! No!”

  The younger man had toppled over the balcony. He held on for dear life, fingers straining to hold his weight.

  “Tricked!” screamed Thomas. “All a trick! Duped! Cuckolded! All of you knew. All of you knew!”

  “No, Thomas. In the Name of God, it wasn’t like that!”

  His hammer was heavy. He swung it high. Simon’s left hand vanished and the man’s scream of pain was deafening. “She had no other way!” he cried hysterically. “No, Thomas! No! She chose it! She chose it! Thorn’s gift to you both.”

  The hammer swung. Crushed fingers left bloody marks upon the balcony. Simon crashed to the floor below and was still.

  “All of you knew!” Thomas Wyatt cried. He wrenched the loose stone away. Thorn watched him from the blackness through his half-opened eyes. Thomas could see every feature, every line. The mouth stretched in a mocking grin. The eyes narrowed, the nostrils flared.

  “Fool. Fool!” whispered the stone man. “But you cannot stop me now.”