Chapter 11

Morning came reluctantly, as if the village didn’t want to awaken, so had argued with the sun and only begrudgingly allowed daylight in. Edmund felt the same reluctance in his bones. Sleep, after the nightmare, had been hiding in the corners of the room, keeping out of reach. He’d drifted in and out of a tenuous, aching half-consciousness that promised something deeper but failed to deliver.

Thankfully.

He washed his face at the sink, deliberately keeping the water cold so his skin could feel its bite, then dressed with slow, automatic movements. Outside, because where else could he go, the air held a faint lingering dampness, the kind that clung to the throat and coated the skin. The village appeared more subdued than usual. Doors were shut. Curtains were half-drawn. Something was stirring, and everyone knew it.

Edmund tried to tell himself he was only going for breakfast. Again.

His feet carried him elsewhere, under the control of a part of him he couldn’t control. He realised, too late, where they were taking him.

No.

The thought lacked conviction. His sleep-starved mind drifted, foggy and frayed around the edges. The world felt slanted. Off-centre. It leaned him towards the forest, and his feet were obliging the tilt. As he reached the last row of cottages, a faint hum settled in his ears. Not a sound exactly, but more like the pressure from being under water and his ears still holding some liquid upon resurfacing.

The forest waited.

Even from a distance, it seemed darker today. Deeper. A mass of shadowed green that suffocated the light. It should have been imposing, but wasn’t. It looked nonchalant.

Nothing to see here. Nothing to be afraid of.

He stepped closer, just a few paces, enough to feel the change in… everything. The birdsong stilled. The breeze, what little there was, dissipated like winter’s breath. The sounds of the village, which were already diminishing, were lost as the hum grew.

Calm swept over him, like an incoming tide washing over the feet. It was unwelcome yet unavoidably mollifying. It settled in the centre of his chest and radiating outward, spreading like roots from…

Not again. Not again.

He tried to step back, but the serenity within him thickened, coating him in an invisible mire that made any movement sluggish. Something tugged at the edge of his awareness, noticed in the corner of his mind but avoiding direct focus.

A beckoning presence.

A single tree stood slightly apart from the rest. He hadn’t noticed it before, not consciously, and wasn’t sure if it had always been there or had only just been thrust forth from the ground. Now, it demanded attention. It was a towering oak, its bark thick and ridged to demonstrate its immense age and experience. A faint sheen of moisture clung to it as though the tree had exhaled.

Something was carved into its trunk.

He moved closer, able to do so as it wasn’t a retreat. The etched lines were too deep to be made by a knife or casual vandal. They cut inwards like wounds. As he approached, a shape could be discerned. No, more than a simple shape.

A face.

A child’s face.

Round cheeks. A small nose. The faint hint of a smile.

Jack.

His stomach lurched, making him sway. His pulse hammered and he swallowed back rising bile.

“No,” he grimaced.

But the carving was the boy. Unmistakably. Not just in likeness but in expression, as if the tree had swallowed the child’s memory whole and now displayed it like a grotesque portrait.

Edmund reached out until his fingers hovered inches from the bark. He didn’t remember deciding to do that. His hand had simply moved. The calm congealed, wrapping around him like a fog that had forgotten to leave come morning, so had coagulated.

His fingertips brushed the wood.

A surge of deep and overwhelming relief flooded him. His knees weakened and his legs shook. His breath slowed. The ache in his chest softened into something blissfully numb.

Yes, something whispered, a sensation rather than a sound. Let go.

He leaned in. The relief spread, warm as a lover’s breath against his cheek. He pressed his palm flat against the carving. Suddenly, the warmth became sharp. An icy jolt stabbed through his hand, racing up his arm and slamming into him. He gasped and staggered back. His palm burned with a cold fire, and he could hear himself crying out.

Footsteps pounded, coming closer

“Edmund!”

A woman’s shout, shrill with terror.

Someone grabbed his shoulder and yanked him violently away from the tree. He stumbled, nearly falling. The hands holding him prevented his collapse, but only barely.

“Don’t touch them!” the woman cried. “Never touch them!”

He blinked through the haze of teary eyes. At first, he didn’t recognise her, but then vague familiarity pushed her name forward. Mrs Kettering, the postwoman, on and off special friend of the shopkeeper. Where had he heard that? Did village gossip seep into you through osmosis? He’d seen her in the Black Swann, and her usual cheery face was contorted with fear.

She held his arm as though afraid he might leap back toward the oak.

“What were you thinking?” she demanded.

Edmund tried to speak, but the words were disjointed, stumbling over his careering thoughts.

“I… I don’t know. I saw it, and… it was…”

“You never touch the marked ones,” she whispered. “Never.”

He blinked, trying to bring reality back into focus.

“What… what happens?”

She stared at him, her eyes brimming with something like pity, though it may have been annoyance.

“It leaves something in you.”

In..?

She released him reluctantly, as if unsure he could stand on his own. He wasn’t entirely certain himself. He wrapped his arms around himself, for warmth and armour. He turned back to the tree. The carved face seemed to watch him. Caress his cheek. It remembered him.

“What are they?” he asked, voice low.

Mrs Kettering shook her head.

“They’re Marks. Sigils. Most call them Memories, but the name is irrelevant. Every face carved into these trees belongs to someone the forest has touched.”

“Touched? How can a tree…”

“Took,” she whispered, her interruption gentle but firm.

The word crawled under Edmund’s skin. It broke into individual letters, then the component parts of those letters, and scattered through him. Spiders crawling through his veins.

Her voice lowered further, and she dropped her head to underline what she was about to say.

“The forest remembers grief. Pain and heartbreak. It carves what it claims. And it claims those who get too close.”

He stepped back again, away from the oak. The calm had retreated, to be replaced by cold fear.

The postmistress touched his arm lightly.

“Look, you mustn’t come here alone.”

He nodded, though he felt he was moving underwater. She’d said ‘alone’, rather than ‘at all’. She knew the compulsion was irresistible.

“Come on,” she said softly. “Let’s get you back.”

As they walked away from the forest, the air gradually lightening around them. Edmund, however, felt something behind him. The focus was still on him. He didn’t dare turn.

When they reached the road, Mrs Kettering paused.

“You’ll feel the pull stronger now,” she said.

“Why?” Edmund stiffened, guessing at the reason.

“You touched it.”

His head moved, though he wasn’t sure if he nodded or shook it. Disbelief and knowledge were at odds in his mind.

“It’ll want you back,” she said, “once you’ve reached out. Connected”

“What happens if I go in?”

Edmund felt the dread in her face emanating as heat.

“Edmund… people don’t go in. They’re taken in. And once you want the peace it offers – once you start looking, no, longing for that calm – you won’t be able to stop yourself.”

Edmund’s knees threatened to buckle. His breath was ragged. Mrs Kettering hesitated, then added in a trembling whisper:

“Don’t let it mark you again.”

“How do I stop it?”

“You can’t,” she said. “You just stay away, somehow. And you hope it loses interest.”

The words struck him harder than the nightmare. Because deep within him, under the fear, he could still feel it.

The calm.

Waiting for him. Longing for him.

It was making a promise he knew he wasn’t strong enough to refuse.