Chapter 17

Time is relative, we’re told, but relative to whom? Is it like beauty, being constrained to the eye of the beholder? Or is it beholden to the chosen few experiencing that moment at that time. And do the seconds contract or stretch as it feels they do? Is time an elastic band that can snap back if not held tightly enough? Or, indeed, snap completely if stretched too far for too long – making Time, in fact, a victim of time.

Edmund felt the hours after they laid the ash ring were the longest he had ever lived. This was not because of anything dramatic happening. The scratching and the groaning roof beams had stopped. The low voice could only be heard whispering his name when the room fell too quiet.

No. It was the waiting. The stillness. The knowledge the forest hadn’t retreated, and wouldn’t.

It was simply listening.

Malcolm paced the length of the pub in sharp, tight strides, repeatedly checking each shutter, each corner, and each crack in the floorboards, expecting a root to curl through at any moment. Will sat alone at a table with his hands clasped and his knuckles white. He was muttering under his breath. A prayer or curse, it was hard to say.

Edmund stayed within the circle, not trusting himself outside of it. The forest had settled deeper into his bones, finding a comfortable place to rest, and the sensation was increasing again, slow and sure.

The landlord stopped pacing and sat heavily on the edge of a table close to Edmund.

“You feel it again?” he asked quietly.

Edmund nodded.

“It’s… stronger than before.”

“Yeah, I was afraid of that.”

“Why is it getting worse?”

“Because,” the landlord said, “it knows you’re frightened. And it knows you’re tired. That’s when it presses hardest. You’re vulnerable.”

Edmund looked down at his hands. They trembled even when he tried to hold them still.

“What does it want?”

Malcolm hesitated, staring at his own hands. They shook, too.

“To finish what it started.”

A throb of agreement caused Edmund to flinch.

A sudden thud shook the roof. It was heavy, as though something had dropped onto the tiles. Dust burst from the rafters, fleeing the noise. Will stood abruptly.

“It’s back.”

The landlord didn’t move, apart from a shake of his head.

“No. That’s not it.”

Another thud. This one travelled through the beams, down the walls, and into the floorboards beneath Edmund’s shoes. He tightened his grip on his chair.

Malcolm stood slowly.

“This is something else.”

“What do you mean something else?” Will hissed, backing towards the bar.

Malcolm didn’t answer, but something else did. A deep grumble shuddered along the walls, as if the very frame of the building had just woken up. Edmund’s chest, swelled, causing him to gasp.

“Edmund?” the landlord snapped.

Edmund sank to one knee, wrapping his arms around himself.

“It’s… It’s pulling. Something’s…”

It wasn’t heat anymore. It was pressure. A hand closing around his heart from the inside, while another claimed his entire body. The landlord darted toward him, but stopped at the edge of the ash circle, helpless.

“Talk to me!”

Edmund tried. His voice broke. His throat burned.

“It’s… roots. I can feel… I can feel them around me. In me.”

He doubled over, his breath rasping over the hot coals of his throat.

A thin fissure appeared in the floor, just beyond the ash circle, so small Edmund would have missed it if he weren’t staring at the ground. A sliver of dark soil peeked through, eyeing him viciously. Will saw it too, and swore under his breath. Malcolm reacted the fastest, grabbing the poker from beside the hearth.

“Stay back!”

Edmund couldn’t move even if he wanted to. His lungs seized. His vision blurred. His fingers locked.

Another crack, wider this time. A root pushed through. It was thin and grey and searching. Malcolm lunged and slammed the poker down. The root jerked, recoiling. A sharp, muffled sound echoed, like something pained, but distant.

Edmund gasped as the hold loosened slightly. But only slightly.

The fissure widened again. Three more roots reached through, writhing like fingers. The landlord struck them one by one, the metal rod clanging against the floorboards. Each hit made Edmund recoil, as if the blows landed on his own skin.

His insides twisted in fury and he cried out. Will rushed forward.

“It’s linked to him! You’ll hurt him if you keep hitting it!“

The landlord froze mid-swing.

The roots paused.

Edmund trembled violently, struggling to not fall. Or fail.

“Don’t… Don’t let it…”

He couldn’t finish, because the roots shifted direction, away from the room and those in it. They were now moving towards the ash circle. Towards him. They pushed forward, probing the boundary. The ash hissed where they touched it, like hot iron plunged into water. A thin curl of smoke rose.

Edmund winced.

The roots retreated, then tried again. The ash sparked and pain shot through Edmund. He cried out, collapsing fully onto the floor.

Will ran to the landlord.

“If the ash hurts it, it hurts him. If it gets through, it takes him.”

Malcolm exhaled loudly through his nose.

“Then we strengthen the circle.”

“With what?”

Malcolm looked around wildly. His gaze landed on the fireplace. He grabbed a log with tongs and shoved it into the embers. Flames leapt.

“Light,” he said. “Heat. Fire keeps it back.”

“And Edmund?”

“Better scorched than taken.”

Edmund barely heard them through the roar building inside his skull. His body convulsed so fiercely, he felt his chest might split.

The landlord stepped toward the circle, flaming log in hand.

“Edmund,” he said. “Don’t move.”

Edmund couldn’t. He lay trembling, his breath ragged. Malcolm lowered the burning log to the edge of the ash. The roots recoiled instantly.

Edmund screamed.

Something shrieked inside him. It wasn’t a sound, but a furious lurch. A tearing, splitting ache.

“Hold on, lad. Hold on,” Malcolm said through gritted teeth.

He moved slowly around the circle, dragging the log along the ash. Flames licked upward, turning the circle into a ring of fire. The roots writhed violently, curling back into the cracks, withdrawing into the darkness under the floor.

Edmund collapsed onto his side, gasping. Whatever had been pressing at him dimmed, flickered, then retracted into a low, unstable quiet.

Silence fell.

Malcolm dropped the log back into the hearth and rushed to the edge of the circle.

“Edmund? Talk to me!”

Edmund managed a breath.

“It’s angry,” he whispered.

“Let it be angry,” Malcolm muttered. “Means it’s hurting.”

“It won’t stop.”

Edmund forced his eyes open, and the landlord met his gaze.

“Then, neither will we.”

Another silence settled, different this time. It was heavy, but no longer suffocating.

“Sun’ll be up in a couple of hours,” Will said. “If we can make it to dawn…”

The landlord cut him off.

“We will.”

Edmund lay in the centre of the flaming ash circle, shaking uncontrollably. He knew the forest wasn’t done. Not yet.

Beneath his ribs, something whispered again.

Soon.